A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

  My accusation of Detective Snyder has not been greeted with appreciation or even belief, but after last night, the police aren’t taking any chances. Since this morning, even family members of detectives have gone into hiding. Their whereabouts have not been announced to the LAPD.

  Paige and I continue to sit for an hour in the bullpen. Our only sustenance comes from a vending machine we find in the hall. As we sit in the break room, munching on candy bars and trail mix, Paige asks me when I’m going to tell David about Santa Muerte.

  “I just accused his partner of working with the drug cartels. I think I’ll need to give it a minute before I bring that up.” He already thinks I’m crazy, so I don’t need to stoke that fire.

  “We have to warn them,” she says. “You know what that thing can do. You can’t shoot it. You can’t run away from it. Santa Muerte is going to hunt them all down and rip their hearts out one by one. Including David’s.”

  “I have to go with him. Protect him. Wherever he goes, I need to be there, ready to fight.”

  “Protect him? How? You heard Fiona—only magic can defeat Melchora. And you don’t have…” Paige stops, and I can see realization dawning. “You can’t control Dudley.”

  I can’t explain something this fantastic to David, so using my supernatural advantage is our only option. “I have to try. It’s the only thing I can do to protect David.”

  Paige considers this. “You know I’m coming with you, right?”

  I know. “When the time comes, I’ll tell you to run,” I say. “Run, and make sure no one else is around.”

  David enters the break room. “We’re thin right now, but I’ve secured a four-member SWAT team to accompany us to the site. They’ll be here in an hour. Darcy,” he says, turning to me, “I need to know where we’re going.”

  “We’re going with you,” I say, standing. Paige stands with me. “We’ve been there. We know the lay of the land.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he says. But I can tell he has little fight left for me. I’m going to win this argument.

  “David, Paige and I can warn you about any traps.”

  “Fine,” he says. “You two and I will hang back until they secure the area.”

  When the SWAT team arrives, I’m given a municipal map of the city of Los Angeles. It’s been abandoned so long that it’s not even on the current map. It’s strange for me to be surrounded by armored soldiers and uniformed officers while I hold court and direct them to Sterling Terrace. Paige and I are dwarfed by everyone, including the one female officer on the team. Once I’m done, David, the SWAT team, and the four uniformed officers come up with a plan.

  We return to the parking garage and wait by David’s blue Charger. Outside, a SWAT vehicle called a BearCat pulls up. It’s a four-wheeled armored vehicle that looks military ready. Two more black-and-whites and a Field Investigative Unit truck also join us before we head out.

  David arrives, carrying two ballistic vests with LAPD stamped across the heart. “You know how to put these on?”

  “We’ve got it,” I answer, taking the vests. Paige and I help each other zip up and strap in. When no one is looking, I help her holster her Glock into one of the vest pockets.

  “Can I admit something?” I ask her.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m glad you have the gun.”

  * * *

  Our convoy arrives at the chain-link fencing blocking access to the abandoned community of Sterling Terrace. A tactical officer cuts the lock with bolt cutters. Colorful bits of debris are pressed against the fence—red, lavender, yellow, and orange. A wind passes through the fence, sending a scattering toward us. Paper-thin and no bigger than potato chips, they float toward us and pass by the car.

  “What are those?” David asks.

  “Flower petals,” I answer, watching a handful drift past the window.

  Once the gate is opened, the convoy drives down the road over a floral path that has been laid out for us. As we approach the cul-de-sac, there is something decidedly different about the neighborhood from the last time we were here.

  Hundreds of Santa Muerte statues are arranged along the street. Porcelain figures of various shapes, sizes, and colors stand on every porch and clutter every yard. They even fill the island in the center of the neighborhood and surround the gazebo. Their skeletal faces seem to watch our slow-moving convoy as we proceed up the block.

  “What the hell is this?” David mutters.

  I exchange a look with Paige. “This wasn’t here before. Something’s not right.”

  “Which house?” he asks, ignoring my warning.

