“We didn’t find Santa Muerte,” I report. “But I think we found where they conducted the ritual to summon her.”
“The spirit wasn’t there? That’s odd.”
“There was a shrine to Santa Muerte. Maybe that was it.” I hold up the pendulum and examine it. “Or maybe I did break it.”
Paige chimes in with, “Told you.”
“Oh, and Carmen’s still alive,” I tell Fiona. “She’s found sanctuary at the Catholic church downtown.”
Fiona chuckles. “That won’t protect her. The spirit of Santa Muerte is not a visitor from hell.” She casts a sideways glance at me. “It’ll protect her from you, though.”
It seems like Fiona is still sore from my nearly killing her earlier.
“It’s still evil,” Paige argues. “I thought evil can’t set foot on hallowed grounds.”
I have to agree, based on personal experience.
Fiona shakes her head. “My dear, there’s evil that goes to church every day.”
As we drive along Sunset Boulevard, I ask Fiona to tell me more about Melchora.
“She joined the Mancery about a year ago. I don’t know much about her background. Hers is not a name I had encountered before. Most new members make an effort to ingratiate themselves to the community, and Melchora was no exception. She offered to host some lectures on Mesoamerican magic and was an active participant in our exchange program.”
I stiffen. “Is that the program where you pawned my demonic emissions?”
Fiona ignores my snide remark. “I learned a lot from her. My practice goes back a long way, as you know, but there was much I didn’t know about magic from the Americas. It was informative.”
“Did she talk about Santa Muerte at all?” Paige asks.
“No,” Fiona says. “I don’t see why she would. Witches are known for sharing with other witches. Magic is something we want to see develop and grow. But we keep our best spells to ourselves.”
“Is there any other way to find her?” I ask.
Fiona shakes her head. We continue driving in silence until we near Fiona’s house, and she finally speaks up. “Darcy, maybe it’s best you don’t stay with me tonight.”
I have been expecting this. After the incident at the Mancery, I figured my days of staying at Fiona’s home were numbered. And apparently, that number was one—I got one whole night there.
“Why?” Paige asks.
Pretending not to hear, Fiona continues. “I’ve booked a suite for you at the W. It’s a two-room suite, so you and Paige should be quite comfortable there. My treat, of course. Until this whole thing blows over.”
* * *
When Fiona pulls into her driveway, the sun has set in the west and the sky has completed its transformation into night. The city lights bounce off the clouds above, making this night a much brighter one than usual.
“I’ll have Eva Jean send over a car to take you to the hotel,” Fiona says as we walk from her Land Rover to her house.
“Thanks,” I say.
Fiona’s home is a welcome retreat after a long and taxing day. She heads straight to her sanctuary in the kitchen. As Paige and I head to the bedroom to pack, Fiona calls, “Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen? I’ll fix you some supper before you go.”
Paige and I exchange a look. Our silent communication echoes the same question—why the sudden change of tone? One second, we can’t stay. The next, she’s offering us dinner.
Still, I’m never one to turn down a good meal, so I drag Paige with me into the kitchen. We sit at the counter as Fiona begins pulling out ingredients and placing them on the counter. She delicately lays out a selection of herbs and spices.
She then moves to her range top and turns on all six flames for her burners. “I have always found cooking to be a great way to prepare for any situation.” Fiona continues to lay out the ingredients for her dish.
It’s been a long day, and with dinner on the horizon, I decide to take some Klonopin as an aperitif. As soon as I pull the bottle out, Fiona clamps her hand over mine and pushes it down. “A good meal is the recipe for whatever trials and tribulations we must confront.”
I let go of my pills, and she releases my hand. She pulls open a canister of seeds and spills them across the counter in front of us. Her hands wave over the seeds. When I look down, I can see they’ve reorganized themselves into letters to spell out a simple phrase: We are not alone.
Looking at the seed letters, Paige grabs my arm. I meet Fiona’s eyes.
“Everything I need to face today day can be found in the kitchen.” Fiona pops open several silver canisters one by one.
Only now do I notice the other ingredients she’s laid out. Salt, crystals, gold coins, copper wire… they’re not ingredients. They’re spell components.
“And I always have the perfect recipe for any guest that comes into my home.”
Without hesitation, I dive on top of Paige and take her to the floor. It’s not a moment too soon as a dozen of tiny darts fly across the air.
Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting! Fiona catches them all in the lid of a stainless-steel pan, shielding herself like an Amazon warrior. She lowers the lid to inspect the projectiles. They’re not darts at all. They’re actually small silver feathers.
The skeletal figure of Santa Muerte hovers above the ground in Fiona’s kitchen. Her blue-and-red robes flow like gossamer caught in a tide of invisible water. Her skull-like face scowls directly at me. There is no trace of Elizabeth in this body. It’s as if she’s completely consumed by this entity.
Standing beside Santa Muerte is a spindly old woman wrapped in a cloak of silvery gray feathers. When she moves, they catch the light as if made of metal. Her wiry white hair flows across her head like a mane. Soulless eyes stare at me through cloudy wide pupils. Her nose is sharp and hooked, resembling a beak.
Paige and I scramble
