by Ryan Calejo
Call it intuition, but the way the little punk said “friends” set off all sorts of alarm bells in my head. The floor began to rumble. Tiny fragments of loose bone leapt up around our sneakers, and from the wall of shadows behind the vampire emerged a horde of Okpe ogres—easily two or three thousand strong. Most rode those huge, husked hogs; some, armored llamas; but they all carried clubs and battle-axes and spiked iron maces. Something that wasn’t particularly comforting especially when you considered that we were already massively outnumbered. Being outweaponed as well only made the remote possibility of us surviving to see the next two minutes even more remote. Like, virtually nonexistent. A moment later what looked like a human hand skittered up beside the asema. At first I thought it was a spider, a great big black one, but no… it was a hand—an actual human hand! Hairy and calloused and severed at the wrist.
“Alas, but I am merely a tool,” said the vampire, grinning down at it. “Behold the architect of your demise!”
I recognized that hand. Vaguely. But from where…?
My pulse began to thud painfully in my ears. Then, like a bolt of lightning, my mind flashed on the visions I’d seen in Chiloé, in the Seeing Bowl: That was the hand I’d seen in the throne room—the hand that had killed the dude with the crown!
The asema must’ve read my face because it said, “¿Lo reconoce? How long has La Mano Peluda haunted your dreams?”
I blinked. La Mano Peluda? Why would he call that thing La Mano Peluda…?
Suddenly there was an itch at the back of my mind; a memory had been tickled… an old and almost forgotten legend, the story of a man who had been buried in a haunted cemetery, the story of a man whose hand had crawled out of the grave.
Had come back for revenge.
“No…,” I breathed. It couldn’t be—could it?
The asema was nodding now, urging me to put the pieces together, to get there already. And a split second later I did: La Mano Peluda wasn’t just the name of an organization; it wasn’t just the name given to a cabal of evil sombras who wanted to expand their dominion from the Land of the Dead into this world; it had been a person once—or part of one, anyway—and that person had inspired a legend, maybe the most terrifying one in the entire Spanish-speaking world.
The legend of La Mano Peluda. That thing’s legend.
* * *
My heart was now pounding like a hammer. My palms dampened with sweat, and as I wiped them over the pockets of my shorts, my eyes still glued to easily the most frightening and feared hand in all of human history, Joanna’s words echoed through my mind: The king was murdered by the necromancer’s own hand! Only he can resurrect my Philip now!
I thought back to the lienzo where I’d heard her say that, to the casket she’d been weeping over. The casket of King Philip. Then I thought back to the king I’d seen in the vision in the Seeing Bowl, the one who had been murdered by La Mano Peluda.
Both were kings.
Both were Spanish kings.
And they’d both been murdered. Coincidence? I didn’t so. And that’s when it all finally clicked together for me—todo. They weren’t two different kings—they were one and the same!
Which could mean only one thing.…
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
The asema began to clap its slender clawed hands together in mock applause, grinning wickedly. “¡Qué inteligente! I’m impressed!”
“Wait,” Violet said. “So that thing’s La Mano Peluda? And it’s the necromancer’s hand…?” When I nodded, she frowned and said, “But if that’s true, how was it resurrected? Even if all the bonds really have been broken, the sacrifice—that’d be you—still hasn’t been offered.”
The answer hit me even before she’d finished her question, my mind flashing on another vision I’d seen in the bowl: the hairy, severed hand being buried in a field I half recognized.
The field in Portugal! I nearly shouted as it hit me.
The one where we’d seen the first castell. The hand had been buried there… buried right under that awful castle of bones.
“Because Joanna hadn’t known about it,” I said out loud, feeling every inch of my skin prickle. “No one did. He must have buried his own hand before he got captured. It didn’t get put in any coffins. It didn’t get bound.”
“Muy bien,” the asema purred, those razor fangs stretching out of its smiling, lipless mouth. “When El Brujo felt your queen closing in, he hid his hand in a field to make sure there was a piece of him in this world that he could bring back at precisely the right time to orchestrate his grand plan. And that time is now.”
