“Daire’s had a bad day,” Xotichl tells him, pushing him back toward his side. “We need to tone it down, show a little sensitivity for her mood. She had an unfortunate run-in with the Cruel Crew.”
“Aw, the Three Faces of Evil,” Auden says, voice sympathetic when he adds, “That bites. Hope you kicked some Cruel Crew ass? You look like you could take ’em.” He peers at me again. “Well, the minions for sure, but maybe not Lita. You’re on the skinny side; Paloma got you on the same vegetarian diet she’s got my flower on?”
I squint, wondering why Paloma is telling Xotichl what to eat. I thought that sort of thing was reserved just for me.
“I’ve been seeing Paloma for a while, now,” Xotichl says, answering the question I didn’t yet voice. “She’s nothing short of a miracle worker. You’re so lucky to have her.”
I nod, neither confirming nor denying. I love Paloma. She’s helped me, cured me of the hallucinations, given me the keys to a world I never imagined existed. Though I’m not always sure that’s a good thing. Truth is, I was happier before the visions took over, before I got involved in any of this. My life was way less complicated back then.
A moment later, Auden pulls before the big blue gate, and Xotichl is turning in her seat, saying, “Auden’s band, Epitaph, is playing tonight at the Rabbit Hole and I—or rather, we—want you to come.”
The Rabbit Hole.
Paloma did say I’d have to return at some point, though I’m not sure I’m ready just yet. If the way I handled day one at Milagro is any indication, I have a long way to go ’til I’m ready to take on something like that.
They’re waiting for an answer. And knowing I need to say something, that Xotichl will not move on until I reply, I mumble, “I don’t know … I’ll have to check with Paloma…”
“Of course,” Xotichl says, already turning away. “First set’s at eight—see you then.”
twenty-eight
I head into the house. Doing my best to keep quiet in case Paloma’s with a client, I drop my bag onto my desk and flop onto my bed, reviewing the day’s events, but only for a moment, before I push them away.
All things considered, it was a bigger failure than even I thought it would be.
Paloma was confident.
Chay reassuring.
While I tried to keep my hopes somewhere within the realm of realistic, if not reasonable.
Still, as skeptical as I was, I truly thought I’d glide under the radar. I never imagined I’d be labeled a freak right from the start—only to go on to prove it to the one boy who was nice to me, even offered to lunch with me (in an indirect way).
Though it’s not like it matters. The link to his brother, the fact that they’re twins—identical at that—instantly places him in the no-fly zone, no matter how cute he may be.
I kick off my shoes—a pair of soft black ankle boots I picked up in Spain—knowing I should make a stab at doing my homework but ruling it out just as quickly. Fact is, I’ve already read the assigned book for English, and I solved the math equations well before I left class. As far as history and science are concerned, I’m pretty sure I can wing it. Turns out I learned more in Internet school than I realized. Either that or my new school is completely pathetic.
I haul myself up, lean back against my headboard, and decide to work on something more useful, like magick. Merging my energy with the dream catcher that hangs over the window, focusing hard as I feel the lilt of its feathers, the light sway of its fringe—watching as it lifts itself from the hook, hovers for a moment, and then makes its way toward me …
“Nieta?” Paloma knocks once before opening the door and peering inside, her sudden arrival prompting me to slam the dream catcher between my palms and shove it deep under my pillow where she can’t see it.
My breath coming too fast, my cheeks flushing red, having no good reason to hide it from her, and yet doing so anyway.
Though I should’ve known better. Paloma’s gaze is all-seeing. Glancing between the empty hook over the sill and me, she says “So, tell me, how was your first day at school?”
I sigh. Shake my head. My eyes meeting hers when I say, “Terrible.” Figuring there’s no use lying, no point in pouring a thick coating of sugar over it. But just after I’ve said it, I realize the word may have been a bit overstated. It wasn’t all bad. While Xotichl and Auden were definitely a little heavy on the lovefest—meeting them was still one of the brighter spots.
