She smacked him on the shoulder with a laugh, and they left the pool hall, and Club Chaos behind.
"We'll have to make a stop," Donovan said. "Cleo isn't jealous, but she does like to be fed now and then."
They disappeared into the streets. It had rained while they were inside, just a light misting, and the neon of the club's lights flashed and glittered in off the wet walls and pavement.
Chapter Twelve
The old junkyard bordering the Barrio and the southern end of the city proper crawled with activity. The yard, owned by a used auto dealer on the edge of town, was run-down and forgotten and piled to the height of a small house with decades of automotive history. There were trucks, semi trailers, sports cars and city buses. A few had been smashed to small, efficient metal cubes, but that had happened in an earlier time, when the yard's heavy equipment still operated and the owner's men still regularly combed the fallen vehicles for useful parts and recyclable salvage.
Now it was an auto graveyard, and Anya Cabrera had claimed it for her own. Moving in slowly from the Barrio side, she'd claimed first one small area, working the old cars into new shapes and piles, creating passageways deeper into the heart of the warped metal jungle. Initially, there was resistance. There were laws, and ordinances. There were safety concerns. Inspectors had come, and gone. The police had hung around the edges of the yard, even tried to enter and serve warrants on a couple of occasions. None of those officers who entered the yard ever came back a second time.
Some said that Anya paid them off. Others said she'd frightened them so badly that the thought of being in that dark place by night was more than they could stand. By day, Anya and her people kept to her shop, and the deeper halls and chambers of her domain. The night was a different matter altogether.
This day her people were out in force. A passageway had been pushed through to the center of the yard, where over time a large circular area had been cleared. To one side there was a small building, a place unlike any other structure in the city. It was formed of the hulking, rotting frames of cars. A few had been cut and welded, joined to create windows, doors and walls. At first glance, it blended with the mountains of wasted metal around it, but if you stared at it long enough, it evoked images of fairy tale castles, or steampunk nightmares. That small, squat bungalow faced onto the inner courtyard. Before it a wooden table rested on short, stout legs.
Lanterns hung all around the makeshift courtyard. They weren't electric — they were the old kind with doors that opened to allow a wick to be lit, the light dispersed by a brightly polished reflector. A few feet from the circular inner wall, braziers jutted from the hard, oil-packed earth. The center of the clearing was prepared for a fire, ringed in stones covered in whitewashed symbols. The pit was filled with charcoal, deep enough to burn and smolder for hours.
Anya's assistant, Kim, came down the passageway with a wooden case. There were two others with her, tall and silent. They carried their bundles to the oddly formed room of car bodies and stopped. Kim carried hers inside, the silver caskets in her hair jingling brightly. She disappeared with a flash of light. The two others placed their loads on the ground. They turned toward the entrance to the inner circle, crossed their arms, and watched in silence.
Others brought powdered incense and quietly prepared the braziers. They worked quickly and carefully, measuring their amounts as exactly as possible. Inside, Kim unpacked the supplies she'd carried in. Shelves lined the walls, and she filled them slowly. She had candles, dark bottles with faded labels, vials and herbs. One of the boxes that she eventually carried in was filled with bottles of dark rum. Another held tequila. She had at least one more trip to make — there were jars of dried mushrooms and peyote buttons still to come.
Most of it would not be used. Anya Cabrera had a very particular ceremony in mind, and there was not likely to be any deviation, but there were other considerations. There were those who would be present, but would not participate directly. They had to be satisfied, entertained, and paid. Anya would service them separately. Kim would help in this — it was her duty to handle things when Anya was too busy, or too distracted, to handle them herself.
Over the years, though she was young, the others had come to accept her, and to acknowledge her authority. It was significant that she was handling the preparations for the night's ceremony. No other would have been entrusted with it; on all earlier occasions, it had been Anya herself.
When she finished, she stepped out into the courtyard. The two guarding her turned, hefted the empty crates she'd left on the front doorstep, and started back toward the street. The sun was dropping lower in the sky, and they had at least one more trip to make before they had everything they needed. As they wound their way down the trail between the old wrecks, they passed young men and women hanging more lanterns. When it grew fully dark, the lanterns would light the only way into the center court. There were small alcoves to either side, easily spotted now, but that would be dark pits of shadow later on. They would house the guards.
Los Escorpiones would provide most of the sentries. Only those chosen by Hector would be allowed into the central court — the rest, those guarding the way in, would be boys and men who either were afraid, or too young for the coming battle, or too new to the gang to be fully trusted. Some of Anya's men would guard them too. No one would be fully trusted with any single part of this evening — it was too important, and potentially too dangerous.
Back at the shop, the two guards waited by the counter in the main room as Kim disappeared inside. What she needed was already packed, but she wanted to report in before returning to the clearing for the final time. She made her way deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of halls and doorways. She passed her own quarters without a glance, and at last the reached the inner sanctum — the room where Hector had come for his audience.
