The Witching Hour: 11 Enchanting Novels Featuring Witches, Wizards, Vampires, Shifters, Ghosts, Fae, and More!, page 92
“High praise indeed,” I said, because I knew he had met both Pope John XXIII and the first John Paul, the “October pope” who’d likely been murdered, and he had enormous respect for both.
“Leelee Francis came to see me last week,” he said apropos of nothing. “She asked me to hear her confession.”
“Was Elvis with her?”
“Big guy with a scar on his jaw?
I nodded.
“Yes, but I made him wait in the hall.”
“You made him?” The image of scrawny Father Paz making a big guy like Elvis do anything was amusing.
“I’d have paid to see that,” I added.
“I suspect that somewhere along the way, Elvis went to Catholic school. Even an old priest can still scare him.” Father Paz chuckled and contemplated the last bite of tamale, but then abruptly pushed the paper plate aside. “She told me she wasn’t a Catholic, but she was afraid she was going to die and she wanted to talk to someone.” He looked at me seriously. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I said.
He closed his eyes and muttered a soft prayer in Spanish. When he opened his eyes, they were as serious as I’d ever seen them.
“She told me that if anything happened to her, she wanted me to tell you something.
“I know that Enselmo wants to kill me.”
He shook his head.
“Forget the shark,” he said, “it’s La Araña who wants you. And she said to tell you she doesn’t just want you dead, she wants your soul as well.” He looked at me keenly. “Can she do that?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, “but her magic is old, and I’ve heard of rituals that were used to honor the old gods who lived here before — ”
“Before Christ was born and died and resurrected.”
“Exactly.”
“So it’s possible?”
I may not have been the most devout Catholic, but the idea of my soul being obliterated horrified me. “I sincerely hope not,” I said, and then I thought of one possibility. The priest saw my face change as I processed the thought.
“What?”
“There’s a way she can kill me, a ritual she can perform, that will trap my soul between life and death…forever.”
“You cannot risk that,” he said.
“I already have,” I said. “The women in my family have been her enemies since I can remember. She raised Gustavo Moreno from the dead just to send a warning to my grandmother to not meddle in some affair or another.”
The memory of the sweet little dog Gustavo had killed hit me like a cramp. “She killed Angelita,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the sadness.
“I remember,” Father Paz said. “I remember what a brave little girl you were, standing by Marisol in the cemetery and looking at something I couldn’t see.”
He shook his head as if to dislodge his own memories.
“I can see them now, you know,” he said. “The people in the cemetery. Now that I’m so close to death myself, they welcome me as family.”
“I don’t think you’ll be sticking around,” I said to him. “But if you’ve got any doubts, make sure you’re not buried near the Borrego family. They’re a rowdy bunch.”
He thought about that for a moment, then smiled. “They’re no worse than the family I was born into,” he said.
“That’s saying something,” I said thinking, That’s a story I’d love to hear sometime.
The cemetery behind the church was the most haunted place in all Sangre de Cristo, and even people who weren’t “sensitive” often reported seeing ghosts and apparitions there. In fact, the place was notorious enough that it had been featured on an episode of Ghosthunters. We still got tourists wandering through town, hoping for an encounter of the psychic kind, and the mayor’s office had slick brochures with information about the graveyard’s most “colorful” residents. The Borregos were star attractions on the ghost tours, a clan of con artists and scofflaws who’d died at the beginning of the last century. The patriarch of the family—Juan Borrego—was said to have ridden with Pancho Villa. He was a boisterous ghost who specialized in knocking over gravestones and other such pranks. Tourists who’d seen his ghost had been thrilled to see that he still sported the gory bullet wound that had taken his life when a Pinkerton agent named Jonas Winters had shot him in the back as he was jumping out the window of his mistress’ house.
Juan’s three sons had likewise come to grief at the hands of the law and they could often be heard quarreling and shooting their pistolas in the dead of night. Most of the ghostly residents of the cemetery gave the Borregos wide berth but their meanness in life had morphed into mischief in their afterlife so I mostly ignored them.
As I left the hospital, I kissed the old priest on his wrinkled cheek, certain I would never see him again. “Would you give me your blessing?” I asked. He smiled and placed his hands on either side of my head, and touched his forehead to mine as he murmured the ancient words. He left sticky traces of tamale on my hair, but I hardly noticed.
I had a lot of things to think about on the drive back to Sangre de Cristo.
I was two miles outside of town when the wind suddenly whipped up, blowing so hard that it nearly pushed my little car off the road.
My shoulders ached as I wrestled the wheel, trying to keep the car straight as it was buffeted from all sides.
I knew the wind couldn’t be natural even before I heard the howls of the demonic creatures that suddenly surrounded my car, screeching and clawing at the metal, leaving long furrows in the hood and splinters in the windshield.
And then, mixed in with the horrific screams, was Rosamara’s soft voice — husky and sexual and intimate. She called my name like a lover, and I found myself responding to it. I wanted to stop the car and open the doors and let whatever was out there have me. I was about to let go of the wheel and abandon myself to my fate when Dale suddenly materialized in the center of the road.
I stood on the brakes and the car slewed sideways, narrowly missing him.
