by Ryan Calejo
Violet stepped forward, getting right in my face. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that!” she shouted back. “Who do you think you are?” Then she snatched her bag off the bed. “I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
“Good!” At the door, she turned back to say, “I don’t know who you are anymore, Charlie Hernández. . . . I have no freakin’ clue!”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club!”
Shouldering her book bag, she turned to leave, but then froze, staring down at her hands. She must’ve hurt herself somehow, I thought with a stab of fear. Cut a finger or something.
“What happened?” I breathed. I peered over her shoulder. Saw that her fingertips were sparkling with what looked like millions of tiny black diamonds. “What is that stuff . . . ?”
“Some kind of sparkly dirt.” She touched her fingers to the strap of her bag, and when she pulled them away, I could see little designs glittering against the black of the strap. Then I realized they were words:
ENCUENTRA LA UÑA.
DESTRÚYELO ANTE QUE SEA MUY TARDE.
“It’s some kind of message,” I said. “It says to find the Nail. To destroy it . . . before it’s too late.”
Violet began touching things—her shirt, the table, my arm—and everywhere she touched, the same message appeared. “Freaky cool,” she whispered, looking down at the tips of her fingers. A second later, understanding lit her eyes. “Charlie, it’s the stuff on your cast! The dirt from the Land of the Dead!”
I glanced down. Realized she was right. The smudges from Ponce’s dirty fingers were sparkling on my cast.
“The message has to be from the oracle,” Violet said. “But what do you think it means?”
“He did mention something about nails. . . .” I scratched my head, trying to remember. “He said that there was a really dangerous one on our—” Then it hit me. “Oh, the dagger!”
“Huh?”
“It’s the weapon El Sombrerón is after! ¡La Uña de la Bruja! The Nail of the Witch! Ponce must want us to find it and destroy it!” I thought back to the conversation, and the words just spilled out of my mouth: “And it might even save my life.”
“Save your life . . . ? Charlie, you’re not making any sense.”
“No, listen. It’s used to kill Morphlings. El Justo Juez told me that. And that’s why the Hairy Hand wants it. That’s why Ponce thinks destroying it might save my life.”
“But Charlie, news flash—you’re not the Morphling. . . .”
“Yeah, we know that. But the Hairy Hand probably doesn’t.”
Violet nodded. She understood.
“And by getting rid of it, we might not just be saving my life—” I began to say.
“But the Morphling’s, too,” Violet finished.
“Exactly.”
She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. About all of it. Let’s say destroying the dagger will save everyone, the whole world. How are we supposed to go about finding it in the first place?”
“Because Ponce told me just where to look,” I said as it dawned on me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The yellow crime scene tape was still up when we got to my old house, but the piles of scorched wood and ash that had littered the backyard were gone.
As I followed Violet around back, I could only hope that La Uña hadn’t been accidentally trashed by whatever county cleanup crew had cleared the place out.
“Hope you’re right,” Violet said as we walked through the side gate. The grass hadn’t been cut in so long that it brushed our ankles as we walked across it to the center of the yard. “You sure he said that it was here?”
“Positive.” Ponce had told me to go back home, hadn’t he? Home sweet home. Where else could he have meant?
“Where do you want to look first?”
“Inside the house, I guess.” It was a huge mess, but what choice did we have?
“Well, before we start digging around in there, we should probably check your parents’ shed first, no? I mean, that’s where I found this. . . .” She pulled out that old pirate’s key from her pocket. It winked brilliantly in the afternoon sun.
“ ’Kay.”
As we approached the shed, I noticed my dad’s bulky padlock was missing. “Someone’s been inside,” I said.
“Watch out.” Violet raised one jean-clad leg and gently nudged the corner of the door with her foot. It swung inward easily but didn’t open all the way; something was blocking it.
“I’ll go,” I said. I squeezed my way through the narrow gap and into the darkness of the shed.
“How’s it look?” Violet asked.
“Not good.”
The shed was a certified disaster area. All the drawers and cabinets were hanging open. The row of mason jars my dad kept on his workbench had been swept off and dumped onto the floor. Jagged hunks of glass littered the ground. Even the box labeled CHRISTMAS STUFF had been sliced open, string lights spilling out like electric guts.