“But why now?” Violet asked. “Why did he wait so long?”
“Because not until recently did we learn the whereabouts of all four coffins. Not until recently has La Liga experienced a bit of—¿cómo se dice?—trouble keeping their secrets secret.” Its poisonous blue eyes narrowed on me. “Ah, but our scheming did not end there.… No, you see, in order for our plan to be completely foolproof, we required someone to watch over you, someone who could make sure you made it to this place alive and unharmed and well prepared for sacrifice. We required someone with a reputation, someone who could—eventually and believably—worm their way into your hearts.” The asema’s eyes flicked to Saci. “Ay, Saci Pererê—there you are! Ven aquí, ven aquí, don’t be shy now.… Claim your reward.”
I turned to Saci. “Dude, what’s he talking about?”
But Saci didn’t respond. Wouldn’t even look at me. Instead he hopped slowly over to the grinning, gloating asema, who handed him an old scroll tied with a red ribbon.
“The deed to the finest sugarcane farm in el mundo entero,” said the vampire. “Six thousand six hundred acres already planted with every species of sugarcane know to mankind and dozens found only in the deepest of sombra wood.”
I could feel my jaw hanging, my eyes bulging as I stared at Saci, shocked beyond words. Beyond thoughts. I mean, was this actully happening right now?
“You’ve been playing us this whole time, haven’t you?” Violet said to Saci. “You wanted us to capture you. That’s why you pranked us in the first place, why you took our egg.” Her voice trembled with anger, with disbelief, as she said, “You tricked us.”
Saci, meanwhile, hadn’t even looked up. He hadn’t made a single sound or spoken a single word, but he didn’t have to. His silence said more than words ever could.
The asema, now laughing its fangs off, turned its fierce gaze on me. “La niña is quite right… this has all been an elaborate show. And I do hope you have enjoyed it. Because it is now time for the final act—time for you to die.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
Espere un momentito,” Joanna said, her voice ringing loud and clear through the dark castle. “Before you spill el niño’s blood and raise your master, I have something I’d like to share. While it is true that La Liga has, in more recent times, been experiencing a problem with traitors, we do still have quite a number of allies, which means that we see much and hear even more. And while you were busy scheming, so were we. You could say that we knew vaguely of your intentions… that we had an idea as to what was in your mind. Or you could say that we knew exactly what you and your cohorts were planning… that every single move you made, from capturing me in my study to leading Charlie through South and Central America, breaking the elemental bonds, were moves we allowed you to make, moves we wanted you to make, and that, very much like you, we have been simply biding our time, awaiting this grand reveal.” The asema’s eyes, now widening with shock, focused on Joanna as she said, “You should also know that, again, like you, we haven’t schemed alone.”
No sooner had she spoken those words than a deafening neigh split the air, followed by the thunderous clatter of hooves. I whirled as a rider charged up the bony staircase behind us: a headless figure clad in black-as-night armor—El Justo Juez. Columns of thick, dark smoke trailed back from his horse’s fiery nostrils as he galloped past me, pulling up next to Joanna and turni
ng to face the asema and the Okpe hordes.
Oh, heck yeah! Now we were talking.…
But the best part? He wasn’t alone.
A split second later El Cadejo came bounding up the castell along with Juan the basajaun and at least five hundred basajauns in full battle armor; they looked like an army of blond-furred yetis with silver breastplates, enormous broadswords, and tiny (at least in basajaun terms) wooden daggers strapped to their impossibly long, impossibly muscular legs. Juan, I knew, was one of the smartest and fiercest warriors that had ever lived. He’d fought alongside La Liga for decades, and Joanna trusted him so much she’d basically made him her personal bodyguard (even when she was on her “official” duties as president of Spain). He’d also nearly single-handedly fought off an entire clan of weather fairies back in Compostela de Santiago, and if that didn’t prove just how tough the dude was, then nothing would.
“V, we’re about to own Mr. Mosquito and his piggies!” I shouted.
