by Ann Aguirre
“People call him Beto, real name’s Roberto . . . something. He’s shorter than me. Less hair. More wrinkles. He always wears a straw cowboy hat.”
“That should be enough for me to spot him. Thanks.”
Before he could reply, Eva joined us with Cami on her hip. As she usually did, the baby clapped her hands when she saw me and then reached out. I took her gladly. “I’ll watch her for a few hours, if you have other things to do.”
The way Eva looked at me, you’d think I had offered to clean her whole house. “Thank you.”
“Uhm. No problem,” I said.
“You’ll understand when you have your own kids.” She made herself a plate and ate it uninterrupted while Cami pulled my hair and tried to steal my jewelry.
Flailing baby hands made it pretty hard for me to get bites of cereal into her mouth. By the time the bowl was empty, I was wearing a good portion of her oatmeal, and she was covered in it. Chuch smirked at me over the edge of his paper.
“You should have like five,” he said.
I nodded. “At least. I’m thinking we’ll just hose off in the backyard.”
“Watch the crime scene tape.”
A cold chill washed over me. For a few moments, playing with Cami, I had forgotten everything. Kel, missing. Chance, trapped between his desire and his destiny. The demons who wanted me to pay my debt and the archangel who wanted my help in changing the world. What amazing power in a child’s laughter—that it could carry me away even for a heartbeat. I wanted to go back to that mental quietus, but it was impossible. The real world had intruded.
But I’d promised Eva I would watch the baby for a while, so I bathed her. By the time I finished, I needed another shower, but there was no time. Cami wanted to play, and it was more exhausting than I would’ve imagined. I was ready for a nap by the time she started fussing and rubbing her eyes.
“That means she’s done,” Chuch said helpfully. “Lay her down. She may complain for a little while but she’ll go to sleep.”
He was right. After five minutes of grumbling, Cami passed out, freeing me to clean up for the second time. I put on jeans, a white lace-trimmed tank top and a long, belted charcoal cardigan. The plain colors fit my mood. I left my hair loose, mostly because I didn’t feel like fooling with it, and I was putting on my shoes when Booke came back.
He was whistling. Which I took to mean that Dolores had lived up to expectations. “Fun night?”
“Better than yours from the looks of it.”
First Jesse, now Booke? What the hell was wrong with these two? “It’s rude to insinuate that a woman looks less than her best.”
He flashed me a charming grin. “And I’m sure I’d care greatly if I were trying to sleep with you.”
I eyed him. “Thanks, I’m sure.”
His good mood dimmed a little; I could see the self-consciousness kick in, as if he was trying to guess whether he’d insulted me. Sometimes British people were incredibly cute. “It’s not personal,” he hastened to assure me. “I do like you. Just—”
“You don’t have to make excuses for not being attracted to me.” I grinned at him. “You made it clear in our dreams that you go for the tall, leggy type. Dolores has far more of that going on than I do.”
“You were having me on then.”
“A little, maybe. Don’t tell me how terrible I look, even when it’s true, and we’re good.”
“Done. Are you off somewhere?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to find Kel.”
“Is he lost?” Alarm flickered across his face, dispelling the satisfied glow.
“I’m afraid he’s trapped.”
Booke appeared to make a quick decision. “Give me a moment and I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to.” I was touched, but part of me wished he’d get on with his life. I felt guilty that he wasn’t already on the road, seeing the beauties he had missed while trapped in Stoke. The idea of being an obligation made me feel queasy.
“I want to,” he promised.
I studied his face, and eventually I believed his sincerity. Since it made no sense to argue, I jingled the Pinto keys in my palm. True to his word, Booke was fast in the bathroom, returning with damp hair and fresh clothes five minutes later. On the way to the car, I teased him about making the walk of shame, but since I had to explain what I was talking about, it killed some of the humor. Still, he seemed amused when he got the gist.
