25 Heart, I like Hearts, Hey, I even had one

Dulles International Airport was packed with people talking in every language from Hindi to Swahili. Women in colorful saris towed their luggage behind them, and Russian men in fur caps walked through the terminal, thick coats at odds with the weather.

I hugged my family goodbye and joined Dr. Crane and Arietta at the gate.

"Take pictures," my mom called.

"Write," dad said.

Mo waved. "Don't get bit by an anaconda!"

I laughed. "I won't. And mom, remember to feed my spiders."

We made our way through security and boarded the Lima Internacional plane. I sat next to Arietta, with Dr. Crane behind us.

Arietta reached into her backpack and brought out two bottles of home-brewed root beer. She handed one to me and uncapped the other for herself. "From dad and my family. We're worried about you, after the mess in London." Arietta shook her head. "I can't believe the angels let that happen. Are you okay?"

I focused at the floor. "No, I'm not. But I'm trying to forget about it."

Arietta placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Okay. Just know it's not your fault – nothing is."

I stared out the window. Our plane took off. Clouds billowed around us, and the land below was a patchwork quilt.

We arrived in Peru's capital late that night and took a taxi to our villa-style hotel, complete with a waterfall-pool combo lush with greenery. The room we shared was gorgeous, and excitement swelled in my chest. I could barely sleep. We woke early the next morning and caught a short flight to Iquitos, the largest city in the world inaccessible by road. I was blown away by the city's diversity. We went to the market in the morning, where everything from monkeys to caiman tails were sold. The barrios were painted in bright colors, and the scents of cooking meat and city living flooded the streets. The Amazon River snaked through Iquitos, and lush tropical vegetation sprouted wherever there was space. Arietta and I took a motorcycle-drawn cart around the city while Dr. Crane bought supplies.

"This is amazing," I yelled over the roar of the engine.

Arietta snapped a picture of the waterfront. "Smile," she said. She took a picture of me.

We took a boat that afternoon up the Amazon. Soon, we were in the thick of the rainforest. It was hot and misty, with exotic bird calls. Arietta and Dr. Crane stood at the prow, bird-watching.

"Look. A hoatzin bird," Arietta said. She pointed at a gangly orange-brown bird climbing a tree by the side of a marsh.

"Good eyes. Shannon, would you like a closer look?" Dr. Crane said. She offered me her binoculars.

"Thanks." I took them and pressed my eyes to the lenses. "Wow. What a weird bird. Its face is blue."

It clung to a branch.

"Why isn't it flying?" I asked.

"They're flightless," Dr. Crane said. "They're an ancient species – they resemble some of the first birds."

"Cool." I handed the binoculars back to Dr. Crane.

"Look, scarlet macaws," Arietta said, pointing to a flock above us. She sniffed the air with her lupine nose, supposedly picking up their scent.

I studied the red V. They disappeared behind a copse of kapok trees.

Our research station was like a giant tree house, built two stories up into the air with palm wood roofing and mosquito net walls. The staff was full of smiles, and I tested my high school Spanish out on them with relative success. Dr. Crane was fluent and communicated with the staff with ease. We had a delicious dinner of catfish and fried plantains. The staff had a pet blue-headed parrot that hopped from shoulder to shoulder. It flew over onto our table, attracted to our plantains.

I slept without blankets that night in the room I shared with Arietta, jungle heat enough to keep me warm. A light rain fell, dripping down the palm leaves and making wild music.

We woke at the crack of dawn, when birds were most active, to do a bird breeding survey. We hiked through what the research station staff called 'terra firma' – the dry part of the Amazon River basin. Arietta and Dr. Crane could identify birds by call alone – a black-fronted nunbird with a song like an alarm, a great potoo with bulging yellow eyes. I carried a clipboard and jotted down species names on sheets of paper. The hike was hard: uphill, downhill, puddled, thick with roots. I almost tripped into a tree with thorns.

After an hour, we reached the end of our transect, then moved onto another one. We repeated the transects each morning and spent our downtime exploring local villages, fishing, and playing board games. I caught a piranha and cut my fishing line with a machete, afraid to touch it. Come night, we hiked under starlight. The weeks stretched out like a line of honey, sweet and slow.

The day before we were set to leave, I paddled a canoe up an inlet. I daydreamed, the sky like a china plate. The sun was a marble I could flick with my thumb.

I stopped paddling, content to let the current carry me down the length I'd paddled up. I lay on my back and closed my eyes. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ears.

Something splashed beside me. I looked up to see a pink dolphin nosing the edge of my canoe.

"Oh my god," I said. It was beautiful, its flesh a pale, cherry petal color.

It clicked and nudged my canoe. The dolphin's mouth opened in a smile. I reached out to touch its snout. I smoothed my hand up its rubbery skin. It leaned into the curve of my palm, blinked once, then slipped back into the water.

Scientists sometimes spoke of transcendent experiences. Of humbling moments in the grips of nature's wonders. There was more divinity in that dolphin than in the hosts of angels I had seen. I watched the dolphin jump out of the water and arc through the air. It disappeared round a bend in the river.

