I got his tie all knotted up neatly, then patted him roughly on the cheek until he swatted my hand away. “You learned bad habits in America. Where’d all this attitude come from?”
He smirked and gave me a pointed look. “I had a good teacher.”
“Yeah, well get your jacket on, or we’ll both be in trouble with your mom.”
With a sigh, he collected the jacket, but touched my arm when I went to leave the room. “Jesse, I want to thank you.”
“For what, kid?”
He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Neither one of us were what you’d call expressive with our emotions, which meant that even this much effort was important to him. “For teaching me all that you did. And not just the fighting stuff, everything. I mean, I know I was only there a year, and there’s still tons that I have to learn, but… I’m glad for the time we had. I think Miguel would have been really happy, knowing that I was with you and Miss Mira.”
“I’m glad you were there too, kid. I learned at least as much from you. If you ever need anything, anything at all, you just get on the phone and I’ll be there. And I don’t just mean champion stuff. If you just want to share a beer ‘cause some girl broke your heart, you call me. Y’know, when you’re old enough for beer.”
He gave me a small grin. “In Mexico, I am.”
“Oh lord, we’re doomed.” We shared a chuckle, and then one of those awkward man-hugs that nobody wants to talk about later, but means so damn much at that exact moment. “Okay, kid. Let’s go get you made all official.”
The tiny chapel on the Perez land wasn’t even remotely big enough for the entire clan to congregate, so most of the distant family remained in the courtyard, catching up on family gossip and working to get the party food ready for later. It was a small procession that followed the pebble-lined path to the chapel, now decorated in wreaths of aromatic flowers. The priest led the way, followed by Carlotta and Estéban, the boy’s machete and studded leather armor cradled in his arms like they were made of glass. The stained weapon and worn hauberk seemed so out of place with the rest of us all dressed in our Sunday finest, and yet they were the reason we were here. They took up a rather odd seat of honor, all eyes repeatedly drawn to the slender young man and his strange burden.
Estéban’s siblings came next, from his older sisters on down to the youngest girl who was around twelve, and too young to have actually known her own father or eldest brother. Behind them came cousins and aunts and uncles, most of whom I knew lived at the compound. Once, I caught a glimpse of Paulito, his arm lent to an older woman for support. His mother, I supposed. Later. There would be time to talk to that little shit later. I wasn’t uncouth enough to make a scene at a funeral.
Bringing up the end were Terrence, Sveta and I, even the Ukranian woman looking finely coifed with her dark hair up and in a retro forties-style dress and jacket suit in steel gray. She gave me a small smile and slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow, pressing close enough that I could feel the knife sheath on her forearm. I wasn’t even going to bring it up. If that’s what it took for her to feel comfortable, so be it. Terrence himself was dressed in a neatly pressed kilt and formal suit jacket, hobbling along with his cane as if he wasn’t just as capable of walking without it. We made an odd trio, but I knew that Estéban was glad for our presence. It was the least I could do for the kid.
The chapel itself looked like something out of a post card. The white stucco walls gleamed in the midday sun, and garlands of flowers dripped from the eaves and lined every window. Inside, a central aisle led the way between the pews to the altar, a statue of the Virgin Mary and Jesus standing in each corner. Around the walls, though, was the feature unique to this particular chapel.
Starting at the doors and wrapping around almost all the way to the front were tiny shrines, each sporting a tiny flickering candle. The ones closest to the doors had only small, yellowed cards, neatly printed with a name and dates. Some of them were adorned with items of obvious age, everything from a wooden club to an ancient farmer’s hoe. At some point, the pictures began, starting with painstakingly hand drawn images, progressing up through the very first attempts at photography. Each man – and every one was male – stared out with the same dark eyes and hair, something unmistakably alike about such a disparity of faces.
