Justin frowned. “That's a new one to me.”
Connie reappeared, ending the discussion. She eyed the three of us with disapproval, then summoned me with a nod, like an executioner. “Doña Isabel wants to see you. The boys can wait here.”
I followed meekly behind her as she led the way out of the room and up the stairs. On the second floor, at the end of a long hall, she tapped on a large wooden door, then stepped back so I could enter.
The room was sunny, with windows facing the water and a décor that reflected the sea and sky—driftwood browns and transparent blues. The heavy, dark four-poster bed didn't fit the theme, but it was so massive, it had probably been there for generations. Gauzy curtains softened the frame, and Doña Isabel reclined against a mountain of fluffy white pillows.
Her eyes were closed and her breathing even, so I took the opportunity to investigate the numerous prescription bottles on the nightstand. My gran claims that the older you get, the more chemistry it takes to keep you running. But Ta-moxifen and OxyContin? I didn't think those were in your average geriatric medicine cabinet.
“Did your grandmother teach you to snoop in a lady's private belongings?”
I straightened and found Doña Isabel watching me. “So you really are unwell.”
She turned her gaze to the windows, where the water was gray and uneasy. “No. I am dying.” My alarm made her laugh dryly. “Not right this minute.”
“That's a relief.” I was still frustrated by her blind denial, but now I understood. Admitting the demon was loose meant admitting she was weakening. “You don't have to apologize, you know.”
“Apologize?” Indignation strengthened her voice. “For what should I apologize?”
Her reaction evaporated some of my goodwill. “For hiding your head in the sand while people's lives and livelihoods were at stake?”
“I have not been hiding my head. I have been in constant prayer and meditation. I went out this afternoon to …” She trailed off, setting her jaw.
“To what? Check the shrine yourself?” She smoothed her sheets with a trembling hand, and I pressed the issue. “I know what you did there. The spell. Why be so secretive?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “I do not need to make my confession to you.”
Strangling a dying woman might invalidate my membership in Team Good, so I kept my hands by my sides. “Confess what? That you stopped a monster from slaughtering your cattle? Trapped a demon that had gotten a toehold in this world?”
“But I sinned in the process. Which is why the protection did not last.”
“It did, Doña Isabel.” I moved then, and covered her hand with mine. Her skin felt cool and paper thin. “It lasted because of your faith and commitment. But the demon has found a new way out, and you have to help us stop it again.”
She shook her head, still staring out the window. “I am too old. When I die, the Church will get this land and a new protection will be in place.”
“Doña Isabel, it can't wait.” She glared at me, greatly outraged. “I mean, I hope you live a long time yet, but the chup— the demon is multiplying every time it appears.”
Lying back, she closed her eyes. “Then you must do something about it. You and your sorcerous friend. I cannot help you. My weakness will only corrupt your efforts.”
I had reached the frayed end of my patience. “What has happened to you? You told me you were God's instrument. Now you would rather lie here and feel sorry for yourself because you're old and sick and scared to meet your maker.”
“What are you doing?” The voice from the doorway was so twisted with fury, I didn't recognize it until I whirled and saw Zeke staring at me, far beyond infuriated. Lisa stood behind him, her hand covering her mouth as if she wished it were mine. Didn't we both.
“How dare you talk to my grandmother that way?” He stalked into the room. I took an involuntary step backward, because he seemed to have grown larger with strength of purpose. He snatched my arm—not tightly, but it was my right arm, my injured wrist. Pain made me gasp as he hustled me to the door.
“Get the hell out of my house and off my land.”
“Ezekiel!” Doña Isabel's sharp protest had no effect.
Lisa followed us into the hall, speaking calmly. “Zeke, slow down. Think about the big picture.”
“The big picture is that she got my grandmother injured. Abuelita wouldn't have gone out there this afternoon if she hadn't visited this morning.” I guessed Connie had filled him in.
