by Ann Aguirre
Nalleli nodded. “Thank you. Now I need for you to sit quietly. It’s important you don’t touch or attempt to communicate with me from this point.”
“Would you prefer if I left?”
“No,” she said. “Unless you spook easily.”
I didn’t think I did. So I settled on the stool opposite and watched her preparations. First she laid a white cloth across the makeshift table and then she set it with terra-cotta clay dishes. On each plate, she put a different item: corn tortillas, grilled fish, green plantains. Once she’d finished, Nalleli bent, rummaged through the crates stacked against the wall, and straightened with a carafe of red oil. Palm oil, I thought. I knew of no other that carried that precise hue. She drizzled the fluid over the top of the other offerings and then set out red candles in a circle. To some degree, it reminded me of the séance we’d conducted in Laredo, but this was altogether more elaborate.
“Everything is red,” I said as she lit the candles.
I’d forgotten I wasn’t supposed to interfere. She cut me a look, but answered, “Yes, it is the color of sacrifice.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “I thought there were two types of magick, white and black.”
“There are three,” she corrected. “White for purity, black for destruction—”
“And red for sacrifice.”
She nodded, fixing me with a steely look. “I need you to be silent now, or you must leave.”
Chastened, I fell quiet, promising myself that no matter what happened, I wouldn’t react. Given the atmosphere rising in the hut, that might prove a bigger challenge than I anticipated. Though it was a warm day, since she started her ritual the air had cooled until I could see my breath. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, but I didn’t dare rub them.
Once she arranged the table to her satisfaction, Nalleli lit the candles and called, “Pedro, los tambores!”
“¡Sí, mamá!”
Outside the hut, I heard the sound of something being dragged over dry palm leaves and then a simple rhythm commenced. The sound was hypnotic; I could imagine the boy playing with his small, quick hands: three drums, one cadence. Before me, Nalleli swayed, listening to otherworldly whispers. Her eyelids grew heavy, but not, I thought, through any lack of concentration.
She sang out, “YaYa, yayita, büey suelto / Oya viene alumbrando / como es / YaYa, yayita, büey suelto / Oya viene alumbrando / como es.”
Though I didn’t understand all the words, in my bones I recognized a summoning chant when I heard one. My blood sparked and kindled, as if some long-dormant part of me sprang to life in welcome. In anxious reaction, I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms about my knees. Mist rolled in, peculiar and blood tinged; I had never seen anything remotely like it, except, perhaps, for fog burning in the wake of distant taillights.
Nalleli’s movements became a dance as she shuffled, sang, and swayed. The air gained weight, as it had in the boat, but it did not carry the same stench, not sulfur and brimstone. Instead, it smelled of copper and yarrow, a fruitygrassy scent I remembered from my mother’s kitchen, similar to sage. For a moment I could feel her around me, warmth discernible for the way it shielded me from the surrounding chill. Though it was impossible, I actually looked for her and found only that red mist.
Beneath my feet, beneath the spellbinding surge of the drums, the earth rumbled as though something ancient and powerful had awakened. Nalleli moved faster now, her hands trembling as she set the palm oil alight. It should have seared the cloth and begun a blaze inside the hut that we’d be hard-pressed to contain. Instead the flame burned with merry intelligence, devouring the food that had been set forth.
“Bienvenida,” the witch crooned. “Bienvenida, nuestra señora del relámpago.”
Welcome, our lady of the lightning. That, I understood.
“Acepta este sacrificio en tu nombre.”
Accept this sacrifice in your name. The words sent a chill through me. Would I have agreed to this had I known? Animal sacrifice led to darker things. I touched the hard place in my side where the murderer’s weapon had plugged my wound. Perhaps I ought to be asking whether I could have countenanced this before—before Kilmer, before the demon, before I died. I didn’t like where those thoughts led.
Yet I did not protest. I had promised I would not, and I feared the consequences of disrupting her work. Nalleli withdrew a small bird from one of the crates behind her and cut its throat with a slim, wicked knife. The fresh blood spattered atop the offerings already set forth. Somehow, I swallowed my moan, wishing I’d waited outside.