And I believed it, too. At least until I glanced over my shoulder and saw the largest pack of lobisomem I’d ever seen come streaming up the same bony staircase in a blur of fur and teeth.
Worse, they were being led by none other than those terrifying lobisomem priests—Los Embrujados!
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
Panic rose in my throat so thick I could almost taste it. And for the record, it tasted terrible. Whirling back around, I opened my mouth, preparing to shout a warning to Juan and the others, when I got the shock of a lifetime: The werewolves didn’t attack the basajauns—no, they fell into rank beside them. Like they were on the same team. Like we all were.
Yep, something totally loco is going on here.…
“You’ve put on quite the show, vampiro,” Joanna said with a wry smile, “but it seems the show was even more elaborate than you knew.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I shouted, raising my hands. “Everyone just hold your horses.… How can the lobisomem be on our side? They were trying to EAT ME!”
Joanna smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry for any scare they might have caused you, Charlie—I will explain later. But for now, rest assured that they won’t bite—at least not you.”
Just then the witch Zarate cleared her throat and marched over to “our side,” bringing her peacock along with her. As she turned now to face the asema and the rest of them, she gave me a small nod and smiled. I smiled back, thinking it wouldn’t be too bad to have the kooky bruja with the awful temper on our team.
“Oh, and of course we’ve had our own spies as well,” the queen said to the vampire.
For a second I was tempted to shout, “BOOM! Mic drop!” but I decided to hold off on any celebrations. For the moment, anyway.
The asema grinned, but his face was as hard as stone. His eyes had begun to pulse, alternating in color from that hazy, poisonous blue to a deep dark red. “I see you have managed to open El Muro de Partición, which means you found La Catrina’s fingers. A pity, really, because we took such great care to avoid this very inconvenience. There is only one other entrance into the castle, the one Saci was supposed to lead the boy through and which we had heavily guarded.” The asema looked even more furious than he had moments ago, yet his grin widened. “Congratulations on figuring out a way to get your army in here. You have always been a worthy adversary, Juana. Quite worthy. Unfortunately, all your grand scheming has been for naught.…”
Suddenly a series of torches flamed up in the recesses of the castle. Harsh green light flooded the room, chasing away the shadows and revealing what appeared to be an innumerable swarm of muertos vivientes—zombies. They crowded the stadium-size space from end to end and as far back as the torchlight reached. Growling and hissing, their scraggly, emaciated bodies lumbered and lurched as they marched forward, their pupil-less glassy eyes reflecting the soullessness within.
“Dead things are notoriously difficult to kill,” said the asema haughtily, “but I’m sure I will enjoy seeing all of you try. Let us not stand on ceremony—shall we?”
Joanna whirled to Violet and me and said, “Find La Mano Peluda. It controls los muertos vivientes. If you destroy the puppeteer, his puppets will cease to be.”
I looked around for the hand and saw it was gone; so were the anchimayen and El Nguruvilu. I guess everyone was happy to let the zombies do their dirty work.
“It fled up into the catacombs,” the queen said, “but it cannot go far from its army.”
Violet tapped Juan on his side. “Can I borrow that?” she asked, pointing at the small wooden dagger strapped to his leg.
He handed it over, and the moment it changed hands, I saw just how “small” it was—the thing was probably as long as my leg. Looked wicked sharp, too.
