The brim shadowed her face, but not enough to hide the pull at the corner of her mouth.

Being close to him felt like standing in a current. Subtle at first, the kind that slides around your ankles and pretends it means no harm. But it swelled as he leaned in, drawing her in with the pull of river eddies that remember every stone they ever touched. Moved so treacherously and whispered of surrender. She could almost hear it in her ears, the hush and swell of it, pulling her off her feet, coaxing her toward the undertow that was him.

The light from the candles flickered over his face, breaking him into ripples and reflections, as if he were only half real, half memory. For a heartbeat, she thought of letting it take her. Of seeing how deep it ran. Daniyah tilted her chin up, leaned close enough to taste the lime on the air between them. Her eyes flicked to his mouth before she caught herself. A small breath, sharp through her nose, and she stepped back just enough to break whatever it was that had gathered there.

Then, with a slight shake of her head and the faintest smirk, she plucked the hat from her hair. “Brujo” she said. The hat slip from her hands back into his head. “I don’t wear a dead man’s hats,” she said "mala suerte."
 
A smile, neath the blue hat, and its proud feather stirring. "Ay que suerte la mia," he said soft as a breeze over a calm river's bank. All humm of libélula wings against the air that was their breath. He clutched the cap, just to keep from falling over."Un brujo," gave the cap a tilt, its point hung hawkish over his missing eye. "let to hear such wisdom," Green glint all the brighter. His nose full of bright citrus, and the tingle of chiles picosos there on his lips. "de esa voz tan tierna y dulce, como azucar quemada," The layered smoke of all the burning herbs of the night of Lantern Flowers. "Drowned as I am in the site of you," he bent, just so, lift up his basket of ofrendas. Turned.

Set after the techichi who had run off. Its huellas still shimmered to life along the path it took. Garrod stopped at the end of a long step, looked over his shoulder and caught her eyes. Tilt of the head to follow. The green pawprints turned to golds, and blazed to reds. Cooled to purples, and blues, and roiled back again, all littlest storm clouds burned by the setting sun.

Along the line of papel picados stirring in the lazy wind, rested a pair of colibris. Nestled against each other, and the darkness of the night. The River Techichi growled. Still cheweing on its lime. Noticed its Storm twin had left. Looked about with its eyes as bright as the stary sky, and dark as the mountain god's mirrors of smoke. Bark barked and hurried off.

It was El Callejon Candelero, where the artisans plied their trade. From candles made to smell like wine and honey, to effigies of patron gods carved from the sacred copal tree. Its warm wood had citrus with its scent. Its soft flesh gave easy to the way of carvers knives.

Artistas drew portraits of loved ones and maquillaje could be found in every color across the stalls. Painted on the faces of ninos y viejos all the same. Deft hands smudging the colors on with fingers warm as stones still bleeding sunlight. Whilst others still stirred the winds with fine brushes made from furs of zorros y zorrillos.

People milled about, laughing and sharing stories as they swigged on mugs full of pulque and orxata. Even coffee.

One stall sold hot drinking chocolate. Thick and frothy. It was poured from a tall vat, and into earthenware cups. All slosh and swirl. It was made with masa de maiz, piloncillo, and fresh milk. Nuts were ground up in molcajetes, and stirred into the potions. Lanced with cinnimon sticks, and sprayed with orange zest there over the cups as each steamed with inviting delight.

"Champurrado," Garrod said, nose to the wind, and voice full of a warm and achey want. "The smell alone, te calienta los huesos," he said, like a swirl of steam. Looked to her. "You have to try it," so he got two.

The techichis ran in bolts and crashes of color and wagging tails. Little feet kicking up the lantern flower petals there in their wake.

"You know," Garrod stepped easy beside Daniyah. Warm cup cradled in his hand as they milled about. "We can pick up some salchichas on the way back," little smile on his lips. Head still swimming from his dice game. From the smells. And her. "Some of the stinkiest cheese we can find," he laughed let his eye fall to her. "Some wine," grinned like a spark. "Sinns would hate it," but there was no malice in how he said it. Just the love still in a boy's heart. "Though he did always love drinking with the old Hook," softened some as they kept their stride. Looked over his shoulder. "Nomas no le digas que te dije," hint of teeth beneath the shadow of the hat.
 
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She took a deep breath, like you do when you see a big wave rolling in towards you. Her chest rose slow, like a tide drawn by the moon. Filling her lungs with his scent, lime and chili and the faint bite of tequila, where his collar still was wet. Lantern lights flickered over his face. Amber, gold, then red, painting him in colors sacred to the dead. She saw Tlachinolli in him, the sacred fire and water that birth all things, that destroy all things.

