by G S Fortis
“Yeah. Hugo Escalante. Enforcer and children’s-literature enthusiast.”
The Dodge turns into a private driveway and stops at a large iron gate. I reach out through the window and enter in the code that was given to me.
“Who the hell do you know who lives up here?” David asks.
“A very old friend.”
The gate slides open, and David pulls into a circular driveway that loops around a metallic fountain that resembles a Cubist sculpture of a tree. We park at the front door of the house—a modern geometric structure of glass, steel, and cement. From this angle, it looks like it’s only one story, but I know from prior visits that there are two more floors below, wedged into the side of the Santa Monica Mountains.
David follows as Paige and I wheel our luggage up the well-lit path to the front door. Before we ring the bell, the door swings open to reveal Fiona, dressed in casual but luxurious loungewear. She hurries forward.
“Hello, my darling!” She embraces me tightly. It’s automatic for her, and it’s not until I wince that she looks at my sling. “What happened to you?”
“Got shot,” I say casually.
“Did you deserve it?” she asks with the same casual air.
I grimace.
She turns to Paige. “Look at you. So beautiful!” She engulfs Paige in a hug.
Fiona’s eyes turn to meet David. “Aye, and look at this one.”
David is dumbfounded, his jaw nearly on the ground. Admittedly, part of the reason I didn’t tell him I was staying with Fiona was so I could see that look when he first saw my celebrity friend. It was totally worth it.
“You must be David,” she says.
“That’s right. It’s, uh, nice to meet you.” He reaches out his hand, but she slaps it away and embraces him.
“Please, I feel like I already know you. Darcy is always on about you.”
My smile slips away, and my stomach sinks. “No. No I don’t.”
Fiona ignores me. “You were recently promoted to Homicide, right? Congratulations.”
I sometimes think there is no hell worse than the damnation of embarrassment.
David casts a sideways glance at me. “Yes, that’s right. Thanks.”
Fiona is beside herself. “Look at him, dear. Such a handsome fella. I bet you’re an excellent detective.”
David shrugs. “I… try.”
“He took my gun away,” Paige chimes in.
“What?” Fiona exclaims, dismayed. “You cannot go about this awful city without a gun. You can borrow one of mine.”
David shakes his head. “Wait… what? No. Don’t give her a gun!”
Fiona smiles. “Look at him.” She turns to me. “He is cute when he gets angry,” she says, agreeing with something I never actually said—not even once.
David shoots me a look.
“Well,” I say, “This has been fun, but I think we’ve imposed on Detective Resnick enough.” I drag my luggage forward and corral Paige and Fiona into the house. “Thank you for the ride and—you know—the whole keeping-us-from-getting-thrown-in-jail thing. Drive safely. Bye!”
I shut the door on David’s face. “What the hell, Fiona?”
She only smiles. “I like him. He’s cute.”
“Yeah, I know!”
David calls through the door with crystal-clear clarity. “So, uh, will the gate open automatically on the way out?”
I die inside.
Fiona approaches the door and speaks through the solid oak. “Yes, dear. Thanks again for bringing the girls.”
David calls again, “Okay.” Silence. “Bye.”
Fiona locks the door. She mutters something against the door and gestures with her hands. I know she’s casting a protection spell, so when Paige casts a concerned look my way, I nod to assure her everything is fine. When I spoke with Fiona on the phone earlier in the evening, I asked if Paige and I could crash at her place because we were no longer safe in our apartment. Fiona agreed, no questions asked. If she can extend that courtesy and trust to someone who could potentially bring a shitload of trouble into her home, I need to trust she intends to keep us safe.
“We’re safe now.” Fiona turns and struts past us, moving deeper into the house. “It’s late. You’ll be wanting to see where you’ll sleep.”
The weight of my mortification keeps me in place until Paige pushes me forward. We follow Fiona downstairs to the bedrooms. The stories of her home are inverted from the way they would be in a normal house. The top floor is for socializing—it’s where the kitchen, dining room, and living room are located. Downstairs are the private quarters and study.