I paddled back to the research station, still amazed. We finished our surveys that night. I stayed up late and watched the full moon from the porch. I was alone - the staff had gone to sleep.

The screen door creaked open. I looked to see a young man, handsome as sin, in sopping wet clothes. He clearly wasn't one of the lodge's employees. He smiled at me, revealing small, sharp teeth. Just like a dolphin's.

I drew back. "Who are you?"

He closed the door. "Don't be afraid. I mean you no harm."

"Um, okay," I said, unsure. I clutched my petersword charm.

The visitor bowed. "It was a pleasure meeting you earlier. I have a message for you – one I couldn't voice earlier. From San la Muerte."

"We haven't met before," I said, on guard. "And who's San la Muerte?"

He laughed. "Oh, but we did. On the river."

I thought back to my canoe trip. "Nope, I didn't see anyone."

The young man smiled.

"Oh," I said, taking in his sharp teeth again. "So you're telling me you're a were-dolphin? That's weird. But then again, my life is basically a trip to a mental ward."

He nodded. "An encantado. As San la Muerte tells me, you're one of his closest friends."

I scratched my head, recalling my rusty Spanish. "Muerte – that means death. Oh crap. You mean Samael? Not him!"

The encantado – whatever that was – laughed. "I think that's what you call him. He's the pale one, right? In the black cloak?"

I rose from my chair. "Yeah. God, what does he want? This is my vacation."

The encantado smoothed back his river-slick hair. "He says you've been ignoring his calls."

I walked to the encantado's side. "I left my cell phone at home. I don't get reception down here."

"Well, he wants to meet with you. He's waiting on the dock."

"Why doesn't Sam just come see me? Why does he need a freaking messenger?"

The encantado shrugged. "Something about not wanting to interrupt your break. He wanted to give you the option to ignore him."

I felt cheated out of my earlier experience, of the wonder I had felt at seeing the river dolphin. It had all been orchestrated by Samael. It wasn't a life-affirming experience. It was a death-affirming one.

"Thanks, I guess," I told the encantado.

The encantado smiled. "No problem." He blended with the shadows and was gone.

"Damn immortals." I muttered under my breath and climbed down the stairs to the dock. The river lapped at the support poles. Samael sat on a bench, gazing up at the stars. He didn't turn around.

I put my hands on my hips. "San la Muerte? Really?"

Samael shrugged. "It's a growing cult in Latin America." He drank from a flask. I could smell the vodka on the misty air.

"Why aren't you drinking absinthe?" I asked. "Isn't that your go-to?"

Samael craned his neck over his shoulder to look at me. "Because it reminds me of you. I don't need that, not right now."

"You're pathetic. Stop using alcohol as a crutch."

"Crutch? Hardly. The world is going up in flames. I'm merely doing my part to fuel the fire." He took a swig. "Alcohol is flammable, you know."

Anger warmed my gut. "So you've given up? You're just going to let the world burn?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Haven't you given up?"

"No."

He pocketed his flask. "Good."

I sat down at the end of the bench, away from him. "You told me to have faith. What made you lose yours?"

"I haven't lost mine," he said, voice soft. "Sometimes, however, I have doubts. Doubts that justice will prevail. I've lost before, on such a grand scale that it makes faith difficult. Perhaps failure is in my blood. I'm losing this war." He looked up at the moon. "I'm losing you."

I picked a splinter from the bench. "Stop being overdramatic."

"I'm not." He toyed with the cuff of his robe. "I love you. Can't you see that? It's like this damn rot in my chest – it's eating away at me, bit by bit. I can't stop thinking about you, wondering what you're doing, how you're feeling, if you're okay. I've put you through hell. A part of you hates me. My company has a price, and my affection is a death sentence."

I slid closer to him. "You're monologuing."

He paused to breathe. "I have a tendency to do that."

I put my hand over his. "Look, Sam. I don't hate you. But you really piss me off."

He laced his fingers through mine. "I do that a lot too, don't I."

I could smell the vodka on his breath. "You're drunk."

He smiled weakly. "I'm always drunk. It's the one thing that makes my existence bearable."

I squeezed his hand. "Maybe you need to spend less time at Damien's bar and more time at Alcoholics Anonymous."

"All I want to do is spend time with you."

I softened. "This is probably stupidity and pity for you on my part, but go ahead – you can kiss me. As long as you stop whining."

"Okay."

Our lips met. He tasted like vodka and longing. I remembered our first night together, and desire flared in my gut, combatting my irritation. He ran his hands down my back as monkeys called in the distance.

I thought of how I could wound Samael with just a word. It was strange, to have such power over Death.

"Sam?" I said.

His eyes were liquid. "Yeah?"

I took his hands in mine. "I'm sorry. I've blamed you for so much, and a lot of it is your fault. But you've exposed me to a completely new world, shown me things I thought were impossible. However much I hate to admit it, I like you. And it makes me mad – I don't like to feel vulnerable, but whenever I'm around you, I do. But I have to learn to let go."

He pressed his lips to my ear. "Whatever you want me to be, I'll be it. I'm yours. You have my heart, after all."