A pile of shoes lies just inside. Echo kicks off her clogs, adding them to the heap. I hesitate—it won’t be easy to explain why I have a knife tucked into my boots. But Echo’s already disappeared into the loft, so I quickly tug off my boots, leaving the knife inside.
“Some tea?” Echo’s voice resonates from the kitchen. “I would offer you something more exciting, but my parents won’t allow us to buy anything that comes in a package.” I nod yes to the offer of tea, looking around the kitchen as she fusses with a kettle. It’s true; I don’t see a single commercial food product. Instead there are bowls of fruit, glass jars of grains and nuts, and papery cloves of garlic huddled next to a bottle of oil. None of the cupboards have doors. Echo pulls two ceramic mugs down from a high shelf and adds loose-leaf tea to them. Earl Grey, I think, judging from the bergamot scent in the air.
Beyond the kitchen, I can see the main living space. One soaring wall is covered with books, a ladder leaned against the top shelf, nearly brushing the twenty-foot-high ceilings. “Go ahead and make yourself at home,” Echo says. “I’ll bring this over when it’s ready.”
“Okay,” I say, too curious to protest. The other wall of the main room is covered with art, traditionally framed paintings as well as stretched hides with primitive-looking designs drawn in charcoal. I approach them for a better look. The figures on the hides look like women surrounding a wounded mammoth, a spear protruding from its side. Family portraits are sprinkled amongst the art. Echo must get her height from her father, I decide, sizing up the professorial-looking man who appears in several of the
photos. I assume that the woman in the shots is Echo’s mother, half a foot shorter than her daughter and crowned with frizzy light brown hair.
At the far end of the room is a large table, its surface covered with books, candles, unsteady stacks of paper, and even a reptile skull. A cutting mat lies at the center of a cluster of linen thread and bookbinding needles. An X-Acto blade completes the scene.
I take a seat on one of the leather couches, tucking my sock-clad feet underneath me. I don’t see a TV anywhere. Instead, the couches face a wall of glass doors that lead to the family’s small balcony space. Above one of the doors is the taxidermized head of a deer, its antlers stretching two feet across. Flanking the couch where I sit are several female-looking sculptures, goddess figures rendered in marble and granite.
“It’s very Paleolithic girl power around here,” says Echo, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs over to where I sit and setting it upon the gnarled and shellacked redwood tree stump that functions as their coffee table.
“I like it,” I say truthfully. And I do. Girl power is exactly what I need right now. I picture the circle of ancient women attacking Cyrus with their blunt spears.
Cyrus has always insisted that I am weak, whether out of genuine concern or an urge to control me, I don’t know.
Probably both. His belief was cemented the night I was attacked in New Orleans. It was 1726, and Cyrus left our plantation with Jared, attending to “business matters.” I knew that was polite code for gambling and general thuggery. An opera was playing in the French Quarter, a debut from a young Italian composer that I desperately wanted to see, and I went alone, ignoring Cyrus’s orders to stay at home.
When the men grabbed me from behind, under the flickering light of the gas lamps, I fought back hard. But it was Sébastien, unknown to me at the time, who stepped from the shadows and saved me. That’s how I met him, covered in my attackers’ blood. And that’s what led to Cyrus’s decision to bring him into our fold.
You need constant protection, Sera. Constant surveillance.
Cyrus never thought I could take care of myself.
“Okay, so. Masks.” Echo lifts the mug to her mouth and takes a tentative sip.
“Works of art designed to hide who you really are,” I comment.
“I completely disagree,” she smiles. “The best masks allow you to be who you really are, without all the hang-ups.”
I cock my head. Cyrus had said something very similar at the masquerade ball.
“So who would you be?” I ask Echo.
She thinks for a moment, sipping her tea. “I know you expect me to say something really weird, like I want to be a wise woman or a priestess.”
I laugh. She’s right.
“And I
do
want those things, but honestly, I’d rather have a mask that made me normal. Like . . . one of those girls who can be a sexy witch for Halloween.”
“That’s silly,” I declare. “I
like
that you’re not normal, whatever that even is. And anyway, you’re already kind of a sexy witch.”
“Hand me my broom,” she cracks. “Who would you be?”
“A warrior,” I answer without hesitation.
“Who do you need to fight?” she asks. “Noah?”
I look down at my lap, shaking my head. “No, I’m not mad at him.”