  I direct David to the last house on the top. The vehicles circle around the loop and park. My attention is drawn, again, to the center island. The gazebo is now fully decorated as a shrine to Santa Muerte. Fresh flowers have been strung on the posts. Glass containers hold votive candles. The stone fire pit has been cleaned of all graffiti. Statues stand on the perimeter, guarding the altar. And thousands of flower petals cover every inch of the area. Huge piles swell with each passing breeze as if emerging from the ground itself.

  “Stay here,” David warns as he exits the vehicle. He doesn’t go far but stands beside his car and directs the two officers from the second vehicle to remain stationed outside. All four uniformed officers arm themselves with shotguns and visually sweep the area for danger.

  “What do we think about all these statues?” Paige asks, looking around.

  “Nothing good,” I respond. My stomach groans in the anticipation that we’re walking into a trap. Something in my body is telling me we’re in trouble. “I think she’s here.”

  “Melchora or Santa Muerte? Shit—doesn’t matter. We should warn David,” Paige says as she watches four SWAT team members approach the front door. They signal to each other.

  I open the door and swing my legs out of the car. David turns to face me the moment I do. “I told you to stay inside.”

  “David, none of this was here before,” I say, standing. “They knew we were coming.”

  “Wait,” he says, holding a hand to stop me.

  The SWAT officer on point opens the door and sweeps his weapon as he enters. The other officers quickly follow to clear the inside of the house. They disappear inside. David waits patiently, a hand on his radio.

  I speak up again. “I’m worried this is a trap.”

  His radio crackles to life. “We’re all clear.”

  David looks around, assessing the situation. “Shit. Too late to back out now.” He waves to uniformed officers to follow, as well as the field investigative technicians. He turns to Paige. “Do you still have your gun?”

  She nods, patting the pocket of her vest. David waits. “Oh!” she chirps and pulls it out.

  He follows the team, and Paige and I follow him.

  “Finger off the trigger,” I remind her.

  The place is as it was before. Dirty. Dilapidated. Deserted. The tobacco spots remain on the dingy carpet—remnants of Detective Ed Snyder’s significant time spent here.

  Two things immediately throw me off. One, I can smell something cooking in the kitchen. And two, there’s no SWAT team here.

  One of the investigative technicians steps into the room and approaches the map on the wall. “Is this the map?”

  Brilliant detective work.

  David’s eyes and gun sweep the area. He searches for the rest of the team then sidles next to me. “Answer him casually,” he whispers to me as quietly as possible.

  “Yep. That’s the one.” I pull Paige close. The three of us take a defensive position—back-to-back-to-back.

  Oblivious, the technician continues to examine the map. He points. “That’s Detective Snyder’s place. Detective Brice. Lin. All here.”

  I peer into the kitchen. I can see a big pot on the burner. Something is boiling, and steam rises from inside.

  Two gunshots echo from outside the house. David rushes to the d
oor and carefully cracks it open. In the distance, I can see Hugo and a handful of other men marching down the road, armed with assault guns. Two officers lie dead on the ground.

  One guy aims, and a bullet splinters the doorframe. David ducks and slams the door shut. The rest of us hit the floor.

  “Shit.” He points at the female officer. “Watch the back.” He looks at the other officer. “Call for backup.”

  The second officer grabs his mic. “This is One-Adam-Fifty-Six. We’ve got two officers down at Sterling Terrace in Montecito Heights. Numerous assailants converging on remaining officers. Requesting immediate backup and helicopter unit!”

  The female officer shouts, “I see at least two more coming up the back!”

  The radio crackles to life. “Copy that, One-Adam-Fifty-Six. All units, we have a code three at Sterling Terrace…”

  David turns to me. “Other entrances?”

  I point through the kitchen.

  David gestures for the second officer to guard. He crawls toward the kitchen door. I look at the boiling pot. The steam rising from the top thickens then redirects itself through the air. It snakes its way toward the door. The vapor slowly begins to materialize into little ashen clouds. As I watch, the clouds turn into tiny feathers.

