Chapter One CHAPTER ONE


It wasn’t every day that you got a letter from your dead grandmother. Especially one warning about an impending apocalypse and the end of life as you know it.

But what can I say? My life is fun like that. The letter itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—just a small rectangle of rough white rag paper with my grandmother’s initials—E. V. R.—scrawled at the bottom in fancy cursive. It was unquestionably legit, though.

The handwriting was small and neat and instantly recognized by my mother, and the ink was thick and bloodred and “not of this realm,” according to the witch queen.

The letter had been smuggled over through a network of rebels who had spent the last five thousand years warring against La Mano Peluda in the Land of the Dead. There weren’t many rebels left now—only a few pockets of resistance down there. I actually hadn’t even known they existed until a few hours ago, when Queen Joanna told us about them.

But not so surprisingly, my abuelita was one of their leaders. And according to her letter, in less than five hours, La Mano Peluda and its forces would unleash a devastating sneak attack on the Land of the Living. The worst part? According to that same letter, there wasn’t a single thing we could do to stop it. Not in the present, at least.

Which had brought us here, exactly sixteen miles below the graves of La Rosa Cemetery: Tomb City. The underground city of the undead ferriers of the dead. Up until the moment we passed through the Whispering Crypts, I’d been operating under the assumption that the letter from my dead grandmother that had arrived just this morning would be the weirdest thing I’d see today. I was wrong.

This far down the rabbit hole, the air was thick enough that you could tear holes in it with your fingers—a sticky gray curtain of ancient dust and dampness that stuck to my skin and iced me all the way to the bone—which, by the way, was precisely what the walls, floors, and ceilings were paved with around these not-so-pleasant parts.

So what exactly were the five of us doing this far down in the bowels of the “deadest” place on earth? Great question. Here are the CliffsNotes: (1) A psychic in the Land of the Dead had future-gazed a final epic invasion launched by La Mano Peluda, (2) the same psychic had pre-seen our defeat, (3) the prophecy (if you want to call it that) was corroborated by some unsettling dreams Joanna had been having lately, and (4) the success of La Mano Peluda’s upcoming invasion apparently hinged on something that, in the letter, my grandma had referred to as “the Five Donkeys.”

We had no idea what it was exactly, and neither did the rebels. The only known connection was to 1950s Cuba. That was pretty much all we had to go on.

Oh, by the way, here’s the letter:

The future is doomed. In less than five hours, La Liga falls. Death reigns.

It has been seen. Our only hope: solve the mystery of the Five Donkeys.

1956 Cuba.

Our plan was pretty straightforward. Because our defeat had already been divined, our only move was to travel back to the past and put a stop to the Five Donkeys, even though—not to put too fine a point on it or anything—we literally didn’t have the slightest clue what it was.

That was complication número uno. Complication número dos? Time travel was unquestionably, indisputably, unequivocally, and EXTREMELY illegal.

It had been outlawed by every sombra clan and every sombra society since the dawn of—well, time. Worse, the only way to travel back in time was through cracks in time-space, and those cracks could only be found down here, in the sleepless tombs below graveyards, the world of calacas. Queen Joanna had called it most likely a suicide mission. But the truth was, we were all as good as dead anyway, so why not roll the old dice?

Plus, if we did end up getting killed by the calacas, we already had both feet (and all the rest of ourselves) in “the grave,” so to speak, which would make it pretty convenient for all parties involved.

The massive fur-covered Hulk known as Juan the basajaun led the way through the gleaming corridors of bone. Our footsteps echoed softly off the polished bone floors and off the polished bone walls.

My head was already starting to spin circles around the rest of me. We’d made so many twists and turns that I would’ve had a better shot of acing my next algebra exam than of ever finding my way back to the surface. (FYI, I’d never aced an algebra exam in my entire life.)

On my left, Violet’s breath puffed in and out in small white clouds. On my right, my cousin Raúl’s teeth were chattering so loudly he might as well have been a hairless Chihuahua in the middle of a polar vortex. In all fairness, though, werejaguars aren’t exactly cold-weather animals.

