surrounding the circle, she danced in place and held the flame to the incense powder until thick smoke billowed up and out like fog. Each time she lit another brazier, the air thickened in that outer ring. Within the circle, where Anya advanced on the central brazier, the air was clear and clean.
Anya pulled out a long wooden match from a deep fold of her many layered robes. She struck it casually on the circle of stones with their white-washed symbol decorations. She held it first to one side, then to the other of the charcoal in the brazier. The coals had been pre-soaked with pungent oil, and flames immediately began licking at the edges, sliding in and around each small briquette.
'Welcome!' Anya cried. Her voice rang out, strong and powerful. She was a small woman, slender and dark. Her form and features were cloaked in many layers of gauze and silk and lace, festooned with charms, bones, silver trinkets and gold chains. As the central fire rose, she glittered and shimmered; each motion of her arms sent trails of light following after it and drawing half-lit symbols in the air.
'It is a glorious night,' she said. 'The spirits will rise and walk among us. Gods will visit, and we will become stronger. They will share with us, and we with them, and when we are done, none shall stand before us.'
Kim had completed her circuit of the circle, and the band of scented smoke divided them from the world. Anyone standing outside the circle would see little or nothing — perhaps a back-lit shadow in the mist, or a will-o- the-wisp of light. The guards just inside the door were obscured, as well, though they could see well enough, staring out the passage leading in among the dead and forgotten automobiles and the flickering torches.
Anya stepped forward and circled the fire. As she moved, she traced her fingers over the white symbols. She spoke as she walked, and her feet began a shuffling, skipping dance.
'They are here,' she cried. 'They walk among us. They touch us and breathe through us and flow in and out and through our veins. They are dark, and light; they are weak, and strong. They live in the shadows, and are bound by daylight.'
She whirled away from the fire, and as she did so she cast off the first layer of her garments. They were scarves, and as she passed the men who circled her fire, she stepped in closer, danced between them, wrapped the soft material around them and let it go, moving to the next. Once more around the fire, and she danced in little more than wisps of silk. Her skin was smooth, oiled and glittering in the firelight. As her garments disappeared, she was revealed, the muscled perfection of her legs and the haughty thrust of her breasts. One moment she stalked them, and the next she wound around and through their ranks seductively.
Her words, which had been clear and simple, dropped slowly into a chant that matched her dance. Los Escorpiones trembled slightly, but stood their ground as she leaned in and whispered words in their ears that they would never understand, brushing the palms of her hands over their flesh. She leaned suddenly to the cage in front of the fire, and with a sudden yank of her wrist, she removed the screen that separated the strutting cocks inside.
She laughed, spat on the ground before the cage, picked up the dirt where her spittle had landed and ground it between the palms of her hand. She leaned in to the fire and dropped the contents of her hands into the flames. The blaze roared and licked up into the sky.
The birds dove at one another as if possessed. They circled and struck, sharp spurs and beaks slashing like lightning. Anya laughed, and the sound of that laughter blended with the whipping, snapping voice of the fire. The birds screamed, and Anya leaned close to the fire once again. She grabbed the first of the bottles, lifted it, and smashed the top against the stone rimming the fire. Some of the contents sloshed into the pit, where they caused bursts of brighter flame and a loud hiss.
Anya stood before the cage, squatted, and watched. She continued to sing and chant. She swayed to the motion of the battle raging in that small cage. She held the bottle out before her and waved it hypnotically.
'Join us!' she screamed. 'Come to us. We welcome you with mind, body and spirit. We claim the right!'
At that moment, the dark bird struck. It dipped it's head as if going for the lighter colored rooster's breast. When its opponent reacted, the red rooster dropped to the side and lashed out with the spur on one leg. It caught the white bird directly across the throat. Blood spurted, and Anya yanked open the cage. Before the fallen bird struck the ground she plucked it out. She bore it aloft, the bottle held tightly in her other hand.
The dead rooster flopped in her grip. She spun away, and began a third circle of the ring. This time she reached out as she passed each of Los Escorpiones, marking them once on each cheek, and once on the forehead with the bloody feathered neck of the fallen bird. A few tried to pull back, or to spin away, but she was fast — far too fast — and her words held them, her dance mesmerized them. As she moved to the second in line she held out the bottle to the first. He hesitated only a second, and then he drank.
As she moved, the bottle trailed after her. By the time she reached the end of the line — the spot where the blurred, wispy forms wavered, the bottle was empty. She tossed the remnant of the bird onto the pyre and it burst suddenly into brilliant red flame. It faded back to the glow of the coals, but there was no sign of the sacrifice.
Anya grabbed another bottle then. She laughed, broke the top and threw it toward the men in line. One staggered forward, as if too drunk to remain upright, but at the last second he snagged the bottle out of the air easily. He bowed to Anya, and winked, then upended the bottle and chugged half of it in a single swallow.
'Welcome!' Anya cried.
She continued, opening and tossing the bottles, watching them caught, some almost daintily, one in a sudden and very unexpected flip, a young man flying through the air, bringing the sharp, broken tip of the bottle's neck to his lips in mid-air and landing lightly on his feet, still drinking.
As they drank, they danced. Anya led them in a circle around the fire. Somewhere along the way, the last of her clothing disappeared. She stroked herself over strong young bodies as they danced. Some grabbed her and held her close, others kissed her and then spun her away, laughing uproariously. As they moved, music rose. There were no musicians in site, but the wild chords of deep, resonant guitars, the syncopated patter of hands on bongos, and the soft lilting voices of recorders, or flutes, permeated the air.
Within moments what had seemed an organized, ritualistic experience degenerated into wild abandon. Los Escorpiones, the thirteen, danced and drank. Some smoked thick, green cigars that had been tucked in a case by the bottles. The dancers reeked of strong, dark rum and mescal. Voices rose in tongues that none present understood, and the flames danced merrily. Beyond the misting incense smoke, Kim watched, her eyes dark. She paced like a caged cat, just beyond the magical barrier.
It had begun.
Chapter Eighteen
Donovan and Amethyst stepped through the doorway into the alley across from the Barrio just after sunset. There was still movement on the street, but the two paid no attention to it. As they stepped out and scanned the area, they barely registered as light shadows on the walls of the building s behind them. They were like fuzzy, warped spots in the air, and though they passed very close to several passersby, no one registered their presence.
'It seems as if at least the first half of the amulet's power isn't exaggerated,' Donovan said. 'Let's hope it works as well on the eyes of spirits — Loa in particular.'
The dark, soapy stone figurine rested against his skin, and he felt the urge to squirm away from it. It was warm to the touch, and he was fairly certain that on more than one occasion, it moved. He didn't want to think about what that motion might mean. He had known that such talismans existed, but they came from a branch of study he'd avoided. Not black arts, exactly, but not 'clean'. The amulets fell somewhere in the in-between and Donovan knew that, particularly in realms of power, gray areas could prove the most dangerous.
They stood in the doorway of an abandoned bookstore and watched Anya Cabrera's guards at the entrance to the junkyard. Now and then one would move in, or out of the passageway. There were never less than two in sight and in the shadows a bit further down the street they could make out the forms of two young men — no doubt Escorpiones. Torches flickered throughout the tangled piles of broken and twisted metal. The cloying scent of incense flavored the air, and music rose from the shadows.
'Is that guitar?' Amethyst asked.
Donovan listened closely, and then nodded.
'Guitar, some sort of flute, drums… Anya has pulled out all the stops. I recognized the music — it's powerful.
