Marco had never stolen anything before. Though the miserable task had fallen to him (as he had known it would) he wasn’t at all sure how to begin.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, mouth dry, palms clammy, Marco looked over his shoulder, an involuntary response to an imagined sound and a guilty conscience. He stood perfectly still, ears at attention, listening. He could hear the adults murmuring in the livingroom, but he heard no tell-tale footsteps. He was alone in the kitchen. It was now or never.

He opened the refrigerator, wincing at the noise it made as he broke the vacuum seal, and scanned its contents for the beer Chucho had brought home just an hour earlier. He saw a gallon of whole milk, a half-empty bag of coffee beans, some avocado, tomato, orange juice, a beef marinade and three cans of Coke. But he didn’t see the beer.

Closing the refrigerator, he tiptoed to the kitchen’s doorway and peered around the corner. The grown-ups were talking quietly, their faces somber. They’d looked like that for weeks now, at least the women had. Chucho had only returned from his last haul a few days ago, but already the news of the recent deaths had settled into the lines of his face, making him appear older, careworn. Even Aunt Conchita, who was usually a grab bag of laughter and smiles, had replaced her usual merriment with an intense melancholy.

Looking at them made Marco feel sad.

Then he saw what he was looking for. On the coffee table were four tall, frosty bottles of Corona. Chucho and his friend Manny were drinking the other two.

There was no way he was getting to that beer without anybody seeing.

Marco withdrew into the kitchen and considered his options. He could go back to the shed outside and tell Alejandro and Cheehawk that he couldn’t get the beer and suffer their taunts and name calling. That certainly wouldn’t be anything new. But there was another option, and on this night, Marco wasn’t yet ready to concede defeat.

Chucho kept the tequila on the top shelf of the pantry, out of the twins’ reach. But the six pack of pulque that he’d brought back from Mexico last winter sat collecting dust on the  pantry floor, underneath a sack of potatoes, forgotten by everyone.

Everyone except Marco.

He didn’t know what pulque was except that everyone had laughed when Chucho had brought it back from the homeland, saying they hadn’t had pulque since they were teenagers. Chucho had popped open a can, taken a deep swig, made a face that was a cross between revulsion and merriment, and passed it around. Everyone had tried it, shaking their heads, declaring they much preferred beer and that the agave should stick with producing tequila. They’d finished off that one can and put the other five in the pantry where Marco now knelt, silently retrieving a single can from its plastic yolk.

He sighed with relief, glanced around once more, and, finding himself still alone, hid the can under his t-shirt and, triumphant, slipped quietly out the back door.

“What the hell is this?”

Cheehawk held the can of pulque with a look of bewildered disgust on this face. “This isn’t beer. It isn’t even cold,” he complained. “You got the wrong stuff.”

Marco shrugged. “The beer was in the living room with the grown-ups. I couldn’t get it without them seeing me. Anyway, this has alcohol in it, too.”

Cheehawk looked skeptical.  “How do you know?”

“Because when they were drinking it at Christmas they wouldn’t let me and Alex have any.”

Alejandro nodded. “That’s true.”

Cheehawk popped the top open, closed one eye, and peered into the small, dark opening. “I can’t see anything,” he said. “I’m not gonna try this, Marco, until you try it first.”

Marco’s jaw dropped. “I don’t even want any! I got it for you! I’m not drinking that!”

“But you were supposed to get the beer,” Cheehawk said. “So since you got the wrong stuff, you should have to try it first!”

Cheehawk pushed the can into Marco’s hands, and the younger boy sighed, closing his fingers around the warm can. He should have known it would end up like this. He wasn’t remotely curious about the effects of alcohol, but he didn’t want to look like a scaredy-cat either.

He put the can to his lips. Holding his breath, he took a tiny sip.

“Do you feel anything?” Cheehawk asked.

Alejandro elbowed him in the side. “Doesn’t work like that, stupid! You don’t get drunk right away!”

Cheehawk scowled, returned his attention to Marco. “What does it taste like?”

Marco had been prepared for the worst. When they were very little, Alejandro had made Marco taste a cup of black coffee that their mother had left on the patio overnight. It had tasted awful, and had left an oily, acid taste in his mouth that seemed to linger for days. Using that awful experience as a baseline, Marco had sipped gingerly and fretfully at the pulque, steeling himself for the worst.

It wasn’t anything like he expected.

