by G S Fortis
“If she is involved, and if she is in trouble, what’s the next step?”
I cast a glance at the terrarium. Inside, the snake slithers across the transparent container wall, looking for a way out. “I think I need to pay a visit to Fiona.”
Chapter 8
____◊____
I MAKE SURE THE lid on the terrarium is secure. The last thing I want is this denizen of the underworld to escape in the back seat of my car then attack me while I’m doing sixty-five on the 10 freeway.
“Thank God,” Paige mutters when she sees me packing him up. She stays seated at our table about as far away from me as she can without going into another room.
My stomach churns. Anytime someone utters a phrase or idiom that references God or heaven, I can feel Dudley writhing inside me. Allergy season is the worst. When I start sneezing and find myself on the receiving end of a barrage of “Bless yous,” I get physically nauseous.
“Yes,” I say to Paige. “Say goodbye to Sir Hiss.”
“I hope Fiona puts it in a meat pie.”
“Shhh. He can hear you!” I yell as I sweep out the door.
It’s a short drive to the studio where I’m set to meet Fiona after her taping. For those of you who don’t know, I should mention that the Fiona I’m meeting is the Fiona Flanagan—Irish celebrity chef, media proprietor, and owner of the Flanagan Foods brand, the same Fiona Flanagan who has a cooking show at eleven o’clock in the morning on local networks, enthusiastically introducing audiences to long-forgotten recipes with her musically thick County Cork accent.
When she demonstrated how to cook eighteenth-century dessert recipes on YouTube a few years ago, Fiona became the latest chef to reach stardom. Her grandmotherly appeal won the hearts of millions online, and she leveraged that popularity to launch a media and commercial-food empire. You can’t walk into the baking aisle of a grocery store anymore without seeing her silver hair and smiling face plastered on boxes and ads.
So why am I driving onto a movie studio lot at 3:35 p.m. to meet some celebrity chef, and what could this possibly have to do with my case? Because Fiona Flanagan is an honest-to-goodness witch. I show my ID to the guard at the entrance and follow his directions to guest parking. Once I park my crappy Mini between a Tesla and a Mercedes SUV, the walk to Fiona’s office isn’t far. I enjoy the carnival show of costumed actors dressed as accident victims, a set crew pushing a mangled car though the giant doors of the massive stage, and tourists piled into a stretch golf cart, getting a glimpse of daily life on set.
I’m tempted to remove my sunglasses. If there’s any place I might fit in, it’s here. But I don’t. I need to keep a low profile when meeting with Fiona.
Stage 9 sits in the center of the lot and for all intents and purposes looks exactly like the others—an enormous beige fifty-foot-high block with no windows. I approach a side door where two red flashing lights warn that a recording is in progress. Two studio guards are waiting.
I flash my pass, and one of the guards opens the door for me. I step into an unlit anteroom. When the door closes behind me, I’m shrouded in darkness.
Another door opens, admitting me to a long hall. Thunderous applause breaks out as I move down a familiar passage. As the cheers and clapping die down, Fiona’s amplified voice fills the building. Her rolling R’s and lilting consonants fill the stage like a concert.
“There are two keys to a true and fine sambocade. One, dried elderflowers. You’ll be finding them at your local natural food store or coop. And I cannot stress this enough—accept no substitutes. And two, rosewater!”
I’ve been here enough time to know my way around the base of the bleachers where two hundred captive audience members watch their host. The stage is constructed to look like the inside of an old European cottage. Stone and wood surround all sides, and a wooden kitchen island sits center stage. A plump, energetic woman waddles around the island. Her green apron is covered in flour, as are her hair, hands, and face.
She’s a whirling dervish of energy as she grabs premeasured ingredients and tosses them into the bowl from the top of the key. “Sugar!” Toss. “Egg whites!” Toss. “Vanilla!” Toss.
