by Lyn Benedict
“I was hoping to find a smoking gun, something I could use to warn his next targets. But atheists are still a huge pool,” Cachita said. “No way to get the word out, no way to home in on his next victim. And with this many, I have to assume there are going to be more.”
Sylvie looked back at the older “missings” and shuddered. Cachita had found thirteen that fit the sorcerer’s need. “He’s burning through them. They’re not lasting long enough.”
“Burning—”
Sylvie bit her lip, and Cachita said, “Please, Sylvie. I need to know what he’s doing.”
“Why do you care so much?” Sylvie said. “You a Magicus Mundi junkie? Can’t get enough of magical mayhem?”
Cachita yanked a photo from the older column; the staple stayed behind, a shiny scar in the soft plaster. Sylvie stared at it, and reluctantly took the slick paper. She let her gaze drift down. Elena Valdes.
Valdes.
Elena Valdes.
Caridad Valdes-Pedraza.
Sister? Cousins?
It was a common enough name, but Cachita’s face was clenched tight, all her confidence washed away and replaced by misery. “She’s been gone for seven weeks. I think she’s dead. I know she’s dead. She wouldn’t leave her family otherwise. You said he’s burning through them?”
Sylvie closed her eyes. Fuck, but she hated giving out bad news. “The sorcerer’s cursed. He’s using the women to control his curse. Binding them into the spell. Filtering the inimical power. The curse comes in, strikes the women, and he pulls out enough cleaned-up power to control his shape-shifting. But it’s hard on them, and eventually, they . . .”
They didn’t just die. He killed them. Took their hearts, devoured their souls. But why? How did that match with the assumption that he was offering their souls to the god?
It didn’t.
Soul-devourer, Wales had said. He dealt with the dead. He’d be familiar with the leftovers after a god took a soul. No one called that soul-devouring. That was just the natural state of things.
The sorcerer was doing more than just bartering the women’s souls.
Sylvie’s stomach churned with fury. She was working for this son of a bitch. Helping him when he’d already killed more women than she could save.
“Is that how he’s doing it?” Cachita murmured. “That bastard.”
Her body was one tight shiver of emotion. Sylvie couldn’t read it, but it looked painful. Cachita might be a crusader for truth, but that didn’t mean truth couldn’t hurt her.
“We have a lead on him,” Sylvie said. She didn’t mention that she’d met the sorcerer. The shame of it lingered in her skin. She was helping him. But not for any longer than necessary. If Wales could break the spell. If they could free the women. If she could put a bullet in his brain. “There’s a sorcerous Basque lineage—”
“Eladio Azpiazu,” Cachita said. “I know.”
“How’d you find that name?” Sylvie said. “Alex tell you?” Bad enough that Alex had told Cachita where to find her. To share case info?
Cachita said, “You’re standing in the middle of weeks of research. Do you think I need to crib info from your assistant? I have my sources. You made yourself unpopular with the sorcerous community, and Alex is well-known as your girl Friday. I’m an unknown. They talked to me.”
“Share,” Sylvie said. She pulled out a chair from the dining-room table; the wood scraped unpleasantly along the tile and made her tight nerves wind tighter. Cachita folded herself onto it, resting her hands on the heavy arms of the chair, leaned her head back.
“They say,” Cachita said, “that the Eladio Azpiazu who’s around now is the same Eladio Azpiazu who was around then. That there’s only ever been one of him. A murderous power-hungry monster who experimented on and took the heart of every shape-shifter that crossed his path. The soul-devourer.”
“It’s not the same man,” Sylvie said. “It might be the same name.” Sorcerers weren’t immortal. They weren’t even particularly long-lived. Their lifestyle tended to be hard on them, and their apprentices usually turned against them.
“They say it is,” Cachita said. “They say he got cursed by another sorcerer; that all his stolen power would backfire and make him the monster forever. A punishment he richly deserved—” Her voice dropped to a growl. “And now he’s pushing it off onto innocents!” The wall of photos should have withered beneath the heat of her gaze.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Sylvie said. “Think about it, Cachita. If sorcerers could grant immortality, don’t you think they’d apply it to themselves first? Not their enemies.”
