This was the real trap. When I hear the cackling behind me, I know Melchora has defeated me. Using all my strength, I crawl. When I try to lift my head, it hurts.
Melchora stands before me. Beside her is the flowing form of Santa Muerte. At this level, I can see the hem of her dress hovering inches off the ground. No feet underneath. No shoes. Just air. They stand amid the cloud of dust I created, with the light of the setting sun streaming through the picture window behind them.
I thrust my hand into my pocket and clench the veil. I wrap it around my fist and lift my eyes to meet Santa Muerte. She’s two feet away. She has the answer to my final riddle. If I could just reach her…
“It was a foolish thing to do,” the old witch hisses, “trying to come after me without Fiona to protect you.” Her hand sweeps around to the crosses. “The source of our power is your weakness. What makes us stronger kills you.”
I summon the last of my strength and try to pounce on Melchora. Just as I rise, Santa Muerte pushes an iron cross on top of me. It slams against my back and flattens me against the floor. It feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds and burns like molten metal.
I’m weak. The influence of the cross on top of me radiates into my being. Whatever strength is inside me is suffocated.
In the distance, I can hear a few sputtering gunshots. From where I am lying, they sound like firecrackers. Melchora looks up, listening to the sporadic sounds. “It’s over. Your friend is dead. The police are almost all dead. You, soon, will be dead.”
Paige. David.
Melchora crouches down before me and plucks a feather from her cloak. This close, I can see it refract in the light that spills in through the windows. Its point is razor-sharp.
I make my last plea for help. “Elizabeth,” I mutter.
Melchora laughs. “Elizabeth?” she says, turning toward Santa Muerte. I crane my head up. The skeletal face looks at me with a blank expression from behind its draped hood.
“She is gone. There is no Elizabeth anymore. Only the Holy Death.”
I turn to Melchora. As she smiles, her dried, cracked lips reveal crooked yellow teeth. The cloudy eyes stare through me.
“I know what demon lies inside you.” She holds up the feather. “You’ve been wanting to know its name? You’ll soon find out. In hell.” She raises the feather above me, its sharpened shaft pointed down at my head.
There’s a crash behind her—glass shattering. Thump! Thump! Thump! Feet pound on the hardwood floor. Melchora turns.
Paige charges through the living room at full speed. She launches herself and dives for Melchora with two fists extended. Paige howls at the top of her lungs.
Melchora holds out her hands, but it’s too late. In Paige’s fists are clusters of gray feathers—Melchora’s own magical feathers.
She plunges them deep into the witch’s eyes. Paige’s momentum carries them both to the ground, and Melchora slams down beside me in a heap.
Paige stabs repeatedly as Melchora cries out in agony. “No! No! No!” Blood splashes and sprays everywhere. Despite the witch’s attempt to bat her away, Paige refuses to relent. Her fists hammer away.
A startled gasp turns my attention to Santa Muerte. The specter falls to its knees, the robes pooling around her. Whatever magical power Melchora was wielding over the spirit is diminished as Paige attacks. I see a brief flicker of Elizabeth behind the skull-faced facade. Her simple girlish features look momentarily shocked as she regains control of her body. She’s still there. Still alive. Then fear washes over as her face is swallowed by the image of the skull.
The specter returns, but a sense of panic remains on her face. A force jerks her backward. Santa Muerte tries to grab hold of a cross but fails. She goes flying backward.
But not before I grab the hem of her robe with my free hand. As she flies back, I’m pulled out from beneath the cross. We go flying out through the front door, smashing the wood to bits.
Outside, Santa Muerte is dragged across the front lawn. My hand holds on for dear life as we both slide across the dirt and dried grass. We bulldoze through the armies of Santa Muerte statues, knocking them aside like bowling pins.
Her body breaks through the front gate and across the street. I’m dragged across the asphalt as we’re pulled toward the fire pit under the gazebo. Santa Muerte clutches at empty air, trying to stop the progress. She flashes between the skeletal ghost and Elizabeth, with equal expressions of terror.
We reach the center island, and I use my other hand to grab onto the curb. We jerk to a stop, but Elizabeth sways toward the gazebo. My hand, wound with the veil like a fighter’s wrist wrap, barely clutches the concrete edge with four fingers. Stronger now that I’m away from the crosses, I use all my strength to hold on. I look down, and Elizabeth’s face stares back at me.
“Help me!” she cries.
The spirit returns. Time and strength are running out on me. This is my last chance.
“What’s my name?” I yell.
The spirit sneers.
I have one chance left—one chance to use the veil. I let go. We fly toward the shrine. I loosen my grip on the cloth to untangle it, but it gets caught in the wind. The veil pulls out of my grasp and out of reach.
Elizabeth shoots into the gazebo then spills onto the fire pit. Instead of landing on its surface, she slips over the edge and disappears. I jam my feet against the base to stop myself from following her. My torso and arms dangle over the edge, and I’m shocked by what I see.
Elizabeth dangles inside the fire pit. The cement that once filled the structure is gone, leaving a bottomless void of inky black. Wind whirls
