Journal entry from Wednesday, August 10, 2011

8:00 a.m., Men's Central Jail

The stench of Fabulosa fills my nostrils as I hunch over my breakfast tray. George sits next to me and Ken and Martin are across the table from us. My brothers mirror my posture-elbows out- to defend against anyone who might take a notion to sweep in and steal the sludge that passes for breakfast. George's rapid breathing is his only sign of nervousness. The rest of us are calm, being no strangers to incarceration.

On the opposite side of the brightly lit room, young gang members with shaved and tattooed heads coalesce. Every so often, one turns away from the pack to stare at us before returning to the huddle. I'm guessing it's their first time in stir, and they'll want to prove their mettle to the old gangsters by taking us down.

Without moving, I scan the area around the huddled youngsters. The guards are conveniently absent, with only cameras to monitor the room.

In a low voice, I ask Ken and Martin to check out the area behind me. Their eyes flick from one side of the room to another before Ken gives a slight head shake to indicate there are no uniforms present.

I empty the air from my lungs, then unobtrusively nod to my brothers. We casually pick up our trays and leave the table together. Like generations of Salvias who came before, our breathing joins and becomes unison as we dump our trays in the plastic bins at the end of the room.

As we exit, other men follow us into the hallway. Sensing the morning's entertainment is about to kick off, they pool in a group to block the view of any guards that might be watching the feed from the cafeteria video camera.

The would-be attackers are eight young men. Their faces light up with savage excitement as they push through the crowd to get the jump on us.

When we reach an alcove, the gang members rush at us with fists flying. They try to corner us but are instead quickly and viciously brought down by synchronized, simultaneous blows with cupped hands to the ears, followed up with knees to their groins. George fights with precision, despite this being his first stint in jail.

As the Cholos silently fall to the ground, Ken looks over and casually remarks to Martin, "I never noticed you're left knee-ed."

Martin grins. "Actually, I'm switch-knee-ed: left or right."

"Niiiiiice!" Ken is clearly impressed with Martin's hand-to-knee combat skills.

The chest pumping and posturing of the youngsters are no match for our quiet precision and unified combat skills. We've been fighting for centuries and take to the martial arts like artists experimenting with clays and oils. We know how to tailor a beating to suit any situation.

Before the guards can figure out what went down, the losers are quickly dragged away. The point has been made. We're not fresh meat. The beating we delivered earns respect and space.

As we leave the scene of our triumph, Ken and Martin discuss their fighting techniques. Without a word, George moves ahead of us.

I catch up with my little brother as he stalks down the hall. "Nice work, you broke your cherry."

George stops walking and glares at me. "This shit torpedoes my chances of getting into Stanford."

Maybe that redheaded Bruja's spell is starting to break. I press the advantage he's presented me. "You're right. Manson's followers kept a low profile until Amber McBride showed up."

My brothers join us and Ken chimes in. "The last time the portal for the dead opened was 1984, when Lake Manor was nearly blown off the map. Who knows what that redhead's unleashed?"

Martin's eyes narrow as he considers what's been said. Then, with a serious expression, he grips George's shoulder. "Raven says Amber's the one who will break the Salvia curse."

Behind Martin's back, Ken eyes me and shrugs.

Raven must be the mystery girl Martin's been seeing.

George's head swivels as he glares at each of us. "You don't know shit about Amber."

He shakes off Martin's hand, then walks away from us.

AUTHOR NOTES:

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