“Go now!” Joanna shouted. “¡Y apuracen!”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
There was a shadowy opening in the wall to our right, and we took off into it, following a twisting maze of halls that gradually spiraled upward, slowing only to peek into the rooms we passed to make sure the hand wasn’t hiding inside. As we raced along, I could hear the sounds of battle reverberating through the castle—shrieks and howls, the high, clear ringing of steel. They rattled through the bones that made up the castle floors, making it shudder beneath our pounding feet. Three floors up, the walls that blocked the view of the altar room below had sort of crumbled away, and as we ran I looked down to see a terrifying sight—well, it wasn’t exactly terrifying at first. At first it looked like La Liga was kicking butt. Directly below me, I could see El Cadejo tearing through the ranks of zombies in a flash of teeth and bursts of dazzling white light that rippled off its coat, exploding through the ranks of the undead like shock waves and sending dozens tumbling into the shadows; to my left, the basajaun and lobisomem clans had formed battle lines and were advancing on the Okpes, smashing through their heavy rock armor with claws and swords and tackling the ogres off their hogs. On the far side of the altar, galloping through the center of the zombie horde, El Justo Juez swung a sword the size of an SUV and his massive, armored horse shot hellfire out of its nostrils, while Joanna, Zarate and, of course, Zarate’s peacock unleashed great blasts of blinding light that cut through the marching muertos like molten laser beams, searing flesh and sending up thick columns of oily gray smoke. But the problem was—the terrifying part was—as I watched, I realized that each time they downed a zombie—it didn’t matter if they’d blasted it or stabbed the thing—it wasn’t long (maybe eight or nine seconds) before the zombie would just get back up again, pick up its arm or leg or head off the ground, reattach it, and then go right back to fighting. And this happened every time. Every single time. Those things simply refused to die! Well, die again…
“We have to hurry!” I shouted to Violet. And we’d made it probably another five or six floors up when we came around a bend and had to skid to a stop—
Standing in the middle of the corridor, towering almost as high as the bony ceiling itself, was an Okpe ogre—and not just any Okpe: It was the same ogre that had “saved” me from the lobisomem back in Argentina. His rocky armor shone faintly in the greenish torchlight. His fleshy piglike face crumpled into a snarl as he reached up to grab the large metal box on his humped back. The box—which was a sort of cage Okpes transported kidnapped children in—was attached to a heavy metal chain wrapped around one of the ogre’s wart-marked forearms.
“You again,” I breathed.
The ogre’s misshapen piggish mouth pulled open in what I guess was supposed to be a smirk but was much too hideous to actually be considered one.
“V, stand back,” I shouted, squatting into my fiercest-looking ninja pose. “I got this.…” Then I gave the waistband of my Power Ranger’s undies a lucky rub, shouted, “IT’S MORPHIN’ TIME!” (which just so happened to be one of my favorite superhero catchphrases), and began concentrating like I’d never concentrated before in my life. I imagined horns and claws and fangs. Even that freakish crustacean-like hand thingy I’d manifested thanks to La
Cuca feeding me poisoned lobster bisque. Basically anything I could use to teach this overgrown boulder a lesson. I was hoping to morph at least a couple of them. Hey, the ogre was ginormous, after all. Not to mention rock-plated. But for all my concentrating, for all my imagining and visualizing and praying (yeah, I was silently doing plenty of that, too), what I actually ended up manifesting was a big steaming platter of nada! I didn’t feel the slightest change.…
The Okpe, of course, being the big jerk that he was, let out this huge earth-rumbling chuckle. You would’ve thought me failing to manifest anything was the funniest thing he’d seen in his entire life.
“NOT MORPHIN’ TIME!” he roared mockingly. “BUAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAA!”
And that ticked me off. “Hey, you watch your mouth, piglet! I’m a one-man ZOO over here! I’m just having a little trouble unleashing my—my inner animal at the moment.…”
Grinning now, the Okpe unwound a long length of chain, letting the steel box hang by his knees for a moment before beginning to swing it in a tight circle at his side. The box whistled through the air as the ogre, still eyeing me, whispered, “Corran”—i.e. run. Only without actually giving us a chance to, he swung the chain so that the box came arching down in a screaming blur. Violet and I dove out of the way as it slammed into the ground between us. Chunks of bone flew everywhere; the hall shook.
As I rolled to one knee, I saw Violet raise the dagger, and the ogre’s murky green eyes instantly flicked in her direction. There was a loud jangling sound as he gave the chain a vicious yank, and the box went tumbling along the ground.
When it rolled past her, I thought he’d missed—or messed up.
But then the ogre yanked on the chain again, and this time it swept up and out like a jump rope, catching Violet across the back of the knees and sweeping her legs out from under her. She landed hard on her back, the dagger clattering to the floor.