“Yes. I could but with less real power in the face of this... man with the white eyes. My connection also seemed to fade more quickly.” ABCs paused, searching for a solution. “Perhaps if I had my talismans nearby, my Ouija to help hold the link with my pishtaco.” He heard rustling in the background of the call, but the Shaman did not answer.
The Alphabet King thought back to that first night by the fire and what the Shaman had told him. The hum of the planchette and the energy of the Ouija were still as palpable now as they had been that night. His mind raced over the pishtaco folklore used to scare him as a child, searching for some detail he’d missed. He recalled the conversation they had just before finding himself by the Ocean of Tar for the first time, the mist the Shaman had described. Say the name.
“La Luz Mala,” he murmured. The rustling quieted and ABCs knew the Shaman would wait on the other end of the call while he remembered.
La Luz Mala, the mist that connects... concentrations of spiritual energy... like paths connect the villages. That same mist swirled around them each time they energized the Ouija in the desert by the fire. After returning from his first experience with the Ocean of Tar, Little Armando had learned that the wicked mist was especially strong in areas possessing a concentration of energies, such as places where battles took place, locations where atrocities had been committed, or any place occupied by an abundance of frantic people. Each location generated its own unique Luz Mala, and the mists were connected all over the Americas like dendrites connect the synapses of the brain. The energies of many entities could use this network to move from place to place.
“The hospital,” ABCs said.
“Yeeesss,” the Shaman said proudly. “A place where life is given, fought for, and taken. Plenty of energy to connect. You rely too heavily on the talismans, poco hefe.”
The Alphabet King didn’t respond. This time, the term of endearment felt like an insult. Like he was still that petulant child standing barefoot on the dirt floor of the Shaman’s adobe dwelling, lacking understanding. What did he mean? The talismans were there to enable his connection to the energy of the pishtaco. He had always practiced the connection at a place of his choosing, in private. He didn’t carry his talismans with him. He never considered them portable. He cursed himself for not having more vision. What other means do I have?
The call remained silent. The old man was thinking through the problem too. ABCs had learned long ago not to break the silence. “Tell me more about this man with the white eyes. Why does he stand up to you?” the Shaman finally asked.
ABCs summarized the story revolving around the drug bust, Clay saving the little girl, the plans to hold them all accountable, and finally, the events leading to the showdown in the parking lot.
“There is something you are missing,” the Shaman said. “Some element you’ve overlooked. Either this is no ordinary man, or he has spiritual help. Perhaps both. Who were his companions? Was there a spiritual guide present?”
ABCs thought for a second. Aside from the meddlesome cop, the landscaper, and the mother, he did remember another woman cowering on the ground. He had dismissed her because she never even looked at him, much less spoke. The events at the hospital had been so chaotic. “Yes, there was an older woman. She did not speak. I paid her no attention.”
“An obvious mistake,” the Shaman snapped sharply.
This time, Armando’s lips curled in anger. Nobody rebuked him. It had been a long time since his teacher dared to do so. He rolled his head to the side, releasing the tension in his neck before continuing, “What. Are. You. Saying.” He managed to growl another question more akin to a demand.
“Calm yourself. Remember our goals. The foothold you have in America is most important. We need to find out who this older woman is, why she was there, and what she is capable of.”
“Uh-huh,” ABCs grunted.
“We also need to understand the weakening of your connection with your pishtaco. Remember, it is bound to you, but you freed it from the Ocean of Tar and granted it permission to wander. Don’t be surprised if it has devised some way to betray you. Constructs or not, demons often accomplish their goals by proxy. Cause someone else to get in your way.”
The Alphabet King’s anger surged. “Betrayal at the deepest level?”
“Perhaps there is more to this malevolent entity than we realize,” the Shaman said.
The Alphabet King searched his memory. “That day when I originally bound it into service... It did say something strange. Something you and I had not discussed.”
“What?”
“It told me that I should consider myself fortunate. That it was not merely a fallen being but an actual demon,” ABCs replied.
The Shaman stiffened. “It said this to you?”
“Yes. It told me that I had summoned the power of an actual pishtaco.”
The Shaman’s mind reeled. “How could this have happened? I... The Ouija was meant to only connect with the energy of the condemned and... the pishtaco is believed to be a myth, not an actual demon. It should not have been in the Ocean of Tar. All of my research led me to this conclusion. Why didn’t you tell me of this?!”
“You said not to tell you what happens to me In Between!” ABCs barked back.
The Shaman let out a frustrated sigh. “We have freed an actual demon. This changes things.”
“What? What has changed?” ABCs demanded.
“We have brought forth something much more powerful than a fallen being. The stakes are now much higher, but the rewards...” The Shaman let out a short whistle. “This also opens many possibilities.” He drifted off in thought for a moment, orange flecking in his eyes.
The Alphabet King huffed out a self-satisfied grunt. “Perhaps I was fortunate.”
“Never mind that. You must act. If this is an actual demon and this pishtaco is wandering, as is their nature, then you must seal the bond. Permanently, before it finds a way to break the pact.”
“Have I not earned its loyalty by freeing it?”
The Shaman snorted. “You speak of loyalty among demons. Are you still so naïve?”
ABCs’ lip curled in anger again, but he remained silent.
“If it is able to break the pact, and it is the remnant energy of a real demon, it will turn on you,” the Shaman said.
“We cannot allow that,” ABCs snarled.
“There is one final ritual.”
“Why did you not tell me this?” ABCs asked. “You taught me how to free it through the Ouija, to bind it to my service, but left this out? Why?”
The old man sighed heavily on the other side of the call. “I’d hoped you would someday figure this out on your own. You can be free of most talismans.”
“How, Viejito, how can I seal a permanent connection without my beloved Ouija?”
“It is apparent your demon is chafing under its commitment to you. It is not serving you as it should. It must be searching for a way to break the pact. It may even have a plan in motion already. You must make it an offering. Something it desires above all else but cannot have unless through its master. Through you,” the Shaman said. “Lure it in with this promise, then seal the permanent bond.”
