by Jessica King
The robot’s hand moved to hover above a control panel with a series of tiny, unlit LED lights, except for one blinking blue. Two larger lights sat on the panel, seemingly placed at random. One of the lights next to a larger light was lit. A red triangle was placed atop one of the unlit LEDs.
“Serial number?” the man asked, his voice calm. The woman next to him repeated the number he’d given her, and she nodded. “Down and around.” He pressed a few buttons, and the blue light moved down past the left side of the triangle, below it, then up the right side, before the light beneath the red triangle lit, then blinked out.
“What just happened?” Lindsey whispered.
Ivy shook her head. She had no idea. The whole thing looked like a crude child’s toy to her—except for the ever-descending numbers on the cock.
Six wires were apparently next on the agenda. “Black on top and bottom, red and blue in between,” the bomb tech said. The robot extended a pair of pliers. “What was that last number on the serial number?”
“Three,” said the woman next to him.
The robot cut the third wire. The clock ticked faster.
Thirty seconds, twenty-nine, twenty-eight … Lindsey next to her made a noise that Ivy figured meant she was holding in a cough. Most people thought the bomb stopped after the cut wire, and that was clearly not the case.
“Blue button,” the man said, and moved the robot’s hand forward to push it. A red light blinked next to it. “Red.”
“Wait ‘til the one?” the woman next to him asked.
Sweat trickled from the tech’s temples, and Ivy believed it was just as much from stress as it was from the suit.
“Mmhmm,” the man said. The clock ticked down. Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one—
The robot lifted its finger from the button.
The clock stopped. The lobby seemed suspended in time as they took a collective breath.
“Let’s get it removed and do a control detonation,” the woman said.
Chief Marks and the bomb tech’s assistant pulled at the Velcro that covered him in thick layers of protection. “Whoo, I’m sweaty,” he said, waving his hand at his face once his arm was free to move. He turned to Ivy. “You always return home at the same time?”
Ivy shook her head. “My schedule is unpredictable, even to me, I don’t know—”
The bomb tech nodded. His dark skin shone with a sheen of sweat, but his eyes were cold and clear. “Then we just ran into a stroke of luck. If you’d have come home and just taken that thing to your couch, or if you were at work a half-hour longer …” He shook his head. “This would have been much different.”
Ivy turned to the thumping noise behind her. Lindsey had sat down on the cold tiling, cradling the camera that was, presumably, no longer rolling.
A series of men in BOMB SQUAD T-shirts made their way up the stairs, their footsteps echoing against the cement walls.
Ivy heard Vince’s voice once—a yelled curse—before he managed to break through the line of law enforcement and into the lobby. “You good?” he asked, his face deadly serious.
Ivy nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said, turning his serious gaze to Lindsey, who was looking rather green. “Did you get all that on tape?”
Lindsey’s eyes widened, nodding.
Vince grinned. “Fantastic, can I see it?”
“You missed the bomb suit,” Ivy said, pointing to where it was now in a neat pile of thick material on the ground.
Vince cursed again before asking Chief Marks if it would be entirely unprofessional for him to just try the suit on for only a second, and Chief Marks told him that yes, it would be entirely unprofessional, at which Vince pouted in the most professional show of unprofessionalism that Ivy had ever seen to date.
+++
Monday, March 6, 2017, 7:24 PM
“Nice!” Jayda said through the microphone. Marisol grinned behind the glass, pulling the headphones off her ears. Jayda rocked back onto her heels, admiring her tiny recording studio. She couldn’t afford to repaint it yet, but the posters of famous artists across the decades had added a nice flair to it. There wasn’t the cushy couch she dreamed of or the real piano yet. The keyboard she’d saved for in high school and two lawn chairs would have to do for now. But it was hers.
“Thanks for letting me do this,” she said, walking out of the recording booth. “I promise I’ll be able to pay for the rest of the recording session after my next paycheck.” Marisol slung her bag over her shoulder, adjusting the strap that fell across her body. She yanked at her dark curls caught in the strap and muttered, “Every time.”
