Fated

Richter, who breaks free of his restraints and tumbles ahead of us. Until the falls suddenly end in a swiftly moving stream that washes us onto a narrow bed of sharp rocks, where Dace and I pick ourselves up and race toward him.
    Dace charging forward, gaining in speed, fingers falling just shy of the target when a figure looms large before us, catches the freak in one hand, and says, “I’ll take it from here.”
    My eyes widen. Dace stops in midstride. The two of us panting and drenched, standing before a beautiful woman with eyes as black as onyx—a lush and generous mouth—hair that undulates down her back, in waves of amber so glimmering it perfectly mimics the tinge of flaming New Mexico sunsets—and skin so pale and translucent, its hue is unearthly.
    “This one is mine. They’re all mine.” Her arm sweeps wide, revealing what we’d failed to notice before—a full roundup of undead Richters strung up by their feet, left to dangle from a grove of tall trees. Their hideous black-and-white skull masks seeming to mock the predicament they find themselves in. Her gaze flicking between Dace and me when she adds, “And now, it seems you are mine too.”
    I take in her swishy black skirt, her black lace-up boots, her snakeskin corset of a top, then I look past her—look all around her. Suddenly understanding what I missed at first glance.
    The stream didn’t feed into a bed of rocks like I’d thought.
    It fed into a bed of bone chips.
    There are bones everywhere I look. We’re completely surrounded by them.
    There’s even a house made of bones—a large, rambling, dull white palace with knobs and joints on the corners, teeth decorating the windows and doors. And the fence that surrounds it is made of bones too, mostly femurs and spines, with the occasional elbow thrown in.
    And that’s when I see that what I first took for trees aren’t trees at all—or at least not living trees. No longer sprouting leaves, no longer providing oxygen or shade, no longer functioning in the usual way. They died long ago, their scorched and bony carcasses are all that remain.
    The woman spreads her arms wide and gazes up at the sky. The move causing the sky to darken into a glittering canopy of black velvet, as her face transforms into a skull, her skirt becomes a whirl of snapping, writhing snakes that circle her legs and waist, and her eyes turn into horrible empty sockets that level on me. Her jaw yawning wide, emitting a horrible bone-on-bone scraping sound, as she throws her head back and feeds on a long line of stars that funnel into her mouth.
    The sight leaving no doubt in my mind that Dace has brought me to the Bone Keeper’s house.

fifty-one
    “You can’t have him.” I glare, as Dace finds my hand. The press of his fingers warning that this is not the best way to proceed, though it’s not like that stops me. “You can have all the others. I don’t care what you do with them—but this one is mine.”
    “None of them are yours!” She shrieks, eye sockets glowering, skirt thrashing and slithering. “How dare you even consider it! Don’t you know who I am?”
    I nod. Not only do I know, but the Richter we’re fighting over finally guessed too, judging by the way he snarls and yelps and fights like hell to free himself. But it’s no use. With a single flick of her wrist, a knot of snakes swarm him, binding his throat, his arms, his legs—holding him captive like the vines once did.
    “Then you know those bones belong to me. All the bones belong to me. And these particular bones have been denied me for too many years.” She glowers at the undead Richter beside her. “Today is Día de los Muertos —the day when the dead bring me their bones. It is not a courtesy. It is not an offering to appease me. It is the price one pays for their final admittance into the afterlife. This family of Coyotes has eluded me for centuries, but no more. Their bones will be mine, and since you found your way here, yours are mine too.”
    Dace tightens his hold, but I’m too stunned by her words to edit myself. “You can’t take my bones!” I cry. “I’m not even dead!” Dace moves to hush me, subdue me, but it’s no use. I came here to get Paloma’s soul, and there’s no way I’ll let myself fail.
    The Bone Keeper stares, weighing my words as her fingers pick at her hissing, slithering, twist of a snake skirt. “That’s easy enough to remedy,” she decides, her shiny black boots gliding across the dirt