Agave Kiss cs-5

by Ann Aguirre

  That alarmed me, as he looked so normal, but it wasn’t like killers went around with signs around their necks, or tattoos on their foreheads. That would make life so much simpler. In the end, I bought all three, plus some ammo for Booke’s gun, and a shoulder harness that he slipped on under his jacket.

  “Remember,” GM called as we headed out. “If you’re caught, it’s illegal to carry concealed and I never met you.”

  I assured him, “We won’t flip.”

  “Heard that before,” he muttered.

  Butch yapped at him in disapproval, as a Chihuahua’s word was his bond. Funny, but even a gangly Englishman gained some swagger with a gun hidden beneath his coat. I teased him about it as I swung back into the car.

  “Now you’ve got a total James Bond thing going on, only you’re cooler because you do magick. You’ll have to beat the ladies off with a stick.”

  He colored, cutting his eyes to the stained floor mat in the Pinto. Lord, it was a good thing our outcome didn’t depend on image. The engine purred to life, however, a testament to Chuch’s good work. Someday, I’d love to have him restore a car for me, totally custom from bumper to bumper.

  Then Booke changed the subject; clearly he didn’t want to talk about his own charms. “Speaking of magick, if you know of a shop, I need to get a few things. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with how hermetic tradition works—”

  “No clue.” I figured I’d save him a few words. “Tell me how I can help.”

  He nodded as I pulled onto the street. “I’m not as versatile as a witch. I need more preparation, and to use my spells in combat, I must store them in a focus object, which is destroyed in the process.”

  “Gotcha. Yeah, I know a place. Shannon and I found it a while back when I was squaring off against the Montoyas.”

  Caridad didn’t sell supplies; there was more profit to be made in offering spells only. But after this last stop, we should be ready to head into the wilderness to find Kel. Hopefully it won’t take forty days and nights.

  Then it occurred to me to ask, “How did you learn to shoot? I thought the U.K. had much stricter gun laws than the U.S.”

  “Not for soldiers,” Booke said quietly.

  Mentally, I did some math. He had been thirty-six in 1947, which meant he could’ve fought in World War II, but he’d said he had been with his lover for eight years, which would’ve taken place during wartime. But maybe they were separated until it ended . . . ? As I pulled into traffic, I decided to find out.

  “Did you fight?”

  “Yes. Perhaps that’s why the romance seemed so much more desperate, more doomed . . . and therefore, more important. Ironically, by the time she told her husband everything, I was a different man. War changes you.”

  It had started as an indulgence of his ego, ended in tragedy. “So those eight years, it was off and on . . . all the stolen moments you could snatch.”

  “Precisely. I lived for those hours when she could sneak away . . . or I was on leave. Though toward the end . . .” He lifted a shoulder in a weary, self-deprecating shrug. “I loved her, but she wasn’t the woman I wanted her to be.”

  I made a left turn, heading toward the highway. The directions fluttered on the scrap of paper on the dash, lifted by the vent, while Butch paced in the backseat. If he had his Scrabble tiles, he’d be Han Soloing all over the place, with a bad feeling about this. He wasn’t the only one, but Kel was my friend. I never left people behind if I had a choice. Just one more errand, and then we’d see how bad the opposition was.

  “I get it. Love is worth fighting for.”

  His face went pensive. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that is. That’s why you mustn’t give up on your young man, no matter what.”

  The lump in my throat surprised me. “I won’t. I’m facing some pretty steep opposition, maybe even going up against nature itself, but if hell didn’t stop me, death won’t either.”

  Booke gave a half smile. “Remind me never to cross you.”

  Unlikely Heroes

  The arcane shop where Booke bought his supplies was housed in an Oriental Home Furnishings shop. Or that was the front. If you had the fortitude to shake off the aversion spell, you progressed to the real goods in the back. This time, I couldn’t see the runes pulsing, but I felt them; and without my mother’s magick, I had a strong inclination to get out before we ran into the creepy old woman again.

