by G S Fortis
“She’s dangerous, Darcy” he says. “A ruthless, manipulative, evil, and incredibly smart woman who won’t let anything stand in her way… No one in law enforcement has even set eyes on her—she stays in that compound twenty-four seven.”
No, that can’t be. Leona was the housemaid killed by Santa Muerte, and Carmen was the mother trying to save her child. Right? Then the family photos come back to me, again.
These are posed portraits, assembled to show a family. Curiously, they don’t show the entire family together.
What proof do I have that Carmen was actually Elizabeth’s mother? Who, then, is Carmen? Who is the woman hiding from Santa Muerte at the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels? I remember what Fiona said when I reported back to her about Carmen.
“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.”
If Carmen wasn’t protecting herself from Santa Muerte, could she have been protecting herself from me? That’s only possible if she knew I had a demon inside me—and only Santa Muerte and Melchora knew that.
Was Carmen working with them? Melchora was in command of Santa Muerte, right? Again, I hear Fiona’s words echoing in my ear.
“Frankly, I’m surprised Melchora is able to wield such magic,” Fiona says. “I didn’t think she was that powerful a witch.”
“Some spells are so powerful that two or more witches are needed to harness the energy.”
“Two or more witches,” Fiona said. That can’t be. How can that be? Then there was that other thing Fiona said:
“My mother. She was a very powerful witch herself, and she taught me everything she knew.”
Then I remember Carmen’s words.
“My mother,” Carmen says proudly. “She taught me everything I know.”
Oh shit…
* * *
“Darcy!”
Paige’s screaming in my ear jolts me from my thoughts. A car zooms by on the left, honking its horn in frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Paige asks, concerned.
“Elizabeth’s mom,” I answer slowly.
“Carmen?”
“No,” I say. “Leona.”
Paige looks at me quizzically. Then she registers what I’m suggesting. “No. That can’t be.”
“Carmen was a facade. An actress pretending to be the head of the cartel. She was a smokescreen in case the feds were going to bust Leona or a rival cartel was going to assassinate her. But Leona… she was the real leader. She was the real wife of Marcos Viramontes, who inherited his empire. The real mother of Elizabeth. The real Vibora Negra. No one knew what the real woman looked like. David said it himself—no one’s ever seen her. But he was wrong. Everyone had seen her. Everyone had spoken to her. It was Leona talking directly to the police to make a deal for herself the whole time!”
Paige speaks hesitantly. “Then… then who took Elizabeth?”
“It was Carmen’s plan. She found out Leona was going to make a deal with the DEA and had Elizabeth kidnapped to put a stop to it—Carmen, Hugo, and Melchora working together.” My mind shifts into overdrive as I put the pieces together. “Not only did taking Elizabeth stop Leona’s plan, but it also provided a body for Santa Muerte to possess. That was Melchora’s doing. A two-for-one deal. It wasn’t enough to stop Leona—they also needed to kill the investigators involved in the deal and stop any rivals from taking over during the power vacuum.”
“Like Yury.” Paige is catching up.
“Exactly. Yury knew Elizabeth was gone, and he intended to move into her business the moment Leona went down. The business was vulnerable. Carmen had to make sure that didn’t happen and used Elizabeth—Santa Muerte—to make it happen.”
“My God. Then Elizabeth killed her own mother.”
I nod, remembering the ghost of Leona and the look on her face. She must have known, in the end, who was about to kill her. I then recall Carmen’s crocodile tears when we went to tell her Elizabeth was gone. I remember Paige, David, and I trying to console her.
I turn to Paige. “It’s not over. She’s not done.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was trying to kill everyone involved in the case. That means…”
“David,” Paige finishes.
I pull out my cell phone and dial David. Not waiting for him to pick up, I put the car into gear and start heading east.
“You’ve reached David Resnick with the Los Angeles Police Department. Please leave a message after the beep.” Beep.
“David!” I yell into the phone. “That woman at the church, Carmen, is not Elizabeth’s mom. Call me back. And be careful!” I hang up and toss my phone to Paige. “Keep calling.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, dialing again.
“To the police department.”
I floor my little Mini and head east. The Central Police Station is clear across town, twenty miles. That’s a relatively short distance, but it could take me an hour to get there from the Palisades. As I race through the dark and winding Sunset Boulevard, part of me hopes a cop will spot me and pull me over. At least then I could get a hold of David.
No such luck. We merge onto the 405 and navigate through the late-night commuters clogging the freeway.
Paige has no luck calling David on his cell, so she finally breaks down and calls the dispatch at the department. She pleads with them to get a hold of him, and after ten minutes of negotiating, they finally tell her they can’t reach him either.
“Where do you think he is?” she asks.
I don’t answer, but I have a theory. I make it to downtown in record time and take the Temple Street exit. This drops me off right next to the Cathedral.
My heart sinks when it turns out that my theory is correct. A blue Charger is parked across the street. David’s car.
