It was at this point that the big questions usually broke down for him. Despite the centuries he had lived, some questions remained unanswerable. Who or what was above the chasers? Was there an ultimate Source?
He leaped up and ran through a deserted playground. Already, he could see mounted cops and police vehicles headed toward the Pincoya. He circled back toward the park, but there were too many police around here to risk getting to his car. Wayra kept walking away from the park, the cops, the sirens, exposure. He called Illary.
She didn’t answer.
He called Ian.
No answer.
He turned his cell phone off.
When he looked up, Ricardo stood there in a virtual form as an innocuous tourist in a floral shirt and jeans, with slicked-back gray hair, and a sleazy smile. Flanking him on either side were half a dozen members of his tribe.
“You want the death toll, Wayra?”
“Not really.”
“More than thirteen fucking thousand and still counting. Gone, Wayra. All of them.”
“That’s barely a fraction of what your tribe and Dominica’s seized over the centuries. Now they’re free to move on and make their own choices.”
“That’s such propaganda crap,” snapped a woman on Ricardo’s left.
Her virtual form struck Wayra as creative—but odd. Her wild blond hair, long and curly, fell halfway down her back. Elaborate tattoos of a naked woman on horseback traveled the length of her bare arms from wrist to shoulder. Her stunning face was so perfect and gorgeous that Wayra guessed she had been unattractive in her last physical life.
“And you are…?”
“Oh, Wayra, Wayra, how truncated your memory is,” she said softly.
And she assumed the form she’d had in her last physical life, that of the homely woman he had rescued from a pyre of burning bodies during the plague years in Europe. She and her son had been barely alive and he had turned them in order to save them.
Naomi.
After he had turned them, he, Naomi, and her son had spent a decade together, wandering across Europe. Her son was never right in the head, and when he’d killed himself, not an easy feat for a shifter, Naomi had blamed Wayra. They had split up, and in the centuries since, he’d assumed she had perished. That much, at any rate, was correct. She had died—and subsequently joined the brujos.
“You joined Ricardo?” Wayra burst out laughing. “Oh, c’mon, you could’ve done better than this asshole, Naomi.”
“Watch your mouth, shifter,” Ricardo said, sliding his arm possessively around Naomi’s shoulders. “Naomi and I have done well together.”
“I have no history with him, no karma, nothing to work out,” she said. “I want you to know that my son went mad after you turned us, Wayra. He was never the same. He hated being a shape shifter. And so did I.”
“I saved your lives.”
“You should have let us die in that fire.”
“That’s not what you said then.”
“For Chrissake, Wayra,” Ricardo burst out. “That was centuries ago.”
“I was delirious,” Naomi said angrily. “And you know what? I’ve enjoyed being a bruja and traveling with Ricardo and his tribe more than I ever liked traveling with you.” Her right arm snapped upward, light shot from her fingertips, and pierced his chest.
An electrical shock drove him to his knees, something so horrifying and powerful that he couldn’t defend himself. And when it stopped, he was doubled over, gasping for breath, his forehead pressed to the pavement.
“I’ve learned a few tricks over the centuries,” she said with a laugh.
“Here’s the deal,” Ricardo said. “In retaliation for your taking out more than thirteen thousand of my tribe, we’re going to seize an equal number from Esperanza.”
“What fun that will be,” Naomi said, clapping her hands like a child who has just been told she can have an ice-cream cone.
“And we’re going to start with—”
Wayra shifted before she finished her sentence and took off through the field. The light that had pierced his chest seemed to have empowered him, certainly not Naomi’s intent. His chest ached, but it was as if the light had triggered the release of adrenaline or hormones and he could run faster than he ever had.
He tore across the field, raced up and down narrow, cobbled roads, deeper into old town. Sirens kept wailing, traffic poured into the side streets as drivers searched for alternate routes to wherever they were headed. Wayra finally stopped outside the Posada de Esperanza, the inn where Tess and Ian had first stayed as transitional souls.