The images went past tin-type into faded black and white photos with curling edges. At some point, color was introduced, first hand painted, then in the film itself as technology advanced with the years. The weapons, scattered and varied, became steel blades and axes. Every champion was there, as far back as the family’s collective memory could recall. They claimed that there were more, predating written record. All of them were catalogued, the span of their lives noted on neat little cards, their weapons cared for and cherished once they were truly retired from use.
Along the left-hand wall, the last three photos were the ones that drew most of my attention. Three eight-by-ten glossy photos in neat frames, each man smiling at the camera, the stamp of blood clear between the three.
The oldest of the three, a man with salt and pepper at his temples and a vicious scar following the line of his jaw, was Estéban’s father. He’d been older, when he died, a rarity for a champion. His oldest son, Joaquin, had already largely taken up the family mantel, when a stray call summoned the father out of retirement. It was his last challenge.
Joaquin himself graced the next frame, a charm to the smile that reminded me so much of Miguel. I hadn’t known Joaquin. He had fallen and Miguel had stepped into his place years before I knew the family. Miguel had been so young, younger even than Estéban, when he’d stepped up as head of the family. His was the third photo, and one I recognized as being from his wedding day. My eyes found Rosaline, standing at the first pew next to Estéban’s sisters, her head covered by a dark lace veil, and my heart hurt for her. Too soon. It had all happened too soon.
The three of us, all outsiders, claimed seats in the very last pew, leaving Sveta on the aisle where I knew she’d be happiest. Clear line to the only door, y’know, wouldn’t want her feeling trapped.
The priest gestured for everyone to sit, and we did, obediently. I wasn’t sure what to expect from such a ceremony which was part funeral, part celebration, but I’d seen enough Catholic masses to guess at most of the words, even if it was all in Spanish. The padre spoke for a while, the congregation responding quietly at times, and then Estéban stood, bowing as he presented the machete and armor to Rosaline, whose shoulders were stiffly proud as she accepted her fallen husband’s weaponry.
Standing, she walked to her husband’s shrine and laid the leather hauberk and stained machete down in front of the picture. She kissed her fingers and pressed them to his smiling photo, and I pretended that there was no knot in my throat and that my eyes were stinging because of allergies. Stupid Mexican pollen. With a thin taper, she lit the candle in front of him, and as one we bowed our heads to pray.
I’m not really a prayer kinda guy. Still not sure how I feel about God-with-the-big-G. In light of my recent discovery that his angels were going to stand by and do nothing while the demons went to war and destroyed everything in their path, I’d probably have to have a long talk with the Guy about that if I ever met him. But for Miguel, I’d make an exception. Take care of him. It was all I wanted, and I hoped that someday, someone would have the same thought for me.
Once the prayer was over, Rosaline took her seat again, and Carlotta rose, facing Estéban. The priest looked between the two, his gaze settling on Carlotta. “Este es el hombre que será un campeón ante los ojos de Dios?” Is this the man who will be a champion in the eyes of God?
She inclined her dark head. “Sí.”
The priest looked next to the kid, who didn’t look much like a kid anymore at all, if I was forced to admit it. “Y voluntariamente viene ante Dios para ser un campeón, mientras viva?” And do you willingly come before God as his champion, so long as you shall live?
Estéban a
nswered without hesitation, and I was a bit proud of him for that. “Sí.”
The priest gestured for us all to bow our heads and pray again, resting his hand atop Estéban’s dark hair. This time, I prayed. I prayed my ass off. God, you and I may not get along, but you better watch this kid’s ass. He’s a good kid, and this war isn’t his. Keep him safe. The skin along my back warmed as the souls I carried responded to my vehemence. Sveta elbowed me lightly and gave me a subtle “what the fuck?” look when I glanced her way. I just shook my head, and willed my strange passengers into calm. I think God got the message.
After that, the ceremony was over in pretty quick order. The single bell above the chapel pealed with a high, joyous sound, and we all filed out of the tiny church, Estéban escorting his mother on his arm. The family broke into loud chattering the moment we were outside, as if the sheer level of noise they could create could only be contained for so long, and from that moment on, the party was on. Someone in the courtyard struck up the band, and mariachi music filled the afternoon air.