The other bright spot was Dace, though I’m not quite ready to admit that—or at least not in that way.
Paloma sits beside me, the mattress dipping ever so slightly under the weight of her tiny frame. “So, your first day was so horrible you chose to fortify your ego with magick?” She thrusts her hand before me, demanding the return of the dream catcher we both know I hid. And though her words seem judgmental on the surface, her eyes tell a whole other story—they’re brimming with compassion, letting me know she understands all too well.
I slip my fingers under the pillow and hand over the goods, watching as she moves toward the window and puts the dream catcher back in its place, as I say, “I met Cade. Again.”
She nods. Flicks a finger against the dream catcher’s fringe, watching it sway back and forth. “And?” She turns to face me.
“And, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was devastatingly handsome and utterly charming. I’d think I was the luckiest girl in the world to have a boy like that notice me. But since I do know better, he just gives me the creeps.”
“Good.” She nods. “No matter what happens, you must never forget that.”
I gaze down at my hands. Pick at a loose string on my blanket. “I met Dace too, and he’s just like he is in the dreams. And every time I try to get an impression of him…”
Paloma returns to the bed, where she sits at the foot.
“Well, the impression is always … good. It’s the opposite of Cade, and I need to know more about him. We have a class together, so there’s no way to avoid him, though I’m not sure how to handle him.”
She nods, folds her hands in her lap, eyes flashing when she says, “Dace is not your enemy.” She pauses, allowing the words to sink in. “The reason I warned you about Cade and not Dace is because Cade is the one you must watch. Don’t ever forget that, nieta. And never confuse the two, no matter what.” She rubs her hands over her dress, fidgets with the hem, then after rising from the bed, she heads for the dresser, where she stands before Django’s picture and says, “I didn’t tell you earlier because…”
I clutch my pillow and wait—wait for something to happen, for some big revelation. But for a while anyway, all I get is a view of her back.
“They’re only identical on the surface.” She sighs, the sound heavy and deep, belying some hidden meaning she’s not sure she’ll reveal. “They were raised separately, didn’t meet until their first year of high school. Cade grew up with his father, Leandro—while Dace was raised by his mother, Chepi. They’ve had very different upbringings, which makes for very different views of the world.”
“Why were they raised separately? Why didn’t they at least know about each other? This town is so tiny—how’s that even possible?” I ask, knowing she’s hiding something, though I can’t imagine why, much less what.
She clasps and unclasps her hands, debating whether or not to tell me, then she takes a deep breath and says, “Dace grew up on the reservation—he and Chepi rarely left—while Cade lived in town. His father’s family, the Richters, are quite wealthy, they own most of the businesses here and run all the public services, not to mention his father’s been mayor for many, many years. Chepi had nothing to do with their world. When she found herself pregnant with the twins, she was the beautiful young daughter of a well-respected medicine man named Jolon—a truly revered, much-sought-after healer, who was said to work miracles and have a direct link to the divine.”
“So, let me get this straight.” I look at her. “Chepi, the good girl, decides to hook up wit
h Leandro, the bad boy—trouble ensues—she gets knocked up—the news devastates her father who held such high hopes for her…” I frown, trying not to judge, but it sounds like the Django and Jennika story. Except Jennika was never what you’d call good, and Django wasn’t all that bad; still, the stories aren’t without their similarities.
