“About forty-five minutes,” she said. “I’ll walk. It’ll be faster than the bus.”
“Good, I’ll be outside. And Liv–”
She had been about to hang up.
“Don’t forget to bring fresh batteries.”
CHAPTER TWO
OF AVERAGE HEIGHT for a dwarf, SK was about four feet tall. Despite his size, Livvy easily spotted him in front of the building, smoking a cigarette. She had run the last four blocks and came to a quick stop in front of him.
“You made good time,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, his back against the wrought iron fence that surrounded the building. A brief smile flickered across his serious face.
His short, dark hair had just the right amount of styling gel, creating a bit of tufted texture at the top. Clean-shaven as usual, he was wearing a tailored suit, custom Italian shoes, and a crisp shirt; open a button at the neck. Today’s outfit was royal blue, with matching pocket-handkerchief.
“Put out that cancer stick,” she managed to get out, still breathing hard.
He scowled and took his time but ground out the stub against one of the metal pickets in the fence.
As she caught her breath, she looked up at the building. She recognized the place, now that she was here, even though it seemed like just another run-down building in a dumpy neighborhood. The supermarket that she had passed used cement pylons at the entrance to keep the carts from being stolen. All of the shops in this part of Los Angeles had metal grates that could be lowered during off hours, not that it helped with graffiti. The gang markings were so dense they were nearly solid.
“Are you ready?” asked SK.
“I saw a kachina this morning,” she blurted out.
“So you said. A private job?”
“No, it was here,” she insisted. “In the real world.”
He snorted and pushed away from the fence.
“Was its name Jack Daniels or Jim Beam?”
He started making his way toward the gate. Like many dwarfs, his arms and legs were short compared to his stocky torso, causing him to sway slightly.
“Dang it, SK, you know I’m straight.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m serious.”
He looked up at her and stopped, his eyebrows knitting together and his eyes searching her face.
“All right,” he said, apparently satisfied with what he had seen. “I know you’re straight. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She lowered her voice.
“It was a kachina spirit and it was in my bedroom this morning.”
He glanced left, then right, and lowered his voice as well.
“I’m sure you know that’s impossible.”
“I wish,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m telling you, SK, a kachina was in my apartment this morning, casting a shadow and playing a flute.”
He looked directly into her eyes.
“You’re sure,” he said, more statement than question.
“It tried to grab me,” she confirmed.
“It what?”
The sudden change in the tone of his voice worried her.
“It tried to grab me?”
“Well, what happened?” he asked, the low volume gone.
“It disappeared, right into thin air, while I watched. When you called the first time, the sound of the phone scared him and he just disappeared, from the ground up.”
SK’s eyebrows went up but his mouth was set in a hard line. One of the double doors to the building opened behind him and Livvy could see a young Hispanic girl coming down the steps. She stopped when she saw SK. He turned around when he realized Livvy was looking at someone.
“Dolores wanted to know what happened to you,” said the girl.
“We’ll be right there,” he said.
The girl wasn’t looking at him any longer. She was staring at Livvy.
“All right,” he said under his breath, turning to Livvy. “We’ll finish this later.”
He turned back to the young girl.
“We’re coming,” he said and pulled the gate open.
Without a word, Livvy held the gate for him as he passed under her arm. The young girl bounded up the steps and through the double doors. There was no sign of her when they crossed the empty lobby to a doorway that led to a stairwell. SK nearly had to jump to get from one step to the next and in no time he was panting.
Livvy couldn’t stop thinking about the kachina as they made their way up the dark steps. Had that really been what she’d seen? What would it want with her? Why wouldn’t it appear in a kiva in Arizona or New Mexico? Besides, spirits couldn’t manifest in the real world. It was impossible. None of it made sense.
SK paused on the second floor landing, breathing hard and leaning against the wall. Livvy watched him, putting thoughts of the kachina aside for the moment.
“It’s not just cancer, you know. I’ve told you. It’s shortness of breath too.”
“And I’ve told you to start dressing like a techno-shaman,” he said, wheezing slightly. “Dress like a professional for a change and maybe people will treat you like one.”
“Like I have money for gypsy robes,” she said, but involuntarily looked down to check herself for the first time that day.
She noticed that her jeans had a small tear at the right knee and the high-top sneakers were scuffed. Her orange t-shirt was clean but she probably shouldn’t have worn the army surplus coat she had grabbed on her way out.
“The hair helps,” he said, starting upward again. “But you need to do something for your street cred.”
“What about my track record? Doesn’t that do something for my street cred?” she asked, waiting for him to get up to the next step.
Although her career was young, she had never failed a client. Not once.
“Look kid, your cred is fine with me,” he said, turning around, panting. “That’s why you get the call. I know you’ve got the talent, plenty of it.” He paused to catch his breath. “I’m saying you’ll get more private clients if you turn up looking the part.”
