The men in suits did not say a single word. They were watching them, their hands stiffly holding the leash of each dog in a complicated knot. Their lips were moving, but Tristán couldn’t have heard the words even if he’d wanted to.
José took two steps back, motioning to Tristán and Montserrat to also step back. He was trying to shield them while they crossed the street. The dogs lowered their heads, sniffing the ground and growling, as they slowly made their way to the car. When they had almost reached the Taurus, the dogs edged closer to each other and suddenly seemed to merge. It was a violent, chaotic fusion of limbs, with sinews loudly snapping and bones popping as the two dogs became one larger creature with a single head and four eyes that narrowed into tiny pinpricks.
“Hold this,” José said, grabbing the messenger bag and the cane and slamming them against Tristán’s chest. He managed to clutch both items with clumsy hands while the old man took off his raincoat and tossed that to Montserrat.
Yellow claws clacked against the pavement as the dog-thing shifted and pulsed.
“We should run,” Tristán whispered to Montserrat.
“He said to stay close to him.”
“I know what he said. I also know what I’m seeing. That’s a fucking Cerberus.”
“Cerberus has three heads.”
“Of course! That makes it much better!”
Under his raincoat José López wore a baggy beige sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. He pulled each sleeve up to the elbows, revealing a series of intricate black tattoos that looked like Ewers’s runes. They covered his forearms completely.
“Bag,” López said, and Tristán handed him the messenger bag. The old guy stared at the gigantic dog-thing while his hands searched for something inside until he took out a bottle and poured its contents on the ground. The greenish, viscous liquid resembled mucus and smelled foul. It made Tristán wince in disgust.
“Cane,” López said, and Tristán handed him that, while pressing a hand against his mouth to keep himself from retching.
López grabbed the cane, dipped its silver-plated ferrule in the green liquid, and began drawing with it. Faint symbols that had been carved into the wood of the cane glowed a light green, and Tristán thought that for a second López’s tattoos were also imbued with this green glow, the hue glittering beneath the ink. The sorcerer then folded both of his hands atop his cane.
But Tristán could not observe this strange process with more care because in the blink of an eye the dog was no longer a lump of ink shivering and twisting on the ground. The dog-thing rose, fully formed, huge and lean. Its long snout opened, making it look not much like a dog anymore, but a primeval wolf.
On the sidewalk the men in suits were whispering their incantations.
The creature shook its head and rushed forward, showing innumerable gleaming teeth and letting out a screech that made Tristán slam his back against the cold metal of the car.
From the angle where Tristán stood he did not have a view of López’s face, nor could he hear what he was saying; the snatches of words that reached him were senseless blabbering that were muffled by the dog’s screech as it lurched forward and then took one monstrous leap, landing on López and knocking him to the ground.
The dog-thing growled, fixing its eyes on Tristán, and Tristán felt Montserrat’s fingers digging into his shoulder, holding him in place even though his first instinct was to run.
Then López kicked or elbowed the thing, and the creature snarled, opened its mouth with too many teeth, intent on tearing through the man’s throat, but this must have been what López had expected, for he shoved the cane into the dog’s open mouth.
There was a sudden, incredible splintering of flesh, as if the cane had been acid instead of wood, corroding the creature’s body. The dog’s head became a spray of black liquid that fell on the ground, on Tristán’s shoes, and even on the car.
The rest of the dog dissolved, becoming rivulets of blackness that began to smoke and disperse.
López was trying to stand up, and Tristán helped him to his feet. The man leaned on him, gripping his cane with his left hand and holding it up, as if he were about to brandish a sword. The two men in suits stared at them but did not move from the spot on the sidewalk where they had stood, impassive, watching the dog-things. Their mouths were closed in two firm, angry lines.
“The keys to the car are in my raincoat,” López said. “I would appreciate it if you’d drive.”
Montserrat unlocked the car, and Tristán helped López into the back, sitting next to him. The men in suits started slowly walking toward the car. The leashes were wrapped around one hand, and their mouths opened, whispering a word.
López rolled down the window, reached into his messenger bag, and tossed out a handful of feathers and nails. The men in suits stumbled and glared at them. As Montserrat sped away, López sprinkled more nails out the window, then coughed and fell heavily back against the seat, his hand resting on the messenger bag.
“Where are we going?” Montserrat asked.
“Near the Pemex tower in the Anzures,” López muttered. “My house has safeguards.”
On a window there was a Garfield plush toy with sucker cups, and three air fresheners in the shape of pines dangled from the rearview mirror. Tristán stared at them with incongruous wonder, astounded by the sight of these ordinary trinkets. He was unable to suppress a laugh, which earned him a glare in the rearview mirror from Montserrat. He reached for the cigarettes in his jacket pocket and turned to López.
“Smoke?” he asked.
22
José López’s home was indeed close to the Pemex tower, on a quiet side street lined with houses from the forties and fifties. It had a double metal door painted green that led to a tiny courtyard and then the door of the house proper, which was also made of metal. The elements had nibbled at this door and were eating the paint away. López muttered and took out his key ring, and they walked through a minuscule vestibule and into the living room, which had a fish tank. The curtains were drawn tight, and it wasn’t until Montserrat was right next to the tank that she was able to see its contents: leeches.
“For spell casting,” López said as he placed his cane in a ceramic umbrella stand and the canvas bag on a rattan couch, next to a sleeping white cat. This was no secretive antiquarian’s lair, and López did not look the part of a wizened sorcerer. The living room reminded her of a tacky Polynesian restaurant Tristán had once taken her to.
“How do you use them?” Montserrat asked.
“You can get bones for spells easily at the Mercado de Sonora. But blood is a different matter and some spells require it. When I need it, I use my own blood and the leeches.”
“You let the leeches bite you?” Tristán said, glancing at the tank in disgust.
“Self-sacrifice. It also hurts a lot less than cutting your palm or any of that nonsense.”
Montserrat walked toward a bookshelf, pressing a hand against a spine embossed with gold letters while López went around the room and pulled the curtains with a banana leaf print aside. Then he took off his shoes, sat down, and rubbed his feet with a sigh.