Date: 2023-05-05 10:45:30+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: A bruja is born. What does a girl who envies the creep and darkness of a shadow become? From the time she was born, Matea had a connection to Santa Muerte that seemed to linger inside her. Matea's world seemed to bend around her in a way that no one else could comprehend. She trembled with an unexplained intensity, knowing that the cosmic forces and strange intuitions driving her forward were going to be impossible to control. Promised to Santa Muerte at birth Matea's life felt like it was constantly on the edge of something unpredictable and fear filled Matea's body as she considered what typ

Sinner

SANTA MUERTE

BOOK ONE

CAROL JAMES MARSHALL

Copyright © 2023 by Carol James Marshall

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Editor: unexpectedpaths.com

Cover Art: Victoria Cooper Art

Por mi madre Lucinda y Doña Lupe.

Que descansen en paz.

For my mother Lucinda and Doña Lupe.

May you rest in peace.

Creo y no creo. - Doña Lupe

I believe and I don’t believe. - Doña Lupe

A Message from Carol James Marshall

I wrote the Santa Muerte series to represent who I am as a Latina. I am not English. I am not Spanish. I am a mixture of both.

I am Mexico, but also America. Therefore, the Santa Muerte series represents my bilingual worldview.  There is plenty of Spanish in the Santa Muerte series but I believe I do a good job of paraphrasing what was said in Spanish, in English usually within the paragraph.

Culturally in most Latin American countries, a witch's spell is called a “trabajo,” “a work.”

In the Santa Muerte series, I use the word “trabajo” to mean “spell.”

The way La Santa Muerte is depicted in this series is my own interpretation. I acknowledge the many different opinions of those who worship her, and I respect their views. However, this work of fiction is mine alone, and La Santa Muerte has been shaped by my imagination.

Contents

Untitled

1. Av Reforma, Mexicali, Mexico

2. Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

3. Calexico, California

4. Malvada

5. Mi Cariño

6. Babosa

7. Viejita y la cabrona

8. Confia en me

9. Te la presto

10. Se ve bonito

11. 300 PINCHI Snakes

12. Desgraciada

13. Su Gente

14. El Tiempo es Maldita

15. Like Nothing

16. Que lo sapes

17. Perdóname

18. Brujita

19. Leyenda de Mal

20. Las Chismosas

21. Mátala

Sneak Peak of Vessel Book 2

Preview Vessel Book 2

Preview Vessel Book 2

Preview Vessel Book 2

About the Author

Escucho voces cada vez que apago la luz.

Cuando me cuestiono lo que no te cuestionaste tú

Por eso a veces los versos que escribo hacen que a Jesús se le salgan los clavos de la cruz

-       Pecador Residente

I hear voices every time I turn off the light

When I question what you did not question

That is why sometimes the verses I write make Jesus’ nails come off the cross.

-       Sinner Residente

Chapter 1

Av Reforma, Mexicali, Mexico

Matea

9 years old

Mexicali wasn’t home for Matea. It was a town she visited when her mother felt like it. Matea’s mother Amparo was a woman of whims.

On a whim, Amparo would take Matea to Mexico to visit her abuela. On a whim, Amparo, with Matea in tow, would head back to the United states. It was as if Amparo could never reconcile that her home was no longer Mexico. Mexicali was a sore bruise on Amparo’s chin. Something she didn’t want to look at but felt good when rubbed.

Matea’s childhood was a back-and-forth procession on the streets of Palmdale, California, and the streets of Mexicali, Mexico. Her mom’s whim-filled yoyo life left young Matea feeling unsettled and unfinished, like a raw piece of wood.

The not here nor there wasn’t what Matea believed she needed at that age. Little girl Matea wanted and needed to settle in one spot so she could finally blossom into whatever it was she was to become.

And what she was to become scared Matea. She wasn’t like her cousins. She wasn’t like the girls at school. Her cousins could content themselves with running along the beaches of San Felipe, Mexico, singing songs loudly along the shoreline and loving the attention they got from all who heard them. The girls at school would smile and nod with an appreciation of whatever the nuns told them. The girls at school believed the nuns to be holy, saintly, blessed.

Matea didn’t want to sing in public, and she believed the nuns looked like penguins that had been left in an oven too long, their meat dry and shriveled.

Matea knew things before they happened. She saw things others did not. Matea felt as if she was constantly being pulled but never knew to where. This left her feeling tired but mostly terrified of what she could blossom into.

What does a girl who envies the creep and darkness of a shadow become?

Matea will not say or think the words of religious teachings. Those words did not mean anything to her. Those church words are for weird people Amparo takes Matea to on one of her whim-driven adventures.

Those words are not for her.

This Sunday, Amparo’s whim took them back to Mexicali, and Matea, knowing where her mother is heading, does everything possible not to reach their destination.

Matea whines and walks too slow while begging for pan dulce. When her mother is undaunted by her actions, Matea schemes for what to do next, her eyes dancing up and down the street at all the vendors.

Matea dead stops at a vendor selling plaster statues of saints. Matea pulls her mami’s arm, pointing to a statue of a skeleton, holding flowers, with a crown on its head.

Still doing her best to delay the inevitable burden of attending mass, Matea says, “Mira, she looks like the Virgin,” while pulling her mother towards the statue. Matea reaches for the statue of the skeletal woman even though she hears her mother exclaim, “Ave María Purísima!”

With the word “Purísima” still dangling from her tongue, Amparo yanked her daughter away from the skeletal statue but not before Matea’s pinkie finger grazed it, and that touch, that slightest bit of contact between Matea’s skin and the smallest edge of the plaster statue was enough.

Matea felt a sharp electric prick run through her body.

In pain, Matea yelped, knowing she did not imagine the zap. She knew the statue shocked her on purpose, but she couldn’t tell her mami that. Matea knew confessing her true thoughts to her mami would only mean more time in church. More time in church was not what Matea ever wanted. Church felt wrong, like sour candy that never gives itself over to sweet.    Church left her skin feeling prickly. Every nerve in her body pounded at her, trying to will her to get out while she still had breath in her lungs. At mass, Matea was plagued by an inability to breathe properly and a feeling that everyone in the church had their eyes glued on her. At any moment during mass, Matea felt the churchgoers might point their fingers with a knowing smirk and declare, “You don’t belong here.”

Matea knew they were right. She didn’t belong in church. Something was wrong with her, and church couldn’t cure it. If only she could tell her mother this. If only Amparo would understand.

As her mother dragged her away from the stand, Matea looked back at the statue. The skeletal woman pointed her boney fingers at Matea, and the lingering sensation of the electric jolt stroked Matea's brain. Matea’s eyes darted to the vendor who met her gaze then nodded as if to say he knew all her dirty little secrets but would never tell.

Chapter 2

Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

Mexicali, Mexico

Matea

14 years old

Matea was hot. The summer heat of Baja California was cooking her brain. All she had on her mind was the cool breezes of an air conditioner lapping at her sweaty skin. Instead, she was once again stuck in the prison of church, roped by one of Amparo’s whims.

Church was still an uncomfortable place for Matea. A place that was too tight, too overwhelming and always overloading her senses.

Today in mass, the sting of incense on a hot summer day made her eyes water. La Virgin de Guadalupe stared down at her accusingly, and Matea was on the edge of anger or despair, she couldn’t decide which. Matea couldn’t help but feel that the Virgin had X-ray vision, as if La Virgin knew all that she struggled to keep hidden and would soon point her delicate white fingers at her.

The feeling of melting mixed with nausea danced its way over Matea’s body. Matea felt sick. She badly needed to leave, but it was useless to tell her mother.

Today in church as always, Matea’s mother sat right next to her. Too close to Matea. As if clinging to her daughter comforted her or maybe she thought she should be close enough to control Matea’s behavior. Amparo sitting so close to her felt like everything in this church--as if it was made to suffocate her.

Matea stole a look at her mom. Amparo was engrossed in prayer.  Matea swallowed and looked away, uncomfortable that her mother seemed to enjoy praying.

Amparo swayed when she prayed, and no matter the time of year or setting, seeing her mother's delight in praying made Matea uncomfortable. It was as if praying gave her mother some sort of joy. Matea didn’t understand it. When Matea prayed, she felt nothing. Her prayers were a dead-end road in a forgotten town.

Matea longed to feel anything when she prayed, yet nothing ever came. It was as if no one picked up the other end of the phone call. Jesus was not answering, so Matea stopped calling. She had been pretending to pray for years, and Amparo seemed none the wiser.

With menstrual cramps biting at her back and legs, Matea sighed looking from side to side as Father preached on. How could he stand his robes in such heat? The AC at the church did nothing to help the inferno of Mexicali in June.

Catching herself rubbing her hand, Matea looked down at it, noting that she was once again rubbing the dark smudge left there by her half-second touch of a Santa Muerte statue 8 years ago. The smudge never hurt. It could not be washed off, no matter how much she tried. It looked like black ink had spilled on her hand and had not been scrubbed off. The smudge was harmless. Nothing but a stain, but it still had a presence, like a portwine stain on someone’s face. People couldn’t feel their portwine birthmarks, but they felt its presence.

The black smudge on Matea’s hand was an echo of something or someone that haunted her.

Matea knew who had marked her. She had known from the moment it happened, but she wouldn’t acknowledge her.

In acknowledgment there was power. Matea knew if she acknowledged it, then she’d be lighting the fire she feared would engulf her.

Besides, how could she give power to something that Matea knew wasn’t true? All of her mother’s beliefs be it in the church or the brujas was something Matea had to endure in her life, but she could not believe in either of them.

What Matea believed was her ideas. The things she saw. The things she felt. The things that sometimes happened after she wished them. She was wicked, and her brains were twisted that was the truth. That was her secret. It wasn’t fair for la Virgin to peer down at her with such judgement, hidden under the demeanor of warmth in her loving face.

Matea knelt to pray along with her mother, as expected of her. She closed her eyes and hoped to have something spark within her. She felt something slide across her ankles. Not scared of the sensation but annoyed, Matea took a deep breath. She knew who the visitor was and knew it would have friends.

Matea glanced at her mother, whose eyes were squeezed shut, and dared a glance behind her. Matea watched a rattlesnake, forked tongue “tasting” the air, slither toward her mother’s feet.

Rolling her eyes, Matea refocused on pretending to pray, hoping they’d be done and back to sitting soon. Matea felt no worries; her mother wouldn’t feel the snake slide over her feet.

Matea had been visited by the snakes many times now. No one felt or saw the snakes except her.  Hearing Amparo finish her prayer, “. . .sino que líbranos del malo. Amen,” Matea sat up, pushing a rattlesnake off her seat on the pew.

Amparo raised an eyebrow at her daughter then and gave her a look that Matea knew well. The don’t-be-strange-in-church look.

Most of the time Amparo ignored Matea when she yelled at something she couldn’t see or kicked at something that wasn’t there, but in church, Amparo was extra vigilant, as if she too didn’t want La Virgin to see her dirty secret of a daughter that wasn’t normal.

Matea’s head swam. Rattlesnakes now covered the floor of the church, slithering up pews, draping themselves on people's shoulders. She noticed one slip its head under the black veil of an elderly woman who was at mass whenever Matea was there.

All the parishioners watched the Father prepare Communion. Not one stirred despite a snake hanging off a shoulder, or sniffing their hair, biting at the Bible in their hands. No one noticed the snakes but her, as usual. Watching the snakes bored Matea even when the rattlesnake heads watched the Father with interest.

As people rose for Communion, the snakes rode along on top of heads, on shoulders, some dangling from arms. All the snakes were eager for mischief, mischief Matea never found amusing. Each snake that went with a parishioner did its best to take a communion wafer, snapping at it like a hungry dog. All the snakes failed. Matea rolled her eyes again.

Shaking her head Matea, watched a snake sitting on the shoulder of a woman in front of her, bowing its head to pray with her, as if it was her spirit animal. Angry, Matea flicked the snake away with her fingers. The snake looked back at her, shaking its rattle in warning to not interrupt the Mass.

Matea hissed at the snake, glaring at it. Matea felt the velocity of rage rise in her cheeks. She also felt a pinch on her leg from her mother, who heard the hiss leave Matea’s mouth. Matea gave her mother a side look, wishing her mother could see the rattlesnake that wrapped around her rosary beads, sticking its mocking tongue out at the Father like a spoiled teenager.

When Matea believed this trip to church could get no worse, the congregation started singing, and the snakes all swayed along to the music. Matea could hear some of them sing along in high-pitched voices that sounded like abuelas trying to sing opera. The snakes singing was meant to be comical. The snakes always mocked and stirred up whatever trouble they could to get a rise out of Matea. She knew this. So, she averted her eyes and tightly clasped her hands to keep them still. She would not allow them to once again get her in trouble.

The snake she’d flicked suddenly turned its head to look at her. It looked away quickly, focusing on the Father, who continued with Communion, and back at her. Finally, tolerating no more, Matea whispered “What?” to the rattlesnake.

“Our Santa Muerte,” the snake said in a hissing whisper.

“Shut up. Cállate,” Matea responded, but too loudly, alerting Amparo that something was happening with her daughter.

The rattlesnake looked at Amparo with a glint in its eyes then brazenly said, “Glory be Holy Death.”

The other snakes turned to look at Matea, all repeating, “Glory be Holy Death” with a sliver of menace in their tone. The snakes repeated “Glory be Holy Death” over and over, growing angrier with each hiss.

Matea fell to the floor, convinced there were a thousand ants on her skin. Screaming, Matea kicked at whoever had grabbed her feet.

The rattlesnake voices rang out, “Hail the Santisima,” but it sounded not in Matea’s ears but in her throat, choking her.

Someone has her. Someone holds her. She won’t open her eyes. She doesn’t want to look the snakes in the eye, and she doesn’t know why.

“Help me!” Matea screams and in response feels a slap against her face.

She can finally breathe again. Her face stings. Matea opens her eyes to see not her mother, but the Father holding her, his eyes full of tears.

“My child,” he says, placing a gentle hand on her head and smoothing Matea’s hair.

Matea relaxes, hands release her, she sees the Father’s mouth quickly moving in prayer but she does not hear him. Someone beats a drum in the background. There is singing. The song isn’t Spanish. It’s not English. The music is pulling Matea, as if a hand reaches to save her from drowning.

The drum beat and the song twirl together as if dancing partners. The singing is of many people together as one.

The drum beat tells Matea to sleep and that they, her people, will watch over her.

Chapter 3

Calexico, California

Matea 19 years old.

La Casa de Doña Lupe

According to Amparo, Doña Lupe was the closest thing to a living saint on earth. If the sun fell from the sky tomorrow, Doña Lupe is who you would go see. Armed with a few powerful prayers and a white pillar candle, Amparo was sure Doña Lupe could fix the world.

Matea didn’t think that was true, but she liked the old woman. Doña Lupe had always treated Matea with kind words, followed by stern ones.

Doña Lupe was nothing like Matea’s maternal grandmother Oralia, who had nothing but stern words for Matea followed by sterner looks.

Today the baja was actually cool. Breezes wafted through Matea’s hair as she watched Doña Lupe scoot in and out of her home’s backdoor, ushering in clients with a cheek kiss and a pat on the back.

Doña Lupe took clients in a small room in the back of her house on Thursday afternoons starting at three and on Saturday from eleven in the morning until four.

Usually there was a long line with only a few plastic chairs lined against the fence in Lupe’s backyard. A crowd always gathered hours before she’d start her work.

The wait to see Doña Lupe was long and the visit with her short, but no one complained. All patrons happily sat chatting about their lives, including Amparo, with Matea dragged along.

Matea loved Doña Lupe but felt a sticky guilt about that love. How could she love a charlatan?  A faker. A fraud. How could Matea feel so kindly towards a woman who sold people on the fact that she had a don, a gift for brujeria. Doña Lupe told the world she was, in fact, a witch. As far as Matea was concerned Doña Lupe was a woman who year after year, visit after visit, told Amparo what she wanted to hear.

Amparo had taken Matea at age sixteen to see Doña Lupe. According to Amparo, Matea was always bad tempered. Amparo had insisted that Matea go in for a limpia, believing her daughter needed to be cleansed of her attitude, and she was sure Doña Lupe was the bruja for the job.

What Amparo could not, would not understand is that her daughter’s attitude at that age was bad partially because of her mother’s whims.

Amparo’s whims often took Matea away from school when all she wanted to do was be in school. Matea was college minded. She would get a degree. She didn’t know how or even in what, but she would. Through education, Matea believed she would take herself away from superstition, brujas, and time in the purgatory of church. Matea believed if she studied hard, focused all her attention on learning she could push back her inclination towards the dark, unexplainable things that happened to her almost daily.

At the cleansing, Matea stood listening to Doña Lupe as she circled Matea while mumbling prayers and rubbing her with herbs. Matea stood numbly waiting for the cleansing, like everything else Amparo dragged her into, to be over. The smell of the herbs mixed with smoke clung to Matea. She remembered feeling a sway happening within her, a tug at something in her chest that Doña Lupe tried to yank free with her prayers and herbs.

The thing, whatever it was, like an anchor stuck its thistles into her heart, bracing itself deeply in Matea's bones. With each pass of prayers, Matea felt a surge of her dark inclinations stroke her but never let go. She knew she would pass out soon. Her vision grew fuzzy while her mind fell. As the room began to twirl, Matea decided to speak to Doña Lupe, who seemed unaware of Matea's disoriented state.

Feeling darkness begin to crowd her and, worst of all, feeling that darkness enjoy her descent, Matea grabbed Doña Lupe as she tried to open her mouth to speak. Matea eyed a snake curled up around her mother’s legs. Amparo sat at the corner of the room doing her best to seem comfortable.

Looking away from her mother and the rattlesnake at her mother’s feet, Matea shook the old woman’s hand, pulling her out of her prayers and to full attention.

Matea whispered, “She will not let me go.”

Doña Lupe eyes were full of tears, and she softly smiled at Matea “But I must try,” she responded and lowered Matea to the floor where she vomited what seemed like buckets of black, inky sludge.

That was two years ago, and although Matea had been back to Doña Lupe’s many, many times, she had refused to go in.

Today, Matea waved and nodded to Doña Lupe when her mother got up to go in. The Doña put a hand up when Amparo started walking over to stop her from entering then waved frantically at Matea.

Matea felt weary of whatever was about to happen before it happened, but she rose and followed her mother inside.

As soon as they entered the house, to Matea’s surprise Doña Lupe kicked off her shoes, leaving them by her back door. Matea looked down at the shoes, then out the back door window at the line of people sitting outside waiting their turn.

The Doña stopped in her kitchen and retrieved two bottles of Coke from the fridge; she turned, smiling at Matea while popping the tops off of both, then motioned to Matea to follow her down the hall.

Matea felt a wash of relief hit her when they passed the small room with an altar where the Doña did all her work.

When Doña Lupe had slipped off her shoes, Matea had been horrified that she would do something witchy to her that involved Doña Lupe putting her bare feet on some part of Matea’s body. That seemed less so now that they passed her altar.

Matea felt an ease wash over her as she followed Doña Lupe to her living room.

Accepting the ice-cold and super-sweet Mexican Coke, Matea couldn’t help but smile at the Doña. She had put her feet on an ottoman, taken off her large and heavy glasses to wipe them on her housedress, and was now happily sighing while simultaneously sipping her Coca.

“Me estoy poniendo vieja,” Doña Lupe said when she finally stopped drinking.

Matea, who didn’t think the woman was getting old, even though she’d already been ancient when Matea first knew her as a child, didn’t know what to say. Stuttering to find a response, Matea blurted out that Doña Lupe wasn’t old at all, and she wouldn’t be surprised to see her dancing at parties for another ten years.

Doña Lupe put up her hand as if wanting to wave off the nonsense that came from Matea’s mouth.

“There is a time in our lives,” Doña Lupe said in Spanish, “where we need to know things. True things. Things that we didn’t understand as children.”

Matea took a long drink from her Coke, nodding her head, a callow way of not saying anything in response to what Lupe had said to her.

Doña Lupe went on “It is time for my truth, to you.”

Putting her feet down, the old woman leaned forward.

“I have been protecting you since you were first marked. Your mother has brought you to my home for years, for me to see you. To see the rattlesnakes that surround you. To see the misty grey shadows that engulf your perimeter.”

When Doña Lupe said she saw the rattlesnakes, Matea grimaced. She didn’t know if her grimace was because Doña Lupe speaking of the rattlesnakes made the snakes a real thing and not something happening to her because she was wicked or, as she often suspected now that she was older, mentally ill.

More truly Matea’s response was because in hearing Lupe speak of the snakes, voicing that she saw them too, inherently Matea knew that gave her shadows more power.

“Her pull on your spirit grows stronger and mine. . .” Doña Lupe frowned and added, “. . . grows weaker.”

Matea shook her head.

“Don’t,” said Lupe angrily.

“Do not pretend that you do not know that she has marked you. That she lingers, pulling you to her domain. She calls to your soul, Matea, and maybe already owns it. You cannot stand by pretending that you don’t know it.”

Doña Lupe slammed her empty Coke bottle on the table, giving Matea a disgusted look.

Pleasant turned to ugly, Matea thought. That is what she does. She turns beautiful into hateful.

Tears welled in Matea’s eyes. She didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t, couldn’t accept this.

The old woman stood and walked to Matea. She stood behind her and took a necklace from her housedress pocket. She fastened it around Matea’s neck with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

“I will wait until you are ready. When you are ready to study with me, I will teach you. When you accept who you are, I will be here. She marked you because she knew the power you had inside you, and she wants you on her side. But, I’m getting older, weaker. She only grows stronger.”

Matea looked down at the simple gold cross hanging from a gold chain on her neck. Doña Lupe smiled and said, “I have warded that cross to protect you, but it won’t last forever.”

When Matea stood to leave, Doña Lupe unexpectedly snatched Matea and pulled her into a hug. Matea heard her whisper, “La Santa Muerte will only go and do what you allow her to. Open the door to her, and you might never be able to close it.”

Matea gently pulled herself away from Doña Lupe, worry carved into every inch of her thoughts. “You should not have said her name.”

Chapter 4

Malvada

Matea felt Gina’s hands hold her hips in place as she pressed against her back, swaying with Matea and Brandon to the rhythm of music. The cool desert night outside of Palmdale, California, and this bonfire party were what Matea needed to calm her fractured nerves.

Lately, Matea's thoughts had been obstructed by the constant need to rethink every single thought she had. Life had been a string of questioning everything she felt, seen, did.

At twenty-two, Matea only wanted to get herself through college and find a job that meant something to her. She needed meaning in her life, meaning that had nothing to do with her dark secrets.

Her secrets kept Matea in constant turmoil. She felt like an ocean wave, never stopping to reflect, only rolling over itself again and again.

Daily sometimes hourly, Matea questioned if there was truth to Doña Lupe’s proclamation that there was a power within her. Or was it simpler than that? Was she mentally ill? After all, everyone didn’t see the things that lurked in shadows as Matea did. Sane people did not have a rhumba of rattlesnakes as their entourage.

Gina’s breath was heavy on Matea’s neck. The sensation of it stole her away from her self-hate. The constant in and out of Gina’s warm breath slithered under Matea’s hair, nesting itself on the nape of her neck.

Brandon’s mouth lingered near Matea’s cheek. She knew he was attempting to kiss her, but she wouldn’t stay still for it. Matea knew that together, she, Brandon, and Gina would make a beautiful mess, but eventually they would see past her barriers and want to know more of her. Matea had spent her entire life sweeping her darkness under a rug in hopes it got trampled on. She was convinced no one could endure the train wreck that she was.

Gina showing up, coming over or texting Matea. Gina was a continual interruption in Matea’s life that sometimes suited Matea since those interruptions also broke her train of thought away from the wicked and sinful.

Brandon was following Gina to the barrier gates, both in a dead-heat race for her heart, both willing, it seemed to Matea, to share it.

Little did they know she hadn’t much heart to give.

The rhythm. The crowd cheered. Matea shook her head, doing her best to forget herself again, to focus on the feel of Gina behind her, the tenderness of Brandon in front of her.

Then, she saw Esme. Esme, who’d befriended Matea long ago. Esme, who dabbled, she said, in occult things. Esme, who’d wanted in Matea’s bed and had never succeeded. She had gotten into Brandon’s, which quickly dissolved Matea’s trust in whatever friendship they might have had.

There Esme stood, framed by the desert night. Esme always seemed to be wherever Matea was, and this gave Matea cold feelings, especially since the rattlesnakes who had haunted her since her youth always stayed clear of Esme.

The snakes hissed in Esme’s direction. They circled her but never came near. Matea noticed that Esme, although she never mentioned the snakes, seemed to notice them.

Esme would look toward a hiss. Then, she’d look at Matea, smile, and say something sweet, kind, and gentle. Esme’s words were worms trying to curl themselves around Matea’s brain. Matea never allowed it. She mentally blocked Esme at every turn, and Esme knew it. Esme was always knocking, never giving up.

Esme now stood on the periphery of the dancing crowd, drink in hand, one hand wrapped up in someone else’s. Was she stealing glances at Matea or Brandon? Brandon for Esme was something not quite conquered. She hadn’t reached Brandon’s peak, and that miffed Esme. She could not tolerate that his heart was never hers.

“What are you looking at?” Gina’s question startled Matea, almost making her stop dancing.

“It’s Esme. She’s staring at us,” responded Brandon before Matea could find the words to explain not only her irritation but also the fact that Esme had ill intent.

Esme wasn’t simply weird and annoying; she was malavada, and Matea didn’t know how to say Esme was evil without both Gina and Brandon thinking Matea was insane.

“Let’s go,” Gina ordered, grabbing both Matea’s and Brandon’s hand. “It’s late, anyway. We all have to work tomorrow.”

Matea stole one last look in Esme’s direction before walking to the car. She was looking right at Matea, and when she did Matea felt a quick jab at her temple that slid down her arm, making the muscles under the mark on her hand vibrate.

Putting her hand to her temple, Matea’s anger flared, and she noticed that made Esme smile.

* * *

There was a whisper of soft guitar music powered by the scent of flowers drifting its way in and out of Matea’s breath. She breathed in the guitar music, inhaling each flick of the string. Looking around her, Matea wished to see who played the guitar.

She wanted to watch the player’s fingers pluck at the strings. Matea felt a desperate need to touch the guitar. Maybe in doing so, she could not only inhale the music but keep it locked beside her heart.

The music, low, melancholy, hung around with no player in sight.

Matea stood barefooted on a cobblestone street. The stones felt warm against the soles of her feet. The pulse of heat felt like a kitten purring. The warmth floated up, caressing her skin and doing its best to be inhaled with the music of the guitar.

It felt like the entire street wanted Matea to belong to it. Or maybe Matea thought she wanted to belong to wherever this was because it felt right, like a perfectly fitted pair of jeans.

Looking ahead, Matea noticed there was an entrance to a building. An archway to a beyond she longed to linger in. The street leading up to the archway was lined with candles.

The white candles glowed in cheap glass jars, like in church. Thinking of church, Matea looked down at her bare feet and noticed that she was naked. In a panic, Matea wondered how she could go into the church without clothes. Everyone in the church would see her. There would be nowhere to hide. They’d point fingers, call her a sinner. A whore.

Covering her breasts and groin with her hands, Matea was no longer comforted by the sound of the guitar playing.

As if cued by her panic, the guitar played louder now, more a shove than a caress of notes. The candlelight flickered, and the smell of flowers now swept over Matea until she felt a tug at her hair.

Momentarily forgetting her nudity, Matea’s hands flew up at the feeling of something landing on her head. The feel of soft petals and hard metal greeted her fingers. A crown of flowers? She could have sworn she felt the tip of a snake’s tail glide across her index finger.

Overcome, Matea rushed toward the entrance of the assumed church looking from side to side for anyone who might pity her. Perhaps she’d find an older woman who would have a shawl, so at the very least she could cover the bottom half of herself.

The now loud guitar music felt like a trap. The soft melody was giving way to a roar of noise that stopped Matea right before the archway.

Each guitar riff held her in place.

Stoic and looking around her, Matea noticed the soft adobe mud of the archway bricks, the flow of white candles leading the way past the archway. The scene was beautiful but felt artificial, as if set up like a movie set.

A rattlesnake fell from her head, plopping down on the stones with several red petals in its wake. Matea put her hand to her head. The flowers felt full and lush. The metal of the crown warm to the touch.

She stood, unable to follow the snake, unable to take another step. She knew she shouldn’t.

Matea knew who was on the other side of the dark archway. Beyond the shadows, Matea could see the flower-scented breeze flap her veil. Matea could always see beyond the shadows.

She was waiting for Matea.

“No voy,” said Matea, ignoring the sudden silence of the guitar. “I won’t go,” Matea whispered to herself.

“Eres mia.”

Matea stiffened. “No. I am not yours.”

“Eres mia, hermosa.”

Those sweet, soft words reminded Matea of Esme a little too much.

Matea could almost see her now. She wore a crown of flowers, her hair was full, black and surrounded her skeletal face. There were no eyes in her sockets, yet Matea felt her gaze.

For the first time in so long, Matea felt herself waver. She felt her hands drop to her sides. Her skin drank in the warmth of the stone street.

The dance of candlelight felt seductive. The voice was sweet, pulling at the anchor Matea felt in her chest.

“Hermosa mia, ven aqui.”

Matea fell to her knees to stop her feet from following the words, “Come here, my beautiful one.”

Matea’s body knew where it belonged. It belonged beyond the archway into her world. Matea knew she should be in the duty of her worship, but her mind couldn’t give up the fight.

Matea howled. There was warmth and sweet words beyond the archway. She could serve La Santa. She was meant to serve her.

Why could she not take those last steps? It wasn’t long.

The mark on Matea’s hand burned. She yelped in response and peered through the archway, feeling the need to enter Santissma’s domain.

Matea began to stand. One foot on the ground, then another. All she needed was to lean forward putting her weight on one foot then she would stand. Once standing, she could then go where she knew she belonged.

“Hija mia...hermosa mia.”

Stepping forward, Matea heard a drumbeat. Of not one, but many drums. The drums sliced through the quiet of the archway, causing its stones to tremble. Matea looked behind her in search not of the guitar player but now of the people who played the drums.

There was light at the end of the street, beyond the light sat many men striking drums. They sat with stern faces, headdresses of feathers on their heads.

They said nothing to her but spoke to her with the fierce beat of their drums.

Matea felt her crown of flowers slip from her head. She reached to catch it, but it rolled beyond the archway.

La Santa Muerte snatched up the crown with bone fingers, and a loud hiss quickly faded into a black abyss.

A quick snip at her arm scared Matea awake. Confused, she opened her eyes thinking she’d see her. Thinking she’d hear the drums. Instead, looking down at her was her dog Mijo, a Pitbull she’d rescued from a gangbanger two years ago.

Mijo looked down at Matea with the seriousness of an ex-con. He dropped Doña Lupe’s cross on her chest, huffed at her, then lay down.

Picking up the slobber covered chain and cross, Matea raised an eyebrow at Mijo. “Gracias, I guess.” Matea tried to wipe the dog slobber off the jewelry onto her sheets.

Mijo huffed deeper this time in response, giving her his signature Chewbacca yodel in a doggy, “You’re welcome.”

Matea stroked Mijo’s head. This dog always surprised her. He always had something she needed or was in the perfect place at just the right time. Best of all, Mijo kept the rattlesnakes that plagued Matea at bay. The snakes stayed in dark corners when Mijo was with her.

Holding the chain and gold cross up to Mijo’s face, she asked her dog, “Where did you get it? It’s been in a drawer for years.”

The dog only cocked its head to one side, allowing one of its ears to stand up. He then yawned, licked her nose, sneezed, then lowered his head, and Matea could tell he was readying himself to settle in for a long and comfy nap.

Turning to her side Matea curled herself around Mijo, concentrating on listening to the soft snore coming from her beloved dog instead of thinking of the guitar music and the demanding drumbeat from her dream, a dream that Matea instinctively knew wasn’t a dream but would pretend it was anyway.

Chapter 5

Mi Cariño

Looking over her shoulder, Amparo quickly snuck a speck of clove into the coffee grounds before turning the coffeemaker on. She worked cautiously knowing that her daughter was sleeping, but there might be a chance, though a small one, that Matea would catch her in the act.

For years, Amparo had added the cloves given to her by Doña Lupe to Matea’s food, clothing, room, belongings. The cloves, according to Doña Lupe, would keep Matea’s natural abilities under control.