The warm liquid was thick and frothy, and tasted like strawberries dipped in honey. He took a second sip, less fearful, and this time it tasted like tres leches cake with cinnamon and nutmeg. A fuzzy, warm sensation filled his chest and began to spread slowly to his stomach, his cheeks, until suddenly he was warm all over.

“What’s it taste like, Marco?”

Marco set the can down in front of him and shrugged. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “It kinda tastes like a carnival.”

“A carnival?” Alejandro rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Well, I said it was hard to explain,” Marco said. “You can just try it yourself!”

Cheehawk and Alejaandro exchanged looks, and finally the older boy gave a litte shrug and picked up the can. Hellbent on not being upstaged by a weenie like Marco, Cheehawk knocked the pulque back, taking in a large swig.

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he choked, retched, and spit the pulque out. Droplets splattered all over Alejandro, who gave his friend a push. “HEY! Watch it, Cheehawk!”

“It’s nasty!” Cheehawk sputtered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leaned over, spat a few times on the dirt floor of the shed, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “Marco, you liar, that’s the worst taste I ever tasted!” He pushed the drink toward Alejandro. “Here, Alex, you try it!”

Alejandro shook his head vigorously. “No, thanks. I believe you,” he sad, shrinking away from the drink.

Cheehawk changed tactics and pushed the drink into Marco’s hands. Marco accepted the drink wit a confused look on his face. “It was nasty to you?”

“Not cool, Marco!” Cheehaw howled. “You made me drink it even though you knew it was gross. You should drink the rest of it,” he said.

Marco chuckled. “I didn’t make you drink it,” he said. “Plus, it doesn’t taste bad to me. I like it.”

To prove his point, Marco brought the can to his lips and took another long, slow drink. This time, the warm, thick liquid that filled his mouth tasted like pineapple sprinkled with brown sugar. That flavor slowly faded to be replaced by another:  roasted almonds and toffee. And finally, thick, hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and drizzled with hot caramel sauce.

When he sat the can down in front of him, the can was empty, and Marco, unbeknownst to him, was drunk.

“He drank it all,” Cheehawk breathed, incredulous. “He drank the whole thing! Marco just drank a whole can of that nasty alcohol!”

While the boys stared at him in frank disbelief, Marco felt his eyelids grow heavy as a pleasant, warm sensation took over his senses. He felt as though he were floating, and he couldn’t stop the goofy smile that was spreading over his face.

Marco’s transformation did no go unnoticed.  Cheehawk turned to Alejandro, pointed an accusing finger. “You said it didn’t happen right away,” he said. “But check him out. He’s gonna pass out!”

Alejandro, though he would never admit it, was impressed. “It’s not supposed to work right away,” he said. “I don’t know! Maybe that stuff is different from beer. Don’t ask me!”

The two boys watched as Marco gazed off into space, eyes unfocused, grinning like an idiot.

“We should tell on him,” Alejandro said, a wicked smile of his own appearing on his face. “We should go tell Mama and Chucho that Marco drank their pulque. I bet he’ll get in so much trouble!”

Marco was nominally aware of what his brother was saying and what they planned on doing to him. He had a vague sense of their betrayal as they scrambled to their feet, giggling at their own mischievousness.  But as the warm feeling enveloped him, and his eyes began to close and he curled himself into a ball on the ground, he found that he just didn’t care. The sweet, heady flavors of the pulque were still fresh on his tongue, and the fringes of reality began to fade and blur as Marco drifted off into his first alcohol-induced slumber and dreamed his second lucid dream.

Author’s note: Hover your mouse over Spanish phrases for their English translations.

Smell doesn’t know how to keep a secret. With unabashed indiscretion, smell discloses everything, whether sacred or profane. The smells of suntan lotion and salt on the skin reveal a day spent at the beach. Pine, cinnamon, and orange together conjure images of jaunty gifts stashed beneath the Christmas tree. And the aromas of ancho chiles, onion, pork, rose water, and burning candle wax meant Chucho had arrived home.

Jesús Esquivel, Marco and Alejandro’s stepfather whom everyone called Chucho, was a long-haul trucker frequently gone for weeks at a time. On the nights he was set to leave, his wife Irma would sit by the altar and pray the rosary, crying and asking San Cristóbal to protect her husband on the road. On the nights that he returned, her ritual was much the same, except that she thanked the saint for bringing her husband safely home. Tonight, she had prepared one of Chucho’s favorite meals and had perfumed her hair with rose water in anticipation of their reunion night together.