My tires screech as I pull up behind it and shut off the engine. There’s no sign of David through his rear window. Muffled gunshots echo from the Cathedral across the street. Without hesitating, Paige swings open the passenger door and sprints across the street toward the church.
“Wait!” I yell, but the sound of my voice doesn’t travel as fast as Paige does.
I whip open my door—only to have it crunch against the curb. Shit. Paige is already up the steps and disappearing into the courtyard. I drag my body over the passenger seat and tumble into the street. A passing sedan nearly clips me as I struggle to regain my balance.
A few yards down, I see the panel van parked by the curb—police surveillance. As fast as I can, I sprint to the driver’s-side window and start banging on it. “Open! It’s Darcy! Detective Resnick is in trouble!”
There’s no answer. That’s not good. I circle around to the sliding door and yank it open. I poke my head inside, and more of my worst fears are realized. Two dead detectives lie inside, their hearts ripped out.
Santa Muerte is back.
I look down the street at the marked and unmarked police cars stationed around the Cathedral. I have no doubt the other officers have suffered the same fate. I crawl into the van, check the waist of the closest detective, and unholster his sidearm. Then I grab an extra magazine and stuff it into my back pocket.
I race across the empty street toward the Cathedral then slide to a stop. My toes meet the boundary of the church grounds, where an actual seam is carved into the surrounding sidewalk. At my feet, I find a metal placard: Right to Pass by Permission and Subject to Control of Owner.
I can already feel the nausea growing. The holy force field around the property repels me like the wrong poles of a magnet. I look through the open gate into the empty plaza. Paige didn’t pack her gun tonight. She’s in there, completely defenseless. And David—poor David—probably got lured into a trap. And Fathe
r Ramon… Please, God, let him be okay.
More gunshots ring out. There isn’t a single pedestrian in earshot, and a handful of cars zip by with their windows up, none the wiser. There are thirteen million people in the Greater Los Angeles Area, and it’s my luck that none of them are nearby tonight.
I pull out my cell phone and dial 911.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” answers a woman’s voice.
“Yes, I’d like to report gunshots at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels.”
“You’re hearing loud bangs?”
“No, gunshots! As in, someone is shooting a gun in the church! Please send the police here as soon as possible!”
“And what is your name?”
Two more gunshots ring out.
All I can think about is that all my favorite people in the world are hurt, or worse, and I’m standing out here, dealing with customer service. Despite knowing the agony that awaits me on the other side of this perimeter, I can’t wait here any longer.
I drop the phone, hoping they’ll put a trace on it. Steeling myself, I step over the seam that marks the boundary of the church grounds and pass under the archway that supports the carillon bells.
I vibrate as I trespass farther into hallowed ground. The air pressure tightens around my entire body, weighing down on me. Each step is like marching through water. Not willing to admit defeat, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl up the stairs to the plaza. My right hand keeps a firm grasp on the pistol.
Pressure turns to heat. A burning sensation radiates from within my body. It’s a sear—a fire that wants to tear its way out of me and escape this place. A fire named Dudley. I can feel him festering inside me. He’s in pain, probably more pain than I’m in. I worry that the moment I let him have control, he’ll flee this place and take my body with him. I cannot let him. I won’t.
With my eyes shut in agony, I finally reach the top of the steps. I’m well onto church grounds. My head throbs with a weapons-grade migraine. I vomit on the granite ground. I take deep breaths, trying to control myself—trying to control Dudley.
The burning intensifies. The gun becomes too hot to hold, and I let it clatter to the ground. Still on my knees, I tear off my jacket, hoping that might alleviate the fiery pain and let the heat escape. It doesn’t. The fire moves from inside my chest to my skin. I look at my arms, expecting to see blisters forming.
Instead, I see something else. My arteries pulse with a radiant orange blood that courses from my heart. Tiny rivers of vibrant magma flow beneath my skin and through my arms. My hands glow like red-hot irons where the blood vessels concentrate. On the tips of my fingers, black talons have replaced my nails.
As I twist and stretch my arms to inspect my transformation, my arm begins to hyperextend. My elbow pops and cracks as my forearm bends unnaturally and my hand inches toward my triceps. Inside the taut sleeve of my skin, my hand rotates at the wrist until I’m grabbing the underside of my own arm. There’s no discomfort, but the shock of seeing this contortion causes me to convulse in revulsion. My arm snaps back to its original articulation.
I look down at my chest. The area beneath my breast emits a bright orange light. With each heartbeat, more radiant blood pulses through my body. With each heartbeat, more power flows. This is it. This is Dudley.
I’ve never been conscious long enough to see this transformation. Somehow, despite the pain and fatigue, I am still me. I think about how Fiona said all I needed was to believe I could control it.
I remember how Father Ramon said, “The question is, how do you control yourself?”
I have to find a way. I close my eyes and focus on what has brought me this far. Paige. Ramon. David. They are not just my friends—they are my family. They are my life. I cannot let them down. If Dudley wins, they’re lost.
I scream, channeling all my rage and frustration and letting it out. My roar echoes off the high-rises that surround me, reverberating across the entirety of Downtown Los Angeles.
