by Gilmore, RM
“And yet…” he began, never taking his eyes off the highway, “here you are. Still alive. Without a scratch.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I took my eyes off the road to glare at the side of his head.
“Nothing.”
“Are you insinuating I’m making it up?” I squealed out as he jerked the wheel, careening us down a steep off-ramp.
“No. Just stating the obvious.” He watched the road and I watched him.
“Since when did you become such a dick?” He swerved to the left around a corner and down a narrow street, crowded with flat-front single-story buildings. Each a boring shade of grey, dotted with nondescript windows and glass doors. Signs jutted from above each door depicting the name of the business within. Cheap Cigarettes, Family Clothes, Dollar City, each sign its own version of the first. Basic colors and font styles, generic graphics, this was life on the ‘cheap side’ apparently.
“Since you decided to put a bounty out on your head.” He said bounty like it was an attractive idea.
Umm, what? Where is he really taking me? To collect the bounty?
He’d been alone with that bitch, Azelie, for Lord knows how long before he came to me. He’d been under some kind of trance the last time I’d seen him, before I slapped the shit out of him and left him at the foot of the stairs where he stood white-eyed and zombified. God knows how he escaped that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was released to seek vengeance.
“So what, you’re taking me off to sacrifice me to the gods? Hand me over to that bitch? For what? A few bucks? Eternal life? A bigger dick? What the fuck could mean so much to you that you’d feed me to the lion?”
“You.”
“Me, what?”
“You mean that much to me.” The vehicle came to an abrupt stop against the curb in front of a portion of grey building. The sign above marked it as a Botanica. These types of stores riddled the back streets of Los Angeles. Why this one was so special was beyond me.
My breaths were evening out one by one. “I think I missed something. I’d really appreciate it if you could explain what in the fuck is happening before I nut up and go all kung fu on your ass!” My promises of violence were empty to say the least. Even with a busted face, the likelihood of Cyrus kicking my can all over the place was higher than a hooker’s skirt.
He let out a long, heavy sigh. “A: you have a metaphysical warrant out for your soul. It’s still in your body, as far as I can tell. B: despite what you’re thinking, I do not want to drag you to an untold hell dimension. C: you. You mean that much to me, to feed myself to the lion.”
I scoffed, “Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want. It doesn’t matter to me. But can you please try to believe in the magic that is after you, because it is real, and it is here, no questions asked.”
“I thought you told me to not believe?” I asked, remembering the conversation we had in a poorly lit back hallway just before I’d tripped over a nonexistent corpse. “You said believing fuels the magic. Or some shit like that.”
“It’s too late for that. You’ve already let it in. Disbelieving now will only damper any attempts to save you. Do you understand?”
I mulled over his words for a bit. I was there. I’d seen the girls. Each and every pale set of bound hands and stumpy neck-hole, I’d seen with my own eyes. Blood oozing from my own phantom wounds, twice. I was there for it all. It took a while for my head to wrap around it at first. Right up until some unseen demon chased me down the street and up my stairs, I was a skeptic. Now, it wasn’t so easy not to believe. But my overly rational sensibilities, told me otherwise. The struggle between good and evil was nothing compared to the inner struggle one faced when the occult is introduced.
“No, I don’t,” I replied, my eyes fixed on my own hands in my lap. “But does it matter? It won’t stop. Regardless of what I believe, whatever Azelie wants to happen, will happen. If she wants me dead…well…” I shrugged.
“That is precisely what I am trying to avoid.” His fingers slid between my hip and the seatbelt. The buckle clicked and came free from the clasp. Apparently, he wanted me to get out of the car.
“Where are we?” My eyes were still trained on my hands.
“Hopefully, a place to find help.”
“It’s a Botanica…what are we buying? Sex Powder and Love Juice?”
“Maybe next time,” he said, his voice not full of the usual stamina.
Oh, don’t I wish.
“These shops are a dime a dozen. What’s so special about this one?” I fiddled with my fingers as I felt my seatbelt slide over my chest and back into its position.
“It’s not the shop; it’s the owner.”
We sat in silence for just a breath before I asked, “Cyrus, how did you get out of the House of Porte and make it back home so quickly?”
Cyrus took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel so tightly, I could hear the leather creak under his grasp. “Which do you want to deal with first? Your soul or my stealthy escape?”
“It depends. How’s your soul these days?” I looked him dead in the eye.
“Gone, along with my humility. Get your ass ready to fight the war to save your life.”
“Why do you care?” I asked, shrugging, still not truly believing a sexpot like Cyrus would ever be interested in a fat ass like me. Shit, I could believe in magic and curses, but suggest a hot guy wants my fat ass, and it was all questions and distrust. What an awful rotten way to think. I blamed society. Have to blame something, right?
“Not that it matters, but because that soul of yours is trapped inside a body I’d really like to have alive in the future. A body I’ve yet to explore completely. I would hate to lose out on the opportunity because you picked a fight with the wrong bitch.” Without looking in my direction, he killed the engine and left the car.
