“Uhhh-”
The familiar squeak of a New York City rat answers for me.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t have an extra parakeet.” He sets the box on
the table. The rat scratches and bites from the inside. Nova sets one
of my mother’s good luck roosters on top of it to keep the box closed.
“I’m not paying for a comedian.”
He unbuttons his stained blue shirt, revealing a white undershirt
that clings to his muscles. He winks. Blue eyes now. “I’ll throw that
in for free.”
He grabs a mortar and pestle, then riffles through the pantry for
a handful of ingredients. He works fast and confidently, grabbing a
pinch of dirt from our cactus, a feather from the dead parakeet, ash
from the charcoal bowl, and a vial of seawater. He grinds it to a
paste and dots the cardinal scars of his face. Then he does the same
to me.
“It’s disconcerting to me that you know more about what’s in my
kitchen than I do.”
“Don’t use your big words on me, Ladybird.”
“Should we bring a dictionary on our journey?”
“Do you want me to help?”
“Do you want your money?”
He wipes his hands on a dish towel. I wonder how badly his tattoo
hurt.
“What else should I know before we go?” I ask.
“Be prepared for anything. Los Lagos is another realm. My gran
used to tell us bedtime stories about a river of souls and a bloodred
lagoon.”
“That actually put you to sleep?” I ask, zipping up my backpack.
“Nah. But it got me to behave.” His smile is all mischief. “For a
little while.”
I make a face at him. “I used to think Los Lagos was just a
waiting realm for spirits between lifetimes.”
He smirks knowingly. “Not all dead are created equal. Honestly, I
find your disbelief a little unnerving.”
“Do people actually believe in heaven? Olympus? There’s belief and
then there’s wishful thinking. I’m allowed to be skeptical of things I
haven’t seen for myself.”
“So young,” he says. “So jaded.”
I brush him off with a roll of my eyes. “Where will my family be
in all this land?”
“The Tree of Souls,” he continues, tapping the map the Book of
Cantos is open to. “It collects power throughout the month. Then on
the eclipse, well, that’s when it gets ugly. Everything it’s consumed
gets turned into raw energy. The tree used to feed the land, but then
the Devourer took over. She feeds off the tree now. The creature you
described matches the Book of Cantos’s description. I think it’s safe
to say your family is at the Tree of Souls.”
“Why would the Deos create something like this?”
“Why do gods do anything?” Nova asks. “You can have your
existential crisis when we return.”
“Get to the tree,” I say. I grab the Book of Cantos and rip the
map out of it. “Simple enough.”
“You wish. Everything in Los Lagos is designed to keep us from
getting to the tree. Hope you’re ready to use your bruja boxing
gloves.”
I feel for the whispering pulse of my magic. I’ll make myself
ready even if I don’t feel so just yet. “I am. Are you?”
“Listen, Ladybird. If I can survive these mean streets, I can
survive just about anywhere. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll get you to the
tree.”
“And you get your payment when we return safely.”
He shoulders the backpack and picks up my dagger from the table.
It still has blood caked on the blade. He wipes it off on his jeans,
then bends down. With one hand, he takes hold of my ankle, and with
the other, he slides the dagger into the loop of the outside of my
boot.
“Just in case,” he says.
When he stands, he’s barely two inches from me. Every time I look
at him, I find new scars. There’s another one close to his upper lip.
I fold the map and slide it into my back pocket. I go to the
storage closet and tuck the Book of Cantos under a loose floorboard. I
take one last look at my home. My legs feel weak. I start to picture
Lula and Rose and my mother.
“I’ll get you back. I promise,” I whisper.
“Come. We have to make the portal.” Nova places a hand over the
shoe box. The rat squeaks and scratches, like it knows this is his
end.
“What are you going to do with your money?” I don’t know why I’m
asking.
He starts to speak, but something makes him stop. He runs out the
door, where the sound of sirens fills the streets. He curses. We’ve
thought about the supernatural threat but not the human one. Lights
start flicking on in the neighborhood. I can still make out the
impatient blare of traffic and the urgent whirl of emergency sirens.
One of my neighbors must’ve called the cops after all the noise we
made. Right now, I don’t care about exposing our secret. I care about
getting to Los Lagos.
“Come on!” Nova shouts.
I look back at my home. A metallic glint catches my eye. The
pantry door is open, and my father’s old mace lies on the ground. I
run back in and grab it.
I follow Nova through the cemetery of old plastic toys and rusted
bicycles that is my backyard. The wind is a cold slap against my face.
It strips the scarlet and orange leaves from the tree and carries them
through the rain.
“All right, Ladybird. Let’s do this thing! Place your hands on the
tree.”
I do as he says. The bark ripples. It’s warm and soft, like flesh.
I can hear it whisper, like it’s trying to tell me the secrets of the
universe, its energy calling to my power.
Nova takes the squirming rat from the box, then pulls out a
switchblade from his back pocket. It unfolds with a metallic snap. The
end is curved upward. The sharp edges look like it’s meant to rip
though flesh. In a swift movement, Nova slits the rat’s throat. He
bleeds it all around the tree while chanting words I can’t understand,
and I realize Nova speaks the Old Tongue. He presses a thumb to his
forehead. Then turns to me to do the same.
My first instinct is STOP DO NOT TOUCH ME RAT BLOOD STOP. But I
realize I’ve set myself on a path I can’t come back from. I’m
surprised by the softness of his touch. I let Nova drag his bloody
thumb on my cheek.
“Why is it always blood?”
“Blood is life, Alex.”
For beings that don’t bleed, the gods sure ask for a lot of it , I
think.
He seems to find the terrified look on my face amusing.
“We’ll be fine,” he says.
“Nova…” The blue and red lights of police cars are nearer.
“Repeat after me,” he says.
The bark bends, changes at our touch. There’s the slip and screech
of tires and sirens on the street in front of my house. I start to
turn, to look back, but Nova stops me. He takes the dagger sheathed in
my boot and slices my palm open. The sting makes me cry out. I squeeze
it into a fist. Nova holds my bleeding hand to the tree’s bark.
“By the Deos of eternity. By the blood of my blood. By the light
of La Mama and the shadow of El Papa, I offer the blood of the
wretched. Open a door to Los Lagos.”
There’s the slam of car doors. The rattle of our chain-link fence.
Nova shoves the dagger in my hand. “Stab the tree!”
I see my mother’s face when I close my eyes. I bring the dagger
over my head. This is for every time I wasn’t strong enough to
believe. Now belief is all I have left.
My blade slices into the bark. A brilliant light splits the tree
open. I can feel its center connecting to me. My body isn’t my own,