Matea, Amparo knew, was blessed with powers. Matea had a natural leaning to be a true bruja but neither Amparo nor Doña Lupe knew if Matea would love the light or immerse herself in the dark parts of her. In Amparo’s beliefs, the white light of witchcraft mingled perfectly with the church. The two could work together to help people.

Amparo breathed the scent of coffee, trying to steady her nerves for the days ahead. The image of a slithering darkness covering her house rested on her shoulders. Amparo believed that the black shadows of witchcraft fought against the church and all that was good in the world.

Since Matea was a child, she’d displayed discomfort and annoyance in church. Child Matea often spoke of snakes, shadows, things creeping about the house that Amparo could not see. Amparo feared that Matea was more at home in gloom.

“Hola, señora...” Matea’s mother Amparo almost did a cat-like jump in the kitchen at the sound of her daughter's cheerful voice. Amparo turned and smiled at Matea’s silliness, brushing away all the negative thoughts that were pounding at her temples.

Amparo responded, “Señorita, por favor. Toma tu café.”

Matea took the coffee from her mother. She’d pretend to drink it to not hurt her mother’s feelings, but everything Amparo cooked or made always had a faint smell or flavor of clove.

Cloves were off-putting to Matea, as if they had the bite of ammonia. The meandering of clove flavor and scent in her life confused Matea because she had never found cloves in the kitchen, no matter how much she looked for it.

Breaking her smile, Amparo’s words came out in a rush. As if she wanted to give bad news quickly so it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Matea, I’m leaving for Mexicali. I will be back tomorrow night.”

Matea took the tiniest of sips from the coffee her mother had handed her, hearing the plop of Mijo’s paws as he strolled into the kitchen, thundered under the kitchen table, and settled himself on Matea’s feet.

She winced, feeling the slurp of his tongue between her toes. Amparo continued speaking with a slight tremble in the hand that held her coffee cup.

“I’m sorry, but I have bad news. I have to tell you before I go.”

Feeling another slide of Mijo’s tongue between her toes, Matea brought her feet up to her chair so she could focus on her mother.

“Que pasa?” she asked, worried. The look on Amparo’s face was not good. Matea smiled, trying to soothe whatever bad feelings her mother had and repeated, “What’s up?”

“I am bringing your nana to live with us.” Amparo blurted the words out, as if vomit. She heaved a sigh, looked out the window, and shook her head in a “no” gesture.

Matea rolled her eyes, putting her feet back down, gently resting them on Mijo’s back, feeling the fuzz of his fur against the soles of her feet.

It was like Amparo to make a big deal out of nothing. Drama, thought Matea. Her mother should have been a Telenovela star.

“Y que?” she responded tensely. “She’s your mother. My grandmother. Of course she should live here. We should take care of her. I don’t know what your problem is? Do you want me to leave you alone when you’re old?”

Amparo straightened, her posture preparing herself for an argument. She glared at her daughter. “She believes many crazy things.”

Matea laughed, slipping her feet off of Mijo who grunted in disapproval. She stood, pouring the coffee her mother had given her down the sink.

“Crazy things?” Matea rolled her eyes, then looked directly at Amparo. “Like you believing there’s some magic gringo in the sky that listens to you when you pray to him?”

Matea stood her ground, now eye to eye with her mother and waiting for her mother’s response, knowing she’d have none.

“You going to work or school?” Amparo finally asked, a bit of retreat in her voice.

“Today, work. Tomorrow, work and school. I’m going to work extra today. I need money for next semester.”

Matea lied about that. The overtime she did today would go towards paying the utility bills at the house.

She knew her mother barely kept the roof over their heads. Matea had been not so secretly taking bills from the mail and paying them. She knew her mother would not take money from her.

It was a silent game they played. Matea scrapping the money together to cover the cost of water, electric, her car, and school. Amparo pretending she didn’t know how those bills got paid.

The ruse was stupid and funny, like all of Matea’s dealings with Amparo. Amparo, who Matea loved more than anything, also drove her crazy more than anything.

“Bueno,” said Amparo as if something was decided. “If you need something, call your Tio. Your uncle will help you if you need it.”

Matea smiled at the mention of her Tio Fabian. He was an old cholo who was all heart and no brains. She loved him, even if she rarely saw him.

“Yup. Yup,” replied Matea. She gave Amparo a hug then added, “Say hi to Doña Lupe for me, because I know you are going to see her before you see my grandma.”

Amparo got stiff then. When was she going to figure out that she was not mysterious? Matea could see through her mother for days and days.

Laughing at her mother’s reaction, Matea let go of her mother and left the kitchen. Walking down the hall she could hear Amparo talking to Mijo, telling him to guard the house, Matea, and most of all to keep the neighbor cats out of their yard while she was gone.

“Pinchi gatos, cochinos...” Amparo grumbled and Mijo yipped in response.

* * *

Matea put her cell phone on silent then hid it in the pockets of her jacket. She wasn’t supposed to have her cell phone on her at work, but everyone had theirs hidden somewhere on them.

The fulfillment warehouse where she worked was always buzzing. It was always overwhelming. There were people everywhere. Boxes everywhere. Sounds like the whirr of robots and the roll of conveyer belts whisking boxes away to be put on trucks by people like her was everywhere.

Matea had been working at the warehouse through a temp agency for over a year. She was still making minimum wage, considered part time even though she sometimes worked forty-plus hours a week.

Matea had no sick leave, no benefits, but it paid the bills, and the overtime possibilities helped keep things flowing at home.

Despair could overtake her, but Matea often reminded herself that the warehouse was only a placeholder in her life. It was a place she was for now but wouldn’t be always. If she kept going to college. If she graduated, she could step away from the boxes, the trucks, the endless noise of packing tape sealing boxes shut.

The warning sound of a rattlesnake rattle whipped past her thoughts with the mental reminder that she was not like everyone else. Her soul carried black inky things that smelled of flowers.

She needed to guard her thoughts so that those dark things did not seep through.

A firm but playful slap on her rear end popped Matea away from her thoughts. Turning to see Gina, Matea said, “That’s legit sexual harassment, cabrona.” Matea gave Gina a chiseled chola head tilt and eyebrow raise as she’d seen many of her Tio Fabian’s girlfriends do.

Gina smiled, linking her arm into Matea’s answering, “Damn, Queen. Don’t be like that. It’s all love.”

“Where you at today?” Matea asked, both ignoring the intimacy of the butt pop and the word Queen. She and Gina worked wherever they were told to at the warehouse which meant one day she could label boxes the next loading them on trucks.

Gina stealthily nuzzled Matea. Not enough, Matea mused that Gina thought she’d notice, but she did.

“Taping and labeling.” Gina said giving Matea a shove away from her she added. “See you later.”

Matea smiled; leave it to Gina to blast through her destructive dark mood without breaking a sweat. “Is that you playing hard to get?” Matea called, watching Gina walk away.

Matea thought she heard Gina giggle as she headed to her workstation. Matea needed to find her shift manager, get her duties for this shift, and, she hoped, score some over time.

Walking, she couldn’t help but feel both dread and giddiness at her flirtation with Gina.

They were friends, but maybe one day they’d be more.

Maybe one day Gina could be a constant reminder to steer clear from the dark things she felt inside, which Matea knew were starting to revolt and wanted out.

* * *

Matea had been at the warehouse for six hours. The shift felt never ending, as if the warehouse was a purgatory where she’d pay for all her past and future sins. She had kept herself mentally busy going over anatomy for her class tomorrow as she loaded box after box into trucks, skipping past forklift drivers, double-checking cargo. It was mindless zombie work, but if she kept herself mentally busy then she felt better about herself. Thinking of her classes gave her hope.

Now in the break room, Matea slurped down a Coke while eyeing the burger Brandon had brought her.

Brandon also worked at the warehouse but had the day off. He’d brought Matea and Gina lunch, anyway. Matea thought about that. Brandon brought them both lunch. Not just her. Not just Gina, but both. On his day off.

She took a bite of her burger, tasting the love in it and enjoying the feel of butterflies fluttering in her chest as she thought about Brandon. Was this the feel of love? The sense of wanting it to be love confused Matea. She was an emotional smoothie of feelings for Brandon and Gina--and hatred for herself.

“Hola, hermosa.”

The voice stopped Matea from swallowing. She began to choke on her food. The voice, the voice. Those words, that sweet sticky tone, clogged her throat.

Coughing, spitting out the chewed remains of her burger bite into her hand, Matea looked for the mouth those words came from and met eyes with Esme.

Esme with her sly smile. Her eyes crinkled in a laugh at how much she got to Matea with two well placed words.

“What are you doing here?” Matea finally got out. Why was she everywhere Matea was? How was she everywhere Matea was?

Esme loosened her smile, letting it slip into a grin that was manipulative and dripping with deceit.

“I got a job here, mi cariño. Or is it, my queen? Isn’t that what Gina calls you?” Esme sat, placing a water bottle and lunch bag on the table.

Somehow Esme's lunch bag and water bottle made Matea feel like a slob with her can of Coke from the machine and a greasy burger that was by now stone cold.

“My Queen,” Esme said, agreeing with herself. “Right? That's what Gina calls you.” She opened her water bottle then, taking a small ladylike sip while locking her eyes on Matea.

The hiss of a snake came from the floor, and Matea could feel it slither between her legs.

“Don’t call me anything.” Matea wanted to stand and stomp the snake, but no one else could see it, and all that would happen is that she’d once again look crazy. Instead, Matea stood, snatching up her burger and Coke. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Dang,” responded Esme “Don’t be hard. We can be friends again.”

“Not going to happen,” Matea said, giving Esme her coldest stare.

Esme nodded. “We will. La Santa told me so.” She opened her lunch bag as if she’d been talking about the weather. “We’ll be more than friends.  Mi cariño. We’ll be besties.”

Chapter 6

Babosa

Doña Lupe slept peacefully in her bed. Her husband of forty-four years softly snored next to her, both of their dogs curled up at his feet. His snores rumbled the bed, creating a current that ran across the sheets to Lupe, but she didn’t mind. After so many years of marriage, his snoring had become her security blanket.

Don Ignacio, Lupe’s husband, was kind and generous. He was the kind of man who said nothing to a wife who spent hours in a small room of their home surrounded by candlelight and the murmurs of the spirits that worked for her. He’d known what kind of trouble he’d be into if he married her, but Ignacio married a bruja anyway.

Don Ignacio said nothing when his hair was pulled while he napped. He never blinked twice at things falling off tables or whispers floating on air down the hall of their home. He gave nothing but a quiet nod and kind smile when Doña Lupe paid off their home from the money she earned reading tarot cards to neighborhood ladies and whispering to the spirits who did her bidding.

Tonight, Don Ignacio felt the quick lift of the mattress when his wife woke from her sleep. He felt her sit up and move to the edge of the bed. While his eyelids closed back to sleep Ignacio pictured her wrinkled toes sliding into her slippers. Ignacio gently smiled; it was time for his viejita to get to work. He’d say nothing to her; a quick flutter of his eyelids, and he’d be back to sleep until morning. The business of the brujas was no business of his.

Doña Lupe gave her husband a quick pat on his rear end right before she got up to work. She had planned to sleep that night, but her dreams stirred her awake.

Lupe’s dreams were not to be ignored. Her dreams were powerful things. They were a place where all her good workers contacted her. Her good workers were Doña Lupe’s spirits. Some spirits she knew from life and pulled them to work for her once they had passed the earthly realm. Some workers Doña Lupe plucked from the air as they walked the earth, lost and unable to transcend to better places.

Sadly, none of her good workers did her work by choice. It was Lupe’s invocation that chained them to her. Her ability to possess their essence gave her the power to command them. There were days where her ability to force her good workers to her will made her sad. She was bullying them; she knew this, but sometimes need canceled empathy. Doña Lupe could have no sympathy for the dead because her heart loved the living.

And one day Lupe knew she’d be a good worker for some other bruja. She’d have no peace in this life or in death.

Lupe’s dogs did not follow her down the hall to her workroom. The dogs were wise to what would happen in that room, sensing the coming of the dead before they had arrived in Lupe’s home.

Still in her pink pajamas, Lupe tossed her slippers to the side of the room, reaching her altar in a rush as if late for an appointment. Lupe knelt at her altar, feeling a small bit of comfort in knowing that she owned this space.

She had spent years creating her workroom and altar. Doña Lupe crafted them like a garden. Her saints were placed exactly where they wanted to be. Her offerings staged where they could be inhaled and ingested by the spirits.

Her candles, paper prayers, jars of blood and bone, sprigs of herbs, tangles of hair in baggies, all were placed where her good workers told her they should go. Doña Lupe’s altar was her right hand and left. It was her ears, eyes, and tongue. She was nothing without this sacred space that no one, not her husband, dogs, children, or grandchildren, dare enter.

On her knees, Lupe lit a charcoal disk, waited for it to spark, and carefully placed frankincense resin on the disk. Lupe and her workers were anticipating that she’d soon be engulfed in heavily scented smoke. Her good workers and she knew what the smoke under her care could accomplish.

Inhaling the waft of incense smoke that had already begun to lope from the charcoal disk, Lupe lit five white pillar candles. Incense smoke in full bloom, candles flickering. Everything was almost ready.

Doña Lupe took a flask of Holy Water she had taken from her local church and poured the entire contents of it over her head.

The Holy Water dripped off her hair, sliding down her face and plopping onto her ready outstretched tongue. Her actions caused the smoke from the incense to hiss, twirling itself around the room with more growl than mutter.

Lupe steadied herself, sensing danger that those with her now were not her good workers. Her hair, despite being wet with Holy Water, rose from her head as if gravity in the room had no effect at the very top of her head.

Her hands trembling, Lupe watched the circling smoke slide nearer to her. The incense smoke she’d cast was supposed to guard her perimeter; instead it slunk towards her. Doña Lupe could feel her heartbeat pound in her ears as she watched the incense smoke betray her.

“No te tengo miedo,” Doña Lupe said, knowing that she should never show spirits fear. She would dominate the apparitions.

She was the bruja here. She was the master; they were her slaves.

The ground under Doña Lupe’s feet softened, dirt that was not there before on her clean, laminate flooring crumbled around her heels. If she didn’t act now, she’d be pulled down into the earth, swallowed by approaching demons.

“Who sent you? Tell me now!” Doña Lupe commanded with a firm frown on her face. She skillfully masked the fear she felt as her feet sank an inch further into the dirt. The sense of sinking prompted anger in Lupe. How dare these spirits try to break the protection of her workroom.

“TELL ME NOW. I AM THE BRUJA. ME, NOT YOU. TELL ME WHO YOU ARE SO THAT I CAN SEND YOU TO HELL.”

Her once-welcoming incense smoke made its way down her throat, crawling with spikes for legs and teeth that ripped flesh as they went toward her lungs. Doña Lupe gagged on the blood filling her mouth. She purposely spat the blood out towards her white candles.

Whoever this was would not take her voice. She’d scream and yell at these evil spirits until they ripped out her tongue.

Doña Lupe reached for her Virgin de Guadalupe candle, praying out loud in nothing but a suffered whisper, “Virgincita, protect me from the wickedness of the evil one.”

Lupe ignored that her feet felt cemented into the dirt. There was the feel of fingers teasing their way around her toes.

She lifted a Virgin de Guadalupe candle once again spat blood directly on the wick. The incense smoke had cut her mouth badly, and no matter how much she spat, more blood trickled from her mouth.

“No te tengo miedo. Babosa.” Doña Lupe flung the babosa insult from her mouth. If angered enough, the demon might appear. If it appeared, she might be strong enough to get its name, invoke it to leave, or, better yet, make it a good worker.

The dirt at her feet grew warm. The fingers that moments ago tickled her toes slipped away as if scared off by a bigger predator.

Doña Lupe worried about the warmth of the dirt on her feet gave herself a moment to breathe air that was not infiltrated with the incense smoke.

Lupe got two big breaths in before a hand grabbed Doña Lupe’s hair from behind, yanking it into a knotted fist. Lupe could not turn. She was locked into place by whoever had her hair.

The smell of flowers floated up Lupe’s nose, soothing the pain from the smoke away, clearing her breathing. She took a deep breath in. Savoring the second of calm to try and think her way out of this intrusion.

“Bruja.”

A sly murmur floated past her ears, but the words hit the side of her face as if a bullet on a bullseye.

The smell of flowers went from soothing to warm, as if hot tea was being poured down her throat.

“I am not scared,” Lupe stuttered. La Santa Muerte had never visited her. There had to be a reason for La Santa to be here now, but if she showed fear, La Santa would gain the upper hand.

“What do you want?” Doña Lupe asked, finding her courage “You want something. Tell me. Tell me now.”

The hold on her hair tightened more. She felt chunks being taken out at the root.

“Matea. Es mia.” La Santa said as if the delicate words were sprinkled with caring and sugar.

“No,” answered Lupe then thought better. She needed more information. She needed to know more. “Why?” added Lupe.

A soft laugh came from behind Lupe. Santa Muerte was cunning. She wasn’t like demons who were blinded by hate and rage. La Santa Muerte was intelligent, epic, as timeless as her sister La Virgin de Guadalupe.

“Virgin de Guadalupe, protect me from--” Skeletal hands stopped Lupe, whipping her around. La Santa stood before Lupe, her bony face in front of Lupe’s, her black veil cascading around her like a halo. The flowers adorning her head were in full bloom.

Lupe realized then that Santa Muerte was beautiful.

“My sister has nothing to do with this,” La Santissma answered. Every Virgin de Guadalupe statue Doña Lupe had on her altar exploded. “I want what is mine, and you are in my way.”

Doña Lupe watched Santa Muerte bring up one hand, stretching out the long bones that were her fingers. She touched the tip of one finger to Doña Lupe’s heart with a soft word.

“Bruja. . .,” she hissed and faded to nothing, leaving an empty feeling in Lupe’s chest. Lupe realized that the feeling of vacancy was the absence of her heartbeat.

Lupe’s vision sparkled. She felt her head turn to cotton. As she glided to the floor, Lupe knew if she protected Matea much longer La Santa would kill her.

* * *

Hours later, Don Ignacio rolled over to find himself in a cold bed with the feeling of loss hanging in the air. Ignacio sprang from the bed, running down the hall with two dogs at his heels.

The dogs reached Doña Lupe’s work room first, neither going in, only whining at the threshold.

Out of love, Ignacio dared turn the knob expecting nothing but grief on the other side of the door. Ignacio glared inside the room, his eyes darting to the massacre of broken candles, statues, and dirt.

Ignacio ran to Lupe’s still body where it lay among the wreckage, preparing himself with swift prayers for whatever it was this would be. Don Ignacio stopped his prayers when he saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

Quickly before any spirit or other could stick to him Ignacio grabbed Lupe’s arms and pulled her into the hallway. He left her for only a moment to call 911, then quickly closed her work room door, locking it while spouting prayers aimed at any deity that he thought would listen.

* * *

Amparo watched the ambulance take Doña Lupe away from her home. She sat pensive in her car wanting to line the street with the rest of the neighbors who stood in silence watching the bruja being taken away but not being able to steady her legs enough to stand.

The quiet on the street coated the air. No one spoke. All stood in reverence, watching the rush of medics and family crowding Doña Lupe’s home.

Were they silent out of respect? Fear? Amparo did not know. She only knew that watching the ambulance drive off, followed by several cars driven by Lupe’s children, Amparo selfishly wondered who she could find to help her protect Matea, against Matea.

Chapter 7

Viejita y la cabrona

Exhausted from a long day at the warehouse plus biology class at her local community college, Matea rolled the windows down in her car to allow the cool, night breeze to flow in. Matea needed something to whisk the dirt of her day away. She hoped the sweep of the air through the interior of her car would cleanse her skin of the world.

Lately, Matea’s world felt heavy and covered in pollen.

Her drive home wasn’t too long by SoCal standards, but every inch of road home tonight felt tripled by the images that kept trampling her thoughts.

Despite her best efforts to focus on the road, Matea’s head was filled with flashes of Gina, Brandon, and hateful Esme.

Gina’s bright smile would blink into Matea’s brain, only to be shooed away by Matea remembering the look in Esme’s eyes when they passed each other on the way in and out of the bathrooms at the fulfillment warehouse.

Matea would push thoughts of Esme aside to relish the memory of Brandon’s sweet and caring hug right before their shifts, but Esme’s specter would cloud Matea’s memory, coating the happy feeling with the memory of Esme’s maligned glances toward both her and Brandon.

In class tonight, Matea truly struggled to focus on what the professor said.

Nothing stuck. All Matea could think of was her desire to rid her life of Esme once and for all. Esme was like a wart on a finger, always there no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

She knew her thoughts about Esme were borderline dangerous. Her mind went from what she’d like to do to Esme, to what she knew she could do to Esme. All she had to do was give into her darkness, step in and swallow her shadows, making them not part of her but her. If she did this, she could remove Esme not only from her life but from existence.

Matea’s once-dormant desire to give in to her dark side was wakening, full of not want but lust for all things wicked.

Knowing that this play of ridding the world of Esme was inches away from her grasp made Matea feel a hungry anticipation, as if she could savor the malicious deeds on the tip of her tongue.

Matea had always scooted away from malicious deeds, but she also wished to sink into them. All these feelings, thoughts, perspectives of what Matea could be settled themselves in the car with Matea, ignoring the plea of the night air to move along and let her be.

A few blocks away from her home, there suddenly was a feel of something different in the air. The air that refused to budge took a sudden dip down, then lifted again as if gulping down a big drink of water.

On her block she noticed rattlesnakes hanging from trees in her neighbor’s yard. That made Matea wonder if she should speed past her house. The rattlesnakes equaled drama, and Matea had no energy tonight for war. When she noticed Amparo’s car in the driveway, Matea felt her stiff bones relax. Amparo was back from Mexicali.

Looking at the house Matea met eyes with Mijo, who stood by the front door of the house, like an angry father waiting for a daughter who’d broken curfew.

As Matea’s car slid into the driveway, several snakes slithered across it. Matea was hoping to hit them with her tires, Mijo left his spot by the door. He walked to one of the snakes almost at her wheel. He lifted his leg and peed on the snake. The snake convulsed, hissed, and retreated along with the rest of them. The comical look of disgust on the snake’s face made Matea laugh for the first time that week.

Matea grinned at Mijo then. the way a person grins when they see an old friend who always, no matter the situation, had your back.

Out of her car. Matea did not head for the front door yet. She dropped her backpack on the ground and sat on the driveway. She held Mijo close to her, burying her face in his neck as he nudged her with his footlocker head.

“Are you guarding your witch’s domain? “ Matea asked Mijo with a bit too much laughter in her voice. Mijo gave her exactly one tail wag and a headbutt reminder to get moving inside.

Matea knew Mijo was waiting for her on guard at the door, but why? He always greeted her when she got home, but he had never stood guard at the front of the house. Mijo impatiently walked behind Matea, following her to the front door and huffing at every lazy footstep she took.

After she opened the front door, the aromas of cooking slapped Matea. She knew the smells well. Caldo, meat cooked long and slow, peppers ground up and put into salsa, flour for tortillas. The classic smells of a Mexican household. It was the smell of Oralia, her grandmother.

Tossing her backpack on the couch, Matea rushed into the kitchen and instantly spotted the sparkling white curly hair of her grandmother.

“Viejita!” Matea exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the old woman.

Oralia laughed, turning around, eyes full of light. With a playful scowl, the old woman said, “Cabrona.” Her grandmother’s eyebrows went up, and for once her stern face turned silly. She kissed Matea on both cheeks, then pointed to the table for her to sit.

Oralia quickly went to work fixing Matea a plate of food. Before a sigh of joy could leave her lips, a steaming bowl of caldo de rez was in front of her, with a plate of diced onions, cilantro, salsa roja, lemon wedges, and fresh warm tortillas.

Matea was so overjoyed at the sight of the food; she didn’t bother with a thank you. Finally, she’d get to eat something at home that didn’t have the awful background taste of clove in it.

Satisfied after watching Matea eat, her grandmother made herself a cup of coffee, sat by her granddaughter, and patted her hand.

Matea shoved mouthfuls of the soup in her mouth, slurping enough down to shove a piece of tortilla in as well.

“Calma,” said her grandmother. “I have more food, calm down.”

“It’s just so good, viejita.” Matea answered while simultaneously swallowing and chewing.

She wanted to tell Oralia that she wasn’t only feeding a girl who lived on fast food, coffee, and soda. Her grandmother's mere presence filled a hole in Matea.

One look into her grandmother’s eyes and Matea remembered that hole. Matea had ignored it but knew her grandmother could fill it. Oralia had come to live with them at the right time in Matea’s life. Matea knew this for certain. She didn’t know how she knew this, like so many things that she knew, but she did.

Her grandmother had come to save her, and it all started with this bowl of soup.

“Ah, don’t call her viejita. It’s rude.” Amparo was in the kitchen now, absentmindedly chewing on a tortilla. “Call her abuela.”

Oralia made a “bah” hand gesture. Rolling her eyes. Matea noticed that her grandmother had a bit of a hunchback and there was a droop to the skin on her face that wasn’t there before.

Her grandmother had always been stern with Matea, but stern with love.  Stern with wisdom. Now, Oralia looked not broken but breaking with age.

“Did you have a good day, mija?” Amparo asked taking a couple chunks of meat from the soup and feeding it to Mijo.

Mijo ever so gently took the food from Amparo’s hand, swallowed, and walked over to Oralia. The dog gave her several deep sniffs then left the room.

“That dog,” said Oralia in Spanish, “is not a dog. He’s a protector.  A guard.”

It was Amparo’s turn to roll her eyes then. Matea only smiled at the two women. Exhaustion and a full stomach calling her to sleep, and her mouth had no words to give.

Matea wouldn’t tell her mother that she agreed with Oralia. Mijo wasn’t a mere dog; he was something more. Likewise, Matea wouldn’t tell her grandmother that whatever Mijo was, it was something good, and that Matea was something not-good and unworthy of such a protector.

Later, sliding between her covers, Matea had a cold, lonely feeling that she had Mijo all wrong. He was a protector, but she believed he was there not to protect her but to protect others from her.

At that moment, Matea understood knowing one’s personal truth is the vilest thing on the planet.

Chapter 8

Confia en me

Minutes before she had to get up and get moving for work, Matea was enjoying the plush feel of her favorite blanket and the daydream she was building. Lately, her fantasies revolved around one theme. She was in her own apartment, not her mother’s home.

In her bed lay Gina, softly snoring, her legs wrapped in the sheets she had twisted up while sleeping. The background noise was of Brandon, who was whistling while showering. Matea enjoyed the sight of Gina and the sound of Brandon. There was a sweetness in this scene she had constructed.

In her fantasy world, there was not a snake in sight. No lingering looks from her mother about her polyamorous lifestyle. No sense of creep lingering in dark corners.

She kept coming back to this scene repeatedly whenever she had a quiet moment. She knew she was working the scene, refining it, adding and taking away from all that she mentally built. Eventually she’d have this scene down perfectly in hopes that it would one day come true.

Matea wanted to linger in this fantasy. She wanted to think about it until she could taste it.  Gina savory in flavor and Brandon sweet. Yet, in this fantasy and in every fantasy that involved Gina or Brandon alone or as a pair, Matea’s desire was sugar dusted with shame. Such wants were a sin. The nuns at school had taught their pupils that longing for the flesh was sinful.

Even as a child Matea believed nothing the nuns had said, but their doctrine had left an etch on her brain. A mark that no matter how much she tried to rub off it held steady.

The words of the Church, the mark of La Santa on her hand, held Matea back from diving deeply in either direction.

There was a contradiction in Matea’s gut. She did not believe in the teachings of the church, but the feel of being a sinner stuck with her. She wanted sinful things. She was a sinful being. A sinful woman, with sinful wants, and sinful powers that she had yet to unleash.

She was a contradiction. A confusion of what she believed and what might be.

If she did not believe in sin, how could she then taint herself with shame?

It was all so confusing. So...

“Hey, que es eso?”

Matea’s eyes flew open. Her grandmother Oralia stood over her bed, the stern look not playful this morning.

“What?” Matea asked, eyeing Mijo who stood dutifully by her grandmother. Mijo leaned forward and gave Matea some ear sniffs.

“That music?” Oralia answered in Spanish, while giving Matea a disgusted look with an equally disgusted pointy finger towards Matea’s phone that was haphazardly tossed in with the blanket, pillows, and everything else she piled on her bed.

Matea had forgotten the background noise of tribal music she was playing.

“I like it. Mi calma,” Matea answered defensively.

She would never ever figure out old Mexican women. What did her grandmother have against tribal music?

“Por tu padre,” answered Oralia with a huff that mimicked Mijo’s. “On your dad’s side...” she added, almost spitting with repulsion.

Matea sat up then. She wanted more information. She knew hardly anything about her father. Her father was a moot point as far as Amparo and Oralia were concerned.

“My father?” responded Matea, ready to bargain or plead for any information.

Shaking her head, Oralia only threw up her hands, announcing, “I’m going walking.” Turning, she looked down at Mijo and said, “Vente.” Mijo gave a doggie woof in response to her command, and the two left the room.

It was Matea’s turn to shake her head.  One second she was lost in a calming daydream, the next her grandmother was in her face acting weird about some music playing on her phone.

She swung her legs off the bed, deciding to get up and get some coffee that hopefully her grandmother made. Matea would need plenty of coffee before beginning her long day at the fulfillment warehouse.

With a large mug of coffee in hand, Matea padded down the hall to the bathroom, passing by her grandmother’s open bedroom door.

A flicker from a small flame caught Matea’s eye, stopping her midstep. The flame called to her like a siren, and Matea pushed the door fully open and stepped into the bedroom.

Oralia’s bedroom was filled to the brim with her essence. The room smelled of Pledge, was impossibly tidy, the sheets on the bed made precisely so.

Nothing in the room seemed askew. Nothing seemed to warrant Matea’s attention. She didn’t understand what called her in there until the smallest flicker became a dancing flame that caught her eye. The small flame was now almost erupting from her grandmother’s prayer candle to La Santa Muerte that sat on her dresser.

Matea eyed the candle from across the room. Briefly, she did not hear but felt Doña Lupe near her. As if Lupe had walked into the room, turned around, and left.

More contradiction. More confusion. More everything poured over Matea.

Her grandmother, who as far as Matea felt was here to save her from herself, was with the Santa. How could that be?

The flame on the candle grew. It fattened and twirled like a snake. On cue, Matea heard a hiss, then another, and a chorus of rattlesnakes began their tiresome song.

“So the dog leaves, and you fools show up?” Matea snapped, kicking a snake that was near her foot.

The snake toppled away from her, connecting with another rattler, who then tied itself to another.

Matea watched as snakes gathered together, braiding themselves into one another.

Hiss and twist.

Hiss and twist.

Matea watched the snakes not in horror. She did not feel afraid. She watched them with mild interest as if the sight before her were nothing more than a rerun of a favorite TV show she had seen too many times.

Matea quickly realized that it was borderline ridiculous that such a happening was almost the norm for her. As the snakes fused and took shape, she forced herself to pay attention to the form as if an important person had entered a room.

The figure looked black and gelatinous. Matea knew it was La Santa by the way the shape stood too proudly and almost presidential in the center of her grandmother’s bedroom.

Matea knew she should be afraid. She should. She should, but she had been bullied for too long by all things wicked to care anymore.

“Mi niña.”

The voice of La Santa carried such sweetness to Matea’s ears, but the caress of chosen words did not fool her.

“No!” said Matea feeling her knees wobble.

“Confia en me,” said La Santa. “Trust me. Your enemies are my enemies.”

Matea felt not tired then. Not helpless but unbalanced. She knew she stood on a blade. If she did not choose which way to fall soon, she’d be sliced in half.

Choose La Santa and be part of a darkness she so badly wanted.

Walk away from La Santa and be what?

Normal? Stalked by spirits, ghosts? Spend her life pretending rattlesnakes didn’t follow her around. Pretending she didn’t know that buried in her was the ability to do things, such terrible and beautiful things.

Through the fog of black gel a bony hand came forward, it cupped Matea’s cheek.

The bones of La Santa’s palm felt too warm against her skin. The warmth dulled Matea’s senses. She swayed forward a little, wanting more of Santa’s warmth.

Feeling the fall into the black gel almost happen Matea sucked in breath, swaying, her eyes tearing up, in a panic she threw herself backwards away from La Santa, landing hard on the floor.

Quickly she crab crawled out of her grandmothers bedroom, scooting toward the kitchen. She felt the black, gelatinous fluid she’d once vomited all over Doña Lupe’s floor gather in her throat. The fluid was what La Santa was made of and was what she’d once had had inside her. Matea held back a scream. It was still inside her, attempting to force itself out.

