Then something changed. A shadowy, obscure shape slipped through into the circle, followed by two more. They stood for just a moment, and then slid around the central fire pit. It was difficult to bring them into focus and impossible to make out any features. The three shadows rounded the circle and stood, two to the left and one to the right of Anya's entrance. She stepped up and joined them. As she did, Kim, glided out behind her and carefully joined the broken halves of the circle.
More of Los Escorpiones entered. When all was said and done, there were fifteen present. There were the three wraith-like figures shimmering beside Anya, falling in and out of focus, and there were thirteen others. Kim rounded the circle and closed it at the far entrance. Two of Anya's followers stepped in front of the tunnel, facing back down its length, and crossed their arms in front of their chests.
Kim began a mincing, prancing dance around the inner clearing. As she moved, she sang out in a language native to a place and time far distant. She held a torch, lit from one of the lanterns. At each of the braziers surrounding the circle, she danced in place and held the flame to the incense powder until thick smoke billowed up and out like fog. Each time she lit another brazier, the air thickened in that outer ring. Within the circle, where Anya advanced on the central brazier, the air was clear and clean.
Anya pulled out a long wooden match from a deep fold of her many layered robes. She struck it casually on the circle of stones with their white-washed symbol decorations. She held it first to one side, then to the other of the charcoal in the brazier. The coals had been pre-soaked with pungent oil, and flames immediately began licking at the edges, sliding in and around each small briquette.
"Welcome!" Anya cried. Her voice rang out, strong and powerful. She was a small woman, slender and dark. Her form and features were cloaked in many layers of gauze and silk and lace, festooned with charms, bones, silver trinkets and gold chains. As the central fire rose, she glittered and shimmered; each motion of her arms sent trails of light following after it and drawing half-lit symbols in the air.
"It is a glorious night," she said. "The spirits will rise and walk among us. Gods will visit, and we will become stronger. They will share with us, and we with them, and when we are done, none shall stand before us."
Kim had completed her circuit of the circle, and the band of scented smoke divided them from the world. Anyone standing outside the circle would see little or nothing — perhaps a back-lit shadow in the mist, or a will-o-the-wisp of light. The guards just inside the door were obscured, as well, though they could see well enough, staring out the passage leading in among the dead and forgotten automobiles and the flickering torches.
Anya stepped forward and circled the fire. As she moved, she traced her fingers over the white symbols. She spoke as she walked, and her feet began a shuffling, skipping dance.
"They are here," she cried. "They walk among us. They touch us and breathe through us and flow in and out and through our veins. They are dark, and light; they are weak, and strong. They live in the shadows, and are bound by daylight."
She whirled away from the fire, and as she did so she cast off the first layer of her garments. They were scarves, and as she passed the men who circled her fire, she stepped in closer, danced between them, wrapped the soft material around them and let it go, moving to the next. Once more around the fire, and she danced in little more than wisps of silk. Her skin was smooth, oiled and glittering in the firelight. As her garments disappeared, she was revealed, the muscled perfection of her legs and the haughty thrust of her breasts. One moment she stalked them, and the next she wound around and through their ranks seductively.
Her words, which had been clear and simple, dropped slowly into a chant that matched her dance. Los Escorpiones trembled slightly, but stood their ground as she leaned in and whispered words in their ears that they would never understand, brushing the palms of her hands over their flesh. She leaned suddenly to the cage in front of the fire, and with a sudden yank of her wrist, she removed the screen that separated the strutting cocks inside.
She laughed, spat on the ground before the cage, picked up the dirt where her spittle had landed and ground it between the palms of her hand. She leaned in to the fire and dropped the contents of her hands into the flames. The blaze roared and licked up into the sky.
