“Getting an eyelash out of her eye?” my mom interjected, arching a killer eyebrow.
“Never mind,” Raffe muttered. “Sorry about that. I’ll catch you in a bit, Santana. Sorry again. Really didn’t mean for… never mind. I’ll stop. See you soon, okay?”
I smiled. “See you in a bit.”
“He seems… nice,” my mom said, as soon as Raffe had vanished. “A little jumpy, maybe, but he’s cute. Interesting eyes. So, what’s going on with you? I presume that if you’re munching on one another’s faces like that, there’s something more to this than just a fling? I hope you’re not giving away the milk for free, Santana. I brought you up better than that. Be the cow that men want to buy, you understand?”
“Nope, not sure I understood a word of that. I’m a cow now, am I?”
“It’s metaphorical, and you know it. In fact, I was just saying to your father the other day, before you Purged in front of everyone and gave us all a heart attack, that you were looking extremely beautiful. It must be all these talks we’ve been having about you coming home—you’re blossoming, ready to return to Mexico like a desert rose, opening to the first droplets of rain after a drought.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. “Where do you get this crap?”
“Watch your mouth, mi hermosa. You’re not too old for a smacked backside.”
“You’ve never smacked me in your life. I doubt you’ll start now.”
She narrowed her eyes, meaning business. “I brought the slipper, just in case. Never travel without it.”
“Listen, what you and dad get up to in your spare time is entirely up to you. I don’t ever want to hear about it. You could not afford the counseling.”
“You’re evading the subject, Santana. What is he to you, hm? What are his intentions? Is he worthy of you? I know what these Levis are like—a snaky, oily, slippery sort of folk. Raffe doesn’t seem too slimy, but I can only go by what I know of his papi. There’s a snooty flamingo of a man.”
I frowned. “Flamingo?”
“All show and no substance. Poses about in lakes on one leg, squawking and making himself look like Mr. Big when he’s probably Mr. Small.”
“Mom!”
“What? I have a sixth sense for these things. Now, stop stalling. I have to know if he’s worthy of you,” she said. “You know, you were born under a blood moon, on the shores of Lake Catemaco, bathed in its mystical waters from the moment you took your first breath. When you cried, your little lungs announcing your presence, the wolves howled back, and the eagles spread their wings in reverence. You are wild and graceful and powerful. You are the beating heart of the Catemaco Coven.”
I shot her a look. “Do you know how many times you’ve told me that story?”
“It doesn’t make its message any less potent. Your ancestors tinged the moon with red that night, letting their blood flow to show that you were special—that you would bring our family to greatness, like no other before you.”
“I bet all the moms say that to their daughters.”
“They do not, Santana. Being a smartass doesn’t suit you. You were not born to the squeal of braying donkeys, so do not act like one.”
I sighed, knowing she wouldn’t leave me alone until I revealed every gory detail. “I don’t know where things are going with me and Raffe. We’re just starting out, getting to know each other better. That’s how normal people do this kind of thing, Mom. They date, they talk, they discover things about each other that they like, and then they move on from there. We’re still in the honeymoon phase… although, we’re barely at that. It dips here and there in the romance stakes, but he’s a complex kind of guy.”
Obviously, “complex” was putting it mildly, but what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Mom, he’s part demon and I’m kind of digging the fiery bad boy in him, too. What’s a woman to do, right? We love a bad’un. All I need to do now is get the demon side to stop talking about peeling off my flesh, and we’ll be peachy with a side of keen. Best of both worlds. Bing, bang, boom.
“That doesn’t sound very promising, Santana,” my mom replied, deflating my puffed-up pride in Raffe. “You need a man who can challenge you and stand at your side, as an equal. Jumpy and cute probably doesn’t cut it. You know what we expect of you. One day soon, you’ll marry and you’ll take over the Catemaco Coven. That has been your destiny ever since the doves landed on the edge of your basket, woven by the ancient Santeria of old, and cooed a lullaby to soothe you to sleep each night.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I said bluntly. “Although… don’t you think all of this marriage stuff is a little backwards? Fair enough, it made sense when the coven needed protection, and they needed strong leaders to follow, but everyone’s cool doing their own thing. They don’t need strong leaders, and they definitely don’t need married ones. Why can’t I just do it on my own? What difference does it make?”