But before I can finish, Paloma’s already shaking her head, saying, “No, nieta, it’s not nearly as simple as that. You see, Chepi was very young, very innocent, and very devoted to Jolon. She never would’ve gone off with Leandro on her own. She was studying as Jolon’s apprentice, and many say she showed great promise. Everyone assumed she’d succeed him someday—but Leandro interfered, making sure to derail all their plans.” She looks at me, gaze clouded with memory. “Leandro is very much the opposite of Jolon. He’s a dangerous sorcerer who hails from a long line of them. The Santoses have been battling the Richters for years … centuries really, and not always here. While we made very good progress for a very long time, while we were able to subdue them and keep them in line, in more recent years, with the arrival of Leandro, things have changed for the worse. They’re no longer happy with just amassing their fortune—their ambitions extend far beyond that. They’re changing this town. It wasn’t always so depressed, like it is now. It used to be a good match for its name—if you can imagine such a thing. But over the past few decades it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep them contained. They’ve messed with so many minds—the townspeople feel alternately awed by them and indebted to them. And without Django’s help, I’m afraid I’m no match for them on my own, their ranks are too strong.” She takes a deep breath—runs both hands over the lap of her dress. “Anyway, Leandro was determined to use Chepi for his own sordid purposes, and so, on the night of Día de los Muertos, he set out to find her, and from that moment on, life as she knew it was over.”
Reading my look of confusion, she says, “The Day of the Dead, nieta. It’s a ritual that’s been celebrated for thousands of years, traced all the way back to the Aztecs. It’s a time when the veil between the living and dead is lifted, as well as a time to honor all those who’ve passed. Here in Enchantment, we celebrate it in place of Halloween, and the whole town takes part. People don masks resembling skulls—they head to cemeteries where they decorate the graves with marigolds, beads, and old photos. And they remain by those graves throughout the night—dancing, drinking, turning the dirt, and communing with their deceased loved ones. Though lately, over the last several years, many have abandoned the graveyards in favor of the Rabbit Hole, which, as you know, the Richters own.”
I stare at her wide-eyed, urging her to continue. It’s the first I’ve ever heard of it, and I’m fascinated by the idea.
“There was a time when death wasn’t viewed so much as the end of life but rather a continuation of life. It was life that was regarded as a brief fleeting dream, while death allowed one to truly wake up. The Bone Keeper presides over the festival. She rules the lowest level of the Lowerworld where she keeps watch over the bones. They say she has a skull for a face, wears a skirt made of serpents, and her mouth is extra wide in order to feed off the stars during the day. And yet, despite my numerous journeys to the Lowerworld, I have yet to run into her. But maybe you will, nieta, who knows?”
“A skull face, a snake skirt, and a steady diet of stars?” I shake my head and balk. “No thanks, I’d prefer to avoid her if it’s okay with you.”
“You don’t always get the journey you want, nieta. Though you always get the journey you need,” she says—yet another sage statement in a collection of many.
“You paraphrasing Mick Jagger now?” I laugh. It feels good to laugh, lessens the creepiness of her story.
Paloma grins, but it’s not long before she tucks a leg underneath her and says, “Now, back to Chepi—while she had no interest in Leandro, no interest in hooking up with bad boys as you put it,” she winks at me, “she was no match for Leandro, whose proficiency in the black arts is unrivaled. The Richters have misused the power of the Day of the Dead for centuries. They don’t so much honor and commune with their relatives as resurrect them.”
I lean toward her, chin tucked to my knees, eyes practically popped from their sockets.
“Oh, not for long, nieta, and not physically. They’re not necromancers, or at least not yet, anyway. It’s more like they call upon the energy of the dead and infuse themselves with the dark power of their lineage—an effect that lasts a few days at best. But, as it turns out, on that day, it proved enough. And that, coupled with Leandro’s ability to alter perception, is what made it so easy for him to seduce Chepi. He knew about the powerful magick that flowed through her bloodline, and he was desperate to harness it and merge it with his. The Richters’ power was beginning to falter. While they’ve never had access to the Upperworld, on the occasions they’ve managed to breach the Lowerworld, they were quick to corrupt it along with the spirit animals, which caused chaos to reign here in the Middleworld, leaving people unprotected, easily misled—becoming both victims and supporters of insane, corrupt leaders. The rise of Atilla the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Stalin, Robespierre, Idi Amin, Pol Pot, Hitler…” She looks in my direction, but her gaze remains far away. “It can all be traced to the Richters’ dark influence in the Lowerworld, and it took great sacrifice on behalf of Seekers and shamans everywhere to evict them. The Lowerworld, just like the Upperworld, is populated by loving, compassionate beings that guide us and aid us without our even realizing. We are dependent on their well-being and wisdom in more ways than we know. It’s only the Middleworld that contains beings that both help us and harm us.”