As much as I’d like to linger and watch the spectacle—one that keeps 3.5 million viewers tuned in every day—I keep moving down the labyrinth of halls until I reach the green room. Its walls are literally green. The room has plush leather seats and a television where I can watch the rest of her show. I help myself to a bottle of water and wait for the show to finish.
My phone chirps with an email alert. Lupe is reminding me that we have an exhibit opening tomorrow in collaboration with the Getty Museum. The curator is currently at the library, making some last-minute changes. Once the finishing touches are completed, someone needs to catalog everything going on display. Apparently, I just volunteered for the graveyard shift for cataloging tonight. I send her an email confirming that I’ll be there.
“Thank you, my darlings. I’ll see you tomorrow!” Fiona waves and sends kisses to her audience before disappearing through a back door.
Cue credit roll. Cut to logo. Fade out…
Fiona bursts through the door and explodes into the green room. She doesn’t even hesitate as she charges toward me with open arms. “Ah, Darcy, my dear! You’re looking absolutely wonderful!” She envelops me in a hug, which lasts a good five seconds and ends with a big squeeze.
She releases then reaches for my sunglasses and lifts them to see my eyes. “And a good afternoon to you, too, Dudley.” My stomach grumbles a response. “I was ever so pleased to hear from you. What brings you to the lot today?”
I reach down, grab the tub, and show it to her. “I brought a present.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Marvelous! Let’s take it to my office.”
Fiona leads me through the halls and out the rear of the sound stage, where her private golf cart waits. She hops in, and I hurry to get in before she peels away. We zip through the narrow streets of the studio lot, maneuvering past construction vehicles, lighting equipment, and large backdrops.
“How have you been?” she says nonchalantly as she steers through a troop of World War II soldiers.
My right hand grabs hold of the roof rail, and my other holds onto the terrarium. “Fine. Still working at the library.”
“Aye, that’s grand. Keeping out of trouble, right?”
I close my eyes when she narrowly avoids a collision with a tour cart. “Yeah. No trouble.”
In less than a minute, we arrive at her Spanish bungalow. Fiona once told me it used to be Paul Newman’s office. She screeches into her private parking spot and jumps out before the cart has settled. I manage to keep up with her while I lug the snake container. Inside is a small waiting room supervised by a receptionist. In a production office, you usually find some pretty young thing, five days out of college, at the front desk. This office is no exception.
“Hiya! You have three messages!” shouts the young graduate. From her Southern accent, I recognize her as Eva Jean, whom I spoke with earlier today.
Fiona burns through assistants faster than I go through toothbrushes. Eva Jean is cute and perky. My prediction is she’ll fail miserably in the next two months then move back to Enid, Oklahoma, and tell everyone how people in LA are fake and that was why she left.
“Not right now, my dear!” Fiona says without slowing down.
I wave politely to the new girl as I keep up with Fiona, who leads me down the hall. Her office is a large and sterile kitchen. A granite-top island with a stainless-steel range top sits at the center, four pots simmering. A steel hood hovers over the burners as smoke rises out of the kitchen. The walls are lined with glass shelves that hold every imaginable ingredient a person could need—and some that any average mortal would never need. Four industrial glass-door refrigerators stand guard, displaying a colorful variety of produce, meats, and frozen goods.
In stark contrast to the set where she produces her sh
ow, this kitchen is modern and sleek. Fiona’s on-screen persona evokes a sense of the old world—earthy, green, and venerable. In her private life, Fiona prefers a clean, contemporary style.
She finally slows down and settles onto a kitchen stool by the island. “Okay, love. Let’s see this beauty.”
I rest the carrier in front of her then take a few steps back for protection. Fiona calmly reaches inside and pulls out the snake. It coils itself around her arm. It’s blacker than I remember, like an inky rope with two glassy eyes. She raises it to look straight into those eyes.
The timbre of her voice lowers as she admires it. “Aye, look at you. Creature of darkness. You’re not from this plane. What have your eyes seen?”
