“Oi, erm, Hola, Emma. Have you been tinkering with the Wheel?”
“No. I’ve done everything I can for the engine now. The battery should hold steady for the race, though.”
Emma was a fascinating woman. Pierce had only spoken to her briefly, and yet she greatly piqued his interests.
“Emma, this is my wife, Taisia Landcross.”
Her smile remained, yet there was a change in her eyes.
“Hola, Mrs. Landcross.”
“It is good to meet you, Emma.”
“You’re Russian?” she guessed. “Odnazhdy ya provel god v Moskve.”
Pierce was caught completely off guard. “You speak Russian? Bloody fantastic.”
The gleam in Emma’s eyes returned when she noticed that she had made an impact.
“Are you still going to the races?” she asked him.
“Aye. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Wonderful,” Emma beamed excitedly just before Gabriela called to her from the Wheel. “I have to go. I will see you the day after tomorrow.”
As she dashed off, Taisia said, “She seems nice.”
“Aye. C’mon, love, let’s get to the dance.”
* * *
Gog wandered through Guaymas alone, trying to let the festive surroundings take away his sorrows—or, at the least, distract him from them. They did not.
Why weren’t his spirits higher? What did he need to lift them? Once upon a time, he had been a proud, strong-minded man, a great warrior who had gone up against the most powerful deity ever—the Maker of Everything. At least, that was what they told about him in the stories. In other tales, Gog had a father and a son, and in another legend, he was hailed as a prince. Storytellers had even changed lands into men, bringing Magog forth and turning him into a human. The stories had been revised so often, even Gog had long since stopped trying to understand who he was supposed to be.
When he had put it all behind him, Gog sought out the remaining Goth spirits dwelling in the In-Between, as well as the ghosts that had stayed on earth. He offered to let them join him, creating a nomadic tribe of traveling lost souls. Back then, it was enough.
Gog walked unseen by anyone, for he desired isolation amongst the crowds. After a while, he came to a place where music played. Gog stopped to listen and to watch.
People dressed in bright clothing danced to the fast-paced sounds of the violin, guitar, accordion, maracas, horns, and drums of the mariachi band. There was drinking and joke telling. The scent of sweet lavender flowers and cooked food thickened the air. The colorful lights shone like earthbound stars. A joyful vibe hummed all around, but Gog could not feel it, nor did the lively sights do a thing to improve his mood.
And then he saw her.
The music slowed down as she stepped into the dancing arena. Her face alone stood out. She began to sway gracefully to the song. Her movements were like witnessing time form: a powerful explosion of beauty and possibilities. The brink of existence that was dangerous and wild. And there was a certain danger in her that he could taste. It melted on his tongue like sweet cake. Her amber stone eyes burned with fire. She had courage coursing through her soul as thick as velvet.
He wanted her more than anything in the world and beyond.
“She’s married,” Magog pointed out, appearing beside him.
“So?” he argued. He didn’t care about the man dancing with his woman.
“And she’s with child,” Magog again acknowledged unhelpfully.
“I know.”
“You must seek another female to claim.”
Magog had always known Gog’s mind, and so, he sensed his desires.
“That woman is for me. She is what I have been searching for.”
“And the unborn she carries?”
“Special bloodlines flow in the veins of the unborn. Can’t you sense it?”
“Yes. It’s credited to the father.”
“I shall raise the children as my own,” Gog proclaimed. “And I shall marry her, and we will live together in solitude.”
“In solitude?” Magog gasped. “Are you talking about leaving the clan?”
Magog’s distress affected Gog little. He was in love.
Gog walked into the dancing arena. The slow-sounding music played softly. His bride-to-be danced while gazing into the eyes of her soon-to-be ex-husband. Gog followed them without being seen. He stood near them and watched as they moved about. She was just as lovely up close.
