Charlie Hernández & the League of Shadows

by Ryan Calejo

  I felt my hand ball into a fist at my side. I couldn’t believe this, couldn’t believe Joanna hadn’t told me up front I’d have to travel to the Land of the Dead to meet the oracle. How shady was that? Whatever. I didn’t have time to think about that right now. I just had to find a way out of here. But first . . .

  “The queen wanted you to check me out,” I told Ponce. “To see if I might be El Cambiador . . . the Morphling.”

  “The Morphling?” Ponce’s gaze narrowed; he looked completely caught off guard. “What do you know about the Morphling . . . ?”

  “Just what’s in the stories,” I admitted. “How the hero manifests animal traits and uses them and the witch’s own vanity to defeat her and save the village.”

  Those were actually some of my favorite stories, though like most myths, the details usually changed depending on where you heard it. A fisherman in Andalucía would tell you that the Morphling defeated the witch by manifesting fins and gills and then challenging her to a race through the Mediterranean, where she drowned in her own tempest. A farmer in the Sonoran Desert in Mexico would say the Morphling beat her by manifesting an armadillo’s shell and challenging her to a contest to see who could withstand the fierce heat of the desert sun the longest. There were even a few versions of the myth where the witch kills the Morphling—actually cuts out its heart and eats it, becoming even more powerful. Those had always freaked me out when I was little.

  “¡Ah, muy bien!” The world-famous explorer smiled proudly at me. “But did you also know that all Cambiadors have a chullachaqui in their family tree?”

  I shook my head. I mean, I knew what chullachaquis were (they were these cool forest-dwelling dwarf dudes with the ability to transform into pretty much any animal—they could take the form of humans, too; some myths even considered them the protectors of the rain forest), but I had no idea that they had anything to do with Morphlings.

  “Sí, they are related, you might say. But because Morphlings do not completely morph into an animal, they can manifest multiple animal traits simultaneously, making them much more powerful than any shape-shifter.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Ponce just stared at me for a moment. “Well, do you?”

  “Do I what? Have a chullachaqui in my family tree?” When he nodded, I gave a little shrug. “I—I don’t think so. . . .”

  “Let me ask you something. How did you even come to hear the tale of the Morphling?”

  “Isn’t it, like, super famous?”

  Ponce’s dark eyes narrowed. “Actually, it’s one of the most closely guarded secrets in either of the worlds.”

  I frowned. How could that be? My abuela had basically told me the complete opposite.

  “Pregunta, who told you this tale?”

  “My grandma. She taught me all sorts of myths.”

  “Interesante . . .” He paused, staring off into the leafy tangles of trees like he was pondering something complicated. A tricky crossword puzzle maybe. After a moment he said, “Who sent you to me again?”

  “Queen Joanna.”

  A deep frown creased his face. “The Witch Queen of Toledo still lives, eh? I’ve never trusted esa bruja. . . .”

  I can understand why, I thought.

  Ponce sighed. “Anyway, let me have a look at you.” He motioned for me to move closer, and when I did, his stubby little fingers immediately went to work, picking through my hair, feeling behind my ears, even flicking me on the tip of the nose. Not once, but three times.

  I looked at him, annoyed. “Was that necessary?”

  “Nope. Just thought you had a boogie.” He pawed through my hair one last time, and something flashed in his eyes—surprise maybe?—but it was gone so fast that I thought I must’ve imagined it. Finally, he stepped back, shaking his head. “Bueno. I’m sorry, mi hijo. . . . You are not the Morphling.”

  “I’m not?” The disappointment in my voice surprised me. I guess I hadn’t realized just how badly I’d been hoping to be the Morphling. To have an answer (as crazy an answer as that would have been) to what was happening to me.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  I shrugged, staring down at my wrapped-up claw. I could almost see the bright red color of the shell through the gauze. “So what am I, then?”

  “Un equivocado,” Ponce replied quickly.

