Shadow Play

by Domino Finn

  There were auras around the jars. These weren't the signatures of spellcraft, they were beings. Faint, but visible enough against the emptiness. I examined the glass prisons, searching for differences, for identifiers of any kind.

  It was useless, though. Nothing distinguished the spirit in one jar from another. Perhaps I should've been more prepared before coming in here.

  One glass jar with a long, slender shape rose from the table on its own. Ruffled white paper covered the opening, sealed with a red string. It drifted through the air toward me. The santero watched in horror as the wraith materialized in place, gently carrying the jar.

  "I have her, Master."

  Out of dozens of containers, there was nothing special about this one. Even gazing at it individually, it didn't stand out. The same as the others. My eyes met the Spaniard's, glowing orbs of red within hollow sockets.

  "She's in there?"

  He nodded.

  The santero threw his hands in the air. "How should I know? That's an old one. You want it? You got it. On the house. I won't fight you."

  I tightened my jaw. "You sure won't."

  Glass popped behind him, then in the corner, then along the wall. One by one the shadows crushed his carefully constructed cages. The man cried out, watching his life's work spiriting away. He made an attempt to stand, to save his livelihood, but cowered when I stepped forward. The santero was a player in a dangerous game. It was about time he saw his competition.

  After the jars were no more, after the last shard of glass settled on the floor, when the only sounds in the basement were the pathetic whimpers of a broken man, I slowly approached him, boots crunching in the darkness.

  "I don't want to see you in any more cemeteries," I warned him.

  The man didn't answer.

  "You know what will happen if I have to come back?"

  The santero remained on his knees and nodded.

  "Master," intoned my companion. "He is dangerous alive."

  I moved to the stairs and retrieved my sister's jar from him. "I might need to talk to him later."

  The wraith scoffed. "You know as well as I that this man knows nothing. He is inconsequential."

  "All the more reason to let him be."

  The apparition's eyes flashed and he vanished from sight. Touchy. I started up the stairs.

  The scraping of bare feet over glass caught my ear. I turned in time to see the man recover his pistol. I shot my left hand forward, invoking a shield, but the santero didn't aim for me. He turned the gun on himself, held it to his head. Sweat rolled down his crazed face.

  His lips mouthed silent words and he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 17

  The body of the santero hit the floor. A jet of blood gushed from his head and pooled beneath him. It happened so quickly. One second, a defensive scumbag. The next, a nameless corpse. I couldn't help but shiver.

  I took a single step down but realized it was pointless. I couldn't help the man. I couldn't call the police either. Worse, someone might have heard the gun. I raced upstairs and out of the house. I wanted to jump in a truck, a car, something, but we were alone, without a ride. I bolted down the block, hoping no one was watching.

  "Damn it," I said. More running. "Damn it."

  Even though I couldn't see him, the Spaniard spoke, his disembodied voice keeping stride with me. "Do not mourn the soul catcher."

  "He's dead."

  "Men who lose their livelihood do desperate things."

  "He didn't have to—"

  I stopped to take in oxygen. To breathe and check my surroundings. Then I backtracked. I'd passed the street. Almost forgotten where I had to go.

  "The cemetery," I reminded myself. "Seleste."

  It was nearly twilight, the brief period between day and night when the barrier between our world and the Murk was weakest. If I had any chance of glimpsing my sister, it was then.

  My breath gave out as I made it to Saint Martin's. The grounds were closed at this hour. Cemeteries always were. I waited at the iron gate.

  "It is time," said the wraith. "We should go."

  "You're not going anywhere. This is a private affair."

  "But you may need me. I can assure your sister's safe passage, if necessary."

  I sneered. "You can't even earn my trust."

  A floating skull appeared in the darkness, bobbing left and right. "Whatever do you mean, Master?"

  "I'm not your master and you're not a genie. You can keep your three wishes and shove them."

  "But I—"

  "You didn't have to kill him," I said forcefully.

