How to Lose Friends and Be Influenced By Monsters

No one who came to Ernie’s Artifacts was interested in mundane trinkets, unless they happened to be seriously lost. The pawn shop sat off 5th Street in Skid Row, Los Angeles. It was like a relic in time, squeezed into an aging storefront where almost no one would think to look for it. And that was, more or less, the whole point.

The building was tall and narrow, leaving the store somewhat cramped. There were a few rickety shelves stocked with the usual human stuff: watches, jewelry, musical instruments, and old Hollywood memorabilia that sat around gathering dust. It was, of course, all for show.

The shelves sat opposite a long glass countertop that served as the front desk. To the right, a set of unfinished stairs led up to the second floor, where a tall chair was set as a sentinel. A boy was perched there, playing with a beat-up handheld game he had found among the stacks of rubbish, its ancient power cord plugged into the wall to give it life.

“Oh, come on!” He winced as the picture grew hazy, the 15-bit graphic screen pixelating in a way that had nothing to do with the system’s functionality, and everything to do with the person holding it.

As it happened, Ernie’s Artifacts was also the home of Jorden Casillas. Then again, ‘home’ was a generous word for the arrangement. For four years, he had been a ward of the state, blowing through six foster care placements before dropping out of the system entirely. Since then, he’d been living in the Underside.

And what was the Underside? It was a secret network of the most nefarious creatures the magical world had to offer, operating in the underbelly of Los Angeles. Well, not just Los Angeles. The Underside was everywhere. In every city all over the world. Each instance of the Underside was connected to the others by a network that traded resources, magic, and contraband. In layman’s terms, it was the underground monster society, and Ernie’s was neutral territory.

Seeing as it was the end of July, the sun was still setting late, but that was fine as far as Jorden was concerned. The creepiest of clientele didn’t show up until after dark, so the longer the sun stayed up, the better, in his opinion. Their day began just as darkness pooled the streets, and close to midnight, a slight hum registered at the edge of his senses, as if something were buzzing nearby.

“Customer,” he called, not looking up from the game.

There came a grunt from upstairs before an enormous, stocky man appeared at the landing. He had a broad face and a tuft of dark hair atop his head. As he descended the steps, his heavy footfalls caused the wood to creak in protest. Ernie was an ogre, with beady black eyes and a pair of lower incisors so rotund and protruding, they could only be described as tusks.

And just as the shop’s proprietor made his way to the counter, the door swung open and a little bell chimed overhead. A woman brushed in, wearing a long green satin skirt that glimmered purple in the light, and a pair of oversized sunglasses that gave her a rather bug-like appearance. The hum only grew, but Jorden forced himself not to stare. It was usually better that way.

“Buying or selling?” Ernie barked, and the woman produced a bundle of cloth, laying it out on the counter before her.

“Selling,” she said, and while her accent was unplaceable, Jorden did detect a slight clicking quality to her voice.

“Get over here, kid,” the ogre bellowed, and Jorden gritted his teeth, setting the game down and joining Ernie behind the counter. The cloth held an ornate hand mirror. The silver was tarnished, and the glass was obscured with black markings like smoke. “What do you make of this?”

Jorden glanced between the ogre and the woman. She smiled wide from beneath her sunglasses, but under her human teeth, he could see the mandibles showing. It was a weak disguise, but it hardly mattered. When it came to looks, anything went in Los Angeles, which meant the monsters barely had to try to pass as human.

Rather than the bug-lady, Jorden turned his attention to the mirror. It too had a hum, albeit different from the woman’s. It felt wispy and wavy, leaving a soft but persistent tingling in his fingers, ears, and the tip of his nose.

“It’s definitely magic,” Jorden said. The woman’s smile grew, but just then, he caught a whiff of something else. His mouth filled with a tangy, metallic taste, and it was enough to make him gag. Just before Ernie could grab it, he pushed his massive hand away. “Don’t touch it. It’s cursed.”

“Cursed, huh? I knew it.” Ernie swelled with triumph, even as the woman’s smile faltered. “I’ll buy it, but only for half the asking price.”

“Not fair,” she hissed. “Who ees this boy, anyway?”

“He’s my spotter,” Ernie gloated, punching a set of numbers into an old-fashioned, mechanical cash register. “Best senses this side of the San Andreas fault line!”