We were on the landing now, and I could hear footsteps coming up the steps. Zeke seethed as he pulled me along. “What kind of person yells at a sick old woman in her bedroom?”
I wanted to apologize or to explain. I didn't regret anything except the yelling. But his grip on my arm was making it hard to form coherent words.
Justin appeared at the top of the stairs, Henry right behind him. They assessed the situation in a glance, and squared up for a fight.
“Let her go.” Justin's tone was an unveiled warning.
Zeke did, with no air of concession. His angry gaze held mine. “If anything happens to my grandmother because of this, Maggie Quinn …”
Justin took a threatening step forward, until his shoulder was touching mine. “Don't talk to her like that.”
Zeke looked at him then. “Stay out of it. This isn't your business.”
“If you touch her again, it's going to be my business.”
I raised my hands in a placating gesture. “Zeke, I shouldn't have spoken to her like that. But she is involved in all this. You can't keep pretending she's not. You saw what happened at the shrine today. Who put the protection there? Who taught you how to invoke it?”
He swept that away with a frustrated gesture. “I don't know what I know anymore.”
“But you were there,” I repeated, a little desperately. “You saw what happened.”
“I saw the sun come back out and I saw dragonflies eating mosquitoes. That's what dragonflies do.”
Lisa spoke again, her voice unhurried. “Zeke, come on. You're not stupid or blind.”
“This is why my Abuelita warns against brujas.” He clearly included her in his condemnation. “They lead you astray. Confuse your mind about what's true and real.” He focused his fury on me again. “If anything happens to my grandmother, it'll be your fault, Maggie.”
Justin stepped in front of me, ignoring Henry's restraining grip. “You need to just back off. She's risked her life to help you and your ranchers.”
“Did I ask for her help?” Zeke thrust out a hand, and I thought he was going to push Justin, but he merely pointed to the stairs. “Just leave. Go home, to where you belong.” He turned to Lisa. “You too. I never would have pegged you for the decoy type.”
She froze, and stared at him, a gray-eyed ice queen. “It's a dirty job, but someone had to do it.”
Zeke's anger cracked just a bit, enough to show his hurt. Then his composure was back. “Just go.” He turned and left us standing in the hall. “Be out of here when I'm done talking to my grandmother.”
Justin set his jaw, catching my hand in his. “Let's go, Maggie.”
I held back, anxiety overshadowing every other emotion boiling in my gut. I knew that the Velasquez connection was vital, and if Doña Isabel couldn't or wouldn't help us, then we needed Zeke, whether he liked it or not.
“Pick your battles,” Henry said, as if he'd read my thoughts. But then, I'd never had much of a poker face.
He was right. There was a demon out there that could be in two places at once. I could stay here and beat my head against the wall of Velasquez stubbornness, or I could get busy and do something about it. If only I knew what.
Outside, the wind thrashed the tops of the palm trees and whipped the leaves of the bougainvillea into a fuchsia froth. Thick gray clouds slipped across the sky, moving too fast to build up like they had earlier. But behind the patchy cover, the sun continued its inexorable journey west.
I marched across
the drive, trying not to think about how badly I'd messed up. When I reached the car—the poor, dirty Escort—I leaned against it and covered my face with my hands. “God, I've screwed this up.”
“Don't let him get to you,” said Justin. The wind stirred his hair, where sweat and sunscreen had spiked it up. “You did the right thing. You are doing the right thing.”
“Am I?” I pressed the heels of my palms to my forehead. “Because things have gotten drastically worse since I got involved.”
Trying not to think about my vision was impossible. That was the problem with demons that lied using carefully phrased truths. It really messed with your head.
“Maggie.” Justin pulled my hands from my face, his dark eyes full of warm reassurance. “Things always get worse. They would have even if you'd gone on your way. Only then, no one would have known what to do about it.”
“I don't know what to do about it.”
Lisa cleared her throat. “Not to deepen your guilt-spiral or anything, Maggie, but I should tell you what Zeke and I found at the north forty. There are two more men in the hospital. One may lose his leg.”
