Fated (29 page)

He stands before the wall—or at least the place where the wall was before it became a soft, yielding, grayish-tinged swirl of energy that’s neither welcoming nor unwelcoming but definitely intriguing.

Paloma’s warning repeating in my head:
Under no circumstance should you enter. You’re not yet ready—there will be plenty of time for that later …

Though it’s too late to heed—we’re already in.

The first thing I notice is the darkness.

The second thing I notice is the demons.

Two huge, scary, malevolent beings with the requisite tails, hooves, and horns you’d expect, along with obscenely grotesque faces that appear to be a mixture of animal, human, and some other unidentifiable beast that originated in a place I prefer not to visit.

Cade stands before them, greeting them in an ancient tongue I can’t understand. Presenting the cigarette like some kind of offering, he tosses it to the larger one who wastes no time shoving it into his mouth and devouring it whole—smoldering tip and all—as the other beast looks on with unconcealed envy. His blatant hunger causing me to burrow even deeper into Cade’s belt loop, assuming that if they’ll eat burning cigarettes, they’ll have no qualms eating a cockroach.

Cade speaks, but again the words make no sense. Though whatever it was, it got the demons laughing—if you can call hideous, gaping, fanged mouths flapping wide open before snapping shut again
laughing.
Then after a few more words are exchanged, he nods and moves past them. His step echoing so loudly, it’s as though we’re moving through a hollow tin drum, and it’s only a moment later when I venture out a little farther, take a good look around, and confirm that we are.

It’s a long, hollow tube—the kind they use to build sewers. The soles of Cade’s shoes banging hard against the bottom, making for a sound that’s so unsettling, so unpleasant, I’m overcome with relief when he steps out of the tunnel and onto a dirt-covered area that marks the mouth of a cave.

But unlike the small, spartan cave of my vision quest, this one is large, seeming to ramble and sprawl without end. Consisting of a series of rooms—very well-appointed rooms from what I can see. The one we currently occupy posing as some kind of grand entry.

Cade slips two fingers into his mouth and whistles long and low. Then he waits. Waits for … something. I can’t imagine who or what he expects to find here, though I’m braced for more demons.

But when I see a long-nosed, red-eyed coyote racing toward him—I’m not one bit surprised. Of course El Coyote isn’t just a name—it’s his spirit animal, just as Raven is mine.

Coyote leaps toward him, plops his long, gangly legs up high on his chest as he nuzzles his snout into Cade’s neck. His nose pushing, prodding, sniffing—then, catching a whiff of something unexpected, he darts his face toward me, bares his sharp teeth, and growls.

With no way to defend myself, I burrow into Cade’s belt loop, all too aware that this hard shell of a body will do nothing more than provide a nice, satisfying
crunch
once Coyote’s had his way with me.

“Hey, boy—how’s my boy? Huh? How’s my boy?” Cade pushes Coyote’s paws back to the ground, scratching his head and ruffling his fur like a favored family pet. Then he straightens, pats the side of his leg in a way that urges Coyote to follow. The two of them bounding deeper into the cave until they come to a well-furnished den, where Cade uses his silver-and-turquoise lighter to set the wall torches blazing.

“She’s here,” Cade says, settling onto a red velvet sofa that sits low to the ground. Pulling Coyote closer as he smooths the fur at his crown. “The one we’ve been waiting for, Daire Santos, has finally arrived.”

Coyote growls, snarls, as though he understands—or maybe I’m reading too much into it—maybe it’s just a coincidence. Though probably not—as Cade’s spirit animal, they’re deeply connected.

All I know for sure is that when he shoves that long snout toward me again—when his nose starts twitching and his growl deepens—I’m overcome with relief when Cade misreads the whole thing.

“Not to worry, you know I can handle her.” He lowers his face to Coyote’s, nuzzling him with affection. “It’s just a matter of time until I convince her we’re so much better together. So much better to wage peace and not war. Though she’s tougher than I figured. Prettier too. It won’t be easy to convince her—but then easy is overrated. The reward is so much sweeter when it requires a little conniving—and man is she sweet. Exactly what I was hoping for.”

Coyote throws his head back and howls, spinning in a quick series of circles before he rests at Cade’s feet, tail thumping with anticipation. The move practiced, a much-rehearsed ritual, prompting Cade to make for a large icebox I hadn’t noticed ’til now.