Monsters were notoriously bad with technology. In fact, just being near something like a computer—or a gaming system—could make it go haywire. Magic wasn’t exactly simpatico with the digital age.

“He smells human.” She leaned closer, uncomfortably so, but Jorden didn’t shrink away. In fact, he didn’t move an inch, holding his breath as she examined him.

“He’s not.” Ernie rang in the sale with a ching of the cash register. “He’s just better at hiding it.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. And while the bug-lady didn’t seem convinced, she let out one more series of clicks before retreating, taking the stack of cash that Ernie offered her.

But just before the door closed behind her, she glanced back, adjusting the lady beetle bag that hung from the crook of her arm and flashing her mandibles in a threatening kind of smile. “Until next time, leetle aphid.”

“... That was terrifying,” Jorden spoke up as soon as she was gone.

“It’s your own fault. You don’t shift enough, and it makes you smell like lunch.”

“It’s not a fun time,” he said, picking up his game right where he left off. “Have you ever tried slithering around on the floor? Or having no arms?”

“You look weak, like you can’t defend yourself. Easy pickings.”

“If that were true, you’d have eaten me a long time ago,” he muttered.

Ernie only grunted, which was the same thing as admitting that Jorden had a point.

Jorden experienced the world differently from most people. It had started out slowly, realizing that he was faster than the other kids, and stronger too. As time passed, he learned he could taste smells in the air and feel the most subtle vibrations around him, especially magical ones. The only catch was he couldn’t sense his own magic, which was why the whole ‘shape-shifting into a snake’ thing came as such a shock.

After his first transformation, he had gone to the public library under the guise of a research project, and from what he could tell, Jorden was a nahual (nah-wahl, singular). According to the legends of his mythos, every person had a spirit guide—a tonal animal—that helped them navigate their life. But some people—like Jorden—had the ability to become their tonal animal. And his was a coatl, otherwise known as a snake.

And that was a rather complex predicament. The way the stories went, nahuales (nah-whal-es, plural) could be forces of great good, or forces of great evil. In Jorden’s case, he mostly used his powers to set the school record for the fastest mile—back in the days when he actually went to school—and to spot counterfeit magic items.

As the years passed and his abilities grew stronger, it seemed the human world agreed with him less and less. Or rather, he didn’t agree with it. All of his previous foster homes had kicked him out for the same reason, but it wasn’t explicitly for being a nahual. At least, not as far as they knew.

Jorden was labeled a ‘violent kid.’ Of course, he didn’t feel particularly violent—even if he sometimes had good reason to be—it was just that he didn’t always know his own strength. For instance, what he believed was the force required to open a cabinet could actually rip it from its hinges.

Then he met Ernie. The two were introduced at a late-night taquería where Jorden was working as a busboy, cleaning tables and scraping melted cheese from the outdoor seating. When Jorden spotted Ernie for what he was before he had a chance to sit down, the two got to talking. Eventually, Ernie offered him a job and a place to sleep. The only caveat was that Jorden had to take care of himself and fix whatever he happened to break. He had been working for him ever since.

And just thirty minutes after the bug-lady left, Jorden felt another hum, one like the persistent drip of a burning candle. It was familiar, but altogether unpleasant.

“Gaspar’s coming,” he said, not a moment too soon.

The jangling bell sounded overhead as a small man came flitting inside. He had sallow, jaundiced skin, as if he were made out of wax, which, incidentally, he was. Gaspar leaned against the counter, smiling none-too-kindly.

“Ernie, great to see you!” he cooed, though his mouth didn’t move much to form the words. “Business is good, I trust?”

“What do you want?” Ernie grunted.

“Well, I’ve just come across a rather interesting find. Are you in need of any new merchandise? I’d be happy to acquire it for you.”

In kind terms, Gaspar was a smuggler. In unkind terms, he was a thief and a robber. His specialty was ‘acquiring’ magical items from humans who didn’t know what it was they had. He broke into houses, estates, funeral homes, and even a museum once. He was a staunch believer in the notion that magic belonged to those who best knew how to use it, or whoever could pay the highest price.

“I’ve got a good thing going here, Gaspar,” Ernie continued. “I don’t want to get pulled back into any more trouble.”

“Trouble’s finding you whether you like it or not, or haven’t you heard?” He leaned in a bit further, smug from ear to ear. “There’s a new player in town.”

“Humph.” He waved a hand. “That’s the news? This didn’t come from one of your Hollywood tour connections, did it? What is it? A new clan?”