As Marco and Alejandro entered their home, the smells that greeted them indicated that their stepfather arrived, but it was sound that alerted them to another presence. That they could hear the soft hiss of corn tortillas frying in the kitchen as well as the whispered, melodious chanting of their mother praying the rosary meant another woman was present, for since Irma was sitting at the altar, someone else must have been making the tortillas.

“Hello?” It was Alejandro who called out, throwing his backpack into the hall closet and making his way to the kitchen.

A head popped out from around the kitchen wall. It was a smiling, round head with fat cheeks and two long, heavy braids. When the boys saw her, they ran to her, laughing, and threw their arms around her.

“¡Tía Conchita!” Aunt Conchita!The boys squeezed their aunt’s ample waist, burying their faces in her flesh. “What are you doing here?”

The woman patted the boys on the back, kissing them on the tops of their heads, on their cheeks rosy from the cold. “Dios mio, how big you’ve grown! You must eat like a goat, ah?” Laughing, Conchis handed each of the boys a hot corn tortilla, which they stuffed dutifully in their mouths. “It’s good? I make special for you.”

“Real good,” Alejandro said from around a mouthful of tortilla. “How long are you staying?”

Conchis wiped her hands on her apron and turned off the fire on the stove. “Coupla days,” she said. “I heard your father was back and I wanted to see him before Christmas. I’m spending the holidays in Mexico with my family. I don’t get to see Chucho often enough,” she lamented, her voice thick with regret.

Irma stood from the altar then, crossed herself a final time, and approached her sons. She bent to kiss them, and Marco breathed in her smell—rose, castille soap, cumin. “Do you boys have homework?” she asked.

Marco shook his head. “It’s vacation,” he reminded her. “Where’s Chucho?”

“Se fue al mercado,”He went to the store Irma said. “Why don’t you go wash up for dinner? And put on a fresh shirt; we don’t get to have dinner with Auntie Conchita every day. I won’t have you looking like a pig,” she said, her voice loving but stern. The twins groaned but obeyed with haste. They flashed Conchis a smile before disappearing into the bathroom.

They heard the front door slam moments later and, dressed in the freshly pressed polo shirts Irma had laid on their beds, emerged to see Chucho standing in the living room carrying a six pack of Bud Light.  Manny Larson, Chucho’s buddy, stood idle near the door, clutching his cowboy hat against his chest. Both men looked upset.

“Something’s going on at the Bautista place,” Chucho was saying. “Bunch of cop cars out there; one of ‘em was taping the place off.”

Marco and Alejandro exchanged curious glances as Irma hurried to pick up the telephone. She dialed quickly, holding her breath. “Ay, ¿qué pasa? ¿Por qué la policía está—” What’s going on? Why are the police at—

The twins watched as their mother covered her mouth with her free hand, eyes wide as tears began to well up in her eyes. “Madre de Dios, Mother of God” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. She covered the receiver with her hand as she indicated for Chucho to come closer. “It’s Rubio,” she said, her voice shaking. “He’s dead.”

***

As the women lit candles and prayed at the altar and the men gobbled down Irma’s meal and finished off the beer, Alejandro and Marco pulled on their coats, snuck out the back door, and took off on their bikes for the Bautista place.

Marco pedaled slowly, unsure he wanted to be part of this particular excursion. “We shouldn’t go, Alex,” Marco whined. “We barely know Mr. Bautista. Barely.” Rubio Bautista taught chemistry at the high school in Placerita and had spoken at the twins’ school once or twice for career day. Inés Bautista frequently spent afternoons with their mother at the Laundromat, but as they had no children, the twins had relatively little use for them.

“Don’t worry, we don’t have to bother them,” Alejandro called over his shoulder. “We’re going to Junior’s. To see if he saw the body.”

Junior Azuelo, surly and prone to troublemaking like most of Alejandro’s friends, lived across the street from the Bautistas. They found him sitting on his porch with Cheehawk and a boy from school. They were huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, when Marco and Alejandro rode up, dropped their bikes on the front lawn, and bounded up the steps.

“Junior,” Alejandro said, lifting his chin in greeting. “What did you see?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Alejandro, who was not known for his compassion for others, wished he hadn’t asked the question. Junior, who caught lizards by the tail just to see the tails come off, who asked for a slingshot for Christmas so that he could stone armadillos, and who had once set Blanca Leonard’s hair on fire in art class, was sitting on his hands, his face pale, snot dripping onto his upper lip. He had been crying, though he was trying to wear a brave face for his friends. His eyes were swollen and red. He looked as though he had been crying for a long time.

