Chapter Three

Maeve woke slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. She didn’t move at first; her head pounded, her mouth was dry and sour. The last thing she remembered was pulling up to a house somewhere in Oregon with John, or at least, that was the name he’d given.

She’d been searching for her phone, not paying attention to where they were going. He’d said he just wanted to say hi to a friend. She had trusted him, stupidly. As soon as they entered the house, Maeve sensed danger. A cloth covered her mouth. Drowsiness overwhelmed her instantly.

The last thing she had heard was John saying something about “the redhead from Tacoma.” Then he had said something else, quieter, like he didn’t want her to hear.

“He’ll be very happy we found her.”

She shook off the memories and opened her eyes. A fabric ceiling was all she saw. Firelight flickered somewhere nearby. She heard low, quiet voices. The air was filled with the smell of smoke, dust, and something earthy she couldn’t place.
She sat up too fast; the world spun. Gripping the cot, she breathed hard until the dizziness faded. Her wrists, raw but wrapped in cloth, were clean. Someone had cared for her. That should have made her feel better. It didn’t.

She had no idea where she was. Who were these people? Why wasn’t she dead? Fear rose fast in her chest, smothering the small hope from her bandaged wrists. Maeve slid off the cot and stood.

Leaving the tent, she moved outside. She could tell she was in a large cavern, but it was too dark to truly see. Outside, faint campfires flickered. Distant laughter could be heard. For a moment, she almost stepped out, lured by the sound, but fear won. If they had taken her, she needed to escape before they moved her again, before she woke up in another truck.

She crept toward the cavern entrance, hugging the rock wall. No one stopped or saw her. Maeve slipped past the last fire, into the open desert.

The night air was cold and dry. The sky spread wide and full of stars. She turned once, looking back at the strange camp tucked into the rocks, then turned away and started walking. She had no idea where she was going. But away felt like the right direction. She didn’t notice when she crossed the boundary. The runes carved into stones circling the camp were faint, worn by weather and time. Inside the boundary, they were protected. Outside the boundary, Maeve became just another human lost to the desert.

She’d walked maybe fifteen minutes when she heard an engine. Maeve froze. Headlights crested a ridge behind her, bobbing over jagged rocks and sand. The sound of tires on dirt grew louder. She turned, walked faster, then broke into a run.
The truck sped up. Men shouted. A door slammed before the truck stopped. Feet hit the ground, pounding toward her. Maeve ran, but drugs were still in her system, her body weak from fatigue. She stumbled, caught herself, and kept running.

A hand grabbed the back of her shirt and jerked her backward so hard she fell. Sand filled her mouth. She screamed and tried to kick, but another man grabbed her arms.

“No!” she shouted, twisting and fighting.

“Hold her!” one of the men snapped.

Another man grabbed her chin and turned her face toward the headlights, studying her for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “This is the one.”

“Careful with her,” another man said. “She’s worth more than the others.”

Maeve stopped fighting for just a second when she heard that. Worth more? Confusion combined with cold fear, the words’ meaning unsettling her in a way she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t simply fear; there was a strange, uneasy rustling beneath her ribs, like she was being measured for more than ransom. A memory wavered, half-formed: her grandmother’s words from years ago, calling her different, telling her she carried something rare. Maeve had never believed her. Now, she tried to recall the words her grandmother used. Panic, along with curiosity, collided, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

The men forced her arms behind her back again. They tightened a zip tie around her wrists until it bit into her already raw skin. She winced at the pain, but kicked and twisted despite it. Her energy depleted, they dragged her to the truck. When they opened the doors, Maeve was shoved forward. The abrupt change jolted her senses. She looked inside: metal walls, no windows, and the space where shelving had been ripped out.

It wasn’t empty. People were huddled along the walls: men, women, even children. Their eyes were wide and exhausted. Some sat, some crouched. There was no room to stand. The air smelled strongly of sweat and fear.

One woman reached toward Maeve as the men shoved her forward.

“Está bien,” the woman whispered softly. It’s okay.

It wasn’t okay.

They threw Maeve inside. She hit the metal floor hard; behind her, the doors slammed shut, and darkness devoured the truck. The engine started, jarring her into awareness of her new confinement. Maeve scrambled back until she hit the wall, breathing hard, her wrists tied behind her where bandages had been. Someone helped her sit up; a second person pressed a nearly empty bottle to her lips, giving her a small sip.

“Gracias,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

No one talked as the truck moved. The air grew hotter, and Maeve felt anxiety grip her. Each breath was tight and shaky, torn between panic that something terrible would happen and desperate hope that she could keep control. Someone cried quietly. Someone prayed. Maeve closed her eyes, fighting the panic rising inside her.

The warmth she’d felt lately rose in her chest, but this time it came with a sharp edge—her skin prickled, and she felt dizzy, a queasy ache blooming beneath her ribs. The heat grew brighter, more insistent, and fear tangled with it. It felt alive, as if something inside her was about to break free and take something from her in the process. She didn’t know what it meant, but felt ready to burst, both afraid and drawn to the sensation.

They hadn’t gone very far when the truck stopped suddenly, and the doors were thrown open again.

“¡Bájense! Move! Move!” the men shouted.