The room was empty, but there were more beaded curtains at the back, and Kim headed for them without hesitation. She brushed through and into a final hallway. It branched right and left. She turned in a circle twice, spat on her hand and pressed it to her forehead. She closed her eyes and turned again. When she opened her eyes once more, she faced the left fork and — again — she plunged ahead without hesitation. A moment later she came to a wooden door. She knocked lightly and waited.
"Enter," Anya called.
Kim pressed the door open and stepped inside.
"It is ready?" Anya asked. She was seated before a small vanity. It wasn't covered with makeup, or jewelry, but with small canisters, vials, and tubes. There were three small piles of powder on the surface before Anya, and she did not look up from her work. She held a razor blade, and with it she chopped the powders finer, and finer.
"I have one final trip to make. When you arrive, all will be in readiness."
"Hector?" Anya asked.
"There has been no sign of him, but it is still very early. He will come. They will all come. It will be glorious."
Anya nodded; it was a very slight movement. Her dark hair glistened in the dim light of a single bulb burning over the vanity. The rest of the room dripped with dark shadows. It was impossible to tell where the room ended — or if it ended. The sensation was like that of standing in a deep, empty cavern.
"I will be there shortly after the sun sets. Do not let me down."
Kim turned without a word. There was no purpose to a response. She would succeed, or she would not. Talking about it changed nothing, and promises were like etching paths to failure for the mind to walk. She knew what had to be done.
She closed the door behind herself, crossed back to the main passageway, and into the shop. She picked up the last case of supplies, nodded to the two guards, and they followed her out. As they passed, one of them flipped the sign on the window to "Cerrado".
The darkness fell suddenly and completely. Kim had returned to the small room in the center of the yard and stored the last of the supplies. She'd checked the braziers, and when she found them loaded to her satisfaction,
she moved on to the lanterns, and the guard posts. She stationed men at alternating positions, leaving the rest to be filled by Hector's men. Just before the last of the daylight dropped from the world, Anya entered the circle. She moved slowly, flanked on either side by one of the tall, dark, bald guardians. Another walked behind her, and when she entered, he turned at the door, just as those who'd followed Kim had done earlier that day, barring the way to any who might follow.
Anya circled the clearing slowly. As Kim had done, she checked the braziers. She stepped up to the fire pit and traced a long, dark-painted fingernail over the symbols and letters painted there. At last, she came to where Kim stood watching, turned back to the center, and nodded.
"You have done well. Place the circle. Leave it open here," she waved at the ground before the small room, "and at the entrance. Once Hector and his men are in, seal that side. When we enter, we will close the circle and begin."
"As you wish," Kim said. She turned away.
To the right of the doorway, there was a canvas pouch. She raised it from the nail where it hung, opened the flap on top, and stepped into the clearing. There was a furrow etched in the ground, circling the fire. She started slowly, dribbling the white powder from the pouch into the cut in the earth. It glimmered in the dim light of the lamps. She muttered to herself as she moved down the line, and her feet moved in an odd, shuffling dance. Her concentration was absolute.
Anya watched as Kim worked. She took note of the grace of the girl's movements, and the surety and confidence of her actions. It was good. There would be no mistakes. She turned with a flourish and disappeared into the small room, out of site. She would not exit that room until all of the others had arrived and were in place. Soon, it would begin.
Chapter Thirteen
After a quick stop at Donovan's place, where he restocked the many pockets of his jacket and fed Cleo, they hurried back to Amethyst's place. She hadn't said what it was that she wanted to get, but she'd made it clear that in the face of what they were up against, it was going to be important. Donovan settled onto a heavy leather chair in her den, and she brought in a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"This is going to take a quick explanation," she said. "It's not the sort of thing I usually deal with, but when I heard it was available, I couldn't resist. If I was one of those people that believed nothing happens without a reason, I'd have to think it was some odd twist of fate."
"I've always believed we make our own fate," Donovan said. "Of course, it's about the time I say something like that when I get a strange sign, or find just the right old manuscript. Sometimes you can almost feel something — or someone — watching over you."
"It's exactly like that."
Amethyst filled their glasses and sat the bottle on the table. Before she took her seat she crossed the room to a bookshelf. Where Donovan's shelves were cluttered and overflowing, hers were ordered and neat. She pulled out a dark book with gold gilt lettering on the spine, reached around behind it, and tugged on a latch. The base of the shelves appeared to be a solid wooden cabinet, but as the latch released, the front dropped gently down to reveal a wide drawer.
She opened the drawer, removed a dark leather bag, and then slid the drawer shut. She closed the cabinet and returned the book to its place. Donovan smiled as he watched her. He knew she must cringe every time she entered his den, and he was always afraid she'd snap and start arranging and organizing things. If she did he might lose the tenuous hold he still had on his chaos.
When she'd returned to her seat, she laid the bag on the coffee table between them. Donovan reached for it, but she laid her hand on his to stop him.
"Let me tell you about it first," she said.
Donovan leaned back and reached for his wine.
"It's not a long story," she said. "It is strange though. Do you remember a guy named Chance?"
