Steele City Blues: The Third Book in the Hell’s Belle Series (Hell's Belle 3)

by Karen Greco

  "The beast that lives within you," I translated, much to my surprise. As a general rule, my Spanish sucked.

  Frankie gave me an odd look. "Right. Look, there's another reason we need Dr. O out sooner rather than later, as if we needed one. Max isn't going to be able to keep his beast under wraps for long." He gave Max an apologetic nod. "Sorry, but you're a time bomb. Tick, tock. Someone pisses you off enough, you'll blow. Leila will find out. Then checkmate, mate."

  "He is much safer if Leila doesn't know," my grandfather agreed. "She likes her science experiments."

  My eyes snapped open and I crossed my arms. "What does that matter if the damn Pentagon is going to drop bombs on this state? Leila can't experiment if we've all gone kaboom."

  Frankie’s homegrown sound effect of a bomb exploding did nothing to lighten the mood.

  "No one is getting blown up," Bertrand snapped, raking his hand through his thick silver-tipped hair. "You will go in, spring our good doctor and make the federal government happy. If not, nuclear bombs will be the least of your worries."

  Bertrand dispensed the threat with the same matter-of-factness reserved for talking about baseball stats. I opened my mouth to snap back at him, but Max silenced me with a quick shake of his head. So I settled for stewing in silence. My uncle wasn't so cowed.

  "So what, then?" Tavio tossed out his spiky question from the relative safety of his far corner of the room. "They just waltz into the jail and spring the doctor? Is this testa di cazzo going to spell Nina invisible?"

  "No, this dickhead isn't going to spell shit," my grandfather said, grinning at Tavio's surprise at the translated insult. "She's going to spell herself."

  Tavio snorted. "You've heard about the weather the past six months? That's not New England. That's all Nina."

  "She is a terrible witch," Bertrand said, reinforcing my uncle's criticism. I itched to jump across the desk and rip the smirk off his face. "But she will be an exceptional vampire, when it's her time. I am certain of that."

  My grandfather cocked his head. "Exceptional? You sure about that?"

  “And you, old friend, will shape her into an exceptional witch,” Bertrand said.

  Bertrand and Gramps locked eyes on each other and nodded once. Both men grinned in agreement.

  I shivered, unsure if my trepidation was because they were wrong or because they were right.

  8

  "Usted es un idiota," my grandfather roared. It was my fifth attempt at lighting a piece of paper on fire. The best I came up with was a light smolder. The smoke tickled my nose and produced a sneeze attack. The only thing burning in the kitchen was Gramps' patience.

  "You aren't focusing," he grumbled, and pulled out a book of matches to spark up another cigarette. Watching flame ignite that easy was a tease.

  "It's hard to focus with a gaping wound in your hand," I lied. Sort of. He’d sliced me pretty deep to get blood for the spell. But the cut had healed over by now.

  "So much for your poder de la vampira," he smirked, puffing on the cigarette.

  "I told you I was hopeless," I said, cracking open the window above the sink to let his cigarette smoke out. "Hell, everyone did."

  "Bullshit," he barked. "You are a Martinez. Martinez blood is magic blood. It won't work because you won't let it."

  "Like I have a choice," I muttered, pouring out more of my blood, which was collected in his boring brushed nickel chalice. "You know, I think you should bedazzle this thing. Give it some style."

  "You don't like it?" he asked, although his tone told me he didn't give a shit. At all.

  "Maybe the blood should be fresh?" I offered, although I inwardly cringed at the thought of making another donation. The bow knife he used to cut into my skin looked well used and unwashed. I swear I felt a staph infection sliding into my skin along with the blade. Even not-yet-dead vampires needed antibiotics and tetanus shots.

  "This is a baby spell, not big enough to require blood any fresher than this. And you're slow at spelling. Even fresh blood is old by the time you're done."

  "Oh," was about all I could muster. My failure at being a witch was beginning to grate. Disappointment was written all over the old man's face.

  "So you do it again. With focus this time."

  Dog nudged my hand supportively. I gave her a quick scratch behind the ears, then inhaled deep and closed my eyes.

  "What are you thinking of, right now?"

