Fated

Mexico rainstorm.
    The thunder rolls again, louder than before—the sound spooking Kachina enough for her to throw her head back and snort in distress—as I clench my legs tighter, fight to stay on her back, keep her on track. Murmuring softly into her neck, telling her there’s no need to worry, to hang in there, it will all be okay—when a massive bolt of lightning bursts from the sky, slams into the earth, and scorches a wide swath of dirt not far from her hooves.
    The sky darkening, becoming increasingly ominous, as the wind blows surprisingly hot—and when I lift my head from Kachina’s neck and take a good look around, I’m horrified to see a flood of large black ravens plummeting down.
    They plunge from the sky.
    They drop all around.
    Emitting horrible, high-pitched screeching sounds seconds before they smash to the ground. Their numbers so great, the sky appears to be vomiting massive chunks of black hail.
    I duck my head low—whispering soft, soothing words to my horse—but it’s no use, she’s as spooked as I am. Her eyes rolling crazily, she snorts, whinnies, careening wildly in a vain attempt to avoid the torrent of ravens.
    They slam hard onto my shoulders. Pummel my back. Only to roll down Kachina’s side and become a gruesome mess of feathers, blood, and gore under the crush of her hooves.
    My horse so terrified, so terrorized, I start singing the mountainsong in an effort to calm her. Remembering the power each song holds, I sing the windsong as well. The two of them blending together until my voice grows tired and hoarse, forcing me to pause for a moment before continuing with a renewed burst of strength.
    While it doesn’t keep the ravens from falling, they no longer fall near us. A path has been cleared, allowing Kachina safe passage to race down the road.
    The sky finally brightening as we make our way into town. The raven storm halted at last—though its memory lingers.
    Like a postcard from the Richters—letting me know the hourglass has been flipped.
    Time is slipping through my fingers like sand.

forty-seven
    I slide off Kachina, slap her on the rump, and tell her to head back to Paloma’s where it’s safe. Then I stand before the Rabbit Hole, observing a scene of organized chaos, as I fight to get my bearings and try to drum up some kind of plan.
    They’ve tripled the number of bouncers working the door, making a big show of stamping all those under twenty-one with the red ink coyotes, yet the moment I make my way in, I see that it’s pretty much a free-for-all—everyone’s drinking, no one is checking.
    I glance all around, not the least bit surprised to find most of the crowd already inebriated. Encouraging everyone to drink themselves into a stupor is a well-planned move on the Richters’ part. The more compromised the consciousness, the easier it is to alter the perception—allowing them free rein to do as they please.
    A band is on stage, a really loud opening act that has the dance floor crammed with writhing bodies—everyone wearing wildly painted skull masks, along with a wide array of costumes. The entire club decorated in the way Paloma described—with colorful beads and skull masks hanging from the walls, and tables sagging under heaps of beeswax candles, marigolds, and large heaping platters with decorated sugar skulls and homemade bread with bone-shaped pieces arranged across the top, which I think she called pan de muerto.
    Though no matter how hard I look, I can’t seem to find Cade, which fills me with worry that I might be too late—that he might already be at the vortex, starting the festivities without me.
    “I brought this for you.”
    I turn to see Xotichl thrusting a colorful skull mask into my hands that bears large grinning teeth, marigold petals surrounding the eye sockets, and a lavender background—an almost exact replica of the one she wears, only hers has a backdrop of blue. “I figured you might not have one, and it’ll help you blend in,” she says. “Though I’m afraid it won’t save you from Lita and the Cruel Crew. From what I can tell—” She lifts her chin, twitches her nose, returning to me when she adds, “You’ve been spotted, they’re headed here now.”
    “I’m amazed at how you can do that,” I say, pretty sure she just grinned, judging by the way her mask twitched in response.
    “While I can sense her presence, what I can’t sense is whether or not she’s wearing her Marilyn Monroe skull mask again,”