Say nothing. This was surely the reddest magic I’d ever seen. The whole hut swam with the shade—and the bloody mist threatened to choke me. I breathed through my nose, mute witness to what transpired next.
To my utter shock, Nalleli set both palms in the burning oil; she should have been maimed, but the blood on her brow and the backs of her hands exuded a heavenly aroma, a mix of cinnamon and raw brown sugar, and her flesh did not singe. Instead the flames ran up her arms, coiling about her head in snakes of smoke and ash. She screamed then, but it was too late—or maybe it was exactly what she wanted; I didn’t know enough about her rituals to be sure.
The fire winked out and her dark eyes filmed white like heat lightning. In that moment, I knew I was seeing something very old—not Nalleli at all. Whatever she’d summoned studied me with a tilt of the head, and I could clearly see that the spirit used her as a vessel. There was nothing of the island witch left at all. The creature inhabiting her body dismissed me as a nonentity—and I felt grateful. She turned her attention to Eros, raised in the center of the offerings. Energy crackled about its frame, such as would cause burns and lesions without paranormal protection. With no measurable fear or curiosity, the lady of the lightning took Eros into her cupped palms, sniffed it, and then took the item into her mouth. Her head fell back, and I would’ve thought she was choking, except her chest rose and fell in normal breaths. A rumble sounded both overhead and underfoot, thunder to accompany its lightning.
What. The. Hell.
Red thunderclouds formed and a sizzling arc slammed down from the top of the hut; as if that acted as the catalyst, Nalleli hunched forward, vomiting forth the saltshaker, along with a host of other things—dark sludge, what looked like congealed blood roiling with maggots. I just barely kept my breakfast down; in self-defense, I squeezed my eyes shut until her convulsions stopped. Blind, I listened to her blowing out the candles and cleaning the silver saltshaker before I trusted myself to look again. Somehow, I stumbled out of the hut without seeing the bird carcass or the mess left behind in removing the malignant spells.
In my absence, Butch had relaxed enough to venture off on his own, sniffing around to make sure things were safe. As he’d been borderline catatonic after the boat adventure, I took that as a good sign. I was still shaky, rubbing my hands up and down my thighs.
“Don’t go far,” I cautioned him.
Worrying about my pet distracted me from what I’d seen, at least. The dog threw me a look as if to say: Do I look stupid? Yeah, Butch was back.
“Everything all right?”
My gaze went to Kel’s forearm, where the wound he’d inflicted on himself had already sealed into a thin purple line. “Not so much.”
The shit I’d seen in that hut would stay with me. At last Nalleli emerged, but she looked markedly older, as if years had passed instead of minutes. Her hand trembled when she handed me the white box.
“Even shielded as I was”—she indicated the blood on her brow—“this was a nearly impossible task. Never have I seen anything woven with such mal intent.”
“So the guy Montoya hired—he’s good?” That didn’t bode well for us.
“The best I have ever seen. The orisha and your companion’s blood barely shielded me from his darkness. Go now. As it happens, you did not pay me enough.” And Nalleli crumpled, the color draining from her face.
Kel caught her before she hit the gro
und. At the boy’s instruction, he carried her into the hut and laid her on the pallet. She had, at least, cleaned up the evidence, though the smell lingered. I hovered, unsure of how best to help, and then I checked her vitals. It seemed she’d fallen into a swoon, nothing more serious. Her pulse was good, even if her skin was clammy.
“¡Váyanse!” her son spat.
We had no choice but to comply. Since it didn’t look as if the kid would be guiding us out, I hoped Kel had been watching the route. I sure hadn’t been.
He took point. I paid greater attention this time and saw there was, in fact, a faint path. It led downhill, but the soil was soft and moist, so I slipped as much as I walked, grabbing onto branches and leaves to break my clumsy descent. Green stained my palms by the time we hit the tiny, rocky beach, which wasn’t sand but mud. Three puppies frolicked in the shallows, where the boat was still moored.
Thank God.