Cachita’s angry gaze shifted. “I’m telling you the truth,” she snapped. Then she let out her breath. “Sorry. That’s what they told me.”
“Did they tell you anything about the sorcerer who cursed him? Tepé?”
Cachita chewed her lip, white teeth denting red gloss, taking on a bit of the color. “They say . . . They say that he cursed Azpiazu in the eighteen hundreds.”
Sylvie frowned. That couldn’t be true either. Not if Azpiazu expected her to deal with Tepé in modern day. Sylvie might have gaps in her mundi education, but that was one thing she was certain of: Immortality was bestowed by the gods, and only by the gods. Even the Sphinx wasn’t immortal. Only impossibly long-lived.
Cachita looked up from beneath dark lashes, and said, “They say that Tepeyollotl cursed him because Azpiazu took his last acolyte.”
Sylvie went abruptly cold. Acolyte wasn’t a regular word in the sorcerous community. Apprentice. Follower. Novice. Yes.
Acolyte was a godly word.
And Tepeyollotl was a far cry from the simple and fairly mundane Tepé. Sylvie knew that name from Mesoamerican history. Tepeyollotl was an Aztec god.
No wonder Azpiazu had been coy about his enemy. No wonder he had recruited her. The new Lilith. The one who could kill the unkillable. She hadn’t been drafted to break a curse, no matter his claims. Azpiazu expected her to kill a god.
SYLVIE PULLED OUT ANOTHER HEAVY CHAIR AND DROPPED INTO IT. Tepeyollotl. A god.
She put her face in her hands. Going up against a sorcerer could be difficult enough. But a god . . .
“Sylvie?” Cachita said. She squeaked when Sylvie jerked to her feet, started pacing the room. The movement felt good, eased the shake in her bones. A god.
Maybe she didn’t have to approach him as an enemy.
Yeah, right, her little voice growled. He’s not going to care about five mortal women.
Depressingly true. It was like one of those damn SAT analogies. God is to man as man is to insect. Interaction was based on either ignoring the lesser creature, controlling it, or, occasionally, swatting it.
Still. He cared enough about a mortal to curse Azpiazu in the first place, Sylvie thought. Assuming Cachita’s thirdhand story had truth to it. Tepeyollotl might care that Azpiazu had found a loophole in his punishment.
Or he might be on the other side of the magical divide, mourning his glory days, too lazy to be bothered with human insecta.
Azpiazu had told Sylvie that Tepé would follow him; but then again, Azpiazu expected attention, demanded it. Sylvie had only met the sorcerer once, but she had that much of his personality figured out. Sociopath. Attention whore. It was all about him. Either his fear of Tepé was inherent and false, or a frightening possibility. Gods ruined every party they crashed.
It still didn’t make sense. If Azpiazu was cursed by Tepeyollotl, bartering with another god couldn’t happen: “Curse” or “claim,” the words meant the same thing in divine circles.
There was no way that Azpiazu was bartering with one god to keep another one at bay. But if he was dedicating the souls to Tepeyollotl, if he was trying to appease the god . . . That wasn’t it either.
Somehow, Azpiazu was using Tepeyollotl’s own power against him. Using Tepeyollotl’s strength to hide from Tepeyollotl’s curse.
The god wouldn’t stand for that. He’d come searching for his prey. Azpiaz
u had said as much.
“Sylvie?” Cachita said again. This time, when she spoke, Sylvie ceased her pacing all at once, found her breath rasping in her throat.
If Tepeyollotl were in the area, the world would bend around him. When the god of Justice had walked the streets, the world had rippled and changed according to his will. And he’d been trying to keep the damage minimal.
If Tepeyollotl were in Florida, there would be signs. Undeniable signs.
“Cachita,” she said.
The woman jumped. The chair rattled against the floor like a chattering of teeth, and Sylvie said, “You brought me here to show me your files.”
Cachita nodded. “The women—”
“You’ve got more on the board than just the women,” Sylvie said. She’d get to the women later. Their information could be easily digested. Tepeyollotl required more thought.
“Where they were last seen, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve been hunting Azpiazu. How?”
Cachita frowned. “You know how—”
“How do you choose the clubs you do?”
