The Possession of Alba Díaz

by Isabel Cañas

She looked down at the man who knelt before her like a supplicant with a hand on her knee, whose weathered face was softened by the innocence of newfound devotion. Carlos did not know how right he was. Elías Monterrubio was nothing but trouble.

Meeting his gaze was not a sin. It should not feel like one.

She wanted to be held as if she were delicate, she wanted to be broken. Through headiness thicker than wine, she thought: I want you to shatter me.

But the priests’ chanting, their droning—none of it was fixing her. None of it would ever fix her. The only person capable of that was Elías, who had looked at her and said we fight dirty. Elías, who sang her out of the dark. With whom she had shared one enchanted dance that sealed their fates, molten metal pouring gleaming into their ribs and setting around their hearts. He was the one thing she had ever chosen for herself.

The only fallen angel was Elías, aglow with infernal might not of this world, but not of Bartolomé’s world nor the demon’s either. He was the radiance of silver in the sun. He was freedom.

Thus was their oath, given at the altar, dripping in blood and wreathed in the black smoke of sorcery. Bound with a kiss.

The sorcerer who had brought mercury to Nueva España left with me instead of with silver. After all, love was all San Cipriano had spun spells for, and love was what Elías had won,