“Something like that. But when I say a new player, I mean a big player.”

“What do they want with L.A.?” Ernie raised his eyebrows.

“Who knows?” Gaspar shrugged. “But if their pockets are deep enough, I plan on being an accommodating host.”

“I bet you are,” the ogre grunted. “Is that all you came to say?”

“Well, there was one more thing, actually. A favor, if you will, for old time’s sake.” He set his elbows on the counter, lacing his fingers together and setting his chin atop them.

“What is it?” Ernie demanded.

“Perhaps you and I might speak alone?” His gaze darted in Jorden’s direction, and Ernie’s beady eyes followed.

“Take a break, kid. Grab some grub.” He waved Jorden upstairs, and Jorden didn’t hesitate to skedaddle. As he climbed the stairs, however, he thought he could feel The Wax Man’s stare trained on his back. Jorden resisted the urge to shudder.

The stairs opened into the kitchen, which had all the chrome, enamel, and black-and-white tile of an apartment from the 1950s. A tray of room-temperature cornbread and a pot of hot dog mac and cheese had been left out on the stove. It was enough to feed a family of five, let alone a household of two, but Ernie’s appetite was downright supernatural.

Plopping down at the kitchen table, he closed his eyes, tilted his head, and listened. Or at least, he tried to. For all the things he could do, there was a drawback to his powers. Around the same time he began sensing vibrations, the world grew muffled and distant, and unless it was loud enough, or someone was speaking directly to him, it seemed as if every sound he heard emanated from another room.

The voices downstairs were almost impossible to discern, but the longer he strained, the more of the conversation he thought he could piece together. When all was said and done, he imagined it went something like this:

“I seem to find myself once again without a team. I was hoping to make a grab for a relic I spotted and tomorrow night is the perfect opportunity.”

“I already said I didn’t want that kind of trouble.”

“Who’s asking about you? I could use someone strong, fast, nimble, and good at fitting through narrow spaces.”

“If you’re talking about the kid—?”

“Who else? I’ll consider us even if you convince the boy to be my apprentice.”

There was a pause, as if Ernie was considering the offer.

“What’s the score?”

“Nothing too exciting, just a trinket, really.”

“If I do this, we’ll be square?”

“Even, Steven!”

“Done.”

“Excellent! I’ll be back at sundown.”

Moments later, Ernie’s tuft of hair came into view on the stairs, and Jorden scrambled to look as if he had been focused on his mac and cheese all along, rather than attempting to eavesdrop on their plot to give him a criminal record. It was lucky that Ernie wasn’t known for his wits, because Jorden wasn’t a particularly good liar.

“I want to talk to you about something.” Ernie recounted the conversation, glossing right over the deal he had made and dressing it all up like a business opportunity. When he was done, he stared at Jorden expectantly, the unspoken question hanging in the air: are you in or out?

Helping Gaspar was practically the last thing Jorden wanted to do; The Wax Man gave him the creeps. But somehow, Jorden didn’t think he had the option to say no. He was living in Ernie’s house, after all, and even though he was overworked, underfed, and scrambling to make it by, there were worse places for him to end up; and Ernie knew it too.

“... If I do this, I want a cut,” Jorden insisted.

“How much?”

“Forty percent.” Not known for his haggling skills, he threw out the number at random.

“Are you kidding? Ten percent.”

“Thirty.” There was an edge to Jorden’s tone. Whatever Ernie owed Gaspar, it was significant enough that he put up with The Wax Man time and again. Jorden might have little leverage, but he didn’t want to be taken advantage of either. If Ernie wanted to be rid of him, Jorden wasn’t getting the short end of the deal.

“Twenty-five.”

“Done.” They shook on it, and that was that.

***

The next night, he was ready, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Gaspar arrived almost as soon as the streetlights came on. He drove a rusted burgundy van with a plumbing logo slapped on the side. Jorden hopped into the passenger seat without much fanfare. The Wax Man filled the silence with whatever music managed to come through the monster static on the radio, singing along in a barking, off-key baritone. Jorden, however, wasn’t one for many words. Ever since he had lost his parents, he never seemed to have much to say.

As they were nearing downtown, Gaspar transitioned to describing the ins and outs of the job. He explained that it was a jewelry store they were meant to hit. He would drop Jorden off a few blocks from the building, then Jorden would transform, sneak through an air vent, disable the security system, and finally open the door for Gaspar to walk in with a fake version of the item they were going to steal.