  The Spaniard waited a moment before responding. "The soul catcher killed himself."

  I shook my head. "Right before he pulled the trigger, he mouthed the words 'Help me.' You did that to him."

  After more silence, the apparition audibly sighed. "I did what you should have done."

  "He wasn't a killer."

  "In many ways, being a slave is worse than death. I would expect you to understand this more than most."

  I gritted my teeth. "I wasn't just a slave. They killed me. They made me kill others. My family. The people I'm taking out deserve it."

  "As did the soul catcher. Do not forget what fate he meant for your sister. It was a slow oblivion."

  I didn't know what the santero had deserved. Maybe the wraith was right. But I wasn't keen on the idea of palling around with a homicidal specter.

  "What about me?" I asked. "Will you kill me as well?"

  "You do not entrap me," he answered.

  "But I hold the Horn."

  "You are the bearer, yes. But you did not create it. You did not bespell me. I harbor no ill will for your part."

  I wasn't relieved. The etched bones of the wraith's face were hard to read. His intentions were too muddled. Too self-serving.

  As if he could read my mind, he said, "You have killed many yourself. Does that make you a killer?"

  "Doesn't it?"

  "Perhaps semantically, but there is a difference between killing and murder."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  The floating skull disappeared. Beyond the gate, the full figure of the Spaniard materialized. "The sun has nearly set, brujo. It is now or never."

  "I don't need you."

  "You might. Remember, it is not yourself that you risk, but your sister's eternal being."

  I pouted. I was used to winning arguments, but the conquistador was talking circles around me. I squeezed the glass jar at my side.

  "Fine," I said. "But stay back and stay quiet."

  I phased into the dying shadow and passed through the metal gate.

  "As you say," returned the wraith.

  I skirted carefully around the family plot. Since my father's near escape from the grave, things had been quiet here. Still, was that worthy of a sign? Five days without a supernatural accident. It wasn't encouraging. No, this trauma was a bad aftertaste. It was understandable to be a little gun-shy around the old man.

  I knelt on all fours over Seleste's grave and set the jar down. I didn't have a lot of experience in the area, but I knew what I had to do. It was simple, really. I'd already freed dozens of spirits back at the santero's house. I just wanted to make sure this one found its way.

  "Are you really in there?" I asked, staring at the lackluster aura within the glass.

  I dug a small hole above the grave and placed the dirt on the paper cap of the jar. I hoped the soil would ground her to the spot. Help guide her.

  "I'm sorry, Seleste. For everything that's happened. I wish I could've done better."

  I pressed the dirt through the paper. It ripped open. The bottom of the jar held the soil until I upturned it into the hole in the ground. The aura of the jar faded, then nothing more. I knelt there for a minute, frowning.

  "That's it?" I asked.

  "She is free," said the specter behind me.

  "You know that?"

  The Spaniard cocked his head. "Without a doubt." />
  I studied his expression. His gaze was fixed on a point past me. At a point beside the headstones. "Wha—"

  "I can see them. Your father and sister, reunited."

  I fell backward into a sitting position, overwhelmed. The empty space loomed like something heavy. "I wish I could see it."

  The wraith grinned and leaned in. "Would you like to?"

  "You can do that?"

  "I can open the Murk to you. As a personal favor. One of three."

  "Do it," I said. "Quickly."

  Rotten fingers clutched my head and shoved me hard to the ground. My crown bumped against my sister's gravestone. I stood, ready to fight back, but realized the setting was different now. I was still in a graveyard, but everything looked off. Twisted. Timeless.

  The Murk.

  As illuminating as it was, I didn't worry about the details of where I was, because standing beside me were my father and sister, locked in a heartfelt embrace. It wasn't a horror show. They weren't ghostly essences or mutilated corpses. It was them. My family.

  "Dad! Seleste!"

  I instinctively went to hug them, surprised at the contact my hands made. I could touch them. Feel them. They opened their arms and took me in. I buried my face into them, crying.