I get chills thinking about it. No, this snake isn’t your typical egg-born reptile. It was created in some other place—a place I’d rather never visit, thank you. And it found its way inside me. Thanks, Dudley.
“I named him Sir Hiss.”
Fiona ignores me and caresses this deadly creature with loving charm. She shows no fear despite the fact that its venom could kill with a single bite. Couple that with whatever hellish powers it might possess, and this serpent could do all kinds of damage.
Fiona probably knows all about that. She’s so charismatic and affable that it’s easy to forget she’s a witch—and not some crazy old Wiccan who practices a few chants and prays to the blood moon. No, this woman is over four hundred years old and survives by the grace of a dark magic that I will never fully comprehend.
I had only been living in Los Angeles a few months when Fiona showed up at my door, unannounced. At that time, I was living in a pay-by-the-week motel in Boyle Heights, so imagine my surprise when a celebrity just showed up one day. She came inside and, with no preface, announced that she knew about my possession and about the demon inside me. I was dumbstruck. How could she know?
She extended her hand, and a candle levitated off my bed stand. I watched as it floated in midair before me like a dandelion seed on a gentle breeze. Fiona spoke as the candle made its way to her, and she explained she was a witch. She said she could sense my arrival and had spent the last month tracking me down. The candle landed gently in her outstretched hand. Then she blew on it, and it exploded into dust, the particles spreading out and disappearing in the air.
Sitting in my dingy hotel room was this strange woman who I recognized from television and magazines. She had searched to find me, wielding powers I hadn’t even realized existed. This woman wanted to help me. At that time, I wasn’t sure if I could trust her.
Five years later, we’ve become close. I come to her when I need guidance or advice. When I vomit up some creature from the underworld, I happily give it to her. I still don’t know if I can completely trust her, but she’s the only person besides Father Ramon who understands the evil inside me—who understands, firsthand, the dark and mysterious world I only imagined during my ill-advised goth phase.
Fiona rises and carries the snake to a wall of steel drawers. She carefully selects one of them and presses on its face. It slides out smoothly. Without saying a word, she holds her hand several inches away. As if instructed, the snake extends its long body from her hand and slithers into the drawer. When it finally uncoils the remainder of its body and its tail disappears inside, Fiona pushes on the soft-close door and returns to her kitchen island.
“Thank you, my dear, for another fine gift.”
I have no idea what she does with these things. Frankly, I don’t want to know. Fiona is not one to stand still for long, and before I realize it, she’s whisking some new ingredient into a steel bowl.
“I’ve got a new case,” I announce.
“Is that so? Another referral from Father Ramon?” She’s trying to remain polite, but I can sense the animosity when she says his name. It’s no secret that witches and the church have a long and bitter history. I suspect that Fiona’s personal history may include some particularly harsh encounters.
“Missing girl,” I answer. “Mother’s looking for her.”
“Runaway?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you thinking?”
I hesitate. “I’m not sure. How much do you know about Santa Muerte?”
Fiona stops whisking. I watch her carefully. She doesn’t look up at first. She places the bowl on the counter and takes a deep breath. “You’re joking me.”
I lean over one of the pots and inhale deeply, taking in scents of simmering meats and vegetables. It smells amazing. “It sounds like this girl was mixed up with the wrong crowd.”
When I look up at Fiona, she has a serious expression on her face. “Wrong crowd? That’s a very different thing than cults.”
“I don’t know. Her boyfriend is pretty convinced. He claims the girl was trying to get out. Some old woman was scaring her off. A lesh… lech…”
“Lechuza,” Fiona finishes.
“That’s a witch, right?”
Fiona nods. “Aye. From Mexico. Mighty powerful,” she says grimly. “They’re known for their ability to shape-shift.”
Looks like I came to the right person. “Is Santa Muerte real?”
Fiona crosses to her wall of cabinet drawers and appraises each one. “There has always been a great fascination with death.” She selects one and opens the drawer. Her hand disappears inside then emerges holding a frog. She strolls to the kitchen island. “Every culture, across every age, has tried to understand death. What happens when we die? What happens after?”