She guides us to a guest bedroom larger than our living room, with two beds and its own bathroom. Opposite the beds is a view overlooking the entire Los Angeles Westside, from downtown to the ocean.
Fiona glances at her Breguet watch. “I’ll let you sleep in.” She turns to me. “I know you’ll have a lot to tell me, but I’m thinking it can wait until the morning.” She excuses herself and closes the door.
I pull off the Crocs and dump them in the nearest trash can then examine the bandages around my feet. The blood has soaked through, so I retreat to the bathroom. After washing and rewrapping the wounds and pulling on some thick wool socks, I emerge to find Paige standing on the balcony. I join her to admire the view of Los Angeles at night. An endless sea of city lights stretches out before us.
“Are we going to be safe here?” Paige asks.
“This is the safest place for us.”
Paige turns to the room we’ll be sharing. “Am I going to be safe in here?”
We have never shared a room. She’s become accustomed to sleeping two locked-and-barricaded doors away from me every night. And now I know she kept a gun with her, too.
With little more to discuss, Paige collects a pillow and blanket and leaves to sleep on the living room sofa. I close the door and lock it, for whatever good that might do. As an added precaution, I reach into my suitcase, pull out two Klonopin, and swallow them. I don’t bother changing clothes. I pass out in my nurse scrubs.
* * *
I wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs, and other delights wafting from the upstairs kitchen. I groggily open my eyes and discover a fresh mug of coffee at the bedside table. With great reluctance, I sit up and grab the beverage. The porcelain is still hot, and the first sip is a mélange of floral and earthy flavors. Perfection.
Before heading upstairs to the kitchen, I take a moment to change out of the scrubs and into something normal. I remove my sling and take off my top. With a wet washcloth, I wipe away the dried blood around my shoulder. The bullet hole is sealed shut, but the wound and stitches remain.
It’s hard to imagine that I was shot less than twenty-four hours ago. I rotate my shoulder, testing its strength. When I stretch too far, the pain hampers my movement, but remarkably, I feel like I’m nearly at full strength.
I unravel the bandages on my feet. Likewise, any hint of injury is gone. Perhaps the reason my feet healed faster was because of the superficial nature of the wounds, unlike the muscle-and-nerve damage to my shoulder. There are no abrasions or cuts on the soles from the metal tread of the fire escape—though I could use a pedicure.
I grab my coffee and head upstairs. Paige sits on a stool at the granite kitchen counter. She’s dressed in her normal running outfit, but on this particular morning, she’s not a matted mess of sweat. By this hour, she has usually finished her first ten miles. On the kitchen island and on the counter before Paige is a feast of bacon, country-fried potatoes, waffles, fruit, and more coffee.
Taking a seat next to Paige, I can see she’s transfixed by Fiona, who’s holding an egg. “Okay,” Paige says, “sunny-side up.”
Fiona holds an egg in her fist. She smiles then rubs her other hand over the closed fist. With a flick of her wrist, she smacks the egg with one hand against the counter then opens the shell over Paige’s plate. Out plops a perfect
sunny-side-up egg. Steam rises from the round yolk.
Fiona turns to me and smiles warmly. “Good morning.” She slides a plate stacked with food in front of me.
Paige is still staring at her plate. “This is insane.” She turns to me. “Did you know she could do this?” Then she asks Fiona, “What if I wanted green eggs? Could you do that?”
“How long has she been doing this?” I ask Fiona.
“All morning, dear,” Fiona says with a patient smile. She cracks another egg on the counter and deposits one green poached egg on Paige’s plate.
“This is insane,” Paige says again.
Fiona turns to me. “How are you wanting your eggs?”
“Scrambled, please.”
“No!” Paige shouts. “That’s boring.” She turns to Fiona, “Can you add other ingredients? Can you do an omelet?”
“Let’s not ask our hostess to perform for us,” I suggest.
