“What message?”
“I assume something along the lines of ‘They’re coming to get you, Barbara.’ Maybe she just wanted me to know the chickens are coming home to roost.”
“I knew you were lying,” Letitia says. “You said you didn’t know why she would be killing all these people and trying to pin it on you.”
“It’s one of my superpowers. So here’s the truth. I wasn’t in Mexico taking down cartel bagmen. They just happened to be in the way. This sicaria, she goes by La Niña Quemada, is working with an Aztec wind god named Quetzalcoatl who I managed to piss off while I was down there. Now he wants to get back at me. And it looks like everybody else is in the middle of it.” I sip more of my coffee and enjoy the stunned silence.
Chapter 17
Letitia makes a face like she’s just bit into a really nasty lemon. “A god. Not a nature spirit, or a demon? It’s really a god. Okay.”
“That was awfully easy.” Alarm bells are going off. Did she already know? I don’t think so. That’s not the vibe I’m getting.
“Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I think you’re lying to me. Why did you go to Mexico to piss off a god?”
“I didn’t. I went to Mexico to kill two other gods and ended up pissing off a third. You ever hear of Santa Muerte?”
“Yeah, I know about her. Narco saint. Cartels worship her or some shit. We had a week-long course in gang suppression and she came up a lot. Creepy as fuck.”
“She’s my wife.”
Letitia stares at me waiting for the punchline that doesn’t come. “Okay,” she says. “I’d heard stories, but . . .”
“Well, I think she’s still my wife. I’m a little afraid to find out. It’s complicated. She started off as the Aztec death goddess Mictecacihuatl and was married to Mictlantecuhtli, who was supposed to be dead but wasn’t. They were both playing me for a patsy so I went to kill both of them.”
“Did you?”
“Sort of, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’d accidentally made a deal with Quetzalcoatl and agreed to burn down Mictlan.”
“Mictlan?”
“Land of the dead. Aztec souls, cartel guys, lots of Catholics oddly enough. Burning it down would have destroyed them all, and I wasn’t about to commit genocide. When I refused to burn down Mictlan, he said he’d get back at me.”
Letitia puts her face in her hands, like if she can’t see me this will all go away. “I want to get this right. You’re married to a skeleton in a wedding dress who you killed—”
“Sort of killed.”
“Sort of killed?” She parts her fingers so she can look at me between them.
“It’s complicated.”
“You said that.”
“I think it bears repeating.”
“Okay. Sort of killed, and her husband—”
“Ex-husband. He was dead. Then I killed him.”
“Don’t you have that backwards?”
“No.”
“Now this Quetz—fuck, I’m not even gonna try to pronounce that. This other god is pissed off because you wouldn’t burn down all the souls in the land of the dead. Why the hell did he want that?”
“It’s—”
“Complicated. Got it. Okay, so you didn’t burn the place down and now he wants to get back at you by burning L.A. down.”
“That I’m not sure about. I don’t know what he gets out of that. He tried to have me killed in Mictlan and that didn’t work out so well for him. But I was expecting it then. I don’t know why he doesn’t just kill me now instead of trying to pin me for a bunch of murders. He’s got something else going on, but I don’t know what it is.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of necromancy,” I say.
“I like my knack better,” she says. “But I really wish I didn’t have it right now.”
“What is it?”
“Alethemancy.”
“I don’t know that one,” I say, which isn’t really surprising. There are so many ways to categorize and subcategorize magic I’m bound to have missed a few.
“Truth magic,” she says. “Like how you see the dead, I can tell when I’m being lied to.” That explains the weird looks she was giving me the last time we met. If she can tell when I’m lying to her, can she tell when I’m not telling her everything, as long as I keep it truthful?
“Good to know. Am I lying to you now?”
“I really wish you were.”
“Me too. Now that that’s out of the way, I found our assassin in Vernon. Ran into her and Quetzalcoatl. Barely made it out in one piece. Later that night, blocks of factories go up in massive fireballs.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” she says.
“I saw Quetzalcoatl in one of the fireballs.”
“Shit,” she says.
“Accurate, if understated.”
“So, what happens now?”
“I need that file. Or it needs to get out there. If everyone knows about her it’ll make it a lot harder for her to move around. The less she can maneuver, the safer people are going to be.” And the less likely some random asshole with a grudge is going to come after me.
“I know that,” she says. “It’s just— Fuck it. Fine. I’ll get the file.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m not sure how to ask this next part, but I need to know, so I just say it. “Why the fuck are you working with that guy? Chu? You’re not the minion type. I get why you’re working with him now. But you’ve been with him a while, not just since these murders started. I don’t get it. The guy’s a fucking narcissist.”
“What’s that thing with pots and kettles?” she says. “I know he’s a narcissist. He also gets shit done. And he has a vision for this city, and for everybody in it. Not just mages, everyone, especially the people on the fringes. I believe we can make it better.
“Eric, I’m a black lesbian LAPD detective and closeted witch, married to a Filipino woman who I have to lie to every day about who I really am, while making sure my day job doesn’t find out about all the magic shit, and doing my real job to clean it all up. You don’t get much more on the fringes than that.”
