Hungry Ghosts

by Stephen Blackmoore

  But her vibe is different now. Calmer. More centered. I had wondered which of those two roles was the real her. Now I know it’s neither of them.

  I’m not sure what it says about me that I never caught on.

  She fans the cards out face down in front of her. “But let’s talk about your future. Pick a card.”

  “I’m not here to play games,” I say. “I’m here to take you with me.”

  “Oh, my,” she says, her hand to her chest, eyes going wide in mock surprise. “An invitation from a man! Whatever will I do? I may swoon! Or is this a kidnapping? I can do kidnapping. Do I have to ride in the trunk? Fine. I’ll come with you. But first, pick a card.”

  This isn’t what I was expecting, and I don’t trust it. “You’re making this way too easy,” I say.

  “If you like I can make a scene when we leave. Have you throw me over your shoulder, kick my feet? Squeal like a Disney princess?” Her voice goes flat. “Help. Help. No? Not convincing?”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “The catch is that you. Pick. A. Card.”

  “All right.” I tap a card on the left.

  “And you said you weren’t here to play games.” She flips over the card and I feel a tiny flush of magic in the air. The card is of a man in blue pants and a red shirt, a knife in his hand, blood on the blade. EL VALIENTE at the bottom. The Brave.

  “Por qué le corres cobarde, trayendo tan buen puñal,” she says.

  “‘Why would you run, coward, you brought such a good knife,’” I say. Now I remember where I’ve seen the pictures on the walls. “These aren’t tarot cards. These are Lotería cards.”

  “Move to the head of the class.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to play bingo with these?” I say.

  From what I can remember Lotería is a game where everyone gets a board with a set of images on it, and a caller pulls a card from the deck, announcing it with the card’s catch phrase, a short little nonsense saying. The first person to fill a row, column, or square on their card wins.

  “What, you can’t do divination with playing cards or tea leaves?” she says.

  “Point. So, what, that’s me? The guy with the knife?”

  “I’d say it fits. Kind of looks like you. Angry, impulsive, easily distracted by shiny objects. And, hey, you do have a knife.”

  She’s talking about Mictlantecuhtli’s god-killing obsidian blade. I almost murdered her with it the last time we met when she revealed herself as Santa Muerte’s avatar. I’m still not sure if that was a missed opportunity or not.

  “Except the card says I’m running,” I say.

  “What makes you think you’re not?”

  I ignore the comment and point to another card. “Great. I picked a card. Let’s go.” I start to stand.

  “What’s the hurry, lover?” she says. “Slow it down. Take your time. A lady doesn’t like to be rushed. It’s bad form. Pick another.”

  “You said pick a card. A card.”

  “And now I’m telling you to pick another one.”

  I put my finger down onto one of the cards without looking. I feel that same tug of magic.

  “Now that wasn’t so hard was it? These are the things that oppose you.”

  “If that’s not a picture of you or Santa Muerte I’ll be awful surprised.”

  Everybody who practices cartomancy has their own way of doing it. I’ve known diviners who can tell your life story from a single card, and others who’ll go through half a deck. It’s not so much a matter of talent as it is of style.

  She flips a card, LA MUERTE. A skeleton with a scythe. “That’s—”

  “Oh, look. I was right,” I say.

  She glares at me until I pick another. She flips it over. LA CORONA. A red and gold crown. “El sombrero de los reyes.”

  “The king’s hat,” I say. “Santa Muerte and Mictlantecuhtli. Tell me something I don’t already know.” I tap another and she flips it.

  EL ALACRÁN. The scorpion. “El que con la cola pica, le dan una paliza.”

  “‘The one with the tail that bites, beat him’? The hell is that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugs. “Could be anything. A warning? A command? Beat on the one who betrays you? Maybe it’s not even talking about you.”

  “Oh, it’s talking about me,” I say. These days that’s my whole raison d’être.

  She gives me a considering look. “Be that as it may,” she says, “these are the things that oppose you. Death, the Crown, the Scorpion. One card to go. Do you want to see how it all turns out?”

