American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 9. Aislinn McBride

Saturday, August 6, 2011, 9:00 a.m., Seattle, Washington

Buzzing fills my ears. Opening my eyes, I take in a dank mattress, peeling paint and some dude passed out next to me. With a grunt, I turn my head to find my cell phone rumbling. The number is Rose's.

Ignore her.

Muscle spasms tell me it's time for more H. My eyes scan the room as I try to remember where we left our works.

A single chime tells me my sister left a message. Within seconds, my phone rattles against the wood floor. Picking it up, I find she's called ten times in the last half hour.

Fuck it. "What do you want?"

Rose speaks in a monotone, like she's in shock. "Amber is at that house."

Queasiness grips my stomach. "Is this your way of trying to get me into rehab? So not cool." I move to disconnect when Rose screams.

"She's in danger! Christopher took a job at Boeing in L.A. He bought Peppergate Ranch."

I sit up with a wave of nausea. "How is that even possible?" My mind's eye pictures the U-shaped hacienda and its former owner, the asshole who messed up my life.

Rose interrupts my musings. "Where are you? I'll book a flight for us."

I open my mouth to speak and nothing comes out. My head's pounding as fear snatches the air from my lungs. Poor  Amber. She needs me!

I've got no idea where I am, so I rise to stumble along a cobweb strewn hallway to the front door. Rose ends the call after I read the house number and street name.

Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. Peppergate Ranch belongs to the dead. Why did Christopher move without telling me?

Vomit rises in my throat and I barf into a nearby bush. Wiping my mouth, I return to the house and the bedroom. The guy's sprawled over the mattress. A nudge from my foot cannot wake him, so I draw back my leg and deliver a kick that sends him to the floor.

He moans, "Are the cops here?"

I move to loom over his prone body. "I'm going away for a while and need to chip. Got any?"

As he shakes his head, his eyes flick to his jean pockets.

I drop to my knees, pinning his chest to the floor. His trembling hands clutch my dirty t-shirt. Reaching into his front pocket, I grab a pill container.

Shouting echoes across the house as I break for the door. As I exit, I glance back to the bedroom. Praise Jesus, he's passed out again.

Stone steps lead to the sidewalk. Leaning against the iron handrails, my hands shake as I open the container and remove the thin orange square. Sticking it under my tongue, I wait for the medicine to ease the cramping and shakiness.

Within a few minutes my limbs stop trembling and I make my way to the bottom step. Collapsing, I lean my head against the railing as my eyes close.

Friday August 6, 1982. 8:00 p.m., Los Angeles

Me and my friend Daniela Cervantes stand in front of a massive iron gate. The oak-lined driveway winds up a hill to disappear around a bend. Our destination is not visible from the street.

We're dressed alike, with short white skirts and neon sweatshirts. Mine is pink and Daniela's is blue. We cut out the collars and sleeves so the sweatshirt exposes our shoulders.

Giggling with excitement, Daniela throws her arms around me. "This party'll be bitching! I'm so happy you're with me, Aislinn." She presses an intercom button next to the gate. "We're here for the party."