“Niña Blanca.”
Like an earthquake, a single jolt shakes the room. Padre stops and looks around. He was not expecting this. I rise from my chair and look around, worried Santa Muerte may actually appear at any moment.
Padre gulps then continues.
“Gracias por todo lo que haces
“Gracias por escucharnos hoy.
“Venimos a ti con un deseo
“Por favor, escúchanos a los mortales en tu gracia.
“Pedimos que aquello que esté perdido, se encuentre
“Pedimos que lo que esté roto, se arregle
“Pedimos que los seres queridos que se fueron, regresen
“Pedimos que aquello que esté incompleto, se complete.”
Winds begin to rise and swirl through the room. The photos on the wall flutter rapidly. Flower petals and feathers sweep across the floor. The flames on the candles flicker.
Paige turns her head to me. “Is that you?” she shouts above the howling air.
“No!” I respond, shaking my head.
But I’m not sure. My heart begins to race. My hand jitters in excitement. My cheeks feel flushed. I haven’t felt this warm in years. I check my watch for my pulse: one hundred five beats per minute. I’m safe.
I may not be doing this, but I’m connecting to it. My eyes lock onto the statue. Maybe this thing will morph into the actual entity.
“Keep going!” I shout to Padre above the wind. I ready myself for a fight.
He takes a deep breath and shouts the next part of the prayer.
“¡A cambio de escucharnos!
“Ofrecemos nuestros regalos, son tuyos para siempre
“Remedia nuestro dolor!”
The winds intensify, ripping the photos and flowers from the wall. Debris whips around the room in a counterclockwise motion.
“Darcy!” Paige shouts.
As the chaos around me intensifies, my body temperature increases. It’s as if I’m wrapped in a dozen flannel blankets. I haven’t felt this warm since the first time I upped my Klonopin dosage.
Padre has a look of fear as he continues to shout.
“¡Alivia nuestras almas
“Oh, Patrona Santa de la Muerte, concédenos vida!”
The circle around Paige reignites. Bright-red flames explode ten feet into the air. Padre stumbles back, trips, and falls. Paige shields her face as the flames grow around her. Instinctively, I dive into the circle of flames, tackling Paige. We roll to the floor, and I pat her down to make sure she’s not on fire.
The inferno becomes a violent vortex of orange and red, rising into the middle of the room. Padre’s had enough and bolts for the door. Paige and I scramble away from the flames. The fiery tornado grows higher and higher, reaching to the ceiling. I climb to my feet, ready for Santa Muerte.
Then suddenly, the vortex collapses. The winds stop. The debris spills to the ground. And I’m cold again.
Paige dives forward toward the circle. I react too late and can’t stop her. She shuffles to her feet, clutching the photo of her mother. Without turning to me, she asks, “Do you think it worked?”
I don’t know what to say. Whatever happened here was enough to scare the padre. I think it’s safe to assume we’re breaking new ground.
Or are we? Something happened to scare Elizabeth. Maybe she witnessed something similar. Or maybe she was part of something worse.
We wait in silence. Nothing more happens. Then I say, “We should go.”
I get up and escort Paige to the exit. As we walk, I notice the bare walls on either side. Then I stop.
One single picture remains on the wall. Crossing past the chairs, I make a beeline for the wall and get a closer look at the photo. It’s a young man embracing a girl, facing the camera. They’re happy. She’s a pretty young Latina. He’s a rough-looking rebel. It’s Elizabeth and Sebastian.
I pluck the photo from the wall and turn it over. On the back is a message: I’m sorry. It’s dated yesterday.
Paige’s hand rests on my shoulder as she looks at the photo I’m holding. “Holy crap, he was just here.” I look back at the statue. Leaves and feather are still falling, giving the impression that it’s snowing inside. “It worked.”
Paige’s hand slides away. Without looking, I can sense her disappointment—it didn’t work for her. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Let’s go.”
As Paige and I make our way out, I take one last look at the altar at the end of the room. Despite the violence and chaos that just happened, the flowers are undisturbed, and the candles are still lit. Then I do a double take. Maybe it’s in my mind, but I swear the statue of Santa Muerte has moved. And now it’s staring right at me.
Chapter 15
____◊____
AFTER THE INCIDENT AT the temple, I need a drink. Well, we both do. I drive us to our favorite bar in time for happy hour.
It’s the type of bar that’s hidden from the general public, and to find it, you have to navigate through the dining area of a popular French brasserie called Orléans. Most people pronounce it “Orleans,” as in the infamous Louisiana city, but I’ve found if I pronounce the correct way, I get better service. It’s a bright and airy space with tables crammed close together to accommodate the crowds hankering for unpretentious home-style French cooking. With so many people, the din of conversation is nearly deafening.
Paige and I bypass the restaurant and make our way along the back wall to a door marked Employees Only. We pass through it and descend a narrow wooden staircase that creaks with every step. At the bottom is an ever-present doorman in a black suit. From experience, I know he won’t let us by without a password—or a suitable bribe. The password changes nightly, a policy the owners instituted to keep out unwanted patrons. Tonight, it’s Cassis.
He opens an unmarked red door for us.
The bar doesn’t have a name, which helps keep it off the maps and online reviews. Those of us in the know call it the Cellar. It’s intimate and designed to feel like an upscale speakeasy from the 1920s. Exposed brick walls and red leather chairs absorb the dim lighting from the