As for me, my Morphling DNA was offering up all sorts of sporty options against the cold; and even though my body had cycled through everything from masses of Iberian sheep’s wool to the tough, bristly fur of highland cattle, nothing was quite doing the trick; and I was beginning to get a sinking feeling that the cold down here was more than just a temperature thing.

As the five of us continued deeper into this strange world of death and darkness, our shadows stretched out grotesquely in the pale green glow of the witchlight. They leapt and danced along the walls, almost as if they were as scared of the place as we were.

The burning emerald eyes of the witch queen bore straight ahead. She’d been as silent as—well, a tomb since we’d entered Tomb City. Her fancy, tiered gown embroidered with a stars-and-comets design swept the bony floors as we hurried along in the gloom, magia pouring off it in waves.

At last we came to the checkpoint before the Crypt Prison. A detachment of calaca soldiers, clutching gleaming spears of pure bone, stood guard before a great door in the shape of a skull and crossbones. Their fleshless fingers were wrapped tightly around their weapons, while the eyeless hollows of their eyes glared dead ahead. They looked like they’d been standing like that for about a thousand years. And maybe they had.

The entrance to the prison was sort of a revolving door. Only instead of glass there was bone, and instead of metal there was bone, and instead of hinges there was more bone, and instead of being sort of interesting—from an engineering point of view, at least—it was totally creepy. From every point of view.

Joanna said something in a language I did not understand, and the guards parted with a clatter of bones and we went in.

This is probably a good place to let you know about the first half of our plan. Before we could travel back in time, we needed to find someone who actually knew the way to one of the Time Cracks. In other words: We needed an insider. A calaca. One who didn’t just color outside the lines but greatly preferred it. And I’ll give you one guess who we chose….

“Say no more than you have to once you’re inside,” whispered the witch as we marched along the wide, gleaming halls of solid bone cells, the eyes of the imprisoned undead staring blankly out at us through the flickering torchlight.

“Don’t worry,” I promised her. “Nothing about this place puts me in a chatty mood.”

At the opposite end of the cellblock, we came to the most highly secured area of the prison—the holding pens for those who were awaiting the “Second Death.”

Two more guards were stationed here, calacas wearing sleek black capes—something like tilmatlis—and golden epaulets. They stood utterly still, utterly silent, much like the bodies they fastidiously ferried between the worlds. The gleaming shafts of their spears were crossed over the cell we’d come to visit.

“We will see the prisoner,” Joanna announced with all the authority of a seven-hundred-year-old monarch. (Which she basically was.)

But her words went in one bony ear and out the other. “Your visit has not yet been authorized.” The calaca’s raspy, bone-dry voice scraped the silent air. The parched bony lips did not move when he spoke. The dude didn’t even have lips. “Without authorization, this door will not be opened.”

“I am Queen Juana of Castile, witch queen and leader of La Liga de Sombras. I am accompanied by the Morphling. That prisoner therein has sensitive information, vital to stopping an impending attack. You will open this door, and we will see her.”

Silence. Long and deep.

Then the word “Wait” floated off the dry-as-bone lips.

A moment later, the calaca vanished. When he returned, he rasped, “You will see her now.”

The resounding clang of enormous locks being thrown open echoed through the vast and icy chamber. The cell door, made entirely of interlocking bones, was opened. Juan and I started right in, just like we’d planned, but the other calaca stopped him, raising a spear threateningly across the basajaun’s massive fur-covered chest. Big mistake.

A low growl rose from Juan’s throat as he bared his deadly fangs at the skeleton man.

But the esqueleto did not flinch. Instead he merely rasped, “Only the boy.”

“No,” countered Joanna. “He is the Morphling’s bodyguard and will not leave his side.”

The calaca’s hollow eyes went to the snow-white satchel slung under the basajaun’s enormous furry arm. “What do you carry?”

“The bones of an old friend,” answered the queen. “It is their custom.”

Seemingly satisfied—and probably just because he was such a big fan of bones in general—the calaca lowered his spear. Juan and I entered, and the door clanged shut behind us.

