by G S Fortis
“So does this bring Santa Muerte—”
“Shhh!” Padre shouts, silencing me with a finger to his lip.
I shrink back in my chair. I guess we’re going to find out.
Another item comes out of the bucket—a red candle. He lights it then begins rubbing the stem of the candle up and down the sides of Paige’s body. In his other hand, he raises the photo high in the air.
Finally, he starts speaking.
“¡Gloriosa Dama de la Santa Muerte!
“Señora de la Noche
“Niña Blanca.”
Like an earthquake, a single jolt shakes the room. Padre stops and looks around. He was not expecting this. I rise from my chair and look around, worried Santa Muerte may actually appear at any moment.
Padre gulps then continues.
“Gracias por todo lo que haces
“Gracias por escucharnos hoy.
“Venimos a ti con un deseo
“Por favor, escúchanos a los mortales en tu gracia.
“Pedimos que aquello que esté perdido, se encuentre
“Pedimos que lo que esté roto, se arregle
“Pedimos que los seres queridos que se fueron, regresen
“Pedimos que aquello que esté incompleto, se complete.”
Winds begin to rise and swirl through the room. The photos on the wall flutter rapidly. Flower petals and feathers sweep across the floor. The flames on the candles flicker.
Paige turns her head to me. “Is that you?” she shouts above the howling air.
“No!” I respond, shaking my head.
But I’m not sure. My heart begins to race. My hand jitters in excitement. My cheeks feel flushed. I haven’t felt this warm in years. I check my watch for my pulse: one hundred five beats per minute. I’m safe.
I may not be doing this, but I’m connecting to it. My eyes lock onto the statue. Maybe this thing will morph into the actual entity.
“Keep going!” I shout to Padre above the wind. I ready myself for a fight.
He takes a deep breath and shouts the next part of the prayer.
“¡A cambio de escucharnos!
“Ofrecemos nuestros regalos, son tuyos para siempre
“Remedia nuestro dolor!”
The winds intensify, ripping the photos and flowers from the wall. Debris whips around the room in a counterclockwise motion.
“Darcy!” Paige shouts.
As the chaos around me intensifies, my body temperature increases. It’s as if I’m wrapped in a dozen flannel blankets. I haven’t felt this warm since the first time I upped my Klonopin dosage.
Padre has a look of fear as he continues to shout.
“¡Alivia nuestras almas
“Oh, Patrona Santa de la Muerte, concédenos vida!”
The circle around Paige reignites. Bright-red flames explode ten feet into the air. Padre stumbles back, trips, and falls. Paige shields her face as the flames grow around her. Instinctively, I dive into the circle of flames, tackling Paige. We roll to the floor, and I pat her down to make sure she’s not on fire.
The inferno becomes a violent vortex of orange and red, rising into the middle of the room. Padre’s had enough and bolts for the door. Paige and I scramble away from the flames. The fiery tornado grows higher and higher, reaching to the ceiling. I climb to my feet, ready for Santa Muerte.
Then suddenly, the vortex collapses. The winds stop. The debris spills to the ground. And I’m cold again.
Paige dives forward toward the circle. I react too late and can’t stop her. She shuffles to her feet, clutching the photo of her mother. Without turning to me, she asks, “Do you think it worked?”
I don’t know what to say. Whatever happened here was enough to scare the padre. I think it’s safe to assume we’re breaking new ground.
Or are we? Something happened to scare Elizabeth. Maybe she witnessed something similar. Or maybe she was part of something worse.
We wait in silence. Nothing more happens. Then I say, “We should go.”
I get up and escort Paige to the exit. As we walk, I notice the bare walls on either side. Then I stop.
One single picture remains on the wall. Crossing past the chairs, I make a beeline for the wall and get a closer look at the photo. It’s a young man embracing a girl, facing the camera. They’re happy. She’s a pretty young Latina. He’s a rough-looking rebel. It’s Elizabeth and Sebastian.
I pluck the photo from the wall and turn it over. On the back is a message: I’m sorry. It’s dated yesterday.
