To boost the final symbol, I plunged my hands into the loosest soil I could find, withdrew a palm-sized mound, imbued it with magic, and placed it on the southern marker of the circle, setting the charm atop it.
The soil here was receptive, probably due to Sexton’s influence. Power crackled through the minerals in the earth like sparks popping off a handheld firework. I was certain it would support my magic as long as I stayed linked to it.
This was how the soil in my garden room behaved for me. How it all behaved for me—except for the soil I needed most.
I dusted my hands off on my jeans and faced the supposed god summoners. I’d changed out of my bloody sweater before my shower—Ida was soaking it in her washing machine—and thrown on a black and white Cheap Trick sweatshirt. My jeans were past their prime, but good enough for night work, and I’d braided my hair to keep it out of my face.
I was ready for damn near anything, and when the rat shifters began chanting, I didn’t think they could come up with a single thing that would surprise me.
Boy, was I wrong.
The second they finished their strange spell, which was an awkward jumble of Spanish, French, and possibly pig Latin, a stink that would’ve made a boar retch filled the atmosphere, and a symbol appeared in the air.
It was a very specific sort of symbol.
An Aztec skull glyph representing the god of death, Mictlantecuhtli.
A booming male voice thundered into the cemetery. “Who dares to summon me?”
The rats prostrated themselves in the dirt. “Oh, glorious god of death and the underworld, hear our petition.”
“What have you brought me as a sacrifice?”
“We lifted our voices in prayer to you all afternoon, sir.”
“A pitiful sacrifice, but one I will accept. What is your request?”
I glared at the spirit floating behind the glyph. “Hey, ‘god of death,’ I’ve got a couple of petitions for you, too. No prayers, but I could say a couple of pretty pleases if that works.”
“Betty,” Kale whispered fiercely, “stop it.”
“Number one:Firefly. I want another season,” I said.
“Oh my god,” Denzel wailed. “He’s going to smite us.”
“Number two: cellulite,” I said. “I’d like it struck from the bodies of every woman in the world.” I stuck my hands on my hips and pursed my lips as if in consideration. “Now, I understand that last one’s going to upset some of the deals Hades and his cohorts have with beauty product manufacturers, but I’m sure you can give them another way to take advantage of women in the name of profit. Can you do that? For an old friend?”
Gnath, servant of iniquity, commander of the second brigade of malfeasance, andformerdemon of Highway 86, turned around. “Well, shit,” he said, in his normal voice.
“Indeed.” I glared down at the rats. “Get up. This isn’t a god, you ridiculous rodents.”
“Then who is it?” Kale whispered.
“A demon. His name is?—”
“Heeey, now,” Gnath said. “Hold on a moment there, earth witch. Perhaps we can make a deal. You keep my name in your pocket, and I do you a favor.”
“You already owe me a favor, demon.”
“Then you’ll have two.”
“Fine.” I toed Denzel in the side. “Get up. Both of you. You didn’t summon Mictlantecuhtli, and there’s no reason for you to be afraid of this one—unless you talk to him outside of a containment circle. He’s a highway demon.”
“Highway demon?” Kale looked confused.
“Or hitchhiker demon. The terms are interchangeable. They pretend to be ghosts with a sob story about a car accident on alonely stretch of highway, but the second you engage them in conversation, they take control of your body and drag you into Hell—or Limbo.”
“C’mon, we had a deal, witch.” Gnath’s spirit form floated to the edge of the circle the rats had drawn in the dirt. “Cool it with the information sharing.”
