I recognize that voice. Carmen. She’s nowhere to be seen, but I find Santa Muerte hovering at the end of the hall. She stares at me with her dark hollow eyes.
“Have you come to pray at the altar?” rings Carmen’s disembodied voice. “Have you come to join your friends?”
Santa Muerte drifts away and disappears down an adjacent corridor. This is bait, and I know it, but it’s bait I have to take. I walk down the long corridor.
On the right, I find what I initially assume is an alcove but then realize is the first entrance into the nave of the structure. My view of it is blocked by a stone wall that guides visitors inside.
Instead of following Santa Muerte, I proceed to the hall, thinking perhaps I can intercept her. I step cautiously in and up. The interior of the church is massive. A ceiling of slatted wood rises a hundred feet into the air. The same sand-colored blocks that form the outside make up the walls inside the cathedral. Huge tapestries depicting dozens of Catholic saints are draped on all sides. The only light in here is from the hundreds of lit candles in various corners and the glowing alabaster windows that form the architecture cross high on the back wall.
The altar sits in the center of the sanctuary—a huge slab of bloodred marble set on a black-and-gold pillar. Behind the altar stands the crucifix, planted firmly on the floor.
The figure of the Christ moves, and I stop. It’s not Christ. Father Ramon is on the crucifix.
The pain is no match for my worry now. I sprint down the ramp to make my way deeper inside. On the stone floor is the bronze Jesus that once hung on the cross. Blood drips from where Father Ramon’s arms and bare feet are nailed to the wood. Instead of nails, the length of his arms and legs are embedded with metallic feathers, like those from Melchora’s robes, except instead of silver, these feathers are gold.
“Ramon?” I ask, worried.
I instinctively place my hand on his bloody foot. There’s a burning shock the moment I make contact, and my glowing hand recoils.
His body spasms. His head rolls toward me, and his eyes flutter open. “Darcy?”
I force myself not to touch him. If only I could help get him down. If only I could comfort him. Save him.
He smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again soon.”
I shake my head. “No.” God, please, not him.
A sharp blast of wind passes by my ear. Something rushes past me and plunges itself into his heart. Another gold feather.
I spin around to find Carmen at the far end of the cathedral some two hundred feet away. Like Melchora, she’s draped in a cape formed from hundreds of feathers—golden feathers that shimmer in the light. She stands there, and even at this distance, I can see her smiling. My attention returns to Ramon. His head droops, and his eyes close one last time.
“No!” I shout, and now the tears come.
“Welcome, demon,” Carmen says behind me. “I see you’ve found your true form.”
When I turn to face her, she looks me over with a smile, her eyes admiring me. “I heard so much about you. I didn’t think it could be true, but here you are, the picture of evil in the house of God.”
I carefully move toward her, knowing that a trap lies here somewhere. As I walk, I scan the area for Santa Muerte. She’s nowhere to be found.
“I thought it would be appropriate,” Carmen says, pointing behind me, “that he die like the martyr he worships—a helpless, careless god. The same god that allowed you to be possessed by a weaker demon. The same god that doesn’t care what happens to you. The same god that will let you die here, in his house, tonight.”
“The same god that let your mother die?” I ask, wiping tears from my eyes.
Her smile disappears. She pulls a gold feather from her robe. As much as I want to stop everything and grieve for Ramon, this man who did so much for me, I can’t. I must be ready to fight. This is the game she wants to play—taunting me so my emotions run wild and good judgment disappears and I lose control.
I keep walking past the pews. A wave of pain overwhelms me, and I’m forced to rest my hand on the back of a bench. The glow from my arteries intensifies when I make contact, and the wood smolders under my touch.
Carmen registers this. “Demons are weakened in this house—on this ground. But not me. Not Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. This place—your god—grants us power as it takes it from you.”
I ignore her and push myself back up. “Melchora was your mother, wasn’t she?” I continue walking toward her. “Melchora taught you everything you know. Including how to be a witch and how to connive your way into power.”
She seethes. “How dare you speak her name!”
Now she’s losing control, so I keep talking. “Fiona Flanagan didn’t believe Melchora was capable of possessing Elizabeth with the spirit of Santa Muerte—there had to be someone else who could wield such magic. Someone powerful enough but also someone in the middle of this. It was you. Hugo kidnapped Elizabeth—at your direction. Melchora secured the components—that you needed. Melchora kept Elizabeth hostage, preparing her for the possession ritual—using your instructions.” Carmen swells with pride as I pepper her with accusations. “You conjured Santa Muerte. You gave her a body to possess. You directed her to kill everyone who threatened the cartel. The cartel you wanted to control.”
“That I had to control,” she corrects. “Leona was going to destroy us all. And do you know what her excuse was? Her daughter. She didn’t want Elizabeth to inherit the business. Instead of giving it to those who deserved it, she was going to betray us!”
I’m close now and stop. A mere twenty feet separates us.
“Poetic, then,” she continues, “that the
