The air inside was hot and pressurized. The living room furniture, a heavy narra wood sofas and cabinets had been shoved violently against the walls. The polished wooden floorboards were bare, save for a massive, intricate circle drawn not in chalk, but in rock salt, crushed garlic, and ash.
In the center sat Consuelo.
She looked small in the center of the sprawling room, kneeling on a woven mat. But the shadow she cast against the far wall was enormous, flickering and dancing in the light of a dozen white candles. The air smelled thick with kamangyan, a dried resin incense and the sharp, medicinal tang of coconut oil.
"Close the door," Lola rasped. Her voice didn't sound like the kind and warm grandmother who fed them mangoes. It sounded like a thunder. She didn't open her eyes. "Seal it with the salt."
Cara slammed the heavy door shut and immediately poured the remaining salt from her bowl across the footpath of the door while whispering a quick prayer.
