He stops inches away and spreads his arms. He’s bare-chested once more, with his full-body tattoos and various wards on full display. “Well, now, here I am.”
I push myself back into a sitting position, but I can’t think of a thing to say.
He grins with that forked tongue. “What’s wrong, bruja? Cat got your tongue?” He laughs at his own stupid joke. His wards shimmer slightly in the dim lighting—and I suddenly understand why the cards didn’t work. He must have the whole place warded against outside magic.
I never had a chance.
I’m so incredibly stupid.
He gestures wildly to me. “I am here. Show me your big magic!” he bellows.
The rest of his gang gather around me. “Show us your magic!” they chant in unison. “Show us your big magic…!”
But I can’t! I can hardly breathe, and I’m starting to think I’m having an honest-to-god panic attack. I lean over, clutching my chest where my heart won’t stop galloping like a frightened horse. I have a throbbing headache from my head injury and my throat is sore from screaming. I can barely see through the darkness slowly seeping into the corners of my eyes.
They start laughing at me. It reminds me of that time in the gym with the girls. Laughing. So much laughing…
“Stupid little bitch,” Tupoc says and pantomimes grabbing me by the throat. “Stupid, unlearned little bruja!”
I feel his hand there—right around my neck. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the pressure of his fingers applying pressure to my windpipe. I scrabble at my own throat, but there’s nothing to grab! I can’t even cry out as he lifts his hand, lifting me easily with it. He’s that powerful a witch.
Brujo verde, my father called him. Our fates are entwined.
I kick and twist, scratching at the invisible hand around my throat, but nothing helps. Soon, my lungs are screaming for oxygen. Darkness pools into my eyes. My heart skips a beat. I hang there helplessly—pathetically—as he slowly begins to squeeze the life out of me. And all the while, he’s laughing.
I’m certain he’s going to kill me. But just as I think I’m about to pass out, he suddenly lets go. Hitting the hard concrete on my back knocks the air right out of my lungs, making me panic more than ever, but Tupoc doesn’t let me flail around and gasp for long. Standing before me, his feet spread, he leans down, growls something in Spanish, and grabs me by the belt and slides me easily between his legs so he’s leering down at me and I can see his crotch inches from my face.
Punch him, I think. This is the part where the heroine in the comics would punch the ever-living shit out of her enemy’s family jewels and then wrangle herself free so she could reassert herself and take these thugs out one at a time. I see it all like pages in that imaginary comic book about my life that doesn’t exist. But this is real life, not the comic-book world, and I’m as much my worst enemy as Tupoc is.
I can’t fucking breathe! I can’t stop the panic attack from rolling over me. So, instead of punching him in the nards the way I should, I wind up grabbing my own throat once more. I feel like something is stuck there, strangling me…
Tupoc laughs. The men only laugh harder. They laugh at my pathetic display. They laugh at the fact that I’ve literally pissed myself, I’m so scared. In fact, I can feel the sticky heat between my legs…
Tupoc grins down at me with his metallic teeth. “Get her pants off. It’s time the little bruja learns what big magic really looks like…”
As the men claw at me, Tupoc grabs himself through his jeans and shakes his balls before unbuckling his belt.
Fresh panic bubbles up inside me. As the men begin to rip at my leather jeans, I stiffen up, arch my back, and scream at the ceiling. That’s what was stuck in my throat all along. A scream. Pain. Rage. A ridiculous primal need to be heard. But as that raging pain bursts from me, it’s like no scream I’ve ever uttered before. My jaw cracks wide open. But what emerges is not sound but molten heat.
I cough smoke. And then liquid fire pours forth like a geyser of white-hot death stretching toward the ceiling. It’s so hot, it melts the face off of one of the men standing directly over me. It burns away his beard and hair and then his skin as if he shoved his face into the path of a flamethrower. His laughter quickly turns to screams as his face liquefies and runs off like paint, revealing his skull and grinning teeth beneath.