“Someone’s definitely been here,” Violet said, joining me inside.
“They were after La Uña.”
“Unless it was a random looting.”
Possible, but I didn’t think so. It didn’t feel random. Whoever did this was after something, something spec—
Suddenly, the big antique key Violet was holding shot out of her hand. It flew straight across the shed and stuck, teeth-up, to a cardboard box labeled BOOKS, ETC.
Violet’s wide eyes found mine. “What the—?”
“Freaky.” I could feel my heart clobbering against my ribs as we went over to the box and knelt beside it. Our eyes met through the dusty dark. I nodded.
Violet tore back the flaps of the box to reveal a handful of books (hardcovers with faded spines) and, beneath them, some sort of metal chest.
“A safe?” she guessed.
“Probably.” Only it looked more like a plain old hunk of metal. There were no markings on it, just a big old keyhole on the top.
“You don’t think . . .”
Except I did. Pulling the key free, I slid it into the lock and turned—
I might as well have stuck a fork in a toaster: A jolt of electricity raced through my hand and up my arm, zapping me.
“PAH!” I yanked my hand away, fingertips buzzing, and watched with growing panic as shafts of reddish light spilled out of the safe, glowing fiercely in the dim shed.
Instinctively, I had raised my hands to shield my face. Now I lowered them and looked around, wondering if I’d lost my frijoles. Snow had begun to fall inside the shed—yeah, snow—tiny flakes that drifted down from the ceiling like slowly falling confetti. Having lived in Miami my entire life, I’d never seen snow (not in person, anyway) and never knew what the big deal was. I finally got it.
“It’s amazing . . . ,” I murmured.
Violet reached up to touch one of the falling flakes, and for a second it rested lightly in her palm before melting away. “Awesome.”
“And there’s that, too.”
The safe had disappeared. Like, literally. In its place, peeking out from under a velvet jeweler’s cloth, was a jagged hunk of crystal. Dark red and radiating a faint yet dazzling light, it was about as long as a TV remote and shaped sort of like a bear claw, with tendrils of smoke roiling around just beneath its glassy surface.
“That’s gotta be it,” Violet whispered, leaning forward.
I picked it up, and the air around me began to crackle—a deep, steady hum. I could feel this thing’s power radiating in my hand. It throbbed with energy, throbbed like a beating heart, and I knew (not so much in my head, but deep down inside me somewhere) that this was something dark and dangerous and very, very much alive.
“We have to destroy it,” I said, looking up at Violet. “Like, now. Right now. We have to—”
From behind us came the buzzing whir of wings. I turned and instantly felt my mouth go dry: An acalica stood in the doorway, its pale eyes gleaming
, its teeny, lipless mouth twisted in a mischievous smirk.
Dios mío . . .
It raised its bony little hands, and twin miniature black funnel clouds snaked out of thin air to touch down in the center of its tiny, wrinkled palms. The air inside the shed began to stir. Bits of debris rose around us. Overhead, the steel rafters were vibrating like plucked strings. In about five seconds, this entire plane was going to come crashing down on us.
Right as I opened my mouth to say, Now, hold on there, dude, there was a flash of white as something absolutely ginormous leapt through the doorway with a roar, swallowing the acalica in a single bite.
¡El Cadejo!
The mighty canine’s tail caught the door, slamming it shut as he spun to face us. His glowing blue eyes burned into mine.
More are coming, he said as he slinked past us. He went to the corner of the shed and immediately began to nose about. Stand back.
Pointy shards of wood and hunks of concrete went airborne as he started to dig through floorboards. His huge padded paws were a blur, and soon streams of dark earth were spraying over our heads in wide arcs.
An instant later, El Cadejo disappeared into the freshly dug hole and stayed down there exactly three seconds. When he emerged, a clump of grass was dangling from his chest, and his coat was so dirty that he could’ve passed for a black bear.
You two escape through the tunnel. He signaled with his furry muzzle. Get somewhere safe and do what you know to do. I’ll keep the acalicas busy.
