Montserrat played her heavy metal music during the drive, therefore smartly avoiding any more conversation. Still, Tristán frowned and chewed on his lower lip, wanting to prod.
She’d brought Ewers’s book with her. It poked out of her purse, and Tristán eyed it as if it were a venomous snake. Despite Montserrat’s protestations he wanted to shred it page by page and toss the pieces in the air as if they were confetti. Not only because witchcraft was creepy, but because he was starting to feel jealous of Ewers.
Jealous! About a dead warlock. But Montserrat’s office was filled with things that yelled “Wilhelm Ewers.” She’d taken photos from Abel’s album and pinned them to the corkboard where she normally pinned tickets from old concerts or movies they’d watched together. Tristán did a similar thing with Karina’s photos, especially when the anniversary of her death came around. He recognized this impulse. It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t good to be leaving Post-its filled with scribbles or to mark pages in Ewers’s book, either. She was too interested in this magic stuff, and not only interested.
She might be good at it.
It gave him the shivers, this whole business of runes, spells, and ghosts. Montserrat was drawing symbols on tables and making things catch on fire like a character out of a Corman flick.
He comforted himself with the thought of a good cup of coffee. Maybe Montserrat would relax after that. She might not be scared, but she was wound up tight, like a piano string that is in danger of snapping. So was he, for that matter. He had yet to have a smoke, and as soon as he was back in his apartment he’d open a window, lean out, and light a cigarette.
The sky above them was a muddled gray, courtesy of the winter season. In a few hours the city would be impassable, with vehicles clogging the streets, but at this time of the day and with folks starting to depart for the holidays, it was drivable. They left the car at the parking lot that was a couple blocks from his building.
Tristán went into his apartment thinking of warm coffee and a change of shirt, but froze as he walked into the living room. It was an absolute mess. His magazines were strewn over the floor, the couch had been sliced with a knife, and stuffing had been pulled out of the cushions. The telephone had been slammed against the floor with such force its plastic shell had cracked. His answering machine was smashed as if someone had taken a hammer to it.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
“They must have come looking for the film,” Montserrat said, rounding the couch and avoiding the shards of a broken cup.
“Who? Alma or Clarimonde?”
“Take your pick.”
They walked slowly, moving toward the bedroom. There, drawers were open, his clothes littered the floor, and his bedsheets had been torn into ribbons. Above the bed someone had painted a familiar-looking symbol in bright red using rough, harsh strokes. The paint still looked fresh. If it was paint.
“Vegvísir,” Montserrat said.
“Fuck,” Tristán replied. He hurried out of the room and back to the living room. He felt as though his body was entirely fluid, devoid of bones, and had to plant a hand against the wall to keep upright.
They were not safe. They would never be safe. They ought to leave the city, now, this instant.
A loud buzz made him practically jump in the air. For a moment he didn’t recognize it. Then he realized it was his intercom. It buzzed again. He gave Montserrat a wary look and slowly pressed his index finger against the button.
“Yes?”
“Listen to me, they are after you. You have maybe ten minutes before they get here, so you need to come down quick,” said a rough male voice.
“Who is this?”
“It’s José López.”
“Who’s after us?”
“Hurry down.”
The intercom went quiet. Tristán turned to Montserrat. “What do we do? That could be a trap.”
“Yeah, it could. But we’ve been looking for that man,” she said.
“He could be an impostor.”
“We’re not safe here.”
“I know that! We’ll call the cops.”
“With what phone?” she asked, glancing at the broken phone.
“The neighbors have phones,” he said, realizing how foolish this sounded. What exactly would they tell the cops? That two different sorceresses were after them? That ghosts hunted them at night and someone had drawn magic runes above his bed, attempting to hex him?
Before Tristán could begin to craft a coherent story, Montserrat was already bolting out the door. Tristán muttered a curse and followed her. She didn’t even wait for the elevator; instead she took the stairs. When they reached the lobby they saw the man waiting outside. He didn’t look like a murderous sorcerer, but then again Tristán had not met a sorcerer before.
José López was leaning on a cane. His hair was peppered with gray, and his beard was almost entirely silver. He wore a navy-blue raincoat that was stained white with what might be bird droppings and frayed at the bottom. He’d slung a battered canvas messenger bag over his shoulder. He looked like the kind of guy who would carry a paper bag and a bottle in his pocket, half a vagrant and half a regular at a dirty, dark cantina.
“Montserrat and Tristán,” López said.
“That’s us,” he said.
“My car is right there, across the street,” the old man said, pointing to a sad-looking Taurus in need of a new paint job. “Let’s go.”
“Look, buddy, we don’t know you; maybe we could go to the coffee shop—”
“Damn it. They’re here. Whatever you do, stay behind me and do not flee. You’ll die on your own.”
Tristán looked in the direction López was staring and saw two men walking their dogs. They seemed ordinary, dressed in suits and ties. The dogs were Dobermans with spiky collars. The only thing that he thought was a bit funny was that they should look so well dressed for a dog walk, as if two bank executives had taken a break to pick up their pets.
Yet as he looked at the dogs they seemed to change, or perhaps it was that the longer he looked, the more he was able to see the seams of their construction. Those were not dogs. Their fur was a liquid black, as if they were etched with a brush. Their eyes, when they raised their heads and bared their razor-sharp teeth, were a murky yellow, the color of a wavering candle. A black liquid, tar-like, slipped down the corner of their panting mouths.
“I’ll handle this,” López said. “Stay close and do not interfere.”
The men undid the leashes, and the dogs sprang forward, rushing toward the spot where they stood, their jaws snapping in the air. Tristán had a clear picture of his demise and raised his hands in a futile attempt to ward off an attack, but López stepped forward and swung his cane, hitting one dog and then the other. The handle of the cane was decorated with the silver head of a bird, and where it touched the dog’s flesh, black ink oozed out and dripped on the ground, then bubbled up, sizzling and evaporating, leaving only a faint tendril of smoke.
The dogs came again, teeth bared, their ugly yellow eyes without any pupils staring at them, and tried to bite José, but he swung the cane a second and a third time. The dogs dripped ink upon the ground and retreated when the silver handle brushed against their skin.