by G S Fortis
The circular stone structure in the center was probably once a fire pit. Cement has been poured inside, creating a flat surface. Underneath layers of spray paint, I can make out now-familiar imagery carved into the filling—an angry Aztec god holding a heart in each hand.
“We saw that at the museum,” Paige says.
“The Aztec sun stone.”
Paige leans in close to inspect past the graffiti that obscures it. “Why just the face? Why not the outer rings?”
I point to the concentric circles that surround us. “Those are the outer rings. This entire island forms the rest of the symbol.”
The fact that somebody would devote such much time and energy to crafting this shrine gives me an uneasy feeling. Why did they do it? is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I scan the fire pit. It reminds me of Malbrook and the Witching Well where Vivien and I would spend our afternoons.
Paige looks down the edge of the stones. “Darce?” She points to thick drops of dried blood on the waxy floor. It’s a lot of blood. “What do we think?”
“Not good.”
Her head down, Paige moves away from the gazebo. “I think I found a trail.”
A red line leads onto the street. We follow the trail until it becomes clear where we’re going—the house at the top of the loop. It stands higher than the others, but this home is in better shape than anything else on the cul-de-sac. Its rounded corner tower offers a view of every house on the block. Though it’s aged and worn and tilts slightly to one side, there isn’t a spot of graffiti on its gray-and-red facade.
The trail of blood leads directly to the door. Another faded red tag is stapled to it with the warning Unsafe.
Paige reaches into her cardigan and pulls out a gun.
“I forgot you had that,” I say. “You can’t even see that tucked under your sweater.”
“I know, right?” she says, pulling open her cardigan to reveal the tiny shoulder holster tucked beside her breast. “It’s so skinny you can’t even see it.”
“You know how to use it?”
“I’ve used this before.”
“Yeah, and you almost shot me,” I say, remembering how she shot Santa Muerte last time. “Just keep the gun at your side until you’re ready to aim. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
And there it is, the echo of my father’s voice coming out of my mouth. Every time we went shooting, that was what he would tell me, drilling it in my head. Here I am, trying to hunt down an evil spirit, and now I have family issues to contend with. I do my best to shake them off and focus.
“And don’t shoot Santa Muerte. I need Elizabeth alive.”
“Then why do I even have the gun?” she asks.
“Look, you can shoot anyone except you, me, and Elizabeth.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We walk up to the front porch. The boards creak under our weight, bending as both of us stand on the deck. The trail of blood disappears under the front door. I reach for the knob.
“What if someone’s in there?” she asks.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Right. Shit. Okay.” She gets the gun ready and presses her shoulder against the doorjamb. I turn the knob, but it’s locked.
“Remember, leave Santa Muerte to me,” I say, clutching the veil.
“Can I admit something?” Paige asks.
“Sure.”
“I wish Fiona were here.”
“Me too.”
I aim my foot carefully and kick down the door. The wood splinters inward easily. I probably could have pushed down the door if I’d tried.
Paige follows me, gun drawn, as we step slowly into the house. It smells of mildew, tobacco, and… lemon. There is no furniture. Empty cans of food, beer, and soda are littered throughout the house, along with Sterno cans. Thick dark spots pepper the old carpet that stretches the length of the floor, giving it a leopard pattern.
“Maybe we should get a leopard-print rug,” I tell Paige, nodding at the floor.
She scowls. “Do you want me to move out?”
Carefully, we make our way to the kitchen. Various pots and pans sit on the stove and countertops. Dried sprigs of herbs dangle from the walls and ceiling, tied into bundles with straw. The small table in the corner is covered in glass bottles filled with God knows what.
We return to the living room, staying close together. On the far side of the room, I notice a map pinned to the wall. I pull Paige with me as I walk toward it. It’s a municipal map of Los Angeles, with various pushpins pressed into its surface. Immediately, I find a pin pressed into place in Pasadena, marking Carmen’s house.
Paige points out another location—our apartment. Whoever was here was looking for Carmen and for us. Evidently, they found both. I wonder who all the other addresses belong to. I pull out my cell phone and take a photo of the map.
Looking around, I find nothing else here to inspect. Paige points upstairs. I head up the stairs, and Paige follows, gun pointed. On either side of each step is a cluster of unlit and half-melted candles. The wax runs down the entire staircase, like a waterfall frozen in time. As we climb, each step creaks under our weight. At the top of the stairs, we reach a small landing with a closed door on either side. The blood trails to our left.
I look at Paige and mouth, “Ready?”
She nods and lowers the gun. Gun at your side until you’re ready to aim. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.
Using my fingers, I count down. One… two…
Ring!
Something rattles against me, and I jump to the side. My shoulder bumps into Paige, and she fires.
Bam! A bullet pierces the floor right by my boot.
I bounce away. “Jesus Christ!” My ears ring from the gunshot in such a small space.
“What the hell?” Paige screams.
Ring!
It’s my cell phone. I pull it out and look at the display. Paige breathes a sigh of relief but keeps her gun pointed at the door.
Ring!
Nothing happens. No one seems to be around.