“It kind of sounds like I’m doing all the work,” Jorden said. “I mean, at that point, do you even have to come inside?”

It was clearly sarcasm, but Gaspar considered it for longer than he should have before shaking his head. “We’re switching the real thing with a replica, so we should have two people to lift the glass. It would be harder to fly under the radar if you shatter it.”

“Right …” Jorden resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Where exactly is this place?”

“Hollywood Boulevard.”

“¿Neta?” ‘For real?’ He did a double take, his eyebrows shooting into the air. “That’s one of the most famous places in the city. There’s going to be people everywhere. Someone’s going to see us!”

“High stakes, high reward. Just be extra careful, and don’t get caught. Ernie tells me I’ve agreed to pay you a whole quarter from my earnings, so your work better be worth every penny.”

“Not a quarter,” Jorden corrected him, because el diablo was always in the details. “Twenty-five percent.”

“Right, twenty-five percent,” he was grumbling now, and Jorden got the distinct impression that he wasn’t too pleased to have been caught. “One thing though, if you do happen to get yourself into trouble, don’t expect me to bail you out. It’s every man—or, you know, kid—for themselves.”

“No kidding.” This time, he actually did roll his eyes. It wasn’t like he was expecting Gaspar to hold Jorden’s hand all the way through his first B&E.

“Self-sufficiency is a valuable skill, you know.”

“... So is avoiding a rap sheet.”

Hollywood Boulevard was, as expected, bustling. The jewelry store was right along the Walk of Fame, where celebrities were immortalized into stars and set into the concrete sidewalk. Gaspar, as promised, dropped him off a few blocks away.

All things considered, it was easy for Jorden to blend into a crowd. To the humans, he was just a normal kid. Jorden was slightly tall for his age, with hair and eyes nearly the same shade of brown. The only distinctive feature he had to worry about was a pair of moles on the right side of his temple, just above his eyebrow, which his mom had always called his mordedura de víbora—a snake bite.

Hardly anyone paid him a passing glance, except the people dressed up as characters. They wandered around iconic landmarks trying to convince tourists to take a picture with them for a couple bucks. Jorden didn’t have a couple bucks, and if his blurry school pictures were anything to go on, he wouldn’t photograph well anyway.

There was a small alleyway just a half-block from the jewelry store, hardly wide enough for a trash truck to pass through. Jorden used a bachelorette party as cover to slip into it, leaving the clamor of the street behind. He stuck to the shadows, alone aside from a wrinkled woman on the back staircase of one of the buildings he passed.

She was smoking a cigarette, sporting a rockabilly haircut and thick blue eyeshadow. He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible, but if she noticed him, she certainly didn’t let on, no doubt wrapped up in enough of her own thoughts to worry about him.

Monsters weren’t the only ones who had a tough time in Los Angeles. It was a city of promises—one of dreams—but particularly broken ones. It had a way of luring people in before chewing them up and spitting them out twenty years older and a world of troubles richer.

Sometimes, Jorden wondered why his parents brought him here, of all places. His mom had spoken so fondly of home: the rolling hills and thick vegetation that surrounded the vibrantly tiled village she had loved so well. His parents had moved to Los Angeles just before Jorden was born—using less than legal means to do so—making Jorden the only citizen among them.

Secrets were the foundation of his existence, and the city was the only home he had ever known, but it was hard not to feel like he was missing something. Ni de aquí, ni de allá, the saying went, ‘not from here, or from there.’ They had promised to take him back to Mexico one day, but that dream was crushed like so many others in the city of angels.

With one more glance up and down the alleyway, he pressed against the cool bricks of the jewelry store, ignoring the distant cacophony of the boulevard to focus inward instead. The shift came as soon as he called it, his skin breaking out into scales like goosebumps before they enveloped him completely, and he dropped to the ground in a coil of bright green scales like that of a pit viper.

It was then that his senses opened fully, every vibration radiating through him. His tongue flicked out to taste the air. It had all the sour-sweetness of something rotten. He would have covered his nose if he were able. Instead, he slithered towards the air vent—thankful there were no whirring fan blades to contend with—wedged himself between the grates and pushed into the building.