Her lips parted. A hand twitched at her side, aching to reach for him. And then.. he slipped past her. He moved with that lazy, drunken grace of his, all smile and nonchalance, and grabbed his wicker basket as if he hadn’t just pulled her under and left her gasping. Just like that, the wave broke. The world came back sharp, the laughter of the living, the soft murmurs of the dead, the glow of candles climbing toward the stars.

Daniyah exhaled hard, tasting smoke and sugar on her tongue. Lingered behind a moment. Watching the candles flickered in rows along the shrine, their flames bending low as the ancestors leaned in to watch the food served. Her eyes followed Garrod as he wandered into the lights of El Callejón Candelero, his feathered hat bobbing among the crowd like some bright bird let loose. "I'm drowning already," she mumbled to the night, shaking her head.

Adjusted her sweaty grip on the basket handle before she followed him. The pale gaze caught on the flicker of motion above the swaying garlands. Two colibríes, their feathers glimmering like shards of jade and turquoise. Nestled so close their tiny chests rose and fell together. The wind toyed with the bright paper banners, the birds swayed gently, cradled in the breath of the ancestors. It was enough to make her scoff softly under her breath. “Ay,” she muttered, voice low enough only the spirits might hear. “I know what you’re trying to tell me…” The birds beat their wings once, brilliant flashes of green and gold.

The shimmer at her boots. The techichis, their fur alive with colors that pulsed brighter than any jewels, scampered around their feet. Darting around Garrod, yipping with the joy only spirits could hold. Daniyah moved through the crowd like a shadow made of mist and silver, catching snatches of songs about lost lovers, about death and laughter and reunion. Garrod was at the stall ahead, the candle-maker’s daughter already charmed by the sight of him.

"Is it true that Sinns managed to set his boots on fire in the middle of a fight?"

An old man painted shapes on the candles in the stall, tracing the sigil of Xólotl, del fuego y el relámpago, vespertina, the guide of souls, and Daniyah felt the hair on her arms rise. She blew across the rim of her cup before taking a careful sip. The chocolate was thick and spiced, sweet enough to soften her face, and melted the smirk tugging at her mouth into a soft smile.

A faint laugh trembled on her nose. “Maybe Brayan will come drink, laugh at the cheap wine, and tell some of his bad jokes?”


She fell into step beside him as they turned toward the road back, baskets heavy. Each step echoed with ghosts: of Brayan’s thundering laughter, the swagger of Sinns, of her own promises, of the man walking beside her who had hurt her and somehow still held her heart.

Wanted to pull him into the shadow between the stalls, press him against the cool adobe wall, and taste the warmth of him again. If only to stop the pain for a breath. But she didn’t. She only tightened her grip on the basket and looked straight ahead, to the house waiting for them at the end of Terminus Road like a dark mouth against the moonlight.

"Crees que abrirá la puerta ahora?"
 
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There behind the candle seller hung a great mask. Carved from the heart of a copal sagrado. Its serpentine maw hung ajar and bared its welcoming fangs that curled like unfurling scrolls. Its painted scales glittered with the light of so many candles. Like earthbound stars, twinkling in the gentle-now breeze of the tempestuous night.

Garrod bartered.

All smiles and ease as he picked out the flames of tribute and memory. Fiery scents, all chile y madera dura. Sticks of incense, sculptures of wax. And a grinning skull, the candle-maker's daughter promised smelled of wine and honey once the wick burned down low, and the flame guttered its song. For an extra few silver, she even threw in a little rough spun sack, with a hemp rope for him to sling it all in.

Is it true that Sinns managed to set his boots on fire in the middle of a fight?

Garrod laughed. Sonrisiente como una nube en el viento. All cloud caught in the wind. Warm as the distant sun, long set behind darkling hills.

The old candle maker arched a brow at that. There beneath the wavering feathers of the great rain serpent. Patron to the artists, keeper of wisdom. His hand steady as he pushed and pulled the stroke through the relámpago's jagged scar. Its turquouise paint glowed like an open door. A road to follow. A window that let the living, so bound to the soil and the stone of earth, visit the heavens, so high on all the currents of those who came before.

Whispers and waves that stormed and crashed with voices for all to hear. For all to feel. Across the bones, and skin. In the very blood that rivered through arms and fingers, down spine and stomach. Rooted through the toes that tapped with the rhythms of it all, como castañuelas. But to which so few listened. There for but a moment. Todo un rayo dentro la oscurridad. A pulse.

