Charlie Hernández & the League of Shadows: Chapters 1–9

Every night I planted myself on the folding chair outside the station’s 9-1-1 call center, listening in on the dispatchers, hoping to hear something—any thing—about my parents.

In those stories, the young hero would always defeat his nemesis—an evil, narcissistic, twice-cursed witch—by manifesting some kind of animal trait.

Unlike the horns, this particular manifestation started with an itch.

I made my way there as quickly—and sneakily—as humanly possible, arms hidden inside my shirt, my soaked-through sneakers squeaking on the chipped gray linoleum.

The moment I stepped inside and saw the lost-and-found box sitting on the big laminated desk in the middle of the room, I was so excited I almost burst into a full-on theatrical rendition of "La Cucaracha.”

"Now!" Her voice was so loud, so intimidating that I had no choice but to obey. Slowly, grudgingly, I pulled my trembling arms out of the sticky sleeves of my T-shirt—and watched as Mrs. Kirilenko's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

Then, with a hint of a smile (which I suspected was the most you ever got from Mrs. Kirilenko), the not-so-friendly giant strode briskly over to the big round desk and peered into the box.

In her huge gorilla hands, the purple abomination looked like doll's clothes.

Up to this point the most outlandish thing I'd ever worn to school was a guayabera, which is a style of Latino dress shirts that I'd become obsessed with after seeing a black-and-white photograph of my abuelo wearing one out in the campo as he chopped sugarcane.

"...See, a very reliable source told me not too long ago that you spent the summer bulking up on performance-enhancing drugs your daddy bought for you off the Internet. So, I was thinking maybe I'd run with it. Make it the front-page story of the Leon Gazette and see what all the high school and college scouts think about that.''

“Would you like me to forward a copy to your place of residence? Maybe sign you up for a year's subscription? As always, all proceeds go to support our local PTA."

She let that hang for a moment before adding, “Next move is yours, Allie. But my advice, you and your baboons make like polynomials and factor out."

Then she said, “Your generation lacks any sense of propriety. And style. Now get back to class!”

Where Alvin was tall and portly, with a milky complexion and curly orange hair that fell over his face like a mop, Sam is rail-thin, dark-skinned, and had thick black hair that stuck straight up in a perfect three-inch-tall flattop.

"The material's soft. Breathable. I can really see it becoming a staple in my wardrobe."

At least until I molt, I thought.

"But I should warn you that I'm a curious girl, Charlie Hernández. A very curious girl. And the fact that you're being all dodgy is only making me even more curious.”

Sam's mom pulled up to the edge of the PE field, saving me from the Violet Inquisition. (Which was beginning to feel even more intense than the Spanish one where they burned people at the stake.)

They wore everything you could imagine, from miniature vaquero jackets to extravagant baiana dresses that must've taken months to sew.

She'd make seafood paellas in the old Spanish way; chiles rellenos using real Mexican chilies; arroz con pollo with the exact spice combination her family had used in Cuba for generations.

“Candy bars aren't a real meal, dear,” I heard her call out as I pounded up the creaky stairs to the attic. "You should always try to incorporate multiple food groups."

In the center of the page was some sort of family crest (a shield flanked by two huge birds—eagles, maybe), and inscribed along the edge of the shield was that symbol again—the horns and feathers!

Just when I was about to close the page, I randomly clicked on the directions tab, and an aerial view of the cemetery came up on the screen, freezing me in place.

The cemetery on Bonita was supposedly one of the oldest establishments in all of Miami. According to their website, it had been founded in the late 1800s, right around the time Miami was declared a city.

Beyond it, sunken tombstones and towering mausoleums created a haphazard maze of stone and marble that seemed to run on forever.

Beyond it, sunken tombstones and towering mausoleums created a haphazard maze of stone and marble that seemed to run on forever.

Wispy tendrils of fog wound through the grounds, creating a freaky 3-D effect.

One of his huge stony hands was pointing down at the ground, and I could just make out a pair of tiny symbols chiseled into the concrete slab between his legs: two horns and five long feathers.

Had I imagined him...? Was I now hallucinating freaky-looking dudes in jumpsuits?

"Don't be embarrassed,” she said. "It's perfectly natural. In fact, I probably wouldn't have told me either. And full disclosure? I knew that locket I opened for you was your mother's. I'd seen it before. She wore it to a PTA meeting once, and my mom tried to convince her to sell it at our shop.''

"Know anything about tarantulas?”
Is that a challenge? "Kingdom, Animalia. Phylum, Arthropoda. Class, Arachnida. Order, Araneae. Burrowers by nature. Roughly eight hundred different species worldwide. They spin silk, but unlike most spiders, they don’t use webs to catch their prey. They have eight eyes but can't see very well.”

"Ha. Nice try. But I see what you're doing....You're trying to get me to freak out and look down so you can prove that I'm not aware of my surroundings and therefore need your help. Unfortunately for you, I’m not that gullible.”

"Charlie, I'm serious..." Her expression became earnest, urgent.

"You're funny. I like that. But, for your information, I also happen to have a pretty keen sense of danger, so I think I'd know if a tarantula was crawling up my—"

"DID I GET IT?" I shouted frantically. "DID I GET IT? HUH? HUH? HUH?" When Violet didn't answer, I danced right up in front of her and yelled, "DID I GET IT OR WHAT, CHICA?"