  "I knew you would come," said my father. "I waited a long time."

  "I'm sorry, Dad," said my sister. Tears of joy streamed down her face. "I was held prisoner. Trapped—"

  "No need," he said. "Forget your past troubles. You're here now."

  I pulled away, taking as much of them in as I could, knowing this moment would be fleeting. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

  Seleste smiled. "I never gave up hope, Cisco."

  I searched for approval on my father's face. "I told you I could help, Dad."

  He nodded gruffly. "You have helped enough, Francisco." It wasn't approval but it wasn't disdain. Compared to being smothered in dirt, I could live with that.

  "I want you to know," I told them. "It wasn't me in there. It wasn't me with the knife."

  My father gazed into the distance, only half listening. "I'm tired, my son. It has been a long day."

  He began to fade, and Seleste with him.

  "Wait," I cried. "Come back!"

  My father disappeared with unnerving suddenness. Seleste, however, shone brighter and smiled at me.

  "It was a vampire," I explained. "He killed me. Got his hooks into me."

  "I don't blame you," she said as sweetly as she'd ever said anything in her life. "I knew it wasn't you the second I saw your eyes. They were cold and disconnected."

  I shook my head. "I don't remember."

  "You came into the house. Very urgently. You rounded us up, asking about something."

  "I know. It was the Horn, a Taíno artifact some bad people were looking for. It was hidden from them. That's why they did this to us."

  My sister glanced at the Horn in my belt. "That wasn't what you asked about. It was our abuela's family album. The one Mom kept."

  I furrowed my brow. "I asked about pictures?"

  "No. The family history."

  I remembered. "The genealogy. Why would I have wanted that?"

  "I don't know, Cisco. But you weren't yourself. You were being rude. Physical. Dad tried to stop you and you stabbed him. And then..."

  Her face contorted as she pictured the scene. Just that expression alone drilled into my soul. "It's okay, Sis."

  She hugged me again. Tightly. Then she pulled away with shimmering eyes. "I have to go now. It's been a long time, and I don't like it here anymore."

  I nodded, containing my tears. "You deserve that," I said. "Help Dad get back. Find Mom. They've both been alone for so long."

  "And what about you?" she asked.

  I took a heavy breath. "I need to go on alone. For a little while longer, at least. But no matter how long it takes, I'll see you again. I promise."

  My sister flashed her teeth, winked at me playfully, and faded into nothingness.

  A tear came to my eye. It felt scratchy against my lids. When I tried to brush it away, my fingers scraped like sandpaper. Dirt seeped onto my tongue and I coughed.

  Next thing I knew, I was waking up with my face in the ground.

  Saint Martin's was quiet again. Real again. I sat in the grass and wiped my face, remembering every last detail of theirs.

  I was alone again, too.

  That's right, I wasn't done feeling sorry for myself yet. Watching my own personal Shakespeare play out with my family gave me a pass. I probably would've sat on my ass for most of the night if I hadn't slowly become aware of the skeletal figure waiting silently by my side.

  Never in a million years would I take back the experience the wraith had provided. True to his word, he not only saved Seleste, but my dad as well. The icing on the cake was that I got to see them off. That proved the Spaniard wasn't all bad.

  But I knew that I was now irrevocably bound to him. Three favors offered. One asked, one given. Our dark bargain struck, I was now indebted to release the wraith from his Taíno prison. Not yet, but eventually.

  I'd barely known him two days, and already his trap was sprung.

  Chapter 18

  I slid the new burner from my pocket and dialed Milena's number, as promised. She picked up on the second ring.

  "Tell me everyone's okay," she pleaded.

  My tension eased at her voice. "Everything went perfectly, actually. Seleste is free again. Reunited with my mom and dad."

  "Dios mío, Cisco. You really do have power."

  "Things manage to work out once in a while."