"We can ask him," he said brightly over his shoulder. Garrod gave the girl her coins, and his thanks. For a deal well struck. "Trato bien echo," he said before he turned with his haul, and slung it over his shoulder. Grabbed up the champurrado and strolled up beside the silver tempest whose currents so dragged him under.

"Maybe he will," he said about Brayan. The sweet skull snuck onto the flower basket. "And maybe Sinns will groan in that way of his," Garrod made the sound, lips twisted half between grin and grimace. Angustia y humor mezclados juntos. "Pretend like it didn't pluck at the strings of his belly before he takes his next drink,"

Garrod cocked a brow, with a tilt of his head. Bones still warm from the chocolate. Hurts still dulled by the tequila, but hitching up as they moved on, step after step, less easy to take. But the flowers still glowed, and he remembered all the smiles he had stolen from her.

The little laugh that tittered from her nose mixing with the sweetness of canela, and the earthly body of the cacao y maiz. Couldn't forget the way the her eyes had shined their bright moon's light on him. Like he was something worth all the glory of the stinky cheeses, and fatty sausages they carried. To be washed down with cheap wine, and enjoyed with laughter and stories.

"Pues," he said like a splash, all frog into the currents. Stepped all gentle sway. Nudged her with his shoulder, soft. "Veremos juntos?" Coiled his arm about hers, easy as a snake dragging itself up a tree.
 
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The tall priest appeared as though he had stepped out of the underworld itself. Bells on his ankles. His skin was the color of dark clay, cracked with white paint that traced the bones. Vertebrae, ribs and the spiral of the heart. One eye gleamed behind the mask of a flayed dog’s skull, the muzzle stretched in a toothy snarl, the eye sockets rimmed in gold. His headdress was no mere ornament but a small crown of obsidian blades, bound together with cords of dried maguey and crimson feathers of the quetzal.

From his neck hung tiny skulls carved from jade, each one hollowed to hold a coal of incense. The air around him was thick, heavy with copal smoke and the musk of burning marigolds. He looked at Daniyah first. Then his gaze slid past her, to Garrod. And when it did, something in the air shifted. The candles flickering in all the stalls bent toward the priest, their flames long and blue.

“Ehēcatl, breath of the storm... Tlāloc, the rain that feeds and drowns... Mictēcacihuātl, who opens the door to the underworld. But only Xólotl walks between...”

Two hairless itzcuintli, their skin oiled and painted with spirals of blood and ochre, took their place next to the priest's feet. The two dogs watched Garrod with unblinking eyes, their tears glimmering like coins dropped into deep water.

The priest stepped closer, bare feet leaving footprints of ash on the stones. “The fallen star. The betrayer who pitied mankind. You carry his echo.” The itzcuintli began to whine, tails low, as if mourning. In their throats was a sound like wind through tombs.

He circled Garrod once, the obsidian blades, clinking softly like chimes. The priest raised his hand and pressed his thumb to Garrod’s brow, leaving a black smudge of soot there... a mirror to the void where his other eye had been.

"You are his child, hijo del relámpago, born of storm and sorrow."
 
El viento robo el aliento de sus pulmones. Breath pulled out from the cave of his mouth there along with all the trails of blue candle flame smoke. His green eye glazed over as the black smudge sunk against the bone of his skull. All sizzle and spice as it smoked.

"You are his child, hijo del relampago, born of storm and sorrow."

And oh how the fiend laughed as the mirror came open. The shard of obsidian that had so stabbed itself there in the dark of his mind, swirled, and rippled like smoke.

The cloth of moonmoth silk, so soaked in the ash of copal coals and the ground up bodies of mairposas ladronas, burned away in a wash of blue flame.

The stitched together skin there in the ruin of his sacrifice. His offering, alight with the stitching of lightning that bounced and skipped like the Techichis twins of River and Storm. Scars undone. The gentle tear of gnarled flesh come open at obsidian's edge. Blood run there. Fresh and red. Turned to orange and gold, like the petals of the cempaxochitl. Hissed to violent green.

Like all that new life that bloomed amidst the spring. Pale and bright for all the hunger of the sun. Spiraling with want in the wind. A green eye, all leaf and current of washing flame, blazed to life in the black hollow of Garrod's missing eye. Half his face split into grin. Green fire spit out from the gaps in his teeth. The other half lost in the haze of a smoke born dream.

