In stark contrast to the set where she produces her show, this kitchen is modern and sleek. Fiona’s on-screen persona evokes a sense of the old world—earthy, green, and venerable. In her private life, Fiona prefers a clean, contemporary style.
She finally slows down and settles onto a kitchen stool by the island. “Okay, love. Let’s see this beauty.”
I rest the carrier in front of her then take a few steps back for protection. Fiona calmly reaches inside and pulls out the snake. It coils itself around her arm. It’s blacker than I remember, like an inky rope with two glassy eyes. She raises it to look straight into those eyes.
The timbre of her voice lowers as she admires it. “Aye, look at you. Creature of darkness. You’re not from this plane. What have your eyes seen?”
I get chills thinking about it. No, this snake isn’t your typical egg-born reptile. It was created in some other place—a place I’d rather never visit, thank you. And it found its way inside me. Thanks, Dudley.
“I named him Sir Hiss.”
Fiona ignores me and caresses this deadly creature with loving charm. She shows no fear despite the fact that its venom could kill with a single bite. Couple that with whatever hellish powers it might possess, and this serpent could do all kinds of damage.
Fiona probably knows all about that. She’s so charismatic and affable that it’s easy to forget she’s a witch—and not some crazy old Wiccan who practices a few chants and prays to the blood moon. No, this woman is over four hundred years old and survives by the grace of a dark magic that I will never fully comprehend.
I had only been living in Los Angeles a few months when Fiona showed up at my door, unannounced. At that time, I was living in a pay-by-the-week motel in Boyle Heights, so imagine my surprise when a celebrity just showed up one day. She came inside and, with no preface, announced that she knew about my possession and about the demon inside me. I was dumbstruck. How could she know?
She extended her hand, and a candle levitated off my bed stand. I watched as it floated in midair before me like a dandelion seed on a gentle breeze. Fiona spoke as the candle made its way to her, and she explained she was a witch. She said she could sense my arrival and had spent the last month tracking me down. The candle landed gently in her outstretched hand. Then she blew on it, and it exploded into dust, the particles spreading out and disappearing in the air.
Sitting in my dingy hotel room was this strange woman who I recognized from television and magazines. She had searched to find me, wielding powers I hadn’t even realized existed. This woman wanted to help me. At that time, I wasn’t sure if I could trust her.
Five years later, we’ve become close. I come to her when I need guidance or advice. When I vomit up some creature from the underworld, I happily give it to her. I still don’t know if I can completely trust her, but she’s the only person besides Father Ramon who understands the evil inside me—who understands, firsthand, the dark and mysterious world I only imagined during my ill-advised goth phase.
Fiona rises and carries the snake to a wall of steel drawers. She carefully selects one of them and presses on its face. It slides out smoothly. Without saying a word, she holds her hand several inches away. As if instructed, the snake extends its long body from her hand and slithers into the drawer. When it finally uncoils the remainder of its body and its tail disappears inside, Fiona pushes on the soft-close door and returns to her kitchen island.
“Thank you, my dear, for another fine gift.”
I have no idea what she does with these things. Frankly, I don’t want to know. Fiona is not one to stand still for long, and before I realize it, she’s whisking some new ingredient into a steel bowl.
“I’ve got a new case,” I announce.
“Is that so? Another referral from Father Ramon?” She’s trying to remain polite, but I can sense the animosity when she says his name. It’s no secret that witches and the church have a long and bitter history. I suspect that Fiona’s personal history may include some particularly harsh encounters.
“Missing girl,” I answer. “Mother’s looking for her.”
“Runaway?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you thinking?”
I hesitate. “I’m not sure. How much do you know about Santa Muerte?”
Fiona stops whisking. I watch her carefully. She doesn’t look up at first. She places the bowl on the counter and takes a deep breath. “You’re joking me.”
I lean over one of the pots and inhale deeply, taking in scents of simmering meats and vegetables. It smells amazing. “It sounds like this girl was mixed up with the wrong crowd.”
When I look up at Fiona, she has a serious expression on her face. “Wrong crowd? That’s a very different thing than cults.”
“I don’t know. Her boyfriend is pretty convinced. He claims the girl was trying to get out. Some old woman was scaring her off. A lesh… lech…”
“Lechuza,” Fiona finishes.
“That’s a witch, right?”
Fiona nods. “Aye. From Mexico. Mighty powerful,” she says grimly. “They’re known for their ability to shape-shift.”
Looks like I came to the right person. “Is Santa Muerte real?”
Fiona crosses to her wall of cabinet drawers and appraises each one. “There has always been a great fascination with death.” She selects one and opens the drawer. Her hand disappears inside then emerges holding a frog. She strolls to the kitchen island. “Every culture, across every age, has tried to understand death.