“He was hanging from the tree in the front yard,” Junior said, his voice hoarse. That the other two boys did not react meant they’d already heard the story. Marco felt his stomach go queasy. “He was hanging from the tree and his face was all messed up. Like the chupacabra got him.” His shoulders were shaking, but no fresh tears fell.

“The chupacabra got him?” Alejandro’s voice was soft with fear. He was twisting the bottom of his shirt into a knot.

Junior threw his shoulders up, his cheeks quivering. “I don’t know!” He was shaking his head, his voice rising high. “I don’t know if the chupacabra got him; how would it get him up in the tree like that? He was hanging up there with a rope…”  He couldn’t finish the thought. The boys followed Junior’s gaze across the street where the police had quarantined the yard with yellow tape, and where neighbors had gathered on the street to rubberneck or console the widow, or to perform the first by way of the second.

“Were you scared?” Marco sat down on the bottom step, looking up at Junior’s face.

Junior nodded, eyes still fixated on some unknown point across the street. “Mom and me were in the kitchen making cookies when we heard screaming,” he said. “So we ran outside to see what was happening. Mrs. Bautista was standing in the front yard screaming, and we could see something hanging from the tree but it didn’t look real. Mom told me to stay put, but I didn’t listen…”

Junior swallowed, and looked down at the hands he hand balled into fists in his lap. “Mr. Bautista was going to hang the Christmas lights on our house.”

Junior stopped talking. He folded himself in half and buried his face in his lap. The screen door pushed open and Mrs. Azuelo stepped out, holding the door, her face also streaked with tears. “Why don’t you boys come in and have some hot chocolate,” she said. “I’ll warm you up some empanadas.” Sniveling, Junior stood and followed his mother into the house with Alejandro and the boy from school close behind.

Marco lagged behind the others until he heard the door swing shut. Across the street he could see Inés Bautista, the newly widowed, huddled in a blanket on the edge of the lawn, the arms of her neighbors wrapped protectively around her. A woman in slacks, an overcoat, and a button down shirt was asking her questions and writing in a notebook. Every once in a while, Mrs. Bautista would shake her head, her shoulders would heave, and she would break out in a fresh run of heart-rending sobs.

Without thinking, Marco began to walk slowly across the street. He was surprised to find Cheehawk keeping step beside him. “Whatcha doing, Marco?”

Marco lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I didn’t know you were in town,” he said.

Cheehawk nodded. “Just got in. Today was the last day of school, but Ma said I didn’t have to go since it was a half day. We’re spending Christmas break with Aunt Bibi.”

“Yeah? You’re here for two weeks?”

“I guess so.” Cheehawk checked over his shoulder, saw that no one was paying attention to them. “Where we going, Marco?”

Fifteen paces from the edge of the Bautista lawn, Marco stopped, leaned his head back to look up. The desert sky was black and full of stars. The lack of ambient light allowed Marco to see every constellation, to marvel at the pale smudge of stardust across the sky they called the Milky Way. The sky looked so deep, like he could dive into it. He reached into his pocket and took out a square of paper. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to the older boy. “Do you know what this is?”

Cheehawk held the paper up to his nose. It was difficult to see in the darkness. “Looks like a rabbit,” he said.

“Yeah. Does it look familiar?”

Cheehawk handed Marco back the paper, bemused. “It looks like a rabbit,” he repeated. He spoke the words as though he were speaking to the mentally handicapped.

Marco sighed, refolded the paper, and shoved it in his pocket. “Never mind.” He looked over to the Bautista place, to the tree where the body had been found. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the growing cold of the evening, watching as the tree’s limbs swayed in the mounting breeze. As he watched the tree move, throwing shadows across the face of the house, across the lawn, and out onto the street, the rest of the scenery began to melt away. First to go were the police and Cheehawk, then the neighbors, the houses, and finally the terrible sobs of the bereaved. Before long, Marco was alone on the silent street underneath a canopy of stars, in front of that horrible tree. The wind blew harder and the tree shook in kind, and the watery image of Rubio’s body hanging heavy from a bough like a piñata ripe for the smacking slowly faded into view.