  Death and the Crown I understand. Or at least I think I do. But the Scorpion? Betrayal? Triumphing over betrayal? Which betrayal? Whose? Christ knows there’s plenty to go around.

  That’s the problem with divination. It’s a tiny view of a larger picture. Like trying to get the layout of a house by looking through the front door keyhole.

  I touch another. “Hit me.”

  Now I’m honestly curious. If I hadn’t felt the magic when she flipped the first card I’d call bullshit on this. But it’s there and that third card was unexpected. Why that image? Scorpions are betrayers. Hitting you by surprise with their poisonous tails. It’s in their natures. And a beating, not a killing.

  She flips the final card.

  EL CORAZÓN. The picture is an anatomical heart, bright red. For a second it looks as though it’s actually pumping. “No me extrañes corazón, que regreso en el camión.”

  “‘Don’t miss me love, I’m coming back on the … bus?’” I’m returning to something? Something’s returning to me? Love? I have a hard time believing that. And how the hell does it fit into any of this?

  “Lotería isn’t exactly known for its stunning poetry, but it sounds promising,” Tabitha says. “There are all kinds of love, you know. Maybe it’s not all bad news.”

  “A bus trip?”

  “It’s a metaphor. Unless it’s not. You never know with these things.”

  “Why are you doing this?” The room suddenly fills with the scent of cigar smoke and roses. I know that smell. I was wondering when this was going to happen.

  “I’m trying to help you do what you agreed to do.” Tabitha’s voice shifts, goes hollow, her face goes gaunt, skin caving in to press against bone. Her eyes go as black as mine. “Husband.”

  “Oh. Hi, honey. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “You delay the inevitable,” Santa Muerte says through Tabitha’s mouth. Or maybe it’s hers now. I’m really not sure. “You have Mictlantecuhtli’s blade. You are tied to him and he to you. In the blink of an eye you can find his tomb and kill him. Why haven’t you?”

  “I work in mysterious ways,” I say and waggle my fingers at her. “And, you know, his tomb’s full of demons.”

  A while back I found myself looking for a place to stuff a bunch of demons that got loose in a storage unit in L.A. The only thing I could think of at the time was to open a hole into Mictlantecuhtli’s tomb and dump them there. It was a dick move, but it wasn’t like he was really using all that space.

  Didn’t occur to me at the time that that might be a problem for me later. Well, now it’s later and it’s a problem. Going in there to take him out is going to be a bit of a challenge.

  “I don’t need you watching over my shoulder while I crack that particular nut,” I say. “Seriously, I got this covered.”

  She cocks her head to the side, black eyes regarding me with silent judgment. “You do not trust me,” she says.

  “The hell you say! Me? Not trust you? Killing Lucy, locking me up in this jade prison, getting Alex killed, threatening Vivian, duping me with Tabitha. Honestly, what’s not to trust?”

  “I would know your plans.”

  I reach over and give her a condescending pat on the hand. And I’d like to know hers. “Don’t you worry your pretty, little death goddess head over it, sweetie. I got this.”

  The obsidian blade is heavy in my coat pocket. It would be so easy to pull it out and stick
it in her throat right now. But that wouldn’t kill Santa Muerte, just kill Tabitha. Tempting though it might be, it’s not the right time. I still need her.

  She gives my hand a sour look and I’m not sure if that’s Santa Muerte doing it or Tabitha. “Why are you so interested in my avatar?” she says.

  “I’m curious, how much of her is left in there?” I ask. “Anything? Or is she just a shell? A puppet for you to talk through?”

  “We are joined,” she says. “That is enough. How else should I speak with you? You’ve inscribed so many wards against me on your skin I can’t see you except through her eyes.”

  The last time I spoke with Santa Muerte was on the side of the road outside of Los Angeles after talking to the Wind. She was able to track me down then, though she couldn’t see me. I’ve added spells to my tattoos, found a couple of charms to hang from my neck to bolster the effect, try to push her further away. But I haven’t been sure they really worked. Now I know.

