She pulls out a paring knife, and I know I’m not going to enjoy what I’m about to witness. She presses the frog on its back against the granite. It squirms to escape. Her grasp is steady.
“There is a great power in death. Not life or the afterlife but that singular moment of death.”
Without hesitation, Fiona stabs the frog. It convulses as she digs the knife into its chest. Then with a quick flick, she lifts the blade so I can see. Sitting delicately on the steel is a tiny yet still-beating heart.
She grabs the heart in her other hand and squeezes it in her fist. She mutters in an Irish-Spanish accent, “Muerte Santisima.”
Her hand opens, and green flame explodes from her palm. It remains lit as she continues to speak. “Death has always been part of the Mesoamerican culture. Hundreds of years ago, they worshiped gods of death and sacrificed each other as payments of devotion. When the Spaniards colonized Mexico with their Christianity, they brought with them the holy saints, the Grim Reaper, and more death. Over time, those who practiced the old ways found a way to combine the old gods and their new one. From those practices, new religions formed that held the power of both. None was more popular than the cult of Santa Muerte.”
She closes her hand, and the fire is extinguished. Smoke seeps from her fist. “You’re asking me if Santa Muerte is real. It’s very real. And you don’t want to go messing about with them, Darcy.”
I shake my head. “I have a job to do. There’s a girl out there in trouble. She needs my help. And I’m asking for your help. If she’s involved in this, then I have to get involved in this.”
Fiona takes several deliberate steps toward me. I instinctively back up, not sure what she’s going to do next. “That is a profoundly foolish idea,” she says in a menacing tone. “Very dangerous people pray to that unholy saint. God only knows what lengths they would go through to harness your power should they discover what lies inside you.”
Chapter 9
____◊____
FIONA’S WARNING IS SINCERE—that much I know. There is a lot of magic in this dark world that I may never understand. Deep down inside, I know I should listen to her, but all I can think about is Elizabeth.
“What did Fiona have to say about your case?” Paige asks when I walk inside the door.
“To stay away.”
Paige pulls her laptop back and scans the screen. She clicks on her mouse and types, resuming her work. “Does she not realize telling you not to do something only encourages you?” she asks, eyes still on her screen.
“That’s not true,” I say defensively.
“Are you going to drop the case?”
“No, but it has nothing to do with Fiona or her warnings of Mexican cults or gods of death.”
Paige looks up. “What’s that, now?”
I look at the time on my phone. “I told Lupe I’d make up some extra hours.”
“Tonight?” she asks, confused.
“There’s an exhibit opening tomorrow. They’re probably still setting up. While I’m there, I’m going to do some more research on Santa Muerte—see if I can find anything in the archives.”
* * *
By the time my car pulls up in front of the Central Library, night has completely settled on the city. Winds have brought in a thick fog, obscuring the tops of the surrounding skyscrapers within low-lying clouds. It’s not dark, though. Fog diffuses the city lights throughout all of downtown. It’s cold, especially for me.
I leave my car on the empty street and hurry around to the side entrance. From my cell, I call the security desk for admittance—standard practice for after-hours access. However, no one answers. By chance, I check the door and find it unlocked. This is not an uncommon practice when the guards know people will be coming in and out for a project. I hurry inside to escape the frigid air.
When I walk through the doors, I’m reminded of why I love the library at night. During business hours, it’s bustling with activity. Visitors and tourists crowd the lobby, chatting loudly and ignoring library etiquette. But this late, there’s not a single soul around. The only sound is that of my boots on the marble tile as I step toward the main lobby.
Normally, there are at least two guards on duty at the security desk. When I find it empty, I presume they are upstairs with Lupe as she reviews the finishing touches on the exhibit. For the next month, the library is offering a free exhibit of Los Angeles street photography from 1900 to the present. The exhibit hall is upstairs, adjacent to the rotunda.
I proceed down the narrow hall that leads me to a powered-off escalator then stop. Perched on the rubber handrail is an owl. Two black eyes, set against a white heart-shaped face, stare intently at me. I recognize it as a species of barn owl, but it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen before. It’s massive, with gray—almost silver—feathers wrapped across its body. The library has its share of birds wandering inside. One might spy a crow or pigeon or the occasional small wren. But this is the first time I have ever seen an owl.
The raptor cocks its head, appraising me. Then it spreads its broad wings and launches, flying up the escalator path to the next floor. I step onto the first step of the escalator and peer up. The owl disappears around a corner.
Something is not right. Slowly, I climb the static escalator steps to the second floor. No sign of the owl.
I stand in the original part of the building with a pyramid on its roof, symbolic statues of enlightenment standing guard within, and cryptic messages in ancient languages carved into its stone walls. In 1986, two mysterious fires decimated the structure, which led to a major renovation that included the expansion of a modern structure—a cavernous