The birds dove at one another as if possessed. They circled and struck, sharp spurs and beaks slashing like lightning. Anya laughed, and the sound of that laughter blended with the whipping, snapping voice of the fire. The birds screamed, and Anya leaned close to the fire once again. She grabbed the first of the bottles, lifted it, and smashed the top against the stone rimming the fire. Some of the contents sloshed into the pit, where they caused bursts of brighter flame and a loud hiss.
Anya stood before the cage, squatted, and watched. She continued to sing and chant. She swayed to the motion of the battle raging in that small cage. She held the bottle out before her and waved it hypnotically.
"Join us!" she screamed. "Come to us. We welcome you with mind, body and spirit. We claim the right!"
At that moment, the dark bird struck. It dipped it's head as if going for the lighter colored rooster's breast. When its opponent reacted, the red rooster dropped to the side and lashed out with the spur on one leg. It caught the white bird directly across the throat. Blood spurted, and Anya yanked open the cage. Before the fallen bird struck the ground she plucked it out. She bore it aloft, the bottle held tightly in her other hand.
The dead rooster flopped in her grip. She spun away, and began a third circle of the ring. This time she reached out as she passed each of Los Escorpiones, marking them once on each cheek, and once on the forehead with the bloody feathered neck of the fallen bird. A few tried to pull back, or to spin away, but she was fast — far too fast — and her words held them, her dance mesmerized them. As she moved to the second in line she held out the bottle to the first. He hesitated only a second, and then he drank.
As she moved, the bottle trailed after her. By the time she reached the end of the line — the spot where the blurred, wispy forms wavered, the bottle was empty. She tossed the remnant of the bird onto the pyre and it burst suddenly into brilliant red flame. It faded back to the glow of the coals, but there was no sign of the sacrifice.
Anya grabbed another bottle then. She laughed, broke the top and threw it toward the men in line. One staggered forward, as if too drunk to remain upright, but at the last second he snagged the bottle out of the air easily. He bowed to Anya, and winked, then upended the bottle and chugged half of it in a single swallow.
"Welcome!" Anya cried.
She continued, opening and tossing the bottles, watching them caught, some almost daintily, one in a sudden and very unexpected flip, a young man flying through the air, bringing the sharp, broken tip of the bottle's neck to his lips in mid-air and landing lightly on his feet, still drinking.
As they drank, they danced. Anya led them in a circle around the fire. Somewhere along the way, the last of her clothing disappeared. She stroked herself over strong young bodies as they danced. Some grabbed her and held her close, others kissed her and then spun her away, laughing uproariously. As they moved, music rose. There were no musicians in site, but the wild chords of deep, resonant guitars, the syncopated patter of hands on bongos, and the soft lilting voices of recorders, or flutes, permeated the air.
Within moments what had seemed an organized, ritualistic experience degenerated into wild abandon. Los Escorpiones, the thirteen, danced and drank. Some smoked thick, green cigars that had been tucked in a case by the bottles. The dancers reeked of strong, dark rum and mescal. Voices rose in tongues that none present understood, and the flames danced merrily. Beyond the misting incense smoke, Kim watched, her eyes dark. She paced like a caged cat, just beyond the magical barrier.
It had begun.
Chapter Eighteen
Donovan and Amethyst stepped through the doorway into the alley across from the Barrio just after suns
et. There was still movement on the street, but the two paid no attention to it. As they stepped out and scanned the area, they barely registered as light shadows on the walls of the building s behind them. They were like fuzzy, warped spots in the air, and though they passed very close to several passersby, no one registered their presence.
"It seems as if at least the first half of the amulet's power isn't exaggerated," Donovan said. "Let's hope it works as well on the eyes of spirits — Loa in particular."
The dark, soapy stone figurine rested against his skin, and he felt the urge to squirm away from it. It was warm to the touch, and he was fairly certain that on more than one occasion, it moved. He didn't want to think about what that motion might mean. He had known that such talismans existed, but they came from a branch of study he'd avoided. Not black arts, exactly, but not "clean". The amulets fell somewhere in the in-between and Donovan knew that, particularly in realms of power, gray areas could prove the most dangerous.