She pulls out a paring knife, and I know I’m not going to enjoy what I’m about to witness. She presses the frog on its back against the granite. It squirms to escape. Her grasp is steady.
“There is a great power in death. Not life or the afterlife but that singular moment of death.”
Without hesitation, Fiona stabs the frog. It convulses as she digs the knife into its chest. Then with a quick flick, she lifts the blade so I can see. Sitting delicately on the steel is a tiny yet still-beating heart.
She grabs the heart in her other hand and squeezes it in her fist. She mutters in an Irish-Spanish accent, “Muerte Santisima.”
Her hand opens, and green flame explodes from her palm. It remains lit as she continues to speak. “Death has always been part of the Mesoamerican culture. Hundreds of years ago, they worshiped gods of death and sacrificed each other as payments of devotion. When the Spaniards colonized Mexico with their Christianity, they brought with them the holy saints, the Grim Reaper, and more death. Over time, those who practiced the old ways found a way to combine the old gods and their new one. From those practices, new religions formed that held the power of both. None was more popular than the cult of Santa Muerte.”
She closes her hand, and the fire is extinguished. Smoke seeps from her fist. “You’re asking me if Santa Muerte is real. It’s very real. And you don’t want to go messing about with them, Darcy.”
I shake my head. “I have a job to do. There’s a girl out there in trouble. She needs my help. And I’m asking for your help. If she’s involved in this, then I have to get involved in this.”
Fiona takes several deliberate steps toward me. I instinctively back up, not sure what she’s going to do next. “That is a profoundly foolish idea,” she says in a menacing tone. “Very dangerous people pray to that unholy saint. God only knows what lengths they would go through to harness your power should they discover what lies inside you.”
Chapter 9
____◊____
FIONA’S WARNING IS SINCERE—that much I know. There is a lot of magic in this dark world that I may never understand. Deep down inside, I know I should listen to her, but all I can think about is Elizabeth.
“What did Fiona have to say about your case?” Paige asks when I walk inside the door.
“To stay away.”
Paige pulls her laptop back and scans the screen. She clicks on her mouse and types, resuming her work. “Does she not realize telling
you not to do something only encourages you?” she asks, eyes still on her screen.
“That’s not true,” I say defensively.
“Are you going to drop the case?”
“No, but it has nothing to do with Fiona or her warnings of Mexican cults or gods of death.”
Paige looks up. “What’s that, now?”
I look at the time on my phone. “I told Lupe I’d make up some extra hours.”
“Tonight?” she asks, confused.
“There’s an exhibit opening tomorrow. They’re probably still setting up. While I’m there, I’m going to do some more research on Santa Muerte—see if I can find anything in the archives.”
* * *
By the time my car pulls up in front of the Central Library, night has completely settled on the city. Winds have brought in a thick fog, obscuring the tops of the surrounding skyscrapers within low-lying clouds. It’s not dark, though. Fog diffuses the city lights throughout all of downtown. It’s cold, especially for me.
I leave my car on the empty street and hurry around to the side entrance. From my cell, I call the security desk for admittance—standard practice for after-hours access. However, no one answers. By chance, I check the door and find it unlocked. This is not an uncommon practice when the guards know people will be coming in and out for a project. I hurry inside to escape the frigid air.
When I walk through the doors, I’m reminded of why I love the library at night. During business hours, it’s bustling with activity. Visitors and tourists crowd the lobby, chatting loudly and ignoring library etiquette. But this late, there’s not a single soul around. The only sound is that of my boots on the marble tile as I step toward the main lobby.
Normally, there are at least two guards on duty at the security desk. When I find it empty, I presume they are upstairs with Lupe as she reviews the finishing touches on the exhibit. For the next month, the library is offering a free exhibit of Los Angeles street photography from 1900 to the present. The exhibit hall is upstairs, adjacent to the rotunda.