The kid got his back slapped, his shoulder slugged, his hand shaken, and through it all, he kept a tight smile on his face. Only someone who knew him really well would have seen the unease behind his dark eyes, and I had to wonder if anyone in his family really did know him that well. He was doing his duty, but it didn’t sit well with him.
Through the packs of darting children, the gossiping clusters of family members catching up on news, and the occasional circle of dancing that broke out, I prowled the crowd, looking for Paulito. I knew he was there, and I fully intended to snatch the little bastard and present him to Carlotta once I could lay hands on him. Sveta followed along behind me, close enough that I could feel her presence but not so close that she was smothering me. I had to admit it, I liked having backup close at hand. Sure, I could take Paulito on my own, but there’d be less of a disturbance if Sveta and I could corral him quietly. (It may make me a bad person, but I kinda wanted to watch Sveta beat someone’s ass with a high-heeled shoe. ’Cause that would be hilarious.)
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find him. We made three circles of the packed courtyard, ducked into the kitchen and made two sweeps through the main house, and even went to check out the stable once, and there was nary a sign of him. I spotted the woman he’d escorted, presumably his mother, several times, but Paulito himself had vanished the moment we left the chapel. No doubt, he’d known that we had cooked his proverbial goose, and he was trying to delay the inevitable.
Sveta’s fingers curled around my arm as I raked my fingers through my hair in frustration. “He is not your concern, you know. They will deal with their own.”
“I know. I just wanted this done with, before we left. Don’t want the kid having to handle this crap on his own.”
She gave me a small smirk. “This ‘crap’ is his to handle. He is not yours to protect any longer.”
“I don’t like you very much.”
She chuckled and slipped her hand into the crook of my arm again. “I know. Now let us go find punch. These things have punch, yes?”
Yes, the party had punch, though I’m pretty sure one bowl was eighty-five percent tequila. A very stern looking older gentleman was guarding that one closely, herding the small children toward the bowl at the other end of the table. There was enough food to feed three armies, though the family was going to put a pretty decent size dent in it by the time the evening was done. We grabbed plates where we could, finding a seat near Terrence just to make sure he wasn’t causing trouble. The old geezer was holding court with the same gaggle of women that might have been old enough to be his mothers, proving that he could be a charming old sot when he put his mind to it.
I elbowed Sveta at one point, jerking my chin in Terrence’s direction. We watched as his gaze left the group around him to follow someone across the dance floor. Carlotta was out there, whirled along like a girl of twenty by one of the younger cousins. The old man’s eyes followed her, and I swear a tiny smile curved the corner of his mouth. Several times, her gaze found his, and she flashed him a flirtatious grin that I never would have expected from Carlotta. Sveta and I just grinned at each other. Old people falling in love are cute, especially when they don’t realize it themselves.
It was nice, I decided, just drifting along with the party atmosphere. I could sit and watch the people, just listening to the joyous voices and it didn’t even matter that I only understood about one word in five. Happy translates well. At one point, Terrence threw a napkin at me, and pointed toward a group of young men all clustered and whispering and glancing our way. Finally, one of them was elected, and I bit back a smirk as one of Estéban’s older cousins got up the nerve to ask Sveta to dance. To my surprise, she said yes, and to my greater surprise, she was actually really good.
The souls in my back didn’t matter, for just a little bit. The demon war that I knew was brewing just out of human sight didn’t matter. The fact that my secret was out was irrelevant for just these few precious hours, and the only thing that really dimmed the day for me was the fact that Mira wasn’t there. For her, I’d have gotten up and danced, even though I suck at it.
It was a good day. And there was cake! The kid finally found a moment to come collapse near us, and our odd little team of champions just sat and devoured like half a pound of icing a piece. Even Terrence, and I shudder to think what buttercream icing tastes like, mixed with gin.
“You’ve got icing in your hair. How the hell does that even happen?” I grinned and nudged Estéban’s leg with my foot, while he self-consciously wiped a bit of blue frosting out of his hair.
