Out of This World

  I knew los tíos weren’t necessarily nice guys. I remember the way the bandas deferred to them. Hell, those tough Mexican gangbangers were scared of them—there’s no other way to put it. It wasn’t respect. It was fear.

  And now there’s this whole business of the uncles executing cousins who play host to evil spirits. Evil spirits that choose the most powerful cousins to inhabit.

  If los tíos are capable of that, then they really have something big going on.

  Question is, do I want to be a part of it? I don’t mean, do I want to help them, but do I even want to associate with them?

  The mountain lion’s getting restless hanging around here in this tree while my brain goes around in circles. Tío Goyo’s right about that. I spend way too much time in my own head.

  But then I think of something else. Something Lara said: how her grandparents showed her how to move between the worlds.

  Lara moves through the worlds.

  Why not track her, and when the trail takes me into a different world, I’ll just put all my attention on what’s going on around me as I step from one world into another? Maybe I’ll be able to figure out what she sees and then reboot the map in my head.

  The mountain lion likes this tracking idea and I find myself making a lazy leap to the ground, then heading in among the trees where I saw the de Padillas disappear from sight.

  Their scent is easy to pick up and I follow it with a new confidence. I’m not going to need the uncles if I can figure this out for myself.

  The trail takes me about a half mile deeper into the forest, where it suddenly disappears. No matter how much I cast around, I can’t find it. I can tell where they appeared, and where they disappeared, but I just can’t follow.

  I bat at a pine cone with a big paw and send it skittering along the ground.

  “Ready to get back to work?” Tío Goyo asks.

  “Where are you from?” I ask Thorn as we make our way back down to street level.

  I step over a missing stair, my hand on the stone wall of the stairwell for balance. I’m already missing the fresh air from where we had our lunch above. It smells like an animal’s den in here.

  “I mean, if that’s okay to ask,” I add.

  “My home was in Tal Avelle,” he says, “in the part we call the Sea Dales. And I tell you, without fear of sounding like a braggart, that the Dales are the finest jewels in Tal Avelle’s crown, I don’t care what the steppe dwellers say. Our coves and beaches and cliffs are rich and diverse—nothing like this pissant little pocket world.”

  “‘Pocket world’?” I repeat. “What do you mean by that?”

  He spreads his arms in a wide gesture. “Dainnan—this city—is the world. Or at least it is the world we’re in now. It was pulled out of a dream, or created whole cloth by some mage— truth is, I’ve no idea how it came to be. But it’s no bigger than the city as we saw it from above, and then about the same acreage of bushland surrounding it.”

  I’m trying to understand this, but it’s not making sense.

  “What’s past the forest?”

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “There can’t be nothing.”

  “Go see for yourself. You have the time.”

  I shake my head. “No, I need to get home.”

  He starts to say something, then seems to think better of it. It’s not until we get out on the street again that he finally responds.

  “Let me take you to see Canejo,” he says. “Maybe he can explain it better.”

  “Who is he? Your leader?”

  And what’s his real name? I wonder. Because canejo just means rabbit in Spanish.

  The raggedy man shakes his head. “We have no leaders. Canejo is simply a wise man who finds himself in the same situation as ours. He has been here a long—”

  Suddenly, he breaks off and shoves me back into the building.

  “Hey!” I start.

  He cuts me off. “On your life, be silent. Go invisible.”

  I have a thousand questions, but he looks so serious I keep my mouth shut and do as he says, letting the imaginary cloak of invisibility fall over me again. It’s easier this time. It feels just like shifting to my otter shape—all I have to do is think about it and it happens.

  Thorn has pulled his own vanishing act. I look out through the open door and can’t spy anything, dangerous or otherwise. I can’t hear anything, either. Then finally, after long minutes of nothing, I see the shadow of a large bird drift across the broken pavement in front of the building. A moment later a second shadow trails in its wake. I hold my length of pipe tighter.

  The shadows wheel in slow circles—once, twice—before drifting away again.

  I want to ask Thorn what they were, but I figure I’ll just stay still and keep my mouth shut until he judges we’re safe. When he slowly comes back into view, I let my own invisibility fall from me.

  “What was the danger?” I ask.

  He spits on the floor. “Condors.”

  My heart seems to stop in my chest. That’s what Vincenzo was, and he was almost invincible until Josh finally dealt with him. But before that happened, Vincenzo killed Tomás, tossed Cory off a cliff and broke Chaingang’s back.

  “What—” I have to clear my throat. “What were they doing here?”

  “What do they ever do except bring misery into the world?” He cocks his head to study me for a moment before he adds, “You’ve seen them before.”

  I shake my head. “Not them. I mean there was only one of them. This guy named Vincenzo.”

  Thorn spits again. “They should have called him Verminzo.”

  “Well, he’s dead now,” I say.

  “Dead?” Thorn gives me a look that tells me I must be mistaken. “How can he be dead?”

  “My friend kind of killed him.”

  Thorn’s eyes widen slightly. “Kind of,” he repeats.

  Actually, Josh tore him into little pieces that he scattered all over a clifftop, but all I say is, “I can guarantee he’s dead. I don’t think even an old cousin like that can come back to life when he’s in as many pieces as Vincenzo was that last time I saw him.”

