by Ryan Calejo
“Dude, Alvin, it’s not like that,” I started to say, but he cut me off.
“No, dude. I’ll tell you what it’s not like! It’s not like we were Facebook friends. We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. Kindergarten. But the second some pretty girl smiled at you, you forgot all about that. You sold us out for a girl, Charlie. And for Violet Rey, of all people.”
“She’s not that bad, Al.”
“Not that bad? She’s a Mattel, dude. A plastic. The girl probably has M.I.C. stamped on the back of her neck!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Made in China!”
“All right, bro, chill. . . . Now you’re being a little rude.”
“Funny part is, you’re so blinded by her glossy lips and shiny nails that you don’t even see what she’s doing.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about? You don’t even know her.”
“Think about it, Charlie. You’ve been going to school with this girl for, like, six years. That’s half your life. And all this time she hasn’t looked your way once. But then all of a sudden she becomes head of the student newspaper and you start acting all weird and stuff and now she’s all over you.” His eyes narrowed to angry little slits. “You honestly don’t see what’s going on . . . ?”
“No, I honestly don’t.”
“That’s because you’ve got stars in your eyes, kid! But you’re her next project. You’re her next front-page story.”
“Please,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. “Gimme a break.” But what if he was right? I felt stupid even considering the possibility, but how well did I really know Violet . . . ? I mean, yeah, she seemed genuine. She seemed amazing. But what if it was all an act? Just a twisted little game to get close to me. To get her front-page story.
“She doesn’t care about you, dude,” Alvin said. “Never has.”
“Bro, look, I know you think you’re protecting me and all, and I respect that—I appreciate that. But that’s not what’s going on here. Believe me.”
“Okay, then, what’s going on? Clear this whole thing up for me, because obviously I have no clue.” He crossed his arms, waiting. “Go ahead. . . . I’m listening.”
I hesitated, not sure how much to say. I mean, how much could I even tell him? This whole thing was insane! And if I told him everything, told him about how much of a freak I was becoming, could I honestly expect him to accept me when I couldn’t even accept myself? But before I could decide, he said, “That’s what I thought,” then turned and started walking away.
“Dude, hold up! Give me a freakin’ second to think!”
I was about to go after him when the sound of music—was that . . . mariachi music?—filled the hall. I had time to wonder, But isn’t band class on the other side of the school? Then something hard (and completely invisible) nailed me right in my gut.
I gasped as the force of it lifted me off my feet and slammed me to the ground with a bone-crunching thud. Everything happened so suddenly that at first I didn’t even feel any pain, only shock. But when the music stopped, I got an even bigger shock: All at once a figure materialized in the hallway before my very eyes.
And not just any figure—it was El Sombrerón!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
His surprisingly human-looking face—sharp Hispanic features, olive skin, a few days’ worth of beard stubble—swam in and out of focus as I rolled onto my side, trying to suck air back into my pancaked lungs.
“Ay, muchacho, muchacho,” he said in a low, laughing voice. “You’re a hard one to get ahold of.” I felt hands patting me down, going through my pockets. “Don’t have it on you, eh? Where did you hide it? ¡Habla!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed to choke out.
El Sombrerón gave a frustrated groan. Then he dropped a heavy knee across my chest, pinning me to the ground. Next thing I knew he grabbed a handful of my hair and began to braid it so tightly that a cry of pain tore from my throat.
“Just tell me where it is and I let you go,” he whispered into my ear as I squirmed and kicked, trying to fight him off.
“I. Don’t know. What. You’re talking about.” I could barely force the words past the pain. “¡No sé!”
“Don’t lie to me!” He twisted the knot of my hair tighter, and I cried out again. The enormous black brim of his hat stretched from one corner of my vision to the other, seeming to block out the entire world. There was only me, him, and the burning, shooting pain on my scalp. “Don’t you lie to me, or my face is the last you ever gonna see, ¿me entiendes?”
“I’m not lying!”
“Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?”
“Yes!” I screamed.
“Hmmm.” The crazy hair-braiding goblin thought for a second, then stood up, shaking his head. “Why do I believe you?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe because I’m telling the truth!” I stared up at him, rubbing my aching head, my breath still wheezing in and out of my lungs. “Dude, what do you want?”
He made a face. “What do I want? What do you think I want. . . ? I want La Uña de la Bruja!”
“The Nail of the Witch?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Never heard of it?” he asked, and laughed quietly. It was a low, melodic sound. Almost soothing. “No one’s ever told you about the cursed dagger that was born in the fiery depths of Cerro Azul, forged by the Cherufe warlords themselves, and cursed by a brujo so wicked that just the mere sight of the blade has been known to drive the weak-minded insane?” I knew the Cherufe were evil volcano-dwelling magma monsters, but I’d never heard of any cursed dagger, and when I shook my head, the guitar-playing super freak grinned and said, “Well, rumor has it that someone in your family’s got sticky fingers, compadre. Know what I mean?”
“You’re saying someone in my family stole that . . . that thing?”