“You really think he can make a difference?”
“I know he can.”
I tried idealism once. Gave me a rash. Cynicism is just pattern recognition. And no rash. But it’s not exactly doing me any favors. I wish I could believe the way Letitia does.
What really is the difference between Chu and Gabriela? His methods might be different, but he’s pretty much doing the same thing she is; trying to make things better. She’s just ruthless and bloodthirsty about it.
I don’t get the same vibe off Chu that Letitia does. Or the same vibe I get off Gabriela. For all her murderous badassitude, I believe her when she says she wants to improve things because I’ve seen it. I think she’s batshit to try, but hey, not my pig, not my farm. But there’s something wrong with Chu, I just don’t know what.
“Fair enough. You do you,” I say. “Let me know when you get that file, would you? The sooner we can get this out, the better for everybody.”
“What about you? What are you doing?” she says.
“Need to go see someone.” A pit opens in my stomach just thinking about it.
“Who?”
“Honestly, I’m really not sure.”
* * *
—
I park in front of a strip mall just south of MacArthur Park on Alvarado. It’s pretty much what you’d expect from a strip mall on Alvarado. Parking signs in English and Spanish, a Chinese fast food place, nail salon, coin-op laundry with a hand-painted LAVANDERIA sign above it.
Wedged between the nail salon and the laundromat sits a church to one of the fastest growing religions in the Western Hemisphere.
The
storefront could just as easily be a donut shop or a taqueria except for the hand-painted sign above it: Sanctuario De La Santa Muerte. A drawing of La Dama Poderosa herself looks down upon the parking lot and the cars speeding down the street. I get out of the car and look up at the sign above the Mylar-covered window. Never thought I’d be here again.
Well, I’ve put this off long enough. Time to go to church.
An electronic chime sounds as I push the door open. Tepid air blows through a vent from an air conditioning unit grinding against the sweltering heat. For all the grime of the parking lot outside, the inside is a rainbow explosion of color. Bright yellow walls, shelves in blue, green, red, and on every surface prayer candles to Santa Muerte. Candles for protection, love, revenge, each in its own distinct shade.
Santa Muerte shrines and statues break up the rows of candles. Everything from four-foot-tall resin-cast skeletons down to dashboard models with black plastic gems for eyes. Keychains, jackets, t-shirts, scapulars. It’s Santa Muerte tchotchke heaven in here.
A Latino man stands behind the counter and nods as I enter. I recognize him as the man who was here when I first came in a couple years ago. I’ve always wondered about him. When Santa Muerte killed my sister, she either had someone do it or possessed someone. She couldn’t completely manifest physically in the living world.
Did he do it? If he did, should I kill him? Does it matter anymore? Did it ever? She’s still dead, and I’ve exorcised her Echo, and I think I kept Santa Muerte from being able to walk the Earth.
“Eduardo, right?” I say. “Shrine open?”
“For you? Always. Go on in. I’ll keep the riffraff out.”
“I thought I was the riffraff.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Fair enough.” I stop as I pass by the counter toward a curtained-off area near the back. “Hey, I just gotta know. Did you kill my sister?”
“What if I said yes?”
“I’d kill you slow, cut off your head and wear it as a party hat.”
“She picked you well,” he says, smiling. “You already know who did it. You’re asking if I was the vessel. No, sorry, chief. Wasn’t me. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I kind of wish it was. Then you could kill me and get some closure. Stop holding on. It’s not doing you any favors.”
I’m too tired to get a good rage going. Everything feels distant, drained. When I think of Lucy now I feel a cold, dull ache, an unshakeable exhaustion. The anger’s been burned out of me. He’s wrong about closure. There are some things you move on from. This isn’t one of them.
“If I find out you did it, I’m coming for you.”
“If I find out I did it,” he says, “I’ll hand you the knife. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t,” I say, and step through the curtain.
It’s like going from a Willy Wonka funhouse to a Goth’s wet dream. White Christmas lights are strung along the black painted walls, casting everything in a hazy glow. The wrought iron candelabras spaced every few feet are the same as last time, but the folding table and plastic benches that were here before have been replaced with an intricately carved altar and short wooden pews.
And then there’s her. A life-size Santa Muerte. A skeleton in a white wedding dress, scythe in one hand, a globe in the other. Bottles of tequila, packs of cigarettes, half-smoked cigars, bunches of roses all lie at her skeletal feet.
Last time I was here I made an idiot of myself and actually prayed to the damned thing trying to get her attention. Then I got sick of it, drank her tequila, smoked a cigar, and put it out in one of her eye sockets.
This time I sit in one of the pews. She’ll either show up or not. I don’t really care beyond hoping she can give me some insight on what her cousin might be up to.
No. That’s a lie. I want a lot more than that. I want to know what happened in Mictlan. Did Santa Muerte take Tabitha, or did I get to her in time? Is she alive? Is that a concept that even applies anymore?