La Santa did not follow, and for that Matea was both relieved and angry. Angry with herself for feeling sad about not falling forward into La Santa. Again, she was a self-involved contradiction.

She scooted faster, almost giving herself a rug burn before stopping on the cold kitchen tile.

“Hey, what you doing? Scooting around the floor like a pinchi turtle. Chingon, Turtle Power! You want me to join you?”

Matea looked up to see her Tio Fabian looking down at her, like he had when she was six, eleven, fifteen.

“Tio!” Matea exclaimed, trying her best to seem cool. No weird shit happening here.

“You got stuff on your face.” Tio Fabian poked her cheek with a finger, and it became covered it with the black goo.  Tio Fabian looked at the black goo on his finger with mild amusement. “You going Goth, or what?  Goth is for white people. There's no Mexican Goths.”

He laughed hard at his comment while sitting on the floor next to her, instantly making a bizarre situation almost normal.

* * *

First, there was a snarky, “Hey, bitch,” and a thump on the shoulder as Esme and Matea walked into work that morning. Then, during lunch, “My Queen” snarled from Esme’s lips. An exaggerated bow and a quick finger-flick brought Matea’s Coke to the floor.

“Oh, my bad. I didn’t mean to,” was Esme’s response with a brick-red grin as Matea’s Coke flowed over the break room floor.

Later, Matea looked up from her taping station to see Esme blowing her kisses from across a passageway.

Enjoying the look of distaste from Matea, Esme shouted, “I’m only playing.” She then winked and yelled, “We good, right?”

Matea knew Esme was working her. Esme was sprinkling seasoning on Matea. Spicing her up before sticking her in an oven.

Esme wanted Matea to throw the first punch. Matea had had a reputation in high school as quick-tempered. High school Matea would have grabbed Esme by the hair, bent her backward, and throat-punched her. But adult Matea was keenly aware of a thing called jail.

All day long Matea had stilled her temper, recited anything from her college classes in her head, counted to twenty, and reminded herself that she needed this job. The light bill was due soon. She needed cash for textbooks. So, Esme wasn’t going to get the fight she wanted in the fulfillment center.

The fight was coming, but Matea had to make it a different kind of fight.

Gina showed up next to Matea as she headed for the worker's exit at the fulfillment center. She slid into step with Matea in a nonchalant way that only Gina could pull off with a dreamy smile on her face. In step with Matea, Gina and Matea playfully nodded at one another.

Gina’s grin turned to a smile as she said, “I hate that bitch too.”

Matea laughed. “Who? Who you hate?”

Gina’s eyes crinkled. She tucked her chin down. “Esme, of course. I’ve been watching her all day. She’s itching to start something.”

“I know,” Matea answered, defeated.

Gina gave Matea an understanding nod. “Besides," Gina added, "you know the code. I hate who you hate. It doesn’t matter why.”

Matea shook her head. It was her turn to smile. Gina was too good to be true.

As the two stepped out of the building together Matea heard Gina say, “Hey, let’s get Brandon and go have a beer,” but when her eyes settled on Esme walking towards the parking lot, Matea never got a moment to respond.

Matea’s high school temper followed Esme through the parking lot. Her eyes glued to Esme as she walked past her car and seemed to be heading straight to Matea’s car.

The hair on Matea’s head stood on end, the mark on her hand warmed, and the frustration that had plagued her all day now shot forward, turning Matea’s hands to fists.

Matea spotted Brandon leaning against her car. Sweet Brandon was waiting for her. He stood innocently looking down at his phone, unaware of Esme heading his way and unaware that Matea's fury was inches away from leaving her to do very bad things.

Eyes on Esme, Matea whispered, “Please do it...do it.” She silently pleaded with Esme to do anything, anything at all that would give Matea the excuse to put Esme’s face into her windshield.

Brandon looked up as Esme reached Matea’s car. His brows knotted. Matea knew Esme was his poison apple.

Esme rested her arms on Brandon's shoulder, saying something that made him smile.

Matea sprang towards her car, her hands at the ready for Esme’s throat as her legs pumped into a sprint. She flew at Esme, knocking her to the ground. Before Matea could strike, Brandon lifted her off Esme.

A howl escaped Matea. She was a predator and Esme her rightful prey.

Heaving and locked in Brandon’s arms, Matea watched Gina grab Esme off the ground in a helpful gesture, only to snatch her by the shirt once she was on her feet.

“Lay off,” Gina said to Esme. “Hear me?”

Esme put her hands up, giving Gina a nod.

Gina let her go, placing herself between Esme and Matea.

Esme looked beyond Gina to Matea who was breathing hard, still out for blood. Still needing to purge the frustration she had felt all day.

“This isn’t finished, bestie,” Esme spouted. She turned on her heel and walked away.

When Esme was far enough away, Brandon let go of Matea, and Gina turned, looking deeply at Matea and making her feel small, as if she was nothing more than a naughty child.

“Vamos,” Gina said, giving Brandon a nod. Gina took the car keys from Matea and tugged at her to get into the backseat.

Matea said nothing as she threw her backpack in the backseat, resigned to do whatever Gina and Brandon decided.

Matea was about to close the car door when she noticed a lip gloss on the asphalt. A brick red lip gloss she knew belonged to Esme. She must have lost it when Matea knocked her down. Matea snatched it up and shoved it into her jeans pocket with a fat smile on her face.

Yes, it would be a different kind of fight.

* * *

Doña Lupe, who had been sleeping deeply that late afternoon, felt her guts turn to knots. Her sleeping eyes sprung open. There was a whiff of flowers in the air.

“Matea,” Doña Lupe whispered “¿Qué haces?”

The old woman’s eyes sagged shut again, a look of infinite sadness drawn across her face.

Chapter 9

Te la presto

Oralia watched her granddaughter come home from work with a cloud of unhappy trailing behind her. The old woman’s eyes looked past Amparo, who sat passively watching a novella on TV. No matter the time of day or situation, when Oralia looked at her daughter, she saw the young girl of nineteen who had come home in tears and groveled before her mother in a confession of her teenage sins. Amparo had wailed as she spouted her sin of sex before marriage. Worst yet, the sin of sex with a married man.

Oralia could still picture Amparo with the sin of a child in her belly, the sin that was Matea. She left the church the day Amparo’s belly seemed to pop out, and she knew there was no longer a way to hide what her daughter had done.

Without the safe house of church, Oralia felt like a stick in a river, floating, flaccid, no current to direct her where to go. Without church, Oralia was ignored by her former friends. Pillaged of a feeling of safety, Oralia was hopelessly lost.

Until she found a new church. A church dedicated to La Santa Muerte.

La Santa does not condemn but understands.

La Santa chooses what is good for you above all others.

La Santa who Oralia knew chose her granddaughter Matea for her own the fateful day she brought a very pregnant Amparo to La Santa’s church.

Thinking of that day often made Oralia queasy.

Amparo, fat with Matea inside her, trusted her mother, who trusted her church, and most of all Oralia trusted La Santa. Amparo said nothing to her mother as she lay belly up at the altar to La Santa. She followed Oralia’s directions, no questions asked. Amparo was heavy with child that day. She looked more like a gluttonous tick than a pregnant mother.

A person must bring pretty things to La Santa. Instead, Oralia offered her daughter, who was dense with youth and enormous with child, to lay upon the altar like a pregnant heifer.

She remembered feeling embarrassed by the sound of Amparo’s weighted breath as she took the altar steps. But she ignored the waves of unease that almost brought her to tears and hoped La Santa Muerte would take her devotional.

She had offered her daughter’s and granddaughter’s undying love and dedication to her church that day, nothing more.

At least that is what she told herself.

Oralia coughed, holding in a cry. Amparo, almost asleep in front of the TV, did not stir. The memory of Amparo in her hand-me-down maternity dress pulled up to her chin, self-respect trickling away as the pain of labor overtook her 19-year-old body sometimes seized Oralia to the point where she could not function.

Oralia got up from her chair, not bothering to wake Amparo up and tell her to go to bed. She headed to the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of water as she walked carefully and deliberately towards her bedroom.

With still hands Oralia placed the cup of water by her Santa Muerte candle, striking a match as she lit it. She was loyal still to La Santa despite all that happened that day.

Matea had come to the world in a wash of blood and afterbirth spilling across the feet of La Santa on the altar.  The statue of La Santa was the biggest in town and the church’s pride.

It was Matea’s first cry that brought La Santa to the church that day. The newborns scream of indignation pounded the walls of the small church, bringing the statue to life.

Oralia watched the candle flame flicker while she swayed in her bedroom, the power of conviction sweeping through her veins.

With each wail from Matea, La Santa’s head moved from side to side, hunting the noise that had moved her so much she’d had to leave the respite of her domain.

Oralia could still feel the prickle of commotion on her skin when the parishioners watched the statue’s head sway and hands break free of the plaster as La Santa doubled in size.

Most worshipers fell to their knees, pleading for La Santa Muerte’s blessing. Some fainted. Some ran out, chased by their screams.

Oralia had stood in awe of La Santa.

She was so beautiful that day. Her black veil flowing behind her, a crown of flowers in full bloom on her head.

Oralia thought of her old church in those moments. No Gods showed up there. No saints blessed her with their presence.

The occurrences of that day did not terrify Amparo. As everything happened, her eyes stayed on the sight of a living statue that looked down at the crying, bloody Matea and held out her bone fingers in want.

Oralia greedily took Matea from the midwife and placed the infant in La Santa’s skeletal fingers.

She remembered hearing Amparo sob, perhaps in terror or fear; they have never spoken of it. Oralia also remembered a screaming Matea grow quiet and coo in La Santa Muerte’s hands.

La Santissma held Matea, rocking her in her arms and smiling down at her. She’d taken her deeper into her arms, pressing the baby against the rib bones that were protruding from her elegant black gown. When La Santa did that, Amparo wailed. She was so young. Amparo was so naïve, stupid, more than green. She was translucent.

La Santa looked down at Amparo when she heard her pleas. She had been so enthralled with new life that she hadn’t noticed the baby’s mother. Oralia knew La Santa had felt Amparo’s grief that day. The terror that had run through Amparo’s cries sang to La Santa Muerte. She understood grief. She understood sin. La Santa was the speaker for those the Church deemed unworthy, unholy, beyond repair.

La Santa bent forward, placing a placated Matea into Amparo’s arms. “Te la presto.” The words flowed from La Santa Muerte's mouth like tears.

La Santa had allowed Amparo to borrow the baby for a while, and Oralia now felt that time was up.

* * *

“Viejita . . . ” Matea's eyebrows shot up as she looked at her grandmother, who was standing outside the bathroom when she got out of the shower. “What’s up.” Matea’s voice was used up, like an old rag.

Oralia shoved a white pillar candle into Matea’s hands along with a book of matches.

“Prende una vela,” was all Oralia said before quickly walking away and noisily closing her bedroom door.

Annoyed and also amused, Matea whistled for Mijo while walking to her bedroom. The big Pitbull yipped in response from Matea’s bed. Once in her bedroom she smiled at him. “You baked potato . . .,” she said kissing his nose, happy to see him snuggled up on her bed.

After the day she’d had, she needed a deep sleep, and the only way she’d get that is if Mijo was on guard duty.

Thoughts of Esme and her afternoon trampled Matea’s thoughts. For tonight, she’d ignore the lip gloss she had taken. Matea looked at the candle Oralia had given her and decided to light it. She’d let it burn for a bit while she dried her hair. It couldn’t hurt.

Matea placed the candle on her dresser, palming the matchbook her grandmother had handed her.

She was about to open the matchbook to light the candle when she noticed where the book of matches came from. The Pretty Kitty. Gentlemen’s Club. Tijuana, Mexico.

Matea stared at the book of matches. Read it. Read it again.

Then Matea laughed so hard the idea of lighting the candle was gone. Instead, she tucked the book of matches into the top drawer of her dresser.

There was a story in the matchbook. A crazy convoluted, old Mexican woman's story to those matches, and she’d get it out of her grandmother, somehow.

Chapter 10

Se ve bonito

Gina was Matea’s own personal superhero. She had a way of fixing Matea with a comment, shove, wink. Gina centered Matea when she didn’t know she was askew.

Brandon was Matea’s soft place to fall. He was the warmly lit room, with a big couch and seductively plush blanket to wrap herself in.

She needed both of them in her life, but this morning, for bad and good intentions, Matea only wanted Brandon.

Balancing a couple of cups of coffee and her thoughts, Matea lightly knocked on the front door to Brandon’s studio apartment.

Glancing from side-to-side, Matea felt anxious. The apartment wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods.

Matea considered herself street smart. She knew her way through most of the dingy streets that Palmdale offered. She could hold her own in a fight, but today inner turmoil and vulnerability spat at her.

After a second round of Matea’s knocks, Brandon opened the door, his sloppy blond curls, baggy basketball shorts, and six pack abs, along with his usual easy smile made Matea feel as if seeing her at his door early in the morning was no surprise at all.

Forgetting her mission and coffee, Matea lost herself in the sight of his stomach. It was so toned, flat, almost bulging but with muscle.

“Hey, come in.” Brandon stepped aside.

With her agenda on her mind, Matea pushed aside the desire to touch Brandon’s stomach. Instead, she gave him back her own easy smile and handed him a cup of coffee.

Doing her best casual, I’m-not-up-to-no-good walk into the apartment, Matea took a sip of coffee. The caffeine helped push away the thoughts of not merely touching Brandon’s stomach but . . .

Matea turned and said, “You cleaned up?” She shrugged, raised her cup of coffee as if toasting the clinical cleanliness of Brandon’s studio apartment. He is so beautiful, Matea thought, and I am so not.

“Come on,” Brandon answered, shaking his head, pointing to the mattress he kept on the floor for Matea to sit on.

Brandon was a clean freak. He did not have much, but the little he had sparkled.

Every cup in his small kitchenette gleamed. Every white shirt blinded with brightness.

Matea knew she should not tease him about his over-zealous hygiene.

Brandon’s mother was a hoarder. She’d raised him in filth dipped in the chaos of a mentally ill mother. Brandon’s scars from his childhood were represented in the way he kept house.

With a gulp of coffee Matea inwardly scowled at herself for such careless words thought about such a gentle man.

Brandon was trust incarnate. She was unworthy of him, especially if her plan worked.

A smile slipped onto Matea’s face as she buried her face into Brandon’s shoulder. His sheets smelled of Tide detergent, and that had left a trace of its scent on his skin. Leave it to Brandon to make such little money but pay for premium laundry detergent.

She was about to tell him that for Christmas she was going to buy him a month’s supply of cleaning products but quickly realized she couldn’t afford that, not the way he cleaned.

Matea also realized those words were snarky and unneeded.

Instead, Matea dragged her lips over his Adam’s apple, focusing on the feel of Brandon while ignoring the rumble of the many rattles thumping around the room.

The snakes were telling her to get to business. They knew why she was here.

“Are you going to tell Gina?” Brandon asked while running a hand through Matea’s thick black hair.

“What if . . . ” Matea started then stumbled on her words. She knew what she wanted to say. She knew what she wanted but asking for it out loud made her mute.

Brandon gave Matea’s hair a playful tug. “Andale,” he said. “What if . . .?”

“What if Gina was here with us now,” Matea blurted, sitting up, she wanted to see his face. What would he think of a woman who wanted and maybe needed such things?

“Yeah, I thought that was it with you. Like, I can vibe it when the three of us are together, but...” It was Brandon’s turn to stumble over his words. “I don’t know if she’s into it,” Brandon finished, letting go of Matea’s hair. “Better check with her first then maybe we’ll talk.”

He stood then, not dismissing what Matea had said but as if the subject needed no further exploration.

Standing, Brandon looked down at her with appreciation and a puppy love grin that only Brandon could pull off then casually dropped his shorts to the floor flinging them into a hamper in a corner of the bedroom.

Matea wondered what it was like to feel like that? What is it like to feel so at home in what you are and what you look like that being naked both in emotion and body was as easy as breath.

She feared she’d never know.

Walking towards his bathroom, Brandon said nothing more, and the sound of the shower pulled Matea out of her thoughts. She quickly rose from the mattress, stood, and looked around the room for Brandon’s cell phone.

Spotting it, Matea picked it up, putting in his code. He never seemed to notice her watching over his shoulder every single time he opened his phone.

Going to the photos Matea found exactly what she thought she’d find. There were pictures of Brandon, herself, and Gina, the three of them together.

The photos were sweet. Each picture dripping with a closeness that Matea never realized was visible to the outside world.

Rubbing her lips together, Matea kept scrolling knowing that soon she’d find what she needed and that when she did, it would hurt her pride but she wouldn’t let it hurt her feelings.

Her thumb stopped on the first photo of Esme. It was an unposed photo of Esme, red-cheeked, no makeup, hair a mess and tangled in blankets. Matea’s eyes went from the photo to the blankets on Brandon’s bed. They were the same.

Ickiness coated her skin at that realization, but she had no time for drama. Besides, Brandon had washed these sheets at least a dozen or more times since Esme had been there. She hoped.

Quickly she texted picture after picture of Esme to herself, and twice as quick deleted the texts from Brandon’s phone.

A rattlesnake had wrapped itself around her ankle, twisting, seeking, and, Matea knew, enjoying her deceit.

It was as if the snakes fed on trouble.

* * *

Matea stared at the plant in front of her. How could she conjure without belief? How could she cast when the only power she believed in was herself? To cast a spell was to call on spirits, saints, and demons, but Matea knew she did not need them.

She was the iron of her own hammer. She needed no one to aid her wishes; she only needed a vessel for her desires. An object of containment. A thing to abuse.

Huffing, Matea looked at the plant again and her watch. She had little time before Oralia came home from her afternoon walk with Mijo. Mijo would rat her out. The Pitbull would yodel at her, alerting her grandmother of her actions. Oralia and Mijo had become thick as thieves.

Matea snatched the plant up, pulling it out of its pot. With shaky hands she took the photos of Esme she had printed and took one last look at them.

Matea had repeatedly written Esme’s name and her—Matea’s—desire on the photos. She wrote Esme’s name with anger. She scribbled her desire with greedy want. These photos and her actions were sinful wants. She shouldn’t do this.

But she would.

Working on instinct, Matea placed the photos at the bottom of the pot. Then took Esme’s lip gloss, opened it, and dropped it on top of the photos.

After that, Matea put the plant back in, shoving its roots towards the bottom. She wanted the plant, the lip gloss and the photos to blend into one solid mush, an object to focus her malice on.

Hearing the front door open, the click clack of paws on the kitchen floor, Matea picked up her plant. Almost running to her bedroom, she placed it on her dresser near the window.

The plant looked at home there, as if it had found a pleasant place to rest, not knowing it was now at the mercy of Matea.

“Se ve bonito,” Oralia said, almost sending Matea through the ceiling.

“Hey, why you scaring me?” Matea asked. Hand over her heart, she gave her grandmother her best fear face.

Oralia shook her head at her granddaughter, laughed, and left the room for her own bedroom where she took the chocolate bar she had bought at the corner store. She placed that next to her Santa Muerte statue and gave the air a kiss.

With her grandmother gone, Matea looked again at the plant. She felt warmth rise from the soles of her feet as she thought of all the things she would do to it.

* * *

Doña Lupe willed her body out of bed every day since she’d arrived home from the hospital. There was a battle going on within her. A war of decay. Her body was ready to rot, to stop all functions and free her from this world. But Lupe was not ready. Lupe had chores left to accomplish before she, too, would become a “good worker” for a bruja.

She swayed a bit when she stood and knew in that moment, she was pushing herself too hard. Her husband, Ignacio, slept soundly. Her daughter, who had been by her side since she arrived home, was in the shower. Now was her chance to steal a few moments alone.

Looking down at her feet, she willed them to move. She wished not for steps but at least a shuffle. She could shuffle to her altar room. That much she knew.

Concentrating not on the corruption Lupe felt weaving through her organs, she willed all her power to get her right foot to shuffle forward. Her right foot moved, and La Doña felt an old surge of her powers sweep over her. Not wanting to be left behind, her left foot followed. Despite her fragility, Lupe smiled. At the very least, her feet still listened to her.

It was slow progress, but Doña Lupe made it to the door of her workroom. After the attack, Ignacio had locked it and not opened it again. If the room were not attached to the house, Lupe was sure her husband would have burned it to the ground.

Having been a bruja for so many years, La Doña knew when to fear and when to fear not. Placing her hand on the door Lupe opened her mind, waited, listened.

This was a time to fear.

Within seconds, Lupe’s answers came with the sound of lamentation filling her ears. Her good workers begged for release from the room.

But that wasn’t what Doña Lupe listened for. Spirits were pesky things. They always needed or wanted something. She’d release them when she was strong enough.

Nor did Lupe listen for La Santa. La Santa Muerte would not be trapped in the room. Lupe knew this. La Santa led her own domain, coming and going as she pleased to all realms.

What Lupe listened for was Matea. Matea’s heartbeat. Matea’s words. The feel of Matea mixed into the trap La Santa had set.

Taking her hand from the door, Doña Lupe smiled. Matea in no form was there yet.

Ears perked, Doña Lupe listened for the shower. The water was still on, and for once she didn’t care how long her daughter took.

Shoving herself forward, Doña Lupe picked up the receiver for her kitchen phone and dialed.

* * *

“No se lo diré,” Oralia huffed into the phone. “Vieja cabrona. Leave my granddaughter alone.” Oralia didn’t hang up the phone but slammed it into its cradle with shaking hands. The old woman was overcome with anger.

“Who you telling to leave Matea alone?” Tio Fabio cocked his head to the side, eyebrow arched up and almost hitting his L.A. Lakers cap.

“¿Qué te importa?” Oralia answered, scowling at her son, she left the kitchen not bothering to cover the pots of food she had left on the stove.

Tio Fabio laughed at his mother as he watched her march from the kitchen like a pissed-off chicken. She was a tricky old bird and always full of secrets.

* * *

Matea stole a nervous glance at her backpack. She needed to leave the house now or she’d be late for work. She looked back at the plant. The time to start was now.

This was the beginning. The first step over the threshold. Today, she’d knock down the barrier she had kept up for so long. The moment she acted, it would be wiped away and maybe she’d wouldn’t be able to return to its place.

Hearing a whistle in the hallway, Matea felt a bubble of both anger at being interrupted and relief for that interruption. It sounded like Tio Fabian was in the house.

His whistle blew louder, and he’d knock on her door any moment. In a decisive burst, Matea plucked one of the leaves off the plant, crumbled it, and shoved it into her pocket. A rush of sour flooded her mouth. Matea swallowed it. She wouldn’t be spooked that easy.

Opening her door Matea stepped out, smiling at her Tio who said, “What’s up, chula?” He nodded at her, and despite the hum of the secret scream in her ears, Matea laughed.

* * *

The ambulance lights reminded Matea in a twisted way of Christmas. The blinking, the flash of bright, then dark. She stared at them, wondering why the ambulance was at the fulfillment center. Who was hurt?

Brandon wasn’t there tonight. Matea had come in hoping to score some OT hours after her classes to help cover the electric bill she’d found in the mailbox that morning. If Gina was hurt, how would Matea feel? Would there be the hurt of a best friend in trouble or hurt of a different kind? The hurt of a lover in trouble? Matea kept her eyes on the lights, ignoring the roar of the sirens. She already knew the kind of hurt it would be.

A rattlesnake slid out from under the ambulance, followed by its brethren. Matea ignored them whispering, "Bitches," as one slithered by her feet.

Chewing on her lip, she didn’t bother to go into work. Everyone was outside anyway, watching the ambulance, same as Matea. Some were on their phones reporting to the world what shit went down at work.

The entrance door swung open.  Matea looked to see who it was.

It was Esme with a tear-stained face, holding up a bandaged hand. A quarter size circle of blood had leaked its way through the bandages.

Matea blinked at the sight of Esme, blinked again, shocked at what she was seeing. Smacking her gum, Gina appeared next to Matea. She stopped popping the gum long enough to say, “That bitch got a finger cut off.” Gina then rested a hand on Matea’s lower back.

Matea’s eyes went from Gina to the ambulance. Matea stepped forward, getting as near as she could to Esme before Matea shouted, “Bendiciones, bestie,” as the medics helped her into the rear of the ambulance. Having heard what Matea had said to her, Esme gave her a dead-eyed stare as the ambulance doors were slammed shut by the medics.

There was no hurt to be felt. This was a different kind of feeling. A feeling of checkmate.

Telling herself not to overthink her elation, she cupped one of her hands on the back of Gina’s neck, pressing her lips to Gina’s, who responded with the gentle press of petal-soft girl lips.

Chapter 11

300 PINCHI Snakes

Wrapped in Gina’s sheets, Matea’s mind kept wandering to Brandon. What would he feel if he saw her now? She would only regret it if he felt apathy at what he saw. She wanted his eyes on both her and Gina with not only want but love. Matea wished for Brandon to boil over with emotion for both of them. She wanted to see him rage with passion, but Brandon’s love was slippery.

Brandon’s easygoing nature made the things he wanted slip too easily from his grasp.

But maybe she had it backward. Maybe his way of loving made it easy for others to let go of him, and that might be what he truly wanted.

Huffing out loud, Matea was annoyed with her thoughts. What was wrong with her? If she was with Brandon, her mind wandered to Gina. Now here with Gina, who slept so soundly and trusting by her side, her thoughts went to Brandon.

Reaching for her phone, Matea squinted at the time. Soon she’d have to leave Gina, go home, change clothes, and head to work.

It was her day off but as usual, she’d show up anyway, hoping that the fulfillment center’s orders were so behind the shift manager would approve her over-time.

She had managed to get the electric bill paid for this month, but there was still her car payment and the gloom of how to pay next semester was always on her mind.

One foot on the ground, Matea was about to slide out of bed without bothering Gina when she felt a grab at her ankle and saw Gina jump into a sitting position in the bed. Gina swatted at her face, as if a roach had crawled across it.

A sick feeling came over Matea as she realized Gina wasn’t imagining something touching her. Matea felt fingers like claws dig into her ankle to tighten their hold. She was about to shake her foot loose of the hold and prepare for a fight, but Gina pointed to the corner of the bed as something darted away.

“There!!!” screamed Gina pointing to the other corner of the bed where something, a hand maybe, popped up to reach for Gina’s knee before dashing back under the bed.

Matea yanked her foot back up and saw a dirt-smudged hand come from under the bed with her foot and blindly grab for her arm.

Panic made Matea’s heart jump. The feel of fingers tangled in her hair made Matea yelp. Gina frantically swatted at multiple hands that popped up and disappeared every second. The hands jumped up like fleas, trying to snatch for whatever part of Gina or Matea they could find.

In one blink, a hand would be on her thigh.

Another blink, another hand would reach for her toes.

Instinctively, the two women moved toward the center of the bed, both screaming, both fighting off hand after hand that reached for them. Matea noticed that the hands went no farther than the edge of the bed, and she shouted to Gina, “Stand up!”

Gina’s face was covered with wet, sloppy tears, but there was no fear. Matea knew her better. Gina was a survivor. Not a fighter like Matea, but a survivor. Gina was angry as she stood on shaking legs. Gina tried to stomp the hands but missed each hand as it slipped back down beneath the bed.

Matea stood still, watching the hands come up, wildly grab, and go back down. A knowing came into Matea’s head. This was nothing but a jump-scare, playing on everyone’s irrational fear of a monster beneath the bed. There was no intelligence behind this attack.

“Are we dreaming?” asked Gina

“No,” answered Matea flatly.

“Putos!” yelled Gina, finally smashing one hand with her heel.

Dazed, Matea knew she needed to stop this. She noticed that one hand was no longer at the edge of the bed. She could see this hand's wrist, its arm, its elbow. The hand slithered towards Gina, who was so busy pounding back the endless attack she did not see what was heading for her.

Desperate now, Matea wondered if they should jump from the bed, run from the room, and get out of Gina’s apartment. Then, as if in a battle cry, Matea heard a rattle coming from the corner of Gina’s bedroom. From beneath the dresser, the tip of a rattlesnake’s rattle shook with fury. The rattle was answered by another, and Matea then heard the echo of another and another as snakes made their way towards the bed.

The chorus of noise cleared Matea’s thoughts long enough for an understanding to finally take root. They weren’t "snakes" or “the snakes” but "her snakes." They were her workers. Her minions. Her devils to command.

Concentrating, Matea willed the snakes forward, beckoning more of them to her call.

With each company of snakes that came to her aid, pain inched deeper into the mark on her hand. Soon the floor writhed with rattlesnakes. With smirk-filled faces, her snakes wrapped themselves around the hands, choking out their movements, bending them back, snapping wrists.

Two of Matea’s rattlers overtook the impossibly long arm that reached for Gina. Both opened their jaws wide, biting down on the arm, and doing their best to ingest it. Matea watched the spectacle with pride.

Gina’s warm hand slipped into hers. Gina leaned closer to Matea, whispering, “Are those your snakes?”

A flood of tears left Matea’s eyes. “You see them?” Matea asked.

Gina looked around the room, cocking her head to the side. “Yes, I see the 300 pinchi snakes in my apartment. What the hell, Matea? I saw the freaky zombie hands, too.”

Matea smiled at Gina and said to herself, she saw them.

And she knew things would be different from then on.

* * *

Gina waited for Matea to leave her apartment before breaking down. She had her nervous breakdown the only way she knew how, and that was in action. The second Matea left her apartment, Gina pulled all the sheets from her bed and shoved them into a trash bag. There wasn’t a detergent in the world that could wash out that kind of evil.

After the bed was bare Gina shoved her mattress and box springs to the floor, pulling them off the bed frame with curses and yanks, not caring what she broke. She leaned her mattress and box springs against the wall. Once that was done, Gina took apart her bed frame and set the frame next to the trash bag full of her sheets and blankets.

Gina looked down at the floor where her bed once stood. How would she ever feel at home here again?

She swept the floor twice, then vacuumed it. Not satisfied, Gina grabbed her mop and bucket and mopped the floor with a mix of bleach and the holy water her mother had left at her apartment the last time she visited.

Once the floor was dry Gina sat, safeguarding the floor with a hammer in hand, waiting for the demon hands to come up again.

* * *

The night before Brandon watched the ambulance leave the fulfillment. He knew he shouldn’t mess with Esme. Esme was vinegar. She was the kind of flavor that sat on the edges of your tongue, making a person drool for more while being disgusted by their own saliva.

But Brandon sat in the ER, anyway. He told the nurse he was Esme’s husband. He signed to take her home because he knew no one else would come to help Esme, and he couldn’t be like that. Brandon would help anyone in need, no matter the harm that it did to him. His soft-hearted kindness to others was a self-inflicted wound that would never heal.

He knew every step forward he took in helping Esme also pulled whatever it was he could have with Matea off him.

But he couldn’t leave Esme. She was alone in the world, and he alone knew the truth of her. Esme was vacant. A lost soul. She had walked away from her family in Mexico, disappearing into the night, never looking back. Brandon knew that if things went badly for Esme, there was no one to stand for her.

Which was why he’d married her.

Brandon had married her so that she could stay in America, be free of her past in Mexico. He married her in secret, telling no one, swearing Esme to silence.

Brandon didn’t know why he’d done this. Why take a bride and then make her promise to tell no one of her groom?

When Brandon met Matea, he knew she was the reason Esme felt like charity and not fidelity.

* * *

Amparo tapped her tea mug. She hated the flavor of hot mint tea. It was delicious, but it had been shoved down her throat day after day for her entire childhood. Any quiver of lips. any mention of a headache, and Oralia, Amparo’s mother, shoved a mug of hot mint tea into her hands with orders to drink it.

As an adult, she had forgotten about the tea, glad to be rid of it, but now with her mother in her home, the tea was like a discontented spirit came back to haunt her.

Mindlessly stirring her unwanted tea, Amparo plotted. She needed to get back to Calexico and check on Doña Lupe without her mother or daughter knowing where she had gone. La Doña had been her guide on what to do and not to do with Matea. These last weeks, watching her daughter come and go from the house, always in a hurry, never handing her mother a crumb of news about her life, made Amparo feel emptier than usual.

Amparo had never felt close to her daughter. There was a distance between them she could never figure out, but lately Amparo felt lonely for her girl as if she wasn’t at home anymore, even though she was.

Matea felt gone, and Amparo was desperate to snatch her daughter back to her. Something was pulling her daughter away but what? Amparo looked around the room. “But who?” That was the better question.

Amparo was sure that the only person who could know the answers she needed was Doña Lupe.

* * *

The aroma of lingering decay trickles into the thoughts of many who imagine La Santa Muerte’s domain.