  Feathers. Shit.

  “No!” I slam the door shut. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The feathers puncture the door from the other side, their needlelike shafts barely penetrating the wood. The officer shoots me a look, and I shout, “Someone’s in there!”

  He quickly aims his gun at the door.

  I turn to Paige. “Melchora.”

  She visibly tenses, looking around. If Melchora’s here, there’s also a good chance Santa Muerte is here.

  Another technician shouts, “We’re surrounded!”

  I hear gunshots. Bullets fly into the house around us. Bits of wood spray across the room like confetti. Glass shards rain down on anyone unlucky enough to be near a window. We all dive and cover our heads. The moment the barrage ends, I rise and sprint for the stairs.

  “Darcy!” David shouts.

  More bullets fly through the first level as I race up the stairs and land face-first on the upstairs carpet. A bulky vest jabs my stomach. Under me is the dead body of a SWAT office, his open eyes frozen in horror. I look up and find the bodies of the three other SWAT officers on the carpet. Standing at the end of the hall is Melchora. She’s cloaked in her silvery gray feather cape. Her dark eyes stare at me.

  Still lying on my stomach, I wait for the sound of bullets to end downstairs. When they do, I make a T with my hands and call, “Time out.”

  Paige’s voice echoes from downstairs. “Darcy?”

  “I’m alive!” I shout as I stand and brush myself off. “Paige?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Run!”

  I can hear her swearing quietly and conferring with David.

  Gunfire erupts again from downstairs. This time, it sounds like we’re returning fire. Then there is more return gunfire from outside. Meanwhile, I stand here facing a witch, and I wish I were back downstairs.

  Melchora removes a handful of feathers from her cape. “You are difficult to kill, demon. I think, this time, I will not fail.” She cocks her arm, ready to launch the projectile.

  I slap myself hard. Melchora hesitates. She’s momentarily confused.

  I do it again. My open palm swings as hard as it can against my cheek. Come on, you little shit. You want to be free, Dudley, so come out and play.

  Again and again, I slap myself, trying to get my adrenaline pumping. Trying to get my pulse up. Trying to release the rage and anger inside me. Melchora watches, confused and delighted.

  Right hand. Left hand. I think about all the things that piss me off. Bennet’s death. My family banishing me. Lupe. Strike after strike leaves my face feeling hot and sore. My hearts beats harder, faster.

  “Enough!” She flings the feathers at me. Their needle-sharp shafts aim directly for my heart.

  “No!” I shout.

  Just like at Fiona’s home, a gust of wind blasts from my body. It funnels down the hall and disrupts the trajectory of the feathers, casting them aside. Their steely points impale themselves on the walls and floors around me. The air flows from my body and knocks Melchora on her back.

  Wind still blowing in her face, she scrambles to look at me. She screams. The sound of her screams and the blowing wind begin to muffle. I know this moment—the prelude to Dudley’s arrival. I must keep him close and also at bay—that fine line between control and chaos. I close my eyes.

  My memory shifts into overdrive, and I recall the words Fiona said when she tested me. Bhí an saol ina chalm.

  I say them over in my mind. Bhí an saol ina chalm.

  The noise returns and is no longer muted. I open my eyes. The wind continues to howl. “Bhí an saol ina chalm!” I shout.

  I’m still in control. I’m doing this. I march toward Melchora. The air intensifies as I get closer. It all concentrates on her.

  She scrambles to her feet and plants them firmly on the floor to resist my tempest. With a sneer in my direction, she vaults herself into the air and wraps her feathered cloak around her body. Midair, her body warps into a spiral. The hem of her cape expands, except it’s no longer a cape—it’s wings. In mere seconds, she transforms into an owl. Using the gust of air, she catches the wind and explodes out of the window behind her. Glass rains down as she disappears through the frame.

  I sprint for the window. The storm dissipates as I no longer focus on it. Through the broken glass, there is no sign of Melchora, only the house next door.

