Fated

fabric and not him. The last thing I need is to tip him off—from what I’ve seen, he might consider me less a nuisance and more a nice little morsel to eat.
    It’s a risky move, being this close. Yet it’s one I’m willing to take. I can’t risk the cockroach’s instincts overpowering me—making a dive for the bowl of bloodied bits in search of a little late-night nourishment.
    If that happened on my watch, I just couldn’t bear it. There’s just not enough toothpaste and mouthwash for something like that.
    The wait feels much longer in here. Probably because there’s not much to see other than the flicker of torchlight that penetrates the thin weave of Cade’s T-shirt, highlighting the Calvin Klein waistband of his black boxer briefs like a Times Square billboard. I also detect the all-pervasive scent of a musky body spray for men—and while at first I found it repellent, after a while, I have to admit, it goes a long way in masking the horrible scent the bowl of crud emits.
    I wait. Growing so bored I’m tempted to nap, but instead I spend the time eavesdropping as he hums a few songs I don’t recognize—songs that sound tribal and ancient. And when I do decide to take a quick peek, due to sheer boredom if nothing else, I watch as he gives himself an impromptu manicure by gnawing a hangnail right off his thumb.
    I’m just about to duck back inside when he jumps to his feet and says, “There you are. Well done, boy. Well done.”
    I make for the belt loop, in search of a better view. Thankful to be here in cockroach form and not human form, if for no other reason than it keeps me from shrieking in horror when my gaze darts from Coyote to the group gathered before us, which can only be described as an army of … undead beasts.
    A small army of truly monstrous beings with partially decayed faces and protruding bones, some with crucial body parts missing. The sight of them gathered like that reminding me of some of the more intense, special-effects makeup jobs Jennika used to do for the scarier horror movies.
    Only this is much worse.
    This is real.
    They gather before him with their tongues—well, those who have tongues—lolling with anticipation, eyes bulging expectantly—as Cade makes for the icebox, returning with a large, metal container he places on the glass table before him.
    “Back off,” he says, glaring at one in particular that’s creeping too close. Waiting until it returns to the group, rejoining the rest of the freak show, before he plunges his hand into his pocket, fishes around, and retrieves a small silver key he uses to open the lock.
    The group presses forward, their gruesome faces naked with craving, as I brace for a big, messy pile of squishy gray matter. Figuring the brains will most likely be human, since, according to legend, that’s the preferred undead/demon/monster treat.
    But instead of the sludge I expect, when Cade pops the top, the most beautiful, incandescent glow fills the room. The sight of it causing a hushed chorus of Ahhhhh s soon chased by excited yips, snarls, and growls, as Cade cups his hands, scoops them both in, and comes away with a heap of beautiful, gleaming, white orbs he admires briefly, before tossing them to the beasts, as though tossing bread crumbs to pigeons.
    The freaks dive-bomb each other—going absolutely mad in their attempt to score more than their share of orb. A spectacle Cade seems to enjoy, judging by the way he takes his sweet time doling it out. Preferring to make them fight for it, no matter that there seems to be more than enough to go around.
    “That’s it,” he says, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans, the lined expanse of his palms hovering dangerously close to me. “Show’s over. Feel better now?” He glances among them and laughs. “You certainly look better,” he adds.
    And that’s when I see it.
    That’s when I see the way they’ve transformed into something not nearly as gruesome as they were just a few moments earlier.
    Some of that decayed flesh is intact.
    Some of those broken bones are repaired.
    Some of those missing parts have regenerated.
    Regenerated.
    What the heck is he feeding them?
    I study them again, taking in dark hair, dark features, light eyes … and I know—I immediately know it’s more than a coincidence.
    When Paloma spoke of them communing with their long-dead relatives on Día de los Muertos or Day of the Dead—claiming that they don’t so much honor their relatives as