  “¿Un equivocado? What are you talking about?” I knew the meaning of the word—in Spanish, it meant “wrong” or “mistaken”—but I’d never heard it used like that.

  “Don’t worry about it, muchacho. Just make sure to let Joanna know so she’ll leave you alone, ¿está bien?”

  “So that’s it, then? Just one quick look and you can tell for sure?”

  He put a slim brown hand on my shoulder. “Muchacho, when you’ve seen as much as I have, one look is usually all it takes.” Then he glanced up at the sky and shouted, “Not the Morphling. So sorry, señorita!”

  Following his gaze, I squinted against the blinding glare of the sun. “Who are you talking to . . . ?”

  “Never mind that. Oye, looks like you might’ve dropped this. . . .” Ponce squatted in the grass, pointing at something.

  “Huh?”

  “In the mud,” he said. “You gonna pick it up, or what?”

  “Pick what up . . . ?” I bent down to see what he was talking about. And just as I did, Ponce suddenly hooked an arm around my neck, pulling me in close.

  His breath was hot on my face as he whispered, “See, my uñas?” He showed me his nails—they were longish, sort of clipped square at the ends, and crusted with fresh mud. “They look pretty dangerous, no? I’ve used them to whittle spears out of wood, to slay a three-hundred-pound boar on the beautiful western shores of South Florida. Which, let me tell you, was no walk in the park. But you should know that there are far more dangerous uñas on your side of the world—and one in particular. If I were you, I’d go home—home sweet home, as you kids might say—and do everything in my power to get rid of it . . . might even save your life.”

  Get rid of a fingernail? What in the world was this nut-job blabbering about?

  Before I could ask, Ponce jumped to his feet, wiping his dirt-smudged hands on the stuff wrapped around my claw. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t ask any more questions,” he said, aiming a warning finger at me. “Spend another minute on this side and you just might find yourself trapped here . . . por toda la eternidad.”

  “TRAPPED HERE FOR ETERNITY?” I shrieked. “Well, how do I get back?”

  “The witch didn’t tell you?” When I shook my head, he gave me an apologetic look. “You’re not going to like this part, amigo. . . .”

  Then he drew his pistola and thumbed back the hammer.

  “Wait. You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the fastest way back.”

  Oh, c’mon! “Wait!” I shouted. “What’s the slow way? I wanna do the slow way!”

  But apparently the world-famous explorer, governor, sailor—whatever—didn’t; he simply took aim at the center of my chest and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  BAAANNNGGG! That was the last thing I heard.

  And then—

  I jerked back, breaking the surface of the water with a gasp, and landed hard on my butt. Shapes and shadows crowded in around me. I squinted, trying to focus. Slowly, the shapes resolved themselves into faces, familiar ones—Violet, Queen Joanna, and the basajaun named Juan. They were standing over me, Violet on my right, Queen Joanna and Juan on my left. Their faces were tight, their eyes big and full of concern as they silently watched me push to my feet, dripping water.

  “My apologies,” Joanna said. “It was the only way to get you across—one must be scared half to death.”

  Violet looked terrified; her lower lip quivered as she wrapped her fingers tightly around my upper arm. “Charlie, are you okay?”

  I nodded, blinking water out of my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “We saw an
d heard everything,” the witch queen said.

  “In the pool,” Violet explained, pointing. “Like it was a movie or something.”

  “All right, so then what’s that thing he called me?” I asked Joanna. “An equivo—”

  There was a great crashing sound above us. The entire underground cavern shuddered and shook. Loosely packed earth rained down from the ceiling.

  The witch’s eyes flicked to the basajaun. “They’ve pierced the veil.”

  “Then give us some more of those worms and brinco us out of here!” Violet said.

  The queen frowned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any more on me. . . .”

  “What? So, we’re stuck here?”

  “Stuck?” Joanna echoed. “Of course not. Close your eyes.” The moment we did, the world seemed to wobble around us, and the next thing I knew, we were back in the Provincia, a galaxy of stars floating overhead so close it looked like I could reach out and pluck one out of the sky.

