I touch the bottom of the symbol—the arrowhead. “I’ve seen this before,” I whisper.
“Where?” Paige asks.
“Hugo has this tattoo on his right shoulder. I remember seeing it the first time I met him, at the library.”
“Well, that would mean he’s involved in Santa Muerte,” Paige says.
“Yes. Yes, it would.” If Hugo were involved, that could explain how Elizabeth was introduced to the cult. It would explain a lot about Hugo.
With a gentle twist of the loose knob, I open the door. Inside, we find a makeshift church with folding chairs in place of pews. Instead of depictions of the Stations of the Cross, faded photos of people are pinned on the wall—family members, friends, and lovers. The offerings are so numerous they nearly coat the entirety of both walls with clutter. Strewn across nearly every inch of the temple floor are dried and crumpled flowers, scattered feathers, and clumps of melted wax. As a result, the concrete below is barely visible. From all this rises a sweet and putrid smell that burns the nasal passages.
I bend down and pick up a gray feather, mentally comparing it to the plumage of the owl I saw in the library. Those feathers were almost metallic in color—silver.
“Owl feathers?” Paige asks.
I drop the feather and shrug, not sure. We continue on. At the altar, in place of any depiction of Jesus, stands a six-foot Virgin Mary draped in fabric robes of blue and red and adorned in more flowers. Flaming candles and floral wreaths surround her. In place of a halo over her head is the shining blade of the scythe she holds. In her other arm, she cradles a globe. Instead of a peaceful woman’s face, a skeletal visage gazes down at the floor as if lost in thought.
A heavy-set man rises from a chair and approaches us. He wears work pants and a black polo shirt with a white clerical collar. His bushy brow furrows as he gets near, looking us up and down.
“¿Que quieres?” he asks.
Paige and I exchange a look. I shrug as if to say, Let’s play along. “We’ve come to pray,” I tell him.
The padre sneers at us then spits. His phlegm lands with a splat on the floor. “Come in,” he commands.
Paige follows and turns to me. I close my eyes and prepare for the pain then take a step inside. A rush of adrenaline flows through me. My eyes pop open as warm blood courses through my veins—a sensation I haven’t felt in a long time. I am light-headed. Dizzy.
“Are you okay?” Paige asks.
I nod. It was the opposite of what I was expecting. There’s no pain and no adverse reaction to the holy ground, which can only mean one thing—this place is evil.
“¡Apúrense!”
Paige and I hurry forward to the altar. The padre shoves a basket in front of us. It takes a moment for me to register why.
“How much?”
“Cinco. Five.”
My wallet comes out of my coat pocket, and I put a clean five-dollar bill in the collection plate. He grabs the bill and shoves it into his pocket.
“Each.”
I put another five in the basket. He puts it in his pocket too. “What you want?” he demands.
Paige looks at me then at him. “To pray?”
He sighs impatiently. “Si, si. Pray. For what?”
Clearly, when people come to him—or to Santa Muerte—it’s to ask for something. We hadn’t planned on this, so I improvise. “I’m trying to get my boyf—”
“I need to find my mother.”
I turn to Paige. Her eyes stay on Padre.
“Your mother. She lost?”
“My birth mother,” Paige clarifies.
He nods then turns to me. “You?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He gets a good look at my eyes and peers close. “What about those?” he asks, pointing his fingers at them.
“Next time.”
He shakes his head in disgust then turns to Paige. “Do you have a photo? A picture?”
Paige reaches into her pocket and pulls out the slim leather wallet case that holds her phone. She digs into one of its pockets and pulls out a photo. It’s the same one I’ve seen many times, a faded picture of young four-year-old Paige with a beautiful blond woman. They’re at the beach. Smiling. Holding each other as close as can be.
He takes the photo and disappears behind the altar. For a second, I can see her gesture as if to reach out and stop him.
I tap on Paige’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to—”
“Yes.”
End of conversation.
Padre returns with a bucket overflowing with various items. He yanks on Paige’s arm and positions her right before the altar then directs me to sit on a folding chair.
He pulls a repurposed dish-soap bottle and pours liquid in a circle around Paige. She looks at me, worried. I fake the most reassuring expression I have to offer and shoot her a thumbs-up.
He lights a match and drops it on the dish soap. Blue flames spread along the liquid, surrounding Paige. A yellow spray bottle comes out, and he starts squirting Paige with what I hope is a nonflammable oil.
He does all of this nonchalantly, without saying a word. He shuffles in a circle around Paige, stepping on the fire with no regard. He lifts Paige’s arms to form a T and instructs her to hold that position.
The flames around her are slowly extinguished. It finally occurs to me that this may actually summon Santa Muerte. What if she shows up? I’m not ready for her yet. Not now.
“So does this bring Santa Muerte—”
“Shhh!” Padre shouts, silencing me with a finger to his lip.
I shrink back in my chair. I guess we’re going to find out.
Another item comes out of the bucket—a red candle. He lights it then begins rubbing the stem of the candle up and down the sides of Paige’s body. In his other hand, he raises the photo high in the air.
Finally, he starts speaking.
“¡Gloriosa Dama de la Santa Muerte!
“Señora de la