He laughed again, louder this time and more genuinely. “Ay, amigo, I just can’t make my mind up about you. . . . You’re either the world’s greatest liar or a very clueless little chico.”
“I think we should go with option two,” I said.
His grin widened, revealing rows of tiny, pointed teeth. He reminded me of a panther with his hungry smile and that wild, untamed look in his eye. “You don’t know me very well, do you, amigo? See, I always get what I want, ¿sabes?”
“But what about the girl in the legend?” I blurted out without thinking. “The one whose parents had a priest bless her hair so you couldn’t go near her anymore.”
“Ay, sí, Sophia”—he smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes—“my great love . . .” Half a second later, his eyes suddenly cleared, and a sort of angry snarl twisted his lips. “Why you gotta go digging up old wounds like that, eh? ¿Qué te pasa?”
Maybe I’d been hanging around Violet too much, but I got the sudden instinct to flip the script on him, to start asking the questions myself. At the very least it would buy me some time to figure out how I was going to get away from him.
“You work for La Mano Peluda, don’t you?” I said (mostly because it was the first question that popped into my brain). “You know, the Hairy Hand?”
“Yes, I know. But I don’t work for nobody, mocoso. I only work for me. And for your información, I’m not the only treasure hunter after La Uña.” Off my surprised look, he said, “What? A man can’t have a legitimate profession? You expect me to just braid horses’ tails all day?” He tsked me. “Anyway, once word got out that La Cuca and La Mano Peluda were looking for La Uña, well, everyone started looking for it. That particular bruja has been known to pay a great many quetzals for enchanted items.”
La Cuca. There was that name again—the one Sihuanaba had mentioned. “Are you talking about that witch from all those scary myths?”
“Myths . . . ?” El Sombrerón laughed. “You of all people should know better by now, no?”
Guess he had a point there.
“Oye, but w
hat I’m trying to say is, it will be far better for you to deal with me than with one of my competitors; and you can trust me on that one. Some of them can be a little rough, ¿sabes?” He thought for a second. “Bueno. This is what we are going to do. You’re going to take me to your house and we’re going to look for La Uña. If we can’t find it there, then I’ll let you pick the next place we go looking. If it’s not there, either, then I’m going to play the last song you’ll ever hear, if you know what I—”
The ground began to rumble. From behind us came a distant whinny and the thunderous pounding of hooves. El Sombrerón’s gaze narrowed, focusing up the hall.
“¡Contra!” he cursed.
“What’s happening?”
“Sounds like Johnny Law is nipping at my spurs again, primo. I gotta go . . . for now. Vaya con Dios, niño.”
Taking a step back, he raised his silver guitarra and began to play, strumming a slow, haunting melody. Immediately his form began to shimmer and shift with the vibration of the chords. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, but when I blinked them again, he was gone.
A split second later, the deafening clatter of hooves filled my ears and a rush of wind swirled my hair as a massive shadow fell over me.
I looked up to see a great black horse rearing high on its back legs. Scales of black armor glinted along its sides, and its eyes glowed like a pair of burning coals. Front legs the size of tree trunks pawed wildly at the air. When it finally came down, I got my first look at the rider: flowing dark robes blacker than the night itself and a head made of pure smoke. It could only be one man.
El Justo Juez stretched one huge black-gloved hand in my direction. His voice crackled off the walls like exploding fire logs as he said, “Which way did he go?”
I started to point, then realized it was pointless. “He—vanished. . . .”
The column of smoke above his shoulders momentarily blazed fiery red. “¡Madre!”
His huge sable steed let out its own wild cry. Twin pillars of hellfire shot from its nostrils, singeing the cheapo linoleum floors.
“I’ve been tracking El Sombrerón since he ambushed you at the cathedral,” Juez said. “We believe he may have información that could prove useful in our struggle against La Mano Peluda.”
“But he told me that he didn’t work for them,” I said.
“He doesn’t . . . as far as we know. But someone like him often hears much of what is spoken in darkness.”
I shook my head. There was so much going on, so much I didn’t understand. What wasn’t La Liga telling me? Why did I keep getting dragged back into all of this?
“Juez, what’s really going on here?” I said. “I mean, El Sombrerón thinks I have some sort of treasure—La Uña de la Bruja or something.”
The headless rider jerked back in his saddle so abruptly that his horse whinnied and reared, its black-as-night hooves rising so high they crashed through the ceiling, obliterating a couple of the overhead panels. Hunks of foam rained down around us.
“¡No puede ser!” Juez cried in a thunderous voice. “It can’t be!” The sound of his words echoed up the hall loud enough to make the whole building rumble. I was surprised no one had stuck their head out into the hall yet. A moment later, he seemed to compose himself and said, “Then it is worse than I feared.”
A finger of fear skittered down my back. “What? What is?”
“Charlie, La Uña de la Bruja is a cursed weapon, a thing wrought of pure evil. And the fact that a sombra like El Sombrerón is hunting for it means La Mano Peluda is now poised to begin their slaughter.”
