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22
The hot chocolate came ladled out of a little pot sitting on Monica’s stovetop, smelling faintly of cinnamon. I accepted my mug gratefully, something about being held captive by skeletal fingers and the cold of the night making the hot chocolate especially appealing. Quilliam accepted his own mug, peering into it out of one eye like it was poisoned, or like it was about to explode.
“I figured I’d be up all night waiting for someone to come and kill me,” Monica said after taking a cursory sip from her own cup. “So I made up a batch. Go on, try it. It’s not poisoned, I promise you. I could have killed both of you if I wanted. I’m not going to do it with some hot chocolate.”
It was the good, thick stuff, too, the Mexican kind, made out of tablets of chocolate melted with milk on a hot stove, whipped to give it more body. I couldn’t help sighing with pleasure after just one taste. It did my bones plenty of good, sapping the cold right out. Quill watched me as I sipped, only partaking when he saw that I hadn’t dropped dead or puked my guts out. He pressed his lips together as he swallowed, then nodded at Monica.
“It’s delicious,” he said grudgingly.
“Thank you. It’s a family recipe. A little extra sugar, a little spice.” Monica set her mug down with a thud, glancing across her low coffee table to where the two of us were lounging on some alarmingly comfortable sofas. I had to admit, that wasn’t how I’d expected the night to go. “Now. Speaking of family. I’m going to guess that my abuela sent you to murder me.”
I scratched the outer rim of my ear. “Well, murder is a strong word, really. She just wanted me to retrieve the Obsidian Rose, bring it back to her at the retirement home.”
Monica rolled her eyes, then shook her head. “Ay, there’s really no stopping her, that woman. And I suppose she told you that I’m torturing her by keeping her alive through some cockamamie deal with the Lady of the Dead.”
Quill perked up, his back straightening even as his forehead wrinkled with a frown. “And how could you possibly know that?”
“Because this isn’t the first time she’s tried to have me killed. Isn’t it obvious? Grandma played you. The both of you.”
Quill and I exchange cautious glances. Just who the hell were we supposed to believe now?
Monica stretched out her hand, studying her fingernails and licking the rim of her teeth. “Let me guess. Did she offer you a large sum of money to do the job?”
My mouth quivered as it struggled to form words, but I stopped myself in time. There wasn’t any point telling her how much Leonora had offered us, was there? “Yes.” That was all I said. Quilliam filled her in on the rest of the details, including the bit about the familial curse keeping Leonora alive.
“Gentlemen, the only truth to this story is that the Obsidian Rose is indeed a family heirloom, an artifact passed down among the women. But everything else is a lie. The greatest one is how I’m unfairly keeping Grandma alive. As if the old bat hasn’t lived long enough. I have to pay to keep her there, you know? She can die any time she wants. I’m not joking. She’s choosing to keep herself alive.”
I slumped into the couch, studying my thumbs as I struggled to figure out the situation. “So the whole thing about the Obsidian Rose and stealing it for her. That wasn’t about her ending her life, then?”
“Of course not. Grandma wants the Rose to negotiate a new bargain with Mictecacihuatl. That would remove me from the position of power, possibly even kill me if she plays her cards right. But I’m the next in line. I don’t care if she wants to live forever, as long as I get the respect and role I deserve as a priestess of the Lady of the Dead. This whole thing is a trick. Leonora is trying to usurp the power that she was supposed to have passed on to my mother, and then to me, long, long ago. Her time is up, and she refuses to accept that.”
Quill leaned back, folding his arms. “And how do we know that you’re telling us the truth yourself?”
“You don’t. I have no expectation that you’ll trust either me or my abuela at this point. You’ll just have to decide for yourself. But as for her attempt to oust me – I think I might have an idea.” The corner of her lips quirked into a smile. “And a counteroffer.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. I’m not sure I like where this is going.”
“It’s either that or I fill this house with poison gas,” Monica purred. “That I’m immune to, by the way. Both of you will take a dirt nap. I won’t. Death magic.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her. “Is that true?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not. My point is, at least hear me out. I need to get Leonora to stop scheming, and I’m sick of finding strange men digging around my bush.” Quilliam snorted. Monica glared at him. Then she glanced at me, giving me a quick once-over. “At least this time the strange man was kind of cute.”
I lifted my hot chocolate to my mouth and took a huge gulp, fighting to hide the fact that I was blushing.
“So here’s my deal. I need you to retrieve some of Grandma’s hair.”
“Sounds simple enough,” I said.
“Too simple,” Quill growled.
“And you would be correct to assume that. I’d warn you not to go plucking it right off her head.” Monica ran her fingers through her hair, retrieving a tiny, ornate comb from somewhere within the forest of its curls. “Look for one of these. It’s called a peineta. She likes to keep her hair up with it.”
I tilted my head. “Couldn’t we just as well bring you a hairbrush?”
She scoffed impatiently. “Of course you could. Or a bobby pin, or a barrette, hell, even a scrunchie, if she somehow uses those. The point is, I need at least one strand of her hair.”
“And what do you plan to do with it, exactly?” Quill said. “Pretty common ingredient for curses, isn’t it?”