This is not so. La Santa’s domain smells of fresh flowers. She is the giver of death as a gift, not a threat.

Today La Santa’s thoughts and eyes go to her adoptive daughters.

Esme, her cherished child, who La Santa loves for her devotion.

Matea, her beloved child, who La Santa loves for the possibility of possession.

Chapter 12

Desgraciada

Esme remembers every detail of her last night with her family in Mexico. She remembers the feeling of rejection that clung to her as her father recited prayers before dinner. Her father prayed with venom on his tongue. His pleading to his God was only to bless himself and to scorn others. Esme remembers feeling her father’s prayers hang in the air above the dinner table, as if malicious ghosts. Her father’s God was one of malice, not understanding.

Esme remembers the feeling of longing for her mother’s love. When her brother the priest came into the room, Esme was nothing more than a broom, forgotten in a corner.

Esme remembers the tension on her skin. The anxiety brought on as her brother looked her over from top to bottom, judging her harshly by her inability to recite her prayers correctly even after years of practice.

What Esme remembers most is a feeling that never came at that night’s dinner and all dealings with her family.

Her life had been plagued by a lack of love. That is one emotion she does not remember from that night, because she never had it. Her father’s distaste for her, she could shush away. Her brother’s pride and perversity, she was forced to tolerate.

What hurt was that Esme had never felt cherished by her mother. Esmeralda, her mother’s only daughter, should have been by her mother’s side as a companion, maybe eventually a friend. But Esme’s mother had known since Esme was a child that she was different. Esme was born a spiritual person but not in the right way.

Not their way.

Esme’s mother did not think to protect her little girl, who spoke of spirits with a glint of glee in her eyes.

Instead, her mother scolded her, pointed out her ideas to her father in front of extended family, and shamed Esme in church in front of the priest.

She had spent her life under her mother’s thumb with her father and brother, doing nothing but shoving it down harder. It was as if the three of them wished to push the breath out of her lungs.

The night she left her family for good, Esme’s brother Ricardo came to dinner as he did every night. He was a priest in their local church and in Esme’s opinion spent too much time at home basking in his parents’ desire to stroke his ego. To Esme, their parents’ adoration of him and his church was like a drug to Ricardo. He came to them nightly for a hit.

The night she left her childhood home, Ricardo had cornered her in her bedroom. He barked Bible verses at her while pushing himself closer to her. He breathed her in and spat her out.

Esme felt the same repulsion she always did when he was near her. He made her skin crawl. Ricardo was always too close to her. Always looking at her as though she was a slice of cake that he could not eat.

Ricardo had been the only person she had met that did not have an aura. In place of colors, what haloed Ricardo was grey, as if he wasn’t human at all. She loathed being in his presence, instinctively knowing that she didn’t want to be tainted by his greyish mist.

Once and only once, Esme had let her tongue loose and told her mother that Ricardo had no aura. In its place was a shadow of something inhuman and wicked. The rage-filled beating she received sealed Esme’s mouth forever to her family.

Esme was convinced that their parents knew Ricardo was not right. They knew he sat too close to his sister, smiled too broadly at his parents. He was a clock whose hands would at any second go askew.

The night she left; Esme was prepared for her brother’s abuse. She had studied brujeria in secret for years, preparing herself for this moment. She had stayed in a home with a family who hated her, only to prepare for what she truly wanted done.

That night when Ricardo took his last step towards her, growling the word “desgraciada,” Esme grinned as she put her hand on his face, covering it with prepared ash and pushing him away.

He would never stand too close to her again.

Startled by Esme’s actions, Ricardo fell to the floor, clawing at his face. He moved as though in slow motion, coughing and gasping for breath as Esme waited for him to hit the ground. Once he did, she kicked him in the ribs for pure satisfaction. She left her bedroom and walked out of the house, her mother screaming at her to come back.

Her father shook with fury by the front door and called her a whore. Esme trembled, thinking of her father, the man who had treated her like the family wart.

Esme walked away from her home that night, silently walking down the road, listening for the start of the horror she had unleashed on her family. She wasn’t far away when she heard the first scream, and the second, then the third. The screams didn’t stop until her taxi was far from town.

The taxi driver, a brujo, and her teacher of black magic nodded as he slammed his foot on the gas. Esme's grin turned into a smile, feeling the rush of power and freedom for the very first time.

That was the first spell Esme had cast and it would not be her last.

* * *

Since she had come home from the hospital, Esme had stared at her hand every chance she got. She wiggled her fingers, amazed that she could feel the missing finger move even though it wasn’t there.

She wondered if that was how her soul would be. If she sold hers, would she feel it, even though it was gone?

Catching Brandon looking at her, Esme quickly looked away from her hand and at him. She smiled, doing her best impression of a woman who still doted on her man. A year ago he had told her he was no longer hers. The marriage had been nothing more than a favor to keep her in America.

Esme knew this was true. Brandon hadn’t loved her then, didn’t love her now. He was too kind for his own good. He’d never be rid of her, she’d make sure of that.

“You should get a lawyer,” Brandon said, handing Esme a cup of coffee.

“Why?” she answered, taking the coffee, watching the steam rise from the warm cup, knowing that Brandon made a terrible cup of coffee but that she’d drink it anyway.

“The accident. You could get money for that finger. It was the fulfillment’s centers fault.”

Esme sipped her coffee. She could do that, not go back to work, get a lawyer. Maybe get herself a big check. But money wasn’t worth much to Esme. What Esme wanted more than anything was to be a powerful bruja, one who people equally feared and adored. Her powers were strong, but she knew she’d need more if she was to go into battle with Matea. Work was a place she could see and have contact with Matea without having to sneak around or play detective to find out where she was all the time.

“It wasn’t the fulfillment center’s fault. She did this.” Esme raised her hand then waved it around.

Brandon ran his hand through his hair with a twitch, remembering his mother and her endless conspiracy rants. According to Brandon’s mother, the world was out to get them. Even as a young child Brandon knew the world wasn’t the problem in his life.

“Why. . .” Brandon paused, squinting at Esme. “Why do you hate her? She’s done nothing to you and wasn’t at work when you had the accident.”

Speaking the truth, Esme had learned, was not appropriate in dealing with others. Esme reminded herself to be truthful only with herself. Telling people the truth was a waste of time, because no matter how she told it, truth caused mistrust, misunderstanding, and always a misjudgment of her character.

She spun it in a way that Brandon would understand. “She’s a puta and set me up. She hates me because I had you before her.” Esme teared up adding some spice to sell this lie to Brandon.

Brandon shook his head in frustration.

To add drama to the situation, Esme curled up in a ball, wrapping blankets around herself as she turned away from Brandon.

She’d keep the truth to herself. Matea was powerful and didn’t know it. Esme had to either figure out a way to take her power or end Matea before she bloomed into the bruja she was born to be.

Esme closed her eyes when they filled with real tears. She wondered why she was cursed with not being loved by anyone.

Chapter 13

Su Gente

Matea lay spread out on her bed, content to feel the slither of snakes against her thighs and everywhere else on her body. The sensation of rattlesnake tongue exploring her toes was both gross and pleasurable. She couldn't decide which was more so.

A snake nested in her hair. She had fanned out her hair for that purpose, and its rattle rested less than an inch from her left ear.

She considered this a getting to know you session. This afternoon, Matea had called her rattlers forward. Picturing them in her mind, summoning them to her, accepting the snakes as part of who she was.

The rattlesnakes were not her enemy.

Matea could smell the snakes wrapped around her. They smelled like a flower shop, the aroma of dozens of flowers blending into their scales. Inhaling the smell, she could not decide whether it was a stench or a fragrance. Matea looked at the mark on her hand and pretended not to understand why the snakes smelled of flowers, but she knew. She knew.

The onslaught of the smell of flowers was La Santa’s calling card. It was on-brand for her and Matea knew it.

Just for today, Matea chose to not think of the correlation between her snakes, the floral perfume in the air, The Santissma, and her. This moment was enough for her to know that she could call the snakes forward. That they would come to her, like a witch's familiar.

Picking up one of the snakes Matea held it above her head, looking at it inch by inch.  Memorizing it, playing with the idea of naming it. Were these snakes all different individuals, like humans? Or a copy of a copy of a copy from another realm.

The snake’s head bobbed for a moment, before it made eye contact with Matea. Then, almost with a grin, it pointed its head at the plant sitting on her dresser. The only plant in her bedroom. The plant that needed watering, but Matea hadn’t decided if she’d water it yet.

She thought she’d let the plant get a little thirsty before watering it. If Esme had a dry throat all the better for her to forget about Matea. The snake in her hand reacted to her thoughts of letting the Esme-plant get thirsty. The snake laughed, staccato barks that were more dangerous than humorous. A chorus of raspy, hissing laughs came from the snake in her hair, the one at her feet. The laughter roused a feeling Matea couldn’t reach. The emotion bubbled in her but never reached her surface.

Resting her arms on her chest, Matea allowed the snake she held to lie on her, but the floral smell was now overwhelming, becoming a stink. She pushed the snake off her chest, away from being right under her nose. Matea heard her bedroom door being bulldozed open.

Mijo stood at her doorway looking at her with such a disapproving glare that Matea lifted her head and started to explain herself. The Pittie snarled at the snakes, which slithered away from the dog. When Mijo jumped on the bed, the snakes streaked in a mad rush to get away from him, except for one. It looked at the dog with little interest and yawned. But it didn’t finish. Mijo kicked out a hind leg and sent the yawning snake flying across the room.

Matea laughed. She couldn’t help it.

Mijo huffed at Matea, sniffing her with disapproval. He snorted several times, blowing out offending air from his nose.

“You smell. I don’t smell,” she said to Mijo, who Matea could swear rolled his eyes at her before landing right next to her. Mijo's tongue slathered her with slobber as he cleaned the offending snake essence off her face.

“Fuchi...” Matea laughed, shoving Mijo’s mouth away from her face. The dog ignored her, shoving his muzzle right up against her neck, sniffing then cleaning her chin as if she were a child with sticky candy on its face. When she tried to move away, he simply pushed her into place with one of his massive paws.

Defeated, Matea rolled to her side and lay against Mijo, rubbing his ears, hiding her face in the fuzz of his neck. “You are a dork,” she whispered then listened to his breath push towards sleep. Matea breathed in the surprisingly pleasant smell of mutt. “But you’re my dork.”

* * *

The thump of a drum kept pace with Matea's heartbeat. The sound called to the blood in her veins. She knew this drumbeat as if it was her own shadow. The air had a feeling of home, a feeling of being part of the desert heat, dust, and unforgiving sunlight.

She walked, feeling stalked by the glow of the sun. The heat made Matea feel grilled.

This was the heat of cooking. The heat of carne asada on a grill. I’m the carne, thought Matea, looking around. If she didn’t get inside somewhere soon she’d fry.

Matea stopped at the realization she didn’t know where she was or how she was or exactly who she was.

The drums beat louder. Matea watched her feet pound the dirt, her stomping in unison with the drums. Her mind foggy from feeling cooked by too much heat, it didn't understand but her body did. Her feet danced as if responding to muscle memory from another her. Matea's arms flew out; she hopped, stamped her feet, and sang.

She was enraptured by the feel of beads tied to her calves, the slam of her feet on the ground, the sound of the drums, the music of people singing.

What were they singing? She couldn’t tell. It wasn’t Spanish. It wasn’t English. What was it?

Rational Matea told herself to stop, to look around and figure out what was happening to her. The rhythm of the drums pounded her insides, sparking glimmers of light between the grooves of the black, inky wickedness she had inside her.

The light responded to the music of the people surrounding her, dancing, pounding their feet, reaching to the sky with their arms.

The light of the desert sun was in her.

“These people . . .” Matea thought, watching her body lose itself in the rhythm. “Maybe they are my people . . .”

With that thought, a man appeared in front of her, dressed in blinding white with a deer head tied to the top of his head. He held out his hand, smiled at her, then said, “Su gente.”

* * *

Mijo licked Matea’s calf, and she looked down at the dog, sweat beading on her forehead from dancing. She felt desert sand between her toes, but her feet rested now on the carpet where she stood in her bedroom. Not in the desert. Not . . .

Her grandmother stood in the doorway, and Oralia's face looked infected with scorn.

“Que?” asked Matea defensively. She didn’t know what was going on. The only thing she knew for sure was that she hadn’t been dreaming. This was something else.

“Pinchi Indios,” was all her grandmother said before leaving. A few seconds later, Matea heard a hard slam of her grandmother’s bedroom door.

“Again . . . Que?” Matea said to herself.

She felt confused and enlightened all at once.

Chapter 14

El Tiempo es Maldita

Don Ignacio had stood at the foot of his wife’s bed off and on all day. The old man had been married to a bruja long enough to have a sense of when things weren’t as they should be.

Tonight, the old man felt weight in the air surrounding his wife. His love for her steadied his feet, but Ignacio’s thoughts were clogged. He needed to do something for his wife, but he didn’t know what.

Dona Lupe was a lone practitioner. There was no other bruja that Ignacio could call. None of their children had the gift for brujeria or the interest. Incapable of action, the old man stood watching Dona Lupe sleep in the hospital bed their daughter had put into their bedroom. The bed looked like a tomb. He hated it.

At his core, Ignacio thought that the heavy feeling in the air was death seeping into his wife drip by drip.

Pacing the room, Ignacio wondered what would become of Lupe when she passed? He was not a religious man, but he was married to a bruja. Ignacio had felt the tugs at his hair late at night, watched spirits float within arm’s reach of his wife’s body. There was more to life than the eye could see. Would the spirits leave once she was gone? Would they attack him?

Ignacio forced himself to sit at the edge of the bed they once shared as he watched her chest rise and fall. She spent more and more time sleeping. Her endless patterns of sleep frightened him, but Ignacio was glad she slept right now. In slumber, she couldn’t see the shame on his face. All his thoughts were so selfish.

The old man slipped off his shoes and lay down. He grabbed Lupe’s pillow and pressed it against his chest. The bedroom’s atmosphere of isolation took hold of Ignacio’s bones. He felt a chill cover him. Ignacio did not want to lose her. He only wanted to go with her wherever that may be.

* * *

Dona Lupe heard the soft snore from her husband. She didn’t dare open her eyes to look at him, even if her heartstrings told her to do so. She could picture his sweet wrinkled face, brushy brows, and grey hair nestled into his pillow.

Lupe could also feel his fear in the room. He mourned her already. Ignacio’s hope was gone. He was now on vigil. Waiting on the terrible things to come, and she had no path to soothe him. In this moment Lupe was glad to see Ignacio swept over by sleep, where he could forget for a while that his wife of so many years was not in the bed beside him.

Dona Lupe knew she would soon be a good worker for some other bruja, but that time wasn’t tonight.

Tonight, Lupe was a faker. She faked sleep, waiting for Ignacio to leave the room or fall asleep himself. She knew what was waiting for her once her eyes opened.

Taking a deep breath, Lupe's nostrils flared and burned with the rich sent of flowers.

Opening her eyes, Lupe sucked in her breath, feeling her eyes water as if too much incense burned in the room. She pushed herself into the mattress, trying to gain distance between her face and that of La Santa Muerte.

Next to her bed stood La Santa. Her black veil barely covering the top of her skull. The sockets where eyes should be were a deep black, as if at any moment Lupe could crawl into one and be lost forever.

La Santa loomed over Lupe, her face only a foot away from hers, her veil brushing Dona Lupe’s cheeks.

“No vendré cuando mueras,” said La Santa, looking regretful--if a skull could do so.

“Then don’t. I don’t care if you come for me when I die,” Lupe hissed back, trying to suck in air and being rewarded with nothing but the floral scented blight. Angry Lupe added, “Vete! You have been watching me all day. Don’t you have something better to do?”

The bedroom that had been lit with lamps and candles as the sun set blew into complete darkness.

Lupe fell into the hole of La Santa’s doing. The hole was the darkness of loss. A void of sorrow.

Lupe knew this was punishment for speaking disrespectfully to La Santa. This was the first step into the prisons of La Santa’s world. The darkness was that of a crypt, as if someone had shut the door on sanity. Once she cast to this darkness, Dona Lupe would never leave. It was La Santa’s dungeon.

With a slap Lupe was back in her bed. La Santa Muerte’s face was right above hers again. The skeletal face smiled, bones moving like muscle and skin to show a grin.

“No, mija. I wouldn’t keep you there. I am not coming when you die. I will not help you cross into any realm of mine or my sister’s domain. I am leaving your spirit here.”

Tossed away, thought Lupe, like an unwanted dog.

* * *

Amparo looked out her car window at Dona Lupe’s house. Gone was the line of people waiting to speak to La Dona. Dona Lupe was alive. Amparo knew this since she was close friends with Dona’s neighbor, who let Amparo know what was going on at the house. Amparo took a sip of coffee. Sometimes it was helpful to have a nosy friend.

Amparo didn’t have an appointment. She hadn’t called ahead of time. She had simply had the notion that she should come to see Dona Lupe. The feel of losing La Dona’s attention but also the love for her daughter urged Amparo into actions she didn’t know if she should take.

Those notions had always driven Amparo to do so many things, some good, some bad. She didn’t know if today's actions were a good decision. She knew it was a decision that she had to make.

A last swallow of coffee and Amparo steadied herself to go knock on Dona Lupe’s front door. She wasn’t afraid of Dona Lupe. Amparo loved the woman more than her own mother. What made Amparo’s stomach shake was what Lupe would tell her.

Whatever information the old woman had for her, Amparo felt it would not be good. In fact, Amparo was sure that whatever Dona Lupe needed to say to her would be terrible.

* * *

“Ignacio . . . Ignacio, por favor. Despiértate.”

Dona Lupe needed her husband to wake up now.

The old man jumped awake, eyes as big as an owl when he looked at his wife, who smiled at him. His short fuzzy hair was sticking up in all directions.

“Ignacio, please go outside and get Amparo.”

“Que?” questioned Ignacio. Lupe had not allowed clients in the house since her attack.

“Yes, I feel her outside. She wants to come in, but she is nervous, I think. Maybe, scared.”

Without question Ignacio rose and shuffled from the room, returning with Amparo.

* * *

Amparo held back tears. The old bruja who had been her confidante and ally was looking worn out. Lupe’s skin hung from her bones. Her vitality was being eaten away. A sob escaped Amparo’s lips instead of words when she tried to comfort the old woman.

“Shhh, you will scare Ignacio. He’s a kind man. He cannot tolerate tears on anyone,” whispered Dona Lupe.

Swallowing back her emotion, Amparo nodded like an obedient child.

Unexpectantly, Dona Lupe smiled at Amparo and said, “I am not dying tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight. What you need to do now is listen. Escuchar bien.”

Again, Amparo nodded, unable to speak.

“I need to tell you something important. Something I never told you before.” Dona Lupe tugged at Amparo’s hand, forcing her to look La Dona in the eyes. “The day Matea was born, she was promised to La Santa by your mother.”

Lupe paused, waiting for Amparo to deny the claim, but Amparo could not deny what was true. The day Matea was born, Amparo’s mother had insisted Amparo go to her church. The pain of birth had hit her suddenly, without warning, as she worked her way to the altar. The spill of blood and after birth at Santa Muerte’s feet was still fresh in her memory.

“La Santa held Matea right after she was born, right?” asked Dona Lupe.

Amparo wished she could lie then, tell Lupe that she was smart. She hadn’t been led like a livestock animal to a slaughter, but she had. She had given birth on La Santissma’s alter. She had watched the statue come to life, grow as big as a giant, and hold her new-born daughter in her wan, skeletal fingers.

Years later, Amparo had played dumb when Matea touched the statue next to the Cathedral en Mexicali and it marked her.

“El tiempo es maldita,” said Lupe, again taking Amparo’s hand in hers. “Time is not our friend. Matea is coming into her own quickly now. She’s done a few tricks and likes the power. Matea has only had one bite of her power, and already she has ordered seconds.”

Embarrassment sank into Amparo. If only she had been a smarter young woman and left Mexicali for Sonora like Matea’s father had asked her to, begged her to. Instead, Amparo had listened to her mother when she said that she’d be lost in Sonora. She was not one of the Yaqui Indians, and they would never accept her or her bastard daughter. Because Amparo was only Matea’s father’s mistress, she believed her mother.

What if she hadn’t? What if, just once, Amparo had taken a chance and left for Sonora?

“Ah, no. Don’t be ashamed. We were all young women once. Full of hope, passion, and want. The fault is not on you. It’s on . . .” Lupe went silent then.

Amparo did not finish the sentence for La Dona, but she knew the answer. Dona Lupe had always said that all fault went to Oralia, who was a devoted follower of La Santa Muerte. Oralia, Dona Lupe had warned Amparo, would do anything to please her saint and find favor, including giving La Santa Muerte her own grandchild.

“Ahora que?” asked Amparo, letting go of Lupe’s hand and sinking into the chair beside the bed.

Lupe pulled herself up in the bed, moving her frail frame up by sheer will. The old woman smoothed her hair and ran her hands over her face. Lupe huffed, turning to look directly at Amparo, with a hat-in-hand expression.

“I do not know for sure, but it is time to be afraid,” responded Lupe and sagged back onto her pillows. She added, “Of Matea.”

Chapter 15

Like Nothing

On the walk through the parking lot to the fulfillment center, Matea tried her best to feel like a chingona. Inside of her was a badass bruja. Inside of her was maybe a Native American shaman? She had the capability within her for so much, yet . . .

Sighing, Matea looked at the massive building. It had stuck itself into the sky and the city, not caring about the landscape. Not caring about who and what it consumed. Yet, she still had to show up here. The abilities plus reality weren’t connecting, and this had Matea on edge.

In Matea’s mind, a badass bruja didn’t need a day job. A Native American shaman lived on her tribal land, not in Palmdale.

Closing her eyes for just a moment, Matea felt the full weight of imposter syndrome dig into her heels and travel up her back, making her spineless. Today, Matea felt as though she should hold a sign that said, “FAKER!” in neon lights. She felt dirty, as if she kept secrets that no one should ever see.

“Gina,” murmured Matea, seconds before feeling a rushed breeze and a slip of lips on hers.

Gina smiled at Matea, grabbing her hands. Gina put her feelings for Matea out in the open for the world to see. It was a compliment Matea wasn’t sure she deserved. Matea smiled back because she truly felt deeply for Gina but maybe not as deeply as she should. Maybe not as deeply as she could if her heart wasn’t divided in two.

“What is up with your eye?” asked Gina. “You got, like, a spot of white where it should be brown.”

Gina made little sense to Matea’s conflicted mind and heart. Whose eye? Her eye?

“What?” answered Matea, a bit of heat in her tone. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Gina put her hand up and rolled her eyes at Matea. Matea stood, not bothering to tell Gina they were both about to be late for their shifts.

Being late for work used to matter to Matea. Now that worry taunted her about how much of a drone she had become.

Gina shoved a mirror in front of Matea in the manner of a 10-year-old trying to prove a point on the playground. Annoyed, Matea was ready to shove Gina and her stupid dollar store mirror aside when she spotted it.

Snatching the mirror from Gina Matea held it closer to her face. She opened her eyes wide.

On her left pupil was a small smudge of not white but grey that had never been there before.

“Can you see okay? Does it hurt?” asked Gina, leaning into Matea. Gina practically shoved her face into hers, trying to look into her left eye.

Matea brought her hand to her face, gently touching the lid of that eye. She then looked from side to side, up and down.

“Everything is fine. I don’t feel anything. I didn’t even notice.”

Gina shook her head “People’s eyes don’t change color like that for no reason.”

Gina’s head tilt and inflection on the “no reason” made Matea grin. It sounded so neighborhood in such a comforting way.

“Brandon’s inside,” said Gina, sounding careful as if she was sticking a toe in to check the temperature of the water. Was she gauging Matea’s reaction?

Handing Gina back her mirror, Matea started walking towards the center. “Let’s get this over with.”

With Gina on her heels, Matea quickly looked down at the mark on her hand.

Swallowing, she knew it wasn’t her imagination. The mark had gotten a bit longer.

* * *

Watching Brandon pretend not to see her while they both worked was heartbreaking. Every time their eyes met, he’d look past her with an injured smile on his face. This gave Matea a sinking feeling not only in her heart but in her stomach. His eyes on her were blank, as if she were nothing more than a wall. It reminded Matea of friends whose mothers had said not to speak to one another anymore.

One time tonight, Matea had waved at Brandon, hoping she’d spark his interest enough that he’d wander over to her with his usual love, a love that she needed now, a love that she wanted to drink in until she was too full to move.

Brandon didn’t respond to her waves. She received no reward to her searching for his eyes, his look, his attention.

Something was wrong. Brandon was always on her side.

He was her hero, and Matea wanted to know what she had done to gain this disdain? What had she done to turn Brandon’s feelings for her into mold?

* * *

After a long shift at work filled with misery over Brandon and uncertainty over her eye and hand, Matea leaned against the wall outside the employee break room. She stood there to watch Esme.

She had seen Esme walk into the break room as she was headed in there herself. Something in Matea told her to not go in. Instead, Matea watched through a window as Esme guzzled down a bottle of water while putting money into the vending machine for another.

A jolt of contentment fell over Matea. The dribble of water from Esme’s lips as she slurped from the bottle was satisfying. She would not fool herself about the dark pleasure she felt watching Esme suffer. She had a sense of glee in thinking that her brujeria was the cause for Esme’s thirst.

Matea was itching to see Esme’s hand. She wanted the mental picture of that missing finger to focus on the next time she worked on the plant. Could she cause Esme to lose an arm?

Despite her heartache and stress, Matea smiled at Esme when she turned around and spotted Matea watching her.

Esme looked down at the bottle of water in her hand, then Matea, then the bottle. When she looked up again, Matea gave Esme a knowing nod.

* * *

At first, Esme had dealt with her thirst with tea, then coffee, then jamaica, and finally apple juice. . .

On her last sip of apple juice, she had realized that this thirst was now stuck to her like a fly on sticky paper.

Esme knew that the thirst wasn’t from her body. Her body would not betray her like this. This thirst had been placed on her like a maldición, and Esme knew who had done this.

She had watched Matea’s eyes rest on Brandon throughout their shift. Back and forth went Matea’s gaze like a pendulum. Matea’s vision swayed from Brandon to Esme and back.

Esme wondered if Matea was confused and hurt by Brandon running scared from her. After all, Matea was accustomed to Brandon running towards her, never away.

The brujeria Esme had worked was supposed to keep Matea out of Brandon's apartment. Her trabajo should have worked on Matea, causing her to run scared of Brandon, not the other way around. The outcome made Esme feel a bit happy, as she ignored her want of a drink and flicked the finger that was no longer there. What was bothering Esme was that the spell hadn’t worked the way she meant for it to.

Despite herself, Esme had no desire to hurt Brandon. Control him, yes, but not to hurt him. Stopping her vigil over Matea and Brandon, Esme sat for a moment, dizzy from thirst and heavy thoughts.

Control was pain. Her life with her family had been nothing but control. She was aware of the pain it caused. The relentless pressure of not being able to breathe without the thoughts of one’s oppressors. Yet, Esme couldn’t let go of Brandon. She wouldn’t.

Esme’s mind raced. The smell of sweat. The endless drone of a conveyer belt. The feeling that maybe she was as wicked and controlling as her family stung her.

Esme stood, deciding she’d go home to her small studio apartment. It was nothing bigger than a closet, but it was hers. She could do anything she wanted in her apartment, without watchful eyes.

Standing Esme felt her legs tremble and her resolve fade. Her car seemed so far away from where she stood. Then she noticed that Matea was once again watching Brandon.

Esme willed her small frame straight while locking her eyes on Matea and willing her to look her way.

Matea’s eyes left Brandon and wandered to Esme who did nothing but smile at Matea’s heartache while giving back her nod.

* * *

Matea lazily walked into her home late that night. She had spent hours with Gina after work. Each kiss a duty. Each embrace another chore.

Gina did not ask for her time, but Matea believed she owed it to her. The feeling that love was a duty made Matea feel like her bare feet were sunk in mud.

She didn’t want to feel like that, but tonight with Brandon not a part of them, not a part of her, she had nothing in her to give.

She gave anyway. Like blood from a stone.

Putting her backpack down on the living room couch, Matea made kissing sounds and called for Mijo. What she needed right now was unconditional doggie licks, even if he gave her a bit of side-eye while doing so.

Three air kisses and Matea heard the huff of Mijo getting himself up from his usual spot on her bed. Instead of going to him, she sat in a defeated heap in the hallway, hoping her mutt would read her need for him. She could hear him move, heard his doggy grumbles, but Mijo didn’t come.

Heaving herself off the floor, Matea walked to her bedroom. Mijo stood at the bedroom doorway looking at her and then at Amparo, who was busy watering the plant.

“El pobre estaba seco,” Amparo stated, turning to smile at her daughter. “Why that face?” She asked, noticing that Matea was scowling at her. “You don’t see your mom for days and days. Then when you do. You look at me with esa cara.” Amparo shook her head and started to leave the room.

Matea saw “tired” in her mother’s eyes. The kind of tired from worry, years and years of worry. Matea knew that look had been molded by having the misfortune of being her mother.

Matea quickly sidestepped her mother, getting in front of her. The look of alarm on Amparo’s face hit Matea in the gut. Matea would never hurt her. Why did she look afraid?

Wanting to do nothing but comfort her mother, Matea wrapped her arms around Amparo, clasping her mother against her. Amparo wasted no time wrapping herself around her daughter. They both stood, silent, nothing but the quiet pant of a content Mijo in the background.

Letting her daughter go, Amparo kissed Matea on the forehead, doing the sign of the cross on Matea. Amparo whispered, “Bendiciones. Descansa,” and quietly left the room.

Matea waited for her mother to leave her bedroom before she lost her shit. She closed her bedroom door. Tears brimmed in her eyes. There was so much hurt and misunderstanding in their embrace. Matea felt overwhelmed and grieved by the fear in her mother’s eyes. Matea knew she was the problem, but right now in her bedroom she was hollow and had nothing of value in her to fix or to figure out how to fix her sinner self.

She should take a shower and go to sleep. Right now was not the time to make choices.

Whatever choice she made now would be the wrong one. She was wrong, and she knew it.

Eyeing the Esme plant Matea told herself, sometimes it's okay to be wrong.

Mijo whimpered, the snakes rattled as Matea picked up the plant and put it in her closet, turned off the closet light, and closed the door with a grin.

Mijo stood by the bedroom door, growling at Matea. She looked at her dog, a feeling of betrayal springing into her chest.

“Don’t be like that,” Matea told Mijo. She sat on the floor, tears finally falling from her eyes.

Mijo’s growling stopped. She heard the pad of his feet coming towards her. All ninety pounds of him fell into her lap. He didn’t lick her tears away, but he stayed with her. For that Matea was grateful.

* * *

On her drive home from the fulfillment center, Esme felt as if she were being washed. Her skin tingled with the sensation of rain dripping not on her skin but flowing underneath it.

Her thirst vanished.

Whatever Matea had done to her had been stopped, reversed? She wasn’t sure.

Enjoying the feel of finally being sated, Esme breathed in the night air. The air of Palmdale, California was nothing like the air of Mexico.

In her hometown, the air smelled like dirt but clean. In Mexico, especially at home, Esme could sense her people’s suffering but also their joy. It was yin-yang, like a calm breeze that could sometimes whip your hair out of place.

Palmdale smelled stale to Esme. There was never a whiff of joy in the air, only the constant beat of traffic with crying children and music played too loud. In America, there was never a moment to replenish what Esme felt was a tarnished soul.

Finally home, Esme did not bother to eat or sit for a moment. She went straight to her small shower in the studio apartment. Turning the handle to full blast, Esme settled herself on the shower floor and let the water to pound on her back and the top of her head.

She felt the need to be purged, cleaned not of all she was but of others. The dust of others had fallen on her and built a crust of corruption that she needed to be free of.

Her studio apartment was tiny, nothing more than a big closet, but here she had her privacy, something never allowed at home with her family, and she had endless hot water. Tonight, she’d steam herself, sleep, and tomorrow she’d think on Matea, on what Esme’s next move would be.

Closing her eyes, Esme held back her emotions. She didn’t know what to feel. Part of her felt like a winner. The thirst was gone. Brandon was hers. She had won.

But Esme couldn’t help but think that Matea wasn’t done with her. If she were Matea, this would not be the end.

Steam rose around her, and Esme felt something come for her, as if she watched an animal charge towards her. Esme felt Matea’s anger enter her apartment. Standing, Esme turned off the water and grabbed for a towel. Whatever was coming was not good. It was bleak and had wicked intentions.