My mom reeled back as though I’d just told her that her favorite telenovelas weren’t real. “That isn’t the way we do things. There are expectations. They’ve been there all your life, so don’t act surprised now. You’ve always known that this day was coming.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
She sighed. “No, it doesn’t, but that changes nothing.”
“Agree to disagree?” I said with forced brightness.
“Santana, this is serious.”
“And I’m serious. You can’t keep ramming this marriage thing down my throat, because I’m about ready to choke on your damn expectations. Let me come to a decision in my own time, because if you don’t, the last thing you’ll see of me is a cloud of dust as I run full-pelt in the opposite direction. And you know I’m speedy as all hell.”
She shook her head. “I wish you wouldn’t use such vulgar language, Santana. It doesn’t become you.”
“This isn’t Regency England, Mom. You’ve heard me say far worse,” I shot back. “Hell, I’ve heard you say far worse when you’ve had one too many tequilas around the dinner table. Do you remember that time you told grandma to go—”
“Don’t you dare say another word,” my mom interjected sternly.
I laughed. “Good times, eh?”
“She didn’t speak to me for a month after that.”
“Maybe you should have asked those doves to coo an apology. I bet that would’ve worked like a treat.”
“This rebellious streak is your father’s doing, you know—he spoiled you. I may never forgive him for it.”
I grinned at her. “And I’ll always thank him for it.”
“Speaking of your father, we—”
I covered my ears dramatically. “If it’s about that slipper, I don’t want to hear it.”
“No, it’s not, you cheeky devil,” she replied, her tone exasperated. “We brought you a gift, to celebrate your first Purge. We were hoping to give it to you once you announced your engagement, but this seemed like as good a time as any. A Santeria’s first Purge is a very special thing, and it deserves a reward.”
I looked up at her in surprise. “A gift?”
“Ah, that got your attention,” she replied with a smile.
Delving into her bag, she pulled out a wrapped parcel and handed it to me. I tore at it like a woman possessed, revealing the beautiful present underneath. It was a blank journal, intended for the writing of a Grimoire. The cover was a burnished, bronze leather with shimmering blue stones embedded in the material. They trailed up the spine and across the front like the wisps of my Orishas, weaving in and out of the embossed shapes of a lake with a full blood moon above it. I was surprised to find a stylized version of Quetzi at the bottom right, representing my Aztec heritage. Still, the whole thing suited me perfectly. I couldn’t have designed it better myself.
“Thank you so much!” I gushed, clutching it to my chest.
“You must choose the spells you put in there wisely, for once they’re written, they can’t be undone,” my mom warned.
An idea drifted toward me through the haze of my Purge-weary mind. I remembered what Kadar had said to me about talking to a Child of Chaos face-to-face, the way folks used to. If my mom wanted me to be backwards, abiding by the old ways, then this was the perfect compromise. For my first act as Grimoire-writer extraordinaire, I would write a spell to summon a Child of Chaos.
I had no idea how to even start writing a spell like that, but determination was a pretty damn good motivator. I’d find a way to attain the right knowledge and the necessary Chaos juice to get it going, and with a little help from a certain Ms. Merlin, I knew we might be able to get it on its proverbial feet.
I also knew it could end up being my first and last spell in the Grimoire. But it seemed like a risk worth taking.
Thirty-Five
Harley
I crouched in front of the glass box and tapped gently. The feathered serpent slithered toward me, its violet eyes peering at me with curiosity. Its tongue lashed against the smooth interior, and a soft hiss formed condensation on the glass. I smiled as it ruffled its white-and-violet feathers, its bright-blue-and-fuchsia scales rattling together in something like contentment.
“How can you gawk at that thing like it’s anything close to cute?” Wade asked, pulling a face.
“Because it is. This thing is adorable!” I glanced at him, amused by his aversion. “What’s got you so creeped out about it? Not a reptile fan?”
“Not a Purge beast fan.”
“Are you saying you’ll just ignore yours, when it comes?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t get attached to it, that’s for sure.”
“Looks like you’re in the minority here,” I said, nodding at Quetzi, who was nudging the partition between his box and Santana’s Purge beast. “Quetzi loves it, I love it, and Tobe is head over heels. And here you are, terrified of a little snake.”