The sight of him—of what I’ve just done to him—stuns me. I’ve since stopped screaming, but I can’t stop vomiting fire like some ridiculous, modern-day she-dragon. The pillar of fire I’m coughing up is extensive. Some of the men leap back, their hair and beards on fire. They turn, roaring, and race away from me, beating at the flames encircling their heads like broken halos. But they don’t get far. As the fire eats through their heads, they drop like toys all over the floor of the garage.
But I can’t stop…and I can’t close my mouth! Fire and smoke pour out of me and stretch toward the ceiling, then crawl across it like a red, many-legged centipede. Shaking my head from side to side only sends the flames flying in every direction and, within seconds, the cars and bikes are on fire as well. Desperate, I flip over onto the floor on my hands and knees, head down as I vomit long tongues of white-hot flame that bounce up and around me—but, interestingly enough, don’t burn my skin at all.
I watch as the fire starts moving in a snake-like, side-to-side pattern across the broken cement. Tupoc has escaped the flames by virtue of standing back, but the flames are side-winding toward him as if they want him in particular, and he seems to realize that. As they lick at the silver toes of his motorcycle boots, he leaps backward and nearly falls over a pail in his way.
I no longer care about hurting Tupoc or getting revenge on the men who destroyed my shop. I just want this hell on earth to stop! I push myself up, coughing smoke and bits of flame. I’m beyond horrified and all I can think to do is to get to some source of water like a Bugs Bunny character on fire who needs a swimming pool to douse the flames…
Tupoc is encircling me, muttering in Spanish—whether curses or words of surprise and admiration, I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m not even thinking about him, but as I scramble to get to my feet and run, he misinterprets my intentions. He thinks I can control this. That I’m coming after him. So when I finally find my feet, tottering blindly toward him like some unlikely walking flamethrower, he swears and punches me again. But his blow never reaches me as his fist is engulfed in my flames.
He looks at his burning fist with admiration, then cries out in Spanish as if this has brought him the greatest joy of his life, seeing this “big magic” of mine. It’s a short-lived revelation because, seconds later, one last burst of heat crawls out of my mouth, setting Tupoc’s skin and piercings afire in a way that makes him almost beautiful to behold. I’ve never seen anyone die up close. I’ve never seen anyone burned to death in front of me. But the flames are gorgeous and supernaturally hot. They burn Tupoc down to bones so quickly, he doesn’t even realize he’s dead. For a second or two, he’s a wailing, voiceless skeleton caught in a gigantic halo of blue witchfire before collapsing to the floor in a smoldering heap.
Only then do I cough my last flames and collapse to my knees, my throat on fire like when I had a bad flu as a kid and I couldn’t even swallow down chicken soup without it felt like razor blades going down. But this is worse, so much worse. I can taste the flames like ozone and burned sugar and stomach acid in my mouth. And the whole garage is full of smoke and the stench of roasting human hair and flesh.
I heave and heave onto the floor, but I can’t rid myself of the terrible taste.
Few of the men are left, and the one or two who remain are running for the door. I quickly see why. That pail that Tupoc knocked over? It had greasy shop rags in it and the flames have totally eaten that up and are hungry for more. The witchfire has reached all four walls, and the ceiling is already crackling with flames.
I feel like I’m kneeling in an ecclesiastical lake of fire—flames on all sides. I
watch, fascinated, as bits of flaming debris drop down on top of me. The witchfire climbs one wall like a shimmering blue spider, eating through the plaster and studs so fast, I wonder if anything can stop it. The flames have also reached the box truck, and the driver is half-climbing and half-falling out of the cab as he scrambles to follow his friends out the door.
I hear pounding on the doors and walls of the box truck. I twist my head to one side, thinking I’ve gone mad. But it’s definitely pounding. And I hear human screaming.
With a lunge, I get to my feet and approach the truck. The closer I get, the more convinced I am that someone is in there, pounding against the walls in a panic. I grab the thick chains woven through the handles of the door and pull on them. I hear women screaming and hollering to be let out.