Todo perdido en la tormenta.

Right hand crushed the the earthen ware of the champurrado. Its sweet smelling chocolate splashed down against the cobbles before the priest. Dotted with the obsidian flecks of blood.

"Ay, pues mira, hombre sabio," a voice Garrod's, and not his at all, said at once in a crackle of stormclouds and ripple of flame. "You made me spill my drink." A flick of the right hand. The left still anchored at his side by the basket laden with ofrendas. Tethering his bones down to the earth with all the things they had collected so far. His back, pesado con las velas para los muertos. Still waiting to be lit.

The green eye of fire, dulled in its resplendance as it shift. Only an echo.

A reflection passed through the smoke mirror stabbed there into the red roots of Garrod's bloody memory. The fallen star, weakened by that painful kiss. Sweet and warm, cold and bitter, all tempest on his tongue.

The evening stars's colors looked but pale shadows of the brilliance that had trailed the techichis, and flashed across the colibri's wings. Still, that horrid green ghost set its eye on Daniyah. The fresh wounds about the still raised right hand, stitched themselves together with the lick of sharp emerald tongues. The scarred and ruined flesh of Garrod's right hand trembled and twitched. Rattled like a cascabel serpent's tail against the painful ritual.

Feet did not move. Lungs, hardly drew breath. Like a drunk, caught sleep walking after a bender, Garrod's body swayed.

"Been a while," the fiend said, all teeth and delight. "Brujita."
 
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The priest had already turned away, his itzcuintli padding beside him, heads low, tails twitching uneasily. The echo of his words rang in Daniyah’s skull. Hijo del relámpago. Born of storm and sorrow.

The laughter clawed up from the pit of the world. Daniyah froze where she stood, the smell of incense and wet iron bleeding into the sweetness of chocolate and marigolds. The moment that laugh hit the air, everything inside her shut down. Her blood turned to glass. The cobblestones shimmered emerald green where Garrod’s blood had fallen. Her hand trembled around her own cup.

She looked at the half of his face swallowed in stormlight, at the smile that wasn’t Garrod's. The fiend’s grin, hungry, familiar, almost tender in its cruelty. Been a while, brujita. Her pulse stuttered, and then came fast, hammering in her ribs. How close she had come to dying beneath that same voice.

Pale eyes stared at Garrod. The twist of his mouth, the light behind the socket, too bright. The green fire from the rivers of the underworld.

How could she have been so stupid?
She had forgotten for a moment. Forgotten what he carried inside him.

And now here he was.
Standing in front of her.
Her storm, her ruin.

Her pulse pounded so loud she could barely hear herself. “You.” The word came out raw. She stepped back, the sound of her boots scraping over the cobblestone lost under the murmur of the crowd.
 
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The eye of green flame but turned more gleeful. Shimmered, just the touch brighter. As if a stone had been tossed into its banks, and the ripples stirred all the light of it's surface.

"Asi, ya ves?" A rumble of smoke from the back of Garrod's throat. "Eso es el respeto que meresco, that's how I should be greeted."

Right hand still rattling. Fingers slow to splay out. Slow to squeeze shut. Green fire about the palms, snuffed out like the last pulse of a dying heart. The wounds were gone, and the right hand fell to Garrod's side.

A little laugh, like the crackle of a candle fire. Lagrimas de arcoiris still pouring out from beneath the black hole that held the fiend. Every bit a shelter that harbored it's flame. Nose twitched. Too full of all of life's sweetness.

The green flame twisted about Garrod's lips. Half his face curled into a snarl. "Pues vete corriendo, brujita," the many voices of storm and fire hitched. Wavering on a blustering wind. Too eager to take back what belonged to it. "What are you still doing here?" The emerald teeth of the betrayer's grin spread wide with all the promise of their threat.

But the basket of ofrendas still swayed gentle at the end of Garrod's wing. And the techichi of storm, more vibrant than ghostly green fire, sniffed at the droplets of blood on the floor. So mixed with the champurrado. Huffed, and shook its head. Looked up to Garrod with its big obsidian eyes. Coat alight with all the colors of fire and lightning.

The green eye narrowed its gaze onto the little guardian. "What are you looking at, you mongrel," the storm voice hissed. The pitter patter of other claws drew it's eye. Wide and alert.

In his right hand, Garrod held his knife. Runes of fire, wind, and lightning gleamed bright. Fingers spun the blade, all duelist to his trick. Curved fang aimed down. He stabbed it into the flesh of his thigh. All as quick as the blink of an eye.

