She swallowed, throat a sandpaper squeeze. The vision thing was…weird. But it wasn’t what she was focusing on. Instead, that her grandma just…faded before her eyes.

  “Did I just kill her?”

  Jacinta’s voice was a whisper. Her hands an earthquake. Her eyes drowning beneath the tears, the gravity of what she’d done. She stepped towards the seat, waving her hands, seeing if it was a mirage, if she was really sitting there. They passed through air, only through air.

  Francesca was gone. There was no trace of her.

  Fuck—fingerprints. Police. SEE. They’d come, tag Jacinta, chain her with iron, throw her away like they did all other undesirables, others, no—

  The fantasy was gone. Her daze, ripped free.

  All that resonated within her mind was one word: fuck.

  “The grimoire, grimoire—” her hands fled south, denim jeans, pockets, the wand she’d stuck into it. She found it, the little matchbox, crossed-out logo—when she flipped it open, it expanded into an ancient, heavy book, leather cover, yellowed pages. Old. Edited and written-in generation by generation. It was a living book.

  …and one with attitude.

  Jacinta tried to flip it open, but it remained locked tight. She clenched her jaw, exhaled. “Please, please, ancestors. I just sent one of you into the afterlife, just bear with me, c’mon—”

  Nothing.

  Her eyes rose to the windows. No cars coming. No sirens. Okay, good. Back. Book.

  “Grimoire, please.”

  Still.

  “Pretty please?”

  Nope.

  “With a cherry on top?”

  A few pages in the book ruffled. She tried to open it, relieved—but no. It was jammed shut, as though the pages were all carved from one block of stone.

  “Fine. I’ll just…figure it out myself.”

  She exhaled, tugged the corners of the book inward. It collapsed back into the matchbox, and she set it into her pocket. “Thanks for the help…” And to that, the book-turned-matchstick burned against her thigh. She ignored it, strode to the bathroom. Pills, so many pills, behind the half-open mirror. There, a vela in the corner, unlit, with a picture of Jesus and beams of light and—

  A bottle of floor cleaner. Purple, lavender; she wondered if wiping any prints with that would work. Any alcohol? She found rubbing alcohol—bingo—

  Her phone rang. Gregory. She cursed in Spanish and clicked ‘accept’ while pouring the acrid liquid onto a towel. “Perfect. I need your help—I kinda killed my grandma. Long story. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Oh God, Jaci—what’d you do?”

  “I told you: I’ll explain when you’re here. I kinda just…assisted her. Like assisted suicide! That’s—well, not legal, but it should be. Just…get here, please. You can teleport through the phone signal, right?”

  He scoffed on the other line. “Girl, meshing magic with tech is what I do. Among other things. Let me just grab my wallet. You need anything else? Some gloves?”

  “Actually…that’d be helpful.” She told him. Gregory sighed. Waited. A pause stretched between them. “Thanks.”

  With that, he hung up. Jacinta examined the kitchen.

  “You’re seriously stealing your dead gran’s stuff?’

  Jacinta jumped and spun around, her lower back pressed against the cabinets. “What? No! She asked me to take some stuff back. Grandmas always leave their grandkids with a bunch of food…so she’s just, uh, keeping the tradition alive one last time.” Keeping the tradition alive? Ouch, wording.

  “Keeping the tradition…going.” She corrected herself, before facing and glaring at him, again, raising a can of pintos. “And you mind warning me when you arrive? I nearly shit a can of beans! My grandma just—faded into the ether after asking me to help her die—I just got her some glasses and…sorry. Just…jumpy.” She took a few slow breaths, shutting her eyes, before lowering her head. “And no. Well, yes. But you know how grandmas are—they always want to leave you well-fed. So I’m just…following through with that, and taking food to-go. Consider this my doggie bag.” She shook her head, lifting some plain white bread, examining the date—before realizing it was moldy. Her lip curled; she set it back, hand wrapped in a washcloth to avoid getting prints anywhere.

  “Eh, you know how my family is. Unfortunately my gran and gramps aren’t too sweet; they’re brainwashed too. You know what they say: think magic’s all evil, any supernatural’s a crook, our great and infallible leader Smith can save us…and, of course, then there’s the…other thing. But I love my coven. And you, my little sister from another mister…” He smirked, handing her a pair of gloves. With a thankful nod, Jacinta stuck them on, latex slapping against her skin. Restrictive, uncomfortable—the claustrophobic tickle began beneath the base of her jaw, but she swallowed it, gaze focused on Greg’s face. He had the most flawless skin she’d ever seen; not a single blemish. It matched the obsidian stone ingrained in his ring—bluish hue beneath pale light, with an almost natural glimmer. His eyes were sharp, deep; his brows flat and thick. Full lips twisted in a self-satisfied smirk, hair cut in shortened coils. He was tall—but then again, Jacinta was shorter than the average girl; everyone was taller than her.

  The stats popped up.

  Jacinta laughed, shaking her head. “Nice addition to the Atlas. You’ll need to explain what all this means when we’re out of here, alright? And…you saved my butt. Thanks. Seriously.”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t—and haven’t—done for me. As for the Atlas, I’ll go through it with you later, miss eleven intelligence.” He told her with a chuckle, stepping aside to wipe down the areas she’d touched.

  Ouch. She only had eleven intelligence points? What was that qualified on? College degrees? IQ? Potential?

  Focus. She shook her head, clearing her throat. “We both just attract trouble, I guess…speaking of trouble, how’s that angel you were talking to?”

  “Fallen angel. Didn’t include that on his profile…Hey, I don’t judge, but no—he’s a demon, I swear. A hot demon, sure, like all of them…but not worth it this time. God as my witness, or however that saying’s supposed to go.” Gregory genuflected, kissing his hand to the sky.

  Jacinta chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, that’s a shame. He seemed promising…” She grabbed a bottle of fine-aged tequila and another, rum, stuffing them into her bag. It was becoming full and heavy. “You like rum, right? One for you…” She loaded another. She was now clinking with every move. Doña Francesca had good taste, apparently. And probably some valuable items she kept hidden in the floorboards or something. Did Jacinta check for them? She had to have some magic artifacts; she was an old witch, used to be a coven leader—

  “You wanna come with and see if she has any artifacts? You’re good at scoping out magic; it’ll be a favor, reduce any tarnishing of her record if they find stuff.” She shrugged, smiling.

  “Yeah, sure. So long as I don’t go empty-handed.”

  “Fine. 80-20.” Jacinta decided. That sounded…fair.

  “50-50. You probably won’t be able to get a read on anything without me, Jaci.”

  “And without me, you wouldn’t be here at all. 60-40, then—my pick first. Deal?” She called with a huff, brow raised, as she stepped onto the creaky stairs, glancing up. The house remained in shadow; phone flashlight again.

  “…Fine. Fine. So, your gran…she asked you to die?”

  “Yeah. It…hasn’t hit me yet. And I still feel weird about taking things from here, but…she asked. So let’s discuss this later, when her spirit isn’t so close. Get the tamales from the fridge, please.” Jacinta paused. Glanced up. “Love you, Doña; please don’t curse us…” She strode forward, focused. Forbidden room. The dull throb of magic was coming through the cracks; even she could feel it. She pulled the key from her pocket, stuck it in—

  And opened the door.