  Booke grabbed my arm, forceful when he had to be. “None of that,” he cautioned me in an undertone. “We’ve a job to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He cut me a chiding look for the sarcasm and led the way toward the private sales floor. Though he’d never been to this shop before, apparently he was familiar with the premise. The room was filled with short shelves covered in esoteric supplies: wands, chalices, athames, and spell components, cunningly arrayed. There was a young woman at the counter this time, and I let out a small sigh of relief. Not subtle, it seemed, as the clerk focused on me.

  “You’re glad not to see my great-aunt.” She had strawberry blond curls, blue eyes, and she hardly looked old enough to be out of high school, but something told me her baby face was deceptive.

  So I didn’t bother to dissemble. “Maybe a little.”

  “She’s retired now. In recent years she’d gotten a bit . . . odd, which makes for poor customer service.”

  Too many demons wandering in and out of her head, I thought, but didn’t say so out loud.

  The girl went on, “I’m Karen. If you need anything specific, have questions, or can’t find what you’re looking for, let me know. If we don’t stock it, I’m sure I can special order what you need.” There was a reassuring solidity behind her prettiness, making me think I wouldn’t converse with any demons through her anytime soon.

  “I have a list,” Booke cut in.

  His accent made Karen take notice, as did most Texan females. She brought him colorful powders, stored in glass vials, small ceramic figures, various herbs and liquids. It was like watching an alchemist prepare to transmute lead into gold—while carrying on a courtly flirtation. At the end of the transaction, she slipped him a business card, and I didn’t think it was for special orders. I grinned at him as we went out to the Pinto, parked at a meter a block away. We passed Popeyes on the way, so the air smelled like fried chicken and biscuits. He didn’t notice, too busy smirking.

  I teased gently, “You should be ashamed, the way they tumble for you. What about Dolores?”

  “She and I shared an amicable, somewhat calisthenic evening, not to be repeated.” He held up a hand as I swung into the car, forestalling my commentary. “At her request, not mine. She knows I’m leaving and isn’t interested in playing at a long-distance romance.”

  “I’m glad you were up front with her.”

  “I don’t lie to women to get what I want. I’m not a scoundrel,” he said in an aggrieved tone, but his word choice made me laugh.

  “I think you mean ‘dog’ or ‘player.’”

  “My original point stands.” He changed the subject, becoming brisk. “Is there a safe place where I can craft my foci?”

  Starting the Pinto, I thought about that. There was no way I’d condone any magickal shenanigans where I was staying; no more complications for the Ortiz family. At one point, I’d used an Escobar safe house, but I wouldn’t go there without the boss’s sanction. My options in Texas were limited . . . and then I had it.

  “If you’re not picky, yes.”

  “I just need quiet and room to work,” he said.

  “Then this will suffice.”

  Making a decision, I put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, and drove toward Ramon’s trailer, where Chuch had stashed me when I was laying low after a long day of driving the Montoya cartel crazy. Hopefully, nobody had rented the place. If so, I’d claim to be lost, and try to find an alternative. But from what I remembered, it was more of a crash pad than a home.

  Booke and I bickered amicab
ly as we rolled toward our penultimate destination. I teased him about his lady-killer moves and he gave as good as he got. It was good to see him acting normal, a man with a future instead of one who had given up on happiness. When I found him at the ghost cottage, he’d seemed so beaten, so hopeless. I never wanted to see him that way again.

  The Pinto rode like a horse wagon, no shocks to speak of, but at least if I lost this ride or it got blown up, Chuch wouldn’t stroke out over it. Given how things were shaping up, either possibility seemed plausible. I was lucky I remembered the route Chuch had taken when he delivered me here, past the highway, past town, past everything worth seeing.

  This RV park was a little slice of hell. Trash lay in moldering heaps, rusted carburetors and engines up on blocks. As I recalled from my last visit, one trailer nearby had license plates all over it, and the diagonal neighbor collected hubcaps. Stolen, I was sure. Trees featured sparsely in the landscaping, but on the plus side, if you were looking for broken glass to do an abstract mosaic, you only had to look down. Plastic bags blew in the wind, tangling in the scrubby bushes. As I parked in front of a run-down single-wide, Booke stared.