He wore a gray, cabled sweater and clean blue jeans. His cordovan loafers were polished to a high shine. His skin was white and smooth as porcelain, curly blonde hair glowing in the starlight. Around his neck, the rope cut into the impossibly white skin; angry red welts reminded Marco of Halloween zombies from a movie poster. His face was destroyed—there was no sign of the bright blue eyes, the slightly crooked nose, the shy smile that sent high school girls tittering down the hallway. Marco couldn’t look at it. It made every hair on his body stand on end.

Nervously, he reached out to touch the corpse, expecting to feel Mr. Bautista’s presence and kindness, but instead his fingers found stone—cold, smooth, and hard.

He pulled away, fear and sadness filling him up like a water pitcher, and as he clutched his hand to his chest, he smelled it in the air — something familiar yet just out of reach, something visceral, metallic. Just as the aroma of ancho chiles and pork had alerted him to Chucho’s safe arrival home, the smell that now tickled his sixth sense alerted him to a presence of something alien, something unnatural, something he alone knew all too well.

Marco’s stomach flipped and flopped. It gurgled in his ears.

The smell dissipated and he heard a tinkling laughter, like silver bells in the snow. Marco spun on his heel, but there was no one there. And then the laughter faded into singing, and to his intense horror, Marco recognized the voice immediately.

“Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a dead man in a tree.” Her voice felt like oil on Marco’s brain. “You made this possible. Thank you, Marco.”

Marco shook his head, swallowed hard. The words of the Christmas carol echoed in his mind, and Marco felt Rubio Bautista’s death wash freshly over him as he realized with a sick, dawning horror that his man was dead because of him.

This was his fault.

The other houses on the street swam slowly back into view. He blinked, noticed Cheehawk, Mrs. Bautista, and several of the police officers watching him in confusion. His skin felt hot. He tasted something acrid in the back of his throat. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, afraid he was going to be sick.

He felt, in the pit of his stomach, a swirling darkness begin to gnaw. It roiled inside him, rising to press against his lungs. He opened his mouth, greedily sucking down oxygen. He smelled it again—the metallic, burning smell. He squeezed his eyes against it, pushing it away with all his will.

As he opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. The houses lining the street ran like watercolor into the night. Cotton filled his ears and Marco stumbled, tried to cling to his waning consciousness before his knees buckled and he fainted dead away onto the dusty road.

The sun had already dipped down below the horizon as the boys breached the gates to the Love & War cemetery. The night was still and calm; only a gentle breeze rustled through what was left of the grass that had once carpeted the graveyard. The cemetery was as old as Love & War itself, and although the cemetery had seen a few recent arrivals, the grounds were not maintained as well as they once were. A few graves sported tacky, faded, plastic flowers, but most were bare. Sunbleached and wind-weathered stones dotted now-crooked grave rows amidst a sea of dead grass.

Silence descended upon the boys as they made their way through the cemetery, eyes searching tombstones for the name “Minerva Auckland”. Although they didn’t say so, both Marco and Alejandro, being only eight and having only mastered the art of reading the year before, were a little concerned that they wouldn’t recognize the name even if they saw it, because although “Minerva” sounded like it was probably easy to spell, neither boy had any idea how to spell “Auckland”.

They needn’t have worried, however, for it was Cheehawk who made the discovery. “It’s here,” he said, calling from the far back corner of the cemetery. Cheehawk crouched down low, running his fingers along the the carved stone as he read. “‘Minerva Katherine Auckland, 1818–1853. Bear me no grief, shed me no tear. For as I foresee it, you’ll too soon be here.’” Cheehawk shuddered, shaking his hand as though to shake off the poem. “That’s creepy,” he said.

Marco and Alejandro gulped and exchanged looks. Actually standing at the witch’s grave amid the crumbling walls and dead grass, the whole idea of making contact with her started to seem… less than good. Marco, swallowing hard and clenching his fists, cast a sideways glance at his brother, hoping against hope that his brother would call off the event.

But his hopes were dashed as soon as Alejandro plopped on the ground and said, “Aw, well, let’s get started.” Marco felt his stomach lurch as he settled down next to his bother and across from Cheehawk, who also was beginning to look a little green around the gills. Cheeawk placed the game on the ground and gingerly removed the lid, revealing a water-stained board and a chipped, plastic planchette.

Cheehawk lifted the board and planchette, flicking the box aside. “We all have to sit as close together as we can,” he instructed. “You guys better not have lice,” he said with a sneer.