  “Better this time, no?” the queen asked. “You get more and more used to it.”

  “Wait, so we don’t actually have to eat anything to do the brinco thing?” I said, glaring up at her.

  “Of course not,” she replied with a curious expression. “What in the lands do tequila worms have to do with brinco?”

  “Natha,” said Juan, shaking his massive furry cranium. “Nothing.”

  “Then why the heck did you make us eat those disgusting things?” I shouted at her.

  La bruja’s eyes flashed. She didn’t like being yelled at. “First of all, I did not make you do anything. Secondly, one should never engage in any form of sombra travel on an empty stomach. And tequila worms just so happen to be an excellent source of protein and dietary fiber.”

  “I’m sure.” Feeling sick, I wandered over to the red leather couch near the window and plopped myself down on it. As I rolled onto my side, trying to focus on keeping this morning’s breakfast down (not to mention that nasty little worm she’d made me eat), I noticed that the dirt Ponce had smeared on my cast was somehow still there. And it looked exactly like it had in the Land of the Dead—dark brown and impossibly rich. “How is this even possible . . . ?” I said, holding up my arm for Joanna to see. “There’s dirt on me . . . dirt from over there.”

  “Why would that surprise you?” she asked. “The Land of the Dead is just as real as this world. Some say it’s even more real.”

  I sighed. Whatever. I wasn’t even going to try to wrap my mind around that.

  “So, what’s an equivocado?” Violet asked. “You never told us.”

  “Un equivocado is a general term for someone whose physical abnormalities cannot be easily explained,” the queen replied with a sigh of her own. “Most of the time it is used to refer to someone who has been mistakenly cursed.”

  Of course. Because why not, right?

  “Which, unfortunately, seems to be the cause of Charlie’s manifestations. The good news is that it will likely go away in time. Maybe by high school.” With another sigh, Joanna slumped into the tall wingback chair behind her desk. “Now, if you two would please excuse me, I have impending calamities and the end of the known world to attend to.”

  “But what about my parents?” I said, sitting up quickly. “Okay, so I’m not the Morphling; but you are still gonna help me find them, aren’t you?”

  “Tens of thousands of people go missing in the United States alone every year,” the queen said in a tired voice. “Many more tens of thousands on a global level. I suggest you contact the local police department. Hasta luego, niños.”

  “No, c’mon, please ayúdame,” I started to say, but as I got to my feet, I quickly learned that helping me wasn’t on Joanna’s top ten list of things to do—it probably wasn’t even on her top hundred. How did I know? Because half a second later, Violet and I were back outside the monastery again, standing on the wrong side of the fence, a yard or two from where we’d left the bike.

  “Great.” Slumping my shoulders, I kicked a rock into a bush, feeling totally defeated. What the heck was I supposed to do now? “Perfect!”

  “Charlie, we are going to find them,” Violet said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “This is just a small bump in the road.” When I gave her a you’ve got to be kidding me sort of look, she quickly added, “Okay, fine. More like a small mountain in the road. But every tough case has one. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever written a single piece where something didn’t go wrong at first. Stuff just . . . happens.”

  As much as I appreciated her optimism, I wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk. “Let’s just get out of here,” I grumbled. “I wanna go home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The following morning I walked into school to find Alice Coulter engaged in her favorite pastime: She had Alvin pinned up against the wall of lockers with her gang of bully clones gathered around them in a loose semicircle, laughing and knuckle-bumping each other like the brain-dead Neanderthals they were. It was a minute or two before the first bell, so the halls were virtually empty—just a few stragglers wandering around, trying to buy themselves a few more seconds of freedom before first period. I didn’t see any teachers.

  “Man, I said I’ll get you ten bucks tomorrow,” Alvin was pleading. “I don’t bring lunch money to school anymore. I stopped in third grade. Because of you! Don’t you remember?”

  Alice’s grip tightened on the collar of his shirt. “I remember you peeing your pants every other day in third grade, but that’s about it.”