  “Do they even have trailer parks in the U.K.?” I wondered aloud.

  “Yes, but they’re called caravans . . . and they’re nothing like this.”

  I imagined not. The cracks in the underpinning had gotten worse, so that the vinyl hung completely askew on one side. For obvious reasons, the door wasn’t locked. Since I’d been inside once, I thought I was prepared; only I wasn’t—but not for the reasons I expected. Someone had hauled off the plaid purple couch, and the stained brown carpet had been removed too. The subfloor had been covered in new vinyl, and it wasn’t catastrophically ugly. Nobody would ever mistake it for real Italian tile, but it was a big improvement. All of the rubbish had been hauled away, and it now smelled of orange cleaner. Judging by his remodeling efforts, Ramon was seriously trying to rent the place out; the area was undesirable, but price it low and somebody would jump at it. This wasn’t a large trailer, but it had a kitchenette, along with some typical mobile features like a table and dinette, a small living area, minuscule bath, and a bedroom large enough to house a queen-sized bed.

  Booke surveyed the space, then gave an approving nod. “I can work at the pull-down table.”

  “Go for it.”

  I went into the bedroom to find the stained mattress had been removed and the walls scrubbed down. It smelled clean in here too. Strange to think while I had been in Sheol, people I knew had been going about their ordinary lives. Yet that didn’t sound boring to me at all. I longed for the day when work and paying the bills constituted my biggest problem.

  Since there was nowhere else to wait, I returned to the main room and sat down on the dining bench, careful not to disrupt Booke. His hands were quick and elegant as he laid the sigils that would protect his work. Not that it was demon magick, but you could never be sure what spells would attract attention. Best not to put all that shimmering energy out as a lure.

  I’d worked as a witch and witnessed Tia crafting some impressive charms, but it was nothing like the hermetic tradition. Often our magick was sympathetic, invoked with one thing that represented something else. There was a precision to this; and I wished I could see how he was channeling the energy. Unfortunately, witch sight was closed to me, so I could only feel a faint, residual tingle as he poured power into his focus objects, storing them for future use. His items of choice were ceramic figurines, which would shatter on impact, unleashing the spell. Each statuette correlated with the chosen effect, though sometimes in ways I didn’t understand.

  “What does the mouse do?” I asked, after he finished.

  “Increases stealth.”

  “Really?”

  “How often do you see them?” he pointed out. “But they’re everywhere.”

  “Fair enough. Are you set?”

  He looked tired, but not as drained as he had been from the working that let me into the ghost cottage, and he still had the Glock. There was no question Booke would be the heavy hitter on this run while I provided backup as best I could with touch, Taser, and blade. That had to make him happy, as he’d spent so many years playing a support role. It was past time for this guy to be an action hero.

  “Yes, let’s go for a drive, Corine.”

  “We need to work on your heroic verbiage,” I told him.

  “Not fierce enough? Shall I try again?”

  Laughing, I shook my head and led the way out of the trailer. I’d remember this place, if I needed to lay low again. The Pinto blended right in, so none of the neighbors would pay any attention. Even Barachiel might lose track of me here.

  Okay, probably not. He probably has a magickal LoJack on my soul.

  The mood darkened as I drove out of the trailer park and cut toward the highway. Booke read the directions to me as a better-than-automated form of GPS, and bonus, his voice didn’t go all demonic in pronouncing street names. By this time, it was getting late, the sky heavy with sunset, and I clicked on the lights. Other cars passed while I searched for the turnoff.

  “Here,” Booke said at last, but the road was so close by then that the car fishtailed when I slammed on the brakes.

  I checked the rearview, found no traffic behind me, so I reversed twenty feet and hung right. This reminded me a little of the final battle between the Montoyas and me, but I wasn’t alone this time, and I wouldn’t solve my problems by calling Dumah to eat anybody’s soul. Expedience had driven that decision but I wouldn’t repeat it.

  “How far do we have to go?”

  “Five miles. We’re heading north, parallel to the border.”