He emerged into a dark, air-conditioned room that was rather unpleasant in his cold-blooded form. The cold made him sluggish and sleepy, but he knew not to nap here. Besides the fact that he could be caught, falling asleep anywhere too cold might mean he would never wake up. Instead, he spilled into the room, taking careful stock of it.

His vision was different too, seeing as his snake eyes only perceived the heat signatures of everything around him: the desk, the office chair, and the coat rack. Slithering forward, he found his way under the door and into a carpeted hallway. Almost at once, a warm, liquid vibration radiated through him. Gaspar was right, there was certainly magic nearby. And mounted on the wall, a camera.

In actuality, there were a series of cameras, and a small blinking tag on the back door. It was all part of the same security system, he guessed, following the thrum of the electrical pulses to the source. They all emanated from a panel on the wall.

This was the tricky part. Climbing the wall, he encircled the panel with his coils, squeezing with all his might. It hurt, but the pressure paid off. The whole unit popped off the wall, disconnecting from the cable that stuck out from a hole in the plaster.

Hitting the ground, he checked for electrical pulses again, but the security system had gone dark, leaving only the buzz of magic. Jorden let out a hissing sigh of relief, allowing himself to transform back. Rising from the ground, human once more, he pulled the pair of cotton gloves Gaspar had given him from his pocket. No fingerprints.

Now that he had human eyes again, he could see the shop more clearly. Jorden was standing in a hallway. The office door was behind him, the back door to his right, and the main shop to his left, where shades were pulled over the windows. Before he had too long to consider his surroundings, a vibration reverberated from the back door. A knock, he guessed, though the sound was too soft for him to hear.

Jorden unlocked it, letting it swing open to reveal The Wax Man. Gaspar also wore gloves and had a long canister slung over one shoulder.

“Nice job, kid.”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

In the main shop, a ring of display cases boasted diamond-encrusted necklaces and rings with jewels the size of marbles, but Gaspar ignored all of them. Instead, he pointed towards a case mounted on the wall, just underneath a picture of an old man with a wide smile and nothing but wisps of white hair on his otherwise bald head.

Inside the case was a cane made of dark wood with a glassy grip that had been cut into the shape of a diamond. As they approached it, the buzzing grew stronger, and Jorden had no doubt that this was the item in question. Gaspar doffed the canister, opening it to reveal an identical cane inside, though this one was as mundane as toothpaste.

Together, he and Gaspar removed the glass case from the wall, sliding it out of its hooks and placing it gently aside. It was heavy, but none too heavy for Jorden, who bore the bulk of the weight. Gaspar, alternatively, was struggling, his arms shaking with the consistency of a partially melted candle.

In an instant, the switch was made, and the magical cane was slotted into Gaspar’s canister for safekeeping. They had just slid the glass back into place when Jorden felt footsteps quickly approaching.

“Someone’s coming!” He hissed. “Let’s get out of here!”

“I’ll go out the back, you lock the door behind me and leave the way you came,” Gaspar said. “Otherwise, it doesn’t look like an accident.”

“But-!” he whispered.

“Do you want to get caught? There’s no time to argue.”

Jorden gritted his teeth as he ushered Gaspar out the back, shutting it as quietly as he could and locking it behind him. With that, he leapt out of sight, transforming with barely enough time to coil behind the water cooler. Just then, the lights flipped on, and a voice reached his ears, swearing.

A man bent down, picking up the disconnected panel and reconnecting the cable. The electrical pulses picked up again, and the man began to move, no doubt taking a sweep of the store to ensure that he was, indeed, alone. What Jorden hadn’t counted on was his snaky reflection in the water bottle above him. The man glanced over, did a double take, and let out a scream.

Jorden flinched, slithering out from behind the cooler just as the man shoved it against the wall, trying to pin him there. He made a break for the office as the man howled and leapt away, throwing something heavy and metallic in Jorden’s direction.

Wriggling under the door not a moment too soon, Jorden made a beeline for the air vents, not stopping until he had slithered out and zipped another two hundred yards down the alleyway. By now, the rockabilly woman was nowhere to be seen, and Jorden changed back, pure adrenaline coursing through his veins. His heart was still racing by the time he made it back to Gaspar’s van. The Wax Man sat behind the wheel, blasting the air conditioning as cool as could be.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Gaspar chirped, and Jorden shot a glare in his direction.

“You left me behind.”

“Don’t be like that, you and I made a great team! I believe this might be the start of a beautiful partnership.”