A thick scent of smoke and roses fills the air. “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” I say.
“Funny,” Tabitha says, sliding into the pew next to me. “I was wondering the same thing.”
Chapter 18
Tabitha looks like she always has, a completely normal Korean woman with long black hair. No sign of the Bony Lady that I can see other than a silk-screened drawing of her on the front of Tabitha’s red t-shirt. I look into her eyes for any trace of Santa Muerte, but I couldn’t see it before and I can’t see it now.
I don’t know what to say. Hi? How’ve you been? So, are you actually you or are you Santa Muerte wearing a Tabitha suit and should I try to kill you right now?
I settle on, “I got your cards. They were kinda cryptic.”
“They’re open to interpretation. That’s the point,” she says. “Good to know you got them, seeing as I put them into your pockets, on your dashboard, in the bathroom.”
“You could have just shown up,” I say. “Not that I wanted you to. Let’s just get that out of the way right now.”
“I know you didn’t,” she says. “That’s why I didn’t do it. But I figured we should talk eventually. I’m sure you have some questions.” She glances at the ring on my finger. “So do I.”
She’s right, but I’m not going to ask most of them. I can feel myself getting spun up just being in the same room, and I’m not sure why. I feel nervous and confused more than anything else. Who is this person? Why do I even care about her? I’m free and clear, and I know what I need from her, so what the hell is my problem?
I want to get in and out as soon as possible. But before I can ask about Quetzalcoatl, there are a few things I need to know.
“Who are you?” I say. “Tabitha? Santa Muerte?”
“Yes,” she says. “And no.”
“Oh, for fuck sake. Can I just get a straight goddamn answer? Enough with the cryptic bullshit.”
“That is a straight answer, Eric. I’m both Tabitha and Santa Muerte, and I’m neither of them. When you interrupted the ritual and pulled the knife from Santa Muerte and shoved it into Tabitha, you sacrificed them together. The knife did what the knife was supposed to do. It killed them. Like it killed you.”
“It didn’t kill me,” I say, but I’m starting to wonder. She’s right that the obsidian blade was designed to kill anything it cut. So what makes me think I survived? Besides a deep sense of denial and a remarkable facility for rationalization.
“Just because you’re alive now doesn’t mean you didn’t die then,” she says. “You were a sacrifice. It split you from Mictlantecuhtli. It’s a simpler version of what Tabitha and Santa Muerte went through.”
“You’re talking about yourself in the third person,” I say.
“No, I’m talking about them. When I said I’d given you a straight answer, I did. Tabitha’s dead, Eric. So is Santa Muerte. Things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to and instead of having one or the other, there’s both and neither. Who they were has made me. I have their memories, their desires, their fears. I’m both of them and neither of them at the same time. I have pieces of their personalities in me, but I’m not them. I’m something brand new.”
It starts to sink in that I’m talking to a complete stranger, a total unknown. Is she the Machiavellian goddess who orchestrated a five-hundred-year long con to get out of Mictlan? Or is she the woman who got taken in by it?
“La Reine est mort, vive La Reine?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“So why the Lotería cards? El Valiente, La Corazon, the others? Those aren’t random. Those are the cards Tabitha drew from her deck in Tepito. They’re a message, but I don’t understand what. You’re not Tabitha and we don’t have a connection. You said it yourself, you’re brand new. What fucked up head game are you trying to play?”
�
��Let me ask you a question,” she says. “Why are you still wearing the ring?”
I’ve been asking myself that same question for months. I can take it off whenever I want now. So why haven’t I? I can feel the energy in it, the connection to Santa Muerte. Was I holding out hope that Tabitha had somehow taken her place? Is wanting a connection with someone who understands what I saw in Mictlan, who understands how it works, such a powerful draw that I’d ignore her own role in Santa Muerte’s plan, or my sister’s death, even if she was as much a victim of Santa Muerte as anyone else? It’s stupid and fucked up, I know, but I think the answer is yes.
I felt like an ass before, and now that I know I was holding out hope for someone who doesn’t exist anymore, that there’s somebody else sitting in her place, I feel like an even bigger ass. This is how things go to shit. We let our feelings get in the way, make shit up about other people whether we know we’re doing it or not.
“It’s a reminder that it was a huge mistake and to never let it happen again,” I say. “Like a scar, or herpes.” She looks at me, and for a moment I can see Santa Muerte in those eyes, the pupils pulling me in, swallowing me up.
“You’re right about the cards,” she says, breaking eye contact. “They were a message. A lot of the logjam of souls in Mictlan has been eased because of you, but it’s still a broken place. Mictlan still needs a king, now more than ever. And since you killed the other one, you’re the only candidate left. You are El Valiente. I’m offering you La Corona.”
“And La Corazon?”
“I think that’s something we’d have to work out.”
“Is this the hard sell or the soft one? I’m the only candidate? You can’t find a replacement out of how many billions of people on this planet? Five hundred years of planning and you and Mictlantecuhtli never came up with a backup if it all went to shit?”
Fire Season Page 13