They stood in the doorway of an abandoned bookstore and watched Anya Cabrera's guards at the entrance to the junkyard. Now and then one would move in, or out of the passageway. There were never less than two in sight and in the shadows a bit further down the street they could make out the forms of two young men — no doubt Escorpiones. Torches flickered throughout the tangled piles of broken and twisted metal. The cloying scent of incense flavored the air, and music rose from the shadows.
"Is that guitar?" Amethyst asked.
Donovan listened closely, and then nodded.
"Guitar, some sort of flute, drums… Anya has pulled out all the stops. I recognized the music — it's powerful. I knew there were those in the city who still played it, but I wasn't aware that they could be bought. They may prove a new sort of problem before we're finished."
"That's what I needed to hear," Amethyst said. "As we sneak into the heavily guarded voodoo Loa infested junkyard to spy on a madwoman, what I really needed was something else to worry about."
Donovan laughed.
"I don't think we're getting in through the front door," he said.
They might have slipped past the first round of guards with the help of the amulets, but if they entered that passageway, and were detected, there'd be no way out. Donovan reached into one of the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a long slender crystal on a chain. He breathed on it — causing it to fog up — spoke a small incantation, and then held it out so that it dangled freely.
The crystal swung in slow circles. Amethyst watched in amusement.
"You still have that?"
"I never get rid of anything useful," Donovan said. "Besides, it was the first gift you ever gave me."
"That would have sounded more romantic if you'd skipped the part about being useful."
Donovan concentrated. The crystal swung a final time and then, as if it had been gripped by invisible fingers, twisted up and away to the right, pointing along the side of the junkyard into the shadowed streets. Donovan turned in the direction of the pull, and Amethyst fell in behind him. They crossed the street and moved quickly along the front fence of the junkyard. There were other gates — or had been — but Anya Cabrera's people had re-arranged things inside to prevent unwanted entrance to their court. What they needed was to find something that had been overlooked. Though there were shopkeepers shutting up for the night, and pedestrians passing nearby, no one glanced at the two or acknowledged them in any way. They moved like ghosts.
They turned onto Delaporte and followed it for several blocks. As they moved in deeper, the street grew darker. The streetlights on that particular avenue were in disrepair, and though the city was well aware of the problem, workers were reluctant to enter, even in large groups. It was the home of Los Escorpiones, and each time the city spent the money to repair the lights, they were broken again before they'd burned a single night. It is one thing to sit back in a comfortable office and talk about taking care of the gang-related problems, and entirely another to be out on the streets trying to make it happen.
The junkyard bordered Delaporte for four blocks. Just before it turned again on Forty-Eighth, a large wooden gate rested on heavy metal hinges. It was closed, and there were chains across the opening. The homes across from that gate were low-slung and dark. There were no lights, and boards covered many of the windows. Broken and abandoned toys littered the lawns, and the sidewalks were awash in colored paintings and slogans. People lived there, but when the light drained from the sky, they melted away, huddling close in their rooms and waiting for the uncertain safety of daylight to draw them out.
Donovan studied the street carefully, but detected no movement. It seemed that Los Escorpiones were all involved in the night's activities. Normally there would be guards and sentries. If Anya Cabrera had her way, they would no longer be necessary.
He turned back to the gate. The chains and the lock that held it closed were rusty. The fence itself rose up to about seven feet. On this side it was built of aged, warped wood. The paint had long since peeled away, and knots had fallen free. It was cracked in a few places, but the wood still appeared strong.
"Feel like a climb?" Donovan asked quietly.
Amethyst frowned at him and stepped up to the gate. She looked up and down the street, but there was no one in sight. Los Escorpiones were busy, but even in their absence no one braved Delaporte. Satisfied, Anya reached up and pulled a thin blue crystal from her hair. She gripped the lock in one hand and inserted the crystal into the keyhole. When it was in as far as she could get it without releasing the base, she closed her eyes.