I was trembling when the car stopped, my heart beating so fast it felt like it was coming out of my chest.
I started to get out, but then suddenly — inhumanly fast — Dale was standing outside the driver’s side door, reaching for the handle.
I slammed down the lock and heard Dale laugh darkly.
“How long do you think it will be before I winkle you out of your metal shell like a shriveled-up garden snail?” he asked in a voice that was not quite his own.
Dale’s blue eyes had gone dark and black, and I realized I wasn’t looking at him but at a skin suit that housed the Spider. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that although it was his form speaking, the words were hers. And I knew that meant Dale was dead. Dead, but maybe trapped between worlds, forever lost on the road between life and death.
My grief threatened to choke me, but I pushed it back down, filling the empty space with cold rage.
“I’m coming for you, puta,” I promised.
“I’ll be waiting,” she said, and the wind subsided.
The Dale-thing disappeared.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
And then I put the car in gear and drove the rest of the way into Sangre de Cristo.
I would be seeing Rosamara Quintana soon.
But first we had a party to go to.
12
Fiesta of the Damned
Dale was dead, but I couldn’t think of that. Dale was dead, and the Spider held his soul captive. I really couldn’t think about that. Because if I thought about Dale, the anger and the grief would consume me, and I needed to be cold as ice. I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to swim in the shark tank. You know what they say, Mantener a tus amigos cerca pero a tus enemigos más cerca — keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Enselmo Porras had been my enemy since the day he’d walked into my shop and threatened me. He was not a stupid man, but he was foolish.
He believed his alliances with dark forces — both human and supernatural — would keep him safe.
Safety was an illusion. He was about to find that out.
Sangre de Cristo was a working-class town. You don’t see many fashionistas here, at least not among the locals. I dressed pretty much the way my abuela had, long skirts and t-shirts, attire that would not be out of place anywhere in the American Southwest, especially tourist places like Sedona and Santa Fe, but photographs of me were not going to end up on a blog celebrating “boho street style.”
If it was particularly sunny out a lo major, I might throw on a straw hat, but unlike the town’s newest citizens — the narco thugs and their women who walked around as if auditioning for a reality show called The Real Housewives of Sangre de Cristo — I was pretty low-key.
For this party, though, dressing down wasn’t an option.
I was going in dressed to kill, and I could only hope that the metaphor wouldn’t turn literal. I had told Father Paz that there were things I could do to fight Rosamara’s magic but I hadn’t been exaggerating when I told him that the counter-magic had risks. I’d have to play her game. I’d have to get dirty. And she was a lot more experienced at that than I was. If I miscalculated, it would mean my doom.
I prepared myself as if for battle, bathing once in saltwater, and then rinsing it off under a shower so cold I could hardly bear it.
Afterward, I anointed my skin with a blend of Palo Santo and rose oils for protection, murmuring a Mixtec magic spell so old no one living knew if they were even pronouncing the words right. My grandmother had learned the spell from her grandmother and passed it down to me when I was very young, teaching me to memorize it like a song. I’d been enchanted by the sound of the words, the same way I’d been delighted by the rhyming wordplay of Dr. Seuss books, and she had encouraged me to recite the spell aloud as often as I wanted until I knew it as well as I knew my ABCs and my times tables. “You are a little bright spark in a great dark world,” she used to say to me, “and these words will help keep you safe.”
I expected Rosamara to be at the Shark’s party, and even if she was not there in the flesh, I knew she would be there in spirit, working toward some dark purpose of her own.
She had killed Dale Taylor just to get to me.
Ojo, Rosamara, ojo. Watch yourself, because I am watching you.
As I drove up to Enselmo’s rented house, I saw there were valet car hikers in front, and guests were being funneled toward the entrance by unsmiling men wearing custom-tailored dinner jackets with barely noticeable bulges under their armpits.
I parked behind a black Cadillac XTS and was immediately boxed in by a Buick Verrano Turbo. “Buy American” seemed to be the rule rather than the exception among the newcomers, though I did see a red Lambo being wheeled into a parking spot well away from the rest of the cars. My little Nissan Versa felt even smaller than usual, like a house cat that had somehow ended up in the middle of a pride of lions.
Hungry lions.
At the gate there was a security assembly line in progress, with men searching purses, then passing everyone along to the next checkpoint, where the women were wanded and the men patted down roughly.
Security tossed people’s cellphones and devices into bins, and I was glad I’d left my phone at home. I wasn’t one for posting party selfies anyway, and the idea that something I used so often might pick up the bad vibes I was already feeling was not appealing. Also, I didn’t want anyone associated with Enselmo in any way touching anything I owned.
I handed over the embroidered evening purse I’d bought on Etsy and tried not to wince as a thick-fingered security goon rummaged through it. I was sure he thought if he dug in it long enough, he was going to find something more than my I.D., a lipstick, and my cigarettes. Finally satisfied, he handed the bag back and jerked his head toward the doorway.
“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he said, as if I would find that prospect enticing.
En tus sueños, I thought, giving him a tight smile. In your dreams.