“We don’t,” the twins chimed. They came together into a small huddle, sitting Indian style, their knees touching. Cheehawk placed the board on the ground between them and put the planchette in position. Following the older boy’s lead, the twins placed two fingers from each hand gently on the planchette.

“Now what?” Marco asked.

“Be quiet,” Cheehawk instructed. “I’ll take it from here. Just keep your fingers lightly on the thingie. And whatever you do, don’t let go!” He gave the boys a stern stare, and they nodded silently.

The ritual began.

“We wanna talk to Minerva Auckland,” Cheehawk said, his voice low and monotone, his eyes closed tight. “Minerva Auckland, if you’re out there, we’re here to…say happy birthday.” He hadn’t rehearsed what he was going to say, or even given it much thought. Marco looked askance at his friend, thinking maybe Cheehawk had fibbed a bit when he said he knew what he was doing.

Nothing happened.

“Minerva Auckland,” Cheehawk said again, this time his voice a little louder. “We want to speak with Minerva Auckland, the witch who burned up in her house in Love & War.”

Nothing happened.

Cheehawk cursed under his breath, and while he cast about for something more inviting to say, Marco had an idea. “Probably gotta ask it a question,” Marco said, his voice only slightly more than a whisper. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and said, “Minerva Auckland, Minerva Auckland, can you hear us? Are you here?”

A beat. Two. The boys were so still they dared not even breathe. Then, without fanfare, the planchette wobbled, a slight jerk, before it began gliding across the board, lurching to a stop when it reached the top left corner of the board, which read, “Yes”.

“You’re pushing it,” Alejandro hissed, his voice less steady as he would have liked. But both Marco and Cheehaw shook their heads, their eyes wide with fright and wonder.

“Hush! Marco, ask it another question.”

Biting his lip, Marco concentrated and asked, “Ah, Minerva Auckland, how many boys are sitting at your grave tonight?”

The planchette jerked, stopped, and then glided down the board to the row of numbers, stopping when the clear plastic of the planchette hovered over the 3.

“Oh man, this is freaking me out,” Alejandro said, his voice breaking. He almost sounded on the verge of tears. “You guys sure you’re not pushing it?”

Neither boy answered as Marco prepared his next question. “Minerva, can you tell us anything about the future?”

The planchette moved smoothly across the board, stopped decisively at “Yes”.

Marco looked up from the board, eyes searching. “What should we ask it?”

Cheehawk thought for a moment. Then he said, “Ask her if she knows what the winning lotto numbers are.”

Marco made a face. “Are you sure I should ask her that?”

Cheehawk nodded furiously. “Do you know how many video games we could buy if we won the lottery? I bet I could even get Ma to buy me my football uniform.”

Winning the lottery could buy a lot of video games, and though Marco wasn’t a big a fan as his brother or Cheehawk, even he could see the benefit of having his choice of any game securely locked behind the glass doors at the Walmart in Placerita. And besides, what else was he going to ask? Returning his attention to the board, Marco asked, “Minerva, can you tell us what the winning lotto numbers will be?”

The planchette was still. The boys glanced at each other apprehensively, then back down at the unmoving board. Finally, the planchette began to stir. It moved around the board in rapid figure eight patterns, its speed steady, its movement fluid. Then the planchette stopped. After a moment it began to spell something out. “U-M-U-S-T-I-N-V-I-T-E-M-E.”

Alejandro spoke the words as he read them. “Um ustin vite me?” The confusion on his face was mirrored in Cheehawk’s expression.

But the message was clear to Marco. “You must invite me,” he whispered. “She wants…” He shook his head, concentrated hard on the board. “Invite you where?”

The planchette began to move again. This time, it did not hesitate. It spelled out, “T-H-E-L-I-V-I-N-G-W-O-R-L-D.”

There was no mistaking what the board spelled out this time, and all the boys instinctively snatched their hands away from the planchette as they started at each other in horror. “What should we do?” Marco asked the others.

“What does she mean, invite her? Can she get out? I mean…she’s dead, right? Can the ouija board bring her here?” Cheehawk’s words spilled out of him like candy out of a piñata. His eyes darted between Marco and Alejandro, searching. “I mean, vampires can’t go in your house unless you invite them. So maybe she can’t get here unless we invite her.” He shook his head, waving his hands in front of his face. “Noooo way. She can just stay right there!” Then a thought struck him. “Is she gonna get mad if we don’t invite her? Is she gonna hex us or—” His voice was rising steadily higher as his panic reached a climax. His pudgy face was red and beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead. “What do we do?” he squealed.