The Green Flame went wide and wild. Made a sound like it had been stabbed through the heart. Out went the knife. Out poured the blood. Red and hot and steaming like the champurrado. Emerald flames tried to eat the wound away. But the green fire winked out. Garrod fell to his knee. Knife dropped to the floor in a clatter as his hand convulsed. All huff of a laugh as he shut his left eye, so stung beneath the priest's blessing.

"Pinche Diablo Rojo," he said, remembering the gold toothed smile, and the wisdom he had imparted. Pain. "Keeps you were you are," he said panting beneath the old blue cap.
 
Daniyah’s legs felt strange beneath her, like they weren’t hers. The fiend had ripped something loose inside her.

The air around him smelled of thunder, of wet stone after lightning. Daniyah breathed. Slow and deep. The incense smoke filled her throat. She hated it. Hated the way her chest thumped, the way her hands trembled. Every instinct she had honed to steel and precision was being toyed with.

“Garrod? Garrod Arlette?”
A woman’s voice, came soft as the chime of silver bells.

She stepped out from the crowd, wrapped in a shawl embroidered with sunbursts and maize flowers, cheeks dusted with the gold of cempasúchil pollen. A basket of sugar skulls hung from her arm, and when she smiled, there it was. That tiny gap between her front teeth, same as when she’d been a girl running barefoot along the riverside. “Ay mira no más,” she laughed, the sound bright and disbelieving. “El mismísimo Garrod Arlette, de carne y hueso. I thought you were dead, pendejo!”

The ravenhaired woman walked toward him, ready to tease, to embrace him... and froze. “Santo cielo… Garrod?” Her voice broke. She stumbled forward and dropped the basket. “Qué hiciste?” The friend was shouting, calling for help, curador! She pulled her beautiful shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it hard around Garrod's thigh.

Daniyah body felt leaden, standing there a ghost. Barely heard the voices. Her heartbeat was a slow, dull drum somewhere deep in her ribs, too far away to reach. She stepped back, leaving a gap between herself and the others rushing forward. It felt like she wasn’t really standing there. The small techichi at her feet was still toying with the lime peel. Tail wagging.

She felt the weight of the basket in her hand. Smells of roasting chiles clinging to her cloak as she slipped away from the milling crowd, pushed through the edges of the plaza, away from the lantern flowers.
 
A cough that tasted like acrid ash. Mountain smoke. Fire from the belly of khurun itself. Laced with the heat of chipotles.

He tried to breath, his missing eye bleeding fresh new tears of offrenda. Smattered across the cobles. The Storm Techichi spun about. Little all claws skitter clack against the rocks. Yapped.

Garrod winked his green eye open.

Garrod? Garrod Arlette? ...I thought you were dead, Pendejo!

Bright, and beautiful, and clear as silver bells. But his eye still looked through the crowd. She had been right there, hadn't she? A laugh like the beat of butterfly wings stirred by her breath. Warm chocolate steaming in her hand.

Or had that all been part of the priest's smoke born dream? Joys only meant to seed torment and reap sorrow.

He hardly noticed his old friend jostle him.

Worry over him.

Tend to him.

He shook his head. Pain flared up as she cinched the bandage tight. He grimaced. Eye to her. "Consuelo," he said with a real pendejo's smile. "I'm fine, mira, estoy bien, deveras," looked to his wound. "Just dropped my knife, haciendo un trucito,"

"Como una mierda que eres, Garrod!" Consuelo said, hands smeared in red. "Look at your leg! Baboso! No estoy ciega!"

Let a breath out easy. Eyes to the floor. To the blood. To the champurrado. To the trail of the River dog's feet. Green and gold, shimmering from orange to blues. All soft sand and emerald currents.

The gathering crowd gathered more together. Like a damn, coming to kill a river. Still. He could still smell the fresh lime, and the hot peppers.

"Gracias por la ayuda, Consuelo," he said, getting himself up.

"Oye, que haces, pinche loco?! Sientate! A healer is on the way, just rest!"

"Te debo un nuevo chal, para la proxima," he said with a pained grin. Gentle with her hands, he let her go with a familiar squeeze. Pushed through the crowd. Slowed as he was by the hands that tried to caution him to stay. To wait. Pained by the wound fraying under the beautiful shawl that soaked up the deep red.

Broke free of the crowd. Into the darker parts of his old barrio. Far from the glow of candles, far from the golden road of the cempasuchil, heady with its scent of caramel and musk.