The inside of the casa was decorated in a surprisingly elegant manner. Either Enselmo — or more likely poor doomed Leelee — had hired a decorator, or he’d rented the place furnished. I’d expected Enselmo’s taste to run to velvet paintings of Rey Mysterio, Jr., but instead the living room walls were covered in a nicely curated gallery of artwork. I spotted a small Diego Rivera, a Damián Ortega original, and one of Daniela Rossell’s photographs from her Ricas y Famosas series. I wondered if Enselmo had gotten the subversive subtext of the Rossell photo or if he’d been oblivious to it.
“Aixa Riley,” a shrill voice said, demanding my attention. I turned to see the mayor’s wife, her hair newly bronzed, her ample body stuffed into a knockoff of a Christian Cota dress, huffing toward me. The flamingo pink color didn’t suit her.
“Erminita,” I said to acknowledge her greeting, but I was put off by her thin-lipped smile. Erminita Ocotillo hated my guts, and her smile gave me the shivers. There had been rumors forever that she was related to the mysterious drug lord known as “the Shadow,” but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that she herself was the Shadow, like some Mexican version of Griselda Blanco.
We chatted for a few minutes about this and that, and then she excused herself when one of the guests of honor arrived, moving off to pay tribute to him. I didn’t know whether that would involve kissing the enormous ring he wore or giving him a blow job in one of the casa’s opulent bathrooms, but I had no doubt she was up to either challenge. My grandmother went to school with Erminita, and she took a kinder view of her and her high-handed ways. “Tiene un chingo de problemas,” she always said. “She has a bunch of problems.”
I’m not as nice as my grandmother. Erminita had once addressed me like I was her own personal peon — in my own shop — and I’d let her know she could get her saw palmetto and angelica root somewhere else if she didn’t cut that shit out. We’d had a sort of armed truce ever since, and she remained a steady customer of my botanica but every time she came in to buy something I felt like I had to smudge the shop with white sage after she was gone.
“Would you like a cocktail, Aixa?” Petra Cervantes asked me, holding out a silver-plated tray of TnTs. Petra was a distant cousin of mine but I’d never unwound the complicated web of our family relationship.
“Gracias,” I said, and took one of the frosty-looking glasses. I wasn’t surprised to see her. Petra was a school teacher, but she had a daughter at Arizona State and Lisa always needed extra money, so Petra had a couple of side hustles, like working as a manicurist in the new day spa, tutoring the narcos’ kids in math, and working parties like this. No one judged. Uno hace lo que tiene que hacer. Not everyone in town had the luxury of turning down the narcos’ dirty money. Hell, I took it, too. The narcos’ wives and mistresses came into my shop all the time looking for this and that. I sold them a lot of scented candles and herbal teas. I was generous with free samples. Everybody loves freebies. I made a fortune off the narcos’ women.
After Leelee had “gone back to Texas,” Elvis had taken to dropping into the shop every once in a while. I could see guilt and shame in his aura and that interested me. It meant he wasn’t totally gone as a human being. He’d asked me why I didn’t carry Santa Muerte items along with the prayer candles and holy medals and the little car statues of Niño Jesús and Our Lady of San Juan . Like a lot of narcos, he made a show of worshipping the folk deity, whose full name meant “Our Lady of Holy Death.” He seemed disappointed when I told him I simply didn’t have the room for more merchandise. The real reason was the whole worship of the death goddess creeped me out. And I didn’t like that people had started to give Rosamara the title.
I tossed back my first drink, put the empty glass on Petra’s tray, then took another. I hardly ever drink, but I needed some kind of insulation from the bee-sting sensations of the free-floating badness I was feeling.
“Enjoy the party,” Petra said as she turned away, balancing her tray gracefully.
I sipped the second tequila and tonic slowly as I drifted around the living room, listening to snatches of conversation. Chief of Police Esteban Cordero was flirting with a woman not his wife and trying to impress her with talk of a Formula One race driver he was sponsoring. The woman, a pretty brunette wearing a backless dress in a sunset color that set off her dark skin and cinnamon hair to perfection, kept looking over his shoulder, hoping to spot someone, anyone, more interesting to talk to.
I did not see Rosamara.
I wandered outside to smoke a cigarette, and Enrique Riquelme, one of Enselmo’s enforcers, gallantly offered me a light. Enrique was one of the narcos Father Paz had threatened with excommunication in the wake of the terrible night when four cops had been murdered and the church set on fire.
He was the only one who seemed affected by the threat, even though, according to Dale, he had murdered nearly a hundred people on cartel orders. “It doesn’t make sense,” Dale had said. “A guy like him being involved with a guy like Enselmo? If he wanted to, Enrique could be running the whole damn show, but instead, he’s a hitman for people who aren’t fit to carry his water.” What really frustrated Dale was that he liked and respected the man, even though his job was to put him away in prison for the rest of his natural life.
I couldn’t figure Enrique out, either. I couldn’t see his aura.
He was in his late middle age, but carried himself with the elegant arrogance of a much younger man, pairing his bespoke suit with an old school bolo tie with the assurance of a Hugo Boss model. Some of the younger narcos made fun of him behind his back, but others vied for his attention and approval. Enselmo acted like a puppy dog around him. The two made a strange pair, but their bond went beyond business.