“Oh, God.” I tried to run my fingers through my hair, but it was snarled with tangles and dirt. “We could be swarmed tonight. By things a lot bigger than Hell-spawned mosquitoes.”
Lisa had a talent for shaking me out of self-pity. “So maybe it's time to quit whining and make a plan.”
She was right. Sensible action. Or if not sensible, then at least forward motion. Standing in the gravel driveway of the Big House wasn't accomplishing anything.
“Okay.” I took a breath, and a grip on my composure. “We can't count on Doña Isabel to tell us what she did last time, so we'll have to work from scratch. The Dulcina library is open”—I checked my watch—“for another hour.”
Justin dug the car keys out of his pocket. “You think they'll have books on demon vanquishing?”
“No, but they'll have the Internet.” I opened the back door and leaned on it for support. “It's a place to start.”
“Hang on,” said Henry, stopping my momentum. “You're not thinking of taking on this thing yourself?”
“What do you suggest?” said Lisa. “Exterminators don't cover demonic vermin.”
“I suggest a priest.” He looked at Justin, almost in accusation. “I can't believe you haven't thought of that.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of red tape is involved in getting an exorcism?”
“How can you even joke about that?”
“I'm not joking!” Justin shot back. “I am dead serious. We've all got the scars to show how serious we are.”
“How do I know?” Henry gestured to us in angry frustration. “Your friends discuss magic like it's a science experiment. It's not kid stuff. We have no business messing around with it.”
Since I had gotten everyone into this, I figured it was time for me to fight my own battle. “No one has any business messing around with this stuff. But if not us, then who? Henry, you've had actual coursework in Good and Evil, and you didn't believe us until you saw with your own eyes.”
His gaze narrowed defensively. “There's a difference between the possibility and the reality.”
“I know.” Boy, did I. I'd had the Sum of All Demons in my head, calling me by name. The way I saw it, I was the most entitled to freak, but they were looking to me for leadership.
“Yes, we're in over our heads,” I said. “Maybe there's someone in the world who actually understands how all this works, who's fully equipped with the armor of righteousness and the flamethrower of smiting or whatever else is in the arsenal of Team Good. But unless they're hiding behind a mesquite tree somewhere, me, my freaky brain, my sorcerous friend, and my paladin boyfriend are all that stands between Hell and Texas.”
I hadn't meant to make a speech. The silence as they stared at me made my ears start to burn. But I couldn't back down. “So … that's what we're going to do, dammit.”
Henry gazed at me for another moment, then unfolded his arms and opened the car door. “Fine. You guys get your game on at the library, and I'll talk to the village priest. If he doesn't call the nuthouse, we'll all meet at the Duck Inn.”
“Deal,” said Justin, in a tone that implied he'd be proven right in the end. Which was a pretty good guess.
Henry got in the car and slammed the door. This should be a real fun trip back to town.
Lisa shot me a wry look. “Nice speech, Braveheart.”
“It worked, didn't it?” I opened my own door. “Come on.” I used a phrase of Justin's, which seemed especially appropriate at the moment: “We're burning daylight.”
27
The library was about to close when Henry dropped us off. Justin worked his you-can-trust-me magic, and the next thing I knew the librarian was leaving us to lock up after ourselves when we were done with our research. “I'm glad you're on our side,” I told him. He gave me a sidelong glance. “People trust paladins.” My turn to look sheepish. “Well, you are. Chivalrous, righteous. Occasionally prone to chauvinism …”
He grimaced in apology, but not really. “Sorry about that.” Lisa headed for the single computer. “You two go flirt somewhere else. I've got to figure this out with none of my own books and notes.”
I couldn't guess what sites she was planning to tap for research, but I hoped she'd clear the browser cache when she was done. I didn't want to be responsible for giving the woman who ran the place a heart attack when she logged back on.
