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close, wrapped in the long scarf. She passed the town cantina , moving through dim light cast through an open door and windows, and heard the drunken patrons inside, laughing and talking loudly. Across the street were the cloth-draped merchant stalls of the mercado , which only a few hours before had been the bustling center of commerce for three villages, but which now lay dark and quiet. She smelled the spoiling remnants of fruit, vegetables, and fly-encrusted meat, and saw a mangy, swaybacked street dog eating scraps.
    From fear she could hardly catch her breath. Holding the bundled child securely, she turned onto a narrow cobblestone street, hurried up broad stone steps and entered the village church, pulling her rebozo over her head and uttering a prayer as the cool darkness of the interior enclosed her. She kept glancing back, to make sure no one followed. People were looking for her child. They called themselves doctors and claimed they only wanted to help, but she knew better.
    Her baby had been making strange sounds, and she suspected something evil had possessed her, something that could only be purged in this holy sanctuary.
    The people who sought little Marta were not really doctors; that was only a ruse to make her let down her guard. They were too intense and she saw something in their eyes. Deception and malevolence. In reality they were servants of the dark prince—Satan—and wanted her precious child for their secret, unholy purposes. She felt this in the deepest core of her being, and that they had put a spell on Marta.
    Consuela knew her demonic pursuers wouldn’t dare enter the church. As the heavy wooden door closed behind her and she stood in the vaulted Spanish sanctuary, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. On her right, red votive candles burned, flickering at the kiss of a slight and ghostly breeze. Townspeople had lit them, to pray for friends or family members.
    With her heart beating rapidly she hurried along the main aisle, past the rows of pews to the altar. Towering beside her, a statue of the crucified Jesus was flanked by the smaller statues of two women, one the Virgin Mary, and the other the Virgin of Guadalupe, patron saint of México. Before the latter, she knelt and prayed. The saint’s face was benign, and seemed to gaze down on Consuela and her baby compassionately, giving them personal attention and protection.
    Behind her, three other people knelt inside the high-vaulted building, praying silently in the dark-wood pews. Upon passing them she’d noticed Bibles in their hands. No one escaped her scrutiny now, because of the extreme danger.
    In Consuela’s arms, her baby made the strange, unholy sounds again, this time too loudly. Putting a hand over her child’s mouth, she muffled the blasphemy that she could sense, but could not comprehend.
    The black-robed parish priest slipped out of a door behind Consuela and glided past her, going toward a door that led to the bell tower. She almost called out to him, but decided not to. He was Father Matteo, who employed her mother to cook and clean.
    The baby whimpered, and continued the muffled, abhorrent sounds.
    Out of the corner of her eye, Consuela saw the black-robed priest pause and gaze back at her. He had a puzzled expression on his weathered face, which was half in shadows and half in the flickering yellow light of a candle.
    The baby kicked and thrashed, and went into a screaming, crying tirade.
    Hesitantly, the priest approached her.
    Behind Consuela, she heard the heavy door of the church slam shut, and felt a hot breath of outside air.
    At the head of the aisle, looking in her direction, Consuela saw what appeared to be a large woman in a white dress. She couldn’t make out details of the face. The woman began walking toward her. She was carrying what might be a medical bag, but it was white, not the customary black. Her lapels were starched and stiff. Her shoes squeaked on the tile floor.
    Consuela looked at the priest, and