  My body is warm, but my heart is calm. I’m still in control, and I’m still me—but I’m not sure for how long.

  “Darcy!” shouts a voice behind me.

  David stands there, gun in hand. Paige is behind him, leaning against the wall, where a dozen feathers are impaled. She inspects the feathers.

  There’s no time to debate. Using all my strength, I take three running steps and launch myself through the open window. Without even an ounce of grace, I land on my shoulder. My body crashes on the porch roof of the house next door.

  I hear shouting in Spanish and turn to see Hugo aiming an assault rifle at me. Bullets whiz in my direction, peppering the shingles around me. Next to me is a second-story window, and I dive through it, broken glass scraping and cutting my skin. I brush off the bits embedded in me. Blood seeps from the wounds.

  An explosion rocks the walls around me. Through the window, I can see a fireball rising into the air, following by thick black smoke. It’s a war zone out there.

  I’m in an empty bedroom. There’s an open door to an empty bathroom and a closed door that presumably leads out of the room. I twist the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Something’s blocking it from the other side.

  My body is cooling, so I know I’m losing Dudley. I slap myself a few more times, but it’s not working. I’m running out of thoughts that will piss me off, as I’m focused on not getting shot. It’s going to take some next-level agitation to bring him out.

  I grab a piece of the broken window, take a deep breath, and slice it along my palm. Blood flows easily from the cut, and I clench my fist repeatedly. Each time I squeeze, the pain intensifies.

  My temperature rises. My pulse quickens. It’s flight-or-fight time. I use my strength to break through the door… which is a really stupid thing to do.

  My momentum carries me through the door and across a narrow hall. A weak wooden handrail is the only thing that could stop me from plummeting down to the first floor. It doesn’t. So I do.

  My body lands with a thud on the ground floor. Dust and debris erupt around me, momentarily clouding my vision. The dust settles, and I am horrified.

  There are crosses everywhere. Wood. Iron. Brass. Silver. With Jesus. Without. Crucifixes of every shape, size, and color surround me like a forest of toxic trees.

  Nausea hits me lik
e a truck. Unable to control myself, I gag and cough. The energy of the symbols radiates through me and instantly weakens me. I try to stand but can’t.

  This was the real trap. When I hear the cackling behind me, I know Melchora has defeated me. Using all my strength, I crawl. When I try to lift my head, it hurts.

  Melchora stands before me. Beside her is the flowing form of Santa Muerte. At this level, I can see the hem of her dress hovering inches off the ground. No feet underneath. No shoes. Just air. They stand amid the cloud of dust I created, with the light of the setting sun streaming through the picture window behind them.

  I thrust my hand into my pocket and clench the veil. I wrap it around my fist and lift my eyes to meet Santa Muerte. She’s two feet away. She has the answer to my final riddle. If I could just reach her…

  “It was a foolish thing to do,” the old witch hisses, “trying to come after me without Fiona to protect you.” Her hand sweeps around to the crosses. “The source of our power is your weakness. What makes us stronger kills you.”

  I summon the last of my strength and try to pounce on Melchora. Just as I rise, Santa Muerte pushes an iron cross on top of me. It slams against my back and flattens me against the floor. It feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds and burns like molten metal.

  I’m weak. The influence of the cross on top of me radiates into my being. Whatever strength is inside me is suffocated.

  In the distance, I can hear a few sputtering gunshots. From where I am lying, they sound like firecrackers. Melchora looks up, listening to the sporadic sounds. “It’s over. Your friend is dead. The police are almost all dead. You, soon, will be dead.”

  Paige. David.

  Melchora crouches down before me and plucks a feather from her cloak. This close, I can see it refract in the light that spills in through the windows. Its point is razor-sharp.

  I make my last plea for help. “Elizabeth,” I mutter.

  Melchora laughs. “Elizabeth?” she says, turning toward Santa Muerte. I crane my head up. The skeletal face looks at me with a blank expression from behind its draped hood.