  “Thanks for the confirmation. I was hoping you’d say that.” I clamp down on her hand with mine. She jerks back with inhuman strength, the muscles of her wrist wasted so that the bones show through, but I hang on. I pull the handcuff from my pocket with my other hand and slap it around her wrist.

  The effect is immediate. The black fades from Tabitha’s eyes. Her body puffs out from its skeletal shape and goes rigid, snapping her out of her chair to hit the floor hard. Her limbs jerk like she’s having a seizure, while a thin whine escapes her lips. A moment later she lies still, staring blank-eyed at the ceiling.

  On to stage two.

  Tabitha bolts awake in the passenger seat of the Eldorado, looking around confused. I’ve been driving through Mexico City for the last half hour waiting, hoping she’d wake up. She’s no good to me dead.

  “You got the Caddy back,” she says.

  “That’s what you’re gonna open with?” I say. “No, ‘what the hell did you do to me, Eric?’”

  “I know what you did to me,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’ve cut me off. Hidden me from her. The way you’ve hidden yourself.” She inspects the cuff around her wrist, traces the runes Dremelled into its surface, the conspicuous S stamped on its side. “Wish I’d known your kink sooner. We could have had a lot more fun together. I assume you’ve got the master for this slave?” I lift my arm and show her the matching cuff on my wrist.

  She says nothing for a long time, just stares at my wrist. I realize what she’s looking at and drop my arm. The sleeve of my jacket covers the jade poking out from beneath it.

  “I hadn’t realized you were so far gone,” she says.

  “Not so far gone I can’t do something about it.”

  I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel hers on me. The silence stretches between us until she says, “I can’t hear her. I’ve had her in my head for so long and now I can’t hear her. It’s very … quiet.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be Santa Muerte,” I say.

  “And I thought you were supposed to be Mictlantecuhtli,” she snaps. No matter how calm she tries to come off, she’s on edge. “I’m her as much as I need to be. I have a piece of her in me. Just like you’ve got a piece of him in you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please. You might not be able to hear him but you still have some of his power. You’re still turning into jade. You and I might be different in the particulars, but we’re not that different. You’ve blocked my link to her, but you can’t pull her out of me. Just like you can’t pull him out of you.”

  When I had Mictlantecuhtli talking to me he took the form of my dead friend Alex. As I got more ensorcelled ink, spells in my tattoos to block him and Santa Muerte, he’d appear to me less and less. Soon he was nothing more than a hint of a whisper I could ignore. Eventually I blocked him entirely.

  I did the same thing to the handcuffs. As long as she’s got that on, and it’s not coming off without my say so, she’s cut off from Santa Muerte.

  Getting rid of Mictlantecuhtli didn’t really affect me. I’d only had him in my head a short while. But Tabitha, she’s been linked to Santa Muerte a lot longer. Years. No wonder she’s on edge.

  She worries at the cuff with her hand. “So where to now, lover? Or are we just going to drive around Mexico City until you turn into a piece of pottery?”

  “Need a good way into Mictlan.”

  “You’ve got a good way into Mictlan.”

  “One that doesn’t end with me turning into a green garden gnome.”

  “Okay. Muerte could have taken you there. Hell, she could have dumped you right in front of Mictlantecuhtli.” She pauses, chewing her lip in thought. “Unless you didn’t want her help.”

  “Hey, you’re quick.”

  “So that’s what this is about? You kidnap me, break my link to Santa Muerte and, what, make me tell you how to get into Mictlan so you can kill my goddess?”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m going to kill her, yet.”

  “Oh, horseshit,” she says. “You decided that a long time ago. I told her not to go after your sister. She was just going to piss you off by doing that.”

  “I thought—”

  She tips her head back, closes her eyes. “That I don’t have my own opinions? That’s not how this works. Our lines blur, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have my own identity. Christ my head hurts.”

  Tabitha tried to dissuade Santa Muerte from killing Lucy? I don’t know how to feel about this information. I don’t even know if I trust it. And I’m not sure how much difference it makes if it’s true.