  “That was one time!” he shot back. “And my doctor said it could have been a bout of excessive lower-body perspiration, so it’s still up for debate!”

  “Debate this,” she said before yanking open a locker and tossing Alvin inside. “Now, you make any noise in there before we let you out, and I’ll personally make sure you wear your underwear as suspenders for the rest of your natural-born life.” Then she slammed the locker shut, clipped on a combination lock, and her squad of stooges started banging on the flimsy dented aluminum and laughing their heads off.

  The sight of someone being abused like that, of a bunch of morons taking pleasure in the suffering of others—taking pleasure in the suffering of my best friend, no less—sent a surge of anger through me, and I charged up the hall, pushing my way through the clique of idiots and getting right in the chief idiot’s face.

  “Let him out,” I growled. “Right. Now. Or else.”

  Alice looked genuinely shocked. “Was that, like, a threat?”

  “Exactly like one.” And next thing I knew, I’d grabbed Alice by the collar of her crisp white jersey and pinned her up against the wall, her feet dangling an inch or two off the ground. Behind me, I heard several gasps as most of her posse backed away.

  “Let me go!” Alice rasped, looking disbelievingly down at what she must’ve assumed was just a regular old cast covering my regular old hand. “Now!”

  “Apologize,” I said, tightening my grip. “And then I’ll think about it.”

  “I apologize,” she choked out quickly.

  “What?”

  “I said I apologize.”

  “¿Qué? I still didn’t hear you.” I turned my head. “Try saying it into my good ear. . . .”

  “I said I freaking apologize, you nut! I apologize!”

  “Good choice,” I said sarcastically. Then I let go, and she crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  Panting, her angry red eyes boring into me like lasers, Alice rubbed at the bottom of her throat with one of her meaty mitts. “You’re going to pay for that, punk. . . .”

  “Do you take cash or credit?” I said. When I made like I was going to grab her again, she flinched, reddened with sudden embarrassment, then scrambled to her feet and ran away down the hall. Most of her crew went after her, but a few of the denser ones just stood there for a moment, staring at me with looks of utter bewilderment. It wasn’t until they were all gone that I realized how crazy what I had just done was.

  I stared down at my c
law, stunned. Where had all that power come from?

  “Someone there?” Alvin squeaked. “Kind of dark in here . . . and stinky.”

  I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then snipped the lock with my claw and swung open the locker. Inside, a defeated-looking Alvin was curled into a tiny ball, his arms crushed up against his body, glasses dangling precariously from the tops of his ears. “Comfy?” I asked.

  His eyes opened slowly, and a confused look passed over his face. “Oh.” For some reason, he didn’t look—or sound—very excited to see me. Not exactly the response I was expecting.

  “Oh? Is that all I get for busting you out?”

  “Thanks,” he said in a flat voice.

  “That’s what amigos are for, right?”

  “Amigos.” He laughed, a low, bitter sound, then climbed out of the locker and started up the hall.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “Class.”

  “You’re not gonna wait for me?”

  “Why should I?”

  Confused (and a little insulted, to be completely honest), I jogged after him. “Alvin, bro, what’s wrong?”

  He whirled on me. His eyes were huge and red-rimmed. “You, dude. You’re what’s wrong!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You! You’ve been a ghost, dude. You’re never online. You don’t return any of my calls. You act like you don’t see my texts.” He frowned, looking disappointed. Disgusted, even. “You missed registration, man. . . .”

  Oh, snap. Registration! I’d forgotten all about that.

  His voice shook as he said, “We were supposed to be a band, man. A team. How could you sell us out like that?”

  “I—I’ve been really busy lately, Al. . . . I told you that.”

  “Yeah, I know. Busy running around with little Miss What’s-Her-Face.” His eyes went to my cast, and he shook his head. “Look at that. You even went and busted up your arm and didn’t think to gimme a call.” His lower lip trembled. “You’ve been totally ignoring us, man . . . totally ignoring me.”