Out into the cold grey that felt so much like the world he had so readily made for himself at the end of Terminous Road.

Still. The feintest scent of wine and honey trailed through the air. Mixed with the spicy burn of red bird's beak chiles. Heart hammering hard in his chest. Blood trailing the more with each step.

El pueblin dark as a graveyard around him. Nose blind from his own stink of iron and fire stone. He still caught a hint of the marigolds in the air. Their dusty pollen falling in the feintest trail that glowed behind the heavy basket he knew carried them.

"Daniyah?" he called out. Heart slowing. Leg dripping. He felt cold and colder. Still carried his basket of ofrendas, like the pendejo he was. Gripped sure in his left. As if any of that still mattered. As if... the priest hadn't shown them both what he really was.

Just some vessel. A thing made to carry something greater. To what end. He couldn't really know.

And when he saw her cloak snapping up ahead. It didn't matter. "Daniyah!" Como coyote a las lunas. Tried to hop skip forward, all wind footed as his legs knew they could be. But his feet had other plans.

With a hard crunch against the gravel road. Garrod ate shit for the second time in the night. Chiles y limones, tomates y ajos, even the crab legs, all scattered about.

"Pinche cascabelero," he cursed through his teeth, dust all swirled about him. Scraped up. Fresh blood there where the gravel bit and raked. He coughed, and got himself back up. Started picking up the limes, and the tomato that survived. Basket, mostly intact.

Blue hat, bounced and rolled and settled, just a bit closer to the house up Terminous Road, and the witch up the way.
 
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A thin, careful line of golden petals leading up the house from the street, bright even in the dark. The kids had done well. She let out a slow breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, something soft and heavy unfurling in her chest. "You won't be trapped inside anymore, Sinns" mumbling softly as she followed the path. The wind carried the scent of piloncillo from the neighbour's altar.

She set the basket down on the crooked stair. The weight of it left her palms sore. “Sinns,” she called, voice soft. “Open the door, por favor.” Then she heard him. Her name, dragged raw through Garrod's throat. She turned, just enough to see him stumble out of the moon shadows. The marigold glow caught the ruin of him, blood on his leg, desperation on his face.

Garrod fell. A dull crunch of gravel, a curse, the clatter of everything they’d gathered. The old blue hat rolling like a kicked offering. And for a moment, she just stood there. "Idiot..." she muttered. Daniyah stepped down onto the path of marigold petals, their gold dust catching in her boots.

Daniyah bent and lifted the blue hat from the gravel, brushing away the dust and a smear of crimson. She dropped it back on his head. “You should've waited for the healer, Garrod.” Something stirring the petal path, the curious presence of ancestors.

She crouched. “Here” she muttered, grabbing a few of the citruses that had rolled into the dust. Dropped them in the basket. When the last piece of surviving fruit fell safely into the basket, she shifted the weight, lifted the basket, and offered him her arm.
 
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It was hard to hear the sound of crunching footsteps through the hard thump thump beating between his ears. Todosangre caliente entre las venas. Dentro de los huesos. Face still managed to blush, despite the bleeding, and the cold chill that spread through the spine when steel sank down deep.

Fucking mess he had made. Till she was close. And the musky smell of marigold pollen tickled his nose. Steadied his heart.

The flutter of golden butterfly wings danced lazy and clumsy on the breeze. Up and up and drew his eye to the tips of gold dusted hunter's boots. Eye followed up the more, noticed how she had wrapped a silver chain there about her wrist. Had that been there the whole time?

Watched her bend down and scoop up the hat. Hair spilling, chain dangling, and coat hanging all heavy. His gravel bit hand slowed to stop atop a ripe avocado. Watched the hard scuff of her fingers rasp like flints as they dusted off his blood from the hat. The avacado went splat.

“Chingado,” his voice all whispered hitch in his throat. His eye darted to his hand, covered in green mess. Flicked it off. Creamy bits spinning and spattered.

Hat thwumped onto his head.

"You should've waited for the healer, Garrod,"

"I should’ve done a lot of things,” he said, all warm give from his throat. Cap pressed down, fingers all clutched. Smushed it onto his head and gave it a tilt to hide the bloody mess on the side of his face. Still smiled.

All blood stained and sweat marked. Tequila, and jugo picoso their own tones of dirty, all across the stuck cotton shirt. Wasn’t a part of the Pueblin that didn’t show there like a landmark on the terrain of him.