“Yes,” he said drily. “It’s very humiliating for the world to know I had intercourse last night. I don’t know how I’ll bear it.”
“Smart ass.”
I got into the Pinto and stuck the key in the ignition. Like most of Chuch’s cars, this one ran well. Not perfectly, but the engine sounded smooth enough, though the exterior looked like crap. The Pinto had patchy paint, bits of primer showing through, two doors didn’t match the sides, and the hood was a different color entirely, making the car resemble a quilt.
“Are we going to that seedy cantina I’ve heard so much about?”
I nodded, putting the car in drive to pull around the garage and onto the street. Without GPS, we’d have to rely on my memory, so this should be fun. However, as I’d been there more than once, maybe I wouldn’t get lost. Maybe.
“Oh, that’s splendid. I can’t express how delighted I am to be having adventures of my own, rather than hearing about them.”
“Stick with me,” I muttered, “and you’ll get more excitement than you really want.”
Booke leveled a sober gaze on me. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Finding Kel
A quick call to Ramon netted me an address for his ex-girlfriend, Caridad. Since I would be arriving today with cash in hand, I didn’t imagine she’d mind seeing me during business hours. Booke, Butch, and I drove downtown, which was a little run-down, populated with Popeyes and cheap clothing stores, along with a shop that sold various designer knockoffs. I got lucky with a parking space, and we only had to walk a block down to the small storefront where Caridad had her shop.
Orange neon rimmed the window and a small palm glowed red at the center. The frosted letters read FORTUNES BY CARIDAD; and the sign with the hours on it had been flipped to OPEN, so I pushed through the door, jangling a bell tied to the top. Booke came up behind me to stand at my shoulder while I took stock of the room; it was decorated like an old-fashioned parlor with velvet and damask furniture in hues of wine and saffron. In the middle sat a table with a black fringed cloth. Handwoven tapestries covered the walls, presumably to make potential patrons forget they were five minutes away from chicken being sold by the bucket.
“The only thing missing is the crystal ball,” Booke said.
I nodded as Caridad came out of the back.
“I suspect you don’t want your palm read,” she said, after she placed me. Booke, she seemed not to recognize at all, which was probably for the best. “So I won’t give you my usual patter about palmistry. What do you need?”
“My friend’s gone missing, and I have reason to believe he may be in trouble. I wondered if there was a way you could scry for him.”
Once, I could’ve cast this spell myself. Now, I’d only be able to do it via demon magick, and I was resolved not to use it, unless it was a matter of life and death. I didn’t know how bad things were for Kel at the moment, so I needed to find out. If it required deploying Dumah to save him, I would . . . but not without further intel. I hoped Caridad wouldn’t check me out with witch sight, then she did.
Her gaze narrowed. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I’m paying cash.”
“Do you have any of his personal effects?” That was the magic word apparently. Caridad cared more about the state of my wallet than for my morality.
I cast a look at Booke and then answered softly, “No. But he and I were lovers once. He said that means we still have a . . . connection.”
“Does your friend have any unusual qualities?”
“Yes, definite
ly.” If I understood the question correctly, she was asking if he was gifted, or could use magick. Since I wasn’t about to tell her he was Nephilim—or half demon, whatever—that was the most I could reveal.
“Then it’s possible I can scry for him using your blood. Unless this connection he mentioned is strong, however, the results will probably be weak and limited, provided it works at all. The cost for the spell is five hundred dollars, payable up front and regardless of results.”
Without haggling I counted out the bills. “I assume you don’t do your real workings in the front?”
She shook her head. “Let me flip the sign and lock the door. Go on back.”
We passed through a black velvet curtain into a more utilitarian space. Caridad had a stove for cooking potions and salves, a plain wood table, and four rows of shelves filled with various components neatly labeled in glass canisters. Booke took a seat as Caridad joined us. Muttering, the witch set the ingredients she needed on the counter, then she turned to me with a sharp silver athame.
