Okay, you guys twisted my arm. I have an idea for what comes next after Worries and Promises. Hopefully you will like it. It's somewhat dark, but hopefully worth it.

Disclaimer: I am a gringa who is a bit of a mythology nut, but who also likes to take creative liberties sometimes. I apologize in advance for any offense that might be taken.

Season of the Bruja

Or

Ernesto makes a bad decision (again)

There was one place in the Land of the Dead where Ernesto de la Cruz could stay without being arrested, or mobbed by angry citizens, or both.

Just as the part of Shantytown where Héctor Rivera used to live* had been for those who were being forgotten, or at least never put on the ofrenda on Dia de Muertos, there was another part for people who were in no danger of being forgotten, but nobody wanted them to come back. Many of them were people to whom Ernesto's rap sheet was just amateur work. Murderers, banditos, people who had committed crimes far too horrible to mention-they all lived in a secluded corner of Shantytown where they found, for want of a better word, acceptance.

Here Ernesto and his alebrijes made their way after his crimes were exposed to the public...and he hid, and thought, and as the days turned to months, his anger and hatred grew.

Funny; it had been a long time since he had actually hated Héctor.

The last time he could recall was that day when his singing partner had finally decided to leave, taking his precious songs with him, and in his anger he had made the executive decision to ensure that they would stay with him for good.

Since then, he'd felt an odd sort of...well, gratitude to Héctor, for providing him with the means to his success, when he'd bothered to think of him at all. Which he had barely done for years, until his old amigo showed up in his house dressed as Frida Kahlo.

But now…

Now that he'd lost everything he'd worked so hard for, now that he was probably banned from the Land of the Living** and the illustrious mansion which had been his home for the rest of eternity, a ball of hot, burning hate started to grow between his ribs, right where his chest and stomach used to be.

The question was, what could he do?

No matter what he considered, he knew Héctor would be encircled by the rest of his cursed family who would be on him like a pack of coyotes if he came within ten feet of them.

So, at risk of bringing the wrath of the entire Rivera clan even further on his head...Ernesto knew that he wanted the boy who had started all of this.

Miguel Rivera was still living; his heart still beat in his chest, he still had skin and muscle and blood covering his bones.

Ergo, he was vulnerable, if only Ernesto could find some way of getting to him.

And then he heard about the bruja.

Some of his fellow undesirables, former henchmen of a bandito named Chakal, were whispering about her one night over tequila. About how rumor had it that even in death, she had kept her powers, and if you paid the right price, she could do favors for you. They even believed that if she wanted, she could send you back to the land of the living; however, nobody was sure what the price for that was, so nobody they knew of had dared try it.

In life, Ernesto had never taken interest in the existence of brujeria, or really much of anything outside his musical career once it took off, unless you counted beautiful young women. So he hadn't developed a particular belief in or intimidation towards the black arts. He didn't know if he believed their story. But at this point, he was just desperate enough to try anything.

The bruja's home, he discovered, was on the edge of a cliff, just above the enormous black chasm over which the marigold bridges appeared during Dia de Muertos. It was a dilapidated wooden shack-just the kind of place you would expect a witch to live in, honestly. All the windows had been smashed long ago, the wood was all bent and warped with age, and the whole thing leaned to one side like a bent old man. The only evidence of its being occupied was a small, yellow light glowing inside.

The path was strewn with overgrown plants and piles of debris, which Ernesto had to pick his way around. When he reached the door, it creaked open before he could knock, and a low, smoky voice said, "Come in, Señor de la Cruz."

It would have been more impressive without the anachronistic security camera hanging conspicuously over the door, but he went inside anyway.

The first thing he saw clearly amongst the gloom was a candle sitting on an old wooden table, next to a small goblet and a glass carafe. Inside the carafe was a thick-looking red liquid that, in this lighting, looked an awful lot like-

Ernesto shook his head at himself, turning around-and let out an extremely undignified squeal when he nearly bumped into the bruja, who was standing right behind him.

She was shorter than he was, and probably would have been more bone than flesh even if she wasn't a skeleton. Her clothes consisted of a baggy poncho and a skirt which both looked like they'd been made out of a patchwork quilt, colored red and brown and blue and every other color you could imagine. Her dark*** hair was long and loose over her shoulders, with a few braids woven into it here and there. The braids in turn had beads and feathers and ribbons wound into them, leading Ernesto to wonder if she'd been alive during the sixties or something.

His musings were interrupted by the bruja asking in that smoky voice, "What do you call a funny witch?"

Ernesto blinked. "I-what?"

"It's not a difficult question."

She waited for a few seconds before evidently seeing that he wasn't going to answer, and blurted out, "A brouhaha!"

She gave him a brilliant smile, revealing long, pointed teeth.

Ernesto blinked again, very nonplussed.