“Thank you,” I said, and reached up to put my hand against the side of his face. His fur was unnaturally soft—almost airy somehow. I couldn’t believe I was actually touching him. I couldn’t believe I was standing face-to-face with this legend among legends!
He nuzzled me affectionately, his blue eyes glowing even brighter. Then he signaled once again with his head. ¡Dale! Go! You don’t have much time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The tunnel El Cadejo had dug was dark and a little narrow, but we both managed to crawl our way through pretty easily. We came out along the edge of my neighbor’s yard, then quickly hurried back around to the front of my house, where we jumped on our bikes and hauled butt back to Mrs. Wilson’s.
There we spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out a way to destroy La Uña. We tried stabbing it, smashing it with a hammer, dropping it onto the driveway from my bedroom window—even tried melting it in a pot of boiling water. Nothing worked. In fact, the more things we did to it, the stronger the crystal (or whatever that thing was made of) seemed to get. When we finally got around to trying one of Mrs. Wilson’s extra-sharp butcher knives on it, La Uña’s edge reduced the knife’s blade to metal shavings after just two slices. The thing was incredible.
“It’s indestructible,” I said, tossing the ruined knife onto the countertop. “It’s literally impossible to destroy. . . .”
Violet paced the kitchen. “There has to be a way. . . . We’re just missing something.” Suddenly, she whirled to face me. “I know what we need!”
“A nuclear warhead?”
“No, cookies!”
“Cookies?”
“Yeah, you know, chocolate chip? Almond?”
“I know what cookies are, Violet. But what’s your plan? To give it sugar diabetes?”
“Funny, but no. What I mean is, I need a cookie. . . . I think better on a sugar high.” She peeked into the pantry. “Plus, nothing beats a soft and chewy double chocolate chip.”
“I don’t think we have any, though. Mrs. Wilson is more of a waffles-and-tea kind of gal.”
“That’s okay. I like them better from scratch, anyway.”
“You bake?” Was there anything this girl didn’t know how to do?
She was grinning when she glanced back at me. “Oh, do I ever.”
• • •
Ten minutes later Violet bent to look through the oven window, then stood up, frowning. “The cookies aren’t rising properly,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Maybe we found the one thing you don’t know how to do,” I teased.
She studied the bag of all-purpose flour she’d found in the pantry. “Doesn’t seem like it’s expired. . . .”
“It’s not. Mrs. Wilson just used it. I saw her put some in her lobster bisque, like, two days ago.”
“Really? Must be a weird recipe. I don’t think you put flour in lobster bisque.” Violet sprinkled a little on her fingertip and touched it to her tongue. “Funny, it has the same consistency as flour, but it tastes like lemons. . . .” She frowned. “Does Mrs. Wilson mix something into this? Because the smell is a bit o—”
Her gaze wavered. Her lips twitched. She staggered back from the counter, making a low, choking sound in her throat, and then suddenly collapsed.
“Violet!” I scrambled to her side, knocking over one of the kitchen stools. “Violet, can you hear me?” I pulled her into a sitting position, and then I almost passed out when I saw that her lips had begun to turn blue. She must be having some kind of allergic reaction! I thought as a flood of terror rushed through me. “Violet, talk to me!”
“She can’t,” a voice said.
I looked up and saw Mrs. Wilson standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Wilson, thank God! She—I don’t know what happened to her . . . but she doesn’t seem to be breathing!”
“That’s because she’s not. The flour she ingested was infused with a rare herb not found in this world. The cells of her body are currently gliding gently toward a state of suspended animation. But she’ll be fine.”
Um, what? “Just call 9-1-1!”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing they can do for her. . . . There are few ways of extracting a cursed compound from a human body, and you won’t find the necessary tools in this world. Guess she shouldn’t have gone nosing around in my pantry.”
