I don’t think that will happen. Unlike most mages, Gabriela actually cares about people, whether they’re human or not.

She had a hotel Downtown a while back where she was taking in the supernaturals of Los Angeles: vampires, aswang, naga, ebu gogo, xana, and so on. We’re very multicultural out here. There aren’t many, and the ones that can pass for human mostly hide among the homeless, eke out a living on street corners, try not to grab too much attention.

Problem is, nobody was going to take a five-foot-tall sorority girl with an advanced sociology degree seriously as a mage protecting homeless vampires. She looks less Morgan le Fay, and more Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Sexism is alive and well in magic land.

So, she went all Baba Yaga on everybody and made up this ancient, withered hag called La Bruja. Carved a swath through the gangs and Mexican Mafia in her little corner of Downtown. Left calling cards, messages written in blood, skinned corpses, that sort of thing.

The whole time these guys are thinking they’re dealing with a hundred-year-old monster witch. Even her own people thought so. Until a bunch of Russian thugs followed me to the hotel and burned the place to the ground. And I kinda got a bunch of her people killed. We didn’t talk much after that.

Word that she was La Bruja got out fast. Things went south. Chunk of her army bailed, Mexican Mafia started sniffing around. A lot of boys who thought they were men had to be forcefully reminded that she was still very much not someone to fuck with.

Considering that I’ve probably brought a pissed off Aztec god to L.A. looking for revenge, letting me die would really be the best move.

I honk the horn again. Longer and louder this time. My vision swims for a second before going clear. My heart’s really getting a workout.

Finally, someone comes out of the warehouse and opens the gate. I drive in, the car lurching, and park crookedly in one of the empty spaces.

I’m going downhill fast. I’m fever-hot, hotter than can be explained by this weather. I can’t tell if it’s from whatever I’ve been dosed with or my tats really doing their best to keep me alive.

I push the door open. A step turns into a stumble turns into a fall and the next thing I know I’m face-down in the parking lot as everything goes black.

—

When I bolt back into consciousness my heart’s slamming in my ribcage like a monkey on a tambourine, but at least now it’s got some rhythm. My breathing is fast, but not as bad as before. Most importantly, my tattoos aren’t reacting. Whatever I was dosed with isn’t in my system anymore.