No doubt the hair was a plus but it hadn’t been intentional–far from it. It had begun changing after her vision quest, the first encounter with her spirit helper, and at this point it was completely and shockingly white. It fell to just below her shoulders, full and lustrous, but white. As far as she’d ever heard or seen, a hair color change wasn’t a standard part of shamanism. SK had persuaded her not to color it and most people who mentioned it assumed it was a fashion choice. Although tall and willowy, she was no longer a blond.
Livvy heard steps above them and looked up. An overweight, balding, middle-aged priest was coming down the stairs, his white collar glowing in the faint light, swaying back and forth as he lumbered down. She stood to the side as the man nodded at them, his eyes lingering on her.
“Father,” said SK, nodding back as the man passed them and continued on.
“Last rites,” whispered SK, as he resumed the climb.
“Oh,” said Livvy, as she looked up at SK’s back and then over his head to the exit sign above them.
It wasn’t the first time she’d arrived after the last rites had been given and, like the other times, it sobered her. But it didn’t frighten her. In fact, it had the opposite effect. It was a challenge. She took the steps two at a time to catch up with SK.
“So, what do we have?” she asked, as they emerged into the corridor on the third floor. SK took another breather.
A small clump of people had gathered in front of an open door about a third of the way down. Almost as one, they turned to look at her and SK. They recognized him but eyed her warily.
“It looks like soul loss to me,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the pocket-handkerchief. “Probably.”
She looked down at him.
“Probably?”
“Yes, well,” he said, folding the handkerchief and putting it back. “That’s why I called you. I had somebody else here earlier today, when I thought it’d be something st
andard.”
“Oh, really,” she said, as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And when were you going to let me know that little tidbit?”
“Right now,” he said, starting down the hall.
“Thanks.”
Livvy knew that the rules of shaman culture dictated that shamans be kept separate but she disliked it. For centuries, villagers had both feared and coveted shamanic power. The prospect of one shaman was frightening but two shamans working together was terrifying. Even in L.A., where shaman turfs were packed in tight, SK was careful to keep their activities separate and their knowledge of each other to a minimum.
When she and SK reached the small group, the onlookers parted to make way. As they passed, one woman clucked as though the second string had arrived. Livvy heard whispers behind her in Spanish, which she understood of course. Bruja blanca, they said, “white witch,” and demasiado joven, “too young.” It was easy to ignore them. She was used to much worse.
The tiny apartment was crammed with people. Every chair was full and almost every space on the floor was taken. An ancient woman in the middle of the tattered couch glared at her over clasped hands that held a rosary. Conversations hushed. A cute boy, sitting on the floor against the wall with his earphones plugged in, perked up and tried to make eye contact. A middle-aged woman on her cell phone snapped it shut to cut off her call. A young couple on the couch were holding hands and Livvy’s gaze lingered on their interlocked fingers. She smiled at them but they looked away.
A wave of quiet seemed to follow them as they made their way past the kitchen. One of the men eating at the table put down his fork and made the sign of the horns at her. He followed her with it, warding off the evil eye, until one of the women who had been cooking at the stove slapped him on the back of the head. He looked back down at his plate.
They had probably all heard that another shaman had been there and had failed. Interest was high. In the short hallway, people stood on both sides, pressed up against the walls to let them pass. As they went by the first bedroom, Livvy saw a bunk bed, small furniture, and a few toys scattered over the threadbare shag carpet. One of the women next to the doorway sidestepped in front of it to cut off her view, even though Livvy could see right over her.
Finally, they arrived at the patient’s bedroom. Livvy knew it because she could hear children crying, like she had on the phone. SK pushed past the crowd at the doorway and she followed.
Tinfoil had been taped over the window and the room was dark, lit only by candles, giving it the waxy smell that Livvy associated with churches. Incense was burning too, but not as an offering. The patient was probably wearing a diaper. The incense was an attempt to hide the smell of human waste, but it wasn’t quite working. Once past the doorway, the bedroom was less crowded than anywhere else in the apartment.
At last Livvy saw the patient, who was not a child but an adult, a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. She lay in the bed unconscious, oblivious to the world.
A woman sat in a folding chair, with an infant girl on her lap who was sucking on a teether. Another child, who seemed to be about three, was on the bed with the patient. She tugged on the woman’s hand.
“Mama,” she implored, “please.”
But Mama wasn’t moving and her sunken eyes remained shut.
SK and Livvy approached the bed. A woman followed them into the room, quickly passing them, and picked up the little girl. Already red-faced and teary, she wailed, clutching at her mother as she was lifted away. As if on cue, the infant spit out its teether and started to cry in sympathy. The woman with the infant stood up and went to the doorway, passing the baby off to a man who seemed to be waiting for her. Livvy noticed that both of the children wore a red ribbon tied around their ankles to ward off the evil eye. As the woman with the older girl moved past, the child quieted and reached out to Livvy. Startled, the woman paused.
Sniffling, the little girl held out her arms to Livvy in the universal hold-me gesture and leaned toward her. The woman holding her looked at the unconscious woman on the bed as if for permission and then at the man in the doorway, who shrugged. Out of habit, Livvy quickly touched the edge of the bedspread, discharging a small spark of static electricity.