The selection of books was so limited, “stacks” should probably be singular. Justin headed that way and I went around the corner to the “museum” part of the Dulcina Library and Velasquez Ranch Museum.
What was this rural fixation with museums? Snake museum, ranch museum. At least this one was meticulously clean. On one wall was a grainy, sepia-toned photographic mural of a group of cowboys, rugged and worn, posing by a campfire. The other walls were hung with pictures of the ranch and portraits of people I was beginning to recognize from my reading—the founder of the ranch, the first Miguel Velasquez; Rafael, who'd built the current house; a wedding portrait of his grandson and Doña Isabel. He looked very serious. Her expression was serene, but with a vivacious light in her eyes.
The last portrait was of Doña Isabel as an older woman, maybe in her forties. She was still beautiful, but there was a marked difference in her gaze. The vitality remained, but it had matured and hardened into the steely determination that now impressed and infuriated me.
Underneath the wedding portrait was a Bible on a heavy wood stand. The placard said it was a reproduction of the Velasquez family Bible, with a facsimile of their genealogy in the front. I flipped to the first page. My grandmother had something like this, with the birth, marriage, and death dates of the Quinns going back two hundred years.
The pages held handwritten notes, each in a different ink and script. It was in Spanish—so was the Bible itself—but names are the same in any language. The recorded lineage began with Carlos Velasquez—born in Andalusia, Spain, died in the Mexican colony of Texas in 1826—and ended with Ezekiel Velasquez, born twenty-three years ago.
Zeke was the last of the line. Everyone else had died or moved away from the land. Was that why Doña Isabel was leaving the land to the Church, because she didn't trust Zeke to stay and be the warden of the demon trapped beneath the ground?
The rest of the room was filled with antique tack and ranching equipment: saddles and spurs and branding irons with the Velasquez double-armed cross. I traced the cold metal with my finger. The pattern was all over the ranch, on every gate, every barn. If it was a symbol of protection, the origin seemed obvious. But what about the dragonfly motif? It couldn't be coincidence that the Velasquez family had incorporated it into their house and I'd seen it in my visions.
In the center of the room was a couch—leather stretched over a dark wood frame, and about as comfortable as sitting on a snare drum. But I sat anyway, just for a moment.
“Y
ou're not going to sleep, are you?” I opened my eyes as Justin sat down next to me and tried to get comfortable. “I guess not on this thing.”
“Hey. Did you find anything on the shelves?”
“I gave Lisa a couple of books I thought might help. Then she told me to go away.”
“That's Lisa for you.” And speaking of best friends … “I'm sorry you argued with Henry. I know he was part of your normal, pre-Maggie life, and now that's kind of gone.”
He gave me an odd look. “What makes you think that my life was completely normal before I met you? I was the one who convinced you that you weren't. Normal, I mean.”
I hadn't thought about it that way. “You've never told me when—or why—you started to believe that some folklore is more than mythical.”
He let out a reluctant sigh and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It's not a very happy story. And it kind of sounds crazy.”
“Like I'm one to throw stones?” I reached for his hand, interlacing our fingers. If he didn't tell me now, he'd have to pry himself loose. “I want to know your sad stories, and the happy ones. Even the embarrassing ones with pom-pom girls.”
The corner of his mouth curved, just slightly. “Okay.” Then he sobered, and ducked his head, though his fingers stayed knit with mine. “I told you my parents were missionary doctors, and they died overseas?”
I nodded. “Treating an epidemic of tuberculosis in Africa.”
His gaze on the floor, he spoke evenly, with the distance of time. “My godfather told me they'd died of TB. But when I read Dad's journals, there was more to it. The people of the village were convinced that a witch doctor had put a curse on them. Dad didn't buy it, but since no one was responding to treatment, he and the village's own shaman did a kind of countercurse. Dad figured it couldn't hurt, and maybe there would be a placebo effect. And there was. Almost immediate improvement, and no new outbreaks for over a month.”
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