“But Mrs. Wilson—”
“Oh, stop calling me by that wretched name,” she hissed. “Human names are so dull. So boring.” Her lips curved into a wicked grin. “Call me La Cuca.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Before I could say anything, her form began to change. Her legs grew out several inches. Her hunched-over back straightened. The flabby skin of her face and neck smoothed like a skin cream commercial on time lapse, the wrinkles vanishing from around her eyes, from under her chin. Her once-frail-looking shoulders doubled in size. Newfound strength seemed to surge into her arms and legs, and the muscles there turned all hard and veiny. Her hair color also changed, becoming a rich dark blond as it grew out of her head, almost down to her waist, and she let out a peal of evil laughter that reverberated through the kitchen as if being blared from a giant amplifier.
“Oh, to be free of that pitiful form!” she shouted, lifting her hands triumphantly. Green light blazed from her eyes like twin beacons. “¡Por fin!”
I was almost too stunned to speak. Feeling like I was in a dream, I said, “You’re her. . . .” The lady Sihuanaba had wanted to get revenge on. The one El Sombrerón was trying to find La Uña for. “You’re that crazy old hag from the legends. . . .”
Only that wasn’t entirely accurate. Sure, in a couple myths she was to have transformed herself into a harmless-looking elderly lady to trick her victims, but in reality she was the most widely known and widely feared witch in all of Hispanic mythology! Legends of her snatching misbehaving children right out of their beds, of luring them away from their homes with treats and rhymes—many times even eating the kids!—were known from Portugal to São Paulo.
In some of the stories she was a huge-headed ghoul with fiery eyes. In others she was an alligator-faced woman who specialized in brewing mystical potions. In one medieval myth she’d even been described as a fire-breathing dragon!
And as I stood there, almost close enough to reach out and touch her, I realized something else, something that made all the little hairs on the back of my neck prickle with fear: She’d never been just some old made-up character from a m
yth—some make-believe bogeywoman that parents used to scare little children into behaving. No, she was real. As real as I was. As real as my abuela had made her seem in the stories. And worse, I was staring right into the burning eyes of the very source of all those terrifying tales. Into the eyes of the most terrible witch in history.
For a moment I was so frightened I hardly even knew what to say. Then, shaking my head, I finally managed, “What do you want? I mean, what are you doing here . . . ?”
“Me?” La Cuca said innocently. “Ay, nada. I’m just here to cut out your heart and steal your powers.”
Cut out my heart and steal my powers? “Uh, sorry to disappoint you, lady. But I don’t have any powers for you to steal. I’m un equivocado. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term.”
La Cuca sighed. “Ay, and you’re as dull as my royal pain-in-the-nalgas sister, aren’t you, pequeño?”
Wait. Sister?
And suddenly I saw it. The same long, slender physique, the same glowing green eyes—even the same haughty, I’m-just-a-wee-bit-better-than-you tone of voice.
“Oh my gosh, you’re Queen Joanna’s sister!” I shouted. “The black sheep she mentioned.”
La Cuca’s lips split into an evil grin. “And you, mi niño, are the fifth born from the beginning of time, the last of your kind—a Morphling.”
“Oh, that’s awesome!” I said. Hey, anything was better than being un equivocado.
“You do also realize it’s the reason I’ve embedded myself into your little life and am now going to kill you, ¿sí?”
“Not so awesome, then. . . . But wait! The oracle specifically told me that I wasn’t the Morphling. He seemed pretty positive, too.”
“Of course that’s what you were told, because that’s precisely how I made it appear!”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Her grin widened, turning maniacal. “You see, my sister and her band of idiotas believe only in the strictest interpretation of prophecy; they’re closed-minded burros, if you haven’t realized it by now. All I had to do was concoct a potion to make you manifest something other than what was prophesied in the picto-prophecy regarding the Morphling, and they would have no clue what to make of you. Which is exactly what I did—no small feat, mind you. . . .” When I didnt’ say anything, she rolled her blazing eyes and shot me an annoyed look that bordered on a snarl. “Oh, don’t look so empty-headed! Don’t you get it? The poison your little friend accidentally ingested is the potion I crafted for you. I slipped a few teaspoons into that lobster bisque you loved so much and allowed your body’s natural defense mechanisms to take care of the rest, to develop a perfectly genuine-seeming manifestation. Ingenious, no?”
