You know what’ll happen if you throw a tantrum in the street, Juan said, and Gaspar snivelled a little, but he walked, skipping or even running at times. It couldn’t be easy for him, thought Juan, trying to keep up with a two-meter-tall man, but some things had to follow certain schedules.
The cemetery’s main gates were locked, but that wasn’t a problem. Just a padlock. Juan took it in his hands and traced a sign on it with his fingertips. The breach. The gates opened suddenly, as if he had pushed them, but without making a sound.
Now he had to deal with the cemetery caretaker. Gaspar, he said, I want you to wait for me here; if you move, I’ll know, and it won’t be fun for you. Gaspar shrugged and sat down. He was tired. Maybe he could sleep later on. They had several hours ahead of them. It was two in the morning.
Juan patted the large pockets of his pants and pricked up his ears to locate the caretaker. If anyone had been watching him in the darkness of the cemetery, tall and thin as he faced the main row of vaults, they would have seen him broaden his shoulders in concentration and sniff at the air. Something about him was different: his long fingers moved almost involuntarily, plucking secret strings, and his eyes were unfocused yet alert. He could feel the energy of the double current in his body. Andrés had been an unexpected gift. Of course, that gift wouldn’t guard against intruders, nocturnal visitors, the caretaker, anyone who might catch sight of the two of them there.
He walked back toward the small office. The caretaker was asleep. It was an immense stroke of luck: he had needed to catch him asleep, because he didn’t think he could fight the man. Although Juan looked powerful, he had little real physical strength. The door to the office next to the chapel was unlocked, and he approached the cot where the nightwatchman lay. The man was snoring, but not just from sleep—he was also drunk. Juan smelled the potent alcohol in the air, and it grew stronger when he knelt beside the cot. Ca?a or gin. Something caustic. Was it even necessary to tie him up? Juan thought it was. He couldn’t take any risks. He turned on the flashlight and placed it near the cot. He’d have to act quickly, as this was his last set of batteries. He moved the caretaker’s head so he was faceup: the man didn’t wake, only frowned a little. Juan circled his neck with one hand and found the carotid artery, which was dilated by the alcohol and throbbing forcefully. He massaged it delicately and precisely. The caretaker stirred slightly, but under Juan’s fingers the man’s cardiac rhythm slowed until his heartbeats were so infrequent it seemed they weren’t even there. Juan knew that now he wasn’t only passed out from intoxication: he had lost consciousness. He could wake up in a while, or he could die of bradycardia brought on by the syncope. Juan didn’t care either way. He stuffed the sock that he’d brought with him into the man’s mouth, then tied his hands and feet with the nylon cord that had been easy to buy without raising suspicion （“It’s for a package, I need a good strong one”）， yet was impossible to break without great effort or use of a knife.
Before leaving the unconscious man alone, Juan searched the drawers of a small credenza and took two knives and a pair of scissors with him. They might come in handy. He left the office, and found the chapel door locked. He placed his hands on the lock and it opened for him with a creak. Altar, cross, flowers—everything was clean and in perfect order: the chapel was in use, the cemetery was holy ground. Many were not, and years before, he’d had trouble telling the difference. Christian demonology could work in other spaces, but never as effectively as on consecrated ground. He gathered up as many candles as he could, and also took the candelabra.
Gaspar was waiting right where he’d left him by the front gates, seated and grumpy. Juan recognized the flash of unease and curiosity in his shining eyes when he saw the candelabra. He wasn’t spooked or scared. His father had left him alone at the entrance to a cemetery in the early hours of the morning, and the boy had simply sat down to wait, no matter how sulky he was. No doubt about it, he could be an exceptional Initiate—intuitive, attentive, and certainly more disciplined than Juan. And yet, he wasn’t going to have that life: Juan was determined that his son would not belong to the Order, at least as long as he could avoid it. They would not have that prize.
“I’ve got the candelabra, you carry the candles,” he told Gaspar. The boy obeyed without question. They walked around looking for a flat patch of land, passing the mausoleums and vaults that were clustered near the entrance, as in any large municipal cemetery. Past the grave plots but still far from the wall that enclosed the cemetery, there was enough room to work. In fact, a lot of work had already been done there. Juan, trained and sensitive as he was, felt the tremor from a recent mass grave of unidentified bodies, as well as the remnants of a powerful Afro-Brazilian ritual that had been poorly executed. He chose a spot far from the place that was still littered with feathers, far from the nameless bones. As they walked, with the aid of the flashlight, he and Gaspar had gathered more candles, some almost intact, others small and mostly just drippings. They needed them all. He wasn’t going to use the flashlight.
“Gaspar, I need you to stick the candles into the earth and light them.”
The boy knew how to use a lighter without burning himself. These past months, what with Juan’s surgery and Rosario’s death, he’d had to learn many things, including how to light a stove. Sometimes, it had simply been that no one had the time, strength, or will to heat up his milk. But also, in a fit of fury, Juan had refused to accept help, and no one had dared contradict him. Betty, Rosario’s cousin who lived nearby with her daughter—another sacred child of the Order—had knocked at the door one morning, and Juan had howled at her to go away. She had not returned.
“Put them close by. Doesn’t matter where.”
There were a lot of candles, and Juan was afraid Gaspar would behave like a child and start to play with them, wasting time finding some precise arrangement dictated by his game. Instead, he saw his son obey his orders with enthusiasm and a certain bureaucratic attention to detail. Juan turned around and began to draw in the earth with the knives to make the fifth seal, the one he’d seen with his eyes closed when he was with Andrés. A circle and the letters of the name of the Fifth Spirit, clockwise. Another circle around the name, and inside that, the seal: it was simple, four circles joined by lines in an almost childish design, and three inverted triangles. He could draw it quickly, from memory, without making any mistakes.
The seal was soon ready; the effort it had taken, though minimal, weighed on his chest. Gaspar had lit the candles and was standing awash in their yellow light. Good, thought Juan. He only needed the triangle, the place where the Fifth would appear. He looked at the seal and knew it was going to work, even though he was not wearing white clothes or a cape, there was no incense, and the drawing was only a furrow in the earth, without the blood or golden paint that was called for—though, strictly speaking, this seal should be drawn with mercury. Where on earth was he supposed to get mercury, though? Juan had contempt for what he called the occultist cookbook. One of the candles was giving off a singular smell, it wasn’t regular wax. He closed his eyes and let his body be filled by the energy summoned in the double current he’d acquired with Andrés. It was much more effective than any blade or spell.