He flips the lid and retrieves a large crystal bowl filled with bloodied, dark, squishy things. The sight and smell of which triggers the coyote into an absolute frenzy.

I peek past the belt loop, determined to get a better look. Overcome by the scent of something so putrid, it kicks the cockroach’s most primal instincts into high gear when he senses what lies just before him: random, chopped-up bits—either animal or human—something that repulses me just as much as it drives the roach insane with desire.

Cade returns to the couch, where he sets the bowl on the glass table before him and scoops his fingers into the sludge. His hand held in offering, tempting the coyote with a heap of putrid, bloodied chunks. Face shining with pride when Coyote slurps it right off his palm with a finesse that’s surprising.

Coyote licks his chops, gives a quick yelp that comes off as a cross between a growl and a bark, then he goes through the whole spinning ritual again—his version of begging for seconds.

The performance causing Cade to laugh when he says, “You know the drill—gather the troops and there’s more in it for you.”

Coyote obeys, streaking from room to room until I can no longer track him. Leaving me alone with Cade who settles back on the couch and readies a snack for himself. Slipping his hand into the bowl, he retrieves a long, stringy bit of
ick
he’s quick to plop into his mouth. Taking a moment to close his eyes and savor the flavor, before leisurely licking his slick, bloodied fingers, and dipping his hand in for more.

thirty-six

I creep under Cade’s T-shirt. Using extreme caution to cling to the 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
resurrect
them—she was also quick to assure me that it wasn’t what I assumed. That it wasn’t the physical bodies they resurrected but more their spiritual essence.

They call upon the energy of the dead and infuse themselves with the dark power of their lineage—an effect that lasts a few days at best … they’re not necromancers, or at least not yet, anyway,
she’d said.

But as I gaze upon them again, I realize Paloma is wrong. Cade
has
brought them back. There’s an entire army of long-dead Richters lined up before me.

“Leandro’s gonna freak when he sees you,” Cade says, his voice nudging me back to the present. “And once Daire’s on board … the whole world is ours…”

I swivel around until I’m peering at him—staring into the eyes of a narcissistic roadkill-snacking psychopath who seriously thinks he can convince me to join him.

This is far worse than I was warned it would be.

I squinch my eyes tight, striving to break my bond with the cockroach, when Cade slams the lid of the metal container so hard it severs the thought. Turning away from his family of freaks, he yells at them to scram, and they do. Not necessarily leaving in the most orderly manner, though they are obedient, leaving no doubt who’s in charge around here.

“Now what?” Cade glances between his watch and Coyote. “Time for a run?” Coyote howls, excited by the idea, but Cade hesitates, scrunching his face when he says, “I don’t know. I should probably get back, keep an eye on things in the club.”

Coyote ducks his head low, looks up at him with sad, red-glowing eyes. The sight causing Cade to laugh softly, chucking him under the chin as he says, “Okay, but just a quick one. I can’t let that Santos out of my sight for too long.”

They move through the place, heading toward a wall at the far end. But just like the wall that led us here, this one is also a mirage that allows us to push through to its other side—staring upon a wide, seemingly endless expanse of desert, with hard-packed, well-traveled sand.

Cade kicks off his left boot as the coyote races excited circles around him, and I hang on for dear life, convinced there’s no way I can survive a run without falling off and getting lost here forever. Even though it’s not technically
me
who’ll be lost but rather the
cockroach,
it’s still not something I’d wish upon him. He’s served me well. He deserves better.

I steel myself. Committed to making the journey, doing whatever it takes to hang on so I can eventually find my way back to the club, where I can deposit the cockroach in a nice, dark, damp spot where he can live out the rest of his days with hopefully no memory of all the wretched things I forced him to witness—when Cade unbuckles his pants.

It’s a move I didn’t expect.

His jeans dropping to the ground as I spring toward the hem of this T-shirt, where I cling with all of my might. Overcome with relief to have nailed my target, when he begins to remove that as well, and I’m swept across his torso, up over his armpit (
ick
)—and then—

“What the—?”

He shrieks.

Or maybe that was me shrieking in my own head, I can’t say for sure.

All I know is right after he yells, “Filthy … disgusting…” time seems to stop as we glare at each other.