Esme walked to her dresser while she dried herself. She needed to get dressed. She could feel Matea’s power vibrate through the room. Something was closing in. Esme took a pair of underwear out of a drawer and slid them on. She reached for a bra and t-shirt.

All went black.

Esme closed and opened her eyes repeatedly. Nothing but black.

Esme stood still, sensing the surrounding dark. This was not a flesh wound. Matea had gone deep with this work, cutting until she hit ligaments. She sawed into Esme’s muscles with her powers.

Shaking now, Esme sat on the floor and sucked in the air, wanting any clue that she could get to help herself. She was not blind but locked away in a box of bleakness. A box of no light.

The air smelled of flowers, and this made Esme’s heart hurt. She knew she was not the favorite child of La Santa.

Allowing herself time to grieve, Esme lay on her back. The sense of falling into an abyss rushed at her. She had expected the feel of the worn carpet beneath her, but instead, she felt as if she lay on a bed of warm stones.

What was it about her that made her not a loved child, not a favored child, but always the child to be loathed? Her mother loved her brother but treated Esme like a pest that had invaded her home. La Santa gave her favor to Matea, allowing Esme to be abused.

She had lived her life with her mother, and Mother Death had never been on her side.

It’s okay, thought Esme, it’s okay; I’m used to it. Yes, she was used to being unloved. She was used to being treated like a beast with no feeling, as nothing but a good worker for all. But she would scratch, claw, fight her way out of this black box. She had made her family pay for their neglect, and she would . . .

The sound of a rattle. A slither on her left leg.

Matea’s snakes, Esme thought.

They were not biting. “Only babysitting,” Esme said out loud.

Opening her mouth to pray, Esme realized that she had no one left to pray to. It was up to her now. Her abilities. She had no good workers on her side, but she had what many brujas did not.

Power.

Poder de la mente. Poder del espíritu.

Esme did not know whether her power came from her mind or her spirit, but she had power, and it belonged to no one but her.

Chapter 16

Que lo sapes

Esme took her babysitters for granted. She believed they were nothing more than nannies and didn’t bother to heed them.

When the first snake rested on her left leg, she thought nothing of it.

When the second snake's tongue licked at her belly then curled up on it, she became annoyed.

Then, the third snake’s head bopped at her neck. She moved to sit up, but the snake held her down, resting its weight on her throat, locking her into a vice that seemed improbable for its slender form.

After the third snake, Esme stopped counting the smooth slithering of snake after snake. Now, they not only covered her body but consumed the heat from her.

Hours ticked away, and cold formed in her belly, slowly building to an icicle that would grow into a glacier.

Esme did not fear snakes. They were unloved creatures, like her, but she did fear time. How long would she be locked up in the dark box? How long before she would be strong enough to fight? How long before she became nothing but a block of ice?

A snake sniffed at and licked her nose, checking, Esme assumed, for signs of life.

“Su dueña sufrirá por esto,” she told the snake and thought she heard a soft laugh in return.

She was dead serious; she would make Matea suffer for this.

A blister of anger formed on her soul. She acknowledged the anger by calling it up, putting gasoline on that fire.

Inside of her was an angry inferno she hoped would melt the cold building in her. Her anger had always fed her power. The strength of her fury had always made a difference. The anger and hatred she’d felt not only for her brother but for her parents had sparked her work the night she left home for good.

Esme realized she had missed something when it came to Matea, Something that would give her an edge. She had not hated Matea.

Until now.

She was jealous of Matea, she disliked Matea, but she did not hate her.

Now el odio was planted in her, and it burned.

Blinded by darkness and covered in Matea’s minions, Esme thought of nothing but hate and anger.

Her anger floated inside of her, twirling her guts, pushing at her lungs, and stinging her heart with flame.

She bit her lip and savored the anger, enjoyed the feeling of wrath digging into her thoughts.

The snakes shifted, and Esme saw a sliver of soft light to one side.

Esme laughed, like the laugh the snake had given her many hours ago.

* * *

Matea woke with fury on her, wrapped around her shoulders like a raven with claws digging into her skin. She didn’t know what she was angry at, but she was. Sitting up in bed, Matea looked long and hard at the closed closet door.

A part of her, like a small, scared child’s voice, pled with her to take the plant from the closet and put it in the sun.

End this brawl before it becomes a war, thought Matea.

Like a tired and overwhelmed parent, she disregarded her inner voice.

Rubbing her hands over her face, Matea noticed the mark on her hand. The long-ago ink stain left by La Santa when she was a child was longer but also less black. There were lines in the blackness now. Putting her hand out in front of her, Matea could see an outline forming on her mark.

With a gasp of shock, Matea shot out of bed. At this moment, she wanted to cut her hand off. Angry, she thought, I’m only angry.

Running her hands over her hair, Matea told herself to go to the kitchen and drink some of her mom’s awful coffee. It seemed reasonable. Don’t cut off hand. Instead, drink coffee. Maybe she’d get lucky, and her grandmother Oralia had made the coffee.

Trembling with the prickly feel of her fury, Matea stood by her bedroom door. Why the anger. Why the . . . What else was she feeling with that anger? Hate? She didn’t know. Part of her didn’t care.

She had class today then a late shift. Now was not the time for a personal emotional rollercoaster. She’d have to leave that behind today.

Looking over her shoulder, Matea stared at the closet door again.

Again, she turned away from the closet door. Instead, Matea opened her bedroom door and followed the sound of Tio Fabian’s whistling to the kitchen.

Tio sat with his signature straight back at the kitchen table, a plate of chorizo con huevos in front of him, still steamy. That meant her grandmother was nearby. Tio never cooked, not even to grill carne.

“Hey, bonita. What’s up?” he asked.

She was standing behind him. How did he know it was her?

Matea was about to ask when she noticed that he wore PJs.

Was he wearing PJs? With her Tio, it was hard to tell streetwear from sleepwear.

“Tio. It’s good to see you,” she said, standing by his side and patting his shoulder. She slid into the seat beside him. With a grin, Matea asked, “You stayed the night? Why didn’t you tell me? We could have . . .”

“Drunk some beers?” Tio Fabian’s was abrupt, quick and spoken with a sad chuckle.

The laughter wasn’t his. Tio Fabian’s laugh was always easy, always a good time. This laugh was the kind that caught in one’s throat right before a sob.

“Que pasa?” asked Matea.

“Well,” Tio Fabian said, paused, then spoke again. “I’ve fallen on hard times, and well, I’m living here now. Tu sabes.” He shrugged, not bothering to smile or hide his emotion. Matea’s heart leapt. She was happy to have him in the house. Things always felt easier, safer with his presence, but the line about the hard times stuck.

“What happened Tio?” asked Matea, taking his hands in hers.

A glimmer of tears shined in his eyes. He looked at her and did not give her his usual big toothy smile.

“No reason to beat around the bush. I have glaucoma. I might go blind.” Tio Fabian shook his head then as if in disagreement with himself and what was happening in his world.

Matea gasped, followed by a low moan.

Tio Fabian was quick to soothe her by saying, “But not yet, mija. Not yet.” He rubbed the tears from her face. “I can still see but not so good. It’s dark around the corners.”

Matea’s thoughts started to reference everything she had learned in anatomy. Nothing came to mind. Nothing of any help.

“I want to help you,” was all that came out of Matea’s mouth. She didn’t care what amount of overtime she had to work. She’d stop college for now. “Whatever you need.”

Tio Fabian patted her hand. “Chula, don’t worry. I have eye drops. I can still work.” Pulling her closer to him, he kissed the knuckles on her hand. “It’ll be okay.” And in the same breath, Tio Fabian almost shouted, “What is wrong with your eye?”

From loving words to a roar in two seconds, just like my raza, thought Matea as she touched her eye.

She shrugged when Tio Fabian stuck his face closer to hers. “Can you see with that eye?” he demanded. “Qué diablos pasa?” Tio exclaimed, way too loud for Matea’s comfort. There was no telling whether her grandmother, mother, or Mijo was within hearing distance.

Stammering Matea answered, “I can see fine, but maybe I need the name of your eye doctor.”

“Hell, yes, you do!” was Tio Fabian’s only response.

* * *

The cold was gone. Now Esme felt like a pot of boiling water about to spill over. Matea’s snakes tried to hold her down but were losing the battle.

Still blinded by the darkness, Esme could see next to nothing except for the slice of white light off to her right side. Not willing to give up, Esme clawed at the floor with her nine fingers. Pulling herself towards the light while using her feet to shove herself forward.

The snakes still had a hold on her, but not as fierce.

She could wiggle.

She could move her fingers.

When she flung a snake away from her by the tail, the den of them hissed at her. Esme hissed back, louder, meaner than they.

She might not be able to see them, but she would fight anyway.

Inching her way toward the light while fighting the hold of Matea’s snakes, Esme heard scratching, as though an animal, a creature pawed at a wall or a door.

She stopped what she was doing, fear pulsing in her throat. She could not see what was coming for her.

Taking a deep breath, Esme decided that no matter what she did, whatever animal was scratching at the door would get to her whether she was moving or not. Shoving herself forward again, Esme felt a snake fly off of her as if grabbed by someone, or something, and tossed away. Again and again, snakes left her.

A thud pounded her ears, followed by a white light flooding her blinded eyes. She could see again, but the flash of light dazzled her.

Confused, Esme blinked. She could see the blurry outline of snakes flying off of her, toward what she did not know. Only darkness was beyond the light, and Esme felt sorry for the snakes. They only did their bruja’s bidding, nothing more. She held no distaste for them, only pity.

Wrapped in confusion not knowing what to do, Esme felt the press of teeth on her side, digging into her flesh but not breaking it. Whatever was connected to the teeth pulled her into the light.

She screamed when a sharp pain hit her left foot, a quick snap, then nothing. Esme was nothing more than a rag doll but had the strength to touch her foot and found it wet and slippery. Blood, Esme thought, from the slickness of her fingers. She could see again, and she turned her head about, trying to see what had her in its teeth.

All she saw was her apartment ceiling.

But she could see, and for that she was happy.

Her foot throbbed, and she lifted her leg to see what was wrong. Her big toe had been snapped cleanly off, and blood pumped from where it had been. She needed to get up, do something about her toe, but she wasn’t sure if this was over.

She had not hated Matea before this.

She had not feared Matea before this.

Esme knew none of that mattered. She had known hate. She had known fear. She had overcome both, and she’d overcome Matea.

* * *

“Perro!” shouted Oralia. Mijo had opened Matea’s closet and now dragged the plant from inside.             Mijo stopped and looked up at the old woman with insolent eyes. Oralia patted the dog on the head and studied the plant. A leaf had been torn off and lay in the dirt of the pot. There was something on the leaf.

Oralia peered at the leaf and saw it had a pinprick drop of blood on it. She lifted the plant from the floor, smiling. Matea was not good at secrets, but Oralia was. She dropped the blood smeared leaf on the floor and hurried to her bedroom. She had something to do before anyone got home.

Mijo warbled at the old woman as she walked from Matea’s bedroom and followed her. He had more conscience than any human and did not like what he was seeing.

“No seas dramático,” Oralia said to Mijo, who huffed at the mention of being overly dramatic. He did not leave the plant's side and eyed the old woman with suspicion and love, a contradiction that could only be handled by a dog.

Oralia took a marble from her dresser and held it up in her fingertips to the light. Using a finger, she dug into the dirt in the pot and created a small, worm-like hole. She shoved the marble into it, deep enough she felt a root against her finger. Satisfied, Oralia used the same finger and covered the hole.

With a frown, she looked at the plant and said, “Que lo sepas.” With Mijo at her heels, she returned to Matea’s room and placed the plant on Matea’s dresser. Oralia left the room with a geriatric swagger, stopping at the door to whistle at Mijo. She nodded for him to leave the room with her. The dog grunted but left, doing his best to make the old woman understand his distaste for what she had done.

* * *

Matea was doing well in class that day. Everything was clicking. All the boxes were checked. For once, she had felt like she had achieved something instead of surviving it.

Then, she heard a rattle, like a whispered warning in one’s ear. Almost as soon as she’d heard the warning, a rattlesnake fell from nowhere to the floor right in front of her professor. The professor did not flinch. He did not see it.

Matea clutched the edges of the desk, eyeing the rattler, who slithered away seeming unbothered by its new location. Holding her breath, Matea tried to focus on the snake, tried to gather her thoughts to send it back to La Santa’s domain, but another fell on the desk next to hers with a thud that made Matea jump, a yip leaving her lips.

Seconds later, a rain of serpents thudded around the room. Matea shook violently, a trembling she could not control. She kept trying to command the snakes to leave, with no luck.

These were her snakes. They were supposed to listen to her.

Her.

The professor spoke on, unaware of the danger surrounding him. Her classmates stared dead eyed ahead of them, not one noticing the serpentine disaster in the classroom.

The girl sitting next to Matea touched her arm. “You okay?” she asked. Nodding to the girl, Matea demanded that her rattlesnakes obey her and leave, but more fell from nowhere.

“Matea, do you know the answer?” asked the professor, looking directly at her with humor in his eyes, or was he mocking her?

Anger rose in Matea’s chest. This wasn’t high school. She wasn’t misbehaving. He was calling her out like a teenager.

Angered by the professor’s tone, Matea stammered for an answer. Her eyes darted to the snakes at his feet. She gave the command, and they bit.

The professor screamed, making everyone but Matea jump. He fell to the floor, grabbing at his legs and yelling for someone to call 911.

Matea watched, forcing herself not to emote in any way.

The rattlers writhed in confusion, and Matea realized they were all stunned from falling from wherever they’d been before returning to Matea.

Where had they been, Matea wondered as she watched classmates rush to help the professor. Some students cried, and others ran out the door screaming for help terrified of watching their professor scream from pain for unseen reasons.

* * *

“I can’t figure out the tattoo on your hand.”

Matea looked up from where she sat. The class had been told to sit under the shady trees by their classroom in case the police needed to ask questions.

Turning to where the voice came from, Matea looked into the eyes of . . . She couldn’t remember his name. He was polite, she thought, had always greeted her and said thank you to anyone who bothered to walk his way.”

“My tattoo?” Matea responded flatly, dumbly, too overcome with thought to hold a conversation.

“Yea, it looks like metacarpals, right about there. Are you getting a sleeve done?” He pointed to the area on her hand she’d looked at this morning.

Going ridgid, Matea realized she should not look directly at him. He’d see her eye.

“Yeah,” answered Matea, “doing a sleeve. It’ll look really witchy when I get done with it.”

She stood, staring straight ahead, reminding herself that she’d have to start wearing sunglasses soon, something to hide her eyes.

“Could you tell them I had to go to work?” she asked. “The college has my numbers.”

Without waiting for a response, Matea quickly walked away.

* * *

La Santa stood motionless in her domain, no sway from her skeletal frame. She was deep in thought, like any mother considering the actions of two women she considered daughters in a way. In a way.

Chapter 17

Perdóname

Brandon had spent his only day off that week locked in his apartment playing video games. He felt dissatisfied, not with the world in general but with himself. Want filled him, hung from his lips. He was hungry for Matea but wouldn’t go to her. He would not sate his hunger with her.

He had already played this video game a hundred times over, but today he needed something familiar, like the world in the game. The tasks that he had to do in the game he could achieve with ease, and today Brandon needed that reassurance of something easily gained.

Every thought of Matea he flicked away even though he felt lonely without her and Gina orbiting around him, but he couldn’t make himself go to Matea.

He could not make himself text Gina no matter how many times he looked at his phone, a phone he had left on the other side of the room for a reason.

To Brandon Gina was a buddy. A bestie. Someone to laugh at the world with. They shared a love for Matea. The connection he had with Gina led to Matea. He knew this.

He would not text Gina. She was the bridge that he wouldn’t cross. Not now.

Brandon hit the buttons on his controller too hard. He was angry at himself for stopping contact with a woman he knew he loved, angry for not knowing why he did so.

* * *

La Santa hovered behind Brandon, only watching for now, getting to know him, feeling him out.

Was he worthy of the attention he got from Matea and Esme, or was he merely a cat toy the two women would bat back and forth to one another?

Bending over, La Santa smelled Brandon’s hair. He was a hurt soul. There was trauma ingrained into every pore of his body. La Santa hurt for him.

She felt his anger at being caught in Esme’s web. When a person is under another’s control, despair arises, and with a young man like this . . . Despair leads to anger.

Bowing her head La Santa Muerte thought on Brandon. He was not her devotee or a believer, but he was deeply in love with Matea. Would that aid La Santissma or get in her way? La Santa Muerte, who knew so many things, wasn’t sure.

She felt empathy for this soul. The damage of his childhood had constructed his adult life. She could bestow her blessing to him, enrich his life, calm his agitated nerves.

Yet, La Santa Muerte wasn’t sure that when the time came, he wouldn’t get in her way with Matea.

Lowering herself, La Santa Muerte, with her crown of flowers, long beautiful black hair, and skeletal cheeks, whispered, “Perdóname” to Brandon as she touched his head with the tip of her bony finger.

The sudden smell of flowers made Brandon pause his game. He looked up and around him. The smell was as real as if he had stuck his head into some wild roses.

Brandon dropped his game controller, stood, grabbed his cellphone and car keys, and headed out the door with the lingering scent of flowers rumpling his hair.

* * *

Esme had bandaged her foot. The pain was almost paralyzing, but the only thing to do was to suffer through it. She couldn’t go to the hospital. People would want explanations. She had none to give that they would believe.

Esme stared at the hand with the missing finger, then at the bandages on her foot where her big toe was also missing now. Would Matea destroy her bit by bit, until there was nothing left of her but a torso to be fed and wheeled about by a “home health aide” some government agency would assign to her?

“It could be.” thought Esme.

Brandon, thought Esme before she heard the knock on her door. She shouldn’t open it, but she knew she would.

Limping over to the door, Esme straightened her body, preparing herself for the fight that was about to happen.

Brandon, like the hospital workers, would want an explanation on why her foot was bandaged. She’d tell him Matea did it. He’d get angry and yell at her to stop with the witchy bullshit.

And so it goes, thought Esme as she opened the door.

Brandon stood before her, eyes ghostly, the sweet scent of flowers on his skin. Esme blinked once, slow and deliberate, as though it would change when she looked again. No such luck, and she blinked rapidly. His aura was translucent now with grey gathering at its corners. Not good.

Esme stood aside, allowing him in. She sucked in the trailing scent of flowers. This was the closest she’d come in a long time to La Santa Muerte. He had walked into her apartment and into her arms with a glare in his eyes, a chip on his shoulder, and a sticky loneliness all about him. The loneliness Esme knew was not for her. He was with her, now resting in her bed by no want of his own.

He wanted Matea’s bed. She knew this, accepted it. He was bonded to Esme, and La Santa delivered him. Esme watched Brandon sleep. He dozed with his hands in between his legs. It was childlike. There was nothing manly to his slumbering frame.

Was it payment for Esme’s finger and toe that La Santissma’s favorite child had taken from her?

It could have been a mercy, a flower-scented tidbit thrown her way because La Santa Muerte considered her pitiful and not as strong as Matea.

Looking down at the bloody bandage on her foot, Esme noted that the bleeding had stopped. She then looked at her hands, the nine fingers.

She was so much stronger than La Santa believed.

Esme covered Brandon with a blanket and saw the displeasure of her face in his eyes, felt his arms wrapped around her because he had nothing else. All of it broke her heart, but she would not bend. She would not give.

Rising, Esme limped to her stove and made herself some mint tea. She swallowed a couple of pain pills she had bought off her neighbor.

How much would Matea take from her before Esme won?

She would win.

She had to.

It was important not only for herself but for many, and she didn’t know why.

* * *

Gina had a meticulous way of watching Matea. She noted every twitch of legs. Every sigh. Where Matea’s gaze rested. Sometimes her gaze rested on Gina more often not.

She wasn’t ready to give up on Matea yet. Sometimes, Gina felt the “give up” rise in her chest, but she insisted on pushing it back down, telling herself “Not yet.”

The heartbreak was coming. Gina could feel that, too, in her bones, like an old man prophesizing rain. There was something between her and Matea that felt incomplete.

Maybe she was fooling herself into believing she deserved an ending, a conclusion so that she could finally move on. Maybe move away from Palmdale, find herself another life where there were seasons, green trees, and air that didn’t smell of road dirt.

* * *

Matea felt Gina come up next to her before Gina was anywhere in sight. Things had become like that lately. A flash of a name in her thoughts. A daydream of an event, then seconds later it came.

But I did not foresee my professor's death, thought Matea. Because you caused it, she responded to herself.

Matea leaned against Gina. As always, she felt soft, kind, sweet, like a treat. Something to be enjoyed, be blessed by.

Matea wondered if Gina would feel so at ease with her, so utterly comfortably in love with her, if she knew that Matea was a murderer. A killer. A sinner in its truest form.

Thall shalt not kill. The face of the nuns spun in Matea’s eyes.

Matea leaned harder against Gina, needing warmth, needing the soft press of hands on her hips and lips on her neck. She wanted Gina then, if only to use her to rub the sins from her skin.

“Let’s go.” Matea caught Gina’s hand in hers, pulling her towards the restroom at their local dive bar hangout.

“Wait,” answered Gina. “I have been thinking . . . ”

“Yes?” responded an annoyed Matea, who wanted nothing more than a carnal release. She wanted to tell Gina to shut up.

“Do you think she took Brandon?”

“Who?” asked Matea, interested in where this was going but too horny to think straight.

“Esme,” Gina said flatly, without heart. Brandon was nowhere near them. This was supposed to be their night.

Matea swallowed all want gone from her body. Dropping Gina’s hand, she wanted revenge, and she knew she could kill.

* * *

Gina curled up on her apartment’s couch, careful to leave the kitchen light and living room lamp on. She hadn’t slept in her bed since the hands. Now, she slept on her couch, facing where her bed used to be. In the couch cushions, Gina had stashed knives, hammers, and a heavy-duty flashlight.

She wouldn’t sleep tonight. She knew this. Tonight wasn’t about fear. Tonight, she slept with the words she had told Matea on her tongue.

Gina wasn’t sure why she had mentioned Brandon. Why would she help Matea with her competition?

Gina felt so confused that there was nothing left for her to do but curl up on her couch yet again, feeling unfinished and unwise.

Chapter 18

Brujita

With the flavor of her mint tea clinging to her gums, Esme finally let go of the frown that she had been holding back since Brandon had walked into her apartment yesterday afternoon.

The frown for fake love.

The frown for Brandon completely ignoring the bandages on her foot.

The frown for a man she didn’t love, who didn’t love her, but who she insisted on keeping because what was love to her but something unattainable and unreal. Love was feral, and she would housebreak it.

This morning, after she finally convinced him to go to work, she was free to frown, scowl, and howl if needed.

Esme limped to her bathtub and removed the bandage from her foot. She inspected the space where a big toe had once been. Though repulsed by her foot without its leader, Esme was also fascinated by the process of the removal of her big toe.

The toe hadn’t been torn or broken off. It hadn’t been cut off. Her toe had been removed by Matea’s magic. There was a jagged stump of skin that had bled a lot but now glowed rosy pink, brand new, healing fast and covering the bone. For that Esme, was grateful. Small favors, she guessed, for the removal having been done so cleanly. Was that Matea’s magic or mercy from La Santa Muerte?

She’d soon find out.

Leaving the bloody bandages on her bathroom floor, Esme hobbled into her kitchen. She opened a cabinet filled with canned goods and ramen. All Dollar Store food waste.

Humming, Esme removed several packs of Ramen and a couple of cans of corn so she could reach her hidden brujeria supplies. She wasn’t sure why she’d hidden her wares. She lived alone. This was her home. Esme suffered to pay her rent. She scrimped. She often skipped eating, but she did all so that she could be alone and unbothered in her small space.

She could be free here.

Yet, there was always the unceasing fear of being caught, trepidation that her brother would find her packets of herbs, candles that she had molded to human shapes, hair, rags encrusted with period blood, the bones of a neighborhood cat, and much more.

If her mother would find her dirty secrets, she would follow the discovery with several slaps to Esme’s face, slaps that Esme couldn’t return no matter how much she wanted to.

Esme laughed. Her mother probably no longer had a face, and for that she was glad.

The fear of being caught as a bruja had burrowed into her. She couldn’t help hiding her supplies even though she knew it was pointless to do so. No one in the States believed such works could be done with a few herbs, a prayer, a candle.

What Americans didn’t understand was that it wasn’t the things that made the brujeria work. It was the bruja, the power of one's spirit drove the work, whether it was for good or not. The things were nothing more than vessels to target feelings into.

Brujeria and the bruja were one of two things, good and not good. What brujeria put into the world, whether good works or not good works, depended on the bruja.

Esme often choose “not good” because that was what the world had given her. Not good.

If all she consumed was the “not good,” then that was all she would give back.

Esme took a container of salt from the cabinet and pushed her hand into it, feeling the grains grind into her skin, reminding her how quickly she could be ground down as well.

Esme drew a large circle with the salt on the kitchen floor. The circle was big enough for her to sit in with her injured foot spread out. She took the flowers that she had made Brandon bring her from the store before he left.

Ripping the flowers from their stems, Esme looked at her circle. Should the flowers go in or out of the circle?

A circle of protection.

A circle that she wasn’t sure would protect her at all.

Deciding the flowers were an offering, she spread them around the outside of the circle. Esme opened a bottle of good tequila she had been saving for a night such as this, a night where she’d need an offering that showed thought, an offering that showed sacrifice. With what little money she had, the purchase of the tequila was a sacrifice.

Esme poured tequila into three shot glasses and placed them outside her circle. It was time. The sun had set. The moon was rising in the sky.

She was about to put the tequila bottle away but thought better of it. Instead, Esme held it in her hands, stepped into the circle, bit into a lime wedge, and took a swig of the tequila. This was not the time for sobriety.

“Santissma. Beloved Mother. Mother of all mothers come to me.”

Esme focused her mind. Her heart threatened to leave her chest.

Needing courage, Esme took another hit of tequila. Calling La Santa Muerte felt like she’d fall into darkness again and this time land on vipers.

“Santissma Muerte. I am your devotee. I am your daughter. Come to me.”

Putting the bottle down, Esme clenched her fist, noticing yet again the missing finger. She felt the burn of the tequila in her throat and brain. Anger built in her. She felt ready for a fight. Her ears burned. Her tongue was ready to lash out.

This time Esme shouted, “Mother Death! I am your daughter! COME. TO. ME.”

The sound of mariachi music did not pour into the room but thrashed into it. The salt from her circle rose, spinning around her as if she were in a cotton candy machine.

Disoriented, Esme watched the spinning salt turn to cobwebs. The music pounded her ears, and the bow of a violin jabbed her in the ribs. Quicker than she thought she could move, Esme grabbed the bow from the violinist, pulling the owner towards her.

Through the spinning salt wall, a hand as skeletal as La Santa’s held the bow strong.

A Mariachi’s face broke through the webs, a face was painted in Day of the Dead sugar skull paint over a zombified face shedding flaps of skin. Esme used the violin bow to shove the Mariachi from her salt circle.

Trumpets rang out, pounding into Esme they grew louder and louder.

Whistles and shouts of “Viva Mexico” rang out of the Mariachis who took turns sticking their faces in and out of the spinning circle, teasing Esme and enjoying it.

The Mariachis were proudly announcing the coming of a queen. La Santa Muerte. The mariachis began to sing “Mexico Lindo," and Esme felt La Santa near.

The cackles of the Mariachi singers made Esme’s hair stand on end, and the spinning salt made her hair whirl around her head. The pump of the music vibrated the floor.

The salt wall collapsed back to the floor. Esme reached for the bottle of tequila but spotted a bony foot, its toes resting on the salt line.

Before her stood La Santa Muerte, an empty shot glass in her hand.

La Santissma stood inches away. Esme could touch her if she dared, but something told Esme not to reach beyond the salt.

Do not touch La Santissma even if invited to.

The skeletal frame swayed with the music, yipping to it. She took another shot of tequila. La Santa Muerte was having a party, but Esme felt sick to her stomach.

This wasn’t right.

Was this the party before the slaughter?

Esme wasn’t sure.

Not wanting to show fear, Esme picked up her tequila bottle, stamped her feet with the music, gave a yell, and took a swig from the tequila bottle. The last swallow of tequila hit hard, landing on her heart and dripping its way down.

La Santissma paid her no mind. She had the third and last shot glass of tequila in her hand. Her dress and the skeleton within pranced around to the Mariachi music.  The anger Esme had before was gone and replaced by awe.

La Santa Muerte was beautiful, a goth, occult beauty, and there was beauty in death.

La Santa’s hair was as black as the darkest night. The bones of her body glowed luminously as if she rubbed moon dust on them every night.

La Santa’s falda swayed with her movements. The flowers on her head were the deepest red and at full bloom.

Esme felt humbled by La Santa, and all at once, she went to her knees in the salt circle, sobbing, and wondering why La Santa Muerte would choose Matea over her.

Why was Esme always an afterthought? An unloved thing.

“Brujita mia . . .”

The room went silent. The Mariachis had vanished.

Noting her position, Esme quickly got up. She never let her weakness show. Now she had, and it angered her.

“Brujita mia,” La Santa Muerte repeated as she stepped over the circle, cupping her skeleton hands over Esme’s face.

Esme felt warmth in the bones and noticed the tender, gentle touch. Her mother’s gentle touches were always followed by a pinch. Esme flinched not sure if a pinch was coming from this mother as well.

“Brujita,” cooed La Santa pulling Esme into an embrace.

She did not hug La Santa back. The “ita” in bruja stood between them, keeping Esme’s arms at her side.

She was not an “ita,” not a small, cute, insignificant thing. The “ita” could be tenderness, she knew this, but it could also be a disregard for everything she was and would be.

La Santa Muerte stepped back from Esme. She held Esme’s hands, regarded the missing finger. She looked down at Esme’s feet, noticing the missing toe.

A noise came from La Santa, almost a whimper.

La Santissma hurt for Esme, but Esme's heart did not belong to La Santa Muerte. That would not do.

“Por que ella, y no yo?” asked Esme, no longer fearing La Santa Muerte.

La Santa nodded when Esme asked this. Her nod was calm as if a patient teacher listening to a student ask a question.

“Porque ella es la taza y yo soy el café,” responded La Santissma.

She vanished, leaving Esme with nothing but the feeling of deep and dark loneliness that sank into her lungs, making every breath a battle of endurance.

Esme wondered if she could be the one who drank the coffee.

* * *

Matea checked the time on her phone. She had lain in bed for two hours thinking in circles.

She could kill. Maybe.

Knowing she could kill was one thing. Another was an obsession to try and find out if she could.

The two thoughts danced around her head, making the slightest task feel like an impossibility. She had even called in sick to work, needing a night at home to lie in bed and ignore this itch to test her murderous theory.

She needed to get this desire out of her head before she went out in public again. What if she wasn’t careful? The simplest of thoughts could end someone.

That thought terrified her.

That thought aroused her.

Frustrated, Matea rolled off her bed and landed on the floor, phone in hand. She needed guidance. Matea felt a calling within her for light.

Matea played a drum meditation from the Navajo nation. She knew these weren’t her people, but she hoped they were close enough as cousins that this would work for her.

She listened, thoughtfully breathing with each pound of the drums, doing her best to scrub away thoughts of murder, to focus herself on each thump.

What she wanted was to be back in that desert land, beads tied to her ankles, dressed in white dancing away the black goo that was glued to her bones.

Something in her told her that if she could get herself there, if she could touch the man with the deer tied to his head, that she’d know more.

There could be an awakening for her, if only she could get there.

She smelled something.

Opening her eyes, Matea looked around the room.

The drums beat on, the gentle thumping showing her who she might be.

But that smell.

A smell of rot lingered around her. With a quick tap on her phone, Matea silenced the drum meditation. She sat still, sniffing.

Crawling on her hands and knees, Matea followed the odor to underneath her bed. Lifting the bed skirt Matea could see something shriveled up among the boxes she had shoved under her bed.

The thing was maybe a dead mouse by the smell. She needed to get a broom to scoop up the thing, but the smell had her retching. She reached for the trashcan by the bed.

Her bedroom door opened. Out of the corner of her eye, Matea could see the slippered feet of her grandmother Oralia.

“Que pasa?” asked Oralia with a tone of displeasure.

Vomiting now into the trashcan, Matea pointed under her bed.

The old lady, who always walked slowly, careful with each step as if every movement of her body was painful and her bones were made of glass, got on her hands and knees without an issue to inspect the problem.