  Nodding, I drove on, my stomach tight with fear. Crazy as it seemed, I had a wizardly World War II veteran as my point man on this operation. Sometimes my life was just too weird for belief. Worried thoughts carried me to our destination; the gravel road had ended long before, making it tough going for the Pinto. This was 4WD territory, but the car had heart, and the suspension was already shot. Chuch wouldn’t care much. I hoped.

  I parked, climbed out of the vehicle to survey what lay ahead. By this point, the moon was high, throwing a silver sheen over the remote landscape. The rock formation matched the one I’d glimpsed in the vision Kel shared—moreover, I recognized the honeycomb nature of the site. People had lived here, ages before; folks still lived in the quarries in France, tunneling into the soft limestone cliffs. Here, the rock had a forbidding, desolate air, as if blood had been spilled, and then soaked into the stones themselves.

  His door slammed; then Booke joined me. “It’s quite dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “We shouldn’t waste time. It’s taken too long already to get to Kel.”

  He nodded. “I can imagine few things more horrible than being trapped, unless it’s being imprisoned and at someone else’s mercy.”

  Yeah, you didn’t have that, at least. To my mind, loneliness was almost as bad. I put aside my fear and jerked my head toward the stairs cut into the side of the mesa. They were so old that they looked like they might only be safe for mountain goats, but I had to try. With every fiber of me, I wanted to call out to Kel, give him some warning we were close, but I was afraid that might tip off his captors. He’d said the host punished him for insolence, including a stint in prison, but this . . . well, the dead man’s hands running up and down my spine had little to do with the weather.

  I strode forward, shoes crunching over loose gravel that created a makeshift parking lot, perfect for loading shipments. Nothing I saw here made me think the cartel was still using this place as a staging ground; it simply felt abandoned, not even a lingering hint of old gas or machinery. Instead, I could only smell sage and saguaro, the crisp nip of air sweeping down from the mountains.

  Using my hands for purchase, I scrambled up the weathered stairs, as erosion had left them crumbling beneath my feet. Booke swore behind me, his hand on my shoulder to steady me when I slipped backward. My heart thudded in my
ears. I hated heights, hated closed spaces. In saving Kel, I would face both.

  This is too much, I thought. I never wanted this.

  But maybe if I didn’t think about it, I could do it. Heroes never went around in capes; they just did what they had to. And so would I.

  Above us, the first entrance loomed, dark and narrow, like a slit of a mouth in the rock. I clicked on my flashlight and slipped inside. Once, I wouldn’t have needed it, but my light spell didn’t work anymore. It was dark here, quiet, no hint of occupancy. This was just a shallow room with a shelf cut from the wall, and it reminded me of Greydusk’s home in Sheol.

  He died for you. Like Chance. Like your father.

  The wave of pain swamped me, crippling in its intensity. I hadn’t wanted that, never asked for it. Sometimes the worst fate was being left behind, being asked to deal with what other people had given up for you. In this case, everything. I wasn’t so special that I deserved any of this; and so I was a mess, crawling from one catastrophe to another.

  “This was somebody’s home,” Booke said quietly. He was holding a shard of pottery in his hand, the paint faded but still perceptible.

  “That makes it even worse, what the cartel did here . . . and what’s being done to Kel now. Let’s move.” I forced myself to sound fierce and determined when my knees wanted to buckle.

  Fake it ’til you make it. One of these days that strategy would fail me in spectacular, horrifying ways. Until then, it was all I had.

  Killing Ground

  Booke and I explored a number of similar spaces before locating a natural room that had an opening at the back of the wall, a natural cavern connected to the man-made spaces. From deeper within, I heard movement. When I glanced at Booke, he wore an intent look.

  “Thoughts?” I asked in a whisper.

  “It’s time to break out the mouse.”

  Incredibly, I knew what he meant. He retreated far enough that crushing the statuette shouldn’t alert anyone deeper within, and as he did so, the magick swept over us at once. It was subtler than witch workings, but the first step I took into the tunnel made no sound at all. I crept over loose stones, expecting to turn the corner at any moment and run into something horrible. As I went deeper, the smell increased: not the sulfur and brimstone stench that marked demonic presence, but something sharper and sweeter, like old blood mixed with burnt sugar.