Hungry Ghosts

by Stephen Blackmoore

  “I’m more worried about why it would try to get through at all,” she says. “I’ve run into it before but I give it a wide berth and it leaves me alone. It’s a hunter, but I’ve never heard of it going very far for prey. It usually stays in the rivers on the other side of the mists and takes souls on their way to Chicunamictlan.”

  “So, you’re saying it doesn’t like me.”

  “Does anybody?”

  “Ha. Funny. Okay, it wants to eat me. Why? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say Santa Muerte doesn’t control it, or you wouldn’t be freaking out about it. So Mictlantecuhtli?”

  “No. And why would he? He wants you to get to Chicunamictlan to kill Santa Muerte as much as you do. No one controls it as far as I know. It’s associated to Tlaloc. But Tlaloc’s gone. Quetzalcoatl killed him in the war.”

  Could Quetzalcoatl be behind this? That doesn’t scan, either. He wants me to burn Mictlan down. Is this his way of warning me to keep my agreement? Or has he decided I’m not the guy to make it happen so he’s sent the Ahuizotl to take me out?

  “What about Quetzalcoatl, then? Could he have gotten control over it after Tlaloc died?”

  “I suppose, but I don’t think it’s likely. What would he have against you? He’s not able to come into Mictlan anymore, so I’m not sure how he could even be directing it.”

  “Yeah. I don’t get it, either.”

  It hesitated at the top of the amphitheater. Why? It could have jumped down from the top of the amphitheater and gotten to me. It probably wouldn’t have gotten me, all I had to do was fall backward and I’d have gone through the portal. But did it know that?

  Or does it not want to kill me?

  If Quetzalcoatl sent it to keep tabs on me, that might make some sense. Quetzalcoatl was banished from Mictlan. So how did he give it orders? How did he tell it to come after me? There’s more here I’m not seeing, yet.

  “How far until we hit Mictlantecuhtli’s tomb?”

  “Not too far. But you won’t like it when we get there.”

  “I don’t like anything about this trip, so why change now?”

  “It’s sealed behind a circular door that has to be rolled out of the way.”

  “Oh, is that all? So I put my back into it. I thought you were talking about the demons.”

  “Putting aside that it’s about twenty tons, rolling it aside isn’t the tough part,” she says. “Hang on. What demons?”

  “The ones I dumped in there. A bunch of them got loose in a storage place on Santa Monica, and I didn’t have anywhere else to put them.”

  “So you dumped them into Mictlantecuhtli’s tomb?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time. And it’s not like he was using all that space.”

  “How many did you put in there?”

  “Twenty? Thirty? I wasn’t exactly counting at the time. Don’t worry about it. I have a plan to deal with them. So what’s this about this door?”

  “Okay. I guess we’re done talking about the demons,” she says. “The door’s locked. I can’t open it.”

  “Goddammit.” Do I have anything that explodes? Maybe I can blast it open.

  “I said I can’t open it.”

  Ah. I get it now. Shit. “I can but I have to use Mictlantecuhtli’s power to do it, don’t I?”

  “Sorry.”

  I wave it off. “Whatever. I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.” A wave of dizziness hits me and I stagger. I steady myself against one of the quartz crystals. Tabitha grabs me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shake her off. “I’m fine.”

  I knew this was going to happen eventually. I need sleep and food. The Adderall is only going to carry me so far and any spells I know that can keep me going have a nasty price. The drugs are actually safer.

  “No, you’re not. How long have you gone without sleeping? Days? And what about food? You need rest.”

  “I am not sleeping here. Or near you.”

  “Eric, I’m not going to— You know what? Never mind. I’m going to take a nap. You do whatever the hell you want to do. Sleep. Don’t sleep.” She puts out her hand and an apple appears in her palm. “And maybe have something to eat.”

  “I was wondering where you got that apple.” I don’t make a move to take it.

  “Jesus, Eric.” She rolls her eyes and puts it on the ground in front of me. “You’re not Snow White, I’m not the Wicked Witch.” She goes over to one of the larger crystals on the side of the road, sits down against it, closes her eyes. “And it’s not a goddamn apple. Wake me up when you pull your head out of your ass.”