A split second later, Esperanza, who had been lying in the far corner, staring blankly at the wall, turned her hollow eyes on us.

“CHARLIE!” she screeched, leaping instantly to her bony feet. “Charlie, what are you doing here?!”

Esperanza was sort of an old calaca buddy of mine. We’d met about a week ago, when she’d tried to trick us into helping her out of a pretty bad spot that she’d gotten herself into. The poor girl had made a deal with that notorious black-market dealer, el Hombre Caimán, trading him a map of the secret location of the Golden Dooms in exchange for a special potion that would turn her human for a day. Unfortunately for her, the map had found its way into the hands of La Mano Peluda and nearly gotten Violet, Raúl, and me (not to mention everybody else in the Land of the Living) killed in the process; hence why she’d been sentenced to death by La Sociedad. But in actuality, she wasn’t as bad as all that. I mean, we all make mistakes, right? Anyway, she ended up saving my life, and that counts for plenty in my book.

“We came to say hi,” I teased, catching her in a giant hug as she lunged at me. “So, hi.”

Esperanza was frenzied, breathless—well, as breathless as someone without any lungs can be. “Charlie, I’ve been sentenced to the Second Death! Have you heard?”

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine,” I promised her.

She gave me a funny look. “I’m glad to see that you’re taking my impending demise so cheerfully.”

“No, what I mean is, we’re getting you out.”

“WHAT?!”

I nodded over at Juan, who was busy reassembling the teaching skeleton we’d “borrowed” from Violet’s sixth-period biology class. (His hairy oversize nalgas were strategically positioned in front of the peephole in the cell door to block any prying undead eyes from seeing what we were up to in here.)

“Get it?” I said. “We’re making a swap!”

The empty sockets of Esperanza’s eyes seemed to bug. “But that isn’t going to work!” she hissed.

Honestly? I pretty much agreed with her. But what I said was “Why not? All you skeletons look the same.”

“That isn’t even real bone!”

“I know, I know… But what’d you want us to do? Raid a cemetery? Violet had to sneak that out of school! Wasn’t so easy.”

“No calaca will ever be fooled by that abomination! Look at it! It looks… awful!”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” I told her. “It’s not nice.”

“Estamos listos,” said Juan, clicking the last bone into place and positioning Esperanza’s body-double in the shadowy corner, on its side, just how she had been.

“Okay, your turn,” I whispered, turning back to Espe. “Start disassembling!”

It took Esperanza less than thirty seconds to pull herself completely apart, bone by bone, and then it took Juan about double that to transfer those bones into his now empty satchel.

Sure, it was super creepy, but so far so good.

“¿Cómo fue?” Joanna asked me as Juan and I walked out of the cell as innocently as two little lambs, Esperanza’s bones clacking quietly in the basajaun’s shoulder bag.

“The skeleton is in the closet!” I whispered. “Repeat: The skeleton is in the closet!”

(In case you were wondering, that was our code phrase for, We’re not dead yet; the mission is somehow still going to plan; keep moving!)

A look of tense satisfaction came over la bruja’s face. “Quickly now, children! Time is not on our side.”

“How long do you think before someone notices?” whispered Violet.

The queen thought about that. “Several weeks, most likely. A few days if they found us suspicious. A day if they found us mildly untrustworthy.”

We had just reached the revolving doors of Death and had started through them when I heard, from the opposite end of the cellblock: “¡PÁRALOS! HALT! THEY ARE TAKING THE PRISONER!”

Suddenly, something like an alarm began blaring through the Tombs. It sounded like the deep, reverberating rumble of a million and one bones being rattled viciously together.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRR! BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! BRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Ya tú sabes, I thought, and my insides agreed with me: My heart was doing its best impersonation of a silver carp, jumping halfway up my throat, while my stomach did its best impersonation of a bungee jumper, plunging somewhere down into my toes.

“And what if they notice within, say, about a minute?” I asked Joanna.

“Then they must’ve found us completely untrustworthy,” the witch queen replied coolly. “Y ahora, we run!”