“I didn’t think so,” she replies. “What’s Noah’s birthday, anyway?”
What an odd question. I think back to our date at the restaurant on the pier. “Next month,” I answer. “December.”
“December what?” When I just shrug, she forges on. “I’m going to guess early December. Sagittarius. Noah’s no Capricorn. He’s into philosophy, yes? And travel?”
My neck prickles. “Yes to both,” I say.
She nods with satisfaction. “Definitely Sag. What’s your birthday?”
I pull my mug of tea to my face, taking a long, burning swallow, stalling. I picture Kailey’s driver’s license. “June . . . nineteenth,” I answer slowly.
“Interesting,” she responds. “I wouldn’t have thought of you as a Gemini. But it totally makes sense now, about you and Noah. Air and fire are a combustible combination, you know. Doesn’t work for the long haul.”
I think of my real birthday, my mortal birthday. Early August, the last gasp of summer, which makes me a Leo. Fire on fire. I know more about astrology than I’m letting on to Echo. Cyrus believed in it with an intense fervor. “These so-called empiricists think astrology is a joke,” he’d scoff. “The stars and planets are much larger than any of us. To ignore their influence is quite literally to tempt fate.”
“Okay, so a sexy witch and a warrior mask it is,” says Echo, deftly changing the subject. “I know! You can be Athena.”
“The goddess of wisdom and warfare. I like.” I remember one myth where Athena turned a particularly awful man into an olive tree. I could use her influence right about now.
Echo claps her hands in excitement. “Okay then. How about I work up some drawings?”
“We’ll need a few days, I’m sure. I know Thanksgiving is tomorrow—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she cuts me off. “My family doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. My father says it’s
disrespectful to Native Americans. We do a harvest feast when the moon is in Cancer. Abundance, nurturing, you know.”
“Makes sense,” I reply, stifling a smile. She might be the most Berkeley-esque person I’ve met here.
“Besides,” Echo continues, “it’s good for me to keep busy. Otherwise I’d just think about Eli and be sad.”
Eli. It hurts to hear his name. But it’s also a good reminder for me to be strong. “Are you guys close?” I ask gently, using the present tense on purpose.
“We were,” she corrects me. “I know he’s gone. I can feel it.” She looks out the window at the quickly darkening sky, and I think I see her eyes fill with tears, though it may be a trick of the light.
A thought occurs to me. “I know another way you can keep busy, if that’s what you want. Why don’t you join the winter dance committee?”
She tilts her head. “Madison’s in charge of that, right? She seems kind of bossy lately. What would I do, anyway?”
I laugh. She’s right about Madison—being the chair of the committee has certainly gone to her head. “Well, there is a mural that needs to be painted. It’s supposed to be a solstice theme. Astronomy, astrology.”
“In other words,” she smiles, “right up my alley. Okay, I’m in.”
I resist the urge to hug her. I can’t believe my good luck—Echo’s willingness to sketch the masks already made my day, but getting out of painting the mural is an unexpected bonus. I decide to take it as a good omen.
I wish Charlotte and Sébastien were here, to fight Cyrus by my side. But they’re not, and Echo is. And as far as allies go, I could have done a lot worse. She has a quiet strength to her, a confidence that’s rare to find in someone so young.
“Hey, Echo,” I say on a whim, “do you like tacos?”
“Hell to the yes,” she answers.
“Good,” I respond. “I’m starving. And there’s someone I want you to meet.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The smell of cilantro and poblano chilis greets us the moment we enter the Fruitvale market. “I thought I’d been to every taqueria in Oakland,” Echo remarks. “I’ve never heard of this place.”
“It’s amazing,” I tell her. The man at the front register doesn’t appear to recognize me, giving a disinterested nod as we breeze by, but Lucia definitely does.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Señorita Jane Smith,” she says, stepping out from behind the taqueria counter at the rear of the store. I smile at the reference to the name on the fake ID she sold me nearly three weeks ago. As before, her espresso-colored hair
is piled on top of her hair in a tight bun, though it’s now held in place with a pair of red chopsticks. She’s wearing a black, bateau-necked top and jeans that hug her hips like a second skin, emphasizing her slender frame. Bright pink high heels lift her several inches, though she’s still not as tall as Echo.
Echo cocks her head. “Jane Smith, eh? Just how many names do you have?”