  My eyes snapped open at Gramps’ interruption. "Setting the paper on fire."

  "Wrong," he barked, taking another drag on his cigarette.

  "No, not wrong," I said. "That's what I'm thinking." I snatched the cigarette out of his mouth, turned on the sink and ran it under the water. Then I tossed the wet butt out the open window. "That shit will give you cancer."

  "Bah," he said, his face grim. "Don't blame me because you have the wrong focus."

  I watched him tap out another cigarette from his pack. He rolled it between his fingers and stared at me, daring me to try the spell again. I met his steely look with one of my own, and he tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

  "How about you tell me what I’m supposed to be thinking?" I asked, my posture retreating into a slump as my inability to do a simple fire spell deflated me.

  "Can't," he said. "Magic comes from deep inside. From your soul."

  "That's it," I snapped, slamming down the window. "If you're going to turn all New Age guru on me, I'm done."

  "This ain't no New Age crap," he said. "But you need to feel this."

  "Feel what? I felt that funked up knife cut into my skin and that's about it."

  He slammed his hand down on the counter and I jumped back as the dishes in the sink rattled. "See that? That's energy."

  I forced my shoulders down from my ears and shook my head. "This sounds awfully new age-y."

  "It's science," he corrected. "Matter is made of atoms and underneath atoms are nothing but energy. So what do you think magic is?" I shrugged again. He tossed up his hands. "Magic controls and manipulates all these threads of this energy, linking together different planes of existence."

  "If that's all it is, anyone can do it," I said. "What makes witches so special?"

  He shook his head. "Only people who are sensitive to their internal energy can force it externally. That's really what happens when that witch blade of your father’s slices a witch. And yes, I know about it,” he said at my surprised expression. “Who do you think gave Babe that knife? Anyway, that blade is a conduit for the transference of energy."

  I pursed my lips and stared at the piece of paper. "Magic as a transference of energy, to only be done by those of us in tune to it. So it's like getting an electric shock from a carpet?"

  Gramps guffawed. "What the hell did you think it was?"

  "I don't know. It was magic," I said. "Just magic."

  "Just magic," he mocked. "That's like saying it's just vampirism."

  "Isn't it?" I asked.

  "That's magic too," he said with a sigh. "Of a different sort."

  "What sort is that?"

  "Doesn't matter," he said, gesturing towards the paper. "Now, close your eyes and feel the energy."

  Dog lifted her head from where she was lying at my feet, and he shot her a frigid look. She bared her teeth, the hair on her back stood on end. The old man returned her snarl and her throaty growl turned into a whimper.

  "Now trust me," he said, seeing my hesitation.

  I looked down at my hellhound, who skulked in defeat at my ankles. "Trust you? I don't even know you."

  He clucked. "I'm family."

  I put both my hands on my hips and stared at him. "Yeah? Look at what family's done for me.".

  "I take your point," he said, leaning against the counter. He looked me up and down before giving a low whistle. "Witch and vampire. That's your mom. A witch and a vampire. You think you can beat that combo?"

  "We can try," I said, feeling defiance rise in my chest.

  "We? Who's we? Your vampir
e boyfriend? The Berserker? Don't forget, you're down a Druid. And you're down a witch."

  "I'm down more than a witch," I said, wrapping my arms around me and driving my hip into the counter. "I'm down Babe."

  "And she was a powerful witch," he said, his rheumy eyes touched with sadness. "No one was better to teach you. But Leila is very powerful, too. And she's not afraid to dance with the darkness. So you can’t be either."

  I rubbed my arms, as if that would take the chill of his words away. "You're here."

  He laughed. "You think I’m here to participate in this war? Kid, I'm here to teach you. That's it. I don't get involved."

  "Isn't showing up here getting involved?" I argued.

  "I'm incognito. Dust. In the wind."

  I rolled my eyes. "You're a coward. You're totally cool with the federal government dropping a bomb on the entire state because your daughter's a psycho?"

  "Not my fight," he said.

  "Then you are okay with Leila killing witches? Killing Babe?" I asked, my voice rising in frustration and anger.

  "You have to choose how, and when, and where you fight, kid," he said. "How about I leave the self-righteousness of it all to you."

