Monday, August 8, 2011, 1:00 a.m. Los Angeles
I hold up a hand for silence as me and my brothers watch the psychologist Betty Morton lead Amber McBride and her twerp friends west across the meadow behind the Sleepy Oak Cemetery. Their dark shapes move against the landscape in the moonlight. We hang back in the oak forest shadows, spying through our night vision goggles.
George groans. "Fernando's an ass. Why the cat-and-mouse game?"
Ken grunts. "How's about we jump that Russian and make him talk!"
I keep my eyes on the redhead. "Fernando baited that witch. If we're to find him, we need to stay on her."
When the teens and their adult chaperones reach the western-most side of the expanse, they turn north to walk up a steep hill. As they disappear into towering brush, we stash our gear in backpacks and dash across the dry, brittle prairie grass.
We reach the base of the hill and slip into a nearby stand of Laurel Sumac. As we retrieve our goggles and scan the trail, the overhanging branches rustle to send a shower of leaves into our hair. No sign of the twerps.
Martin grabs my forearm. "I know where they're headed."
I snort. "So you're a psychic, bro?"
He lands a jabbing punch in my shoulder. "There's a natural amphitheater nearby. Perfect place for their witchy shit. The fastest route is an animal track atop the hill."
Martin slips from the brush and gestures for us to follow. In silence, we climb northward to the hilltop, then cut west on a thin ribbon of trail.
My brother disappears between boulders the size of houses. In under a minute, we're navigating a stone maze. The summer heat radiates from the sandstone as sweat drips into my eyes.
Within a half-hour we clear the rocky tangle and enter a stone amphitheater half the size of a football field, surrounded by towering cliffs on three sides. Blocky sandstone boulders dot the bowl-like formation.
I push in front of Martin and climb the nearest formation, a rock the size of a semi-truck. At the eastern edge is a sheer fifty foot drop-off into a dry streambed. My brothers follow as I drop to my belly and slither to the northern-most end.
Retrieving my night-vision goggles, I scan the grey expanse from west to east. As I reach the eastern-most edge of the amphitheater, movement catches my eye. I adjust the binoculars to focus on the four teens seated in a circle under a lone oak. The trunk splits into three large branches like fingers forming the Hawaiian hang loose symbol.
Martin grunts. "Told you."
My brow furrows as a single flame shoots skyward from the circle'scenter. Witchy shit, for sure.
George scoots next to me. I elbow his side. "Dr. Morton and Maxsim Kisilev, the Russian. Get eyes on them."
Within seconds George whispers, "Got them. They're twenty-five feet from the kids. Looks like they're standing watch."
The back of my neck tingles. Who'd want to hurt these kids? "Martin, Ken, keep a lookout." I direct Martin to the west and Ken to the south. No one's sneaking up on us east from the creek bed unless he's Spiderman.
Martin curses. "Something just ran past! It's black and moving low to the ground."
Ay carumba! I bite back the urge to leave my post to punch Martin. "Sounds like a coyote, you moron."
As if in answer, howls erupt from the darkness at the northernmost end of the formation.
Amber's voice cuts through the coyote chorus. "What do we do now?"
The short Latina I met two days ago, Marisol Garcia, speaks as clearly as if she's seated next to us. "We'll look into the smoke to see the past, present, or future. If there's something my grandma wants us to know, this is how we'll find out."
Despite the oppressive heat, my body shudders at the mention of Graciela Hernandez. "La Bruja's granddaughter is with those kids. We don't know what's coming. Be ready."
Marisol intones, "Breathe with me and look into the smoke."
The amphitheater falls silent as the flame morphs into a dark cloud. No coyote yowls, birdsong or even a cricket chirruping. The youths sit fifty feet from us, yet I'm keenly aware of their breathing. They inhale and exhale in a slow, rhythmic manner.
The smoke spreads inky darkness across the amphitheater. My night-vision goggles can't pierce the gloom. Blinded, I move my hands to find George. He's no longer laying on his stomach, but is sitting in a cross-legged position, night-vision goggles in his lap. My fingers find his bicep and I squeeze. "What the fuck are you doing? They'll see you."