  I remember his head lying there in amongst all the gore, and a sour taste comes up my throat.

  “You have powerful friends,” Thorn says.

  I shrug. I don’t really want to get into that.

  “The problem is,” I say, “I think that maybe those condor guys are looking for me.”

  Thorn stares at me as though he’s seeing me for the first time. The moment hangs so long that it starts to creep me out.

  “Or maybe not,” I tell him just to say something. “I could just be paranoid.”

  He blinks as though he’s coming out of a trance.

  “We really have to talk to Canejo,” he says.

  I heard Tío Goyo approach, but saw no point in acknowledging his presence. But now I shift back into human shape and rise to my feet. My stomach growls. As usual, I’m starving after the change, but I make myself ignore it.

  “I won’t kill cousins for you,” I say.

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “But that’s what you do.”

  “You’re still not listening,” he says. “We rid the world of evil spirits in whatever host we find them, but that’s not our principal task. Our main effort is to rouse people from their sleeping lives because if they’re awake, the spirits can’t take root.”

  “But if you’re too late, you kill them.”

  “Why are you so focused on this?”

  I shove him so hard in the chest that he stumbles backwards.

  “Because I’m tired of people dying!” I yell at him. “Killing each other. You, Vincenzo. Me. I’ve killed people. I’m just a kid and I’ve already killed people!”

  I step forward and shove him again. He lands on his butt in the dirt, but calmly stands back up and brushes the dust off himself. I wish he’d come at me so that I could really let him have it.

  “Chaingang’s
dead. Elzie could be. And you go around killing innocent people that you’ve decided have evil spirits in them.”

  He doesn’t flinch as I go to push him again. I stop myself and turn away.

  I feel sick. I just wish there was somebody I trusted here. Marina. Des. My mom.

  “We don’t take our duties lightly,” Tío Goyo says in a quiet voice. “And we find no pleasure in taking a life. Each adds to the burden we carry.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “To keep the world safe.”

  “Your vision of safe. As both judge and executioner.” I spit on the ground beside me.

  He shakes his head. “We don’t kill indiscriminately, and it’s a far rarer occurrence than you imagine. We don’t kill evil people, of which there are many. We only rid the world of evil spirits.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Vincenzo was evil, but he chose to do the things that he did. There was no spirit riding in his body, so we left him alone. Just as we ignore the gangs, the thieves and the murderers that infest the world.”

  “But what if by stopping them, you could help people?” I ask.

  “Are we also supposed to be luchadores now, off fighting crime when we’re not in the wrestling ring?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “Make up your mind,” he says. “Just now you were criticizing me for taking justice into my own hands, and now you expect me to be a vigilante. There are laws and police for common criminals. The responsibility of the Halcón Pueblo is to banish parasites that infest the sleeping mind—to stop evil spirits that manage to escape dreams and possess a soul.”

  I sigh and shake my head. A minute ago I wanted to punch him in the face. Now my anger has drained away and I only feel tired and confused. If I’m claiming that it’s wrong to persecute these so-called possessed cousins, it’s just as wrong to do it to gangbangers and criminals.

  “Nothing is simple,” Tío Goyo says. “For now, let’s concentrate on finding your friend. I think it’s time I taught you how to fly.”

  “Say what?”

  We’re seven strong, riding our bikes down Grandma’s street. Though we’re not all wearing our colours, no one’s going to mistake us for anything but what we are: trouble on wheels. The roar of that many bikes is enough to make windows rattle as we go by.

  In any other neighbourhood someone would have been on the phone to the cops as soon as we turned onto the first street. But this is the Orchards. Our turf. Having J-Dog pass through is like getting a glimpse of some famous warlord, or the Godfather—if there ever really was such a thing. Let’s face it: Italian gangsters are like any kind of gangster. They’re ruled by profit, not honour. Even the Ocean Avers—tight as we can be— we’re out to make a buck. The difference between us and the big banks is that we’re up front about it.

  The first thing I see when we pull up to Grandma’s place is the dead dog at the foot of the stairs leading up to the porch. It lies in a sprawl of limbs and blood, flies already buzzing around it. My gaze tracks up to find a big hole in the screen door— where other dogs entered, I think, my heart in my throat. But then I see Grandma. She’s sitting on a chair on the porch, a shotgun on her lap.

  Damn. She blew that dog away right through the door.

  I kill the engine and put my bike on its stand as quick as I can, but J-Dog is up on the porch before I can get there. I’m right behind him.

  “Well, look at you boys,” Grandma says, “riding in like the cavalry.”

  J-Dog looks from the dog to her. “Are you okay?”

  She pats the shotgun I didn’t even know she owned, never mind knows how to use.

  “I’m fine,” she tells us. “The situation’s under control. But how’d you even know there was trouble? I only just got off the phone with animal control.”

  “We had a hunch,” I say before J-Dog can answer. “What happened?”

  She shrugs. “Damn dog went crazy. I was starting down the hall to collect the mail when I saw him charging down the street. I didn’t know that he was coming for me, but I grabbed my shotgun, just to be safe. When he came up onto the porch and charged right through the screen door, I had to shoot him.”