“Didn’t you say you’d done this before?” Alejandro asked. “Shouldn’t you know if ghosts can come through the ouija board?”

Cheehawk’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no words came out. He’d been caught in a lie, and there was no use trying to deny it. Instead, he slumped down, shoulders drooping, and put his head in his hands, trying not to cry.

They sat in silence a moment, and then Alejandro made a decision. “Can we hang up on her by moving the thingie over the ‘Good Bye’ at the bottom if it gets too scary?”

Cheehawk shrugged his shoulders without looking up. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe. I think so.”

Marco was shaking his head slowly, tears of fear welling up in his eyes. He didn’t care if his brother saw him cry. He didn’t care if they called him names. He didn’t want to go any further. He wanted to leave the cemetery. The tiny hairs at the back of his neck were standing up, and he was beginning to get a Very Bad Feeling. He knew with all his heart that they should put the ouija board away and go home, change into pajamas and watch something funny on television until the bad feeling went away. He could practically hear a voice whispering in his ear, saying, “Cut it out, Marco. Cut it out right now.”

But he couldn’t. Sitting there, perched on the brink of certain, inevitable disaster, Marco became a pawn in someone else’s game of chess—merely an object to be moved around, a means to someone else’s end. Even as his insides reared up and his conscious mind threatened him with every weapon in its arsenal, Marco felt the invisible puppeteer pulling his marionette strings. He felt (though who could say if it were true) locked into a single course of action, predetermined, one his entire life—all eight years of it—had led up to. Propelled forward by forces unseen, Marco moved through his next motions unwillingly, fearfully, and knowing with a soul-deep dread that he couldn’t do anything about any of it.

He couldn’t.

And that was why, though every fiber of his being railed against it, he took a breath and put his fingers back on the planchette. After a moment, the other boys followed suit.

“Minerva Auckland,” Marco whispered, his voice shaking as he blinked back his tears. “We invite you to the world of the living. We—”

But before he could finish his thought, the planchette began to spin under their fingers and then shot off the edge of the board, landing in a patch of brown grass and eliciting a screech from each of the boys. Officially scared out of their wits, they scrambled to their feet, still screaming, and as they ran for the cemetery gates they could swear they heard a peal of deranged, high-pitched laughter that was certainly, definitely, coming from Minerva Auckland’s headstone.

They didn’t stop to see what was happening. Pumping their arms and legs as hard as they could, the boys fled the cemetery like bats out of hell. They didn’t stop running until they’d made it back to the Flores place, their hearts thumping so hard they feared they might explode. Marco was crying freely now, scared and angry at himself. Angry at Cheehawk and Alejandro. And suddenly, so, so tired.

But even in his wild fear, he realized, too late, they never said ‘Good Bye’.

They’d seen the pink Mary Kay mobile hauling ass down the road, which meant Mrs. Parker was in town visiting her sister Bibi, which meant that Cheehawk would be showing up at the Flores house any minute.

Cheehawk Parker, World Renowned Maker of Adventure and Mischief, was from Odessa, Texas, which meant he knew a thing or two about the world that the kids of Love & War simply weren’t privy to. He knew, for example, what a carjacking was, how girls got pregnant, and how to trick a gas station attendant into selling cigarettes to a minor. Whenever Cheehawk came to visit, Love & War got a little bit more interesting.

Of course, Cheehawk knew this about himself. Which made him kind of a pain in the ass.

He was also two or three years older than Marco and Alejandro, which, when coupled with his Big City bravado and acumen, made him a force to be reckoned with.

“Is that him, coming up the street?” Marco pointed toward the oncoming apparition.

Alejandro folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Yup. That’s him. He’s got something with him.”

The boys watched with growing anticipation as Cheehawk marched up the street. As he drew nearer, the twins saw it was a board game he had tucked under his arm. When he was close enough, he raised his free arm in greeting, and the boys returned the wave. Huffing a little, Cheehawk offered the twins a smile, and then spit on the ground, just missing his feet.

“Hey, you got anything to drink? It’s a long walk from Aunt Bibi’s.”

Alejandro made a face. “It’s not that long; you’re just fat. I thought you were gonna play football at your new school.” Alejandro couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He played soccer, and thought it was important for boys to be active in sports. His father had said so. His real father.