George ignores me.
A pinprick of light pierces my eyes. It expands to the shape of a full moon. I blink to find I'm looking at the teens from above, as if I'm floating. My vision is telescopic. Witchcraft! Only La Bruja can pull off such a powerful spell. I try to speak and alert my brothers, but I'm frozen, glued to the stone.
Marisol speaks her grandmother's name, "Graciela Hernandez."
The smoke retracts to reveal a Spanish-stylehacienda. It's dark and the only light shines from atop the front door.
My vision expands to reveal a lone streetlight in front of a dirt road leading to the house. A new 1960s Chevy Stepside pickup truck sits just inside the property line. Its vibrant orange color is clearly visible, even in the darkness. As my eyes find the license plate, queasiness ripples through my stomach. It's our old truck, but brand-new!
Laughter cuts through the silence. The teens twitch at the sound, causing the vision to blur. Howling wails from somewhere beyond the vision. It sounds wrong, like someone trying to imitate a coyote.
The image sharpens as dark forms lope along the ranchero's fence line, ten in all. Sinewy figures gather at the driveway entrance. Moonlight illuminates the faces of young people.
The vision shifts back to the house. At an open window stands a small girl with long, dark, braided hair.
Marisol gasps, "Mom!"
The vision swings back to the teenage intruders,then narrows to focus on a thin teenager with crazy eyes. As she spots the little girl, she cocks her head to the side at an unnatural angle.
The strange movement causes the little girl to withdraw from the window.
The eerie teenager straightens her neck, cracking vertebrae. She motions for the group to advance and leads them to the edge of a circle of light cast off from the front porch lamp.
Just as the intruders near the front porch steps, the door swings open to reveal a diminutive Latina, Graciela Hernandez. She wipes her hands against a cheerily patterned apron.
The crazy-eyed teen snarls. "What did you tell Spahn? You shoulda stayed outta our business." She unsheathes a knife at her belt.
The little girl reappears at the window, tiny hands trembling as her fingers play with the edge of a curtain.
Graciela Hernandez laughs. "I told my friend Spahn you're bad people. It'd be best for you if you leave, now."
Crazy Eyes extends the knife as she reaches the lowest step leading up to the porch. "What'd ya do. Did you go to the police?"
The knife is a foot from Graciela, but a twitch in her upper lip is the only sign she's listening.
From my perspective, something shifts, like when a computer reboots. When the scene rights itself, Graciela Hernandez looks at me.
Light streams through her eyes and chest. Her height increases until her head nearly touches the porch rafters. Dark, thick braids frame angular features and tumble over muscular shoulders. A wreath of wild cucumber vine crowns her head. Native cordage intertwined with orange and white Humboldt Lilies encircle her waist.
Graciela Hernandez reveals herself as La Bruja, a powerful sorceress.
The pack gasps in unison. Two of them, a tall blonde girl and boy, throw themselves on the ground before La Bruja.
The booming voice of La Bruja echoes, "Go back to wherever it is you are from."
A trickle of blood runs from Crazy Eye's ears as she shakes her knife in the witch's direction.
La Bruja's mouth doesn't move, yet somehow, the witch speaks. "I offer amnesty to anyone who wants to leave the path to hell."
Panic crosses Crazy Eyes's face as she turns the knife toward her companions. "Anyone who runs gets what's coming to them!" A thin line of spittle trails from the corner of her mouth.
A child's high-pitched scream wrenches my attention away from La Bruja. A barrel-chested, bearded man tears the screen off the open window to yank the little girl out into the yard. He drags the child by the neck and forces her to stand in the dirt next to Crazy Eyes.
As La Bruja turns toward the man holding her daughter, her clothes morph from the greenery of native plants to a long, black, flowing cloak. Her facial skin retracts to expose a bleached skull. Graciela Hernandez is Santa Muerte - Saint Death.
