Hungry Ghosts (Eric Carter #3)(64)

“Oh no, he doesn’t lie. He just doesn’t tell you all the truth. He feeds bits and pieces to build a narrative where he’s the good guy, the victim. He’s just an old, trapped Djinn who wants nothing more than to be left alone and make the world a better place. I know him, Eric. I’ve seen what he can do. He’s playing you.”

“Why would he? What does he gain from helping me here?”

“I don’t know,” Alex admits. “Let’s hope for all our sakes you don’t find out.”

“Are you talking to someone?”

I turn to see Tabitha coming down to the banks of the stream. When I look back, Alex is gone.

“Nobody important,” I say. “You look nice.”

She’s wearing a bright red, cotton skirt and a sleeveless, pullover shirt adorned with black and gold calaveras on the edging. A blue and red cloak adorned with black feathers woven into it drapes over her shoulder and she’s traded her shoes for sandals. She’s holding a package wrapped in rough cloth in one hand.

“Thanks.” She chews her lip, doesn’t look at me. “Here.” She hands me the package. The minute I take it I know what’s inside, the Browning and the knife.

“I thought—”

“She’s coming,” Tabitha says. She shows me the cuff on her wrist. It’s glowing and the skin under it is turning red from the heat. “She’s trying to find me and she’s trying to break this. If she does . . .”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. If she breaks the spell then they re-establish their connection with each other. If I understand it right, Tabitha stops being Tabitha. I tell myself I don’t care. That I shouldn’t care. I’m going to kill them both, anyway.

Only I know I’m lying to myself.

In the distance I can see rising dust and it doesn’t take long to make out the men marching toward us. I don’t see any sign of Santa Muerte with them, but if Tabitha can feel her then she’ll be along eventually.

I think for a fleeting moment that Tabitha can run. I have to be here, she doesn’t. But she wouldn’t get far with that cuff on and where would she run to? And why? What would be the point? Eventually, no matter where she is in Mictlan, Santa Muerte will find her.

I had hoped to kill Mictlantecuhtli first. My gut tells me that’s a better bet for fixing me, but I’ll take what I can get. That’s assuming I get a shot.

The only way out is through. I unwrap the bundle, check the Browning and slide it into the holster clipped to my waistband. I hang onto the obsidian knife, grip it tight in my hand, and wait.





The warriors arrive first. Twelve of them, heavy jaguar skins draped over their shoulders, macuahuitls, obsidian-edged swords tight in their hands, grim faces. There’s no point in fighting them, there’s no point in running. If I take one down there are eleven more. If I could risk a spell, maybe.

Tabitha’s not in any shape to do anything, either, not that I’m sure she would. These are as much her people as they are Santa Muerte’s now. The cuff around her wrist turns an ugly, bright orange, the heat blistering her skin. She doesn’t wince, or cry out. There’s nothing but defiance on her face.

And then Santa Muerte comes.

She appears as Mictecacihuatl, fading into view with a scent of smoke and roses. Flesh on her bones, face shifting between skin and a grinning skull until it finally settles on a calaveras in bone-white face paint with turquoise circles around her eyes, lips marked with black lines to simulate teeth. Artistic swirls and small jewels fixed to her skin give the appearance of carvings in bone. Her long, black hair flows down her back, shimmering in the light.

She’s shed her wedding dress and scythe, swapping them for a long, red dress of rough cloth embroidered with skulls along the hem, a red, feathered cloak over her shoulders. From her neck hangs a heavy necklace of small, golden skulls interspaced with squares of green jade. A thin, matching circlet sits over her brow and jade and gold plugs hang in her earlobes.

She is beautiful and terrible and I have never been more afraid of her in my life.

I feel a tightening in my chest. It takes me a second to realize that it’s the tattoo of the ravens. The flesh they’re drawn on is jade now, but I can still feel a pulling, as if the skin were trying to tear itself free. I don’t know what that means, probably nothing good, but I can’t see that there’s anything I can do about it now, so I ignore it the best I can.

“Husband,” she says, her voice different in this form. Younger, musical. She’s looking at where I’m standing but I don’t get the feeling that she’s looking at me.

“You’re looking good,” I say. “I like what you’ve done with, you know, everything.”

She bows her head slightly. “As are you,” she says.

I can’t help but laugh. “You still can’t see me, can you?” I say. The spells in my tattoos make me invisible to her, but they don’t mask sound. I haven’t figured out how to fix that. Pretty soon, one way or another, it won’t matter.

“I don’t have to,” she says. “You leave a distinctive hole in the fabric of Mictlan. I have known you were here since you entered through Isla de las Mu?ecas. I just had to look for an empty space shaped like you.”

She turns to Tabitha. “And you. I am surprised, Avatar, that you would not break the bond my husband holds over you with a thought.”