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Then another possibility struck me, making me feel sick. Was Brooks a double agent of some sort, playing both sides? Could I trust her not to blab the truth about me being a godborn? Too many people knew about it already. Stupid secrets! They’re life-ruiners.
Hondo turned up some punk rock music so loud my teeth rattled in my head.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Brooks gazing out the window with a faraway look that worried me. Whatever Brooks was wanted for, it couldn’t be half as bad as being wanted for breaking the god of death, darkness, and destruction out of prison.
We cruised up the coast on Highway 101 while Hondo jammed to his tunes. He sang along to some song about final chances and all or nothing. If there were a god of punk rock, he’d definitely listen to this station.
Venice Beach felt like a tightly packed box. Cars were bumper-to-bumper on Venice Boulevard, and drivers honked like somehow that would make the traffic move faster. The place was buzzing. Apartments, houses, and stores were crammed together with only narrow alleys to separate them. Telephone poles and palm trees lined the street. We passed a dilapidated building with a mural on it of a blond girl in roller skates with a thought cloud that read: history is myth.
It will be soon, if the twins don’t help me, I thought.
Crowds strolled casually down the road—people in flip-flops, cutoff shorts, and bikini tops. Some of the guys were shirtless, even. Maybe that was a thing in California, but where I was from? No chance!
As we passed narrow streets, I caught glimpses of bridges arching over water canals. I’d seen pictures of the real Venice. This place was simply a newer, smaller version. The canals disappeared into a tangle of shadowed alleys and it felt like even this place had secrets.
“Take a right on Pacific,” Brooks said. My muscles tensed just hearing the name come out of her mouth. She went back to studying the gateway map. What was she looking for?
“Any gateways nearby?” I asked.
She folded up the map and put it in her backpack. “None.”
Hondo let out a low whistle. “Before this is all done, I better get to travel through one of those gateways.”
Before this was all over I just wanted to make sure the world wasn’t destroyed. I didn’t have a plan for after the twins. I was hoping that whatever they told us would help us figure out our next steps. I didn’t care what Brooks said about them being selfish, obnoxious jerks, or kings of their own magic mafia—I wasn’t leaving here without their secret to defeating Ah-Puch. With only a couple of days left, we were running out of time.
Then a terrible thought grabbed hold of me. “What if Ah-Puch’s already found them?”
“He hasn’t,” Brooks said.
“How do you know?”
“You’ll never find parking close enough,” Brooks said to Hondo. “So park over there.” She pointed to a public lot. Then she said to me, “Because they’re really good hiders. They have the best magic guarding them. No one gets in or out unless they want them to.”
That reminded me of the jaguar jade—the oldest magic in the universe, Pacific had said. What did that mean, and how was it supposed to help me if I didn’t even know how to use it?
Maybe it was a conjuring stone. I tested it by clutching it in my fist while wishing for a stuffed sopaipilla for breakfast. I shut my eyes and held out my other hand expectantly, but nothing happened. No warm doughy yumminess for me.
A minute later we crossed the congested boulevard, then weaved down an alley lined with trash cans before emerging onto the boardwalk.
I had to stop and really take it all in. The breeze smelled like salt and old books. And there were maniac skateboarders (shirtless) zooming by, people on bikes and skates pulling their dogs along on leashes, and a row of vendors selling things: wooden flutes, T-shirts, throwback movie posters (Hondo wanted a Scarface poster but didn’t want to pony up the twenty bucks for it). A rainbow-wigged juggler entertained onlookers while an acrobatic break-dancer competed for his own crowd. A few paces ahead there was a tarot-card reader with dreadlocks, strumming a sad blues song on his guitar.
He sang in a deep low voice: “The prophesied days are a-comin’….Oh, they are a- comin’. Find the shadows and hide, for the days are a comin’….”
I tried not to look at him, because I knew the second I did, he’d wave me over and try to get me to buy a glimpse of my future. No thanks!
Brooks planted her palm on her forehead. “Ugh—I forgot our backpacks in the truck. Wait here.” She grabbed the keys from Hondo and took off.
Hondo saw it as a sign that he needed to go back to try and renegotiate for that Scarface poster. So there I was, only a few feet away from the blues-singing, dreadlock-sporting tarot-card reader. I told myself to stay put and look busy. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, whistled a few notes of “Frosty the Sno
wman” (I had Christmas on my mind, because maybe I was never going to have another one, okay?), and craned my neck to the sky, but it was as if the guy’s song had long arms to grab me. My feet wandered over and stopped right in front of his chalkboard that read: five minutes for five dollars.
He wore silver-rimmed shades, and when I stopped, he smiled, showing off twinkling gold front teeth. “I have your future in my pocket,” he said. His accent was thick and strange.
“Uh—that’s okay.” I didn’t have any money, and even if I did, I was pretty sick of prophecies and doomed futures.
The man’s bronze skin shone in the sunlight. “You are a boy of many troubles. I know where you’re headed.”
As I started to walk away, he said, “The prophecy is coming.”
