Chapter 17
Marta
Ten days went by with no luck, and we were staring down the barrel of almost two months trapped in the liminal.
We trained in the mornings, the three of us.
Atlas and Wes were skilled at fighting together, having done so their entire lives.
But now that we shared sensations, it became more challenging to get a leg up on either of them.
I anticipated their moves before they acted, and they knew which way I planned to dodge before I’d even thought of it myself.
I tried to keep my worst impulses contained, but after the ritual, I couldn’t help but stare.
Atlas’s muscles had been carved out of stone, all lean ripples and strong curves.
Wes’s hands were capable of immense strength, made even more attractive by how gentle I knew they could be.
Whenever one of them caught me staring, I quickly looked away and ignored the burn in my cheeks.
After breakfast, we huddled together in the library, poring over dusty old books until our eyes hurt. My magic returned a little more each day, bringing with it more sensations of them. Atlas’s reckless hedonism and Wes’s strong, stoic countenance.
I grounded in the woods as often as I could, and they took turns escorting me. The demon didn’t show, and I began to wonder if it was only us that had gotten stuck here. Once I was feeling up to it, we tested the strength of this new connection between us.
We sensed each other’s physical and emotional states, clear as day.
When I pricked my finger with the tip of my knife, both Atlas and Wes felt it.
But when I grabbed their hands to try to pull on their strength the way I’d done before, nothing happened.
It felt like a gaping chasm, a void in space, a rope leading nowhere.
“We’ll keep going,” Wes said, giving his brother a nod.
Atlas didn’t seem happy about it, but he didn’t argue, either.
We researched together. We ate dinner together, and at the end of the night, we drank together.
They told me hilarious stories about their life on the road with their father, living out of cheap motel rooms and getting into as much trouble as they could.
And once we were well past the point of inebriation, we stumbled our way upstairs to my bedroom and passed out in my bed.
It wasn’t even a question or a conversation. After the ritual, it seemed right. After a few days of that routine, I didn’t think I could sleep without them on either side of me. I felt safe in their combined embrace.
Nothing happened…nothing sexual, anyway. Sometimes, we giggled until our sides hurt. Sometimes, Atlas and I fought over the covers. And other times, we simply drifted into unconsciousness to the sounds of each other’s breathing.
Día de Muertos was only two days out now, and with nothing more to show for it, we had officially run out of time. As much as I feared the risk, I couldn’t hold off going to Tita’s any longer.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the white rancher and swallowed the lump in my throat.
It looked the same as it had when I left it, when I’d argued with her about faith and the Virgin Mary and the wisdom of our ancestors.
It had only been two months, but it felt like years ago. I had aged decades since then.
The wind chimes on the porch sang in the wind, and the birds chirped from around me.
But there were no goats in the backyard and no chickens clucking around their hutches.
Where had they gone? Were they not a part of the liminal?
Or were they considered only part of the human realm?
If that was the case, why were wild animals separate from that?
My mind raced with questions I didn’t have the answers to.
“You okay?” Atlas asked, stepping up next to me.
I tried to smile and nodded, walking up the steps to her front porch and through the front door.
God, it even smelled the same—like tea and incense and the comforting scent of her. I almost expected her to walk around the kitchen corner and chastise me for waiting so long to come home.
“Can I do anything to help?” Atlas stood in the center of the living room with a reluctant look, like he didn’t really believe me and hoped I would tell him to be quiet and stay out of it.
His hesitance to complete the rituals still hung heavy between us, making me painfully aware of how much he didn’t trust me.
Not that I expected him to follow me mindlessly, but I was the witch in this situation.
I’d been trained in spells and folk magic since I was a child.
He was a warrior, a glorified hunter, even if I could admit that proceeding with Constance’s books scared the daylights out of me.
“Just keep an eye out,” I said. “Let me know if you see anything strange.”
“You mean like a big smoky demon?” he muttered under his breath.
I ignored him and went to the household altar in the kitchen. In the drawer to the right, she kept a handheld mirror that she used to communicate with our ancestors. I put that on top of the altar and grabbed the matches. As I took one out, I whispered my intention.
“Child of fire, connect me to my abuelita. I need to talk to her. I need to see her. Will you help me?” I struck it on the side of the box and lit the tall white candle on my left, watching as the flame danced and flickered.
