“He told me this would burn anything. And Mictlan in its entirety. I already tried it out on an island on the living side of things and boy howdy did that place go up like a Molotov cocktail. So I got no reason to doubt that this’ll do the trick.”
“Oh, it will,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “We all have our shticks and that was one of his after he stole it from Xiuhtecuhtli. Before the Conquistadores came we had ourselves a little war. Quetzalcoatl and a handful of others were on the other side of it. He tried to burn the thirteen heavens and only managed Omeyocan, the highest. Killed Ometeotl, the two faced god who made everything. Stars, earth, the other gods.
“So, yes,” he continues, eyeing the flame closely, a scowl creasing his face, “it’ll do the trick.”
Santa Muerte screams. It’s a sound of fury, anguish, pure, unfiltered rage. “You dare bring that thing here? Into my home?” Her body shifts, grows taller. Skin bubbles, splits, pours off her bones like boiling wax. The rain spatters off her skeleton, makes it slick and gleaming in the light. Her finger bones stretch, grow sharp and hooked with barbs on the end. The blade looks tiny in her hand.
Mictlantecuhtli watches this display like he’s already bored with it. “She does this,” he says. “Give it a second.”
Santa Muerte turns her rage toward him. “How did he get this into my domain?”
“I’m assuming he had it in his pocket,” he says.
“Why did you not—”
He puts up a finger in warning. “Don’t.”
She pauses, hand outstretched, bits of liquefied flesh still dripping into the puddle of meat at her feet. She shrinks, skin and pouring back up her frame, torn cloth mending until she’s standing there as before.
“Good choice. The knife, please,” I say, holding out my hand. “And don’t try to stab me with it. You don’t want me to drop this.” Reluctantly, she hands the blade over.
“And Tabitha?” The metal straps holding Tabitha’s arms and legs pop off. Her eyes snap open and she sits up.
“Eric? What’s going on?” She looks down at her open robe, clutches it closed. Her hands are shaking. I wonder if she knew what was going to happen.
“We’re just having a friendly chat.”
“Why do you have the lighter out?” She slides to the floor on my side of the altar. Two humans separated from the gods by a single slab of bloody stone.
“To keep the chat friendly.” I can see her out of the corner of my eye, staring at me.
“The jade—”
“He’s not going to last much longer,” Santa Muerte says. “He has to kill Mictlantecuhtli or be consumed. Tell him, Avatar. Tell him the truth.”
“I—” Tabitha says. “I don’t know what the truth is.” She turns a glare onto Santa Muerte. “You’ve kept it from me. Gaps in the memories you’ve given me. Why? Why were you keeping things from me?”
Something clicks. “Because you’re a part of this, too,” I say. “They’re playing us both.”
“Oh, come on,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “What the hell am I going to get out of this?” He pulls at the skin on his face, the flesh covering his features like a badly fitted sheet. “Why would I even want this?” He steps slowly around the altar, hands up.
“Slow your roll there, chief.” I bring up the knife, get ready to drop the lighter and set everything ablaze. He slows, but doesn’t stop.
“You don’t have any time, Eric,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “I don’t have time. The last bits of you are already starting to change. I know you can feel it. Save yourself. Save me. Kill Mictecacihuatl and this all goes away. You know you have to.”
“I don’t care what happens to you, vermin,” Santa Muerte says. “But if you don’t murder him right now I will make your eternity in stone a nightmare you can’t possibly imagine.”
“She killed your sister,” Mictlantecuhtli says, continuing to get close. “Everything that’s happened is because of what she’s done. I’ve seen your pain. I’ve seen what you’ve been through. Lucy and Alex dead. Vivian hates you. She used Tabitha to move it all along. I know how much you want revenge. Killing her will fix all of this.”
His eyes never waver from mine. He steps in close, the blade inches from his chest. He’s either really confident or really stupid. Possibly both.
“I like his pitch better,” I say to Santa Muerte. “But he’s closer.” I lunge, the knife snaking out to his chest. The blade will cut anything, will kill anything. It should slice through him like a perfectly cooked steak. If I can take him out, hopefully I’ll have enough time to do the same to Santa Muerte before I turn into an ornament for a Zen garden.
That’s when Darius’s spell holding my memories at bay unravels and I remember it all.
___
“The thing you gotta know,” Darius said, “is that Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl can’t leave Mictlan. They’re stuck there.”
“Then how did they even talk to me?”
“Son, you think I’m actually sitting here having this conversation with you? I’m stuck in a goddamn bottle buried someplace in L.A.”