“Hold on,” I tell them. “I’ll get you out!”
The angry, roaring flames have created a suffocating heat that is filling the garage with choking white smoke that even I can’t bear to breathe. If I don’t get out, too, I know I’m going to pass out and die. But I can’t leave until I know who’s in the truck.
I pull at the chains, exerting my will over them. I’m surprised when they melt so easily under my grip. Working hard to control my panic, I grab the doors and yank them wide open. Inside, in the darkness, a group of young Mexican women, some no older than teenagers, are crouched together, glaring at me with big, terrified white eyes and strained faces. It takes me a moment to even realize what I’m seeing.
“Go!” I scream, waving them on. At first, they seemed reluctant to move. But then, to my relief, one woman jumps out and the others follow. Together, they charge past me on their way to the exit like a herd of terrified does running from a forest fire.
I turn to watch them flee, then look back at the burning garage. Almost every inch of the places is on fire. A daisy chain of flames encircles my wrist, dancing over it, but it feels cool to the touch. The smoke, though, is making me cough. I stagger around in an aimless circle for a moment before limping out after the women making a break for it.
44
THE NIGHT is full of fire, smoke, and sirens.
I collapse against the jeep parked in a dark corner of the Kwikimart and just sit there on the asphalt, watching the flames consume first the garage and then the roadhouse. No one notices me as everyone is vying to get as close to the towering inferno down the road as they can to take pictures and video footage with their phones without breathing in too much smoke.
The terrible pillar of fire lights up the darkness like a Fourth of July display. Eventually, something explodes with a muffled, earth-rattling thump—and that makes everyone scream. I assume it’s a propane tank or the gas tank of one of the cars in the garage. The fire brigade and police work like hell all through the night to douse the buildings with fire-retarding foam, but the flames are unbelievably hot and the buildings glorified timber boxes. The fire eats them all like a cancer, and, soon enough, the struggle begins simply to keep the fire contained.
I sit there half the night, watching news crews and fire and police vehicles from a dozen other counties arrive. I hear a reporter talking about what is quickly becoming known as the worse fire Philadelphia has ever seen. A part of me wants to cry or laugh or rage at what I’ve done, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything. Inside, I can still feel the fire cooling within the cage of my ribs.
And how much it wants to come out again.
45
I WAKE the next morning in bed. I have no clear memory of driving home or what time it is when I dragged myself in, but I suspect I’ve only had a couple hours of uncomfortable, crusty-eyed sleep.
Lying there, I think about last night. Then I touch my throat. It’s still on fire, and the burning taste is still in my mouth. No dream. I really did that. I really…did…that.
I expect to feel good. To feel heroic for saving those women’s lives. But I can’t get the taste of burning human hair out of my throat and nose. Eventually, I can’t stand it anymore and rush to the bathroom to brush my teeth. But even after brushing three times with the minty Pepsodent toothpaste, I can’t seem to cut through the sour, acrid taste trapped in my throat.
I shower to wash away the smell of burned things. Then I shower again. I can still smell the smoke in my hair even though I’ve run Selsun Blue through it five times and now smell like a medicine cabinet fell on me. Finally, I swallow six ibuprofen and then just stare at my horrible, bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror.
Dragging myself out into the living room, I see Sebastian and his new boyfriend sitting all cozy on the secondhand sofa in matching bathrobes, mesmerized by the local morning news on the TV. Flashes of images across the screen remind me of what happened last night. Like I could forget.
Sebastian turns to me. “Oi, witchy, have you seen this? It’s taken out a whole city block!”
I stare at the screen—at the burning, at last night’s footage, at this morning’s chaos—suddenly feeling sick to my stomach while Sebastian rattles off an itemized list of the damage.
“A bar, a garage, half a tenement building. Two fast food joints. A petro station. Bloody hell!”
Sebastian’s new boyfriend looks over at me. I can see he knows what I’ve done. Hell, my dad probably sent him to keep an eye on me. Which is going to suck for Sebastian when he finds out his boyfriend is a spy.