I consider my hands again. Yes, Dudley is out. The agony that overwhelmed me moments ago is now manageable. The demon has come to fruition… but I am in control.
I look up. Before me is a fountain, raised above the ground like a floating disc. Water spills over all sides. And on the edge, someone lies in black priest robes. The water that flows around his motionless body is dyed red with blood.
Father Ramon?
I steel myself and rise to my feet. My body aches all over—my hands, my legs, my chest, my back. But no amount of pain or nausea can stop me from sprinting to him.
When I reach the body, I realize it’s not Father Ramon. It’s another priest, an innocent victim. In his chest is a deep black hole. His heart lies in the fountain beside him, staining the water red as it spills over the side.
My attention is drawn to the Cathedral. High on the wall, panels of translucent alabaster extend from the facade like a giant geometric bay window. The glass panes surround an architectural cross made of the same sand-colored concrete as the rest of the structure. Warm light projects into the night sky like a beacon. Another source of light spills out from the cracks of the closed double doors that mark the entrance to the Cathedral.
I summon all my strength and return to retrieve the pistol I left on the ground. The heat from my hand warped the plastic grip. When I try the trigger, it’s jammed. With so many polymer parts inside, there’s no telling what I melted while holding it.
Dudley is the only weapon I need right now, so I toss the useless gun aside and march toward the church. With each step, the pain intensifies. I reach the double doors. Strange symbols are carved on the bronze surface—cryptic cyphers I don’t have time to identify. My hands press against the doors and push them open to reveal the entryway of the church.
I make my way inside. Three pairs of glass double doors stand before me. All are shattered, and glass shards lie scattered on the ground. My boots crunch over the bits of glass as I cross the threshold. The pain worsens. I worry that at any given moment, I will collapse to the ground and explode into a ball of flames.
I push myself forward, deep into the church corridor. On either side of it hang enormous paintings in gilded frames. One is of the Virgin Mary looking over the California Missions. Another depicts Jesus’s ascension.
A loud bang reverberates behind me. I whirl around to find that the double bronze doors have slammed shut by themselves, trapping me inside. I have an idea who did this.
“Welcome, Darcy,” a soothing voice purrs.
I recognize that voice. Carmen. She’s nowhere to be seen, but I find Santa Muerte hovering at the end of the hall. She stares at me with her dark hollow eyes.
“Have you come to pray at the altar?” rings Carmen’s disembodied voice. “Have you come to join your friends?”
Santa Muerte drifts away and disappears down an adjacent corridor. This is bait, and I know it, but it’s bait I have to take. I walk down the long corridor.
On the right, I find what I initially assume is an alcove but then realize is the first entrance into the nave of the structure. My view of it is blocked by a stone wall that guides visitors inside.
Instead of following Santa Muerte, I proceed to the hall, thinking perhaps I can intercept her. I step cautiously in and up. The interior of the church is massive. A ceiling of slatted wood rises a hundred feet into the air. The same sand-colored blocks that form the outside make up the walls inside the cathedral. Huge tapestries depicting dozens of Catholic saints are draped on all sides. The only light in here is from the hundreds of lit candles in various corners and the glowing alabaster windows that form the architecture cross high on the back wall.
The altar sits in the center of the sanctuary—a huge slab of bloodred marble set on a black-and-gold pillar. Behind the altar stands the crucifix, planted firmly on the floor.
The figure of the Christ moves, and I stop. It’s not Christ. Father Ramon is on the crucifix.
The pain is no match for my worry now. I sprint down the ramp to make my way deeper inside. On the stone floor is the bronze Jesus that once hung on the cross. Blood drips from where Father Ramon’s arms and bare feet are nailed to the wood. Instead of nails, the length of his arms and legs are embedded with metallic feathers, like those from Melchora’s robes, except instead of silver, these feathers are gold.
“Ramon?” I ask, worried.
I instinctively place my hand on his bloody foot. There’s a burning shock the moment I make contact, and my glowing hand recoils.
His body spasms. His head rolls toward me, and his eyes flutter open. “Darcy?”
I force myself not to touch him. If only I could help get him down. If only I could comfort him. Save him.
He smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again soon.”
I shake my head. “No.” God, please, not him.
A sharp blast of wind passes by my ear. Something rushes past me and plunges itself into his heart. Another gold feather.
I spin around to find Carmen at the far end of the cathedral some two hundred feet away. Like Melchora, she’s draped in a cape formed from hundreds of feathers—golden feathers that shimmer in the light. She stands there, and even at this distance, I can see her smiling. My attention returns to Ramon. His head droops, and his eyes close one last time.
“No!” I shout, and now the tears come.
“Welcome, demon,” Carmen says behind me. “I see you’ve found your true form.”
When I turn to face her, she looks me over with a smile, her eyes admiring me. “I heard so much about you. I didn’t think it could be true, but here you are, the picture of evil in the house of God.”
I carefully move toward her, knowing that a trap lies here somewhere. As I walk, I scan the area for Santa Muerte. She’s nowhere to be found.