It’s not until she pauses that I realize I’ve been holding my breath, doing my best to take it all in and try to make sense of it.
“And so, desperate to beef up their ranks, Leandro purposely set out to father a son whose blood would run thick with the magick of both sides, hoping that would enable him to infiltrate the other worlds so long denied him. Chepi didn’t stand a chance—he kept her captive for the entire ceremony—and when she awoke, she was nude, battered, and her body was covered in black-magick symbols.”
I’m speechless, haunted by the images that flare in my head. Remembering the night I met Leandro in the office at the Rabbit Hole, the creepy impression I got when he caught my hand in his.
“Leandro wasn’t looking for just any son, he wanted a son with a soul even darker than his own. Knowing the soul contains equal parts light and dark—that a person’s life story and the sort of nurturing they receive often determines which side emerges as the dominant one—he set out to dissect the child’s soul right from the start. He called upon his long-deceased ancestors to aid him, worked terrible magick and ritual to split the soul and nurture the dark part at the expense of the good. Though, in the end, things didn’t go quite as planned. Instead of giving birth to one black-hearted son, Chepi gave birth to twins, one with a light soul and one with a dark one.”
My mind spins with the news—unable to think of one good response.
Twins.
One evil. One good.
The stuff of myth—only in this case it’s real.
“Okay,” I say, struggling to understand. “But if Chepi’s dad, Jolon, was so powerful, why didn’t he stop it?”
Paloma nods as though she was expecting the question. Wasting no time in replying, she says, “When Chepi arrived home disheveled and disoriented, Jolon was distraught to find his beloved daughter violated and used in that way. Little did he know, but Leandro was waiting nearby, and he used that moment of weakness to penetrate and alter Jolon’s perception—something he was never able to accomplish before. Some claim Leandro terrorized Jolon with images of the future, the havoc his grandson would wreak. All I know for sure is that Jolon didn’t survive. He dropped dead of a heart attack, leaving poor Chepi an orphan. When Leandro learned he’d produced twins, there was no doubt which one he favored. He immediately took custody of Cade, warning Chepi that if she tried to
fight him, tried to get the boy back, he’d take Dace as well. And so Chepi turned her attentions to Dace, while turning her back on the healing, and magick, and all that Jolon had taught her. Claiming she’d lost her gift along with her faith—that she was good to no one, but she’d try to be good to her son. To support herself, she began making beautiful turquoise jewelry she sells in the square. Hers is a very sad story, nieta. She refuses to forgive herself for something that was never her fault.”
“So, how is it the boys never met?” I ask, my head spinning with the story she weaves.
“Dace didn’t leave the reservation until his teens when he decided he wanted to attend Milagro, and Chepi, tired of fighting him, knowing she couldn’t shelter him forever, finally consented. The day before he left, she confided the truth, told him about the brother he never knew. Though I doubt she told him the full truth. She can barely admit it to herself. And I can’t see how it would do Dace any good to know his true origins.”
I grow silent, not quite knowing what to make of it. Remembering the day at the gas station, the older woman with the beautiful turquoise jewelry, cloaked in deep sadness, and I’ve no doubt it was Dace’s mom, Chepi.
“Now that I’ve revealed this to you, you must never repeat it. Not to anyone, and certainly never to Dace. Someday he may learn on his own, but it’s not our place to intervene. The boy is truly a pure and beautiful soul. He is no threat to you. I wish nothing but the best for him.”
Beautiful—no argument there.
“And you must never confuse the two. You must never allow Cade to trick you into thinking he’s his brother, or vice versa. You must find a way to set them apart—you mentioned the eyes?”
I nod, picturing them in my head. “They’re almost exactly the same, except Cade’s absorb light, while Dace’s reflect it.”