Jayda waved her off her concern over the bill. “I know where you live,” she said, and the other girl laughed.
“Hopefully, I can move out soon,” Marisol said. “But—”
“Girl, you don’t have to tell me. L.A. is hella expensive.”
Marisol nodded, looking at her phone. “One sec,” she said, her eyebrows scrunching. “Mom called three times.” She held the phone to her cheek. “Hola, mamá.” There was a string of rapid Spanish on the other side. “No te preocupes,” Marisol said, pointing to the phone and rolling her eyes.
Jayda smiled. She’d known the Sanchez family since grade school, and Mrs. Sanchez’s anxious calls were nothing new to her.
“Sí. Sí, sí, sí.” Marisol’s voice was comforting but exasperated. She nodded, giving her mother a “wrap it up” hand signal even though Mrs. Sanchez couldn’t see it.
Jayda laughed. She’d received a few of these calls herself. She often joked that she’d learned Spanish solely because of Mrs. Sanchez’s constant worries and questions.
“Estoy con Jayda,” Marisol said, knowing that would help calm her mother down. She paced, fluffing her curls in the reflection of the glass sound booth. “Sí, sí. Te veo pronto.” Marisol hung up, and Jayda raised her brows. “She thinks I’m going to see the Prophetess again.”
“Again?”
“I was at that thing in the park. Crazy, right? Did you see it?” Marisol slipped her phone into her back pocket.
Jayda nodded noncommittally, not wanting to admit her curiosity. Most of Marisol’s questions were rhetorical anyway. Somewhere in the time when Jayda and Marisol’s older sister, Sofia, were in their early teens, Mrs. Sanchez had berated Marisol about asking questions to other people, and not simply babbling about her own interests. This had resulted in Marisol asking questions and then continuing to plow forward without taking a breath into what she was planning to say, whether anyone intended to answer her questions or not.
“And the shooting at that first, like, official gathering is insane. I was going to go to that!”
Jayda’s eyes widened. “You’re interested in witchcraft?”
“I think it’s interesting. Plus, the quality of her makeup is amazing. I ordered some, and I love it.” She motioned to the highlighter sitting along her cheekbone. “It’s magical enough for me. Anthony does a full double-take and then goes out of his way to talk to me last weekend. Shoot, I’ll take it.”
“Anthony’s a player, Mari,” Jayda said, rolling her eyes. “He was Sofia’s and my grade, and he dated half the school.”
“Made him a good kisser,” Marisol said, and Jayda faked a gag.
“So, the Prophetess?” Jayda slid her bag onto her shoulder, double and triple-checking that all the sound equipment was turned off.
“Right,” Marisol said. “I’m going to the speakeasy. Wanna come?”
“A speakeasy?” Jayda said. “Like prohibition?”
“Exactly like,” Marisol said, searching through her phone. “Except now, a bunch of people are saying that witchcraft is the new alcohol.” Marisol flashed her a flyer of the Prophetess covered in strands of pearls and Latin words written across her skin in dark lipstick—“Deep Desire” red.
“So, you want to go to an underground magic club.”
“There’ll be drinks. And also magic.”
Ja
yda shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“C’mon,” Marisol said. “If you come with me, I can tell my mom I was with you, and I can completely avoid the Prophetess part. She knows you’ll keep me out of trouble.”
“You’re twenty-two, shouldn’t you be keeping yourself out of trouble?” Jayda asked, even as she grabbed her bag and fished for the studio keys in her bag.
Marisol, knowing she’d won, looped her arm in Jayda’s. “Never.”
Jayda followed Marisol through a small alleyway in Chinatown. The walls of the building on either side were red-painted concrete, topped with roofs mimicking traditional temples. At the end of a dead-end alley, Marisol found a crowd in front of a black door with a golden dragon painted on it. A beefy man standing in front of the door in a black T-shirt let people in one at a time, greatly slowing down the process. The sky was turning from blue to its regular colors of cotton candy and fire, but the air in the alley still felt baked, too hidden from the streets for anyone to feel the relief of a sunset’s cooling breath. Jayda fanned herself with her wallet.