“Oh!” Cachita said. “Weird shit happening around them. Like the Casa de Dia restaurant. A man who was a monster. Or a wolf seen in the streets. A street where all the lights failed at once. No explanation. Or other things that might be magic.”
Sylvie graced the woman with an honest smile. Cachita wasn’t Alex. Lacked the intuition that made Alex a gem. But she wasn’t that bad. “Things that might be magic. Like . . .”
Cachita said, “Like a murder?”
“Are you asking?” Sylvie said. “Or telling me?”
Cachita shook her head. “Sorry. I meant, there have been some weird murders in the last couple of days. People with their heads torn right off—”
“That’s . . . special,” Sylvie agreed. “But not what I’m looking for.” Murder was pretty direct for a god; she was expecting smaller, more pervasive things. World-warping things.
“You don’t think so?” Cachita asked. “There are some strange circumstances—they were all killed behind locked doors.”
“Were they bastards?” Sylvie said. “’Cause murder’s easy. Sorcerers. Witches. Human hit men. Hell, corrupt cops can call a crime scene secured when it’s not. I’m looking for really weird. Like el monstruo.”
Cachita said, “I’ll keep looking. It would help if you’d let me in on your epiphany. Tepeyollotl means something to you.” Eagerness sharpened her voice. “You know something about him. Tell me. How do you deal with him?”
Sylvie dropped into a chair, studied Cachita across the table, trying to figure out how this was going to go. There was a quantifiable difference, Sylvie had noticed, between someone accepting the sorcerers and monsters of the Magicus Mundi and accepting the gods.
“If the stories you heard are true—if Azpiazu is the original recipe, then Tepeyollotl is a god.”
Cachita’s lips parted. She looked . . . rapt. “A god,” she whispered. Sylvie fought off a shiver. Cachita was a junkie for the Magicus Mundi, which meant working with her was about as safe as working with a known spy. She could go double agent at the drop of a hat, or magical bribe.
“How do you deal with a god?” she went on to ask. “How do you talk to one? Do you think he’ll help you?” Lip-lick. Dilated eyes. Could be fear; could be excitement. Could be both. Cachita seemed like the type to enjoy a scare. “Help us?”
Sylvie grimaced briefly. “Gods are bad news, Cachita. They don’t make a habit of helping. At least not in my experience. Tepeyollotl cursed Azpiazu. I don’t think asking him to remove the curse is going to go over well. Gods don’t like to change their minds.”
Cachita said, “But Azpiazu’s not suffering. He’s pushing it onto others. That’s not what Tepeyollotl intended. He’s probably furious. Probably ready to punish Azpiazu all over again. If he could find him. And if you, if we, tell him about the binding spell in detail, I bet he could find Azpiazu again. . . .”
“And the women?” Sylvie said. “I’m all for Azpiazu getting his just deserts, but Tepeyollotl won’t care about the women. Their souls are already his; living or dead, it’s the same to him.” She wrapped her arms about herself, remembering the hotel room, hiding from that angry, hungry force coming to claim Jennifer.
“Look, Cachita, for all we know, Azpiazu’s curse is specifically designed to feed souls to Tepeyollotl. Aztec gods are big on sacrifice. So, Tepeyollotl’s hitting the mundane world’s about as safe as standing at ground zero when a volcano erupts. People will die. Depending on how much power Tepeyollotl wields, a lot of people.”
Something brushed against the wall, a rasp behind the paper, and Sylvie jumped, realized that Cachita had taped her files right over the window. She peeled back the nearest sheaf of files, and a cat leaped off the narrow sill, slinking back into the depths of the overgrown yard.
“That bad?” Cachita said.
“With gods, it’s best to think worst-case scenario. Best to solve it ourselves and keep Tepeyollotl from even getting involved.”
Cachita said, “You make it sound like kids cleaning up a mess before Mom gets home. How do you hide things from a god?” Cachita had finally caught Sylvie’s growing fear. Her questions were whispers; her eyes flicked around the room as if she expected eavesdroppers.
“Azpiazu’s apparently found a way,” Sylvie said. “But mostly, it’s about acting quickly and not getting their attention in the first place.” She grimaced. Don’t get their attention. Easy enough to say, but their entire plan—breaking the binding spell—hinged on doing something that would set off the equivalent of a neon sign flashing for Tepeyollotl’s attention.
