Fated

Richters.” She grins. “Their magick doesn’t work on everyone, you know. They prey on the weak—those with weak wills, weak personalities, weak sense of self—the usual targets. But they can never touch me. They need your sight in order to change your perception. They’re powerless when it comes to blindsight. Besides, everyone knows demons crave tobacco.”
    I exhale long and deep, relieved to share the burden of truth with someone other than Paloma and Chay. “I had no idea you knew,” I tell her, seeing her nod in reply.
    “I can also locate Cade if you’ll let me. The vortex too. It’s tricky; most people can’t find it. And no matter how many times I offered to help, Paloma always refused me.”
    I start to speak, wanting to tell her about Paloma, but she raises a hand, alerted to something sensed only by her. She tugs hard on my arm and says, “Quick—in here!”
    She ducks inside the office, and I slink in behind her. The two of us holding our breath, pressed hard against the wall, as someone makes their way down the hall.
    When Xotichl’s sure that they’re gone, she reaches beside her, grabs hold of Cade’s baseball bat, and thrusts it into my hands, saying, “You might need it to defend yourself in case the cigarettes don’t work.”
    I run my palm down the length of the bat, testing its weight and heft, as we exit the office and she leads me down the series of halls, searching for signs of the vortex or Cade, whichever comes first, while I track all the same landmarks from the last time I was here: the stray gum wrapper, the heart-shaped piece of missing paint, the bubble of water damage, Cade’s squashed cigarette butts. Training my focus on the things that go unseen, hoping to coax them to spring into view.
    Though unlike last time, there’s a strange chemical scent pervading the air that seems to intensify the farther we go. And it’s not long before Xotichl stops, tilts her head toward me, and whispers, “This is it.”
    I stare at the wall, noting how it’s still soft, malleable, recently breached, with no sign of the demons, but that doesn’t mean they’re not waiting inside.
    “You know you can’t join me,” I say, overcome by guilt for allowing her to take me this far and hoping she can find her way back unharmed.
    “Don’t worry about me, I’m stronger than I look. I’ll deal with your mom, while you deal with Cade. And, Daire…” I look at her—see the way her lip trembles, surprising me when she says, “Go kick some Richter ass!”
    I lunge toward the wall that’s already closing. Shoving right into it, bat first, pushing so hard it’s like merging into a solid wall of taffy—sticky, gooey, molding around me—until it finally gives way and I burst through, slamming headfirst into one of the demons—the big one who guards the vortex.
    We stare at each other, the two of us momentarily stunned, until he growls so loudly it alerts the others to join him.
    They surround me, their massive paws and razor-sharp nails swiping at me from all sides, leaving me no choice but to shake the cigarettes loose from the pack, toss them behind me, and bolt.
    Glancing over my shoulder to see the demons dive after them, snarling and hissing in an effort to get to them first, I race for the tunnel that leads to the cave. The crash of my boots against the metal trilling too loudly, leaving me with no choice but to ditch them and tiptoe the rest of the way. Careful to keep my breath light, shallow—allowing only the briefest sigh of relief when I reach the end undetected and creep past the entry into a room lit by bright blazing torches. The frenetic lick of flames sparking and flaring in a way that illuminates the ribbons of strung marigolds and beads draped across the walls—the skeletons propped among the furniture with hand-painted skull masks secured to their heads—the usual Day of the Dead décor, but in here the effect is especially chilling.
    That strong chemical scent growing in intensity, as I move through the rooms, forcing me to clasp one hand over my face to block out the smell, as the other clutches hard at the bat, and it’s then that I see him.
    See them.
    The whole lot of them wearing identical black-and-white skull masks with red dripping mouths—waiting for the party to begin.
    Coyote sees me first. Ducking his head, he snarls in protest, as Cade stands before an elaborate altar draped with a starched white tablecloth, covered with flaming beeswax