Some subconscious, primal portion of my brain cheered with glee at the thought of Cyrus and his exploring. Sadly, I wasn’t one for inappropriately timed sex. Besides, he had a little making up to do for his display of bitchiness earlier. Perhaps an honest to goodness white-knight thing would help. I would gladly allow him to save the day if I could ensure I wouldn’t have to pick up his bloody bits afterward. My other option would be calling Mike. Though a much more masculine decision, far less alluring, plus it would certainly lead to more annoying and less productive conversations than Cyrus and an impromptu tumble in the sack.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I said to an empty car.
My door opened, letting in the cool November air. Halloween had past, but the streets were still lined with crepe paper and skulls hanging from floral garlands. I assumed it being early Sunday morning, folks around these parts just didn’t have time to take down their decorations. The sun shone down on those macabre little skulls and added to the creep factor. The lore of Halloween seemed odd in the shining light of day.
Without a word, Cyrus yanked me by the arm out of the car.
“Jesus, Cyrus, pull my fucking arm out of the socket why don’t you,” I complained, still tight in his grasp.
Jerking me toward him, he whispered into my face, “If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll take you to Azelie myself.”
“Okay.” The word came out in one low breath. There was no doubt in my mind the chance of that particular incident coming to fruition was one hundred percent plausible. It’d be just my luck.
The front of the shop looked like any other low-income bodega I’d ever seen. One simple window and a single glass door. The objects displayed in the window were the only oddity to be found. A statue of the Virgin Mary, only a few feet tall, adorned in jewels and pretty things, sat directly next to its Grim Reaper counterpart. Candles of every color and every shape could be seen through the window on a shelf against the wall. A sign on the door told patrons they were closed until ten a.m. on Sundays.
“Hey, they’re closed. What now?” I prodded, pointing halfheartedly at the sign.
Cyrus knoc
ked softly three times on the glass of the entrance. We waited for what seemed like an hour before we saw a slight shadow moving within. The shadow lifted its hand and ruffled through its hair. A set of dark sleepy eyes met us at the glass door. Apparently, we had woken the shadow. If it were any other day of any other week, I’d likely be asleep myself. Before eight on a Sunday? Yeah, fuck that.
“Closed,” said the now not-so-shadow.
“I see. Tell her I’m here to collect on my debt,” Cyrus said cryptically.
“She won’t be happy you woke her,” the muffled voice came through the glass.
“You won’t be happy if you don’t.” Cyrus stared through the glass at the man on the other side.
After a moment or two of not blinking, the man on the inside turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the darkened shop.
“You’re here to collect on a debt? What the fuck are you, a bookie?”
“Something like that.” Cyrus never looked at me; he just stared into the shop. Waiting, I assumed.
Eventually, the man came back, turned on one overhead light and made his way toward the door. A huge set of keys jingled in his hand. More jingling and fidgeting with the lock, and he was swinging the door inward. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with a fucked-up door.
“She’ll see you in back.” The man stopped me before I could enter. “Just you,” he said to Cyrus.
“No, she is my retribution. She comes,” Cyrus insisted.
Don’t I wish?
“You’re pushing my limits, Mr. Atossa,” said the once shadow guy in a very obvious Mexican accent.
In the now lit room, I could see why he blended so well into the shadows. His dark hair, still messy from him rubbing over it, fell around a round brown face. He didn’t stand quite as tall as Cyrus but the energy rolling off of him equaled two of him. Tattoos I couldn’t make out, trailed up each arm to his shoulders that his wife-beater left bare. Black shorts stopped at the knee, revealing more tattoos along his calves.
While not knowing your fate was hard enough to wrap your head around, knowing said fate might be left up to a guy wearing underwear as actual clothes, was damn near im-fucking-possible to comprehend. Let alone accept.
Cyrus trailed his fingers along the counter to his right. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said softly, almost innocently, not looking anywhere in particular. The Mexican guy just stood there like he wasn’t sure what was happening. “Sal, if I were you, I’d trot my frijole eating brown ass away from me, before I shove my foot in it,” Cyrus replied without changing his demeanor.
I’m down with a good racial slur as much as the next guy, but it was a bit much for the situation. I stood, mouth agape, a bit stunned by Cyrus’s antics. Where did this asshole come from? Who the hell was he to boss people around? He was about to dig our asses deeper in trouble than we already were. Besides, only I was allowed to be offensive and off-putting.
The man glared at Cyrus. His arms bowed out like a pit bull. I waited, anticipating another blow to Cyrus’s face. He had only just stopped bleeding thirty minutes prior. Maybe he was auditioning to be a Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robot.
Cyrus never so much as acknowledged the man further. He simply shoved past him with me in tow. I tried not to make eye contact as we passed. The two of us were through the shop in just a few long strides. Quick glimpses revealed racks of funky candles – grim reapers, men, women, and I swear I saw a vagina – a wall of clear plastic baggies full of magical goodies hanging from hooks; coins, beads, incense, other random items I couldn’t make out.
We were through a set of heavy purple curtains and in a small back room before the man had a chance to stop us. The concrete floor squeaked under my rubber-soled sneakers when I was forced to stop suddenly. A woman sat in a high-backed chair in a far corner. Fabric draped over the back of the chair and hung from the ceiling. A short, round table covered in silk scarves sat to the left of her legs; candles and a small bowl filled with trinkets were spread over the table. The room was small, no bigger than a bedroom. Likely, it was intended to act as an office or storage room. Maybe it was both, in some macabre eerie sort of way.
