I lean in, looking at the screen, when I see the cryptic messages Pax and I received.
“What is it?” I ask.
“206-1941,” she says, with a tearful chuckle.
“Yea, it’s the number that kept texting me and Cil those weird messages,” Pax chimes in.
“I know,” she says, eyes darting between the two of us. “That was myabuela’sbirthday, February 6th, 1941…206-1941,” she cries. “And this…” she begins through her tears. “This is myabuela’sring. It went missing the day she passed,” she says as she slowly glides the ring on her finger.
Pax and I exchange a confused look amongst one another. Lola has been through a lot, so I won’t argue with her. Who am I to rain on her parade?
I look up at Pax, who can clearly see the wheels turning in my head at Lola’s statement, motioning for me to drop it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, admiring the way the black onyx complements her.
“Not as beautiful as ourMorta,” Pax grins, placing a kiss on her lips.
“Hey, she needs to rest still,” I chime in with a smile.
Pax keeps his lips hovering over Lola. “Our girl lived up to her nickname,Morta, the goddess of death, and conquered it.”
She tilts her head, landing another kiss on Pax’s lips, and twirls her ring-clad hand in his scruff.
“Come here, Cil.” She motions for me with her hand. I oblige, leaning in, waiting to kiss the lips I thought we’d never be able to kiss again.
Pax peels his mouth from hers as I waste not even a second and crash into her warm, pillowy lips.
“I didn’t beat death; however, I understand it,” she says cryptically.
“What do you mean,Morta?”
“I’m tired of doing things afraid of the Reapers. I want a life with my two broken wings. I want to do things our way.”
“And how is that,Morta?”
“The Cuervo way,” she says with a devious smirk.
TWO MONTHS LATER…
“QUOTH THE RAVEN…’NEVERMORE’” - POE
Lola
Alive in ruin, comforted in decay, it is here in the now preserved nothingness of Cuervo’s Carnival that I, no, we, are whole.
And as I stand submersed in a pool of angsty concert-goers ready for a show, I finally feel at home, because we have made this place not only our home but a new destination—one where people can come to indulge themselves in the macabre, in more ways than one.
The crowd begins to roar as dense theatrical smoke fills the stage. Lights flicker, and a guttural, raspy grunt erupts from the speakers. Then, the lights cease, but the audience is rowdy as ever, chanting their name.
Their new name.
“Nevermore, Nevermore,” the crowd chants in unison, over and over.
A grin slips from my lips. My hips sway in anticipation of seeing the highly awaited The Nevermore grace the stage.
The chanting continues, until a tapping sound infiltrates the speakers.
Tap.