  “That could be a while.”

  “Don’t take too long. That Ahuizotl’s still out there. And you’re not getting any less jaded.”

  “I see what you did there.” She doesn’t say anything in response. I pick up the apple, look it over. I’ve never been good at conjuring. Not a lot of mages are. We’re great at bending reality around but making something out of nothing is a whole other level.

  Knew a guy in Philadelphia who made a killing on the séance circuit by conjuring watches, rings, bracelets, shit like that. He’d do this ‘Spirits, show me a sign,’ shtick and make them rain down on everybody. Inevitably somebody would insist that one of the pieces had been buried with their dead grandmother.

  I worked with him for a few weeks. I’d be behind the scenes talking to actual ghosts and feeding him information. Made a lot of money for a while. But then he ran into a demon he’d tried to cheat twenty years before and ended up as a wall decoration.

  I take a bite. She’s right. It’s not an apple. The consistency is like an avocado, but it tastes like custard. Before I know it I’ve finished the whole thing. I don’t seem to be in any danger of passing out until a prince kisses me, but I am damn tired. Even with the Adderall buzzing through my skin exhaustion is threatening to pull me down.

  To hell with it. Tabitha’s right, whether I like it or not. I need sleep. I lie down against one of the crystals, bunching up my jacket to use as a pillow. I’m out in seconds.

  ___

  “Jesus, not you again,” I say.

  Alex / Mictlantecuhtli sits across from me in a dimly lit bar that I know I’ve been in, but can’t quite place. Strong 1930s vibe, jazz quartet playing on a stage. It isn’t until I see the guy behind the bar, a massive black man with arms like tree trunks hitting on some redhead, that I figure it out. Darius.

  “Why are we in Darius’s bar?” The bar was the last place I saw the Djinn back in Los Angeles. I’d only been there twice when it looked like this, and not for very long either time. It’s a pocket universe inside his bottle that he changes around from time to time and lets people in by opening portals scattered around Los Angeles. Just because he’s trapped in his own little world doesn’t mean he can’t be social.

  Before I left L.A. he’d had the place done up as CBGB’s in New York. He was big into punk in the late nineties but he didn’t have a great idea what the place looked like. I took a trip there and brought him pictures. During the time I was gone his tastes had shifted from punk, and vomit in the bathrooms, to jazz and speakeasies.

  Alex looks around this recreation from my memory and sips at a glass of scotch in front of him. Balvenie ’78 from the bottle sitting on the table.

  I pick up the bottle. “Now that’s just mean,” I say.

  “Got some memories about that, don’t ya?”

  A few. Tabitha snagged that bottle of scotch from Alex, and we said we were going to drink it together. Took a while before we got to that point. It was good. But now when I think of it all I can see are Tabitha’s lies and Santa Muerte’s face.

  “So what are we doing here?”

  “I like the vibe,” he says. “Nice music. And it’s good to see Darius again. Even if it’s only by plucking him out of your head.”

  “You are really starting to— Say that again?”

  “Darius and I. We go way back. He never told you?”

  I
was banned from Darius’s bar once I got married to Santa Muerte. This was before Mictlantecuhtli started showing up to me.

  I think about it and realize that Darius did tell me. When I met Santa Muerte he was the one I went to looking for information. He said he knew her back before she became Santa Muerte. Told me Mictlantecuhtli was dead, for a given value of dead, of course. Said he’d met them a long time ago.

  I assumed that was all bullshit. Darius isn’t known for being big on the truth, though he’s not exactly a liar. I figured he heard about them through some kind of demigod grapevine or something. But if he actually did meet them …

  “Anyway, I’m not here to dredge up old times and get all maudlin over some castaway Djinn,” Alex says. “I’m here to tell you that what you’re doing is a really bad idea.”

  “What I’m doing is trying to take a nap but instead I’m sitting here having to listen to your bullshit. Speed it up so I can stop dreaming and go back to sleep.”

  “You’re going to open my tomb. You don’t want to do that.”

  “Why, because I’ll let out all the beasties I put in there? Or because it’ll use some of your mojo, and I’ll end up as a green garden gnome? Either one’s a risk. And I’m okay with taking a risk.”