"Of course," Donovan said. "I've bought a lot of things from him. He's not always around — seems to travel a lot. It's always worth talking to him. I didn't know he was around."
"I think he only lets you know if he has something that might interest you. This time he called me, and even he didn't seem certain I'd want what he had. Like I said, it's not my usual thing. My collection is among the most complete in the world — I have minerals, matched sets of crystals, gemstones, elements, and just about every alchemical text still in existence. Those I don't have, I can access."
She smiled at him then, and he laughed. "That you can," he said.
"What Chance brought in is dark. I'd heard of these things, but never actually seen one, and really never had the desire. He had an order for several, but when the deal was done he had two left over. He said he could probably have sold them to the first buyer if he'd mentioned it, but he was already a little leery of that deal, and just wanted to get away as quickly as possible and in one piece. He also didn't like the idea of them falling into the wrong hands, or just disappearing into the streets.
"That left him with two, and he thought of me. He's been traveling again — Haiti this time. You might recall that he isn't really the talkative type. He told me very little of where he acquired these items; he told me their use, and he told me his price. I've never doubted the quality of his stock. Still, at first I wasn't sure I'd take them. I told him to bring them around, and we'd see."
"Apparently they were more interesting than you initially thought?" Donovan asked. He nodded at the bag on the table. "You seem to have added them to your collection."
"I had a similar reaction to his," Amethyst said. "When I'd seen these, and held them, I worried about who might take them if I didn't. I don't know who all in San Valencez Chance does business with, but I was able to think of a few right off the bat that don't need items this powerful to get into trouble with. Anyway…they are also compelling. I have been considering getting rid of them, just because they fascinate me. I don't like things that distract me unless I've chosen to let that happen."
"So are you going to tell me what they are, or wait until I snap from the curiosity and open them myself."
"For someone as old as you are, you are very impatient."
"Ouch."
"They're pendants. It's hard for me to admit this, but I'm not absolutely certain what they are made of. It's not any known stone or gem. It's not wood, or bone, either. They are very black and a little oily to the touch. He claimed to have gotten them straight from a Bocor — carved by hand. He didn't know what the material was either, and didn't seem at all interested in finding out."
"But he told you what they are used for?"
Amethyst nodded. She reached out and grabbed the leather bag. She untied the cords that held it closed and reached inside. What she drew out made Donovan sit up quickly with interest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up before he'd even brought the things into focus. Each dangled from a rough metal chain, and Amethyst held them by these, avoiding contact with the small figurines.
"They are spirit stones," she said. "They have many purposes, but there are a couple in particular that I believe may prove useful. When worn, they serve the dual purpose of obscuring your identity and presence from the living — making people overlook you, thickening shadows and encouraging others to look somewhere else, though they don't know why, and more importantly, they render the wearer absolutely undetectable to spirits."
Donovan reached out and took one in his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the surface. It was waxy, like soap, and where he touched it, it felt as if it left a sheen of… something… on his skin. He wanted to drop it like a snake that was about to strike, but when he went to do so his fingers tightened around it.
"You feel it too," Amethyst said. "It's calling to you."
Donovan pulled his hand back, and Amethyst dropped the two pendants back into the leather bag. There was an immediate release of tension as she did so.
"There is something trapped in those stones," Donovan said softly. "Whatever it is might have the ability to do the things you've said, but w
hat it seeks is escape. It wants to be released, and I wonder — is that spirit less dangerous than those we may face?"
"I can't answer that," Amethyst said. "Without knowing who did the trapping, or how it was accomplished, it's impossible to be certain, I think. Perhaps, when this is done, and we have the time, we can look into it? If someone, or something, has been trapped against its will, we should release it."
Donovan nodded. "I am sure we can find something about these in my library…when there is time. For now, we have to concentrate on figuring out what Anya Cabrera is up to, and just what kind of danger we're facing in the Barrio. I have the feeling Martinez could tell us more, but I don't think he trusts us to handle it. He let me know things were wrong, so he has to know I'll go there, but he didn't tell me everything, and that makes me believe he's planning something on his own. I wish I had time to find out what it is, because I'd hate to get trapped between the two of them."
"Anya holds a lot of local rituals," Amethyst said. "She summons the Loa, makes sacrifices, and does minor conjuring for locals. She's been growing slowly more influential, but she has never seemed powerful enough to be any kind of real threat. What changed?"
"If Martinez and Cord are right, she's playing with very dangerous toys," Donovan said. "The Loa inhabit those who honor them by excessive behavior — crazed dancing, drinking the right things, sometimes drugs — Peyote or Mushrooms. Sometimes it's no more than hallucination on the part of the believer, but there are also times when the spirits they seek take over their bodies. I've seen very young children drink entire bottles of rum while smoking a cigar and cursing. That should kill them, but when it's over they fall into a deep sleep, and they are fine. The Loa have a great sense of humor, and they love to visit. What Anya is doing is taking advantage. She's not letting them leave."
"How is that possible?" Amethyst asked. "I thought they came and went as they pleased, within the bounds of the ritual."
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