Went on picking up the ofrendas. Mudlegs, sausages, the bottle of tequila blanco that survived through it all. Made sure the pungent round of queso cotija was still safe in its wraps. Snugged against the wicker.

Los ojos de los muertos peered out from the shadows. Eyes like little candle flames, flickering with curiosity from the huecos of their calaveras.

The heavy fold of leather coat draped and folded. The bright chime of crystals and rattle of bone charms as she moved. The rasp of a delicate silver chain, so ritually set about her wrist. Sagged and hung like spider’s silk. Watched how she grabbed up the fruit. Fingers he remembered too well. Flexing and squeezing sure.

Felt a pant, heavy on his tongue. A gulp down his throat. Picked up one or two more peppers. Let them fall, all slow drop into the canasta.

Up it went.

And up she went.

Looked down at him, in that way of hers. Hard eyed, but with so much there just behind all the point. Offered up her arm.

He laughed, all red coyote too happy at the moon. Rose up. His fingers all splayed across her bones. To her trunk. Felt flesh and her steady weight. Feet slipped, all dancer’s step, to close the space between them. Heads knocked. Legs rasped, hips pressed. Lips found hers through the heat of breath and perfume of chilies. No time for worries or doubts. Agrio y picante como un relámpago. Arremolinado con todo lo dulce que juntaron. There atop the road of lantern flowers.
 
Golden petals swirling at his feet. The kiss hit her like lightning breaking the spine of the night. No warning. No grace to it, just teeth and stormlight. Bright with the green fire of the storm that lived in him, and the burn of it curled down through her body.

The sting of chilies, sal and limon hit her tongue like a spark... para poco mas sabor. It burned against her lips. Tasting of that still refused to die between them. The kind of heat that burns twice, going down, and coming back to haunt you. His breath was all smoke and sweet with death.

Daniyah froze for a breath. Her first instinct was to shove him off, because that’s what sane people did when a man reeking of blood and ozone decided to lose his mind. But instead, her hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer, forgetting the promise she had made herself to stay cold. Maybe it was the tormenta ringing in her ears?

Tongues twining and tasting of cinnamon and brimstone. She saw lightning unfurl across the void behind her eyelids, green and terrible. When she pulled back, her chest ached like she’d swallowed thunder. Her lungs heaved greedily for air.

“You’re bleeding,” she rasped. “And this is what you think is a good idea? Cscabelero,” she muttered, “You’re absolutely fucking crazy.” She watched those rainbow tears streaking his face, dripping into the dust, staining it like oil. Made her remember that this wasn’t an ordinary man, not really. Not anymore. The priest’s words echoed again. Born of storm and sorrow.

“Come on.” she said at last, slipped her arm under his, bracing him as she started to move toward the house.

The house waited at the edge of the marigold trail, a memory left to rot. Moonlight from three full moons caught on its warped roof tiles. The door stood ajar. Just enough for a single eye to have been watching.
 

All rush and eddy. Felt fingers scratch where a hunter's callouses trailed over neck, through his hair. Grabbed what she wanted. Pulled him in. Hot and heavy into the press of lips and click of teeth.

Rough rasps and sweet bites between the gasps. The push of tongues, the pull of teeth sunk into tender bit lips. Twisted in the sweet poisoned pull and pull of beating hearts and stepping feet. Clumsy. Tighter they wound. Gripped. Coiled. Like they could peel off each others skin and cast it to the wind. Snakes to each other's troncos.

Boca dulce y caliente, toda azucar quemada con un poco de hoja santa sobre sus labios. Had him rumbling in his chest. Queriendo mas. Bones warmed, with the taste of the champurrado still there on her tongue.

She pulled back, and his head followed. Lips pressed. And pressed as he laughed. Arms wrapped just the bit tighter before she slipped away.

"You're bleeding," breath a swirl of storm clouds about his lips. "And this is what you think is a good idea?" Sound of her voice tight in her chest. Tight in his. Un par de ahogados, desesperados por aire. "Cascabelero,"

He grinned. The word fell from her mouth, como aguacero.

"You're absolutely fucking crazy,"

"Como un perro aullando," he cooed with a rock step to her. Hands holding on to her hips. Saw how she saw him. Eyes so clear and blue like fresh mountain spring. Glittering with the light of the Fiend, the Thief, and the Beloved. "I wasn't lying when I said que me vuelves loco, mi reyna de las lunas,"

"Come on," she said, and they went. Her arm under him, his hand sure around her. He limped some. Leaned down. Stole away the basket of ofrendas as they stepped up the walkway, and up the thin trail of cempaxochitl petals glowing against the night.