Flames ignite from the back of her cloak to crown her skull. One long, bony finger points in her daughter's direction, and then flips unnaturally backward.
The rushing beat of oncoming wings fills my ears.
The bearded man's eyes widen as a black vulture with a wingspan the size of two grown men swoops down and snatches skin and bone in its claws. Flames reflect against the creature's bald, blood-red head as it lifts the screaming man off the ground.
The man shrieks in a piercing wail as he's borne away on the wind. Within moments, he's gone.
Another cry of pain erupts as the tall blonde boy twists the wild-eyed teen's knife arm. He snatches the knife as it drops. A foot to her backside from the lanky blonde girl sends Crazy Eyes sprawling in the dirt before Santa Muerte.
The blond boy picks up Graciela's daughter and places her at the skeleton's feet. Kneeling, he vows, "I am your servant."
The teen with the crazy eyes spits dirt out of her mouth and lifts herself, lizard-like, on all fours. In a flash, she's on her feet to bolt from the yard. Crazy Eyes disappears into the brush. The pack follows, except for the two blonde teens.
Graciela Hernandez returns to herself and collapses onto the porch, unconscious. The blonde teens are instantly at her side.
Graciela's daughter shakes a fist at the retreating pack, "Tell your master he knows nothing about being witchy."
White haze creeps in from the corner of my eyes as the vision dissolves and my eyesight returns.
Martin coughs. "Madre Maria! I can see!"
I blink hard. George is shaking his head and Ken's rubbing his eyes.
Enough bullshit! I rise to stand and move to the rock's edge, when soft laughter sounds from the south.
I drop to a crouch and grab my night vision googles. My brothers mirror my movements.
Twenty dark shapes creep from the south along the trail, like a fucking replay of the vision.
Stashing my gear, I point toward the invaders. We leave our backpacks atop the boulder and slip down its western edge. As we press our backs into the stone, the intruders pass silently, oblivious to us.
We fall in silently behind the pack and keep our distance. As we trail the intruders, I notice under the moonlight that most are middle-aged men. Many are overweight. The remaining two are older women with long, shaggy grey hair. None carry weapons I can see, but that doesn't rule out guns tucked in between belt and back, nor knives strapped to thighs.
I inhale sharply at the realization I don't see the twentieth. Raising my palm, I signal for my brothers to halt. As they crowd in, I whisper. "Stay alert. One of them's missing."
The twenty minus one group moves in a black mass toward the lone oak.
Maxsim and Dr. Morton have joined the chattering teens under its umbrella canopy. The Russian leans in to whisper to the psychologist.
The old blonde's face lifts toward the approaching menace. Maxsim moves to face the group as Dr. Morton pulls the teens behind her. One, a tall black girl, breaks from her friends to grab a thick, six foot oak branch from underneath the tree. She tosses it from hand to hand as she races to stand aside the Russian.
Martin pokes me. "Shouldn't we help?"
My eyes remain fixed on the intruders. "We wait. I'll whistle when it's time."
One invader yells, "This ain't your land, witches. It belongs to our Master."
A skeletal old white woman in a hospital gown materializes right in front of Betty Morton. The twentieth. Her voice scrapes my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. "You'll carve up real nice."
A black Labrador leaps from behind the oak tree and sails through the ghost to flatten one man. The apparition throws back her head with an unearthly wail. The Russian slams into one of the men. Maxsim's attack causes his victim to lose balance. He stumbles backwards into another man, and they fall in a tangle of arms and legs. The black girl's staff whooshes as she whacks another topside of the head, sending him sprawling.
Five men jump on the Russian as the remaining eleven swarm Dr. Morton and the kids.
My whistle pierces the screams and snarls. We close the distance in seconds and leap into the fight, fists flying. Time to deliver a beating.
AUTHOR NOTES:
Banner photo of the Evil Eye Protection by Cameo Lawrence
Character Illustration of Mrs. Tammy Lobata (Seth's mother) by Joshua Hurwitz
Playlist Everloving by Moby