  I returned his steely glare with one of my own. "So you're not only a coward, but a coward who wants to pick the winning side."

  "Maybe that makes me smart. A survivor," he grunted. "Did you think of that?"

  I wrinkled my nose at him. "Then why show up here at all?"

  "That's my business," he said, his pale blue eyes turning a stormy grey. "You want to learn or not? Because I can pack up my shit. Go back to Mexico."

  I chewed on my lower lip, weighing the pros and cons of going this alone. The idea of Gramps ditching sat like an anchor in the pit of my stomach. There was no way I could best Leila's magic without Babe to guide me. I needed his help, which meant swallowing my anger. And my pride. "You really think you can teach me?"

  "I like a challenge." Gramps grinned, the light catching a gold cap on his left canine tooth. "Now do it again. You're wasting time."

  I took a few deep inhales, then closed my eyes and pictured the sheet of paper resting on Babe's well-worn cookie sheet, which was now crusted with black scorch marks from my earlier mistakes. I dropped my shoulders, which had inched their way up to my ears with tension, and began to mumble the incantation. Before I could finish the third syllable, a stab of pain struck my head, just behind my eyes. Sucking in my breath, I focused on the spell even as the pain grew in intensity.

  I dribbled my expelled blood from the chalice onto the paper. "Goddess of fire, accept my blood. Torch this paper, turn it to crud."

  I cringed at my juvenile rhyme, but it was the best way I had to remember not only the words but the intention. The incantation didn't really matter, Babe always said. It was the intent behind the words that did.

  A flash of heat and then a crackle of flame told me that it worked even before Gramps released a triumphant whoop. I cracked open one eye, despite my splitting headache, and watched as flames shot up from the pan, leaving a pile of ash where the paper once rested.

  I stumbled my way into a straight-back kitchen chair and rested my head on the cool wood of the table, the pain turning from sharp agony to dull ache.

  "That was a stupid incantation," was the only feedback Gramps offered.

  "It worked, didn't it?" I snapped, my head still pressed into the cool wood.

  "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

  There was no way I'd mistake the question for sympathy. "Nothing," I lied.

  He yanked my head up off the table by my hair, examining my face. I looked at him through pain-blurred vision. "Head hurts?" he asked. I untangled my hair from his fingers, not responding. "You get those a lot?"

  My hair free, I dropped my head back down to the table. "It's stress," I said, my voice muffled.

  "Sure, stress," he said, his voice hinting that he didn't believe me. "You should learn to relax. Go meditate or something."

  The scrape of a match against the table caught my attention. "Take your cancer stick outside, would you?" I barked without lifting my head.

  "Suit yourself," he said.

  The smell of marijuana slammed me in the nose. "You've got to be kidding me," I grumbled to his back as he exited to the back porch of Babe's second floor apartment.

  "Gramps is a stoner," Casper giggled, and I jumped in my seat at the unexpected voice. With the migraine in full effect, his abrupt arrival in my body barely registered.

  "Among other things," I grumbled. "Where the hell have you been? I could have used your help with the spells. The old man just about hexed me for my lousy witch skills."

  "Sweetie, I love you but that old man gives me the heebie-jeebies," Casper said.

  I felt him settle into my body and shudder. "You mean, what I feel when you body jump into me?" To be honest, it almost wasn't weird anymore. Almost.

  "Please, he may look all innocent and feeble and old man-like—"

  "He doesn't look innocent or feeble," I interrupted him. "But I'll give you old man-like."

  But Casper just barreled right over me. "But that's just an act, you know that right? You have one hardcore brujo up in this joint, and that is nothing to mess with."

  I sighed and rubbed my temples. "Hardcore brujo. Right."

  "You talking to that ghost friend again?" Gramps yelled from just outside the door. "Because I can hear you. Both of you."

  Casper squealed in terror. "How does he know about me?" the ghost wailed inside my head.

  I got up and dragged my body with its aching head to the kitchen cabinet and dug around for the aspirin. "What do you mean both of us?"

  "Don't play me, child," Gramps said, his voice holding a hint of a warning. He poked his head through the open door into the kitchen. "That ghost scared of me?"

