American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 29. Ben Salvia

Journal entry from Tuesday, August 9, 2011

6:00 a.m. in Los Angeles

I look up from the Salvia journal to find the morning sun flooding my bedroom. Rhythmic footfalls across oak flooring tell me George is awake and pacing. Ken and Martin crashed just as the sun came up about an hour ago.

Too wired to sleep, I slam the journal shut, tuck it under my arm, and join George in front of the picture window in the living room. I shove the leather-bound book into his chest. "Read."

With a groan, George takes the journal from my hands and opens it to the page marked with a worn leather strap attached to the spine. His eyes follow my scrawl across brown, unlined pages. When he reaches the bottom of the first page describing what happened last night, his eyebrows lift in recognition. "Square, one-story wooden building with a pitched roof and a hitching post out front. Sounds like the Log Cabin Mercantile on Lake Manor Drive."

I nod as George continues reading. After a few moments, he stops to point an index finger at the center of the second page. "Rectangular shack with a flat roof, a buckling slat board porch, and casement windows either side of the double front doors." George snaps his fingers. "The Hillbilly Haven."

His forehead crinkles in a frown as he turns toward the picture window overlooking the Chatsworth Reservoir. The morning sky is clear and cloudless. Sunlight flashes off the windshield of a car cruising on Lake Manor Drive along the reservoir's northern border. George's eyes flick westward along the road toward Amber McBride's house atop Lizard Hill. "The volcano."

With a sigh, he closes the book and rests his forehead against the glass. The faraway look in his eyes tells me he's thinking about last night's kiss from the Celtic Goddess Brigid.

I want to slap that love-sick look off his face, but a deeper unease seizes my gut. A memory surfaces about the Celts, something I read during one of my classes at UCLA.

Worship of the gods requires human sacrifice.

Grabbing George by the shoulders, I turn him to face me. "Snap out of it! She's luring you into a trap."

George shakes me off and shoves the journal into my hands. "You wouldn't understand."

As he turns back toward the window to stare at Amber's house, I deliver a vicious knuckle punch to his upper arm. "Pendejo. Google 'Celts and human sacrifice.'"

I leave him at the picture window and return to my bedroom to finish the account of last night's fucked up (even by LA standards) events.

Sometime between 3:00-4:00 a.m.

Black smoke billows from burning buildings as the broken cars littering the dirt road explode. The air is heavy with the hellish scent of Sulphur. Amber's mother is shaking, and every tremor threatens her collapse. She's staring at Amber-now-Brigid, making out with George. Behind Aislinn hovers the Chatsworth Reservoir portal.

Seamus O'Donnell lets loose a predator's roar and sweeps his cloak over Brigid's head. I grab George's right arm and yank him in my direction. Lightning fast, his left hand shoots out to grab the Goddess's arm. She dissolves into sparkling white light as George pulls her away from the sorcerer.

His momentum knocks me off-balance, and I stumble backward into Aislinn. Releasing George, I pivot and reach for her. My hands catch air as she's sucked into the portal.

The sorcerer's face screws up with rage. He opens his mouth abnormally wide to release a cloud of black flies. They swarm George and I in a buzzing whirlwind, plunging us into darkness. Covering my mouth with my left hand to keep the flies out, I yell, "Is that all you've got, asshole?" My right hand finds George and I move into a fighting formation behind his back.