It took some effort, but he switched his sights to the man. Gog could almost understand why someone as enduring as she would choose him as her mate. He was handsome as men go. However, Gog surmised it must be the different bloodlines that had caused her to think she was in love with him. Yes, that was it. The man’s natural inheritance had drawn her to him. She doesn’t really love him. She deserved more than what any mortal man could give her. This perfectly crafted female should be crowned queen, and he was willing to wage wars and conquer lands just so she could have them to rule over.
The music stopped, and so did the dancers. The man kissed the woman. Gog was greatly tempted to plunge his fist into the man’s face and tear out everything inside his skull.
“I’m going to get a pint,” the man told Gog’s betrothed. “You need anything?”
To Gog’s utter contempt, he was an Englishman. Gog loathed the English, for many of them were direct descendants of the Romans who had laid siege to Jerusalem.
“Water,” the woman answered in the most harmonious voice Gog had ever heard.
The man departed at last, leaving Gog alone with his future queen. She stepped out of the dancing arena as the music sped up and people began moving their feet once more. Gog came up alongside her. He stared at her a moment as she watched the dancers.
As an unseen, the power that helped him be what he was wouldn’t allow him to touch her without causing a cold snap that would temporarily freeze her in place. Never would he want to harm her. Instead, he reached out and hovered his hand a half an inch from her cheek. She generated heat, firing up the surface of his hand. This woman possessed terrific energy. He moved down, gliding ever so closely under her chin, past her neck, and hovered over her breast. His heart quickened in beats. His hand traveled to her womb, feeling the heartbeats inside. Strong thumping that vibrated against his palm. Gog had found his purpose. It was in a family that he would soon claim as his own.
“I will give you the lives you were born for,” he promised them.
* * *
Pierce headed for the Chinchilla Cantina nearby.
“¿Qué puedo hacer por usted, señor?” asked the barkeep.
“Erm,” Pierce began saying. “Inglés?”
The barkeep only shook his head.
“Damn,” Pierce muttered, trying to figure out how to dictate his order.
“What is it you’re after?” a familiar voice inquired.
“Oi, if it ain’t Mr. Snake Oil,” Pierce quipped to the bright-haired salesman beside him.
He was no longer dressed in his black-and-red-checkered suit, but, instead, a cheap plaid outfit with a tie and steel-toed boots.
“The name’s Jaxton, mate, Jaxton Beau.”
Pierce narrowed his eyes with a cheeky smile. “Pierce Landcross. And I’m after ale and a glass of water.”
Jaxton turned to the barkeep and ordered the drinks.
“Cheers,” Pierce thanked him. “Nice of you, considering the grief I put you through today.”
“You’re not the first. No drama.”
Pierce leaned against the bar, his elbow resting on the counter. “You almost sound British, but you’re not, are you?”
“Never even been to Britain, mate” Jaxton stated matter-of-factly. “I’m from New South Wales in Australia.”
“Australia, eh? You don’t say. So, were you born or brought there?”
“Born. As were my oldies, my grandparents on my father’s side and my grandfather on my mother’s.”
“And your other grandmu
m?”
“My grandmother was a French woman, Madam Adèle. She was convicted of bribery and sent to Australia in the mid-1700s.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce gasped in awe. “I’ve heard about the colonies sprouting up over there. It sounds loads better than the prison camp I was . . .”
He snapped his jaw close, realizing he was about to disclose too much about himself.
“Then you were what?” Jaxton inquired. “Were you going to be sent to Australia?”
Pierce rubbed behind his neck. “Erm, something like that.”
Jaxton, though clearly curious, decided not to press. “Anyway, me folks moved to Monterey when I was small. We’re some of the first Australians to migrate to Mexico.”
The barkeep returned, and Pierce was excited to have a drink until he saw what the barkeep had brought. The beverage was ruby-colored and came in a wide-mouthed glass decorated with a paper parasol and a cut red rose. The barkeep snorted with amusement as he placed the water down beside it.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Pierce asked Jaxton.