Paige’s hand rests on my shoulder as she looks at the photo I’m holding. “Holy crap, he was just here.” I look back at the statue. Leaves and feather are still falling, giving the impression that it’s snowing inside. “It worked.”
Paige’s hand slides away. Without looking, I can sense her disappointment—it didn’t work for her. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Let’s go.”
As Paige and I make our way out, I take one last look at the altar at the end of the room. Despite the violence and chaos that just happened, the flowers are undisturbed, and the candles are still lit. Then I do a double take. Maybe it’s in my mind, but I swear the statue of Santa Muerte has moved. And now it’s staring right at me.
Chapter 15
____◊____
AFTER THE INCIDENT AT the temple, I need a drink. Well, we both do. I drive us to our favorite bar in time for happy hour.
It’s the type of bar that’s hidden from the general public, and to find it, you have to navigate through the dining area of a popular French brasserie called Orléans. Most people pronounce it “Orleans,” as in the infamous Louisiana city, but I’ve found if I pronounce the correct way, I get better service. It’s a bright and airy space with tables crammed close together to accommodate the crowds hankering for unpretentious home-style French cooking. With so many people, the din of conversation is nearly deafening.
Paige and I bypass the restaurant and make our way along the back wall to a door marked Employees Only. We pass through it and descend a narrow wooden staircase that creaks with every step. At the bottom is an ever-present doorman in a black suit. From experience, I know he won’t let us by without a password—or a suitable bribe. The password changes nightly, a policy the owners instituted to keep out unwanted patrons. Tonight, it’s Cassis.
He opens an unmarked red door for us.
The bar doesn’t have a name, which helps keep it off the maps and online reviews. Those of us in the know call it the Cellar. It’s intimate and designed to feel like an upscale speakeasy from the 1920s. Exposed brick walls and red leather chairs absorb the dim lighting from the tiffany lamps. A piano player is tucked away in the corner, banging out a jazzy cover of a classic ’80s song on an old upright.
I’m drawn to a beacon at the back of the room. Hundreds of bottled spirits, backlit by an amber glow, sit on shelves that rise to the ceiling. We take a seat on the barstools, and the bearded bartender emerges from the shadows and slides two cocktail napkins before us. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a formfitting waistcoat that hugs his lean torso.
“Old-fashioned, Darcy?” he asks.
“Thanks, Chester.” Is it bad when you’re on a first-name basis with your bartender?
He turns to Paige. “Dirty martini?”
She nods.
Chester is a bartender who takes his time with each drink. He prechills each glass with ice then gets to work mixing. In no time I have my old-fashioned with a single ice cube and an inky-black maraschino cherry, and Paige has her perfect martini with a swirl of cloudy brine and two olives. We take our drinks to a quiet booth in the corner while the piano player moves on to a new song.
“Question,” Paige says as we slip in.
“Shoot.”
“What if Elizabeth isn’t entirely innocent in all this?” She pops the first olive in her mouth.
It’s a question I’ve considered. Somehow, this young college g
irl got mixed up in Santa Muerte. That doesn’t happen accidentally. Either she sought out this cult, or someone introduced her.
“Okay,” I say. “How did she find her way to that temple?”
“You said you recognized the symbol from Hugo’s tattoo.”
“Hugo introduced her to Santa Muerte?”
“Either that, or it’s a crazy coincidence.”
The pieces do add up. Sebastian was the first person to confirm Elizabeth’s involvement in Santa Muerte. By his account, she introduced him to the cult. And now I can tie Hugo into it as well. Which leaves me with just one question.
“Who is the lechuza?” I ask.
Paige shakes her head. “I don’t know, but you think she was there at the library?”
“If what Fiona said was true, she could have transformed into the owl…” My attention shifts from Paige to a large bald man in a suit, approaching her from behind. He’s mean looking, like he was asked to leave prison for being a bad influence on the other inmates.
