The Day of the Dead by Karen Chance Page B

man could. ‘I can show you, if you like.’ He motioned
for the boy who’d been running in and out all night from the back,
clearing off tables and wiping down the bar. ‘Paolo can take over
for me here.’
    ‘ You’re going
out?’
    ‘ But it’s almost
dark!’
    ‘ Are you mad?’
    The voices spoke up from
all directions, but the bartender shrugged them off. He brought out
the shotgun and patted it fondly. ‘ Ocho
ochenta . It’s only a short way. And no one
should go anywhere alone tonight.’
    The murmuring didn’t die down, but no
one attempted to stop him. Tomas watched them leave, the bartender
solicitously opening the door for the girl. His broad smile never
wavered, and something about it made Tomas’s instincts itch. He
gave them a couple of minutes, then slid off his stool and
followed.
    There was little light, with the sky
already dark overhead, the last orange-red rays of the sun boiling
away to the west. But his eyes worked better in the dark.  And
in any case, he could have found his way blindfolded.
    The village looked much the same as it
had for the last three millennia. Many of its people could trace
their ancestry back to the days when the Mayan Empire sent tax
collectors here, to reap the benefits of the same plots these
farmers still worked. The 500- year-old village where he’d grown up
in what was now Peru seemed a young upstart by comparison. It was
gone now, bulldozed to make way for a housing development on the
rapidly expanding outskirts of Cuzco. But although he hadn’t been
back here in almost a century, nothing seemed to have
changed.
    A trail of bright yellow
petals led the way to a small church with crumbling stone steps
overlooking the jungle that floated like green clouds against the
mountains of the Oaxaca. The church was still draped with
the flor de muertos , garlands of marigolds, from the morning service. He went in
to find the same old wooden crucifix on the altar, surrounded by
flickering votive candles and facing rows of empty pews. He edged
around it and paused by the back door, where the sweet, pungent
smell of incense mingled with the damp, musty odor of the jungle.
Beyond it, out in the twilight, he caught a whiff of the girl’s
perfume.
    The church faced the red earth of
town’s only street.  Behind it, the jungle washed up almost to
the steps, except for the area where a small cemetery spilled down
the hillside. It had never been moved despite each summer storm
threatening to wash the bodies out of their shallow graves and into
the valley below.
    Tomas picked his way down a
marigold-strewn path to the cemetery gate, pausing beside a statue
of La Calaca . The
skeleton lady was holding a placard with her usual warning: ‘Today
me, tomorrow you.’ In many such villages, families stayed all night
at the graves of their dead, waiting to welcome the spirits that
returned to partake of their offerings. But not in this one. Only
four people stood among the flower decked crosses and scattered
graves, and only two of them were alive.
    There was little light left, other
than a few burning votives here and there, shining among the
graves. But Tomas didn’t need it to recognize the new additions.
The wind was blowing towards him and it carried their scents
clearly: Rico and Miguel, two thugs in the employ of the monster
he’d travelled a thousand miles to kill.
    ‘ I saw her. She shattered
them with some kind of spell.’ The bartender was talking, while
Rico held onto the girl.
    ‘ Why carry all this?’
Miguel held one of the girl’s guns negligently in one hand, with
the rest tucked into his belt. ‘If she’s so powerful?’
    ‘ I’m telling you, she’s
some kind of witch,’ the bartender said stubbornly. ‘That mage I
sent you this morning was her brother. She came looking for
him.’
    ‘ Where did you take him?’
The girl demanded, her voice full of cold, brittle
anger.
    Everyone ignored her. ‘Her aura feels
strange,’ Miguel said, running a hand an