Maeve glanced at the large, expensive-looking guns they were carrying and realized this was a well-funded operation. The people in the truck with her were clearly migrants. None of them seemed to speak much, if any, English. How did she fit into all this?

The people climbed out slowly, stumbling into the moonlight. Maeve was struggling to drag herself forward using her feet. Her bound hands made it impossible to grip anything to help pull her along. Her body was so fatigued that inches seemed like feet. The opening of the truck looked miles away, and Maeve was certain she could never make it.

Just then, a hand reached in, grabbed her left leg, and pulled. Maeve slid quickly along the metal floor of the truck. As she reached the edge, she braced herself for the fall to the ground, but another set of hands grabbed her shoulders and held her in place.

“This one cannot be damaged,” said a female voice.

Maeve saw another truck nearby and guessed they were being transferred to the new vehicle. She remembered how she had gotten away before. It was during a similar transfer when she had simply slipped behind a large rock while the traffickers were dealing with one of the other detainees.

She had still been woozy from whatever drugs they had given her and very unsteady on her feet, but somehow, she stayed hidden until they had driven away. She remembered the sound of the engines fading into the desert. That part was real. She remembered the cold, the silence, and the feeling of being completely alone. That part was real, too.

After that, memories blurred: found by people, sitting under a blanket by a campfire, someone gently wrapping her wrists. Those recollections felt distant, belonging to someone else.

And she remembered a man walking past her with a golden glow around him, like light followed him instead of the other way around. That part couldn’t have been real. She told herself it was the drugs.

Now, as Maeve found herself under the traffickers’ control again, dread nearly crushed her. She watched mournfully as the others were roughly pushed and herded to the waiting truck. A little boy was moving too slowly, and one of their captors smacked the back of his head. The boy cried out and stumbled forward. His mother caught him, tears streaming down her face.

Maeve’s anger rose and with it, the strange heat in her body. She could not let these people be brutalized. She had to find a way to get them all out of there. Shame, fear, and exhaustion battled inside her; how was she to help when she, herself, was being held captive? There was no way for her to escape; she was sure they would not lose track of her this time.

She was nudged forward toward a waiting vehicle. Confused, she realized that she was being led away from the truck where the others were being taken. Fresh terror bloomed in her chest as she was guided toward an uncertain fate. She took one last look at the moon, a flicker of desperate hope lingering even as helplessness threatened to overwhelm her. There had to be a way out.

That’s when she saw them. Wolves. Huge wolves moving along the ridge above them, silent and composed, spreading out like they were working together.
The traffickers saw them too. One of the men raised his rifle.

“Get those animals out of here!” he shouted.

“El Lobo del Oeste!” whispered one of the migrant women.

Maeve understood ‘el lobo’, but not the rest of what the woman had said.

The wolves kept coming. They slowly surrounded the truck, blocking the road and the desert. Maeve’s heart pounded as the largest wolf stepped forward, dark fur catching the moonlight, gold eyes fixed on the traffickers.

The warmth in Maeve’s chest turned into heat. The heat turned into burning. It spread through her ribs and up her throat like she had swallowed fire. She gasped, trying to breathe, but the air felt too thin, too dry. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

For a brief, strange moment, she remembered her grandmother’s words: “You walk with the flame inside you.” Her grandmother would shake her head, as if Maeve was both a problem and a miracle. Maeve had always thought the words meant her temper and wildness, how she never did anything halfway.

But now, as fire and fear surged through her, the words landed differently, echoing with unexpected meaning. Maeve felt a rush of confusion and longing, missing her grandmother with an ache. The heat spreading through her chest and arms made Maeve wonder if her grandmother had meant something much more.

The zip tie around her wrists grew hot, then searing. She screamed as the plastic burned her skin, but before she could react, it shriveled and melted apart completely. Maeve stumbled backward, staring at her hands in horror. They were faintly orange, glowing beneath her skin like embers under ash.

“What… what is happening?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

She shook her hands, but the glow only pulsed brighter as her panic rose. The heat felt alive, as if waking up inside her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her breathing fast and uneven. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

Then, “We are not yours,” she said quietly in a voice that did not seem to be her own.

She watched in disbelief as a pulsing heat surged through her hands, building until her skin tingled almost painfully. For an instant, her fingertips were searing and bright, as if every nerve was charged with electricity. Then, flames shot from her fingers, fierce and unstoppable, hitting the ground in front of her.

The sensation made her gasp, a strange mix of terror and exhilaration burning in her chest. The sand at her feet cracked, glowing beneath the surface like underground fire. Flames shot up in a line between the traffickers and the migrants, forcing the men backward.

They shouted and stumbled away, yelling “¡Bruja! ¡Bruja! Witch!”

The fire spread in a wide arc, cutting them off from the truck. The wolves didn’t move. They just watched. The traffickers ran into the desert, abandoning the truck, screaming about witches and fire and demons.

Maeve noticed a figure with long hair leap into the passenger side of the vehicle that had been waiting for her. The tires spun, kicking sand and rock into the air, before gaining purchase and speeding away. Maeve felt a sense of relief push through all the other emotions, but realized she wasn’t really safe. She was in the desert with nowhere to go…and flames had just erupted from her hands.