As the house loomed, he felt the flutter of wings stir in his gut.

"You think he'll open it, esta ves?" stopped at the door. Let down the ofrendas beside the second basket that she had laid down. Turned his eye to her.

--
Brinda was in the house. Eyes wide as she looked about the old haunt. "This place is a fucking dump," she said to herself. Saw the runed monster slayer leaned up against the wall by the hearth. His dueling sword there too.

She stepped about. Easy and lightfooted. Still, something under her foot creaked. Too loudly. She looked down. Noticed a gap in the floorboard. Just there. Bent down to check it. Ran her fingers against the tell. Grinned wide. "What do you have in there, Garrod?" she whispered, all curious as a mouse that scented cheese.

Heard footsteps up the path. Her eyes to the door quick. Looked around. Rushed. Grabbed the handle and yanked it back hard.

“Sinns... Open the door, por favor.”

What the fuck. I know that voice! Looked around. Eyes wide. Lightning bolted scars crinkled with a touch of panic.

Heard Garrod's shout. Eyes wider still.

"Idiot,"

Sounds about right. Heard Daniyah leave after him. All slow scuff of boots. Looked about. There was an exit out the back. Window, already shattered to bits. She could just...

"You should've waited for the healer, Garrod"

Healer? Was Garrod hurt? She cracked the door open. Just enough to peer through. Watched. Lips twist down in horrid pulls of each corner. Sprang up, clicked the door shut. Eyes wide as the moons. Red on her cheeks. Was he bleeding? Shit. She looked about. Saw the window. Made for her exit!
 
The door snapped shut.
But before it closed, Daniyah saw it.

A shape, a small figure. slipping back into the darkness of the hall. Quick as a rat. Too small to be an adult, too confident to be a stray child. A thief.

She dropped Garrod’s arm and in two long strides, she was off the porch.

“Not tonight,” she snarled. One hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of the thief’s collar mid-leap out of a window. It was that girl, tiny bones and birdlike speed. Brinda let out a shocked gasp as Daniyah wrenched her to the side. "Of course it’s you.” She glanced at the Thief Moon, of course, she would steal the joy out of this night too. Of course the kid she hates is here. Destiny never on her side, never truly.

The girl hissed, a feral sound, trying to claw at Daniyah’s wrist when she grabbed a fistful of Brinda’s hair, hard and unkind. As Daniyah’s fingers tangled in Brinda’s hair, the moment that old, familiar hatred burned up her throat. The kid shrieked, legs kicking uselessly in the air as Daniyah dragged her around the side of the house. “Let go...!”

“Ay, shut the fuck up,” Daniyah snapped, hauling her along the dry, withered grass. Marched right up to Garrod and threw Brinda at his feet, like garbage she’d been forced to pick up. Brinda hit the boards, rolled, scrambled to her knees. Brinda glared up at her with murder-bright eyes.

The ghost in the house, the one bound to Garrod, one who hated when the Wraithbinder handled the kid too roughly. The gutter above her gave a low, metallic groan, something inside the house was waking up.

Then .... CRASH.

A tidal wave of rot and stink crashed over her head. Years, decades, of dead leaves, black muck, half-mulched leaves, drowned bugs, and gutter sludge that smelled like something crawled in there to die and brought its family with it… all of it emptied over her in a choking waterfall.

The force staggered her. Filth in her hair. Slime sliding into her collar. Brinda scrambled backward on elbows and heels.

It wasn’t bad luck or timing.
It was him.

Shielding Brinda as he had once shielded a young Garrod. The same way he always did. The black-space-between-stars wearing a father’s face, too protective, too territorial, and too furious the second Daniyah's rage hit the air like a pressure wave. Ghosts unclench the only way they know how.

With movement.
With noise.
With something breaking.

Cold. Filthy. Reeking of long-dead things. Daniyah wiped sludge from her eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” she growled. A gust rattled the shutters. Her breath shook with the humiliation, shoved it down, hardened it into steel.

Brinda bit the inside of her cheek not to laugh at the sight of the drenched huntress. The ashen hair turned brown and soggy, under a crown of dead beetles and sodden leaves. Daniyah wiped a streak of foul gutter-water from her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing more shit than she removed.

And just like that... the thin thread holding Daniyah together snapped. Rage coiled, like a dog shaking its chain.

Two of them.
Three, counting the fiend.
And a fourth presence, old Sinns.

Against one of her.
 
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