  “Where did you even get a shotgun?” I ask.

  “From the hall closet. I’m living in the Orchards, boy,” she adds at my surprised look. “People have to know that you’re serious about protecting your own.”

  I can see J-Dog bristling.

  “Anybody ever even looks at you sideways,” he says, “you give me a call and it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, like starting a war solves anything. I swear, Jason, you are your own worst enemy.”

  The other boys are still straddling their bikes behind us, engines off. I hear one of them chuckle. I have to smile myself, watching the little old lady that’s our grandma lay down the law on J-Dog.

  She looks from him to me. “Now enough of the bullshit,” she tells us. “Both you and I know you never had any hunch. How’d you know to come riding in like a pair of half-assed John Waynes with an entourage?”

  “We already had a run-in with some other mutts,” J-Dog says, “and we got word they might be coming for you.”

  “But why?”

  J-Dog just looks at me.

  I sigh. “It’s a long story and I’ll tell you whatever you need to know, but first I have to make a call.”

  Grandma’s eyebrows go up but she waves her hand, telling me to go ahead.

  I dial Des’s number.

  “Do you know where Josh’s mother works?” I ask when he picks up.

  “Sure,” he says. “She runs Dr. Esposito’s office.”

  “Would she be working there today?”

  “What happened?”

  I can hear the worry in his voice.

  “I don’t know, bro,” I tell him. “They took a run at my grandma, but she stood them off with a shotgun. And Marina, too. I think she took off to, you know, over there.”

  “Not again, dude,” Des moans.

  “Don’t worry, bro. I’m going to find her as soon as I can get my ass over there. But it makes me think they’re probably gunning for Josh’s mom, too.”

  I hear him say a muffled, “I have to go,” to someone.

  “Who are you with?” I ask.

  “Cory and Donalita. We’re on our way to your compound to meet up with Auntie Min. She says something big went down there.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Do you have the number of Josh’s pet Feds?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Send them to check on her. I’ll see you at the clubhouse.”

  “You’ll see who at our crib?” J-Dog wants to know when I hang up.

  “Wildlings,” I tell him. “Really old Wildlings who’ve been around forever, and might be a little pissed off with how we handled things back there.”

  J-Dog frowns. “Yeah, well, maybe they’d like a taste of the same medicine.”

  “Is anybody going to say anything that makes sense?” Grandma asks.

  I can’t believe how messed up this is. What I really want to do is find Marina, but the crap just won’t stop piling up.

  I point a finger at J-Dog. “You go ahead and tell them that,” I say, then turn to Grandma and gently put my palm on top of her head. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, “but the explanations are going to have to wait. I promise I’ll tell you everything first chance I get.”

  Grandma swats my hand away and gives us a stern look. When I was a kid, that would have had me scrambling for a place to hide.

  “What have you boys got yourselves into now?” she asks.

  “You remember Donalita?” I say.

  “That nice girl you were helping?”

  “This is part of the same problem. But we’re handling it.”

  “So she’s still in trouble?”

  I nod.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Go help her. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got everything under control here.”


  I give another nod. But all the same, when we’re back on our bikes, heading for the clubhouse, we leave Tall Boy behind to handle the dead dog and keep an eye on things.

  Tío Goyo turns and walks back to the camp. I watch his back for a moment, then trot until I catch up with him. When we get to where our blankets are still spread out, he fills the kettle from the canteen.

  I grab some cheese and bread and eat it standing at the edge of the mesa where I can look out across the valley, trying not to think about the argument we just had. My brain obliges, but with perverse humour, has me going back to the usual ruminations about my messed up life.

  “Josh!”

  I turn to Tío Goyo. “I know,” I say. “Too much in my own head again.”

  He shrugs then lifts the kettle. “I just wanted to tell you that the tea’s ready.”

  “The tea,” I say. “Right.”

  I accept the mug he pours for me. He clinks his own against mine, the sound of the metal muted. It’s cool enough to take a sip. Another. I wonder how long Tío Goyo was trying to get my attention that the tea cooled this much.

  He drinks his all in one go.

  “It’s better to have it all at once,” he says.

  So I follow suit.

  “It seems a little bitter,” I say.

  He nods. “That’s the mescal. But don’t worry. I used only a pinch—just enough to wake up your spirit, not enough to poison you.”

  “You gave me … a drug?”

  “No. Or at least not recreational.”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  He gives another nod. “Which is highly commendable. But this isn’t doing drugs. This is a learning experience.”

  “Why would you drug me?”

  I feel like hitting him again, but my arms and legs are tingling and they don’t seem to have any strength.

  “Trust is a two-way street,” he says. “I realize now that I’ve given you no good reason to trust me, so I’m going to show you one of the secrets of the Halcón Pueblo as a measure of good faith.”

  “By drugging me … against … my will …”

  I’m slurring my words. I want to call up the mountain lion. Maybe if I do the switch, I can clean out my system the way shifting shapes has healed me previously. But my brain feels as thick as my tongue and I can’t seem to focus.