The Fire Keeper (The Storm Runner 2)
ith in their pockets.”
That was sort of depressing to think about.
“We’re supposed to get our new clothes here, in a junkyard?” I muttered to Hondo.
He just shrugged, looking around in awe. “These weapons are seriously sick! You think I could take a few?” he asked Quinn. “And maybe a feathered mask?”
“They’re broken, useless,” Quinn told him. “Plus, touch anything in here and you’ll have a curse on your head, which I wouldn’t recommend. Maya curses are the worst—they really stick. Clementino!” she called as she stalked down one of the shadowy aisles. “Oh, where is that foolish man? Don’t just stand there,” she barked at us, “follow me!”
We did as we were told. Even hellhound Rosie, but she totally snorted a few trails of smoke in defiance.
“I saw that,” I whispered.
When we reached the back of the warehouse, a small old man (and by small, I mean, like, five feet tall, hunched rounded shoulders, and skinny toothpick legs) came out of double wooden doors with painted panels showing a bloodletting ceremony. I’d read about those in my book about the Maya. In an effort to communicate with their ancestors and the gods, people had stabbed their skin to release blood.
My guts tightened.
Quinn took the man aside for a whispering convo. Then they came back and Clementino gave us a wide toothy smile. His teeth were humongous, like he wore a set of fake chompers size extra large. They didn’t fit in his scrawny face. Had he stolen them from some dead person’s mouth? “Time to get ready,” he announced.
“No one’s draining my blood!” Brooks declared with a frown.
Clementino grabbed for her backpack. “Hey!” she cried. “That’s mine.”
“Can’t take anything into Xib’alb’a until it’s been sanitized,” he said. “It’s a serious health hazard.”
“Uh, everyone here is already dead,” Hondo said. Luckily, Rosie was too busy sniffing around to hear the word as a command. “And I really like the shirt I’m wearing.”
“There are worse things than being dead,” Clementino said, smacking his lips together. “Take me for example. Perfectly happy pawnshop owner until the day a dirty rotten demon decides he doesn’t like me. Next thing I know, I’m being hauled here.” With a dramatic sigh, he added, “I think he was jealous of my teeth.”
“Sounds like a raw deal,” I said, remembering how Rosie had been whisked to the underworld, too.
“How was I supposed to know you should never win in a poker game against a demon?” Clementino went on. “I had a straight flush and—”
“Enough story time,” Quinn butted in. “Give him the pack, Brooks.”
Clementino grabbed my arm and whispered, “Demons are notorious cheats—and sore losers. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
Quinn turned to Hondo. “No one’s going anywhere in the underworld until you scrub down and get rid of that human stench.”
“But these are my lucky boots!” Ren cried. “Can I get them back later?”
“If there is a later,” Clementino said way too gleefully. “Who’s first?”
Hondo’s hand shot up. Then he leaned closer to Clementino. “What exactly is a scrub-down?”
“Agua caliente, magic foam, and a pinch of ancient bone dust,” the old man said. “I’ll have you smelling like the dead in two minutes flat.”
Hondo groaned. “Can we not do the bone dust?”
“Look,” I said to Clementino, “we don’t really have time for foam and dust or whatever.”
Ren nodded emphatically. “I’m allergic to dust. Makes me have sneezing fits.”
Quinn cursed under her breath and said, “Why do I always get the impossible tasks?” She pushed us toward some stalls with hanging curtains in the front. “¡Ándele! Get undressed in there. I’ll pick out some dry clothes for you while you bathe.”
“Not many clothes here,” Clementino mumbled to Quinn. “I just burned all the snakeskins. And those demon hides? All gone. But I might have something….”
* * *