The smoke twisted at first but eventually settled into a thick stream, indicating the candle would assist if it could.
I used the same match to light the matching candle on the other side with the same result.
I grabbed Tita’s rosary and placed it in the center of the altar, sprinkling rue for protection, marigolds for communication, and cinnamon for luck.
After pouring holy water in the offering bowl, I said a prayer to any ancestors listening that they would accept this sacrifice and help me in this work.
Then I closed my eyes to ground myself, to pull from the earth and summon the spirit of this house, of any benevolent energies that would assist in this work. It spun through my nerves, sparking in my blood, tingling as it coursed through me.
When I opened my eyes, I gazed into the mirror, letting my focus soften. Staring at myself, I willed my mind to go blank, trying to force myself into a trance. Behind me, Atlas shifted and sighed, but I ignored that, buffering myself in the safe cocoon of this house and my magic.
“Abuelita, hear me,” I whispered. “Tita. Come to me. Please hear me. I summon your spirit.”
My features in the mirror started to morph, my jaw rounding, the skin around my eyes aging and wrinkling.
It’s working. Keep going.
“Tita, can you hear me? Tita. It’s me. It’s Marta.”
The fuzziness of this altered state pulled me under, beckoning me into the same lull of safety as being in her arms. It reminded me of myself as a little girl, wrapping myself around Tita’s midsection when I’d had a bad dream and she held me until it went away.
“Mi hija?” came the sound of her voice. It echoed in my head, bouncing off my mental walls like surround sound. “Mi hija, are you safe?”
“Tita,” I said on a sob. “We’re stuck in the liminal. We need your help.”
“Oh, Marta,” she said. “We’ve been so worried.”
I couldn’t focus on that. I needed to get the point across quickly, just in case things took a turn.
“Tell my sisters,” I said. “Tell them we’re in the liminal. We’re trying to get out on Día de Muertos. Tell the coven to pull us, to summon us.”
“You must pray,” she said. “The Virgin—”
The connection cracked like static on a bad cellphone call, and I winced as an electric shock buzzed behind my eyes.
My magic had started to wane, so I pulled on the earth’s energy harder, yanking it into me to feed this tenuous connection.
I needed to see her. I needed her wisdom now more than ever.
“Mi hija,” came her panicked cry. “Som—ing’s com—”
Her voice faded in and out.
“No,” I growled, forcing more energy into the spell, grimacing as I struggled to hold it. “Tita, come back.”
The vision in the mirror transformed, my abuelita’s face dissolving into a thick obsidian cloud of smoke with dark crimson eyes and a big, toothy smile.
“I see you, filthy mortal,” it snarled. “I enjoyed the sight of you in the woods with your warriors. Your magic is quite delicious.”
I jumped, breaking the connection to my tita’s house before grabbing the holy water from the altar and tossing it on the mirror.
“What?” Atlas said, launching to his feet as he ran into the dining room. “What happened?”
“The demon,” I said, pointing to the mirror. But the vision had faded and the smoke had cleared, leaving only my reflection behind and droplets of liquid sliding down the glass.
“The demon?” Atlas raised his eyebrows and glanced around, yanking his gun from the holster under his arm. “Where?”
“In the mirror.” I explained what happened, trying to stay calm despite all signs pointing to the demon having gotten into my abuelita’s house.
Was it there in the real world? Had I put her in danger by trying to reach out to her?
Or was it here? Was it in the room with us, silently waiting to take us by surprise?
Panic seized my heart, clenching around it so tightly I couldn’t breathe. My lungs struggled to pull in air, and I grabbed my hair, my frantic gaze searching around the space as if I would suddenly see her there.
“Hey,” Atlas said, grabbing my shoulders so I had to look at him. “Hey, take a deep breath with me, okay?”
“Atlas, what if the demon got her? What if…what if…” I couldn’t think straight.
“Listen, your abuelita has been a powerful witch longer than either of us has been alive. If anyone could take that bastard on, it’s her.”
His words registered, but my emotional mind couldn’t latch onto them. All I could focus on was how that evil monster could be ripping her apart at this very moment, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. In fact, I’d caused it.