“A Rosemary Delight,” Jaxton explained with a scathing smile. “It’s very popular with the ladies around here.”
Pierce realized that the Australian was getting his revenge. The mirth on his face told him that much.
Pierce lifted the drink and examined it. “Is there any bloody alcohol in this?”
“It has two ounces of rum.”
The barkeep returned with gin and set it down in front of Jaxton.
“To new experiences,” Jaxton said, raising the beverage Pierce wished he had instead.
Pierce refused to let Jaxton have an abundance of amusement at his expense. He lifted the dainty drink higher. “To new experiences.”
Pierce didn’t enjoy the idea of drinking something that looked like it belonged inside a florist’s shop, but he nonetheless plucked the rose and paper umbrella out and took a swig with Jaxton watching. He had to admit—to himself, anyway—that it tasted fantastic.
“Good, eh?” Jaxton jested.
A couple of men, sporting tin badges, entered the restaurant. The man leading the way was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, white shirt, long vest, and calf chaps over his dusty boots, which clanged loudly from their spurs. He, like the other gent with him, had a very dark complexion and sharp eyes that seemed to catch everyone’s movements. The lawmen’s presence instinctively made Pierce feel uneasy until the lead man spotted him holding the Rosemary Delight and chuckled.
Pierce scowled and set the drink down. “Tequila,” he ordered from the barkeep.
“That’s ol’ Sheriff Emmanuel Flores,” Jaxton explained, referring to the amused Mexican. “And Deputy Andrés Ortega. There was a bank robbery earlier today, and the sheriff has been on high alert.”
“Robbery, eh?”
“Yeah. Apparently, this lot hit the same bank three times already. There’s a huge reward out for them.”
Pierce snorted just as the barkeep returned with the glass of tequila. It had a fat worm sitting on the bottom. Pierce studied it.
“There’s a worm in here.”
“It’s supposed to be there,” Jaxon explained.
“Of course, it is.”
To regain his pride, Pierce downed the entire drink, worm and all, in a single gulp. His whole body was suddenly on fire.
“You’re turning red,” Jaxton commented.
A young Spanish man with shoulder-length hair and clear eyes came abreast of Jaxton. “Hola, Jaxton.”
Jaxton lit up brighter than his sunshine hair. “Leonardo.” He threw his arms around the Spaniard and strongly embraced him.
They spoke to each other in Spanish for a little while before Jaxton turned to Pierce.
“Pierce, meet a very good friend of mine, Leonardo Diaz. Leonardo, este es mi amigo, Pierce Landcross.”
“Hola, Pierce,” Leonardo greeted him, holding out his hand.
Pierce shook it. “Hola.”
As the two struck up another conversation in Spanish, Pierce reached into his pocket for money to pay for the drinks.
Jaxton gawked. “You’re joking.” He turned to Pierce. “Leonardo booked a hotel room right down the way from my own. The last vacant lodgings left in the entire city.”
“Is that so,” Pierce said, setting the pesos on the counter. “Wait, the last room? My family and I are boarding with the Apache tribe north of here.”
“Really? Are you planning to travel back tonight? It ain’t safe to travel after dark, especially if you veer off the trail and wind up in Shawnee territory.”
“I was aiming on getting us rooms,” Pierce explained grimly. “Are you sure there aren’t any vacant rooms left?”
Jaxton turned to his companion and spoke to him.
“He says there isn’t,” Jaxton informed Pierce. “No worries, though. You can have mine for the night. I’ll stay with Leonardo.”
“Oi, are you sure?” Pierce asked as the Australian reached into his plaid jacket pocket. “I don’t want to put you out.”
Jaxton grinned widely as he handed over his key. “You won’t be. I’m in Room 87 at the Sun Buscador hotel by the beachside.”
“By the beach, eh? You must be selling a great deal of that snake oil of yours to afford renting a space at such a location.”
Jaxton winked at him. “I’m a damn good salesman.”
