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They plunge from the sky.
They drop all around.
Emitting horrible, high-pitched screeching sounds seconds before they smash to the ground. Their numbers so great, the sky appears to be vomiting massive chunks of black hail.
I duck my head low—whispering soft, soothing words to my horse—but it’s no use, she’s as spooked as I am. Her eyes rolling crazily, she snorts, whinnies, careening wildly in a vain attempt to avoid the torrent of ravens.
They slam hard onto my shoulders. Pummel my back. Only to roll down Kachina’s side and become a gruesome mess of feathers, blood, and gore under the crush of her hooves.
My horse so terrified, so terrorized, I start singing the mountainsong in an effort to calm her. Remembering the power each song holds, I sing the windsong as well. The two of them blending together until my voice grows tired and hoarse, forcing me to pause for a moment before continuing with a renewed burst of strength.
While it doesn’t keep the ravens from falling, they no longer fall near us. A path has been cleared, allowing Kachina safe passage to race down the road.
The sky finally brightening as we make our way into town. The raven storm halted at last—though its memory lingers.
Like a postcard from the Richters—letting me know the hourglass has been flipped.
Time is slipping through my fingers like sand.
forty-seven
I slide off Kachina, slap her on the rump, and tell her to head back to Paloma’s where it’s safe. Then I stand before the Rabbit Hole, observing a scene of organized chaos, as I fight to get my bearings and try to drum up some kind of plan.
They’ve tripled the number of bouncers working the door, making a big show of stamping all those under twenty-one with the red ink coyotes, yet the moment I make my way in, I see that it’s pretty much a free-for-all—everyone’s drinking, no one is checking.
I glance all around, not the least bit surprised to find most of the crowd already inebriated. Encouraging everyone to drink themselves into a stupor is a well-planned move on the Richters’ part. The more compromised the consciousness, the easier it is to alter the perception—allowing them free rein to do as they please.
A band is on stage, a really loud opening act that has the dance floor crammed with writhing bodies—everyone wearing wildly painted skull masks, along with a wide array of costumes. The entire club decorated in the way Paloma described—with colorful beads and skull masks hanging from the walls, and tables sagging under heaps of beeswax candles, marigolds, and large heaping platters with decorated sugar skulls and homemade bread with bone-shaped pieces arranged across the top, which I think she called pan de muerto.
Though no matter how hard I look, I can’t seem to find Cade, which fills me with worry that I might be too late—that he might already be at the vortex, starting the festivities without me.
“I brought this for you.”
I turn to see Xotichl thrusting a colorful skull mask into my hands that bears large grinning teeth, marigold petals surrounding the eye sockets, and a lavender background—an almost exact replica of the one she wears, only hers has a backdrop of blue. “I figured you might not have one, and it’ll help you blend in,” she says. “Though I’m afraid it won’t save you from Lita and the Cruel Crew. From what I can tell—” She lifts her chin, twitches her nose, returning to me when she adds, “You’ve been spotted, they’re headed here now.”
“I’m amazed at how you can do that,” I say, pretty sure she just grinned, judging by the way her mask twitched in response.
“While I can sense her presence, what I can’t sense is whether or not she’s wearing her Marilyn Monroe skull mask again,” she says, shaking her head when I glance toward Lita and confirm that she is, along with a trashy white wedding dress that’s short, low-cut, and at least one size too small. “It’s her way of honoring Marilyn, while trying to commune with her spirit, and I can never decide if it’s morbid, creepy, pathetic, or all three.”
I watch as Lita makes her way toward us. Her Marilyn mask offset by a blond wig that’s spent a lot of time with a curling iron.
“I think she’s pretty serious about hanging out,” Xotichl says. “Question is—what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to get serious about hanging out with her too,” I reply, not bothering to explain that I’m less interested in making meaningless chitchat and more interested in locating Cade. If anyone knows where he is, it’s Lita. She never lets him out of her sight for too long.
Lita stands before us with her friends just behind her. All of them giving me a thorough once-over, struggling to say something nice when it’s pretty clear I’m not looking my best. “Cool mask—and nice boots,” she finally says. “Not really a costume, but still cool.”
And though I’m tempted to laugh, remembering the scene my boots inspired in the bathroom when I was a lowly cockroach cowering in the corner, eavesdropping on them—I decide to thank her instead.
“I don’t think you’ve met everyone,” Lita says, going into full-on hostess mode. “This is Jacy…” She points to a girl wearing a skull mask bearing the same flaming pink lips she favors in real life, and a sexy bunny suit. “And this is Crickett…” She gestures toward the girl with the best blond highlights of the bunch, whose mask pretty much mirrors Jacy’s except the lips are more red than pink, and her costume is that of a naughty French maid. Then turning to Xotichl, she says, “When’s Epitaph playing?” Making me wonder if she might be sincere after all.
“They’re up next,” Xotichl says, the news prompting so much excitement and chatter between Lita and company, you’d think the news was way more fascinating than it is.
But even though I nod and laugh when I’m supposed to, I’m not really present—not really paying attention. I’m too busy searching for Cade, knowing I need to make a quick exit, find a way to lose them, so I can seek him.
“Who are you looking for?” Lita’s eyes flash from behind her mask.
I shrug in response, but the way she tilts her head and folds her arms across her bridal dress, it’s clear she’s not fooled for a second.