“I need seven drops of your blood in the chalice, please.” Now that she had my money, she was polite and professional, no hint of the arrogance that had colored our interaction at Chuch’s place.
After pricking my finger, I squeezed out the requested amount; then she gave me a gauze pad. “This will take a few moments.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“No. Just permit me to focus.”
The hair rose on my arms as she summoned her power. Caridad mixed the herbs along with oil, water, and my blood, which gave it an oddly prismatic effect. As she whispered to the mixture, images resolved in the shimmering liquid, but they were vague and weak; I could only make out what looked like the thrashing of limbs—
But she was frowning. “It looks as if he’s confined. Chained. I can’t make out more, unfortunately. If you had something that belonged to him, I might be able to pinpoint his precise location. But this is the best I can do. I’m sorry.”
I pushed out a slow breath. “It’s fine. I’ll track him down another way. It’s enough to receive confirmation that he needs my help.”
“Was that all?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks for your time.”
Caridad escorted us to the door, unlocked it, and turned the sign back to OPEN. “Please consider me if you need more assistance. Have a good day.”
I supposed there were worse things a witch could be, other than mercenary. Before we set out for La Rosa Negra, I gave Butch a drink and let him stretch his legs on the sidewalk. He promptly found a strip of grass and anointed it. Then he trotted back to me with a cocky Chihuahua strut.
“Done?” I asked.
Affirmative yap.
The trip wasn’t bad if you stuck to the highways.
Driving in Texas was always a bit of a crap shoot, as sometimes there were great ruts in the roads, but not this time. Highway repair crews had been out recently, so the Pinto putted along, reliable if not desirable. Sadly, the route didn’t offer much in the way of scenery—dry scrubland interspersed with rest areas and the occasional overpass oasis. Summer had fried the grass to a fire-hazard brown, and I imagined I could hear it crackling like tinfoil in the breeze as we blew past.
Booke was quiet as we drove, then he seemed to make a decision to exist in the present with me. I could only imagine what memories had been haunting him. He’d lost the woman he loved, a son he hardly knew, and his whole life. This had to feel like a dream to him sometimes, where he feared wakening with all his muscles clenched and in a cold sweat only to find he’d never left the ghost cottage after all.
“Tell me about this cantina.” In his quiet voice I heard the unspoken plea.
Help me forget.
Because I wished somebody would do that for me, I regaled him with stories about La Rosa Negra, though I don’t think he believed me about the cherry classic cars surrounding the dive. I told him about my first visit there, Esteban, whose sister’s body I helped to find, and the killer we brought to light years later through the tattoos on his knuckles. Without meaning to, I told him about dancing with Chance—the first time he ever broke his long-held reserve with me. In that moment, my hands clenched on the wheel. I could feel him moving behind me, his arms around me, his scent wrapping me up. With every fiber in my being, I ached.
When I paused, Booke said gently, “You love him so.”
There were no words, so I just nodded. The conversation stalled after that. Just as well. I needed full attention to navigate the busier streets of San Antonio. Laredo wasn’t a Podunk town, but there was more traffic here, more people too. After a series of wrong turns, I located the right street. In daytime, the area was on the seedy side. Darkness cloaked the peeling paint on the surrounding houses, the sun-faded pavement and cracked sidewalks with scraggly grass forcing its way up through the cement. A few kids were sitting on cars half a block up, likely lookouts for whoever ran the business in the neighborhood. I ignored them, knowing they wouldn’t pay any attention to the Pinto. A major player wouldn’t be caught dead in this ride.
La Rosa Negra was a lime green one-story building in crumbling stucco. It needed a coat of paint; hell, it could’ve used one the first time I visited. Inside, the bar was quiet, no waitress, just the guy behind the bar. He had long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, and he chin-checked me in greeting, as I came out of the sun into the shady interior. Behind the counter, the picture of the maiden with the black rose clenched in her teeth still hung in its place of honor. The ceilings were low, beams and plaster giving the place a rustic air reinforced by the mismatched furniture and the scarred dance floor, empty at the moment. Ranchera music played quietly on an old radio, not a song I recognized, though. I scanned the room for potential troublemakers, but there were only a couple of drinkers . . . and one matched the description Chuch had given me, including the straw cowboy hat.