“The binding sigils,” Cachita said. “Can I have copies of them? Maybe I can get some help?”
Sylvie said, “I don’t have them with me.” It was a lie, but the last thing Cachita needed was to start messing around with magic. “I’ve got someone researching them.”
“The Ghoul?” Cachita asked. “He has them?”
Sylvie scowled. “Christ, you are a stalker.”
“I just . . . Those women are in danger,” Cachita said. “I want to help.”
Sylvie sighed. As determined as Alex. She wanted to be useful. Sylvie wanted to use her. Problem was, Sylvie couldn’t trust her. From the furrow in her brow, Cachita was picking up on that. The space between them, littered with names of dead or dying women, grew tense.
“Tell me about those murders, again,” Sylvie said. It was a peace offering of sorts.
“You’ll tell me what the Ghoul finds out?” Cachita countered.
“Sure,” Sylvie said. She might. When Hell froze over. Cachita might want to dive headfirst into the doings of gods and sorcerers, but she didn’t know what she was asking for.
Gatekeeper’s a thankless job, her voice reminded her. And often futile.
Sylvie ignored it. Cachita might be overeager, potentially treacherous, but she didn’t deserve to get ground up by the Magicus Mundi. Later, when her first excitement had burned off, she’d thank Sylvie.
Cachita eyed her, as if everything she’d thought had been clear on her face, and she was deciding whether to let it slide or pick a fight right then, right there.
Sylvie leaned back in the chair, listening to the wood creak faintly, and put her feet on the table. “The murders?”
Cachita caved. “Three of them over the last two days. Two men, one woman. Heads—”
“—torn right off, I remember,” Sylvie said. Interest sparked despite herself. Three people, two days. Someone was busy. And strong. Cut off could be done by anyone with a sharp enough tool and a strong enough stomach. Torn off was monster territory.
If they’d all been women, Sylvie might have considered Azpiazu for it, but Miami was a big city. Big enough for multiple monsters. She reminded herself that she wasn’t a crusader.
“No one’s freaking out about it because they weren’t great people. A drive-by shooter who killed a kid. A rapist who preyed on schoo
lgirls. A woman who drove her car through a playground during recess. No one’s really mourning them.”
“Kids damaged each time,” Sylvie said. A signature. But not Azpiazu’s. She didn’t know enough about Tepeyollotl to make a judgment. She didn’t think he was doing it himself, but gods could radiate influence. When Kevin Dunne, the god of Justice, had sought his missing lover, the police had turned all their energies to doing his will.
“You think it means something?” Cachita asked.
“Yeah. But not my something. Azpiazu’s enough to deal with,” Sylvie said. “I can’t afford to be distracted.” Easy to say, hard to do. She was distracted. Odalys threatened her friends and family. Patrice was trying to kill her.
Sylvie scrubbed at her face as if she could scrape off the day’s accumulated frustrations. Outside in the garden, cats screamed, and Sylvie twitched.
Cachita said, “It’s late. We can talk about it in the morning. Are you staying? I’ve got a guest room.”
“Yeah, why not,” Sylvie said. Ungracious, but she was thinking about being greeted at sunrise with Cachita’s eagerness to go play with magic, as mindless as a puppy wanting to chase cars on the freeway.
Her ringing phone gave her an excuse to wave Cachita off; she picked it up, stepped out onto a back porch that stank of tomcat.
“So, Shadows, you dead or what?” Wales asked. His drawl clipped off most of the consonants, turned sarcasm into a tired slurry of words.
“Not yet,” she said. His exhaustion was a weight on the line; it made her confession that much harder to voice. She never liked admitting she screwed up. “Hey, Tex? I slipped up. Let that damned reporter know about the sigils. She might come sniffing around, asking questions. For her own good, don’t talk to her.”
There was a long pause on the line, a heavy sigh. “You’re worried about her?”
“You’re cautious,” she said. “You know what can go wrong. It’s all shiny, new, and exciting to her. She wants to play—”
“Idiot,” he muttered. “Keep her away from me. Lois Lanes get the good guys killed in the real world.”
