The old wood desk in the center is cluttered with stacks of books, papers, and gold bars. Stacks and stacks of gold bars. Behind the clutter sits a man I presume is of Middle Eastern descent. He’s dressed in a finely tailored tan linen suit, a white button-down shirt, and no tie. His thick salt-and-pepper hair is perfectly cut and blends into a well-groomed beard that does nothing to hide his strong jaw.
As Fiona steps in, he rises quickly from behind his desk. “Fiona,” he says in a deep voice with a thick accent that confirms his Middle Eastern heritage. “It is so good to see you again.” They exchange a hug and a two-cheek kiss.
His eyes turn to me. “This must be her.” He extends a hand to me. “My name is Ammon.”
I reach out to take his hand. “Hi. I’m Dar—ow!” I pull my hand away and recoil. I look down at my palm and can see it’s red where my skin touched his.
Ammon peers into my yellow eyes. “Fiona was right. You’ve bested a demon.”
My stomach growls as Dudley responds, like a dog suspicious of a stranger. “I hardly think I’ve bested him. I’m stuck with him, is more accurate.” I continue to clutch my hand. It feels like I just grabbed a hot iron. The skin on my palm starts to bubble with blisters.
“I apologize for the little test,” Ammon says. “I had to make sure the story Fiona told me was true.”
“Ammon, I’m offended,” Fiona says with a bit of melodrama. “Would I lie?”
The pain worsens, and I start to get a little pissed. Here I am with third-degree burns, and these two are making chitchat.
Ammon pulls a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and uses it to lift an amber stone from the desk. It’s roughly the size of an egg, and it’s translucent, which makes it seem to radiate light. He extends the stone to me. “Hold this with your hand.”
I don’t move.
“It will help. I promise.”
I look at Fiona, but she offers no guidance. Gingerly, I reach out with my good hand and tap the stone gently. It feels cool to the touch. I take it with my hurt hand. As soon as my fingers wrap around the stone, the pain begins to subside.
“Thanks.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t mean it to sound sarcastic,” I say. “It’s just the way I talk. You’ll get used to it.”
“You won’t,” Fiona adds.
Ammon gestures for us to sit then returns to his chair behind the desk. “I can presume you wish to nominate young Darcy for membership to the Mancery? While I must admit she is an impressive individual, I’m not certain she qualifies. And if she did, you know this isn’t how it’s done.”
“I’m not here to discuss her membership—at least not today.”
The Mancery? Membership? What is this place?
“Then why are you here? More to the point,” he says, looking at me, “why is she here?”
“Because another member is trying to kill her,” Fiona answers.
I feel like a kid watching Mommy and Daddy talk about me and my future as if I’m not in the room. I mostly have no idea what they are talking about. However, when Fiona mentions “another member,” I realize she’s talking about Melchora.
Ammon shrugs. “I don’t think I need to describe to you the width and breadth of members we have in our association.” He turns to me. “No offense, young lady, but you’re hardly the only person threatened by one of our members.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
Fiona shoots me a look, reminding me not to be myself. “Darcy, why don’t you tell Ammon what happened last night?”
I look at Ammon. He stares at me impassively, perhaps thinking there is nothing I can tell him that would affect him in any way. Judging by his office and the magical rock in my hand, he’s clearly a powerful individual—but I don’t think he’s a witch. He’s something else. And someone this powerful has probably seen, well, some crazy shit.
But for some reason, Fiona thinks what I have to say may compel him to help us. Despite some initial stuttering, I talk. I tell Ammon about the events that transpired at the library. Santa Muerte. My getting shot. Leona’s ghost. Elizabeth’s possession. The police.
When I mention the police, Fiona interrupts. “Melchora has summoned the spirit of Santa Muerte and used it to possess the child. But she’s being careless and is attracting a lot of attention. Attention we don’t want.”
Ammon laughs. “Truly, Fiona? You’re now concerned about bringing attention to us?”
Clearly, this is a shot at Fiona’s fame. I once asked her why she pursued such a high-profile career. I wanted to know why someone so concerned with keeping her powers a secret would choose a path in the public eye. Her answer was the same one she offers Ammon tonight.
“Go away with ya if you think I’m going to spend another four hundred years hiding from the rest of the world. I’ve a right to make a living, just like anyone else. And nothing I do threatens you or anyone else at the Mancery. But Melchora…”
She lets the name settle on Ammon. As he considers the weight of this, I pick up where Fiona left off. “I don’t think Melchora’s done,” I say. Ammon looks up at me. “There is some plan in motion, and it has to do with Carmen Viramontes’s empire.”
“Who is Carmen Viramontes, and what is her empire?” he asks.
“She’s the leader of a drug cartel. It was her daughter who was kidnapped and possessed by the spirit of Santa Muerte. Whatever Melchora is trying to do, this is just the beginning.”
“Drugs are a dirty business,” Ammon mutters.
“A business with which we do not want to associate,”