I don’t notice the second guy sliding into the booth beside me until he’s already seated. He’s just as rough looking as the first man and similarly bald but more stylish in his attire. He wears a finely tailored suit—charcoal pinstripes—with tan shoes and a belt to match. The wrinkles on his face are not from age but from a hard life of constant scowling and sneering. His decision to wear a V-neck T-shirt under his suit jacket seems a curious fashion choice.
What catch my eye are his tattoos, which rise from beneath his white shirt. I can barely make out the tops of Russian cathedrals. Around his neck is a serpent coiled like a noose.
“May we join you?” His voice is deep and rough with a thick Russian accent. I see more tattoos, epaulets on his shoulders. He’s not trying to impress. He’s trying to intimidate.
I’m about to decline when Paige answers. “Actually, we’re in the middle of a private conversation, so if you wouldn’t mind…?” She waits for them to leave. They don’t. “Seriously,” she continues, undeterred, “we don’t feel like getting hit on right now.”
Poor sweet Paige. Most times, she’s the smartest girl I know. And honestly, I can’t blame her for assuming these guys are here to pick us up—most strange guys who talk to her are after one thing.
“Paige,” I say, disappointed, “these guys aren’t hitting on us. These gentlemen are drug dealers.”
At first, she clearly thinks I’m joking. I admit, my comment was made to both put them off their game and defuse the situation. To get through this conversation, I’m going to have to put on my tough-girl face and let these guys know I won’t be pushed around. But… I don’t want them to shoot me. I’m going to have to walk a fine line.
Paige scoots away from her guy. “Seriously?”
I jab a thumb at the guy beside me. “I think this one is.” I point my index finger at the one beside her. “I think he’s the muscle.”
She looks her companion up and down. Even sitting, the Muscle towers over her.
“I take it we don’t have to introduce ourselves, do we?” I ask.
The Russian next to me takes my hand and kisses it gently. “It is pleasure to make your acquaintance, Darcy.” He turns to Paige and reaches out for her hand. She recoils. “And you, too, Paige. Or should I say, Tiffany Maddox? My name is Yury. Yury Vilonov.”
It’s one thing that he knows our names. That he knows the catfish name suggests he might be connected to Sebastian.
“Okay, Yury Yury Vilonov,” I say. “And where is our mutual friend, Sebastian?”
Yury Yury exchanges a look with his partner. “Sebastian is missing.”
Missing? The wheels in my mind start spinning. Where could he have gone? Did he find Elizabeth?
“Are you here to ask me to find him?” I ask.
Yury Yury stifles a laugh. “Fuck him. He runs from city. I don’t care.”
Chester arrives and sets two chilled glasses of vodka before Yury Yury and the Muscle. He looks at me. “Everything okay?”
“We’re okay,” I say, nodding.
Paige pipes up. Her voice trembles as she says, “Can I order an angel shot?”
This is a nervous mistake on her part, because now the clock is ticking for me to figure how the who, what, and why of this situation. In many bars you will find a poster in the women’s restroom with a notification to the female patrons—if any men at the bar are harassing you, if your date is making you uncomfortable, or if you need assistance for any reason, order a fake drink from the bartender or wait staff, and they will enlist security’s assistance. That fake drink is called an angel shot.
Chester registers this and casts a worried look at the two guys. “Sure thing.”
He walks back to the bar, so now I only have a minute or two before the bouncer comes. My attention returns to Yury Yury. He smirks, downs his drink, then tries to act nonchalant as he continues. “I understand you are looking for Elizabeth Viramontes… I’m looking for her, too.”
“Aren’t you a good Samaritan.”
He doesn’t care about Sebastian but wants Elizabeth—which, I guess, means they’re probably not together.
“I hope you are able to find her,” he says. “In fact, I’m willing to help in any way I can. Perhaps with your expenses. Borz?”
The Muscle reaches into his coat pocket. Paige lets out a tiny yelp. Everyone freezes. I shoot her a look, urging her to pull it together. She’s visibly shaking now. I can even see a tiny bit of sweat forming on her brow.
