Fiona pulls out a pad and pen and proceeds to jot something down. “It’s quite easy. The command word for the pendulum is Finna to find someone. For instance, Finna Paige.”
The box lurches and shifts toward Paige. I have to hold it before it slides off my lap. Paige flinches, still gun-shy from Fiona’s prior spell.
“Stöðva to stop,” Fiona says.
The box settles down. She tears off the piece of paper and hands it to me. When I reach out to take it from her, she lightly tosses it in my direction to keep her distance from me. As if suddenly aware of how she’s acting, Fiona composes herself and straightens her outfit.
“Good luck.” She disappears out through the door.
“What was that all about?” Paige asks.
Whatever I—or Dudley—did scared the living shit out of Fiona, and she’s a witch. The last thing I need is to scare Paige. She’s the only person left standing by my side.
“I think I embarrassed her upstairs in front of her friends,” I say.
* * *
Paige drives Fiona’s Land Rover east on Hollywood Boulevard. I ride shotgun, the pendulum dangling from its chain in my hand. It sways with the momentum of the moving car. Sunlight refracts clearly off its surface, bouncing clear beams inside the car.
Looking at Fiona’s note, I read the words out loud. “Finna Elizabeth.”
The crystal continues to swing but does not point anywhere.
“Did you break it?” Paige asks.
“I didn’t break it.”
“Then why didn’t it work?”
I consider and try again. “Finna Santa Muerte.”
The pendulum begins to rock more. Without any provocation from me, it spins on its chain. This is not something it did in Ammon’s office, so I’m concerned that maybe I did break it. Suddenly, it swings up and hovers at a perfect right angle, pointing east.
“Well, I guess we’re going east,” I say.
We head into Los Feliz, where the street takes us south. Still going east, we head up into the hills. We zigzag our way past the residential houses and hit a dead end when we come upon the Silver Lake Reservoir.
This isn’t going to be easy.
We decide to take a gamble and head back and north toward the other side. After two hours of dead ends and circling around, we finally find ourselves in Montecito Heights. It’s a residential neighborhood where the architecture ranges from modern and craftsman to the outdated Victorian. We go through some parts that are clearly upscale but, two blocks later, find ourselves in a poorer area. Paige and I make our way up the meandering roads until we reach a turnoff. The next road is unpaved and poorly kept, and the car’s wheels vibrate. We are forced to park the Land Rover when we arrive at a chain-link gate that blocks our path.
Fifty yards beyond is a seemingly abandoned collection of houses that surround a cul-de-sac. The pendulum continues to point past the barrier. I gather the veil and ready myself.
“Do you know how to use that?” Paige asks, staring at the piece of delicate fabric in my hand.
I wonder how I can test to see if it works. I look at Paige.
“What?” she asks, then her eyes widen. “Oh, come on. I’ve already had one spell cast on me today!”
“Paige, please. You know I never ask you for anything.”
Her eyes widen. “You ask me for shit all the time!”
“I need to know if this can help me!”
I must look pretty desperate. Paige looks into my face. She knows the situation we’re walking into and that the veil could literally save my soul.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I can’t believe the crap I let you put me through. How does it work?”
I try not to smile. “Ammon said that whoever wears this veil is compelled to tell the truth.” I raise the delicate cloth toward the top of her head. “I guess we just put this on your—”
Before I can even finish sentence, the veil flies from my hand. It wraps itself around her head and pulls itself taut around her face. Immediately, her mouth opens, and she struggles to breathe. The veil tightens, stretching over her face like rubber.
Instinctively, I reach out to pull it away. Then I stop. “My red-and-white cashmere sweater…”
Paige’s eyes widen under the gauze. She shakes her head vigorously as she tries to inhale.
“You said the dry cleaner lost it. Was that true?”
Paige closes her eyes, but it doesn’t take long before she’s finally able to inhale. When she breathes, the words pour out. “I never took it to the dry cleaner’s. I donated it to a thrift store.” The veil loosens then collapses around her neck. She yanks the fabric away and flings it at me.
“I loved that sweater!” I yell.
“It was the single most hideous thing you ever owned! Who wears Christmas colors in the middle of September?” She opens the car door, stumbles outside, and slams it behind her. I open my door and follow her to the driver’s side. She stands there, hands on her hips, catching her breath. “Not cool.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to know it worked.” I give her a moment. “Was it really that ugly?”
“You looked like Waldo.”
It’s hard to be angry with Paige when she’s always looking out for me—or putting herself at risk by letting me test unknown magical artifacts on her. “Thank you,” I say.
She nods. “So, are we going to find this death saint now or what?”
I approach a concrete marker with a bronze plaque that stands beside the road. It reads:
Sterling Terrace has been designated as a Historic Neighborhood and includes twenty Victorian homes constructed between the years 1885 and 1888.
City of Los Angeles, Cultural Heritage Commission
We climb over the fence and find ourselves walking down the middle of the street of an abandoned neighborhood. The Victorian houses are forgotten and dilapidated. Overgrown grass, broken windows, and graffiti mar all the homes we pass. I notice pieces of paper on every door.
I detour from my path