I assumed the dogs belonged to the witch and her boy, but the sight of them reassured me. Despite everything I’d been through today, dogs still chased their tails, growled playfully, nipped, and peed on trees. How’d the world know I needed to see something normal right about now?
Kel helped me aboard, untied the rope, and vaulted up himself. I sat down in the rear seats this time while he took Ernesto’s place behind the wheel. The boat engine caught readily, and he reversed at low throttle, churning the water as we left the island behind. From a distance, it looked like any other isle in the lake: densely wooded, impossibly green, and full of mystery.
At length Butch felt safe to pop his head out of the bag and yap at birds. Then he fell to watching the water as if hypnotized. I could relate; the way it rose and fell beneath the boat was oddly compelling.
There was only one thing left to do. I didn’t tell Kel I meant to test her work, but there was no way I could sell the thing without touching it to be sure. I opened the white box, ignored my guardian’s sharp warning, and curled my left hand around Eros.
Reports of My Death Have Been Much Exaggerated
The customary burn hit my palm, but nothing more traumatic.
Heat carried the images that flowered in my brain. The scene came right from the fifties, including clothes and décor—a man presented the white case to a woman. An anniversary gift? Their silver, if I guessed correctly based on the present. Her face creased in a broad smile after she opened it, and her head swung around as she tried to decide where she should display Psyche and Eros. I caught the titles on the bookshelf; it seemed she loved reading about mythology.
Aw, what a sweet present. The scene faded, leaving me a little shaky. I put Eros back, still smiling. I suspected she must have passed on, which was the only way these would’ve left her possession. I hated that something she’d loved so much—and that had been given in love—had been used with murderous intent. Still, I could sell these to the Spanish professor with a clear conscience now . . . assuming we ever made it back to the shop.
“That was stupid,” Kel bit out. “I cannot protect you from yourself.”
“I had to be sure it was clean or I couldn’t sell it.”
He made an uncomplimentary frustrated noise and went back to driving the boat. When we reached the shallow cove where we’d docked before, the old washerwoman was gone. The day had reached that indefinite point between afternoon and twilight, and the trees cast long shadows in the water. This time, he let me make the jump on my own, which I took as a manifestation of his annoyance. Without his help I landed without grace and sloshed toward shore.
We crossed the small strip of land and climbed some crumbling stairs to the malecón. The market where Ernesto had bought the fruit was gone, tables and tents packed up and taken home for the day. After we walked a block or so, Butch wiggled in my bag. I put him down and he promptly peed on a strip of brownish green grass. I let him trot along sniffing stuff until we came to a more populated area, and then with a murmured apology I picked him up again. I didn’t want the traffic squashing him.
“There’s a sitio,” I said, pointing.
The taxi stand lay half a block away and there were a couple of men lounging outside their vehicles. Kel quickened his pace. He handled the hiring of the cab; within moments, we were on our way back to La Finca. The car had no shocks to speak of, so I felt each rut in the road. Warm wind roared through the open windows, effectively preventing conversation. By that point I was starving, but it seemed indelicate, as if a person of sensibility would’ve had her appetite ruined by the day’s events.
The driver made the last turn, and shortly thereafter we pulled into the shaded parking lot. I paid him, and we slid from the vehicle. After checking to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything behind, I headed for the lobby. It was unlikely Shannon would still be poolside this late, but you never knew.
The pool area was empty; a maintenance man turned off the waterfall as we watched. I assumed they ran it only when there was sufficient demand to justify the expense.
I turned to Kel. “She must be in our room.”
He followed me to the stairs, a shadow I couldn’t shake. Despite our relative success today, this wasn’t over. Montoya needed somebody to blame for his failure with Yi Min-chin. With her dying breath, the prostitute who aborted Montoya’s child—with Min’s help—had told him that Min had cursed his manhood and he’d never sire a living heir. Of course, there had never been a curse, but either age or intense superstition rendered Montoya impotent. Therefore, he couldn’t rest until he got Min to “remove” the hex. Wisely, she’d used a dark ritual to prevent Montoya or any of his relations from going after her only living child—Chance—and she’d called the Knights of Hell to witness the deal. Talk about serious enforcement.