“I was gonna,” Cheehawk said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “But those bastards wanted us to pay $200 for uniforms. Ma said she wasn’t gonna pay that kind of money for nothin’ less it was gold plated. I didn’t really want to play football anyway,” Cheehawk said, his tone unconvincing. “Glad you’re here, Alex; I thought you might be with your pop today.” The relief in his voice was evident, and Marco realized with a sick feeling that Cheehawk was worried he’d have to play with just him.

“He’s out of town,” Alejandro muttered. “Marco, go get Cheehawk some Kool Aid, wouldja?”

But Marco didn’t budge. “What you got?” He pointed to the game under Cheehawk’s arm.

Having forgotten his thirst, Cheehawk drew the boys into a tight huddle and lifted the game from underneath his arm. The battered cover read, “OUIJA: Mystifying Oracle. William Fuld Talking Board Set.” It depicted two sets of hands resting on a strange object.

“What’s oo-ee ha?” Marco asked, the word feeling strange and mysterious in his mouth.

“WEE JEE,” Cheehawk corrected, his eyes sparkling. “I found it in Aunt Bibi’s attic. It’s a board that lets you talk to the spirits of dead people.”

“That’s stupid,” Alejandro said, rolling his eyes. “You can’t talk to dead people, because they’re dead.”

“Do you know how to do it?” Marco asked, ignoring his brother. He was still staring at the floating hands on the cover, bewitched.

“Of course,” Cheehawk snapped, puffing out his chest. “It works best if you have a real perfect conditions. And our conditions couldn’t be more perfect.” He’d gotten that gleam in his eye, the gleam the Flores twins knew all too well: it meant Adventure.

“What conditions?” Alejandro asked.

Taking a quick survey of their surroundings to ensure their privacy, Cheehawk lowered his voice. “Do you know what today is?”

“Friday,” Marco said.

Cheehawk sucked his teeth. “No, stupid, I mean, what day it is. Why it’s special.” When neither of the boys said anything, Cheehawk licked his lips and whispered, “It’s Minerva Auckland’s birthday.”

The news didn’t get the reaction Cheehawk hoped for. “Who’s Minerva Auckland?”

Cheehawk’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Who’s Minerva Auckland? Sheez, don’t you guys know anything about your own town? Minerva Auckland is the famous witch who used to live here. You know that terrible magician who lives on the other side of town, Simon St. Laine?”

Marco snorted. “Sure, we know Simon St. Laine. He did a show at our school last year at the PTA meeting. He couldn’t guess what card Maggie was holding, even though he guessed three times, and then he just went on to another trick to try to cover it up, but everybody knew he screwed up. He’s the worst. And–”

“ANYWAY,” Cheehawk interrupted. “She’s his great great great great grandmother.” He looked pleased as punch as he made the announcement. If he was uncertain about how many greats he should have used, it didn’t show on his face.

“Well, what’s she famous for?” Alejandro asked.

At this, Cheehawk dithered a bit, but his bravado didn’t fade. “Well, Aunt Bibi wouldn’t tell me the whole story, so it probably has something to do with sex. Or politics. Or both.” Marco and Alejandro made gross-out faces. “But she did say that she was such an awful witch and did so many bad things, that some of the local people got together and burned her house to the ground with her still in it.”

Marco exclaimed, “That stinks!” at the same time Alejandro cooed, “Cooool!” Now that he had both boys’ rapt attention, Cheehawk’s expression melted into a veritable cat-ate-the-canary grin. He straightened up and slid the ouija board back under his arm. “Yeah,” he said, a fire in his eyes. “So we’re gonna take the ouija board to the cemetery and call up that dead witch. Maybe we can hear the story of her murder from her own mouth!”

Marco wasn’t so sure about that and was about to say so when he caught his brother’s expression. Alejandro was hooked; in fact, he was nearly drooling with excitement. He clapped Marco on the shoulder and squeezed, his eyes dark and narrow. “You’re not gonna chicken out, right, Marco?”

Sighing, Marco looked down at the ground. “No,” he said softly.

“He’s good,” Alejandro announced, turning his attention back to the older boy, who was practically hopping from foot to foot. “We going now? It’s about to get dark. We’re not really supposed to leave the street after dark.”

With no further ado, Cheehawk hooted, punched the air with his fist, and took off running down the street toward the cemetery. “Last one there’s a rotten egg!” he shouted over his shoulder.

The twins darted after him into the dark.