The room moves faster around me like a carousel. I weave on the spot, clutching my bathrobe to my throat.
Of course, there is no mention of the women I saved. Women turned into drug mules and prostitutes in exchange for passage into America. They are long gone. To be honest, I’m glad no one knows about them. Maybe they will find a better life here in America. A kinder life than they have known. But as I look at the awful damage to that part of the city, I wonder about the cost of it all.
The room moves faster and faster. I can’t hear Sebastian’s words any longer. It’s like I’m underwater, listening to the low din of voices from far above, but unable to make out any of the words. I’d scream—but I can’t. My throat is too scorched. I literally have laryngitis from breathing fire on my enemies. All I can do is moan while the room whirls around me as if I’m standing in the eye of a tornado. A tornado full of unintelligible words, sirens, heat, and fire…
Somewhere, amidst the chaos in my head, I see my father, not smiling demonically as I would expect, but nodding all the same. Proud as punch.
“Good girl,” his voice echoes in the private hell that is my head. “My Left Hand of Darkness.”
When the blackness finally consumes me, it’s actually a relief.
46
I SPEND the next two days in bed while Sebastian flits around me worriedly. He thinks I have the worse flu of my life. I’m feverish and my throat is too sore to speak. I can’t eat a damned thing, and he says I look like death warmed over—and then reheated. Several times over the course of those days, I think about picking up the phone and calling one of my two brothers. Nick, who could probably advise me on what the hell to do next. Josh, who would just be a familiar, welcomed voice in my ear. But I can’t talk to them. I can’t let them know what happened. I can’t tell them I’ve turned into this monster…
“I’m going down to make a new chocolate village,” Sebastian says the morning of the third day. The repairs on the shop are almost finished. Jordan, the repair guy Sebastian is hot and heavy with, has brought two other guys with him, and, together, they’ve managed to knock out almost everything that needs to be done to get the shop up and running again. We still have redecorating to take care of, but Sebastian has been tackling that while I rest and recover.
“I was thinking of a prehistoric village. Dinosaurs and cave people. I think the children would enjoy that. What do you think?”
I nod because I still can’t talk with my sore throat.
He sits down on the edge of the air mattress. “Poor lamb. Do you need more ginger ale and soda crackers?” Again, I’m struck by that odd mother hen thing he does fr
om time to time. It makes me recall the vision I had of him and the baby. And the blood. Whatever the hell that means. “I can run to the CVS…”
I put my hand on his wrist and shake my head.
“Luv, you have to try and get up,” he tells me, his voice unusually tender.
I see the tension in his face. I know he’s concerned I’m falling into some dark place I won’t be able to crawl out of. To reassure him and make him feel useful, I reach for the handy-dandy notepad and pen on the floor beside the air mattress and write Tomato soup? on it.
After he leaves to heat me up some Campbell’s, I continue to lie there, staring at the shadows moving slowly across the windows as the sun moves. The pain comes in waves, clenching my heart so hard I think it’s possible I’m having a heart attack, but I don’t move even when it becomes unbearable. I just grit my teeth, grip the bedclothes, and ride the waves of agony until they pass. I’m exhausted, hungry, hyperaware of everything going on around me. I can’t go to a doctor because I think what’s happening to me is something else—something supernatural—and they don’t employ witch doctors in the ER.
That evening, Sebastian appears in the doorway, all business-like, dressed in an actual button-down shirt and slacks and not looking like a carnival barker. “I’m stepping out to have dinner with this guy from Whole Foods. He called today, said he was interested in knowing more about your Sweet Stix. I don’t know if he’s serious. Do you want to come?”
I shake my head. I wish he could just go.
He does, leaving me to my wonderful, awful solitude.
I lie back down and stare at the partially opened window, watching the lights of the cars on the street outside swerve by. I’m a little surprised when Jordan steps briefly into my room. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me a long, hard moment.
To the Devil a Daughter Page 19