Holding the trash can at her chest, Matea watched in horror as her grandmother reached for whatever it was, grabbed it, looked at it, then nodded as if she agreed with the rotting thing.

Oralia walked over to Matea, open-handed, palm up, neither a grin nor a glare on her face.

Her grandmother held a human toe in her hand. The red nail polish on the big toe was chipped. Matea growled; she hated chipped nail polish. It was a big toe, and it looked familiar.

Oralia scowled at Matea “Esto es lo que sucede cuando no aspiras todas las semanas como deberías.”

Her grandmother casually tossed the toe in the trash can with the vomit, shaking her head as if grievously disappointed in her granddaughter's bad housekeeping.

What the hell did weekly vacuuming have to do with finding a severed human toe in her room?

Vomit gurgled in Matea’s throat again. She leaned over the trash can, but the toe sat in the puddle of vomit.

She put the trash can down, ran down the hall to the bathroom, and vomited again into the toilet.

Stomach finally emptied Matea sat back against the tub trying to come up with a plan to get rid of the vomit and the toe, without puking all over her bedroom. In her rush, she had left the bathroom door open. Head against the tub, body spread out Matea watched her grandmother walk by with her trash can in hand. Oralia briefly stopped to look at Matea shook her head and said, “Cochina.” Her grandmother headed for the backyard.

“It was a human toe!” screamed Matea at Oralia, not caring if she was her grandmother or not. Who the hell disregards a strange body part lying around the house?

My grandmother, that’s who, thought Matea bitterly, as she brushed her teeth then rinsed her mouth out with one of Tio Fabian’s beers.

* * *

Oralia put on some gloves and pulled the toe out of the vomit. She rinsed the vomit off the toe with the garden hose. She walked over to the Esme plant, dug a hole with her finger, and shoved the toe into the plant’s soil.

Satisfied, Oralia smiled. The toe would feed that marble and speed along her work.  Tonight, she’d give her Santa Muerte statue some whiskey as a “thank you.”

Chapter 19

Leyenda de Mal

Amparo stood motionless and quiet in the hallway of her home, watching the shadows of feet dance under the doorway of her mother’s bedroom. Tired from driving back to Palmdale from Calexico, she had no energy to fight or cry over her mother’s actions.

Amparo could smell the cigar smoke. She knew what the old woman was up to.

Amparo wanted to go to her brother for consolation, but right outside his room she heard snoring. She would not bother him.

Amparo stood at Matea’s door, pressing her palm against it. The door felt cold and as isolated as Amparo felt. Her daughter wasn’t home.

In the kitchen, Amparo could hear Mijo’s loud snores where he slept soundly on the couch he wasn’t allowed to lie on. Someone had covered him with a blanket. She shook her head, giving up on everyone. Amparo went to her room and locked the door behind her.

She placed her purse on a chair. Not bothering to bathe or brush her teeth, she stripped down to her underwear, leaving her clothes on the floor next to the bed. She had no energy for breath let alone anything else. Snuggled into her bed, Amparo’s eyes fluttered shut but flew open at once. Amparo rolled over, opening the drawer of her nightstand. Her fingers quested and groped until she found the cross she held when praying.

Holding the cross tightly against her chest, Amparo felt its cold weight against her skin lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. So deep and dreamless she never noticed the strong smell of flowers in her bedroom.

* * *

La Santa Muerte smoothed Amparo’s hair, helping her fall quickly asleep. Sorrow seeped from Amparo, leaking from her like droplets. La Santissma felt it well inside of her.

Amparo was infected with a sorrow of the soul, a sorrow she would never understand or be able to cure. She missed not only her daughter but the bond a mother should have with her child, especially mother and daughter. Amparo had always felt something was missing in her life, and that was it. But she never knew it.

La Santa Muerte watched Amparo sleep allowing her the favor of calm, No scattered thoughts tonight, only mindless sleep to rest her spirit.

La Santa Muerte owed Amparo this much. The bond that Amparo should have shared with her daughter Oralia had willingly given to La Santa Muerte.

* * *

Oralia puffed a cigar, blowing the smoke on her Santa Muerte statue. In between puffs, she sipped whiskey and stared at the Esme Plant that she had brought in for the night.

Puff after puff, the old lady tittered as she blew smoke to La Santa Muerte, all with the deepest respect. Then, she blew smoke on the Esme plant like a middle school bully.

Flicking some cigar ashes into the plant's soil, Oralia huffed. She hadn’t done everything she had with Matea so that some little, good-for-nothing barrio brujita could ruin her plans.

* * *

Gina had noticed that something wasn’t right with her from the second she opened her eyes that morning. Every thought from that moment on was of Matea. She loved Matea, but she hadn’t been obsessing over her until now.

She couldn’t figure it out. The second she had gotten out of bed, still groggy from unsettled sleep, she rubbed her head, doing her best to erase the endless dreams of Matea.

Now fully awake, it was the same. Matea rolled over and over in her thoughts, not allowing a moment of peace.

This was not Gina.

Before leaving her apartment, Gina looked at the bare floor where her mattress once sat. The night the hands came was the last night she had Matea over to her apartment. Nervous, Gina sat for a moment, knowing that it might make her late for work at the fulfillment center.

She checked her phone. Rechecked, then looked at the floor.

Matea hadn’t answered her text messages or phone calls from last night.

She had texted Matea 24 times.

Called her 43.

When had she done that?

Now beyond nervous, Gina noticed her hands shook like they had when she needed drugs. She no longer did drugs. She only had an occasional beer.

And her mind was blank.

It was obvious that the endless text string came from her. The calls came from her, but she didn’t remember doing either.

The memory then exploded in her head like a bullet, a memory of sitting in her apartment in the same spot where her mattress once was, sending those texts. Making those calls.

Shaking, Gina erased everything from her phone. She resolved that today would be the day she’d finally take steps towards leaving Palmdale and Matea behind.

There was a way out; there always had been, and she should have taken it . . .

But Matea?

Now angry with herself, Gina frowned. Why that thought? Why the thought of Matea right when she’d resolved to leave? As if someone had puppet strings attached to her brain.

Gina couldn't help but wonder, who pulled those puppet strings?

Panic making her itch, Gina rushed from her apartment. Maybe work would purge her.

* * *

In Brandon’s apartment, Matea stared at her phone. She had put it on silent when she got there, wanting her attention only on him for at least tonight.

She saw endless text messages and phone calls from Gina.

The text messages said nothing more than, “Call me.” The phone calls were hang ups with no voice mail.

Matea’s nerves rumbled under her skin. An icky feeling coated her tongue and teeth. She could not deny the feeling of black goo coming up in her throat.

“What’s up with your eye?” Brandon asked, not harshly, but Matea could tell he wanted an answer.

“Don’t know,” she replied flatly. “I see fine. I didn’t do anything to make it happen. It’s not some stupid body modification.” She barked her explanation to him not knowing how to explain to a nonbeliever what it was.  “It’s an anomaly.” She slipped her phone into her pocket.

“I’m off today.” That was the only response Brandon gave her. He wouldn’t push for more answers for now.

Brandon the peacekeeper, thought Matea.  The boy who was raised by a woman who was nothing but drama avoided confrontation until he bled.

Matea stepped forward quickly, giving Brandon a hard kiss. A kiss of promise. A kiss of tomorrows.

“I’ll call you later,” Matea said with a real smile. She felt that smile all the way down to her bones.

“Al rato,” responded Brandon with a pop of hood in his voice as Matea shut his front door.

* * *

Brandon sat on the floor of his apartment. Face in hands. Heart in throat.

The imprint of bones on her arm. The change of eye color. Her hair was different. Thick, blacker than black. She’d never smelled like flowers before.

Shivers ran up Brandon’s back, like the feel of mice feet on skin.

Something was up. Something was wrong.

She was Matea but with an extra bit of something evil that Brandon could not understand, and he admitted, only to himself, that he was afraid.

* * *

At work, Matea had noticed Gina pretending not to notice her. She also saw Esme watching her and Gina with a bit too much enthusiasm.

The first part confused Matea.

The second pissed her off.

The confusion Matea could handle. Gina was probably hurt that Matea hadn’t responded to her calls and texts. Maybe Gina was embarrassed. That was fine. Matea could fix that. She had Brandon back in her life. She wanted Brandon back in their lives. There was no doubt in Matea’s mind that she could have that. It was already in the palm of her hand.

Esme was another story. She was her own leyenda de mal.

Watching the two women, Matea back tracked her thoughts a bit. Maybe, she and Esme together were the leyenda de mal.  Matea was after all a sinner. Maybe a killer. Definitely selfish for wanting not one but two loves. Ruthlessness lived on the surface of Matea's skin. She had the capacity for taking what she wanted without asking or feeling regret.

Looking away from Esme, Matea reminded herself that maybe she had the capacity to kill as well. If she thought about Esme too much, she might lose her focus. Matea made eye contact with Gina and gave her a “come here” wave. Gina slunk over to her, as if a dog getting called by an owner who would only kick but never pet.

“What’s up?” asked Matea, wasting no time.  “What was the deal last night?”

Gina shrugged then blurted, “I got high.”

“Liar,” responded Matea a bit too fast. Her tongue felt forked when she spoke. Did she hear a rattle from one of her snakes?

The look of hurt on Gina’s face came quick and turned aggressive.

“Liar,” repeated Matea. “You stopped doing drugs. You are against them 100 percent.”

Gina hesitated to bite back. Matea knew Gina’s brother was a heroin addict. Gina had often seen him wandering the streets in Palmdale and sometimes Van Nuys. Since high school, Gina had vowed to never touch drugs, not even weed. Caught in the trap of truth, Gina shrugged.

“It was a hard night. I needed you.”

Now Matea’s face showed pain, hurt that she wasn’t there for Gina when she needed to be. Some of the pain was knowing that a large part of Matea didn’t care. The realization that she would always juggle Gina’s and Brandon’s needs didn’t weigh on Matea. She wanted them both. She’d take them both. After having Brandon again, she knew this.

“Look, I’m sorry. Honest. I was with Brandon. We are back together,” Matea said. She stepped forward, careful not to be close enough that a good punch from Gina wouldn’t land well. “The three of us can be together,” Matea added, slipping her hand in Gina’s. “I need both of you.”

* * *

Gina’s heart fell to the ground. Matea might as well have stomped on it. She said nothing. Instead, the part of her brain that raced with thoughts of Matea pushed her body to lean into Matea.        Her animal brain told her to breathe in the scent of Matea’s hair, memorize it. Her hair, Gina noticed, smelled of roses.

“Tonight,” Gina said hating herself for the words that were about to pour out of her. “Tonight after work. It’s my turn. Brandon had you last night.”

Matea nodded, a grin escaping her lips.

Gina’s mind raced with, “Mine. Mine. Mine. She is mine.” Brandon was nothing but a bug to flick away.

* * *

“You look different bestie.” Esme raised an eyebrow at Matea in the employee bathroom at the fulfillment center. She centered herself by the door making it impossible for Matea to get past her without acknowledging her.

Matea dead-stared at Esme before responding. “You look lighter. Lost a finger? Maybe, a toe?” Matea smirked on the word “toe.” That was a guess. Esme didn’t give a tell but something told Matea she was right.

“Those eyes.” Esme stepped in close to Matea. “Muy chido.”

“Move,” answered Matea, focusing her thoughts on not killing Esme.

“Bah!” Esme raised her eyebrows. “I’m not scared of you or those snakes. Es nada.” She got closer then, wanting a fight. “Tu eres nada.”

The hair on Matea’s neck rose, like Mijo did when he growled at someone knocking on the front door.

She shoved Esme away from her, determined to not give in here. She needed the job. Matea was almost out the door when Esme grabbed for Matea’s hand. She ran her fingers over the black mark sliding her thumb up the imprint of bones.

Esme yanked Matea back towards her, momentarily forgetting that they were enemies. An intense need to warn Matea took over. “Watch those bones, mija.”

Matea pulled away then, ashamed that she felt afraid. She left the bathroom as if her shoes were on fire.

With Matea gone, Esme washed her hands not once but five times, doing her best to clean the feel of La Santa off her skin. The imprint of bones had felt solid. Too real. There was no sensation of skin there. Esme finally dried her hands.

The white in Matea’s eye. The imprint of bones on the black mark. And she didn’t fail to notice Matea’s hair.

Smelling her hand, Esme cursed. It still smelled of flowers. She went back to the sink to scrub her hands again, cursing, “Pinchi esqueleto.” Then, she looked over her shoulders like a frightened kid after whispering “Bloody Mary” into the school bathroom mirrors.

* * *

Matea walked away from the bathroom with her tail between her legs. Anger had fused itself to the black goo that haunted her insides. Walking fast as she could, Matea found the darkest, quietest part of the fulfillment center. With boxes stacked all around her, she took in a deep breath, doing her best to get the smell of flowers out of her nose.

She shouldn’t be smelling flowers. The scent of cardboard, dust, sweat, and machine oil should be up her nose. Yet, she smelled flowers.

Hearing a rattle, Matea looked behind her. Lying on top the boxes were her rattlesnakes, lounging as if sunbathing on giant rocks. Rolling her eyes, Matea started to shoo them away, but a worker was coming towards her.

The hair on her arms stood up. She needed some time alone to calm herself and focus. All the rattles on the snakes stood up. A chorus of warnings shot off in all directions, but only she could hear them.

Turn back, Matea thought, turn back now; I am not in control.

This guy was about to have an “accident.”

Holding her ground, Matea cleared her thoughts as he marched towards her, clipboard in hand, orange vest dangling from his scrawny shoulders.

“Turn back,” she said, making eye contact with the man. Her rattlesnakes hissed, echoing each word she said.

The man stopped midstep and looked at her, a vacancy in his eyes. He turned and headed away from her. Matea heard a small wispy laugh coming from a couple of her rattlers.

“That worked,” Matea murmured, once again hearing laughter but now coming from more than one or two of them. She picked up the one nearest to her, petting it, allowing it to coil around her neck, feeling its heat and weight against her.

The bad feelings about Esme were gone. Matea’s mind raced; maybe she could kill. Maybe she could control others.

For now, Matea considered the death of her professor and the walking away of this worker coincidence. She now felt sure she needed to test theories.

Remembering Esme's words, "Watch those bones," Matea inspected the arm with the black marks. A hair-thin line ran from her wrist to her elbow. The mark was spreading. The Condyle on the Radius bone in the imprint on her arm was clearly marked like fresh ink on a well-done tattoo. It had never looked that well defined before. The bone outline looked too real. Matea couldn't bring herself to touch it.

Chapter 20

Las Chismosas

Esme took out the wax figurine she had created several days ago. Smelling it, Esme took in the odors of her herbs, oils, and blends of witchcraft. There wasn’t a trace of La Santa on this figure, not a whiff of flowers anywhere. Moving it over her and in between her 9 fingers, Esme thought deeply about what she wanted from it.

There were many things she could get from the figure: separation, lust, anger. She wasn’t sure in which direction she needed to go. "Not wanted," she reminded herself. She "needed" to have Matea go away. The wrong move could undermine her plans and place Matea in a power position. Esme might not be able to win.

Taking a towel from the kitchen, Esme laid the wax figurine on it and put it in the fridge. She’d keep it there while she thought hard about her next move.

Esme removed her shoes and stretched, starting at the bottom of her body and all the way to the top. She ran her hands over the jeans she wore, savoring the tightness of them. She loved the closed in feeling of having them directly against her skin.

In Mexico, she was only allowed to wear dresses, her legs bare no matter the weather. She was also not allowed to shave her legs like the rest of the girls. The embarrassment of that still stung as much as her mother’s slaps. Her mother insisted that Esme cover her shoulders with a shawl and wear her long thick hair braided. She forced Esme to cover her hair in public. Having to do those old-fashioned things not only shamed Esme but left an emotional scar.

The women in town no longer dressed like that. Everyone wore jeans, hoodies, jackets, tennis shoes. She looked like a simpleton in the clothes her family forced her into. This was a style only envied by the local grandmothers, and Esme couldn't help but think her mother had caused that embarrassment on purpose.

The moment she arrived in the United States Esme bought herself a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She threw away her sandals and bought a pair of NIKE shoes at the used clothing store.

Lastly, she cut her hair off at the shoulders.

That took almost all the money she had saved to come, which wasn’t much at all since she wasn’t allowed to work and earn. But she didn’t care. She wanted to fit in, not look anything like what her mother believed was proper. She now had 4 pairs of jeans, and that felt rich. Every time she put on a pair of jeans she’d bought with her own money, Esme felt more secure of her own strength and power.

As she peeled the jeans off, exhaustion poured over Esme. She had worked a 12-hour shift with a body that was still learning how to walk without a big toe, how to grasp with a missing finger. But she stood in her shower and took her time shampooing her hair. She shampooed, rinsed, and for no other reason than it felt good, she shampooed her hair again, enjoying the sensation of foam on the nape of her neck and sliding down her nose.

Done with her hair, Esme grabbed a bar of soap, lathering her body from top to bottom wishing to get rid of the feel of the world on her skin. Humming a song, Esme felt contentment surround her.

Until she felt a lump.

On her left side, right underarm was not just a lump but something big.  Something pulsing.

Esme dropped her soap and ran her fingers over the lump. It was the size of an apple. When she pushed on it, she felt it push back.  Consciously. With sentience.

Esme picked up the soap then went back to mindlessly washing her body.

* * *

Both Gina and Matea shivered as they sat on a bench next to their favorite taco truck, wolfing down too many tacos. Matea felt an emptiness in her gut, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

Gina, who was athletic, ate like a horse and never put on a pound. She wiped her mouth and took Matea’s hand for the hundredth time that night.

Matea was annoyed. Eating tacos was not the time for hand-holding, but Gina kept taking a bite from her taco then grabbing for Matea again and again as if they were on a lifeboat about to sink. After the next time Gina grabbed for her hand in between bites, Matea truly believed that if they were on a lifeboat, she’d probably shove Gina’s head under.

“What is up with you?” asked Matea on the cusp of anger. She pulled her hand away to hold her taco like a lioness with half a carcass. “Let me eat, damn it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gina flushed red at Matea’s remark and quietly answered with, “I just want to touch you.” Gina itched to touch Matea, and she couldn’t explain why.

Pulling her hood up, Matea ignored what Gina said. She looked from side to side as if looking for something or someone then said, “It’s cold. Like, weird cold, right?”

Gina nodded, willing herself to keep her hands down and not on Matea.

Shaking a bit, Matea stood up. “Let’s finish eating in the car. I’m going to run the heater.”

Gina followed Matea, feeling like a dog that believes its owner a god. She was so uncomfortable in her skin. The urge to run from Matea lingered in her legs, but something stirred in her, telling her to glue herself to Matea instead. Gina felt that all reason had drained from her, that all logical thought was lost in a Palmdale breeze.

The overwhelming urge to fall to her knees and propose to Matea right then vibrated in her head. Gina knew that was crazy thinking. Tears threatened to escape Gina’s eyes.

She once was funny. She once was strong. There was a time when Matea followed her around like a puppy, not the other way around. She didn’t wonder when things had changed so much, but how. How had this happened to her?

“Your hand feels wrong,” blurted Gina, without fighting the demon of passion clawing at her heart. She said it out loud not caring if Matea got angry. Gina almost wanted anger. She’d lick Matea’s anger up, hoping it would be an antidote to the misfortune of her obsessive thoughts about loving her.

“The one where the black mark looks like bones?” asked Matea, sounding disheartened.

“I feel wrong,” added Gina, pouting. “Your skin. My head. Your eyes. My words. All wrong.”

Matea got into the car, turned it on, and set the heat on high, saying nothing. Looking dead ahead, Gina joined her in the car.

“When I was little,” Gina said, “I used to play Chinese jacks all the time. They were these little plastic rings the color of candy. You tossed your color in the air and had to grab another set of a different color before the one you tossed up landed.” Gina paused, swallowed a sip of her soda, and continued. “I played that stupid game for hours by myself thinking that if I tried hard enough I could be the champion on the block of Chinese jacks.”

Matea nodded, not bothering to respond.

“That’s how I feel about you, loca. I feel if I try hard enough, over and over again, I can be your champion. You could be mine.” Gina stopped talking then, waiting for Matea to respond with tenderness, thoughtfulness, and love.

Gina's hope for empathy from Matea was the wince before the slap. Gina knew this. She wasn’t going to get what she was fishing for with Matea.

But something drove her to do these things, and Gina knew it wasn’t love she felt but something she wasn’t ready to admit yet.

Matea didn’t say a word. Instead, she leaned over and kissed Gina deeply. It was a “shut up” kiss, a kiss to placate Gina, to quiet her. Nothing more than a handout to a panhandler on the street, but Gina reached for the handout and took it, allowing any self-respect she had left to fall off of her like dead skin cells.

Separating from Matea, Gina savored the flavor of tacos on Matea’s lips. Pushing her twirling thoughts aside she said, “Take me home, loca. I can’t take anymore tonight.”

Once home, Gina went to her bathroom and grabbed the pills she had sworn off last year. One would calm her. Two would knock her out.

She swallowed two.

* * *

Dona Lupe shuffled her tarot cards, feeling the vibration of their wanting to chat with her. She called her tarot deck “Las Chismosas.”

With almost still lips as she shuffled the cards, Dona Lupe repeatedly whispered, “Yo creo y no creo.” She believed and she didn’t believe everything and anything that would come when she pulled the first card.

Tonight, she would only pull one tarot card. She did not have the strength for more. A hand on the deck of cards, the other on her heart, Dona Lupe whispered Matea’s name three times. She pulled the first card off the top of the deck.

She was not surprised by the sight of the death card. After all, she had been living with the promise of death for at least a month. Lupe and her death had been circling each other like fighting roosters waiting to see who was going to win the match.

This card was not hers. Dona Lupe did not fear for her life. She knew better. What Lupe feared was the lives of others. This was Matea’s card.

Shaking her head Lupe sipped her mint tea. She needed to speak to Matea, make her understand that her abilities with death were not of her own making. She was not the bringer of death but the delivery person. She was the vessel, nothing more, but Matea had too much pride to understand that.

“Mucho, mucho orgullo,” said Dona Lupe to her tea and the tarot cards. Resting her fingertips on the tarot card Lupe sucked at her teeth doing her best to think of this situation from all sides.

But no matter what she tried to think her thoughts and intuition always came back to the same thing.

This death card meant metamorphosis. Matea’s switch from being the delivery person of death to death itself. La Santa Muerte. Lupe wondered if that was true or only an idea from her withered and tired brain.

Possession wasn’t about the person becoming the thing. Possession was about the human melting away, and the thing, whether it be demon, spirit, or La Santa Muerte, leaving their domain and existing in ours.

Dona Lupe shook with anger.

If La Santissma took over Matea’s body, Matea would disappear. Her essence would fade away leaving nothing behind, much like cigar ashes to be flicked away.

Lupe took her hands off Las Chismosas. She took not a sip but a swallow of tea. She knew that this couldn’t be about Matea as a person. She had known Matea since she was an infant, but that didn’t mean Dona Lupe couldn’t see the selfish, self-absorbed woman she was.

This was about not allowing La Santa Muerte full access to this world. Those skeletal toes must not touch the dirt of this world in Matea’s body. If she did, if death walked the streets in human form, what would happen then?

Taking a breath, Lupe stopped herself from panicking. Lupe cursed the fragility of her age. She had to think. It all started with Oralia. Thinking that woman’s name, Lupe wanted to spit but stopped herself thinking of her clean carpet. Oralia believed . . . No, she wanted Matea to become La Santa Muerte.

“No, no, no,” whimpered La Dona Lupe.

La Santa Muerte needed a body with natural powers, a bruja strong enough to hold her in this realm in a body of meat, bones, teeth. Once she had it, she’d remove Matea’s spirit from it, discarding it like a broken cup.

Lupe was thinking in circles. She recognized it, shook her head at herself over it.

Standing on wobbly legs, Dona Lupe walked over to her dresser. Opening a drawer, Dona Lupe pulled out paper, envelope, and stamps. Maybe, she could get Matea to come to her with a letter. Amparo wasn’t strong enough to force her adult daughter to come. Oralia would be watching the house phone like a chained dog.

Relieved to sit again, Dona Lupe took out her pen, watching her fingers twitch with the effort she was putting into keeping her hands still enough to write a letter that wouldn’t look and read as if she had lost her mind.

* * *

Waking up cold, Matea muttered, “Pinchi frio,” and tried to find her comforter to pull over herself. Her eye caught something next to the bed. Matea quickly sat up, hair on end, one breast escaping her tank top. Dazed, Matea blinked at her grandmother while tucking her breast away.

Oralia stood by Matea, her eyes in slits. Oralia held a mug, and by the smell of it, it had to be mint tea.

Matea did her best to give Oralia a weak but welcoming smile. Why don’t these old Mexican women ever bring coffee?

“Gracias, I guess,” Matea murmured. She couldn’t hide the fact she was annoyed at being watched over and not brought coffee and at least a burrito. “Comida?” Matea asked, shooting her eyebrows up, hopeful that her grandmother had something tucked away in her apron pockets.

Sternly, Oralia shook her head while reaching into her delantal pocket. She handed Matea a concha sweet bread wrapped in a thick layer of paper towels.

“Sleep more,” Oralia said, looking at Matea so deeply that Matea instinctively hid under the covers her marked hand now imprinted with bones.

“Bebe tu té,” Oralia spouted, almost as an afterthought. She leaned over to kiss Matea on the top of the head and prepared to leave the room.

Matea took a bite of the concha. Pillow soft bread, sweet but not too sweet. She sneered at her teacup. Conchas should be eaten with coffee.

“Te dije que tomas el té.” Oralia’s warning to drink the tea echoed down the hallway.

Matea picked it up, not wanting another visit from her grandmother. She sipped the tea, almost enjoying the sweet taste of mint flowing into her mouth. It was delicious, but it was still tea. It was like giving a person a cracker when they’d asked for a slice of pizza.

After a large swallow of tea, Matea bit into her concha again. The tea and bread sat in her stomach, making her eyes want to close and her brain want to wish everyone goodnight.

Making kissing sounds in hopes that Mijo would appear and cuddle, Matea laid back down, snuggling into her sheets and leaving the hand with half of her concha sweet bread out and open. Soon she felt a gentle chomp of the bread being taken, followed by dog-slobber lips across her hand as Mijo sniffed her. Mijo whimpered, nudging Matea with his bulldozer head.

She lifted her comforter, giving Mijo plenty of room to settle in. With her head against Mijo's muzzle, Matea drifted back to sleep, doing her best to remember what she was supposed to do that day but couldn’t.

* * *

Oralia whistled for Mijo at the back door. Mijo came up from behind Oralia, sleepy-eyed and yawning. She had escorted him out of Matea’s room once Matea had fallen into a deep sleep, but the dog was slow to move along.         The old woman pointed to Mijo's food bowl. It was packed with scrambled eggs, sausage, and cheese.

She patted his head. Mijo looked down the hallway toward Matea’s room but went to his food bowl, taking the old woman’s bribe.

Feet in house shoes, Oralia took the Esme plant out into the sun. She needed the plant to get all the energy it could from the sun’s rays to feed the project that she hoped was growing within that brujita. Leaving the plant in the sun, Oralia quickly walked down the hallway to check on Matea before heading out for her daily walk.

Matea snored softly. Satisfied, Oralia congratulated herself for sneaking a sleeping pill into Matea's tea. She needed her granddaughter to rest her body and mind. La Santissma would soon make her next move. Matea needed to be well-rested and strong enough to endure it.

* * *

Esme sat on the corner of the street near her apartment waiting, for a drug dealer to come by. She knew it wouldn't take long for her to be spotted. She lived in an area where drug deals were as common as the call of the paletero. She needed something to numb pain so that she could cut out whatever was growing inside her.

This thing was not a thing for hospitals. She didn’t know what was growing, but she knew when it was out in the world it might hurt others. It was best if she cut it out alone and killed it.

She didn’t fear for herself. She had endured slap after slap from her mother, scorn from her father, leering from her brother, and Matea’s mutilation of her body. Esme was strong. This would not end her. This was nothing more than another hill to climb.

She felt the lump twitch and thought to herself that this was more like a mountain.

A silver minivan came into view a block down from Esme. She stood up, dusting the dirt off her. Stepping into the very edge of the curb, Esme made sure to look ahead and not directly at the minivan heading her way.

Lauren drove right up to Esme, a smile on her face.  Her blond hair in a tidy ponytail. Esme noticed the car seat in the back of the van and a DVD player strapped on the back of the headrest. The van smelled artificially clean. Like a smoker applying too much perfume to cover the smell of ashtray that was drilled into their skin.

“Hey, chula,” greeted Lauren. “What you needing?”

Despite her problems, Esme smiled. Lauren, the white girl who had come from the Midwest to make it in music and now nothing more than a worker bee for her drug dealing husband Roberto, was always sweet to Esme no matter her ask.

“Oxy. Two,” answered Esme with a small nod. She wanted five. She’d allow herself two.

Lauren winked at her. “You’ve got it,” she said. The Oxy would be delivered right to her door later today. Lauren only took delivery orders. She started to drive away but stopped. She backed up to Esme again.

Lauren smiled then asked, “Have you seen Brandon?”

Esme sucked her teeth at that question. She wanted to lie, but the truth was better. She hadn’t seen Brandon for days, not even at work.

“No,” answered Esme. No need to cover the truth.

Lauren nodded not giving away any more info.

“How are you gonna pay for the Oxy?” Lauren asked. This was a question she’d never asked before.

“I have cash.” Esme wouldn’t tell Lauren that this cash was her grocery money, and she’d be going hungry for a while.

“My suegra knows about you.” Lauren glanced at her phone then. She was on a schedule. If she wasn’t where she needed to be, someone would come looking for her. “Her cousin lives in the town you come from. You can work off the Oxy. Talk to my suegra. Do what she asks. She’ll be good to you.”

Esme leaned against the van, her legs suddenly betraying her.

“She says you can come see her tomorrow. The delivery person will have the address.” Lauren looked down at her phone then, waved Esme off of her car, and quickly drove away.

Roberto, Lauren's husband, and Esme's drug dealer was a kind man. He loved his gringa, but she better be on time. Esme knew that much and so did Lauren.

* * *

Matea slept in a drug-induced nap she did not plan for. She also did not hear the thump of drum beats or feet stomping ground around her bed nor the sound of beads wrapped around ankles and calves shaking. The voice of her ancestors had all gathered to whip her awake and away from the call to the dark.

She was haloed by her gente, the raza of the Yaqui Indian spirits.  They did their best to bring the feel and sound of them to her. The Yaquis understood that even though Matea was not 100% Yaqui, they flowed in her veins. Their secrets were hidden in her DNA.

Neither Amparo nor Oralia had told Matea of this, but her inner light knew, and it called the spirits of her ancestors for healing and aid.

Buried in bubbles, Amparo turned off the water pouring into the tub when she thought she heard the beat of drums, drums that reminded her of Matea’s father and of love.

Tio Fabian, with his third beer of the night, dozed while watching TV. He had felt down lately, being that he was a first-hand witness to the darkness from glaucoma closing in on his world. His head resting on the couch pillows, Tio Fabian was almost asleep when the first bang hit his ears. Lifting his head, he shifted for a moment. Had he heard drums?

With a whiskey bottle in hand, Oralia stood in front of her Santa Muerte statue preparing to give La Santa a drink. Her head snapped around when she heard the drum beat from Matea’s bedroom. Oralia drank the whiskey she had poured for La Santissma, mumbling “malditos indios” under her tongue.

Mijo sat in the center of Matea’s bedroom. He could clearly see the Yaqui dancing around Matea’s bed, feel the hot desert air kiss his snout, and feel the warm dirt on his paws. His tail wagged with wild doggie joy.

Chapter 21

Mátala

Gina paced the street by Matea’s house. She hadn’t arrived at Matea’s house yet, only because she kept holding herself back. She’d reach the end of the block with one foot on the street and one foot on the sidewalk. Gina would be ready to cross over to Matea’s block then she’d stop herself, turn, and walk down the block again.

A pacing tiger without a cage.

She’d done this three times now. Matea’s neighbors were starting to notice, but she knew no one would call the cops. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people called the cops, but it was the kind of neighborhood that took care of things. If she didn’t leave or go to Matea’s soon, someone would come to her. She knew someone had to be watching her, whispering her movements to someone on a phone. The watcher probably thought she was high on drugs.