“Madam,” Cyrus said, bowing his head just a hint.
The woman looked at us and nodded to Cyrus before she proceeded to look me up and down like a prize pig. It took only a few seconds before I felt her stare heavily on my skin, like fingers kneading and prodding. Tentacles more like, prodding and digging deeper into my body. Wiggling their supernatural tendrils through my insides and into my depths, I fought hard not to puke.
Another witch woman – fan-fucking-tastic.
The power rolling off the woman dug deep into my gut and made it hard to breathe. The stump of a gnarled cigar smoldered between two withered lips. Smoke twirled around the old face and slithered through her ragged white hair. One intense, glaring eye peered from the squinted, sagging lid, the other covered with an aging leather eye patch. Bones and dead things hung from the leather apron tied just below a set of wrinkled old boobs. Symbols adorned a leather wrap around her neck; symbols I’d seen a few times in the recent past.
Son of a bitch.
A whoosh of energy flowed up my spine and tickled in my brain.
“Abuela,” the Mexican guy called to his grandmother in Spanish from behind me. He shoved his way through the entrance, and passed me to kneel in front of the old woman. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t catch them.”
The woman flicked her wrist and shooed her grandson away. The cigar still smoldered, her lips never wavering around the knobby stump. Without another word, the man stood and left us alone in the back room with the woman who was supposed to cure me of my curses.
The impression I got from the exchange of glances between the old woman and Cyrus was at some point they’d crossed paths, and Cyrus came out with an IOU from the wrinkled old thing. Good for him. He was lucky it wasn’t him who owed the debt. I had a feeling he might’ve been fucked in that department.
“Lupe,” Cyrus said.
“It’s been a long time,” the old woman spoke around her cigar in an aged baritone.
“The last time we spoke, Nicolas had just done you a favor. You must be aware, of course, that he has since ceased to exist, leaving me in his passing.”
Her eyes crinkled around the edges as she squinted her good eye in his direction, “Si. Get on with it, boy. What do you want?”
“I need your assistance.”
“I suppose you’re calling in your debt to help the girl and not yourself. Not even Mr. Cyrus Atossa is so selfish to leave this girl with a devil on her back.” Her old voice rattled on about me as if I wasn’t even there, and about things she should be completely unaware of. Her words held such weight; I fought the urge to literally look over my shoulder and check my back for a little red devil.
“Can you help her?” Cyrus pushed on without acknowledging her.
A long silence followed. I stood quietly and waited for her response. The longer she remained silent, the deeper the doom set into my heart. Her eye wandered to the center of my chest and lingered there for a full minute. I felt her mystical tentacles flittering under my skin. The sudden and desperate urge to vehemently not believe in magic grabbed me by the balls. It’s not as though I ever fully believed in the first place, but naked headless dead things crawling through a hole in your front door is hard to ignore.
“Well?” I asked impatiently.
Her one eye blinked slowly and made me wonder what the other eye did under the ratty, old leather patch. “Ms. Hart,” she said at last.
Without thinking, I looked to my chest to make sure I wasn’t wearing my press badge. “I wasn’t aware I gave you my name,” I said, looking at her sideways.
The old woman scoffed, “Ms. Hart, you aren’t aware of many things.”
I fought the urge to beat psychic granny to a pulp. Clenching my fists at my sides, I let out a long breath.
“Can you help or not?” Cyrus finally spoke up.
&nbs
p; “There is little that can help…but I can help you fight.”
I sighed, “Look, I appreciate your help, but I’ve had enough cryptic paranormal bullshit to last a lifetime. Five months ago, I decided to get in the middle of someone draining hooker blood. I spent a week running all over this state looking for answers. In the end, I hacked off the heads of two supposed vampires. Then I fought legal battles for a month about it. Three days ago, I made the brilliant fucking decision to dive back into the scene, with my only concern being whether I was going to have to accept the fact that vampires are in fact a reality. Now, here I am standing in a Botanica, in East L.A. waiting to see if some old woman can remove a curse that a New Orleans voodoo bitch shoved firmly up my ass. If you wouldn’t mind, could you please just tell me everything I need to know so I can go home and patch bullet holes in my living room?”
I knew I could be hard to handle. There were times when I didn’t take things well and there may be casualties. But dammit, I felt I had handled this situation pretty fucking well considering.
“Aye! With a mouth like that, it’s no surprise you have a devil on your back.”
Her phrasing reminded me of the night before, and the huffs of a demon snout on my neck. My shoulders tensed and rolled with the thought of an actual devil on my back. Not a silly little red one this time. A snarling, snorting thing, with teeth and claws I’d imagined while I ran. On the other hand, maybe it was still there.
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly. “Listen, bitch, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Either you’re going to help me, or I’m the fuck outta here, because I think I’m soaking up all the mystic mumbo jumbo this tubby bitch can handle just standing here.” I kept my voice just above a whisper regardless of the content of my words.