  “It’s not just that. If you go in there and kill Mictlantecuhtli you’re screwed.”

  “This is, what, the thousandth time you’ve told me this? Here’s the thing. I don’t believe you. I think you’re trying to keep me from killing him because, well, he’s you. So I’m going to ignore that advice, like I’ve been doing, and go carve out his heart. Maybe I’ll eat it. You never know. I’m wacky that way.”

  “So you’re siding with Santa Muerte, then.”

  “No, I’m not. This is not an either or thing. I’m going to kill her, too. In fact, I’m not just going to kill her, I’m going to kill her really, really hard. I’m going to tear those bones apart and build a hamster wheel or maybe an end table out of them. Then I’ll feed the leftovers to dogs. I think she’d appreciate that, don’t you?”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic about this,” Alex says, an offended tone in his voice.

  “You keep trying to warn me away from this and it never works. You’re not keeping me from going in there. I’m not getting any sleep. Neither one of us is getting what we want right now. So let’s just end this. Cut the cord. Don’t bug me, anymore. Pretty soon you’ll either be out of my head or I’ll be dead. Either way, I win.”

  “No,” he says, “you won’t. Because when you go in there, your body turning to stone, he’ll kick your ass before you can kill him. Then you’re stuck. Awake, aware and encased in jade for all eternity. I’m sure you’ll just love it.”

  “I know what I’m getting into. But thanks for your concern, mom. It’s really touching.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “And you’re just a chunk of bad memories stuck in my skull. I’m really looking forward to getting rid of you.”

  “Everything fine here, gents?” Darius looms over the table, two tumblers of amber liquid in his meaty palms. He sets them down on the table in front of us. “Heard me some raised voice over here. Thought, now that’s not a way for good folks to conduct themselves in my establishment. So I thought I’d help smooth out the road. Drink up, take the conversation down a notch.”

  We both stare at him. “Are you making this happen?” I say.

  “Not me,” Alex says.

  I’ve had plenty of these visions by now. Mostly with Mictlantecuhtli until I managed to block him out completely, and now with this leftover bit of his consciousness. But they’ve never had anyone else in them. It’s always been me and him. That’s it. When something has happened, a blown tire, a light bulb exploding, something that interrupts the conversation, it’s been a signal that the vision is about to end.

  But this one doesn’t seem to be ending.

  I sniff at the alcohol. Like the real Darius’s drinks it’s a weird concoction I can’t identify. The real deal tastes like a hundred different things inside of ten seconds and all of them will be good.

  I don’t know that I trust this, though, so I don’t drink it.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised, gentlemen,” Darius says. “I may be locked away and buried way up in the land of liquid sunshine, but that don’t mean I can’t put myself out there from time to time.”

  Holy shit. Now I get it. “Butthead over here didn’t pick this place, did he?” I say.

  “He might have been … influenced a bit.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alex says. “I—” He freezes, cracks crawling across his face and down his body like crazing on pottery. He explodes into fragments the size of sand grains and blows away on an unfelt wind.

  “Ah,” Darius says, as if he’s just had the most satisfying shit of his life. “That’s so much better.” He slides into Alex’s empty seat. He’s a big man but moves with surprising grace. “How you live with that garbage in your head I have no idea.”

  He gives me a big smile with too many bright, white teeth. “You and me, son, we need to have ourselves a conversation.”

  “So it really is you?” I ask.

  “You got no way to tell for sure, so you’ll have to trust me. Or not. Up to you.”

  “You certainly sound like Darius. Only I thought I was persona non grata in your bar.”

  “You are. This isn’t my bar. It’s your dream. It just happens to be your dream of my bar. So it works. I’ve been waiting for you or that chunk of Aztec dickcheese floating inside your head to have this dream for months now. Finally realized I had to take matters into my own hands. Think of it as your dream with a little help.”