She’d pretend to be high if someone came up to get her gone. She couldn’t tell anyone the truth. Gina couldn’t tell them she wanted nothing more than to leave the block and to never think or speak to Matea again, but she couldn't. Right this second, Gina’s only desire was to never think about or see Palmdale again. She needed to get out of here. Out of California.

Gina’s gut told her that if she got away from California, her life could be different. This morning she had gotten in her car determined to fulfill the decision she had made in high school but never followed through. Instead, she paced up and down this block, obsessively thinking of Matea, growing angrier and angrier with herself and with Matea.

The thought that killing Matea would finally absolve her from this endless wanting kept popping up in her thoughts. She had no weapon on her, but Gina’s anger with Matea felt so raw and powerful, she was sure she’d only need her bare hands to end Matea.

Matea wasn’t answering her phone. From where Gina stood on the street corner, she could see that Matea’s car was in the driveway of her home. The meaning was clear to Gina. Matea was ignoring her calls. She probably had Brandon wrapped up in her sheets, none of her family caring who she brought home or how often.

Gina finally put two feet on the street but was unable to take another step. She pounded her chest in frustration.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a large man walking down his driveway then heading toward her. His hands were in his hoodie pockets.

This was not good. Not good.

Gina propelled herself forward, forcing her feet to take step after step towards Matea’s house.

The house stood in front of her calling to her like a bad idea on a late night. She knew the moment she stood in Matea’s driveway she’d lose herself in the hatred she felt for Matea and there was no way to free herself from what she was about to do.

* * *

Esme took the wax figure from the fridge. She could feel the cold frost on the wax and that made her smile. She hoped Matea and Gina had felt frosty these last couple of days.

When Esme took the figure from the fridge, the lump on her side had shifted, as if trying to see whatever it was she was up to.  Controlling her breathing, Esme did her best to ignore the writhing right below her skin. She had a good sense of what grew inside of her, but she would take care of that soon.

The wax figure, two lighted white pillar candles, and a bed of burnt herbs from her hometown in front of her candles were all Esme needed to begin the chaos. She held the wax figure in her hands, focusing on hate and most importantly chaos.

Esme whispered sweetly to the wax figurine, “Mátala. Ella no te ama.” Spinning the wax figurine in her 9 fingers, Esme imagined Matea and Gina caked with layers of blood, confusion, and loathing.

Esme again whispered to the figure, “Mátala,” repeating it many times before laying it on the ashes of herbs. Vibrating, her power left her hands, went into the wax, and out to the universe.

* * *

Tio Fabian sat on a park bench three blocks from his house. He needed some room to think about what his next move would be. What would or could he do with his world going dark? He was using the eye drops, but the shadow of black grew bigger every day.

Lowering his hand to pet Mijo’s ears, Tio Fabian promised himself he’d go back to the eye doctor tomorrow. He’d stop avoiding going back. Not having gone back sooner was stupid. Fear had kept him from making the appointment, an overwhelming fear of the bad news he was sure the doctor would give him.

“I’m a pendejo,” he said to Mijo, who looked up at him seeming ready to give Tio Fabian a lick of agreement, but the dog's ears perked up. Mijo looked down the street and took off running in the direction of the house.

Confused, Tio Fabian stood up quickly. He could do nothing but watch the dog run home.

“Dang . . .” Tio Fabian noticed Frankie, a neighborhood kid, on his bike. Frankie grinned then added, “He’s fast.”

“Yeah, Holmes, that’s what’s up,” answered Tio, not knowing what to say to the kid. Unnerved, Tio Fabian ran as best he could to the house, in no way able to catch up to Mijo.

* * *

Gina removed the screen from Matea’s bedroom window and tossed it aside. Matea never locked her bedroom window. Gina had snuck into Matea’s bedroom over and over in high school back when they were only friends, but Amparo had said Gina was a bad influence and couldn’t come over anymore.

Propping herself on the window Gina shook her head at the memory. Matea was the bad influence, but Amparo couldn’t see that. Why couldn’t anybody see how evil Matea was? Everyone was always on her side. When Matea walked into a room, everyone noticed. When Matea spoke, everyone around her listened. Even Brandon, who came off levelheaded and logical, fell for whatever Matea said. Gina had listened and had fallen for it for too long. That was over now. Gina wasn’t having it anymore. She was going to free herself from Matea.

Sliding the window open, Gina moved the curtain and saw Matea in bed. Was she sleeping? She couldn’t believe Matea didn’t wake up from her stupid nap to answer Gina’s texts and phone calls. Wasn’t Gina important enough for that?

She dropped from the windowsill into Matea’s bedroom and stood by the bed, hands clenched.

Gina hated Matea.

She loved Matea.

Gina could imagine herself snuggled up to Matea, lips on lips. She could also imagine her hands around Matea's throat.

Both emotions spun inside of Gina, making her brain go fuzzy while she felt like all the blood in her body pumped into her fists.

Gina kicked the bed and yelped to Matea’s sleeping form, “Hey! Get up!” Matea did not move.

Gina kicked the bed again, harder this time.

“I said, get up!”

Matea only moaned and rolled onto her back. Her eyes under her eyelids jerked back and forth but didn’t open.

Gina rolled her eyes. Matea was on something.

Gina shuddered with realization, knowing she should stop what she was about to do. Matea’s sleep wasn’t natural, and Gina had never known her to take anything to sleep like this.

She should do something to help Matea, wake her up, call an ambulance, but intense hatred for Matea guided her hands. Gina slapped Matea’s face hard.

Matea moaned, hands fluttering about her face. She tried to remove the tangled hair that covered her forehead. Matea finally opened her eyes to see Gina standing over her.

Before Matea could react, Gina sat on her chest and wrapped her hands around Matea’s throat.

The only thought in Gina’s brain was, mátala and be free.

Groggy from sleep, Matea tried to pull Gina’s hands from her throat.

“You don’t love me,” Gina said through clenched teeth. “You don’t love Brandon.” She shook Matea by the throat, shouting, “YOU ONLY LOVE YOURSELF!”

“Stop," Matea croaked, trying to focus her powers. “Stop!” she repeated, her voice a raspy whisper.

Matea let go of Gina’s hands and tried to push off, but Matea's hands kept slipping away. Gina felt slippery, so slick Matea was unable to grasp at any part of her. Matea’s hands were covered in something, but she had no time to look. Her life was receding second by second.

Matea’s world was going dark. Freckled stars danced in front of her eyes.

Gina’s face was full of nothing but hate for her. The Gina who was a walking, talking flirtatious smile was gone, and in her last moment, Matea wondered if she had done that.

Had her sins washed away the happy person Gina once was?

“I’m sorry” said Matea, not knowing if she had any voice at all. She felt herself fading into a puddle of the black goo that was locked inside of her. There was a scream, and Matea could at last gasp for air.

Almost hyperventilating, Matea sat up, hands at her throat and saw Mijo clamp his jaws on Gina’s throat

“NO!” rasped Matea, launching herself at Mijo, realizing the slippery substance was ash. On her and Gina.

“Look,” Matea said to Mijo, “Mira. ¿Ves la ceniza? No es ella la que hace esto.”

Mijo sniffed Matea’s ash-covered hands. Gina, who lay deathly still, never let her eyes leave Matea.

Gina tried to get up. Mijo responded with an endless growl and a show of teeth. Gina stayed still.

Matea looked at the ash on her hands and coating Gina. Among the ashes were bits of something burnt. Maybe plants?

“That bitch!” said Matea loudly and looked at Gina. Matea steadied herself and took Gina’s hand. “It wasn’t you. It was her. It’s her. Let it go.” Matea also realized she wasn’t cold anymore. A rush of heat surged through the black goo within her. The blackness gurgled as if it was being fed.

* * *

Gina began to cry and looked at Matea. Fear gripped Gina when she saw one of Matea’s eyes was now almost completely grey. Gina shoved Matea away, noticing, too, that the black mark on Matea’s arm was now past the elbow, the outline of bones as clear as a singular cloud in a blue sky.

* * *

Tio Fabian burst into the room, standing in the doorway with his hands curled into fist, raised like a boxer, ready for what he did not know.

“It’s okay Tio. She’s leaving. It was a misunderstanding. Nothing more than chismes,” Matea said.

Gina wiped tears from her eyes and noticed the ash on her hands.

Reaching for Gina, Matea said, “I’m sorry for what I am.”

Gina’s only response was to run from the house.

A minute went by as Tio Fabian, Matea, and Mijo did nothing but look at each other.

Finally, Tio Fabian spoke, “No shame in what you are, mija. Whatever the hell that is or whatever the hell this is . . .” Tio waved his hand around the room. “I will always love you even if you are a cabrona.”

Despite the pain in her throat and her dog trembling beside her, Matea looked up at her Tio and smiled.

* * *

Something had stirred in Matea when Gina had mentioned Brandon. Now, Matea had been calling Brandon for hours, calling him and taking stock of herself and him. She hadn’t thought of him in a week. Maybe two? Hadn’t called him. He hadn’t called her.

Something was wrong. Matea remembered their last night together. That night, there was so much tenderness. She and Brandon had snuggled, laughed, and when she’d fallen asleep, he touched her black mark.

She’d known this without watching him do it. He had touched her mark. He had felt the raw bone on her skin. He had noticed her eye.

He had run, scared of her, and she hadn’t even noticed until Gina tried to kill her. What the hell was wrong with her?

Frustrated, Matea sent a text. “Send me Esme’s address and I’ll leave you alone.”

Seconds later, Brandon responded with Esme’s address and nothing else. Matea put her phone down. That was it. His straightforward response was the scissor cut on the ribbon that was them.

She and Brandon were finished.

Brandon, Gina, and Matea had never really started.

The trio was a reality only in Matea’s brain. It was never going to be a real thing. She had aimed too high and didn’t bother to learn what Gina or Brandon wanted.

Matea told herself to never mind it all. After she handled Esme, she’d push the restart button on her life.

* * *

Esme opened the windows and door to her apartment. The bleach fumes were making her eyes water. She turned the fan on, stood by her door, and waited for the bleach she had spread all over her kitchen floor to dry.

She didn’t bother to explain herself to the neighbors. This wasn’t the type of place where an explanation for odd behavior was needed or expected. Everyone kept their mouths shut and stayed to themselves. But she kept watch just in case someone tried to look inside her studio and spotted the candles or the wax figure laying on a bed of burned herbs and ash. She didn’t need drama.

Once everything was dry and she could stand in the kitchen without her vision being blurred by tears Esme closed everything up and began setting up her next move.

In the middle of the kitchen floor, laying on a clean towel, she had a sharp knife that she had sanitized with fire. Next to it she had the left over tequila from the night she had called La Santa Muerte to her. There was also rubbing alcohol and more towels. On one of the towels lay a threaded needle that had been sanitized by fire. Lastly, her oxy was on the kitchen counter next to a glass of water.

The lump moved inside of her, pulling at her skin, anxious to be freed from Esme. She could sense its fear, and this gave Esme the minute of bravery she needed to start cutting. Esme had placed a mirror against the wall so she could watch what she was doing. She raised her arms, picking up the knife.

The lump was about 3 inches long. She only had to make a 3-inch cut 3. "Only 3. Only 3," she repeated to herself. Then she could reach in, pull it out, and kill it with the knife.

That was the plan. Calming her breath. Esme reached for a small chunk of wood she had found outside. She had boiled it clean and now she bit down on it, hoping it would keep her from screaming.

Esme cut the first half inch into her flesh. Blood poured from the cut faster than she’d expected. Light-headed, she bit down on the wood harder and forced herself not to faint.

Steadying her hand and mind, for the next 2 and a half inches, she told herself to do it quickly and without mercy. She ignored the blood flowing from the first cut. Knife at the ready, she pressed the blade against her flesh.

Someone began to kick at her front door.

“I know you are in there.”

Kick, kick, kick.

“Let me in bruja.”

Kick.

The smell of flowers and her blood filled Esme’s nose. The kicking at her door jammed her ears. Esme pressed a towel over her cut, trying to stop the blood. She didn’t bother to put on any clothes. She knew who it was. Let Matea see the blood. Let her know Esme wasn’t afraid.

When Esme pulled the door open, Matea almost fell into the apartment. She had been ready to charge. Esme quickly shut the door behind her not giving anyone a chance to see anything.

“¿Qué quieres? Bestie. I’m busy.”

Esme didn’t cover her bare chest. She didn’t wipe the blood that now trickled down her side, past her waist. Most of all, Esme didn’t give in to the sway she felt in her legs. Instead, Esme stood up straight, eyeing Matea with the impatience of a liquor store clerk working the night shift.

“What the hell?” asked Matea leaning towards Esme taking in everything she was seeing. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“You are trying to kill me. I’m trying to save myself,” Esme responded, feeling the lump push at the small opening trying to free itself.

She moved the towel for a second allowing Matea a glimpse of what was going on. Ignoring Matea’s gasp, Esme sighed, “What do you want now? Have you come to finish me or to cut out your pet?”

Matea ran her hands through her hair. Esme could see that Matea was shaking which made Esme laugh. She said to Matea, “Pareces una decoración de Halloween puta.”

Matea responded with, “I’ll help you.” Shoving the insult aside, she walked into Esme’s kitchen looking at the mirror, the towels, and lastly her gaze rested on the sewing needle already threaded.

As if Matea was nothing more than an afternoon shadow in the room, Esme sat on the floor in front of the mirror. She could feel the lump begin to tear at the cut. Esme had to act now. The ball of evil wanted its freedom or its mistress.

* * *

Matea watched Esme raise her knife with trembling hands preparing herself to cut again. Equally shaky, Matea got to her knees, taking the knife. She held Esme’s skin and cut, ignoring the sudden burst of mariachi music pounding her ears, the blood pouring from Esme’s wound, and Esme’s scream around the stick of wood. Matea cut, opening a passageway for whatever it was that writhed under Esme’s skin.

Without warning, Esme shoved Matea. Matea didn’t resist, instead sitting against a wall and watching as Esme pulled in vain at her wound. Esme clawed at the wound, ripping her flesh and swallowing her screams.

Matea scooted towards Esme and pushed her hands away. Holding her breath, Matea reached into the cut. Retching, Matea felt the surface of the slimy lump and its writhing contents. She cupped the fingers of both hands under the lump, wanting to yank it free and stomp it, but she also felt strangely protective of it.

Esme sobbed, loud, pleading sobs for Matea to take it out. Losing all hesitation, Matea pulled. The lump, covered by a membrane oozed bodily fluid through Matea’s fingers, the contents swirling in its sack. She dropped it to the floor and backed away from it but didn’t take her eyes from it. She wanted it to tear free from its membrane container, and she was terrified that it would.

Breathing hard, Esme leaned against the wall but shoved the lump towards Matea, snarkly saying “Bendiciónes por el nacimiento de tu hijo. ¿Debería cantarte las mañanitas?”

Matea then remembered that she hated Esme, but she was too busy watching the glob bounce and move between them to do anything about it. Whatever was inside of the glob desperately wanted out. Matea wanted to touch it but could not make herself do it.

Esme snatched the knife from the floor where Matea had dropped it. Esme aimed for the black mark on Matea’s skin. The knife didn’t cut but thudded on bone where there should have been skin.

“She’s already there. She’s already there,” Esme crowed, laughing and pointing at the black mark.

Furious, Matea stood, ready to reach for Esme’s throat as Gina had done to her, but Matea stopped when she saw the candles, the figurine, the burnt pieces of plant, and the smell of ash in the air. Beneath the figure, Matea could see a charred picture of herself and Gina.

“Sus enemigos son mis enemigos, hija mia. Hermosa mia,” La Santa murmured in Matea’s ear, finally silencing the march of mariachi music that had bashed at her skull.

Matea could no longer smell the blood from Esme’s wound. All that she smelled now was flowers. Shaking her head, Matea felt no fear. She had wondered when La Santa would show up. She was now with them both, like an unpopular Tia at a family event.

Matea looked at Esme, noticing her missing finger and toe. She watched the sack on the ground tumble about, something inside pushing at the membrane. It would burst at any minute, and she had a sick feeling she knew what was in it.

Esme stood, holding her side, knife swaying in her hand as if she was strong enough to kill Matea.

Matea took the wax figurine and rubbed it in Esme’s blood, which was now everywhere, including on Matea. She took off her t-shirt wrapped the wax figure in it. Matea stopped for a second. She needed to call 911. She needed to call for help.

She could clearly see La Santa Muerte hovering next to her, reaching her hands for Matea like a mother does for her child. Like a spoiled child she ignored La Santa's pleas for an embrace. She had to leave now.

Matea shoved Esme to the floor, and Esme almost landed on the pulsing sac. She grabbed the knife from Esme’s hand and brought it to Esme’s throat. “Nunca mas. This thing between us ends today.”

Matea straightened and walked out the door, shirtless, covered in blood, and holding a bloody knife. Dashing down the stairs, Matea did not care that she almost ran into an older women and a young girl who seemed to be headed toward Esme’s apartment.

The girl said, “WTF?” when she saw Matea. The old woman did nothing but smirk and quicken her steps.

* * *

Esme lay on the bloody floor. She could sense the sac scoot its way towards her. Cursing Matea for taking her knife, she realized she’d have to rip the sack open with her bare hands to kill its contents, but she was too dizzy from blood loss for that right now.

She heard her front door open again, but Esme didn’t bother asking who it was. She assumed Matea decided to kill her after all and had returned. Esme made no effort to move.

The face of an older women looked down at her. Lauren’s face came up next to the woman. They both looked at each other, then at Esme, who lifted a finger to point at the old woman and asked. “¿Quién eres?”

The woman lifting her eyebrows at Lauren who was calmly talking into a cell phone. With a smile, the old woman looked back at Esme and answered, “Soy La Suegra. Deberías conocerme. Soy famosa.”

The old woman laughed, stepping aside so Lauren could work on Esme’s wound.

* * *

Through the kitchen window, Amparo saw her mother faint in the backyard. The old woman had been tending to her plants, and she held one of the plants in her arms when she fell. The plant flew from her hands, striking the ground and ending up in pieces.

Amparo stood frozen in place, coffee cup in hand, unable to move forward but knowing that she should, she really should.

For a few moments, Amparo couldn’t believe what she had seen. Was Oralia up to her tricks again? Amparo counted seconds in her head. At 10 seconds, when Oralia didn’t move at all, Amparo’s feet unstuck themselves from the kitchen floor.  Thinking about the moment her mother fainted, Amparo felt ice crawl up the back of her legs. Her mother’s face right before she fell had a look of recognition of something right in front of her. Amparo was sure that something had reached for Oralia, and now she wondered if it got to her.

Amparo knelt in the backyard, her fingers pressed to her mom’s throat. There was a pulse. She gently shook her mother, no response.

Amparo took her phone out and started to dial 911 when she caught sight of the broken plant pot her mother had been holding. She saw a marble in the dirt, one much larger than a usual marble. Amparo grabbed a stick and moved the dirt around until she saw it. A toe. A toe that looked freshly cut, but Amparo knew it wasn’t. The dirt, the care her mother took of the plant, the large marble, all had kept the toe fresh as if it were still attached to a living foot.

Feeling whiskers against her arm, Amparo looked at Mijo, who sniffed the air, grumbling, looking at the toe, looking at Amparo.

“Will you get rid of it?” she asked Mijo. This dog, after all, was not a dog. What he was Amparo wasn’t sure.

Despite her mother lying immobile but breathing on the ground, despite the broken plant pot with a human toe in it, Amparo couldn’t help but laugh at the look of disgust on Mijo’s face.

Before a nosy neighbor could catch a glimpse of what was going on, Amparo rushed back into the house, snatched a napkin from a kitchen drawer, and sped back outside. After wrapping the toe in the napkin, Amparo put that in front of Mijo, who finally took it and trotted off past the back gate to wherever it was he went.

* * *

Gina smiled at the Air Force recruiter as she signed her name over and over again on endless documents. She had been smiling since she had walked in. Gina was feeling like Gina again.

The racing thoughts about Matea had vanished. The desire to not love Matea but consume her was gone. Gina knew it was over for her but not for Matea or Brandon. Luckily, she’d soon be too far away to care.

* * *

Food delivery bag on his shoulder, Brandon knocked on the front door of the suburban home on West Avenue in Palmdale. In the front yard was a large metal statue of a bull. Brandon understood that the bull was either a warning or advertisement for fun. He wasn't sure which, but life had taught him to take everything as a warning.

On the second knock, a lanky man opened the door. He scooted a dog away from Brandon, quickly took the paper bag from Brandon's hand said an emotionless, “Thanks, man.” He shut the door without a second glance in Brandon’s direction.

Walking back to his car, Brandon checked the time. No need to rush. He was his own boss now.

* * *

Matea was thankful for an empty house. Her mother, grandmother, Tio Fabian, and even Mijo were gone. If she hadn’t been so distracted by the need to clean herself up, she’d have taken notice of how weird that was. Someone was always home.

But Matea didn’t think about that. She needed to clean up. Her clothes, skin, and hair were crusted with Esme’s blood. All Matea had on her mind was erasing the evidence. She stripped off her clothes in front of the washing machine, but Matea listened intently and peeked down the hallway. She was sure that at any moment her grandmother Oralia would come around the corner.

She added too much detergent to the load hoping the overload of heavily perfumed detergent would hide the smell of blood from Mijo’s nose. Rodent-like, Matea darted to the bathroom to shower. She’d use every drop of hot water in the house and scrub herself clean, then she’d wait for her family, especially her grandmother, to come home.

Matea knew the old woman had put something in that tea. She had drugged Matea, but why? Oralia was always sketchy but never like that, never like that.

Back in her bedroom, Matea dropped her towel on the floor and found her bathrobe. Running her arms into the sleeves of her robe, Matea noticed a letter on the dresser. Tieing her robe around herself, she stared at the letter as if it was a roach that would run off at any moment. Matea sniffed the air. There was no smell of flowers. She reached for it slowly not really knowing what to expect.

Matea read La Dona Lupe’s shaky handwriting.

“Cuando pasa al otro ojo, la posesión tiene raíces.”

Signed at the bottom was a simple, “Lupe.”

Holding the note to her face Matea allowed tears to fall. She did not deserve the care this old woman took of her.

Matea folded the note and tucked it away in a secret slot of her backpack. Opening her bedroom door, Matea listened again. There were no sounds in the house. She was still alone.

Matea stared at herself in her bedroom mirror. The black mark was no longer a mark or a stain. It had taken over most of her arm with spider-web thin lines stretching out to her chest and neck. She could clearly see the outline of bones in the inky black stain. The black mark was like a rash making its way all over her, owning her, possessing her. Slowly she was being changed to bone.

Leaning closer to the mirror, Matea looked at her eyes...

“When it goes to the other eye, the possession has roots,” Matea repeated Dona Lupe’s message in English, but only in a soft whisper, hoping La Santa did not catch the warning. Her left eye still had plenty of brown left. The colorless gray had not jumped over to her right eye yet.

Yet, thought Matea.

Yet.

Why did that word feel like a knife at her throat?

END SINNER BOOK 1

Sneak Peak of Vessel Book 2

Please enjoy this sneak peak of Vessel, Book 2 in the Santa Muerte series.

Socorro

16 years old

Roberto 1 month

“Tenga miedo,” Socorro had reminded herself. She had told herself this ever since her feet left home. She had repeated her mantra of not being afraid all day yesterday, all night, and back into day. Socorro had the habit of not being afraid. According to her mother, she was “mula.” A donkey-headed stubborn girl who was too brave about everything.

Her mother had told her that her mula habits of not listening and not being afraid would one day bring her misfortune. When nagging her, Soc mother often added that she hoped to not live to see misfortune fall on her only child. Her wish was granted.

“Tenga miedo a la vida por que un dia te vay a morder.” That was the last thing her mother had told her before Socorro’s life had begun to unravel from who she once was to who she would be.

She was sixteen when her mother died, leaving Socorro with baby in belly, no other family to lean on and a boyfriend in the United States. She was alone to fight the world in San Felipe, Mexico.

To be afraid or even anxious never entered her thoughts as she stood alone in their simple house watching her mother’s body being taken away. Socorro knew the rent was due. There was little food in the house. She had no money to bury her mother.

Yet, Socorro stood proud as they carried her mother away. She did not feel afraid even though she knew she should.

Tonight, with the full moon as a witness Socorro squatted next to a tree in Campo, California. She was miles away from her home in San Felipe, Mexico, and in America. Illegally in America. Her very act of breathing on this land was a crime.

Socorro calmly waited to feel the tiny in and out movements of her baby breathing. She had wrapped Roberto tightly against her in a rebozo. Only daring to unwrap him and feed him three times since she started the trip through the mountains from Mexico to California. She had starved her son for a bit, but he had never complained.

Looking up at the sky, Soccoro could only guess at the time since she had left San Felipe from the rise of the sun and moon. Socorro knew it was time to feed Roberto by the feel of her too full breasts. Her breasts ached, making Socorro feel like one of the cows on her neighbor’s land that needed milking but had lazy owners.

Taking off her jacket and backpack Socorro made a little nest on the ground to place Roberto in. She untied the shawl and gently lifted her son away from her. The infant was slick with sweat. Wet to the touch but content.

He opened his eyes when she pulled him away. Roberto had a way of looking at her that made her feel seen. Since the day he was born Roberto would focus his big brown eyes on Socorro and she could not help but feel that they were not only of the same mind but of the same soul. It was as if she was split into two when she birthed him, happily handing away half of herself to Roberto.

Rubbing Roberto’s legs and feet Socorro smiled at her baby. He was such a good baby. Quick to drink from Socorro’s breast, easy to soothe, only whimpers, no cries.

Quickly changing his diaper Socorro put on the last clean onesie she had for him. Then brought him to her breast.

“Tenga meido.” She said to the moon.

Socorro knew the moon was not listening to her. She was nothing but a girl in a foreign country with nothing but a baby and a few diapers left. Why would the moon heed a warning she herself did not believe? But she had no one else to talk to.

No one left except her and her baby.

As Roberto fed, Socorro couldn’t help but feel a ball in her throat. A knot of tiredness mixed with anxiety clogged her airway.

What if Roberto’s dad did not do as she asked? What if he left her unclaimed, alone, with nothing but her ill-advised bravery to get her through the night?

The sound of Roberto happily sucking away relaxed Socorro enough for her to sit instead of squat. Squatting was better in case she needed to run away, but her legs had nothing left to give her.

She would not close her eyes no matter how much exhaustion nipped at her. Eyes wide, Socorro looked around, breathing in the desert air. The smell of the warm ocean breezes had left her nostrils back in San Felipe. Now, she breathed in dust and moonlight.

Head bobbing with impending sleep the sound of a yip took Socorro by surprise and backhanded her awake. The racket of the one loud yip was like lightning in her veins interrupting the gleeful noise of Roberto drinking her milk.

Socorro was fast to unlatch her infant from her breast. Roberto began to whimper. Socorro was quick to stand with her baby, whispering “eres bravo” into his mass of curly black hair.

Scanning the wasteland before her, Socorro spotted a nearby truck. The truck was rusted over with most of the windows being broken. It was better than nothing at all.

The junk truck would be enough to hide her and Roberto until his father came for them. If he came for them.

Gathering her belongings Socorro held Roberto to her other breast almost running to the old truck. She yanked at the truck doors as the yelp of yips echoed in the darkness of the abandoned gas station she was hiding behind.

The doors on the truck were rusted shut. The yips in the distance grew louder as the excitement of a kill filled the coyote's noses.

Pulling Roberto off her breast again Socorro laid him down on the bed of the truck. She pulled herself into the bed of the truck, kicking the back window completely broken. Quickly Socorro picked up Roberto and began to wrap him in her jacket.

Socorro's ears caught the shuffle of paws nearby. She imagined a pack of coyotes stalking her, feeling out the situation, noting in their feral minds the presence of a baby. Roberto was a weak link to the coyotes. He was nothing more than a vulnerable chunk of meat for their gnashing.

She placed Roberto in the truck then carefully slid herself in as well. Roberto began to whimper. Soon he would cry. Soon he’d scream. A shrill loud baby scream that would not only fuel the want of a feeding frenzy from the coyotes but maybe catch the attention of police.

Snatching at her baby as she had never done before Socorro shoved his mouth to her breast desperately wanting to muffle whatever sound was about to erupt from him.

Calming herself Socorro listened to the sound of paws scratching the truck door. She took a deep breath in at the feel of the truck bumping while the coyotes pushed themselves into the truck desperate to unlock the box and retrieve their prize.

Socorro felt the blood trickle after she was aware of the cut. The slice on her leg felt like a flap. As if someone had opened a cupboard and left the door hanging by its hinges. She kept Roberto to her breast.

Socorro knew that if at any time she should be afraid it should be now. Right now was the time for fear. Right now was not the time to be brave.

The whimper of her baby pulled Socorro’s ears away from the noise of door scratches and whimpers. Looking down to check on her baby Socorro saw that Roberto was watching his mother with such intent that she knew now was not the time to show her baby fear.  She kissed the top of his head.

“Que haremos?” Socorro asked of Roberto as the truck bumped harder and harder. The coyotes were getting desperate. Luckily, they weren’t smart enough to jump on the bed of the truck.

Looking up at the moon Socorro blinked back tears. She was utterly blank as to what to do to help herself and to help her child.

Bringing Roberto closer to her Socorro kissed his curly black hair that was wet with sweat. Such a wonderful baby. He didn’t deserve a mother so unprepared and too brave to have any sense at all.

* * *

Lauren handed Esme a cup of coffee with a smile on her face. Esme nodded in thanks, refocusing on Socorro, who was now known and only called Suegra by all.

“Pues, y que paso?” asked Esme ashamed of how interested she was in the old woman’s stories. All immigrants had their stories. Suegra was no different. Yet, Esme felt an itch to know.

“An old man drove up next to the truck. He was driving. His wife an old lady was in the bed of the truck with a gun shooting the coyotes. It was like something from a movie. She was in a vata, hardly any hair on her head but she could shoot a gun straight like a cowboy.” Suegra laughed slapping her knee and spilling her coffee.

Esme’s face puckered. “Cierto?” Esme asked not knowing enough then to never question if Suegra’s words were true.

“Si,” Suegra responded with a quick tongue not showing Esme her horns just yet. Suegra relaxed looked over at Lauren with a gentle glare and went on.  “This old man had cameras all over his property to catch wet backs like me and report them to la migra. The old lady saw that I had a baby. She convinced the old man to help me. They didn’t call immigration on me. Instead, they took care of me for a while.”

“Y what of Roberto’s dad?” Esme asked not noticing that Lauren had placed a hand on her back. A casual gesture that Esme didn’t cue as “shut up.” She was still too new in Suegra’s world to know when to keep her mouth shut very tightly.

Suegra stood up, giving Esme a pat on the arm she answered, “No vale la pena hablar de ese tipo.” Lauren put her hand at the back of Esme’s neck as a distraction so that as Suegra left the room Esme did not stick her foot in her mouth with more questions.

Palmdale California

Matea

Matea wanted to toss her phone out her car window. She had heard the hospital’s theme song three times in a row while on hold for the ER. The fact that they tried to make their house of sickness seem jolly was insulting to the ill.

“Just go in chicken shit,” Matea told herself. How long had she been in the parking lot of the hospital? Calling the ER hotline over and over as her mother, grandmother, and Tio Fabian waited for her presence inside?

An hour ago, Tio Fabian had called her, giving her little information other than that Oralia was in the ER and things didn’t look good. Tio Fabian’s message was hurried as if he was running scared and maybe emotionally, he was.

Still in her car staring at the Palmdale Regional Medical Center sign Matea grabbed her purse in frustration with herself. Why was the thought of going into the hospital so bad? From the outside, the hospital looked cochino. As if every wall was covered in the waste of thousands of sickly people.

“Damn, mija, you looking . . . different.” Matea knew the voice before she saw the face. It could be none other than Raul.  Raul was a high school friend Matea quickly shed after they had graduated. Raul had a way of blurting out whatever was on his mind whenever he wanted with little regard for anything or anyone around him.

Raul ’s mouth was hilarious when Matea was young, but as she had aged her tolerance for mindless chatter had shrunk. Any warm feelings she had for Raul withdrew into withered fragility at best.

The pop of Raul ’s voice finally had Matea look up while walking. She forced herself to stop, focus on Raul, and nod. Raul was wearing scrubs. He was leaner, more muscular, and stood at the ER’s exit, his brows knotted together.

Matea smiled; he’s cleaned up, she thought. Raul the annoying mouth from high school was now a handsome man with probably the same annoying mouth on him.

Raul stood with his body slightly pushed forward on the left. Cholo ran in Raul ’s bloodline, there was no fixing that stance.