“I need to take this,” I say.
“Now?” she asks like I’m crazy.
I click Answer and put it on speakerphone. “Carmen?”
Paige shoots me a surprised look.
Carmen’s familiar voice speaks on the other end. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
“I’m with Father Ramon. Darcy, it was Santa Muerte! The Holy Angel of Death! It came to my house. I saw it. It killed Leona.”
It. I don’t think she knows it is her daughter.
“You must believe me,” she pleads.
“I do.” I exchange a look with Paige. “I was there last night too. I saw it. Wait.” I think about last night’s timeline. “When were you there? When did Santa Muerte come?”
“I don’t know. It was very late. I barely escaped.”
She must have escaped shortly before Paige and I arrived. If I hadn’t been shot, if we hadn’t stayed so long at the retirement home, maybe Leona would still be alive.
“She must have my Elizabeth,” Carmen says. “Oh, mija! Do you think she’s okay?”
“I’m still looking for her,” I assure her. My eyes zero in on the blood trail that disappears under the closed door.
“What if she’s…” Carmen trails off.
“Don’t think that.” I’m afraid to open the door… afraid of what might be inside. “Not for one second. I’m going to find her. Where are you?”
“Father Ramon has given me sanctuary at the Cathedral.”
“Downtown?”
“It’s the only place safe for me anymore. Can you come?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say.
“Thank you.”
I hang up.
“What do you think?” Paige asks, her eyes fixed on the door.
; “There’s only one way to find out.” I reach out and turn the handle.
The moment the door opens, a putrid stench punches us like a fist. Paige gags then bolts downstairs to vomit. I cover my nose and mouth with my sleeve and examine the space. The windows are boarded, so I use the flashlight app on my phone to see. In the center of the room is a stained mattress on an iron bedframe. Empty handcuffs dangle from the four posts at each corner of the bed. Piled on the floor is a red sweater. I lift it and find the gold letters USC embroidered on the chest. I’ve seen this sweater before. It’s the one Elizabeth wore in the photos in her room.
In the corner of the room is a plastic bucket. It’s the source of the smell and tells me all I need to know about the horrible conditions this poor girl was kept in. She never stood a chance.
I hurry out, closing the door behind me and taking a deep breath of fresh air. I run downstairs to find Paige outside, leaning against the wall of the house. A garden hose is in her hand, but no water comes out.
“Are you okay?”
“What the hell was that?” she asks, still choking back her revulsion.
“They kept her in that room to weaken her. She was trapped, given only enough food and water to keep her from dying.” I remember what she looked like at Carmen’s house. Weakened. Pale. Eyes darkened. The poor girl is just a host. “When she couldn’t fight anymore, they offered her body to Santa Muerte.”
“Jesus.” While Paige dry heaves, I hold her hair. “What about the blood?” she asks when she’s able to talk.
My eyes follow the trail of blood. It wasn’t going to the house—it was coming from the house and heading to the gazebo with its floral garlands—to the stone fire pit marked with Aztec symbols. The candle wax, flower petals, and feathers all make sense now. I’ve seen those before at the temple on Whittier.
“That’s an altar,” I say. “That was where they did it. That was where Elizabeth’s body was offered as a host to Santa Muerte.”
Chapter 29
____◊____
WHEN CARMEN SAID SHE was at the Cathedral, I knew exactly what she meant. The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels is the home of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. It’s a massive complex of postmodern buildings, completely rejecting the decades—or centuries—of classical architecture one usually sees in churches. The Cathedral is a concrete geometric structure with hundred-foot walls the color of sunbaked adobe. Despite its blocklike construction, it possesses no right angles.
I call Carmen and ask her to meet across the street at the park on Temple Avenue—a safe distance from the Cathedral’s hallowed grounds. She’s reluctant and pleads with me to meet her at the clergy residence where Father Ramon has secured her a room. I don’t want to mention the whole I’m-possessed-by-a-demon-and-can’t-step-on-holy-ground thing, so I tell her I need to meet in an open place where we can’t be surprised. When I hear Father Ramon’s reassuring voice on her end, I know he’ll find a way to convince her it’s safe to step out.
Minutes later, Carmen hurries across the street. She’s wearing big sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf. In her effort to look inconspicuous, she could not attract more attention if she tried. She looks like Fiona. Beside her is Father Ramon. Today, he’s dressed in the full Catholic cassock, a black tunic that drapes from his shoulders to the ground.
When Carmen reaches me, she greets me with a hug. I wave to Father Ramon. “I’m so happy to see you’re safe,” she whispers.
We find a park bench and sit down together. “What happened?” I ask.
Carmen takes a deep breath to steady herself and reaches for Ramon’s hand. “It was evening, so the staff had gone home. Except Leona. I was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Leona had been outside, tending to our rose garden. I was alone. When I turned around, I saw her. Santa Muerte.
“I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, frozen. It stared at me with those eyes. Then Leona came back in. She was holding those flowers. Before she could scream, that thing raced across the room. It was all so fast. The next thing I saw, it was holding Leona’s…”
She trails off. “I ran out of the house as fast as I could.”