The single-story building, made of bleached stones and wood, curved like a welcoming smile across the grounds. On either side of the doors to the lobby were brightly lit bay windows, shining like eyes. Dozens of people milled around on the sidewalk out front, speculating about the explosions, their voices laced with alarm.
Still in his dog form, Wayra weaved his way through a forest of legs and trotted into the crowded lobby. Inn employees hustled around, tending to guests, steering them toward the dining room, the café, the gym, the rooms or cottages out back. Many of the employees had lived through the dark years of the brujo assaults and associated the distant squeal of sirens and the explosions with the chaos and terror of those years. The smell of their collective fear nearly overwhelmed Wayra.
He slipped around the front desk, seeking a particular scent, that of Juanito Cardenas. When he found it, he made his way toward the back deck. One of the newer employees saw him, didn’t have any idea who or what he was—other than an annoying dog—and slapped his hands at Wayra. “Afuera, perro.” Outside, dog.
Wayra tucked his tail between his legs and bounded off the deck, nose to the sidewalk that twisted through this vast courtyard and its thirteen cottages. He followed the scent to the door of cottage 13, the same one where Tess and Ian had stayed more than four years ago. The synchronicity disturbed him. Even more troubling was that metal shutters covered the windows, the same kind of shutters that were on nearly every building in Esperanza. For years, those shutters had kept out the fog in which brujos traveled.
He didn’t want to shift out here, too many people were out and about, so he darted around to the back and moved into the thick brush. When he was human again, he stepped out of the bushes, brushed off his clothes, and rubbed at the center of his chest, where Naomi’s light had struck him. The area still ached, but he otherwise felt invigorated, and wondered what it was, how she had learned to manipulate energy in this way.
As he started back toward the front door, a hawk’s cry stopped him, and a moment later, Illary landed in front of him and shifted. She wore black jeans, boots, a black sweater that set off the copper hue of her hair, and she was pissed. The smell of her anger rolled off her in waves. “Why did you exclude me, Wayra?”
“You weren’t home.”
“I was at the hospital with Diego. You could’ve waited. My stake in Esperanza is as big as yours.”
Well, yes, it was. Wayra slipped his arms around her, slid his fingers through her thick, luxurious hair. “Lo siento, mí amor.” He pulled back, lifted her chin, kissed her. Her mouth tasted cool and sweet, and as her body pressed against his, he sensed that she forgave him. “I spent so many centuries alone, Illary, that even now it takes getting used to.”
“Worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” she murmured, but her mouth brushed the tip of his nose and she stepped back, eyeing him from head to toe. “Something … is different.” She touched the center of his chest. “There. I feel … heat? Light? Pain? Definitely pain. I don’t understand, Wayra.”
“Me, either.” As he told her what had happened, her fingers swiftly unzipped his jacket, and she pulled up his shirt, examining the place where the light had pierced his chest.
“No visible scar or wound or anything.”
She kept rubbing her hands slowly over his chest, then across his belly, and down inside his jeans. Her mouth nuzzled his ear, her breath warmed th
e side of his face, she unzipped his jeans. His hands slipped under her sweater, across her breasts, down her spine, and over the delicious flare of her hips. Her skin felt like silk against his hands, his mouth.
He was now so aroused that he picked her up and carried her to the posada’s small, deserted greenhouse. He set her down against the soft earth, a cushion of darkness surrounding them. Their hunger for each other was so great that they made love there. Never mind that the location couldn’t be more inappropriate, that at any moment someone might enter the greenhouse and find them. It didn’t matter. This was about sex as an affirmation of life, a celebration that they were stronger together than they had ever been when they were alone.
Afterward, she whispered, “Regardless of what happens to Esperanza, my choice is always to remain with you, Wayra.”
He rose up on his elbows, ran his thumb over her lower lip, then cupped the side of her face. “I can’t imagine a life without you in it.”
She poked him in the chest. “Then we’d better figure out what the hell is going on here.” She rolled away from him, scooped up her clothes.