“Well, well. You in scrubs and everything. Looking kind of legit.” Matea gave Raul a little smile.

“Shit,” smiled Raul in return “I am legit. I’m an RN, mija. Your boy is a good RN. Shit, some days I’m fantastic.” The knotted brows of concern relaxed. Matea could see the old Raul nicknamed “Clowny” in high school in the way his eyes danced.

Another look at good-looking Raul standing in hospital scrubs put Matea down a notch. She swallowed her venom. Raul was a nurse? How long had she been out of high school? Years suddenly felt like paper falling to the floor. How many years had she wasted?

Raul went on. He was never one to shut up. “I’ve got skills. Who you think been watching your abuela?” Raul stood straight, broad-shouldered “That’s right, me carbrona, me.” He gave himself a playful chest smack then handed Matea a wink. She felt her chest flutter a bit, but that only made her want to slap herself.

Matea stared at Raul. The black inky goo inside her boiled. Her light was nowhere to be found. She needed to calm herself before a rumba of rattlers gathered around the hospital.

“I came out for some air. I’ll take you in.” Raul reached for Matea’s hand. She surprised herself by taking it. Raul ’s hand was strong, solid, and much to Matea’s surprise, comforting.

Raul pulled her along the entrance, dragged her through a hallway to her grandmother’s bedside. She felt like Mijo whenever Matea took him to the vet. Mijo always knew where they were going and did not want to go.

Raul walked through the halls calling out to all who walked past him. “What’s up Sanchez. Looking good today, Martha.”

Matea tried to focus on the feel of his hand and not the rapid movement of his mouth. She was remembering why she never spent much time around Raul. He never shut up.

Stopping short right in front of a door Raul turned around towards Matea. He had a face fill to the brim with adult seriousness.

“Your abuela is unresponsive. She fainted and hasn’t woken up. We are running some tests. Don’t freak out until we have some answers, okay. ‘Cause your Tio is a hot mess, and your mom looks like she’s feeling guilty of something.”

Letting go of Raul ’s hand Matea gave Raul a hard nod and took a step forward.

Raul stepped aside not following Matea into the room, at least there was that. She’d have some privacy to deal with them all.

* * *

Matea rested her head against the back of the chair in her grandmother’s ER room. Minutes became hours, hours that Matea was sure might become days.

Oralia had not woken up. According to Amparo, she had fainted in the backyard. There was more to that story. Matea could see it in the way Amparo dragged her words from her mouth. All tests had come back with nothing abnormal. Everything as far as the doctors were concerned looked fine, but Oralia slept on.

“Despierta, Sleeping Beauty.” Matea poked at her grandmother’s side. In this moment she felt nothing but unease for Oralia. Matea stared down at Oralia’s hands; those hands had snuck something in the tea that drugged her. Those hands purposedly put Matea out.

Amparo left for home to eat and rest, taking Tio Fabian with her. Her mother skillfully put Matea in charge of Oralia for the next unknown number of hours.

Leaning back in the chair Matea thought about her mother’s face. The slight sag at her chin. The hollow look to her eyes. Was Matea sucking the life from her mother or was it having Oralia here?

It was both. Matea knew this. Knew it so much it did nothing but encourage the tears that brimmed her eyes. She felt hopelessly lost when it came to Amparo, such a different person from Matea. They did not mix. Matea and Amparo were nothing but oil of a daughter and water of a mother.

“Here,” Matea’s eyes flashed open. Raul had silently come into the room. He stood by her chair and handed her a tall can of something green, something that she knew would give her the shakes, but she’d drink it anyway.

“Gracias, compa.” Matea’s thank you was in a flat inflected tone. Raul smiled at her, but Matea could tell he was studying her, taking her in.

“What’s up with the eye and the sleeve tattoo? You were always the quiet one. The daydreamer with your head . . .” Raul pointed up and all-around. “. . . everywhere. Now what?”

Matea felt a sharp pinch of annoyance. Raul ’s mouth knew no boundaries. She didn’t answer but popped the lid off the drink Raul had brought her. It tasted of lime. The flavor was a nice choice for her.

“I’m not changing anything. This is happening by itself. The black sinner heart I have is leaking out of my brain and into my eyeballs.” She drank again. Raul had no way to understand any of her truth.

Matea had no way of telling him that La Santa Muerte was polluting her. The bones etched into the black birthmark that grew and grew by the day were La Santa’s doing. The change of eye color was the calibrator of how much of her La Santa Muerte owned.

“Está bien mujer no me digas nada.” Raul responded, his feelings clearly hurt. Matea remembered that Raul expected the world to be as open a book as he. He always got his feelings hurt when it didn’t work that way.

Matea smiled at him while she held her breath. If she breathed tears would start to fall. She couldn’t let that happen in front of anyone.

Restless for Raul to leave the room, Matea finally took a breath in, careful not to meet eyes with him, thinking, thinking of what to say to this old friend to get him to go away and stop being interested in becoming her savior, friend, boyfriend. She didn’t know what Raul was after.

The unease of not knowing where she stood with Raul  triggered the sound of rattlers. Her rattlesnakes as alert to her emotions as Mijo.

“Listen, I just need some time . . .” Matea started to try and explain herself to Raul but was interrupted by the sound of beeps wailing down the hallway. Raul ran from her grandmother’s room, and Matea relaxed muscles that had tensed in his presence. She tried in vain to mask the anxiety now cooking inside of her.

Was she becoming a danger to others? Dangerous in thought? Dangerous in emotion? If she had let her discomfort with Raul rise, would her rattlesnakes come to her call?

There was now a chorus of beeps echoing down the hospital hallway. Matea stood at the sound of the staff yelling.

“MY PATIENT IS CODING.”

“I NEED HELP. CODE BLUE. CODE BLUE.”

“CODE BLUE IN THE ER. CODE BLUE IN THE ER.”

Raul ’s voice mixed with the others.

Looking back at her grandmother, Matea marveled that the nosy old lady could sleep through so much commotion. She shook her head at the sight of her grandmother. She wouldn’t put it past the viejita to be a drama queen in the midst of someone else’s crisis.

Matea stood in the doorway of her grandmother’s room and watched the staff run from room to room, beeping alarms still echoing in the ER hallway. Chaos in real-time. Feeling something tightening around one of her ankles, Matea looked down to see a rattler wanting her attention.

“Que paso?” Matea offhandedly asked the snake. She thought that she should respect them more, treat her snakes with more affection like the love she gave Mijo. Something about those thoughts made Matea shift her feet with unease, but she shoved it aside.

The snake uncoiled from her ankle enough to slither its head into the hallway. She felt it shiver. The rattlesnake looked at her, down the hall, back at her, then it bowed its head. The snake’s rattle was on mute. Not a sound from it.

With the bow of the rattlesnake's head came a familiar floral smell. The disinfectant smell of the hospital was replaced by the deep aroma of flowers. Matea knew that the floral scent was a fire alarm warning Matea of danger headed her way. The smell of La Santa in her nostrils, Matea willed fear to simmer inside of her, but her fear would not be bothered.

At one end of the hallway, a skeletal Mariachi player stood holding his trumpet at the ready. None of the staff took notice of the Mariachi and Matea knew exactly why.

La Santa Muerte was the drama queen. She often chose to make grand entrances for those who could see her. La Santa enjoyed making the easy heavy and cumbersome for her own enjoyment.

This little show was a warning to Matea to not think lightly of a being who was the overseer of death.

* * *

Hovering at the entrance to the ER, La Santa absorbed the feel of lives exhausted with illness in the Palmdale emergency room. La Santa Muerte felt no qualms about her next moves. Life, after all, was hers to take.

Watching the humans run back and forth among the weak humans tickled La Santissma. Humans had so much regard for life even when many of those lives were not worth living.

In Room 4 lay Pablo. La Santa breathed him in. She was tempted to discover everything this man was about. Sometimes she lingered before deaths. The intensity of a life about to end was something that tickled her body of bones. Today she wouldn’t linger. She did not want to interrupt the steady pace of the show she put on for Matea.

Cupping Pablo’s chin La Santa Muerte lightly touched his forehead with her other skeletal hand. She slid her boney fingertip across Pablo’s forehead watching his eyes flutter. La Santa Muerte felt his body quake and his heart stop. The nurses in the room ran like rats to a feast from machine to machine attempting to save Pablo. They did their best to save a man that could not be saved. There was no medicine that could slip past La Santa Muerte’s deathly grasp.

Done with Pablo, La Santissma reached a second room. She had noticed Matea watching her from the doorway of her grandmother’s room. Anger bubbled in La Santa. She felt no fear from Matea.

In Room 7 lay Trevor, hardly a man. She floated above him. His eyes were open. Interested, La Santa Muerte allowed Trevor to see her. With Trevor's eyes on her he did not squirm or scream. Instead, Trevor inhaled the smell of flowers, raised his hand to hers, he pleaded for mercy from her. Mercy not to live but to be taken. La Santa Muerte granted his wish.

She moved on.

* * *

Matea stood in the doorway to her grandmother’s room and watched the nurses run from room to room. Two people had died within seconds of each other, but that hadn’t stopped them from trying to help others. She wished she could tell the nurses to stop trying, that nothing could save these people when death herself wandered the halls.

Matea knew these deaths were not natural; they were a byproduct of La Santa Muerte paying Oralia a visit.

Looking back at her grandmother, Matea shrugged. Maybe La Santa would pay her a visit.

“Ya viene en tu camino. Será mejor que te levantes,” Matea said, her obnoxious words directed toward her grandmother’s bed. Her grandmother slept while death wiggled its way towards them both. This was unlike Oralia. Her grandmother lived life with puños arriba.

The rattlesnake at Matea’s feet now slithered its way up her leg. She grabbed the snake and stuck it inside her hoodie pocket, fearful that La Santa Muerte would see it.

Matea saw Raul give her a quick look as he ran into a different room with two other nurses. There was fear in his eyes. Shouldn’t she be afraid? Why wasn’t she? Instead of feeling fear Matea wondered if one day she could kill as La Santa did.

* * *

The patient in room 9 was the type of person La Santa could sink her teeth into. Kelsey was frail from a lifetime of drug abuse and in the ER because of her latest overdose. Her body, one abused first by Kelsey’s mother then by Kelsey herself, was one that would be blessed by death. La Santa leaned over Kelsey’s bed but smelled Matea on Raul, who frantically tried to figure out why his patient was dying.

La Santa wrapped her skeletal hand around Raul’s wrist, allowing for him to hear and see her for a few seconds.

“Es mia,” was all Santissma said before pulling Kelsey from her body and sending her beyond La Santa Muerte’s domain.

* * *

Raul gawked at the vision and feel of La Santa Muerte before him. He felt each curve of the bones of her hands wrapped around his wrist. The bones felt uncooked, as if fresh off the butcher block. A freezing sensation ran up his spine and bit at his ears.

Raul heard La Santa Muerte claim the body. That she didn’t claim his body was only a courtesy to Raul. Raul knew that Saint Death owned all.

* * *

Holding Raul ’s wrist a second longer than she should, La Santa took a lingering feel of Raul. She allowed herself to engulf him and read his past in milliseconds. The smell of flowers drenched Raul, almost drowning him.

La Santa Muerte let go of Raul. She had learned all she needed to know. Raul would be important to Matea. This man would mean something to her. La Santa Muerte gave a stabbing smile, intrigued as to what that would be.

Turning, La Santissma headed to Matea, who still stood at the door to her grandmother's room, her face stuck on serious. She awaited La Santa Muerte with the impatience of a wife upset with her husband.

With the rattler tucked into the pocket of her hoodie, Matea watched La Santa glide to her, swaying a bit to the racket of a mariachi trumpet. The skeleton was dressed in a beautiful traditional Mexican dress, a crown of red roses upon a bed of thick black hair. La Santa Muerte was beautiful in the most awful of ways. Matea could not stop herself from feeling impressed by how beautiful La Flaca could be.

“Entonces?” said Matea without a quiver on her lips to La Santa Muerte, who now stood by her grandmother’s bedside.

“Hija mia...” came the smooth words of La Santa sounding like a mother trying to placate a troubled child.

“None of that shit,” answered Matea, her bravery foolishly falling from her lips. A spark of her light bubbled in her throat.

Amused by Matea’s anger, La Santa Muerte answered, “Nina mia.” Matea was a fine vessel, and La Santissma looked forward to inhabiting such a body.

With a casual flick of La Santa’s hands, Oralia’s opened her eyes. Now awake, Matea’s grandmother's eyes clung to La Santa Muerte with a look of adoration, glory, and gratitude. Matea mentally noted that her grandmother could see La Santa as well and she did.

“Gracias. Santa. Gracias.” Oralia began to grovel.

Matea looked at her grandmother, angry with her for the first time in her lifetime. Matea was angry Oralia had drugged her, but it was also something more, another layer of anger, as if her anger was buried under piles of dirt and she had just unearthed it.

Oralia tried to sit up and slip from the bed, to kneel at the feet of her Saint, to kiss the boney hands and praise La Santa for waking her up and keeping breath in her lungs.

Matea did not move to help her grandmother. Instead, she watched La Santa’s hands of bone hold Oralia’s hand in what seemed like a loving grasp.

Watching Oralia and La Santa Muerte together, Matea wanted to reach for La Santa, wondering if she could sip from her power if they touched. If she touched La Santa Muerte could the bruja in her peel away an answer or gain more power?

Her hand had barely reached out when Matea was interrupted by the sudden clanging of beads and the welcoming feel of the desert sun on her skin. The beads worked at a beat so fierce Matea stepped back, remembering herself. Remembering the Yaqui’s.

The room door flung open; Raul eyes, wide as an owl, looked directly at Matea.

“I heard something loud,” he said, a near shout. The panic of his patient’s deaths beat in his chest and accelerated his breathing. Raul ’s eyes were still wet with tears for the lost lives of his patients.

“She’s awake,” responded Matea, giving a jazz hands hooray to Raul who blinked, looked at Oralia, then back at Matea.

There, thought Matea watching Raul. Right then in that second, she knew Raul witnessed something in her, in that room, or in her grandmother. There was a stain of fear on him that she'd never seen before. She did not know for sure but there was a look into Raul's expression of someone who now knew something to be true that he thought couldn’t be possible.

Mexicali Rose

Sitting at her kitchen table Amparo stared at the car keys she hadn’t put away. The keys sat in the palm of her hand, resting at the ready for whatever it was she would do. Would she put the keys away? Would she return to the car and drive until she was completely lost, couldn’t find her way home, and finally free?

Free to what? That’s where Amparo got stuck. She did not want to be free of her daughter. She wanted Fabian close to her. Freeing herself would not be a sin she’d commit. Amparo wanted to be free of Oralia, but that was her dirty little secret.

This was something she couldn’t say out loud not even to herself. The moments she’d hesitated before going out to see her mother after she had fainted were the tell. Amparo’s very being held her back, pulling her somewhere else.

For that hesitation, for that inner resistance to go to her mother, Amparo felt a shame that weighed her down, wouldn’t allow her to take the keys out to the car and get far, far away from wherever Oralia would be.

She wouldn’t do that. How could she leave Matea with such a burden? How could she leave Fabian alone? He might lose his eyesight completely, then what?

Amparo dropped the car keys in her purse. She wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

“Hey, Matea texted. She woke up. Get some sleep, okay?” Fabian had stuck his head into the kitchen. His eyes were rimmed with red. Tears clung to his lashes. He loved Oralia.

Shouldn’t she be crying like that, Amparo thought.

“Si pues,” answered Amparo knowing nothing else to say. Her head felt empty. Her heart felt too full as if it had overeaten and would now explode. Oralia was awake. This should be good news to her ears, but the news fell flat. There was no joy in knowing her mother was awake. She had felt no grief when she was out. The only thing Amparo felt was an anvil of guilt tied firmly to her head.

Amparo closed her eyes. She should be a better daughter, the kind of daughter who wants to be at their mother’s side, the kind of daughter who is filled with love and cherishes her mother.

Amparo couldn’t be that daughter. She didn’t feel those things. What she wanted was emancipation from Oralia, and that was something she could never say out loud.

* * *

“Mis rosas son las más bonitas de la ciudad,” Oralia would preen to a neighbor. She loved to show off her rose bushes. They sat like proud ladies beside the entranceway of Oralia’s home. Growing and keeping roses healthy in the dusty heat of Mexicali, Mexico, was not easy.

Oralia felt prideful when people mentioned her roses along with her ability to keep them so lush in an unforgivingly harsh desert town. She had always wished she could have made Amparo grow lush like her roses, but Oralia excelled at flowers, not daughters.

The swipe of La Santa Muerte’s fingers had brought Oralia back to life, but the smell of roses that traveled up her nose was what shoved her awake. La Santa Muerte had always smelled of roses to Oralia.

After opening her eyes at the hospital, the first thing Oralia did was take a deep breath so she could take in every bit of rose aroma from La Santissma that she could. Oralia wished she could rub the rose petal scent on her hand and lick it off with her tongue.

Roses were La Santa’s perfume. With her eyes open, Oralia could see only a shadow of La Santa Muerte, but the smell was distinct. The smell of roses was manna to Oralia’s soul.

The faint touch of cold bones on her warm hands comforted Oralia in the cold hospital room. La Santa Muerte was there with her and Matea. Oralia glanced at Matea. Or was La Santissima there because of Matea?

Born on Lady Death’s altar, Matea was Oralia’s living tithe to La Santa Muerte. She was all that Oralia had, and she gave that to her saint. At the time and even now, Oralia was grateful to give her granddaughter to La Santa Muerte, thankful to be able to show her love with flesh of her flesh.

What Oralia had done was a blessing for her granddaughter. To belong to something as wonderful and powerful as death itself was the greatest gift she could have given her.

Matea was Oralia’s best rose.

* * *

Raul had watched his Abuela sing to her cat for at least three minutes. The cat was busy meowing, and his Abuela was busy singing La Llorona back to it. Abuela hadn’t noticed him yet.

He wasn’t sure why he was there, but Raul could think of nothing to do but stand near the back fence listening to the meowing and the singing.

Abuela finally picked up her cat intending, Raul was sure, to take it inside with her and spoil it with tuna. She looked toward him, a large grin appearing on her face when she spotted him. Abuela did an old lady scurry towards him, talking to her cat Felix the whole time.

“Oh Felix, aqui estay Memo.”

Raul smiled at the nickname his Abuela had given him. Memo was short for Guillermo, his legal name. She refused to use Raul, the name his father had given him.

Her fat arms gently placed Felix on the fence as she opened the gate to her garden, hurrying to hug Raul.

Wrapped in her warmth, Raul held in the emotional earthquake that was threatening to bring him to his knees. He sucked in the tears that he wanted to shed for his patients. His masculine pride swallowed the fear that now sat in his belly after seeing what he thought was La Santa Muerte.

Feeling the soft pats from his Abuela’s hands on his back, Raul felt a tiny bit stronger and yet frail. These were the familiar pats she’d given him when he was a child, upset that his mother had gone away again.

She carefully took his hand, kissed it, then looked at him with a tut tut on her lips. His Abuela kissed him on the cheek and said, “Una sopita y a la cama por un largo tiempo.” She pulled him towards her house. Raul didn’t bother to tell her that he didn’t live there. It didn’t matter where he lived, where his Abuela lived was always the safest place to be.

Right now, Raul needed to feel safe.

* * *

Brandon scratched at his left shoulder. He’d been on the streets most of the day making deliveries. The streets made him feel dirty. One hour on the streets felt like twelve to Brandon. He did his best to ignore the feeling of being dirty while out in the world. A child of a hoarder, he was well educated in filth and wanted no part of it.

Last week as he’d made deliveries, Brandon took quick trips back to his apartment to shower. He couldn’t ignore the bump of dust kicked up under his heels, the rank apartments he sometimes delivered to; the many hands he took money from, unwashed hands, Brandon was sure. The money was as disgusting as the hands he took it from.

This week with eyes watching him, he took no chances to go home for a quick shower. Instead, he made his rounds as quickly as possible in hopes of being home earlier each day.

Daily, Brandon wondered if his current scam was worth it. He was dealing some petty drugs. He sold some Molly. Old School shrooms. Xanax. It was enough Brandon told himself to pay his bills without a boss and enough to save some cash to leave Palmdale.

Brandon needed to leave Palmdale. He needed to leave California. There was something twitchy in him, like a daemon spirit doing its best to shove Brandon out of Palmdale and out the door of California.

Scratching his legs, Brandon tried not to think of his last drop off. The delivery was a repeat client, a suburban housewife getting Xany delivered when the hubs was at work. They had too many dogs. Every time Brandon stepped into her home, the dogs would rush at him, sniffing him, rubbing themselves against him. Brandon loved a dog, not plural. One dog was good; many dogs were nothing more than a stink.

Feeling the inner twitch of needing to move far away, Brandon stopped what he was doing and leaned against a pole to check his phone. He saw Matea's car was parked at the Palmdale Regional Medical Center.

He didn’t wonder or care why she was there. All he needed to calm the twitch was to know he was nowhere near her. Matea, for all her “wisdom,” had no idea Brandon had placed a tracker on her car.

Brandon tracked Matea’s movements every day to make sure he didn’t run into her. He stalked her to avoid her. Palmdale wasn’t the biggest of Cali towns. If he hadn’t done this with the tracker, she might one day see him somewhere, go to him, want to speak to him, touch him.

Brandon felt a prickle at his neck remembering the silver-skin, raw-bone feel of Matea’s black stain. The warmth of a human body had left from that spot, replaced with the feel of an undercooked soup bone.

Brandon had not known fear in his life of a miserable childhood, teenage years spent searching for balance, now an adult living hand to mouth dealing low-key drugs to low-life people. Fear had never awakened in him, until the day his hands touched the bone markings on Matea’s black birthmark.

That day, fear built a nest in the grooves of his brain, settled in, and would not leave.

* * *

Doña Lupe felt as if her bones were made of metal. It was as if La Doña’s
muscles had become exhausted from years of holding her up. La Doña’s bones felt so weighted that she feared if she tumbled to the floor, she'd break into pieces like a child’s plastic building toy.

Doña Lupe said nothing of how she felt to Ignacio her husband as she cooked his favorite dinner of beef Birria en Sopes. Her cooking was much slower than it had been a year ago. Her gait had a tremble to it. Her hands quaked with effort as she worked the Maseca to mold her Sopes. La Doña felt her inner clock tick away. Her time was soon to end, and cooking Ignacio’s favorite foods was the last thing she could give such a wonderful man.

With the smell of meat simmering, her spices happily mingling in the juice of the birria, Doña Lupe sat for a moment. She needed a cup of coffee but felt too tired to get it. The effort it now took to do the slightest physical thing made La Doña apprehensive. She would soon be a good worker. Once they died, all brujas like herself became slave spirits to live brujas. La Doña Lupe liked to call hers “good workers.” They did her bidding when she called.

Sniffing the air Doña Lupe didn’t bother to open her eyes. She knew when her Birria was done by smell. The smell in the kitchen wasn’t right yet.

Lupe pushed aside the dread of becoming a good worker for another bruja. She focused her energy on Matea, stretching her thoughts out like a web searching for the feel of Matea. Matea’s energy was like no one else that Lupe had ever sensed, a mixture of Chili de Arbol and oil. A burn that coats the tongue, sticks to gums, and stays on the lips. Matea’s energy was uncontrolled, uneducated, and vain. La Doña knew Matea's presence by the way her fingertips went numb and her ears felt hot whenever her energy and Matea's mixed.

Spreading herself out, La Doña caught a timid sensation of Matea. The darkness within Matea simmered like Doña Lupe’s Birria. Lupe feared Matea's energy would soon spill over, pour out of her . . . out to the world.

The sudden and intrusive smell of flowers interrupted the aroma of Doña Lupe's Birria. The smell of blossoms sprayed the kitchen, raping it of the once pleasant smell of slow-cooked meat. Lupe’s eyes did not fly open. She promptly focused on warding herself from an onslaught that the Santa Muerte had for her, but then La Doña noticed.

The smell of flowers came from Matea.

Mentally, La Doña pushed her energy away from Matea's, putting distance between her energy and Matea’s. The smell of meat returned. The feel of her welcoming cocina blessed La Doña’s senses again.

How deep were La Santa Muerte’s roots into Matea? The only way of knowing was seeing Matea's eyes, but how? Amparo could no longer force her daughter to come to Doña Lupe’s. La Doña opened her eyes, rubbing her head. How long had it been since she’d seen Amparo?

Taking a deep breath, Doña Lupe noticed that her kitchen was smelling just right now. Placing both hands on the table, Lupe prepared her stiff and heavy body to get the final details of dinner done.

Knees wobbling, La Doña stood tall one last time before she fell over onto the floor. No heartbeat in her chest. No breath in her lungs. Doña Lupe left the human realm with only the last words from La Santa Muerte in her ears. “No vendré cuando mueras.”

* * *

Bedroom window wide open, Matea and Mijo sat in the chunk of sun that had worked its way past Matea's dirty bedroom windows. Nuzzled tightly against Matea, Mijo roared out a snore followed by another. She rested her hand on his back, rubbing the fur, pushing her thigh against him, wanting him to feel her body weight against his.

“Perro, perrito,” Matea said softly, wanting to coo at her dog without waking him from his dozing.

Having Mijo by her side was helping her, soothing her, but no matter how hard she tried she could not meditate.

She counted, tried the white noise of Mijo’s rumbling snores, yet her mind paced the room of her skull. The dark goo within Matea was at her throat, threatening to bubble to the surface and spill from her mouth. The fear of choking on her own darkness took Matea by the neck. She blindly reached for the sound of the Yaqui people and their sunlight in her mind.

Giving up on the meditation Matea flopped next to Mijo feeling orphaned by the Yaquis. Why would they not come back to her? That the Yaquis were failing her stuck in her thoughts, but her intuition was telling her it was she failing them.

* * *

Amparo stared at the choices in the cereal aisle. She picked up a box, put it down, picked up another. Amparo kept thinking that she needed to buy cereal and kept remembering that no one in the house ate cereal. She’d pick up a box of cereal Matea ate as a child, then she’d put it back remembering Matea was no longer a child. She rarely saw Matea eat at home. She’d put the box back remembering she rarely saw Matea at all.

With the last cereal box she’d picked up and put back, Amparo looked down at the almost empty grocery cart. Intuitively, she knew she needed to put food in the fridge, but her heart couldn’t figure out what food and for whom. She had a full house but was almost always alone in it.

Walking away from the cereal aisle Amparo left her cart in the aisle and followed her feet out the door of the store. With purpose, Amparo walked down the block, leaving her car in the grocery store parking lot.

Needing the companionship of an old friend Amparo was headed to her favorite tree in town. The tree was at a small park, and under it was a splintered bench ready to fall apart. But Amparo had sat on this bench for years. The bench was a trusted friend, someone who Amparo could go to when her heart and mind were at each other’s throats.

Amparo settled herself on the bench. She planned to stay a while to sort out all the emotions that cobwebbed not only her head but her breath, joints, bones. Sitting beneath her tree was her ritual. She would sit quietly, sunglasses on no matter the time of day or amount of sunlight. Amparo would place her purse on her lap making sure to put the straps on one of her arms in case someone tried to rob her, then she’d pull out the one picture she had of Matea and her father.

In the worn-out photo Matea, a newborn was wrapped in endless blankets. Matea's father, a tall, proud man from Sonora, Mexico, wore his cowboy boots and hat not only with pride but with showmanship. The picture was from the day he had asked Amparo to leave Mexicali and Oralia behind. She was so young. So very stupid. She should have gone.

Right after Amparo had taken the photo, she heard him talking to his infant daughter. “No olvides hermosa hija que eres mía. Soy Yaqui. Eres tu un Yaqui. Cuando el mundo te falla, vuelves a tu gente.”

He had kissed Matea gently on the head, handed Matea to Amparo, and gave her a nod before he got into his truck and left.

“Senora...” Amparo looked up from her picture. Standing in front of her was a little boy. He was standing so close to her that his knees almost touched hers.

“Si?” answered Amparo, uneasiness making her put the photo back in her purse.

“La Doña Lupe si fue. Ella se fue.” He shook his head as he spoke, wiping tears from his eyes. Gently, the boy put a hand on Amparo’s arm. “No se donde.”

“QUE?” Amparo asked the boy much too harshly. The feel of fright was crawling all over her skin as if the devil himself stood before her in child form. Her senses told her to run, but the boy’s hand was on her arm now locking her into place.

Wide-eyed the boy frowned looking at Amparo sourly. “NO SE DONDE,” he repeated, increasing the depth of his frown. A look of concentration was glued to the rest of his features.

Before Amparo could pull away the boy had both hands on her arms. He trembled, his wide eyes growing larger by the second. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. The boy yanked at Amparo repeating in a sad whisper, “No se donde. No se donde.”

Amparo pulled her arms away, wanting nothing more than to get away from the child, but his small hands held her tight. Fury written across his features; his anger enveloped her as if it were a hot breeze.

The world began to spin as if she had been tossed into a whirlpool. The boy's hands were now on her shoulders. He had the strength of a grown man. Pushing his face toward hers, the boy screamed, “NO SE DONDE! NO SE DONDE! NO SE DONDE!”

The foam that had collected at the corners of his mouth splattered Amparo’s face. His fingers dug through her clothing pricking her skin with his small sharp nails. Hysteria rose in Amparo’s chest. She screamed, kicked, felt vomit rise in her throat. Unable to think of anything else to do, she flung herself off the bench onto the ground.

The boy landed on top of her, pulling at her hair. A river of foam now spewed from his mouth. He would not stop screaming, “NO SE DONDE! NO SE DONDE!”

Dazed from terror, Amparo could do nothing more than swat at the boy as if he were a spider.

“Lady, do you need help?”

Amparo’s eyes fluttered. She was afraid to open them, afraid of the boy.

“Lady, do you speak English?”

Without opening her eyes Amparo answered, “Yes, little. The boy?” she asked.

“What boy? You kept screaming that you didn't know where."

To Amparo's confused mind the man's voice sounded solid. He sounded strong, but she didn’t sense meanness. Maybe he was telling the truth, and the boy was gone.

The tingle of fear was gone from her skin. Putting her hand to her face Amparo felt that it was dry and not covered in the foam that the boy spat from his mouth as he’d screamed at her.

Opening her eyes Amparo could see that it was late afternoon now. The sun had begun to set.

The man smiled at her, relaxing his shoulders. He said, “I think you fell asleep. You were screaming. Bad dreams, maybe?”

Realizing what had happened Amparo felt sick with embarrassment, but at the same time a new sensation, a new layer of terror covered her shoulders like a cheap shawl.

The man helped her stand, and Amparo gave him a hurried “Thank you” before rushing to her car. Half walking, half running, Amparo reached into her purse for the car keys, noticing that she still held something. Amparo looked down, shocked to find the photo in her hands.

Stopping dead center in the grocery store parking lot, Amparo looked down at the photo of Matea and her father. Something else was in her hand. She lifted the photo, and beneath it lay crushed flower petals with a smell so rich it could have scented the town.

Immediately, she threw the flower petals to the ground, wiping her hand on her blouse. The strong floral smell had Amparo gagging. It felt like a toxic gas blown into her face.

Bending over to heave, Amparo's eyes caught something on the photo that was in her hands.

Amparo studied the photo. Matea’s father’s face was replaced with a singed hole. Vomit rose in her throat but was overcome by her screams.

About the Author

Carol James Marshall is a writer who loves to tackle all the different types of horror. Her stories incorporate elements of comedy, paranormal, sci-fi, dystopian, and suspenseful horror.

If you’d like more information on books by Carol James Marshall please follow this link or look for her wherever you buy your books.

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Table of Contents

- Sinner
- Copyright
- Dedication
- A Message from Carol James Marshall
- Contents
- Untitled
- 1. Av Reforma, Mexicali, Mexico
- 2. Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe
- 3. Calexico, California
- 4. Malvada
- 5. Mi Cariño
- 6. Babosa
- 7. Viejita y la cabrona
- 8. Confia en me
- 9. Te la presto
- 10. Se ve bonito
- 11. 300 PINCHI Snakes
- 12. Desgraciada
- 13. Su Gente
- 14. El Tiempo es Maldita
- 15. Like Nothing
- 16. Que lo sapes
- 17. Perdóname
- 18. Brujita
- 19. Leyenda de Mal
- 20. Las Chismosas
- 21. Mátala
- Sneak Peak of Vessel Book 2
- Preview Vessel Book 2
- Preview Vessel Book 2
- Preview Vessel Book 2
- About the Author