Finally the bruja sighed. "Yeah, Quixote didn't think it was funny either." She pointed to an alebrije who was now sitting on the table; it looked like something between an owl and a dragon. When Ernesto set eyes on it, its neck feathers puffed up and it hissed at him.

"Behave yourself," she said to it with a warning glare as she moseyed to the table and poured herself a drink. Fingering the goblet, she looked her guest up and down, taking in the remains of his no-longer pristine charro suit and messy hair. Even though she clearly knew who he was, her expression held nothing but intense thoughtfulness. Finally she asked, "So, what can I do for you?"

"Is it true that you can send someone back to the Land of the Living?"

The bruja sipped her drink.

Then she asked, "Why would you want to go back?" A sly twinkle appeared in her eyes. "Not feeling at home here anymore?"

Ernesto gritted his teeth. "I...need to find someone." That seemed ambiguous enough, just in case.

"Ah, so you're in the revenge business." Then she tilted her head. "You know, technically most people would argue that things are settled between you and the Rivera clan-since, you know, you struck the first blow against them and your recent bad luck is just you finally reaping the consequences for murder and theft. Taking revenge on them now would tip the scales out of order again."

"Are you going to help me or not?!" he demanded, refusing to admit to himself that her words had hit a nerve.

The bruja tilted her drink, watching it reflect the light in its depths as she pursed her lips.**** "I can. The question is, what have you got to offer me in return?"

Ernesto only hesitated a moment, wracking his brains for anything she might find useful.

"I have three alebrijes. You can take them."

Quixote let out a squawking hoot that almost sounded indignant, and the bruja's eyes widened.

"Giving up your widow's mite. Impressive...but not necessary, I don't think." She put down the goblet, which Quixote immediately began drinking out of, and toyed with the fringe of her poncho. "It's...not easy, what you request. There is a great sacrifice you will have to make, if you truly want to be able to go back. Of course, I can see you're willing to give up a lot for this-"

Ernesto's fist slammed into the table before he even realized he had crossed the room. "I am willing to do whatever it takes." Maybe he had used the mantra too many times in life and death, but this was only the second time the words had been spoken with this much rancor in them. And as always, it was spoken with utter sincerity.

Slowly, the bruja's face split into another wide, pointed grin. "I just love it when people say that."

With that, the carafe was taken away, and in its place she brought forward a miniature cauldron, and a few powders and liquids that Ernesto didn't know the names of. The bruja began tossing things into the cauldron, stirring with a wooden spoon that Quixote fetched, muttering to herself.

"Not an exact match...but close enough...if I just combine the two...and a little...yes, perfecto…"

Ernesto watched, and wondered what it was she wanted him to give up. His response had seemed to satisfy her that they could do business, but she hadn't said what the price would ultimately be.

Finally, she turned to face him. "Just one more thing…" And before he knew what she was doing she reached right under his tattered coat, and into his ribcage.

There was a moment of hot phantom pain running all the way through the músico's bones...and then she was withdrawing her hand. Clenched in it was a molten, glowing orb.

The bruja whistled. "That is a lot bigger than I thought it would be."

Ernesto gasped, feeling his chest. Feeling how suddenly hollow he was, and wondering what she had taken from him. "How-what-"

"It's magic, músico. That's all the explanation you need." She dropped the orb into the cauldron, causing a small explosion of red smoke, and then finished stirring it all together.

The finished product was another red, syrupy liquid-but this one had sparks of fire inside, and a few swirls of black. And there was enough to fill a glass helpfully provided by Quixote.

The bruja handed it to him. "Drink that, and you should get what you're looking for."

Anyone else would have thought to ask what would happen, what it would do to him. Ernesto just seized the moment.

"By the way," he heard the bruja say as he gulped it down, "this might sting a little."

Five minutes later, when the screaming finally stopped, she gave an appraising look.

"That turned out better than I thought."

She stooped to pick something up off the floor, twirling it between her fingers as Quixote approached, bearing a large sack.

The thing formerly known as Ernesto de la Cruz grabbed it, hoisting it over his shoulder like he'd done it a thousand times before. As he did, the golden glow of cémpazuchitl petals began to surround him.

The bruja waved her free fingers at him with a grin. "Adios, El Silbón."

As Ernesto disappeared from the Land of the Dead, Socorro Rivera, known to many as Coco, or Mamá Coco, entered it, and for the first time in decades was joyfully reunited with both of her loving parents.

And deep in the shadows of Shantytown, three little alebrijes were left without a master.

*Well, be dead in, but you know what I mean.

**Even if someone did put up his photo now, he wasn't fool enough to believe he could get past security to reach the bridge.

***But graying in a few places.

****Or whatever you called the skeletal equivalent.

El Silbón is from Venezuelan mythology, and is something that I will explain later in the story. Of course, you could always go and look it up on the Internet, but that would be cheating. And while there's nothing I can actually do to stop you from doing so, I will glare at you disapprovingly for being a cheater.

*glare glare*

Let that be a lesson to you.