“That’s our guy,” I told Booke, who followed me to the old-timer’s table.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked in English, then repeated in Spanish to be polite.
Beto offered a smile in reply, showing a couple of missing teeth. His sclera were faintly yellowed, his nose red, but he seemed happy to have company. With a broad, sweeping gesture, he indicated the seats opposite. “Not at all.”
Booke and I settled. Then I said, “I heard you used to do some border work.”
“I’m no coyote.” He narrowed his eyes. “And even if I did help some people out back in the day, I’m retired now.”
“That’s not why we’re asking,” Booke put in. His accent surprised the old man, defusing some of his righteous indignation.
Beto cut an uncertain look at me. “What then?”
“I need to find someone, but I only have a vague idea where to start. A friend said you might be able to identify a sketch of a rock formation.”
“Maybe. Buy me a drink, tell me a story, and I’ll have a look.” He waved the ’tender over without awaiting my response. “The good tequila, make it a double. She’s paying my shot.”
I nodded; as I put my money on the table, Booke said, “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Please.”
At the barman’s inquiring look, I added, “Nothing for me. I’m driving.”
And trying to find a chained Nephilim. But I didn’t figure the ’tender cared, though he might’ve heard weirder stories in his day. He served us quickly, then returned to his semi-doze behind the bar. To Beto I gave a condensed version of the situation: my friend was missing, but he’d managed to describe what he’d seen before we were cut off. That version of events had the benefit of not making me sound like a total headcase, even to a drunk.
Beto knocked his booze back without waiting for salt or lime. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then said, “Show me what you have.”
I pushed the sketch across to him. “It’s not much, I know.”
He perused it with a faint frown. “I feel like I should know this place, but I can’t place it. The
formation is unique.”
“That’s what I thought too.” Booke killed his bourbon with a pleased expression.
The cool thing about rolling with Booke was that for him, everything was an adventure. For the longest time, the modern world had just been a fable, though technology trickled into his prison via demon magick. Still, it must be hard to envision the changes until you saw them with your own eyes. Harder still to accept that you’d never see anything firsthand; instead you’d live out your unnaturally long life alone. Macleish had planned his punishment well.
“Any suggestions?” It had been a long shot that this former coyote would be able to place the locale at a glance. My luck just didn’t run that way.
“Hire a witch to dowse?” Beto offered.
“That won’t work,” I murmured. “We already tried. Well, thanks anyway.”
As I pushed to my feet, the old man snapped his fingers. “Must be your lucky day, señorita. I just remembered where I’ve seen that place. Back in the bad old days, it was used as a temporary holding pen for girls—”
“Who had been kidnapped and enslaved?” I’d stumbled into a human trafficking ring back when I was trying to locate Chance’s mother, kidnapped by a cartel she crossed years ago. Ambivalence stirred in reaction to Beto’s revelation. On one hand, I was glad the op had been shut down for good when we took out their chief warlock . . . but so many girls had died.
But the idea of driving out to a remote hidey-hole associated with cartel business? It didn’t seem like the sanest thing I’d ever done. But what the hell.
“Can you give me directions?”
“I think so. Let me make a call. I was only out that way once, and I wasn’t driving.” He gazed at me expectantly, so I handed him my phone.
The subsequent conversation passed in rapid-fire Spanish; I caught bits and pieces, but some of it was too fast for me to translate. By the time he hung up, Beto looked pasty, and when he flattened his hands on the table, they were trembling.
“They’re not using it anymore, but I just talked to an amigo. Said he knows a guy who went out there recently, but . . . he never came back.”
