Rodrigo levitates to the kitchen entrance. "They're here."

Many footsteps approach the botánica. I hear their voices long before they arrive.

"Did ya see her swoop across the plaza, Videl? This is bad."

"Yes. Stay calm."

"It was Fire-Snake. Singed my tail feathers when she flew by. Faster than a greased turd from a rabbit's ass. And I was just roosting on the Martinez barn, mindin' my own business. The nerve."

"Seora Eructo, please."

I'd recognize that gargled cackle anywhere. It's one of the buitres who nest here seasonally. A formidable trio of brujas. So, they are in town. They usually hang out in the city during Día de los Muertos, hunting for tourists to peck and mug.

I run to meet them. With such powerful sorcerers here, perhaps we can capture Fire-Snake.

A high-pitched voice says, "Something big smashed through this door."

Brujo of renown, necromancer unequaled, Don Videl strides into the botánica. Though he's as old as Abuelita, he's tall and fit, magnificent in his black mariachi suit and sombrero. His boot heels crunch through the broken glass on the floor. Silver spurs jingle as he approaches me.

Many supernaturals shuffle close behind. The stench of their decayed flesh and swampy armpits wafts to my nose. I hold my breath.

Don Videl and Abuelita are the leaders and founders of Puesta Del Sol, our weird little supernatural commune in rural Tlaxcala. It's a home for those outcast as witches or monsters, or anyone shunned as non-human. The cacao tree draws them here. With the chocolate, we can enjoy somewhat modern lives. And as long as no one causes trouble, people in this village watch each other's backs. I hope they'll stand with me now.

Don Videl almost crushes me in a hug, and his big white mustache tickles my cheek. "Melosa, what's happened?"

His frown sags when I explain. With a heavy sigh, he removes his sombrero and leans against the shop counter. "Your grandmother and I reinforced the tree as much as we could. I guess we failed."

A tubby, hook-nosed old woman pokes him. Lapo, leader of the buitres, wears a full-length gown of sorts stitched with countless black feathers. Bird skulls and talismans dangle from her matted gray braids. "You see? Should have asked us for help. The mayhem planets align tonight, and all magic weakens before the gods. Fire-Snake's likely been waiting for this chance to escape."

Don Videl's shoulders droop. "You're right, and we can be sure of one thing. Fire-Snake needs the tree to keep her power. She'll be back, and she won't play nice."

"Mmuuuunnh, nng uuuurrh," moans another man in a mariachi suit. Not a man exactly, though he used to be. In life, he was a famous trumpet player. Raised from the grave by Don Videl's necromancy, he's now named Porfirio Huesos. He and his zombie companion, Felipe Agallas, are the backbone of Videl's band.

"I don't know, Huesos," says Don Videl. "There's enough of us to defend the tree, but to overpower Fire-Snake, we'll need the strength of gods and saints."

"There is a way," a nearby crone says. She belches a foul emission of tequila and bile. It's Eructo, the youngest of the buitres. As she hobbles forward, several little folk--feisty duendes, chaneques, and aluxes--shout and scramble away before she steps on them. She pays no attention. Her shrewd, all-black eyes fixate on Don Videl.

Eructo carries a scrawny creature with spines on its hairless gray back. Three overbitten fangs protrude from its mouth, and its eyes glow pale yellow. When it spies me, it yaps and leaps from its mistress's arms.

"Hola, Bonito." I scratch the chupacabra's ears, and it flops over for belly rubs. Its excited rat tail whacks against my leg.

Eructo nudges her sister Moco with a winged elbow. "Tell Videl what we found, dearie."

Moco grunts and pulls her finger out of her nostril. "It's a secret. We can't tell, or we might fall down into Hell."

Lapo smacks Moco on the head. "Tell, you bumbling chicken fart. We can't keep it to ourselves anymore."

Don Videl straightens. His magic crests around the buitres. "What are you double-dealing brujas hiding now?"

Lapo cowers and lifts a black wing over her face. "Noble Seor, we discovered something wondrous here several years ago."

"A gateway, a gateway," Moco squawks.

"What kind of gateway?" Don Videl seizes Lapo by her feathery scruff. "You three know the laws. Any interdimensional magic or phenomena must be reported to Galleta and myself, on pain of exile. Speak up."

While Moco and Eructo titter and whisper, Lapo gives a narrow-eyed grin. "A gateway to Mictlan lies in the cemetery. Beneath the oldest grave in Puesta Del Sol."

Gasps fill the botánica.

Don Videl's face turns from pale to red.

"A deal we made, a penance for vice," Moco says, bouncing on her taloned bird feet. "A pact with La Muerte. There's always a price."

Lapo pushes Moco away. "Forgive my sister. She can't hold her mezcal. See, we met the Lady of Death when we found the gateway. We were curious and peeked inside, and her minions caught us. We'll just say La Muerte wasn't happy about it. She let us go with only a few feathers plucked, as long as we never return, and never tell anyone. If we break the promise, we must go to Mictlan and beg her forgiveness before the sun rises the next day. If we fail, we'll be exiled forever to the Underworld...if you know what I mean."

Don Videl's stony expression fades. "You've broken your vow. Put your very souls on the line. Why now?"

The three buitres stand together. Moco sways between their dark wings.

"Because this is our home," Lapo says. "We always return here, no matter how far we fly. If we lose the cacao tree, or our dear Galleta, Puesta Del Sol will never be the same. We'll visit La Muerte tonight to keep our bargain, and we'll ask for her aid against Fire-Snake."

"How can a snaggle of vultures groveling before Lady Death solve anything?" Don Videl snaps. "She's already angry with you, and she'll be angrier now. She doesn't take pity."

"She isn't sympathetic, it's true." Lapo raises a clawed finger. "But she's fair. If we bring our most innocent companion into Mictlan, we may soften Death's sting."

A big-eared duende in a pointed hat shouts, "Who is innocent? Not one, not two."

Moco reaches into her feathers and pulls out a wriggling millipede. "This one will seek, will surely find, the purest of heart and mind." She licks the creature with her crusty tongue, then releases it onto the floor.

The millipede circles boots, tails, and dusty toes and finally stops beside my sneakers. It climbs my leg and rests on my shirt. Tiny mandibles and legs quiver against me.

"Ah, Melosa Rojas. A girl so sweet." Moco snatches her creepy familiar away. "What a dear friend La Muerte shall meet."

I scoff. "What? I'm not even close to innocent. This is a mistake."

Lapo shambles to me, huffing with the effort. "The spirits don't lie, nia."

Rodrigo barges between Lapo and I. "You can't risk Melosa to the perils of Mictlan. Take me instead. I've got nothing to lose. My soul's already in limbo."

"Rodrigo, I--"

He turns to me. "Trust me, you don't want this. The Underworld is no place for angels."

Someone in the crowd sighs.

"The ancestors have made their choice," Lapo says. "Now, Melosa must make hers."

Don Videl pats my shoulder. "You don't have to go. We'll search for another way."

"There's no time for searching." I lift my head as I think of Abuelita, of her courage in preserving the tree. She did it for me. For everyone. Now it's my turn. "I'll go."