Marisol turned to her. “The password is Ethel Miller,” she said. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Jayda, like she’d maybe read it in a tabloid somewhere, despite its old sound. Marisol went first, whispering the name to the tattooed guard, and Jayda followed suit.
They were ushered into a packed staircase, which was even warmer than the crush of bodies outside. Jayda tried to breathe through her mouth instead of her nose as the smell of too many body sprays and already-breathed air assaulted her nose. She waved a hand in front of her face, trying to clear the way for fresh air. Marisol was already swaying to the music pounding from down below, her hair brushing against her waistline. Marisol—despite being four years younger than Jayda—could likely pass for being the older of the two. Marisol was a constant display of curves, lipstick, and luscious hair, and Jayda was tall and built straight from shoulders to ankles, her tight curls usually held in a tight bun atop her head, as it was now. Jayda had always thought she was fashionable, but Marisol had “a look.” A look that could make both of them a lot of money if this album went right.
Jayda poked Marisol in the back, and she turned around, dark-red lips around a white smile. “Flirt a bit, tell them about your single,” Jayda said. This crowd was clearly easily excited and loyal, above all else. The perfect people to fall in love with Marisol.
Marisol’s smile widened, and she winked. She moved down a step, laying light fingers on the shoulder of a girl with a half-shaved haircut.
By the time they’d made it to the bottom of the stairs, Marisol had at least fifteen new followers on social media, had promised to perform at a local coffee shop, and had herself added to several people’s playlists. Maybe they should come to stuff like this more often, despite the fact that the young man behind her was trying to cast a spell against the germs the crowd surely possessed in a nasally voice.
“I got a date,” Marisol said, flashing her phone at Jayda. The message showed a number not yet saved to her contacts, but the guy had sent a picture of himself to her along with his name, Reid.
Jayda looked up to see the blond in Marisol’s phone exchanging numbers with another girl. “Looks like your date has several,” she said. Marisol shrugged.
“I’m not looking for anything serious, anyway,” she said.
“I’m sure your mom’s delighted by that.” Jayda laughed, and Marisol rolled her eyes.
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “Tried to set me up with Santiago Martinez.” Marisol said Santiago Martinez the way someone might say “the flu” or “a life-size brown bag”—which were both good comparisons for Santiago, a medium-looking boy with few interesting hobbies (surfing Wikipedia was his favorite pastime, he’d once told Jayda) and even fewer smiles to share.
“She just likes that he’s smart,” Jayda said. “Didn’t he graduate UCLA in two years or something?”
“Yeah, then he returned to our hometown just to tell everyone about it for the last three years.”
Jayda crinkled her nose, and they descended several stairs. She pressed a hand on either side of the walls, hoping no one in this line was claustrophobic. She could now see the main area of the bar, where green neon signs reigned supreme.
“Cool,” Marisol said, the new lighting casting her features a sickly green. “Do you think she’s actually here?”
“She is, I see her!” said a girl with a silvery pixie cut in front of her, and Marisol leaned into the fairy-like build of the girl, almost knocking the two of them over.
They took a few more steps that creaked beneath them and chipped its black paint. Jayda could see her now, too. She was shorter off of a stage, though the signature white hair and thigh-high boots did make her seem larger than life. She was showing a series of crystals and stones to a crowd nearby. Most people were dancing, drinks already in their hands despite the light still holding onto the sky outside.
“Do you want anything?” Marisol asked, pointing to the bar, which was lit with green and white lights reflecting off the glass of the shelves and bottles.
Jayda said no, she was fine, and Marisol nodded, running off to the bar with Pixie Hair Cut. Jayda made her way to one of the few tables—small, with only enough room for her elbows. Her long legs dangled from the high stool.
The Prophetess made her way onto the makeshift stage with a helping hand from a man dressed in all black who was clearly skimming the crowd with anxious eyes. “Magical beauties!” the Prophetess gushed. The crowd turned to her, cheering erupting from the staircase and all throughout the dimly lit interior. “We have been oppressed.” Light glinted in her tearing eyes. “We have been pushed underground … for now.” She motioned people toward her, and the club packed in tighter, the crowd on the stairs now spilling onto the floor. “But not forever.”
