"Prepare yourselves. We leave now, before the moon reaches its peak," Lola Consuelo commanded, her voice carrying authority that brooked no argument.
She turned on the heels of her bakya, her long skirts sweeping against the floorboards as she led the way into the dimly lit kitchen. I followed and behind me were mama and the rest, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, thick with the scent of dried calamansi, burnt sage, and something metallic that made the hair on my arms stand up.