The Muscle proceeds to pull an envelope out of his pocket and drops it on the table with an emphatic thud. His hand rests for a moment on the package, and I stare at the tattoos that wrap around every finger. My eyes follow as the Muscle’s hand pushes the envelope across the table and leaves it right in front of me. It swells enough for me to see the thick wad of cash through the opening. Yury Yury says nothing. He just keeps smiling.
“In exchange for…?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps when you find Elizabeth, I could persuade you to bring her to me.”
Yury Yury’s tattoos suggest he’s a high-level Russian mobster. I’ve seen tattoos like that recently—in photos of Sebastian’s friends on Facebook. Which probably means Yury Yury is Sebastian’s boss. Which means he wants Elizabeth for less-than-altruistic reasons.
“You want her as leverage? A bargaining chip?”
He smirks. “As you say, I’m a good Samaritan.”
“I’m afraid to ask what you would say if I decline.”
His smile drops. “Then don’t.”
I shake my head. “Your offer is tempting, but the fact of the matter is, I have no idea where Elizabeth is.” I place my hand on the envelope and slide it back to the Muscle.
In a flash, the Muscle’s hand lands on mine. He presses down hard, using his weight to hold down my wrist.
Yury Yury leans in to me. “I said, don’t.”
I turn to face Yury Yury. “And I said, you can have it back.” I jerk my hand out from under the Muscle’s.
Yury Yury reaches for his coat. My hand slams on Yury Yury’s hand, keeping his arm in his pocket.
“Darcy!” Paige yells. “Calm!”
Everyone freezes and looks at Paige. She stares at me with nervous, pleading eyes. It suddenly occurs to me why she’s been so nervous. She isn’t afraid of Yury Yury. She isn’t afraid of the Muscle. She’s afraid of me.
“Stay calm,” she says again in a soothing, quiet voice.
Yury Yury turns to me with a curious expression. He looks me up and down, trying to understand why Paige would tell me to stay calm in this situation. I can feel his hand relax under his coat as he releases the hard pistol buried under the fabric.
“Is everything all right?” Chester appears beside our table, this time with the doorman and a second, larger bouncer on either side of him. Both guys have arms that stretch the limits of their black cotton T-shirts.
I turn to Yury Yury and pull my hand
off his. “Is it?”
With no response from anyone, Chester continues. “Gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Yury Yury keeps his eyes on me, ignoring Chester and his guys. The Muscle stands to face them.
“Stoy!” Yury Yury commands. The Muscle freezes but doesn’t back down.
Yury Yury slides the envelope off the table and slips it into his coat. He pulls out a single hundred-dollar bill and places it under a saltshaker. “For your drinks and your troubles.”
Yury Yury waits for me to respond. I say nothing. The conversation is over as far as I’m concerned.
“You are full of surprises, Darcy Caine. You will probably find out later who I am. And you will probably learn why you should fear me.” Yury Yury pulls out a business card and places it next to the money. “If you find Elizabeth, you will call me and name your price.”
He turns to eyeball Chester but doesn’t say anything. He merely opens his arms as a display of compliance. Chester and his guys open a path for them to leave.
Before he walks away, Yury Yury says, “If you do find Elizabeth and do not call me…” He shakes his head. “It would be very unfortunate for you. And you, Paige,” he says, casting a glance at my trembling friend. “And maybe even that priest in Pasadena. Good luck.” He walks out of the bar, followed by his Muscle and the two guards.
“Jesus, Darcy,” Chester says after they disappear through the front door. “Who was that?”
My stomach growls, and I cover it with my hand as if that will do anything. “Just another happy customer.” I try to act casual, but the truth is, I’m a bit rattled by this recent interaction. These guys mean business, and the fact that they know about everything, from Paige to Tiffany to Father Ramon, means they’ve done their homework. It means they know how to get to me and the people I care about. “What the hell happened to your password policy, Chester?”
“I’ll talk to the guys,” he says, contrite.
“Yeah. Wouldn’t want anyone dangerous getting in here.”
“I got it.”