She watches as Fiona shakes two eggs in her hand then cracks them open. Warm, moist scrambled eggs collapse onto my plate. “That’s insane,” Paige repeats.
I’ve been lucky enough to see Fiona cast some serious spells, so I know these minor tricks are nothing for her. Still, it feels like witnessing tiny little miracles. For Paige, this is something else. She’s always been one to try to understand how things work. She’ll disassemble something just so she can see how all the parts create a whole. That’s how she got into computers—locked away in her room, she tried to understand how a CPU, RAM, a motherboard, and a hard drive could transform ones and zeroes into something presentable. Paige’s mind won’t rest until she understands.
“Okay,” Paige proceeds meekly. “Like, how do you do… this?”
“You mean magic?” Fiona asks.
“Is that what this is? I mean, I know you’re a…” Paige hesitates.
“Witch?” I finish for her.
“Is that okay to say?” Paige asks. “That’s not a derogatory term?”
“Not at all, dear,” Fiona says.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know the difference between magic and witchcraft. Or if it’s okay to say witches or wizards or sorcerers.”
I drop my fork. “Paige!”
Paige freezes. She turns to Fiona, who smiles. “I’m afraid your friend is winding you up,” Fiona assures her.
Paige punches my arm—the injured one. I flinch, expecting intense pain. Surprisingly, the wound doesn’t split open. Still, Paige is strong, and it hurts.
“Okay,” Paige continues. “So, with magic, how do you do it? Can you just conjure up anything you want?”
“No, it doesn’t quite work that way. Think of magic as a way of transmitting, transforming energy or matter.” Fiona lifts an egg. “I can heat this egg, and I can mess about with them to cook them any way I want. But I cannot make an omelet because I cannot change the egg into onions or ham or cheese.”
“But you made it green. There’s no green inside. How did you do that?”
“I know how to manipulate what’s inside this shell. Inside are other elements—sulfur in the whites and iron in the yolks. You combine those, you get green.”
Paige is clearly fascinated by all this. Truth be told, I never asked Fiona for the details of her magic. Maybe I was embarrassed or afraid I was being nosy. So I let Paige continue while I stuff my face with scrambled eggs. Which are delicious, by the way.
“You don’t need a wand or a staff or a broom?”
Fiona bursts out laughing. “Only if I’m wanting to sweep. Wands and staves have their place, and truth be told, some prefer to use them, and some spells require them. Some spells require an incantation. Some spells are so powerful that two or more witches are needed to harness the energy. A coven, if you will.”
Paige leans forward, enthralled. “You mean, combining your power?”
“Not necessarily,” Fiona answers with a smile, happy to oblige her eager audience. “Some spells can be incredibly complicated, with multiple parts. You may have one witch use a conjuration spell to summon power, while another uses an enchantment to harness and hold the power.”
Paige nods. “A team.”
“Aye. As for myself, I learned that I only need to use a handful of spells on a daily basis. These are conducted with simple chants or by the use of everyday items I carry with me at all times”—she reaches into her pockets and pulls out three gold coins, a vial of salt, and a crystal—“much like you carry your keys, wallet, or cell phone.” She waves her open palm over the items, and one by one, they disappear.
“How did you learn to do all this?” Paige asks.
“My mother. She was a very powerful witch herself, and she taught me everything she knew. Over time, I developed my own style and discovered a few things myself. But my passion for the arts—and that’s what they are—was all because of her influence.”
I stop eating as Fiona mentions her mother. Casually, I try to register Paige’s expression. It’s blank.
Paige stands and reaches for her headphones. She takes a deep breath to compose herself. “I’m sorry for pestering you with my questions.”
“Paige…” I start.
“I need to get my run in. Breakfast was delicious,” she says to Fiona. “Thank you.” She disappears out the door for what I can only imagine will be a marathon.
When she’s gone, Fiona turns to me. “Did I bollocks it up?”
“It wasn’t anything you did.” I go back to eating my breakfast.