  Casper went still. "Yes," I said, struggling to open the childproof top.

  That was all it took to jumpstart Casper again. "Aw, hell," Casper moaned. "Why're you telling him I'm scared of him, Nina?"

  "Because you are," I muttered, popping three pills in my mouth and turning the faucet. I didn't bother with a glass and just tipped my mouth into the stream of water.

  "But he doesn't need to know that," Casper complained.

  I pulled my head up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "So you're scared of him, so what? Everyone's scared of something.” I turned to Gramps. "In or out, Gramps. You're skunking up the apartment with that weed."

  "That's not skunked," he said before touching the lit end of the joint to his tongue to put it out. I wrinkled my nose.

  "See?" Casper asked, whose agitation made me jittery, like I overdosed on caffeine. "How are you not scared of him?"

  Gramps tucked what was left into his cigarette pack and pocketed it. He stepped back inside the kitchen, his eyes never leaving me.

  "The ghost is smart to be scared," he said. "He can sense my energy. My power. My force."

  "What are you, a Jedi? Your force has nothing to do with it," I said, dumping the ash from the cookie sheet into the sink and running cold water over the pile, just in case it decided to ignite again. "His family is from Mexico and your reputation precedes you."

  "Nina," Casper gasped, "stop talking to him about me."

  "Oh please," I scoffed. "What's he going to do?"

  The old man settled into one of the rickety wooden kitchen chairs that Babe was so fond of and grinned. "Cruz Trejo. How's your abuelo? I remember the day he left the village. Owing me."

  If a ghost could go white with fear, I was certain Casper was doing so. "Owing you what?" I asked as Casper shrunk into the back of my conscience.

  "It was a spell he asked me to cast," Teddy said. "A particularly nasty spell, too, if I recall."

  "What? No cash upfront?" I asked, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. "Babe always told me witches shouldn't charge for services. For, you know, spells and such."

  He scowled. "It's a donation. Witches
gotta eat."

  "So he paid his donation," I said, putting air quotes around the word. "He owes you nothing."

  "That spell brought the damn federales down on me," he said, slamming the palm of his hand on the wood, making Casper jump, and me by extension. "I'd say he owes me a hell of a lot more than some token donation."

  Casper launched out of my body like a rocket. I gripped the counter, his propulsion taking my breath away, literally.

  "Aren't those the chances a witch takes?” I asked once my heart-rate slowed. “Salem, after all." I waved my hand in the general direction of the infamous town in Massachusetts.

  "Murder charges are no joke, child. It'd do you good to remember that," he said, pushing himself up from his seat and crossing to stand beside me at the sink. "Now light the damn fire again. No discipline. Babette coddled you."

  He slapped a new piece of paper onto the burned cookie sheet. His vibrant blue eyes receded into their sockets, turning black in the shadow of the cloud that spread over his face. The old man who appeared to be some weird hippie that lived off the grid transformed into something much more sinister. Wind outside whipped past the windows, rattling them, while a storm cloud shaped in the outline of my grandfather's craggy face formed over the apartment. Dog let out a soft whimper and then crawled under the kitchen table at the first crack of thunder.

  I turned my focus to the new sheet of paper in front of me. Picking up the filthy bow knife, I cut a jagged line in my arm. When I opened my dry mouth to spell, only a small croak came out. I cleared my throat and tried again.

  That horrible rhyme sputtered out but this time the words held no meaning. My mind wandered to the stranger beside me, his power still radiating out, threatening. He grunted out a laugh, amused by my inability to conjure something as simple as fire. I tried again, hissing words out through gritted teeth. Forcing the knife deeper into my skin, blood spurted out from my arm as I pumped my fist, turning the paper crimson.

  My halting words became stronger, more sure, as my own anger bubbled to the surface. But my focus wasn't on the sheet of paper. I squinted at the window. A spider web of cracks formed in the glass until it shattered under the force of the wind pushing against it. Splintered glass sprayed across the room as the wind whipped through the gaping hole. The slight sway of the house turned into something that threatened to crumble the solid construction into a pile of toothpicks. The glassware in the kitchen cabinets clinked together. Babe's framed artwork dropped off the walls. Glass shards littered the floor.