“Their slaughter of who?”
“Charlie, I’m going to speak openly with you. You are in great danger. Through the millennia that weapon has been used exclusively—¡exclusivamente!—for a single purpose: to kill Morphlings.”
And the finger of fear turned into icy claws clamped around my throat. “But, Juez, what does any of that have to do with me? I’m not the Morphling. . . .”
“Pequeño, don’t you understand? Simply because we know you are not the Morphling doesn’t mean La Mano Peluda does. And they believe their hour has come. They are going to kill everyone and anyone who they believe might have even the slightest chance of being the Morphling. See, the Morphling represents hope, and they cannot allow hope to spread, hence, they cannot allow the Morphling to live.”
“So you’re saying they’re going to kill me just in case . . . ?”
“I’m afraid so. And not just you. Any child they believe might be the Morphling is now in the greatest peril. La Mano Peluda is absolute evil and will stop at nothing to achieve their ends. They place no value on human life. In fact, they only see value in destroying it.”
Magnífico. So basically I was being hunted for possibly being something that I knew I wasn’t. Things just kept getting better and better, didn’t they?
Juez’s horse pawed impatiently at the ground. Its massive hooves carved deep, curving ridges in the soft tiles. Some poor unsuspecting kid was going to take a nasty fall here. “Charlie, I have to go,” the judge said, “but I do hope to see you again one day. You are a courageous boy with a wonderful and selfless spirit.”
I stared up at him, grateful for his words but also feeling utterly helpless. “Thanks for that, Juez. I think you’re awesome too. . . . You’ve always been a hero of mine. But, like, what am I supposed to do now?”
“My advice is simple,” he said softly. “Do everything within your power to stay alive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty,” Violet said as she marched into my bedroom later that afternoon. “We have a ton of research to do.” She dropped her book bag onto my bed. “I brought my laptop. Got a bunch of links that, as Cap McCaw might say, ‘Might just be pivotal to our current dilemma, my dear.’ ”
When I didn’t say anything, she frowned.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Yes, I thought, but shook my head. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”
“Not a problem.” She took out her laptop and set it on my bed. “We’re going to be reading mostly. Nice braid you got there, by the way. Very Pippi Longstocking-esque.”
I sighed, rubbing my face.
“Charlie, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, Violet. . . . I mean, there’s nothing wrong with me. Besides, of course, for the fact that I haven’t seen my parents in forever, I’m turning into some kind of mutant crustacean freak, and, oh, that’s right, the maniac in the ridiculously enormous black hat decided today would be a good day to play bongo drums on my small intestine.”
“You were attacked? Where?”
“At school. He wanted me to find something for him. If I don’t, he said he’d kill me. No biggie.”
“Charlie, this was today?”
“Just before first period. Oh, and my best friend now hates my guts. Forgot to mention that one. That’s the cherry on top.”
Violet frowned. “Why would your best friend hate your guts?”
Because of you, I thought bitterly. He hates me because of you. “Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. In fact, there’s nothing I want to talk about less. In the world.”
“Okay, so we won’t talk about it. Let’s get to work.” She took a seat on the edge of my bed, motioning for me to do the same. I didn’t, but she continued anyway. “All right, I’m going to need to know the whole story if we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Tell me about the night before your parents disappeared.” She brought out a notepad and pen. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”
“Will this help you finish your story?” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I ran a hand roughly through my hair. “I don’t wanna talk right now, okay?”
A long moment passed before she spoke again. “Charlie, it’s going to be hard to piece together what happened without your cooperation. You’re going to have to let me in.”
/> I shrugged.
“Why are you being like this?” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped.
“Excuse me?”
I let out another sigh, and the next thing I knew, my frustration boiled over. “Why are you even here, Violet? Huh? Why don’t you just go back to hanging out with the cool kids and doing whatever it is you cool kids do and just leave me alone? Because you sure as heck didn’t give a crap about me before you saw that map.”
Violet looked stunned. “Did you seriously just say that?”
“Deny it. Deny the fact that you haven’t so much as looked my way in six years. How come you never talked to me before? How come you never even said hi?”
“How come you never said hi to me?” she shot back. “That street runs both ways, Charlie.” She stared at me, her chest rising and falling like a restless sea. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Guess it just took me a while to realize why you’re really hanging out with me, that’s all.”
“Oh, yeah? And why is that, Charlie? Enlighten me. Because last time I checked, I was trying to help a friend.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I mumbled, and looked away.
“Doesn’t matter, or you just ran out of dumb things to say?” She jammed her notepad into her back pocket and started to put away her things. “Sorry I ever tried to help.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I ever let you. And I’m sorry that I pawned my mother’s locket to buy you that ugly old bike!”
Violet flinched. That had hurt her. “You’re acting like a total jackass, Charlie . . . a mean, stupid jackass!” Tears welled up in her eyes—big, wet drops that I could almost make out my reflection in—but still I couldn’t stop myself.
“And you’re as plastic as a Mattel doll!” I shouted.