* * *
After breakfast, I help Fiona with the dishes. It’s the least I can do for the feast she provided. As I’m drying the last of the bowls and putting them away, I sense Fiona staring at me.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Are you wanting to tell me what happened last night?”
I guess it’s time. “I just need to get a refill on my coffee,” I say, picking up my empty mug. Fiona waves her hand over the top of my cup. It fills from within. So much for stalling.
We take a seat on her sofa, which overlooks the Westside of Los Angeles. “I first saw Santa Muerte at the library,” I begin.
I proceed to tell her about Lupe’s murder and seeing the spirit for the first time. I tell her about the owl too. Then I talk about Carmen and the cartel, what Paige and I witnessed in the temple, Sebastian’s death, getting shot, and what happened last night. I give her every detail I can think of—anything that might help her help me. She’s surprised by none of it.
“You know what I’ve been going through, don’t you?” I ask.
“There isn’t much magic that happens in this city that I don’t know about,” Fiona says. “That’s how I found you so many years ago.”
I lean forward. “Do you know who she is?”
“I wasn’t sure then. I’m sure now.”
“Who?”
“Her name is Melchora. She is a bruja, which is a kind of witch. The lechuza you’ve been looking for.”
I have limited experience with the supernatural. Ghosts, Fiona, and my demon were everything I knew until I encountered Santa Muerte. Now Fiona is telling me about a bruja being “a kind of witch.” How many kinds are there? What else is out there?
“I have tried to keep you from this world,” Fiona continues. “But this seems to have been a long time coming. Somehow, you quelled a demon inside you. A demon that has mighty power. There are others out there who will wish you harm and some who will want to use you. And now this one knows your name.”
This gives me chills. “Melchora. How do you know her?”
Fiona rises from the sofa and offers a remorseful smile. “I think you should follow me.”
“Uh-oh. This doesn’t sound good.” I’m rising to follow Fiona when Paige enters through the front door. She’s drenched in sweat from her short but evidently intense run. She grabs a water from the refrigerator before realizing Fiona and I are watching her.
“Better?” I ask.
Paige shrugs and takes a
big gulp then takes another look at us and hesitates. “What’s going on?”
“Fiona wants to show me something, and I think it’s bad. Wanna come?” I smile, pleading for a friend.
Paige and I follow Fiona slowly down a staircase that leads to the bottom floor. Fiona guides us to a locked door, which she opens by muttering a chant I can’t understand. We step inside a large room with a dark tinted window and yet another view of the city. On the back side is an entire wall of stainless steel, apothecary drawers, and cabinets. A long, glass table sits in the middle of the room, a decorative bowl with stainless-steel balls in the exact center of it. Fiona walks to the wall and selects a drawer halfway down. She opens it and removes a snake—the same one I gave her when I last saw her.
Paige squirms. “Oh geez.”
Fiona walks toward us with the snake. “I have a confession. I haven’t been completely honest with you about what I do with these specimens. It’s important to tell you that these creatures possess a tremendous amount of magic.”
“What kind of magic?” Paige asks.
“The kind of magic that can only be created in another world,” Fiona answers in an ominous tone.
“Hell,” I add. “She means the kind of magic that can only be created in hell.”
Fiona nods. “Aye. They are very powerful. A rare commodity.”
She lets go of the snake and steps toward us. Paige and I step back. The snake winds itself around Fiona’s arm then slithers its way up to her neck.
“A month ago,” she says, “you brought me a particular specimen, a snake with bands of red and black. Its Latin name is Micrurus diastema. A coral snake normally found in Mexico and Central America. Extremely venomous. And by way of you, an incredible gift. A powerful gift.” Fiona stops and rests her hand on the corner of the table, and the snake slithers its way down her arm and coils itself into a ball on the glass. “A valuable gift.”
It suddenly occurs to me where Fiona is going with this. “Did you sell it? Have you been selling”—I gesture to the wall of stainless steel drawers—“all of them? This whole time?”
“These items are highly sought among those like me. It would be selfish to keep them to myself.”