At that, Wes made a grand show of pursing his lips and shrugging again, suggesting that was all he would say on the subject.
I closed my eyes against the burning ache that threatened to pull me under. I was exhausted and magically drained, and this was the tipping point. The whole time, we’d been feeding the will of the demon. We’d been playing its game like pawns on a chessboard, and now I didn’t know what to do next. We couldn’t get out of here without Wes, and we couldn’t get Wes without yanking the demon out of him, and I couldn’t do that without sacrificing a piece of myself with it. I didn’t even know if I had the magical juice to do it, period, even with Atlas’s help.
“Marta,” Atlas said, coming to stand next to me. But I pushed him away.
I needed time to think. I needed space to breathe. I couldn’t be here anymore. I couldn’t?—
“Give me a minute,” I said, backing away from him. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I couldn’t stand to be in that room with the consequences of my conviction anymore. I’d been so sure the rituals would work. I’d been so confident in Constance’s instructions, and now my carefully laid plans had crumbled through my fingers.
I found myself in the chapel, staring up at the stained glass portrait of St. Michael with his sword raised above his head. Below his feet, a giant serpent wrapped around the trunk of a tree, its head nearly separated from its body. Objectively, the tableau was beautiful, if a little grim. I watched the fading light pour in through the tiny colored pieces, casting the room in vibrant indigos and emeralds.
I’d never been one to put my faith in a God that would so callously snatch my parents away from me. I’d been angry with Him for so long, I didn’t even know where my fury ended and my faith began. But if there ever were a time…if there ever were a place…
I lit a candle and dipped my fingers into the basin of holy water before touching my shoulders, my forehead, and my heart. Then, I fell to my knees right there on the hardwood floor, pressed my hands together at my chest, and closed my eyes.
The words came to me from the depths of my subconscious.
“Padre Nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre; venga a nosotros tu reino; hágase tu voluntad, en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día; perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden; no nos dejes caer en la tentación, y líbranos del mal. Amén.”
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.
I said the prayer over and over again in my ancestral Spanish, remembering my abuelita reciting the words to me when I was just a girl. We’d kneel at the side of my bed, hold our hands together, and wish for God to watch over us, to guard us through the night. After the third time saying the prayer, I switched to Hail Mary, figuring that since I was making recompense, I might as well run the whole gamut.
“Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.”
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus Christ. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.
I imagined the Virgin Mother smiling down at me with open arms, welcoming me back into her embrace after so long apart. Her heavenly warmth enveloped me, soothed away my fears, and gave me strength. I apologized for being so angry, for staying away for so long, and she wiped away my tears with kindness in her eyes.
“I can’t do it,” I told her. “It’s too hard.”
As she so often did when I was a child, she didn’t respond. She simply held me while I cried and lamented my rotten position. I needed to be strong. I needed to find the will to keep going, and I figured since I was standing on hallowed ground dedicated to him, I might as well make amends. I started praying again.
“San Miguel Arcángel, defíendenos en la lucha. Se nuestro amparo contra la perversidad y acechanzas del demonio. Que Dios manifeste sobre él su poder es nuestra humilde súplica. Y tú, oh Príncipe de la Milicia Celestial, con el poder que Dios te ha conferido, arroja al infierno a Príncipe, y a los demás espíritus malignos que vagan por el mundo para la perdición de las almas. Amén.”
St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits who prowl the world, seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
When I was younger and full of religious zeal, Tita and I prayed to St. Michael to watch over my parents, to keep me safe, to ensure no harm came to our family and friends. I called to him now for the same reason. I said the prayer three times and visualized my safe space, the one I went to when I needed to ground.
At first, I was alone. Only me and the trees.
Then I turned and there he was. Just as I remembered him. Just as I’d always envisioned him as a child. He wielded his sword of light and stood taller than anyone I’d ever seen, made even more massive by my kneeling position. When I lifted my chin to face him, he smiled down on me like a long-lost friend.
“You’ve grown,” he said.
“You’ve stayed the same,” I replied, to which he let out a loud belly laugh and flipped his sword onto his shoulder.
When he finally sighed and settled down, he looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “I heard your prayers.”
Perhaps this was all my imagination, or maybe the liminal had finally taken my last piece of sanity, but that seemed insignificant. I’d called to him for courage. What did it matter where I got it from? I’d always believed in signs and messages from divinity, even when I’d spurned them in my resentment. We witches were closer to the ancestors, to the spirits, because of our magical abilities. If Michael the Archangel deigned to talk to me, I’d be smart to listen.
“Forgive me for my lack of faith,” I said. “I’ve been angry. I’ve been vengeful.”
He tsked through his teeth. “You’ve been petulant.”
I swallowed down the hot rise of shame that crept up the back of my throat.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said.