They dressed hastily, slipped out of the greenhouse, and walked back toward the front of the cottage. “How’d you find me?” he asked.
“I hadn’t heard from you, so I texted a bunch of people and asked if they’d seen you. Juanito was the only one who responded and he asked me to meet him here. It would be helpful if you kept your cell turned on.”
He slipped out his cell, turned it on, and the text message and e-mail icons lit up. Later, he thought. At the door, Wayra rapped sharply—twice, pause, once, then twice again.
Juanito Cardenas opened the door, grinned when he saw Wayra and Illary, and hugged them both hello. “Come in, come in, we didn’t know if either of you would make it.”
He motioned them inside, moving as quickly as he spoke. Born in Esperanza seventy-odd years ago, he didn’t look a day over forty—black hair, vibrant dark eyes, and the high cheekbones of the Quechuas. Wayra had known him since he was just a boy.
“What’s with the metal shutters, Juanito?” Illary asked.
“Just playing it safe. What is said here must remain private.”
They followed him into the kitchen. Ed Granger, who owned the inn with Juanito, sat at a table filled with platters of food, and Illika Huicho, leader of the Quechuas in Ecuador, stood at the stove, scooping arepas and vegetables from a frying pan to a plate.
“Mates, good to see you both,” boomed Ed. “Glad you could make it. Is it pretty chaotic out there, what with the explosions and fire?”
“It’s nuts,” Illary replied. “Police everywhere.”
“We heard the sirens,” Illika said, bringing a plate of arepas and a bowl of salad over to the table. Then she held her arms out and hugged Illary and Wayra hello. “Wonderful to see you both.”
She felt frail and small in Wayra’s arms, and the faintest odor emanated from her, something too subtle for human senses to detect. He knew what it meant. Illika was not just gravely ill, she was dying. But if she called on the powers of Esperanza to cure her, if she immersed herself in the nearby volcanic spring and focused on healing herself, she might live another century. He doubted she would do that. He sensed her profound fatigue.
As they sat down, Illika’s eyes, set in a nest of wrinkles, met Wayra’s. “Any idea what happened? What caused the explosion?”
Wayra started to say that the Pincoya was old and rundown, that a gas leak had probably caused the explosion and the fire. But if he lied to Illika, whom he had known for nearly a century, then he was no better than Ricardo or Dominica or any other brujo. “Ian, Pedro Jacinto, and I set the explosives and torched the inside of the hotel to demolish a portal that brujos have been using to move to other parts of the world. The tribe is headed by Dominica’s brother, Ricardo.”
The stunned silence told him none of them had suspected anything like this.
“Is the portal successfully sealed?” Illika asked.
“I think so. And more than thirteen thousand brujos were freed and thousands of other brujos won’t be able to get into Esperanza if Ricardo summons them.”
“Since when do brujos need a portal?” asked Illika.
“Something has obviously changed,” Wayra replied.
“How do you know you took out that many, mate?” asked Ed.
“Ricardo told me,” Wayra replied. “And I figure he was lowballing that figure.”
“What the hell does this Ricardo bastard want?”
Wayrs explained what he knew. Suspected. Speculated. They listened without interrupting, then they all spoke simultaneously.
“They can’t just disappear Esperanza,” Ed burst out. “What about us, the people who live here?”
“They think they’re gods,” Juanito spat.
“This isn’t about us,” Illika said.
Wayra nodded. “Exactly. It’s about Esperanza. What does the city want? What does the city expect?”
Granger looked like he’d swallowed a handful of nails. “Not sure I understand what you’re getting at, Wayra.”
Illika started passing the various platters around the table. “Really, Ed. How long have you lived here? Thirty years? Forty? You know as well as we do that the city is conscious. Wayra’s right. No one has asked the city what she wants.”
“How the hell do we do that?”
“The city speaks to each of us all the time,” Illary said quietly. “We only have to listen.”
