Paige sits next to me and takes my hand. “You’re not a murderer.”
“I killed them!”
“The demon killed them, not you. It’s not your fault.”
I shake my head. David and Paige were right—I shouldn’t have gone to the hideout alone. This time, my reckless behavior had deadly consequences.
“It’s my fault.” The realization and nausea set in. “I took their lives.”
“They would have taken yours,” she says. “Darcy, these were not innocent people. You heard what David said about them. They were drug dealers. They were ready to kill you, probably because they’ve killed before. Maybe they planned to again. Dudley or no Dudley, you did the right thing protecting yourself.”
I nod. Part of me feels relief hearing Paige say this. Her words echo the thoughts I wouldn’t allow myself to believe. Self-defense is the only possible justification for what I did. I squeeze Paige’s hand in thanks.
But even if my actions were justified this time, I am reminded about the deadly power I have in me. This is a power that once stole the life of someone who was innocent and whom I cared about very deeply. Now more than ever, I need to find Santa Muerte. I need to find my demon’s name.
My head rests on Paige’s shoulder, and I pull her hand to my chest, not wanting to let go. I need to get rid of this demon before I hurt someone I care about again.
Chapter 19
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TODAY IS THE DAY I meet Ramon for our visit to the Fowler Museum for the Aztec exhibit. I need to talk to him about what happened in Harvard Park, and I have a favor to ask of him. The museum sits on the UCLA campus, tucked away among the grassy knolls that rise around it. Its tall redbrick walls and Italian arches lead up to the terra-cotta roof, a style that blends in seamlessly with the Romanesque architecture featured in the university’s other structures.
Inside, Paige and I follow Father Ramon through the exhibit for Aztec artifacts. Since I no longer have my field jacket, I wear a long, thick overcoat. It’s a little too formal for a trip to the museum. Paige says it’s the nicest piece of clothing I own. She’s not wrong.
For Father Ramon, this visit to the museum is an opportunity to search for more demon names. I’m here because I’m hoping to learn something more about Santa Muerte. From my meeting with Fiona and my wiki research, there’s a lot suggesting her origins go back to the Aztec Empire.
The gallery is dimly lit, with spotlights directing visitors from room to room. Gold and silver jewelry dangles from wood carvings. Small statues hide under glass cases. Clay pots and other cookware show hints of everyday life in ancient Mesoamerica.
I find it difficult to fathom time—real time, like ages and epochs. History has become a hobby of mine as I’ve conducted my research into demonology. I’ve learned so much about the history of religions, the different cultures, and the people of all eras.
I must confess, in everything I’ve studied about religion, God, and this demon inside me, I’ve only grown more confused about the truth of heaven and hell, unsure which religion, if any, is right. Nearly every known religion recognizes the existence of demons. The Ancient Greeks, Sumerians, Egyptians, Buddhists, Hindus, and those who practice Abrahamic religions have not only confirmed the existence of demons but have identified many by name as well. They may not all agree on the definition of good and who God is, but they all believe in and fear the same evil.
Then there’s Quetzalcoatl. In front of me is a large statue of the serpent god worshipped by the Aztecs. It’s a simple dark-gray stone carving that resembles a coiled snake with a masked man emerging from its mouth. The story of Quetzalcoatl carries a lot of similarities to the Christ story. The bringer of bread sacrificed his life for mankind. He was resurrected, destined to return to his people after death.
“Darcy,” Paige calls, bringing my wandering thoughts back to Earth. “Check this out.” As I approach, she points at a glass case in which a giant headdress sits on a mannequin’s featureless head. From the gold crown explode hundreds of colorful feathers—blue, purple, red, and green. Paige reads the museum description. “When the conquistadors arrived, they discovered the Aztecs possessed an excess of gold and silver. Though it was often used for jewelry and decoration, what the Aztecs truly prized were colorful feathers. This was more valuable than their gold and silver, which they willingly gifted to the Spanish visitors.”
“Gifted?” I say suspiciously. If there’s anything I remember from my world history class in the tenth grade, it’s that the Spanish took what they wanted from the Aztecs.
I look at another stone carving nearby. This one is clearly of a woman wearing a crown of skulls. Her face is also depicted to look like a skull.
I grab Paige and drag her close. “Look,” I say, pointing. If I didn’t know better, I would say this is Our Lady of the Holy Death—Santa Muerte herself.
Father Ramon joins us and reads the museum label out loud. “Mictecacihuatl,” he says, perfectly pronouncing a name that looks like someone took a nap on a keyboard.
I give it a shot. “Mic-tika-waka.”
“Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl,” he repeats.
“Meek-tay-kah…”
“See-wah…”
“See-wah…”
“Tl. Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl.”
“Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl.” I finally get it right.
“Lady of Death,” Father Ramon reads from the label. “In Aztec mythology, Mictecacihuatl was the ruler of the underworld. Her role is to watch over the bones of the dead. She still presides over some festivals celebrating Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead.” He shakes his head and walks away.
“I don’t think he’s a fan,” Paige says.
The Santa Muerte cult represents itself as a Christian