I recall the surveillance team outside her house that night. Evidently, they didn’t see anyone leave. When I ask Carmen about that, she has an answer.
“I knew someday I would have to escape the confines of my own home. My staff and I had developed a plan for just such an occasion. And that escape route was not going through my front door but to the house next door, which I also own. There was a car there, waiting for me, with the keys inside. That’s how I escaped.”
It’s not an answer I like, but it makes a lot of sense. Anyone who’s a target with a lot of enemies would probably have planned an escape route a long time ago.
“You have no idea how horrifying it was. It was pure evil,” she says, shivering.
“I do know.”
She nods. “Then you have seen the face of evil.”
Every morning in the mirror. “It’s best that you’re here with Father Ramon,” I assure her. “It probably can’t harm you on hallowed ground.”
“You should stay here too,” she offers.
“Why didn’t the spirit attack you?” Paige interjects. It’s a good question. When I struggled with the spirit, it was alarmingly fast and strong. It should have been able to catch Carmen.
“Perhaps because I showed her this,” Carmen answers, reaching into the collar of her shirt.
She pulls out a gold medallion. It’s circular, with the image of a monk holding a cross in his hand and Latin text along the margins. I give one glance and recoil. My reaction is instinctual and not at all subtle. My stomach rumbles in pain, and I gag momentarily while doubling over.
“Darcy, are you okay?” Paige asks, patting me on the back.
I hold my hand up to signal I’m okay. When I sit up, I have to wipe the tears in my eyes. The medallion is back in her shirt.
“Are you all right?” Carmen asks.
I nod. “Caught something in my throat.” The look on Carmen’s face tells me she’s not buying this at all.
Father Ramon steers the conversation forward. “It’s the Saint Benedict Medal. I gave it to Carmen last week as a protection for her in this time of need. A blessed, very powerful tool against evil.”
I am all too familiar with its powers. The Saint Benedict Medal is a tool priests use during an exorcism to combat the powers of evil. It’s what Father Ramon used the few times he attempted to exorcise me. Works like a charm.
“Where was Hugo?” I ask when I can speak clearly again.
“He wasn’t there. I’m not sure.”
“Have you seen or heard from him since?”
“Do you think he had something to do with this? You don’t think he took Elizabeth?”
“He knew how to find her. He knew how to get into your house to attack you and kill Leona. And I believe he was involved in Santa Muerte.”
“My God,” she says. “I’ve known him for years. My husband trusted him. We all trusted him.”
“And he probably used that trust against you.”
“Promise me, Darcy,” she pleads. “Please find my daughter. Please bring Elizabeth home to me.”
Still trying to catch my breath, I promise to do just that.
Father Ramon takes me aside before they leave. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, referring to the incident with the Saint Benedict Medal. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nod. I didn’t expect the medal, so it felt like a sucker punch. I need a minute to recover.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again.
Everyone keeps asking me that, so I must look pretty bad. I assure him I’m fine. Paige and I watch him escort Carmen back onto the cathedral grounds before we get into the Land Rover and drive away.
Chapter 30
____◊____
BY THE TIME WE arrive on the studio lot, the sun has started to set in th
e west. Even by Los Angeles standards, it’s a beautiful sunset. Hues of orange and red blend into each other, creating a blanket of warmth across the sky so that everything in the city is diffused by the same light. Some people say it’s the smog that gives us these beautiful sunsets. I guess you can find something positive in the worst of circumstances.
I text Fiona, who directs us to park outside Stage 9. Once we're there, Paige moves to the back seat. When Fiona exits the stage door, she jumps straight into the driver’s seat.
Fiona revs the engine and pulls away. “You’re both still alive.” She pulls into traffic and starts navigating her way through the busy streets. “I trust everything went well.”
“We didn’t find Santa Muerte,” I report. “But I think we found where they conducted the ritual to summon her.”
“The spirit wasn’t there? That’s odd.”
“There was a shrine to Santa Muerte. Maybe that was it.” I hold up the pendulum and examine it. “Or maybe I did break it.”
Paige chimes in with, “Told you.”
“Oh, and Carmen’s still alive,” I tell Fiona. “She’s found sanctuary at the Catholic church downtown.”
Fiona chuckles. “That won’t protect her. The spirit of Santa Muerte is not a visitor from hell.” She casts a sideways glance at me. “It’ll protect her from you, though.”
It seems like Fiona is still sore from my nearly killing her earlier.
“It’s still evil,” Paige argues. “I thought evil can’t set foot on hallowed grounds.”
I have to agree, based on personal experience.
Fiona shakes her head. “My dear, there’s evil that goes to church every day.”
As we drive along Sunset Boulevard, I ask Fiona to tell me more about Melchora.
“She joined the Mancery about a year ago. I don’t know much about her background. Hers is not a name I had encountered before. Most new members make an effort to ingratiate themselves to the community, and Melchora was no exception. She offered to host some lectures on Mesoamerican magic and was an active participant in our exchange program.”