Paige looks around. “Every house has this.”
“They’re all earthquake damaged.”
“No one’s lived here for years.”
We keep walking, following the crystal’s navigation. At the top, the street loops around a center island on which sits a decrepit and stained gazebo. The circular structure stands on four posts wrapped in garlands of dead flowers. In the center of the gazebo is an elevated stone structure painted over with spray paint. I circle around the island. As I move, the crystal continues to point right at the center.
“The gazebo?” Paige asks.
I nod. “Stöðva,” I command. The pendulum droops back down. I wrap the silver chain around my neck so the crystal dangles at my chest, then I retrieve the veil and clutch the fabric. Just in case.
Thousands of dead petals litter the dead grass on the island. Most have turned brown, but some still bear their vibrant colors. Ashes, feathers, and remnants of char can be traced on the dirt and the flowers. Covering most of them is a thin string of wax that seems to have glued them in place. There’s a pattern to the detritus. The various leaves, flowers, and feathers form concentric circles expanding from the gazebo.
I peel a feather off the ground and inspect the burnt ends. “We’ve seen this before.”
“Santa Muerte,” Paige says.
I nod. We step onto the island and approach the gazebo. More wax drippings coat the ground. There are even piles of it in some places.
The circular stone structure in the center was probably once a fire pit. Cement has been poured inside, creating a flat surface. Underneath layers of spray paint, I can make out now-familiar imagery carved into the filling—an angry Aztec god holding a heart in each hand.
“We saw that at the museum,” Paige says.
“The Aztec sun stone.”
Paige leans in close to inspect past the graffiti that obscures it. “Why just the face? Why not the outer rings?”
I point to the concentric circles that surround us. “Those are the outer rings. This entire island forms the rest of the symbol.”
The fact that somebody would devote such much time and energy to crafting this shrine gives me an uneasy feeling. Why did they do it? is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I scan the fire pit. It reminds me of Malbrook and the Witching Well where Vivien and I would spend our afternoons.
Paige looks down the edge of the stones. “Darce?” She points to thick drops of dried blood on the waxy floor. It’s a lot of blood. “What do we think?”
“Not good.”
Her head down, Paige moves away from the gazebo. “I think I found a trail.”
A red line leads onto the street. We follow the trail until it becomes clear where we’re going—the house at the top of the loop. It stands higher than the others, but this home is in better shape than anything else on the cul-de-sac. Its rounded corner tower offers a view of every house on the block. Though it’s aged and worn and tilts slightly to one side, there isn’t a spot of graffiti on its gray-and-red facade.
The trail of blood leads directly to the door. Another faded red tag is stapled to it with the warning Unsafe.
Paige reaches into her cardigan and pulls out a gun.
“I forgot you had that,” I say. “You can’t even see that tucked under your sweater.”
“I know, right?” she says, pulling open her cardigan to reveal the tiny shoulder holster tucked beside her breast. “It’s so skinny you can’t even see it.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I’ve used this before.”
“Yeah, and you almost shot me,” I say, remembering how she shot Santa Muerte last time. “Just keep the gun at your side until you’re ready to aim. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
And there it is, the echo of my father’s voice coming out of my mouth. Every time we went shooting, that was what he would tell me, drilling it in my head. Here I am, trying to hunt down an evil spirit, and now I have family issues to contend with. I do my best to shake them off and focus.
“And don’t shoot Santa Muerte. I need Elizabeth alive.”
“Then why do I even have the gun?” she asks.
“Look, you can shoot anyone except you, me, and Elizabeth.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We walk up to the front porch. The boards creak under our weight, bending as both of us stand on the deck. The trail of blood disappears under the front door. I reach for the knob.
“What if someone’s in there?” she asks.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Right. Shit. Okay.” She gets the gun ready and presses her shoulder against the doorjamb. I turn the knob, but it’s locked.
“Remember, leave Santa Muerte to me,” I say, clutching the veil.
“Can I admit something?” Paige asks.
“Sure.”
“I wish Fiona were here.”
“Me too.”
I aim my foot carefully and kick down the door. The wood splinters inward easily. I probably could have pushed down the door if I’d tried.
Paige follows me, gun drawn, as we step slowly into the house. It smells of mildew, tobacco, and… lemon. There is no furniture. Empty cans of food, beer, and soda are littered throughout the house, along with Sterno cans. Thick dark spots pepper the old carpet that stretches the length of the floor, giving it a leopard pattern.
“Maybe we should get a leopard-print rug,” I tell Paige, nodding at the floor.
She scowls. “Do you want me to move out?”
Carefully, we make our way to the kitchen. Various pots and pans sit on the stove and countertops. Dried sprigs of herbs dangle from the walls and ceiling, tied into bundles with straw. The small table in the corner is covered in glass bottles filled with God knows what.
We return to the living room, staying close together. On the far side of the room, I notice a map pinned to the wall. I pull Paige with me as I walk toward it. It’s a municipal