* * *
Élie wandered aimlessly around the streets of Guaymas, enjoying the lively atmosphere. It helped distract her from the worry of what the future may hold. While they’d sailed across the oceans, she’d striven to figure out why Freya wanted Pierce dead. She had asked her spirits, but they offered no help. Spirits were not all knowing; they only knew what they’d learned in their life and what other spirits had told them in death.
“He is one of the Four. Only one out of the Four can live. The last to live is the one who can gain everything,” Freya had told her.
One of the Four.
Those words ran through her head several hundred times a day. Élie had read that sentence backward and forward, trying to decipher it. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? Who else, other than Pierce, is one of the Four? And was Freya included? Whatever Freya did in the future to try drawing Élie’s grandson back, she’d do her best to prevent him from going—even against Orenda’s wishes. Orenda had told Élie that Pierce would need to face the witch someday. Pierce’s fate thread had been damaged, rendering it worthless—which, in turn, had thrown him off the path of his lifespan. He could die anytime, and with a god helping Freya, it was unwise to let Pierce leave.
The Trickster god also gave her pause. Orenda had spoken about certain gods who could bypass ancient laws, even the rules of the Fates. If Freya needed Pierce dead, why had she not gotten the Trickster to take his life already? Élie knew Freya had been responsible for damaging Pierce’s fate thread, which must have taken quite a bit of effort. Why go through the trouble?
These questions kept her awake at night. The only thing she could do was keep Pierce anchored to the home they were bound for and protect him—as well as his and Taisia’s unborn, who also had a part to play in all of this.
Élie stopped to admire some paintings through a store display window until a chill sank through her flesh. Something had stepped through her, and when she turned her head, she saw what it was.
A spirit with a conscious mind. It had been many years since she’d encountered one walking the earth. The spirit was a woman dressed in ancient barbaric clothing. She had long black hair and muscular arms. Perhaps she had been a warrior, but it was evident she had not come from these lands.
The spirit peered over her own shoulder, obviously aware she was visible to Élie. It came as no surprise, for enchanters were very in-tuned with the dead.
The spirit vanished into an alleyway and Élie went after her.
“Wait, s’il vous plait!”
Élie chased her into the alley. It was very dark. The sense of the spirit’s p
resence remained, yet she was no longer in sight.
“Please don’t leave,” Élie pleaded into the void.
The spirit appeared and stood on the edge between the light and the darkness. “It has been centuries since I spoke French,” the spirit confessed.
“You, however, are not French,” Élie noted.
“No. I am from Danube and died in Rome. I am of the Goth people. The last of them before our final fall from existence.”
“I see. I am sorry to hear of your massacre.”
She shrugged. “Things that come into existence—people, animal species, tribes, cities, even deities—will eventually become non-existent. It has been that way since whenever life began.”
The spirit did not seem trapped, yet Élie inquired anyway, “Do you need assistance? I can help you move on, if you’re in limbo.”
“I am not in limbo,” she said. “I walk among the living by choice with Gog and Magog.”
Élie knew those names. “The ones Dhul-Qarnayn wanted to keep away from the urbane people, and so, ordered an iron wall to be built with the help of the djinn?”
“That is one of several tales told about them. They had summoned the ghosts of the last Goths to travel with them.”
“To where?”
“Everywhere. We have no destination. We just move. We are nomads who wander aimlessly.”
Élie liked this spirit.
“As it is with everything else, I believe our journey will come to an end soon.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Our leader, Gog, has not been himself for quite some time. I think he is searching for something else now. A new life, perhaps.”
“Gog is not a spirit like you?”
“He is not, nor was he ever a real person, per se. He was created to serve a purpose in a story written two thousand years ago. Gog was brought into existence in order to play his part in the tale as a living character, but, as the centuries passed, Gog realized there was nothing to gain, and so he left it all behind.”
“I’ve heard of these creations. Only those who are capable of reciting the Life Bringing spell can create living human or animals without conception.”
Bounty Hunter Page 5