I hold a finger to my lips, and Echo nods, playing along.
“What can I get you two secret agents?” Lucia asks.
“Two chile verde for me,” I say, taking Echo’s elbow and scooting her closer to the menu, posted on the wall behind Lucia. “We’re hungry.”
“I’ll take two lengua tacos,” Echo says, and Lucia raises her eyebrows. “I love tongue,” Echo adds. “My parents are really into weird meat.” Lucia writes our order down on a notepad and disappears into the back.
Echo’s eye is drawn to a display of saints’ candles. “Go ahead, take a look around,” I tell her, and she wanders down one of the crammed aisles.
The rich smell of meat intensifies, and my stomach grumbles. Lucia pokes her head out from behind the wall, and, seeing that I’m alone, gestures for me to move closer. “I know you didn’t come all this way just for the tacos,” she hisses. “What are you really here for? You need me to erase more police records?”
I shake my head. “No. I . . . I need to sell something. On the Internet. And I don’t want anyone to be able to trace it back to me. Can you call your hacker friend?”
Lucia crosses her arms across her chest. “First of all, he’s not a ‘hacker,’ he’s just really smart with computers.”
“Okay, your computer-genius friend, then—”
“Secondly,” she cuts me off, “what are you selling?”
“I’d rather not say,” I reply, looking down at the counter.
She shakes her head. “No way, sweetie. I don’t get involved with drugs or guns.” She counts them off on her fingers.
“No,” I protest, “it’s nothing like that.”
“You’re going to have to give me some more details, then.” She purses her lips and cocks her head, keeping her arms firmly crossed.
I pause, considering. I
need
Lucia’s help, and no good lie springs to my mind. I am the worst secret agent ever. I sigh, deciding to go with the truth. Or a version of it.
“It’s a book. I need to sell a book,” I say weakly.
“Nobody comes to see Lucia just to sell a book,” she says, fixing me with an intense stare. “There’s more to this story. I can smell it.”
“It belonged to my ex-boyfriend,” I continue. “And he’s dangerous.”
Her face softens, and she hurries around the counter that
separates us, pulling me into a hug. She smells like meat and roses. “Oh, sweetie,” she breathes. “I’m sorry.” She’s gripping me tightly, and I wonder if I hit a nerve.
“No one can know,” I whisper. “Not even my friend.”
I feel her nodding. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll call my guy.”
She heads again to the taqueria’s kitchen, emerging minutes later with two heaping plates of food, plus a sheet of folded notebook paper that she drops into my pocket. I wave Echo over, and she joins me at the counter, a selection of saints’ candles in her hands.
“Mmm,” Echo breathes, setting her candles on the counter and scooping up one of her tacos. She takes a huge bite. Incredibly, she doesn’t spill a single onion or drop of salsa verde.
“San Miguel y Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, eh?” Lucia murmurs, reading the labels on the candles Echo’s chosen. “Someone needs powerful protection.”
Echo laughs. “My dad’s obsessed with the Virgin of Guadalupe. He says she’s the symbiosis of indigenous goddess worship and Catholicism.”
Lucia and I both stare at Echo, who finishes her taco in one more huge bite. “What?” she asks, her voice muffled.
“He sounds like a smart dude,” Lucia says wryly.
I pay for the tacos and Echo’s candles, thanking Lucia
again. She grabs my hand as we leave, pulling me close. “Listen,” she whispers in my ear, “you need any more help, you come see Lucia, okay?”
“I will,” I promise.
Back in Echo’s car, I’m dying to open the note Lucia gave me, but I resist. I guess it contains instructions to elude detection online, but I expected the matter to be a bit more complicated than a single scrawled note.
“You shouldn’t worry so much,” says Echo, pulling up to the Morgan house, and I jerk my head to look at her, surprised. It’s like she can read my thoughts.
“How did you know I was worried about something?” I ask.
She pokes my shoulder, its tight ball of muscle. “Look at you. The way you hunch over, the way your hands keep fidgeting.”
She’s pretty damned observant, I think. For a human.
“Thanks again, Echo,” I tell her. “This was fun. I’ll see you tomorrow? And don’t forget about the dance committee meeting on Friday.”
“Definitely,” she answers, tucking a lock of yarn-wound hair behind her ear. I hug her and climb out of the car, watching till it disappears around the block.