  “Goddammit, you’re fucking with my head,” I say. “Why?”

  She cracks one eye open. “I’m fucking with your head? I’m the one with a migraine over here. Muerte didn’t strip me out of this body. I’m not a puppet. She’s not like that.”

  “I meant why did you tell her to leave Lucy alone? Just because you thought I’d come after her?”

  “Because Lucy was innocent,” Tabitha says. “Because this wasn’t about her. Hell, it’s not even about you and I.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “You know there are bigger things than us, right? There’s a lot of fucked up out there and some of us would like to change it. But I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about that.”

  “Okay, what the actual fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s about the souls scraping in the dust of Mictlan,” she says. “It’s about the countless dead from half a millennia ago. It’s about the spirits she’s responsible for since she became Santa Muerte. Mictlan’s broken, Eric. Can you even conceive of that? A decrepit heaven that might as well be Hell. She has a responsibility and she takes it seriously. And she’ll do anything it takes to make it whole.”

  “And why do you care about that? And what the hell do I have to do with any of this?”

  “Because there are a lot of broken things and this is one I can fix. And you? You’re not some Chosen One, Eric,” Tabitha says. “That shit doesn’t happen. You were just the right person at the right time. There aren’t that many necromancers around, or hadn’t you noticed? Santa Muerte needed someone tuned to the Dead. Someone with enough power in them that they wouldn’t burn out. She’s been waiting for you for a very long time.”

  Necromancy is an exclusive club inside an exclusive club. Doesn’t mean it’s better. Psychopaths are a pretty exclusive club for humanity, too. You don’t see anybody signing up for that action. There just aren’t a lot of us around. No idea why. I’m sure there’s some enterprising mage out there who’s tried to answer that with math.

  But it’s not like I’m the only one around. Or necessarily the most powerful. We don’t exactly work together. I only know of a handful, though I’ve heard rumors there are more of us around than I’ve met. Why would Santa Muerte need to wait five hundred years?

  “What about you?” I say. “She just happened to come by some girl dying in a ditch by the side of the road and thought, ‘Yeah, she
’ll do’?”

  Tabitha gives me a smirk. “She’s been waiting for me for a very long time, too.”

  It takes me a second to realize what she means. “You are fucking kidding me.” She wasn’t waiting for one necromancer. She was waiting for two. “Fucking prove it.”

  “In the last five minutes we’ve passed twelve Wanderers, three Haunts and at least two Echoes. I’ve always called them Playbacks, but I like Echo better.”

  I think back. She’s right. “Playbacks, huh? Okay. How’d the last one we pass die?” This isn’t something you can guess at. She could have made up the numbers and I could have miscounted. But no matter how similarly people die, we all go out in our own way.

  “Shot in her car waiting at a light. I only caught a glimpse of the car around her, but I’d say, late 1940s? Her hair was up in a bun. She was smoking a cigarette.”

  “I didn’t see the cigarette. And you’re saying you didn’t get that ability from Santa Muerte?”

  “You disconnected me from her, remember? This is all me, baby.”

  “And I disconnected myself from her and Mictlantecuhtli, too, but I can still use his power. I still have the abilities being married to her got me.”

  “Believe it or not, Eric. I don’t really care. I know what I am. I don’t need to prove it to you. And I know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

  Interesting. So Santa Muerte needed two necromancers at the same time. One for her and one for Mictlantecuhtli? Did Tabitha get the same treatment I did? Did she get lured into it the same way?

  When I’d seen her last, Tabitha, or maybe it was Santa Muerte talking through her, I don’t really know, told me that she’d been killed and brought back by Santa Muerte putting a piece of her essence into her. Was that true, or just a convenient lie? And if it was true, and Tabitha knows it …

  “Santa Muerte didn’t murder you, did she?” I ask.

  “Oh, she killed me,” she says. “Forced my car off the side of the freeway, just like I told you.”

  “All right, but that’s not what I asked. You knew it was coming. You agreed to it.”