“So, this is, uh, like the Gaia theory?” Ed looked amused. “Is that it? All this time we’ve been dealing with the Gaia theory and no one let us in on the secret?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Illika replied. “Esperanza has always had the power to defend herself. But during the dark years, Dominica’s power became a kind of cancer for Esperanza. Her immune system was so compromised she couldn’t adequately defend herself anymore. The chasers knew it and realized that if the city was to survive, a revolution had to occur. So they permitted Tess and Ian to enter the city as transitional souls. The first in five hundred years. And their presence and the events that followed led to the annihilation of Dominica’s tribe and gave Esperanza a chance to heal herself.”
“And we’ve had more than four peaceful years,” Juanito said.
“Then why are the chasers meddling like this?” Ed asked.
“A few of them may have been corrupted by power,” Wayra replied, and explained what Diego had sensed when Ricardo had seized him.
Ed sat back, locking his fingers on top of his bald head. “Okay, so what’s the city saying?” He looked at each of them. “Juanito? Wayra? Illary? Illika? Please enlighten me.”
Wayra thought about his confrontation in the field with Ricardo and Naomi, about Ricardo seizing Diego, about the blackness that had swallowed half of the café’s deck and a big chunk of the field that Pedro had videotaped. He thought about the brujo portal, now destroyed. “I think the city is saying the choice is up to each of us. What do we want? The people who live here are part of the city’s consciousness.”
“Well, shit, mate, that’s easy,” Ed said. “It goes back to what I said earlier. For way too long, either the chasers or the brujos have called the shots. What we want, us, the mortals, is a voice in all this, a goddamn choice.” His massive fists slammed against the table. “A choice, that’s all.”
“Exactly,” Illika said softly.
Wayra and Illary exchanged a glance. What do we want? his eyes asked.
Us, her eyes replied. I want a chance for us.
Eight
Locusts, Crows, and Charlie
1.
Diego chewed at his lower lip and stared at the blood pressure cuff on his upper arm. Then he raised his worried eyes to Lauren’s face. “What’s the verdict?” he asked.
“Fantastic,” Lauren replied. “Your pressure is perfect.”
“Am I going to be released tonight?”
“Probably in the morning
. I’ll find out.” She updated his chart on her iPad and noted his blood pressure, that his blood work had come back normal, and he was anxious to return to work.
The transfusion of Wayra’s blood had done the trick, all right, and she had already spoken to Leo about Wayra and Illary donating blood. Leo didn’t need convincing. He knew as well as she did that there should be brujo bacteria in Diego’s blood, but the transfusion had apparently eradicated it. Leo promised to make the arrangements so the shifters could donate anonymously.
Diego’s phone kept jingling—text messages, e-mail, voice messages—and he finally plucked the phone off the bedside table and scrolled through the text messages. “Shit, I need to get out of here right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Trouble.” He threw off the sheet, swung his legs over the side of the bed. “A fire and an explosion at the Pincoya.”
“Let me get a doc up here who will release you, Diego. Sit tight.”
Just as Lauren went over to the phone on the wall to call for a doc, Mayor Torres stormed into the room, his plump cheeks bright red from exertion or rage or both. “You need to get your ass on duty, Diego. We’ve got a major crisis on our hands.”
“Keep your voice down,” Lauren snapped. “There are patients on this floor who are sleeping.”
Torres glared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Leave us alone, please.”
“Diego isn’t supposed to be having visitors. So you need to leave, Mayor Torres.”
“I’d like to speak to him privately,” Torres said.
Lauren glanced at Diego, whose expression had turned to stone. “It’s up to you, Diego.”
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice tight, cold.
Lauren left, shut the door behind her, then stood outside in the hall, listening to the mayor’s rant. “You’re head of the Guardia and that means you need to get the fuck out of here and tend to business. And I do not want to see Wayra and his shifter wife anywhere in the vicinity of police business. If they’re seen, they’ll be arrested. Right now, you’re needed at the Pincoya.”
Apparition (The Hungry Ghosts) Page 12