“One of the little ones wanted a hug, it was probably from her hands.”
“Sure it was.” He kicked me back with a roll of his eyes. “So, I was thinking–” I promptly forgot whatever it was I was thinking as the pack of younger children came boiling into the courtyard, yelling at the top of their lungs.
“Tía Carlotta! Tía Carlotta!” They jumped up and down around her like a pack of frantic puppies, tugging at her skirt. “La iglesia! Alguien ha destruido la iglesia!”
Estéban’s face went pale. “No…the church…” And he was on his feet and running before I could even figure out what had happened.
“Come on.” Sveta didn’t need to be told twice, and we followed the river of people as everyone went to investigate. It took some elbowing and shoving, but we managed to make it through the doorway as everyone else peered inside with hushed whispers of horror and awe.
Damn, someone had really done a number on the place. The shrines had been wrecked, every single one, the placards and photos scattered all over the floor and the weapons tossed into corners without regard for their value. The altar was knocked over, and a few of the heavy pews had even been shoved out of place.
Carlotta pressed her hands to her face, just staring in shock, and Estéban knelt to retrieve one of the picture frames from the floor, the glass now shattered beyond use. It was Miguel’s, and it had obviously been stomped on after it was tossed on the floor. His gaze found mine, helpless and bewildered, and I didn’t have any comfort to offer him. “Ave María purísima…Quién haría algo así?”
Terrence shoved his way in behind us, having caught up, and hobbled his way to Carlotta’s side, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. She turned and hid her face against his shoulder. The old man surveyed the destruction, then looked to me. “Whoever did this was right peeved. Look at which pictures were damaged the most.”
He was right, when we looked. The three pictures that had been completely destroyed were the last, Estéban’s brothers and father. Beyond just being thrown to the floor, they’d been stomped on and ripped up. There was anger in that action, with a specific aim.
“The armor…the machete. They’re gone.” Once Estéban said that, we all looked closer, ducking down to peer under pews, moving things aside, even walking a circle around the outside of the chapel. He was right. Miguel’s gear…Estéban’s gear was gone.
<
br /> Yeah, I hated to be the guy to say it, but… “Has anyone seen Paulito?” A murmur ran through the crowd, but it quickly became clear that no one had seen him since the ceremony.
“No. No, he wouldn’t do this.” Carlotta sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than anything. “He is family.” Estéban and I traded looks over her head as Terrence patted her back comfortingly. We both knew damn well Paulito was fully capable of doing this.
A group of women armed with brooms and dust pans finally shooed us all out of the way so they could start cleaning up the mess, and I gave Sveta and Estéban a look that had them falling in step beside me. “Change clothes. The first moment we can slip away, we’re going hunting.”
Chapter 12
Unfortunately, we didn’t get our chance to sneak out until well after dark. The Perez clan firmly refused to let the vandalism put a damper on their fiesta, and the music was still playing when Sveta slipped me the pickup keys that she’d managed to pocket.
The three of us looked like we were wearing some kind of odd uniform, all of us in jeans, black T-shirts and heavy boots, but I knew we were all capable of fighting in those clothes, so it was necessary.
We almost made a clean escape, until Terrence cornered us as we loaded into the pickup truck. He gave us a once-over glance, and raised an eyebrow at me. “You shouldn’t be leaving the safety of the wards, y’know.”
I wasn’t about to admit he was right. “We’re going to go take care of this issue, then I’ll be right back here, safe and sound. Besides, I’ve got Sveta with me.”
He snorted. “And you’re going unarmed? Take this, at least.” He tossed something at me and I caught it before I realized it was my own sword in its scabbard. I took a moment to trace the kanji carved into the bone hilt, the same ones that tattooed my biceps, then nodded my thanks to him. “If we’re not back by dawn, get worried.” That earned me a grumble, and he hobbled off toward the house again.
A Snake in the Grass Page 13