In moments, the child was in Livvy’s arms and staring up into her face. The little girl reached up and touched her white hair and then focused on the amethyst pendant Livvy wore. As the child reached for it, the woman who had been holding her intercepted the tiny hand before it could grab the purple crystal. Livvy smiled down at the confused little face that beamed back at her. The girl immediately laid her head on Livvy’s shoulder, her small hands holding tightly. Livvy gently patted the tiny warm back.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Mama’s gonna be all right.”
“We need to get to work,” said SK. He waited a few moments and then turned to the woman next to Livvy. “Could you take Anita’s daughter outside, please?”
As expected, the little girl cried and gripped Livvy’s jacket with her fists, but she was no match for the woman. As they left, Livvy gave the girl a sympathetic smile and a little wave. They were quickly out the door and the wailing receded into the living room.
Livvy looked down at the patient, whose skin was a waxy yellow. She thumbed one of her eyelids open and checked pupil reaction. Her brain was still functioning on some level and her eyes had not rolled back. She put two fingers to the woman’s wrist and rested a hand on her chest. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse quick. Livvy laid the back of her hand on the woman’s brow and it was hot, as expected. The patient had probably not been able to drink enough water, if anything at all, and was dehydrated.
The woman who had carried the little girl away had reappeared in the room and taken a seat in the chair again, like a sentinel.
“This is Anita’s sister, Dolores. She’s the one who called me,” said SK.
Livvy looked over at her, across the bed.
“When did her illness begin?” Livvy asked in Spanish.
Dolores groaned.
“Like I told the other curandera, and the nurses at the emergency room, and the doctors, she told me she wasn’t feeling good about a month ago. It started in her back.”
She reached around behind herself and touched her lower back to make it clear.
“What did the doctors say?”
“The doctors? Nothing,” Dolores said with disgust.
Livvy nodded. It was the usual story. The doctors glided in and out and it was usually left to the nurses to deal with the patients, from translating the medical jargon to imparting bad news. It seemed like ages ago when Livvy had thought she would be a doctor, specializing in pediatrics. That was a different life.
“What did the nurses tell you to do?”
“They told me to make her comfortable,” she said, her voice quavering and her eyes filling with tears. “It was the only thing left.”
Livvy felt in the pocket of her jacket for the wad of tissues she knew would be there. She peeled one off and handed it to Dolores, who blew her nose. Livvy gently rubbed the poor woman’s back between her shoulders. She could see that Dolores was exhausted, sitting vigil here, watching her sister die.
“Do you think there’s anybody who would wish her ill?” Livvy finally asked.
“What do you mean, like an evil spell?”
The people in the doorway shifted their feet and looked at each other.
“Yes, like an evil spell.”
Dolores glanced at the crowd, then back to her sister, then back at the crowd.
“Well, I don’t know...”
“Tell them about Miguel,” said the young girl who had come to fetch them. She stepped into the room.
Livvy looked from the girl back to Dolores, waiting. Dolores looked at her sister’s face and then at the floor.
“If I’m going to help your sister, I need to know everything,” Livvy said, patiently but firmly.
“Miguel is the father of the child
ren,” said the teenage girl. “But he won’t give any money. Says he doesn’t have it, but I seen him at the club. Anita kept asking him for money and the last time he was here she said he couldn’t come see the kids no more. It was a really big fight. We all heard it.” She gestured in back of her and one of the women in the hallway nodded. “It was right after that she started to feel bad.”
“She wouldn’t want you to hurt the children’s father,” interrupted Dolores.
Livvy crouched down at Dolores’s side and put a hand lightly on her knee.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” she said quietly and offered a small smile. “I’m here to help.”
Dolores nodded and held the tissue to her nose. Livvy turned to SK.
“Let’s get started,” she said.
As she took off her shoulder bag, she whispered to him under her breath in English, “Who dropped the ball on the family history? Didn’t anybody ask questions?”
SK replied in Spanish, loud enough for everybody to hear, “That’s your job.” Then in English, much more quietly he said, “Don’t ever question what I or other shamans do in front of the client.”
Livvy frowned but silently unlatched the yoga mat from under her shoulder bag. She hadn’t meant her questions as a challenge. She knew better than to trade words with SK, especially right now. There was a lot more at stake than something another shaman missed.
SK watched in silence as she unrolled her mat.
“Do you want the room cleared?” he asked.
“Either way is fine for me,” she said, flattening the mat. “I’ll be on the flip side in a minute.”
CHAPTER THREE
ONLY TEN YEARS ago, a shaman had to get high. Drugs were the Multiverse gateway of choice, the typical means by which shamans entered a different plane of existence. Proponents of the old school method preferred peyote, mescaline, and datura; for the new school: LSD and ecstasy. Of course, drugs had their own world of worries. The danger of taking too much was ever present as shamans attempted to balance on the edge of the void without falling in. Typically, more experienced practitioners would mentor initiates, ostensibly to help guide the vision quest but really to prevent overdoses.
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