  “Okay. How? I mean, magic, obviously. But how’d you get a spell into Mictlan?” There’s a lot I don’t know about magic, that nobody knows about magic. The best we can really say is, “because it works.” I haven’t heard of any human mages figuring out how to cast in one plane and directly affect another beyond summoning spells. When I’m over in the ghost side of things nothing I do affects the living side and vice versa. Not that that means a whole lot. One thing mages are really good at is keeping our secrets.

  “Son, when I say I’m from the old country I mean the really old country. I’m some grade-A, antediluvian shit over here. I know a thing or two about bending cosmic powers to my will.”

  “Uh huh. Sure.”

  “Okay, yeah. I mean, I am really goddamn old. But I been here before. I know my way in and out of Mictlan.” He leers at me. “All I need’s a hole.” Yeah, that’s Darius, all right.

  Connections begin to click together. “Mictlantecuhtli told me when he was trapped in his tomb that he cut the Spanish off from some superweapon, but it was too late to save his people. I thought it was Quetzalcoatl. But it was you, wasn’t it?”

  Darius throws back his shot, gets a faraway look in his eye. “Seven? Eight thousand years ago? I was trapped by a Halaf wizard in Tepe Reshwa in Mesopotamia. Fucker stuck me in a clay pot. Stunk of spoiled mutton. Still can’t stand the smell. Couple thousand years later my prison gets an upgrade to a gourd.”

  “A gourd?”

  “A gourd.”

  “Livin’ the high life, there.”

  “Oh, it was a nice gourd,” he says. “As gourds go.”

  I knew Darius was old, but Jesus. Eight thousand years? And that’s how long ago he was trapped. How long had he been alive before then? Does “alive” even apply to Darius? I’m afraid to find out.

  I slam back my drink. It might not be real, but it still tastes good and if I’m lucky it’ll make me just as drunk as the real thing.

  “Eventually I ended up in al-Andalus. Berber general name of Tariq ibn-Ziyad. Bounced around, changed hands. By the time I ended up with Cortés I was in an actual metal and lead crystal bottle. Very swank.”

  “I thought you came across with Cabrillo. By the time he came to California, Cortés had already wiped the Aztecs out.”

  “Yeah, by
the time he came to California, sure. But first he was in Mexico. Came over with Pánfilo de Narváez to kick Cortés’ ass. Some political bullshit. Only Cortés heard about it and left Tenochtitlan to wait for Narváez and take him out. Once Narváez was out of the way, Cortés pulled his troops into his own army.”

  Something about this story is poking at the back of my mind. Then I have it. “Cortés already had Tenochtitlan when that happened. And when he left that’s when things really went to shit.”

  “Yep. Left some yahoo in charge who panicked and ended up slaughtering a few hundred Aztecs. By the time Cortés got back it was a lot worse than when he left. Lost a lot of men trying to haul his gold out of the city. Had some help from the Tlaxcala, some locals who hated the Aztecs. Shit, everybody hated the Aztecs. After that it was a real war. Cortés regrouped. Months of fighting to take Tenochtitlan back. Tens of thousands of men dead.”

  “What were you doing during all this?”

  “Keeping Huitzilopochtli, Tlaloc, and all the other gods off Cortés’s ass. Weren’t for me, they never would have made it half as far as they did.”

  “And Cabrillo?”

  “He got put in charge of a bunch of crossbowmen. After the siege to retake Tenochtitlan Cortés stuck him on a fool’s errand. There was this priest who wanted to take the fight to the Heathen Gods. Found some ritual to get into Mictlan. So Cortés hands him my bottle and tells him to go nuts. So it’s me, this crazy-ass priest and Cabrillo and his men. And your buddy Quetzalcoatl. Gods are batshit, but him? Hoo-boy. He was a piece of work.”

  “No shit,” I say. “He’s running around Mexico as a wind spirit made of trash now.” Darius cocks his head, looking like a cat that’s wondering whether something should be played with or eaten.

  “Huh. That’s news. You’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”

  “Let me survive this one first. So you killed a bunch of the gods and came into Mictlan to finish the job.”

  I play that sentence back in my head. Darius killed the Aztec gods. Holy shit. Darius killed the Aztec gods. I’ve gone drinking with this guy. He’s in my goddamn city. Trapped, sure. But what happens if he gets out? What happens if somebody lets him out?