“Sure, whatever.” Jorden huffed, climbing in and crossing his arms over his chest.

***

They made it back to the shop just after midnight, but although the street was usually empty, Jorden was shocked to see another car waiting outside of Ernie’s. Gaspar noticed it too, slowing down until they were practically side-by-side. A bald man sat behind the wheel, with milky eyes and a steely expression. He was facing forward with the stillness of a mannequin and didn’t so much as glance in their direction. What was more, Jorden didn’t sense a single vibration from him.

“Who’s that?” Gaspar asked, as if Jorden was supposed to have any idea.

“No clue.” Jorden craned his neck to get a better look. “I think he’s … human.”

“I thought humans didn’t like to hang out around here.”

That was true enough. Humans had an innate sense for monsters, whether they knew it or not. It manifested in an uneasy feeling that left most people too scared to come within a fifty-foot radius of the place. Jorden was about to say something else, but at that moment, a burning sensation ignited from underneath his shirt. He gasped, tugging on the necklace that he kept there.

The charm was silver, like the chain. It was crudely crafted, as if by hand, and bore the shape of a heart with a crown of fire above it. Inexplicably, it had gone white-hot. Just then, the truck came to life, the engine turning as the bald man continued on his way, drifting down the street and turning the corner out of view.

“What the—?” Gaspar spun in his seat, watching the truck vanish, but Jorden just held his charm, the heat slowly leaking from it until it was cool to the touch once more. “Who was that?”

“That was seriously weird.”

“... You’d better get inside.”

Jorden didn’t have to be told twice. He found Ernie in the upstairs kitchen, devouring an enormous piece of fried chicken. His shirt was stained in several places with something that he could only hope was barbecue sauce and not blood.

It was never a good idea to interrupt Ernie while he was eating, but this felt important. Even so, rather than calling out to him, Jorden hovered in the doorway, making his presence known and waiting for the ogre to speak.

“How’d it go?” Ernie asked, his mouth still full.

“Fine, I guess, but there was a guy outside.”

“What guy?”

“A human.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he left when we pulled up.”

“Then what are you bothering me about it for? Get back to work.” The ogre sunk his teeth into the chicken once more, dismissing him outright.

Jorden sighed, heading back for his chair where he stayed from dusk until dawn. He was practically nocturnal these days, and kept his post until six in the morning, when Ernie trudged upstairs. Then Jorden double-bolted the front door, switched the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ and waited until he heard the sound of snoring before heading to his room.

To call it a ‘room’ was a bit of an overstatement. With every bit of the third floor taken up by Ernie’s hoard of junk, Jorden slept in the attic. It was only accessible by a trap door in the ceiling, and a ladder that unfolded from it. The attic was unfinished, the wooden beams exposed. Inside, he had nothing but a patchy twin mattress on a rickety frame, and a dresser to hold his clothes.

The lack of comfort didn’t particularly faze him, seeing as he had precious little to his name to begin with, except the trash bag of items he had arrived at Ernie’s with in the first place. Most of that had come from rummage sales in church basements, where a bag of old t-shirts was never more than five bucks. And since there wasn’t much to salvage, Jorden had almost nothing of home.

It had been nearly five years since the firefighters had found an eight-year-old Jorden huddled in a bush with a backpack slung over his shoulders, and his father’s milagro around his neck. Which was, coincidentally, the same necklace he wore now.

A milagro was a Catholic charm that was said to bring luck, heal ailments, or even offer protection. To date, it hadn’t done any of those things, but he still wore it because it was one of the last things he had from his dad. It even radiated a slight hum, and Jorden liked to imagine that’s what his father would have felt like, if he had survived the fire.

Without any guesses as to what the burning heat might mean, Jorden had no choice but to add it to the list of questions he would ask his parents, if he could. Carmen and Miguel Casillas had always been a little unorthodox, and as many stories as they had shared with him, there were many more that they had not. If they knew that he was a nahual, they certainly never told him, or anything else about his mythos for that matter.

Flopping down onto his bed, his head hit the pillow with a soft thud. That morning, he felt particularly lost, and as monstrous as ever. No one was hurt in the burglary, and no one but Gaspar and Ernie even knew that it had happened, but his chest felt heavy all the same.

Although he had been living in the Underside for months, that night, it felt like he had actually joined it. Jorden had crossed some invisible line, and whatever he did from here on out, he couldn’t go back.