Since Chance was off-limits, Montoya had chosen me as a scapegoat. It wasn’t just the loss of his warlock or his compound; he was also still grieving because he had no son and heir. Everything he’d built would crumble at his death. His lieutenants would quarrel over the cartel like dogs after juicy scraps, and nothing of his legacy, bloodstained and evil as it was, would survive. Somebody had to pay for that. In other words . . . me, because he’d doubtless thought I’d die easily and assuage the pain other women had caused him.
It wasn’t in the cards.
I found Shannon watching TV, the remnants of room service on the table. Tension I hadn’t noticed before eased from my neck and shoulders once I saw she was safe. But before I clued her in, I filled Butch’s collapsible food and water bowls and set them down. He hopped out of my purse and crunched his kibble with gusto.
“Did you learn what you needed to know?” She clicked off the TV.
“Yes and no,” I said.
While Butch ate, I provided the succinct version of our day. Shannon listened with full attention, and when I was through, she asked, “This witch wasn’t able to tell you anything about the sorcerer?”
I raised a brow. “Why do you call him that?”
“I’m not ignorant,” she told me with a roll of her eyes. “You fought a warlock before, right? Well, I’ve done some reading on Area 51 since we got wireless and found out that warlocks are defined in two ways. In the first, a warlock is a male witch turned oath breaker, revealing coven secrets for money.”
“Like hiring out to the cartels,” I said. “But Nathan Moon was related to Montoya by blood.”
“Which made him the other kind. There’s an older definition from the Old Norse: varð-lokkur, or ‘caller of spirits.’ ”
That tracked with what I knew of Nathan Moon. He’d been the most powerful necromantic practitioner I’d ever heard of or encountered. “So what makes you think we’re dealing with a sorcerer?”
“What you said about the demons. See, sorcerers use malevolent magic. The Templars were accused of sorcery and demon worship. So if this person is setting demons on you, it only tracks that—”
“Yeah, got it.” If nothing else, a label might prove helpful. I wished we’d discovered more, but I had to be content with what we
’d accomplished. Stomach growling, I went to the phone and paused, receiver in hand, angling a look at Kel. “You want something to eat? I’m ordering.”
I was pretty sure he could; I just didn’t know if he needed to. But he’d lost a fair amount of blood today between wounds and self-inflicted harm. Replenishing fluids sounded like a good idea either way.
“Sure,” he said. “A burger and a beer.”
That took me aback, but I asked for the same thing when the kitchen staff picked up. The spicy Veracruz pasta and shrimp tempted me, but it would be ill-advised to order an adventurous meal the day before a road trip. Mostly, I wanted to go home. The trouble was, I couldn’t stay in Mexico City until I solved this problem. Montoya knew where I lived. He’d sent a package to my store and put a gunman on the roof.
So, on the surface, going back at all might seem foolish, but I had a plan. If we lured the next gunman into taking a crack at me, Kel could capture him. I had no doubt the guardian knew some effective interrogation techniques. So we’d return only long enough to put this plan into effect and then take the fight to Montoya.
“Shower,” I said, snagging my backpack.
The bathroom possessed an austere charm, marbled but lacking in decorative touches. I turned the tap to hot and stepped into the tub as steam swirled in the room. After today, I had a lot to wash away. Plus, showers were great for thinking things through, and by the time I got out, I felt sure Kel was going to argue my scheme. That could prove problematic, as he had the car keys.
I dried quickly, spritzed my hair with leave-in conditioner, combed it out, and dressed. When I emerged from the bathroom, the food was waiting; it didn’t take long to grill some meat and slap it on a bun. Kel opened the balcony door and pushed the small table outside. With someone else, I would’ve taken the move as a romantic overture. In this case, I couldn’t imagine his intentions.
Nonetheless, I grabbed the tray and carried our food out while he brought the chairs. I took the one facing the playground, though the swings were quiet. The reason for this tête-à-tête became clear when he shut the door. Right, he wanted to talk about something in private. At that point I was too hungry to care what he had to say before I’d eaten, so I dug into my burger. He followed suit.