  She laughed, the relief palpable over the line. "By the way, Rodrigo called. Your car's ready. He towed it back to my abuelo's house. The keys are in the mailbox."

  "Good to know. I was getting tired of walking." Or running, really. "How much do I owe you?"

  "You can pay me back by picking up the tab tonight. I have a feeling it's gonna be a big one."

  "Tonight?" It was still the early evening.

  "Our date, silly"

  I grumbled. Amazing what a harrowing few hours can do to your memory. "You won't let this go, will you?"

  "Not a chance. You've done enough crime-fighting for one day."

  "I'm not Batman."

  "Seriously though. You just told me Seleste isn't in trouble anymore. Isn't that worth celebrating?"

  I didn't want to admit it, but she had a pretty good point. "Look, there's still something I wanna do. Let me call you back."

  "Fine with me. The night is young." Then she hung up before I could object any further.

  I didn't blame Milena, but she didn't get it. There was too much happening right now. So much more left unfinished.

  Then again, it surprised me how much hearing her voice lifted my spirits. It was psychological commiseration. And it made sense. Milena and I had both experienced the same loss. The same pain. The isolation it created was a familiar cloak. When I took a moment to look beyond myself, I realized she was strong-arming me into a date for the very same reason. Milena needed a friend. Someone from back in the day. Someone to help make her whole.

  I got that. I just didn't know if I was qualified for the job.

  I trudged back to her grandfather's house. Walking was slower than driving. There was too much silence (and Spanish wraiths are dismal at small talk). The peace gave me too much time to dwell on things. Milena's feelings. The conversation with Seleste. The awful last moments of my family's life. I'd always known my parents were worried about my spellcraft. My life was now the ultimate I-told-you-so.

  I shook the thought away. Some things can never be fixed. My parents would at least know better now. And Seleste, my sweet sister, had never doubted me. In a way, that made her death hurt most of all. She'd been the youngest. The baby of the family, but with the biggest prospects. As the big brother, I'd failed in my job to protect her.

  My good deed today was little comfort when it was me that had put her in that position in
the first place.

  Again I found myself combating claustrophobic guilt. I was a master of shadows, but this one would always tame me. The best I could do was shove it down. Put it in a place inside me so deep, the darkness blended together and smothered it. Maybe if I ignored the darkness, I would forget it was ever there.

  I hate long walks.

  The solitude must have been therapeutic, though, because I was slowly able to turn my thoughts to something positive. The gears in my head switched from dwelling to producing, to moving forward. My last week had been a combination of fighting for my life and following leads. New information was the only thing that advanced my plight, and I'd just found some.

  Zombie Cisco hadn't just attacked his family for the Horn. I'd demanded to see a family album. Why was anybody's guess, but if the violence erupted before they retrieved the genealogy, maybe I'd never gotten my hands on it at all.

  After my family was murdered, my friend Evan had retrieved boxes of my belongings. It stood to reason that he might have the album. In fact, Emily might've tucked it away, for our daughter's sake. If the thing still existed, I should start with them.

  The truck and my keys were right where they were supposed to be. The old pickup started easily and I made a U-turn onto the street, heading for my friend's house. A loud voice blared over the speakers, an overenthusiastic DJ announcing a giveaway. I shut the radio off and listened to the engine as it rumbled over the empty streets. The ride was smooth, but there was a hitch whenever I pressed the brakes. Maybe the engine mounts were loose from the accident.

  The speakers came to life again. Country music droned throughout the cabin.

  "What the hell?"

  This time I just lowered the volume, remembering Milena's jab about the sad country song. That didn't bother me. I'd had a pretty good day, considering. But the music weirded me out. I doubted there was a legit country music station in Miami. I turned the knob through static until the same song took over.

  Two glowing eyes appeared in my rearview mirror. The skull floated behind me.

  "Do you need to keep doing that?" I asked. "It's creepy."

  Even though his shoulders were invisible, I could tell he shrugged. "I merely wish to know if I can be of assistance."