The crystal let off a dim blue glow. The lock grew almost transparent, just for an instant, and then, with a click, it fell open. Amethyst held the two halves of the chain in one hand and slipped the crystal back into her hair. She hooked the lock over one end of the chain and pulled on the gate. It opened about a foot with a creaking groan.
"Nice," Donovan said with a chuckle. "You always carry lock picks in your hair?"
"You'd be surprised what can double as a fashion accessory."
She lowered the chain gently to prevent any more unwanted sound, pressed the gate open wide enough to allow them both access, and slipped inside. Donovan followed, and then pulled the gate closed behind them. If they weren't out by daylight, someone was going to see that open lock, and the chain on the ground, but for the moment they were safe enough. He turned and studied the piles of rotting vehicles for a moment, then pulled out the pendulum again. After only a moment it swung at an angle to the left.
"Shall we?" Donovan said.
Amethyst only nodded. Now that they'd entered the junkyard the music was much louder, almost hypnotic. The incense smoke was thick, and it seemed to seep from every crack and pore of the place, as if seeking to escape.
Donovan slipped between a smashed Ford Mustang chassis and the remnant of an ancient Cadillac. Amethyst followed. There was a narrow crack buried in deep shadows, and they followed it inward. Cars were piled so high on either side that the light of the moon would only penetrate when it had finally risen to the center of the sky. Donovan moved with sure-footed grace, stopping every few feet to draw out the pendulum and test their direction. Within moments the gate was lost to site.
They moved very slowly, and very carefully. For one thing, many of the trails through the yard were narrow and lined with jagged bits of metal. In the darkness it was easy to snag clothing, or cut an arm by coming too close to one side or the other. The music was eerie and had grown steadily in volume as they progressed.
"The guitar is getting louder," Amethyst said softly, "but not the flute, or the drums."
"I noticed," Donovan replied. "We must be near one of the musicians. If so, we're in no immediate danger — they aren't violent. We don't want him to see us though, if we can help it. He'd be able to pinpoint our location for Anya's people without even breaking rhythm."
"That shouldn't be a problem. We're still wearing the amulets."
Donovan nodded, but didn't look convinc
ed. He followed the pendulum around the corner of a Jeep so buried under and forgotten that it had begun to compress downward, windshield broken away, tires flattened. The scent of rotting rubber mixed with that of the soil and the rust; entropy was making a meal of the junk, wearing away at it slowly and steadily.
Their way became suddenly easier. The path ahead had been used more recently — there were signs of footprints. There was also another trail winding off directly across from where they entered the wider path.
"We're going to have to be more careful from here," Donovan whispered. "I don't think they will be patrolling this far out, but they've been through here recently. They may just be working on expanding their operations. If they bring Los Escorpiones fully on board, and for good, then the gate onto Delaporte will probably not remain closed much longer."
Amethyst nodded. "Which way?"
The pendulum wavered. It began to swing to the right and then faltered. The chain swung that direction, but the crystal dangled at the end, as if something had dampened the energy allowing it to defy the call of gravity. The chain pointed right, but the crystal itself pointed straight down.
They looked at one another. Donovan shrugged. He put the pendulum back in his pocket and slipped around the corner to the right, moving slowly. They made better time, but at the same time, moved with greater care. The music was much louder, and they heard voices raised in loud raucous laughter. The air around them was charged with a strange energy that made it difficult not to get caught up in the rhythm; the syncopated heartbeat of the ritual.
"They're in full swing," Donovan said. "We'd better hurry, or we're going to miss anything important that happens."
They stepped into a cleared space and stopped cold. Seated before them in the driver's seat of a long-abandoned school bus was a young man with very long hair and coal-black eyes. He held a very large-bodied acoustic guitar across his knees. His fingers flew over the strings, and the sound they produced pounded through the night to blend with the other instruments.
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