The crowd cheered, hands pointing to her, fists raising to the ceiling.
“No, not forever!” the Prophetess yelled. She sauntered across the stage. “I’ve gathered you for a sacred purpose, my followers. You signed up for my emails, and you received the password to this beautiful space. Like witches long ago met in private, so we meet tonight.” She held out her arms, which were covered up to the elbow in black velvet gloves. “Let’s get everyone inside. Cuddle up. We’re all here for each other.”
Marisol swung by the table, grabbing Jayda’s hand and pulling her into the crowd. The air became hotter, and Jayda suddenly wished for the emptiness of her apartment. People packed in until the stairs were finally empty, strangers snaking their arms around each other’s backs, people claiming to be too short to see were ushered to the front by a movement that was as close to crowd surfing as they could get without raising people off the ground entirely. The Prophetess grinned at her people.
“Magnificent,” she said. “You are all magnificent.”
She held out a black stone pyramid. “Tonight, we perform a powerful spell of protection for our people. Others destroy what they do not understand,” she said. “But we have power that is stronger than their hate.” She lifted the stone. “Black tourmaline,” she said. Murmurs ran through the crowd. “Protection and security!” She handed the pyramid to the person in front of her. “Pass this to the middle,” she said, her voice sultry and slow through the microphone attached to her collar. The pyramid passed through hands until it reached the center of the room, to a young woman with several chokers and thick eyeliner. The Prophetess held out another stone, a perfect circle balancing in her hand like a crystal ball. “Clear quartz,” she announced, moving to the other side of the stage and handing the spherical stone to a lanky young man dressed in all white. “It will amplify our energy, our power.”
She passed out a series of small blue and white stones, claiming that they called for the restoration of her people who were fearful after the shooting, purification, peace, energetic clearing. She herself held a pink sunstone. “So that I might be a sufficient leader in this spell,” she said, hu
mility taking over her features, which only endeared herself further to the partially drunken crowd. She held up the pink stone and used her other hand to signal for the people holding stones across the room to lift theirs as well. Laser beams of white light shone throughout the room, and though it was just an illusion, it truly seemed to form a web between the different stones.
“Shield of white light,” the Prophetess said. “Scutum album de lumine.” The crowd repeated her words, which were projected to a screen behind her. “Protect our people,” she said. “qui defendat nos.” They repeated her words again, and they chanted the phrase over and over, as a beat and long whine of a violin sounded from a speaker somewhere in the room. The words fell into a distinct rhythm. Recognizing an interesting piece for a backtrack, Jayda discreetly pulled out her phone and began recording.
Marisol was next to her, chanting, and Jayda wondered if the girl truly did believe in magic and hadn’t wanted to admit it, or if she was just caught in the energy of the crowd. Her mother certainly would launch into an hour-long lecture if she found her daughter was chanting in a way that called on her own power instead of her God’s. She could almost hear Mrs. Sanchez’s voice in her mind, the slightly broken English she’d never truly fixed despite her best efforts as an adult learning a new language. “Who you chanting to, huh, mija? Do you know? You chanting to the devil or to yourself? Go pray with your father. Now.”
Before he had passed away, praying with their father was the general punishment for anything Marisol or Sofia had ever done wrong, and Marisol’s prayers had taken a sarcastic tone for a few years in high school. “God forgive me for actually having a fun time for once in my life. I’m sorry that the law in the U.S. is that the drinking age is twenty-one. I’m sorry that alcohol is fun.”
Her father had found her sarcasm amusing. Mrs. Sanchez had not.
Marisol began harmonizing with the chanting, and a few others around her followed her lead until the room had lost itself to a frenzy of sound. When they finished, Marisol laughed when she realized she’d started to draw the Catholic cross on her chest. She motioned to the stairs, waving at her own sweat, and Jayda nodded.
