Cities and Throngs and Powers

by Alma Boykin

  “Ksssst,” Fabian hissed. “They’re going into the house. Come on.” He unrolled the fire ladder and began climbing. “Cover me,” and she grabbed the man’s shotgun, then hurried over to the gate, trying to stay low.

  Fabian covered her once she reached the ground. “Ditch that, now!” She looked at the second shotgun and realized someone had sawn it off. She unloaded it, tossed it into the tall, dry grass, and began sneaking around the house. Then they smelled the smoke.

  Ernesto came around the corner of the house from the front, firing. Rather than fire back, Fabian grabbed Alicia’s free hand and dragged her behind the cover of the back of the house. He snapped a pistol shot off, then holstered the weapon. “To the pasture, into the high grass,” he hissed. “They lit the fire downwind.”

  They scurried across the open ground of the garden and well house, ducking and weaving in case someone shot at them. They reached the grass and relative safety. Fabian reloaded the deer rifle and Alicia double-checked the revolver’s loads, along with her shotgun. “I think I killed someone,” she whispered.

  “Good. Don’t let the animal suffer.” A new, hard expression settled onto his face. He’d lost his burnoose. Fabian confirmed that both his pistols had full magazines and pointed farther into the pasture. “Zigzag and run, aim northwest, for the fence.” A road ran along the south edge of the pasture, but nothing on the other side.

  They got a quarter of a mile before she saw movement ahead of them. And felt the wind change. She listened, hard, past her fear. “Nepo’s ahead of us,” she hissed. “With fire.”

  Fabian cursed. “Right.” He pulled a lighter out of his pocket. “Get behind me and get ready to run. Run to the fire shed.” He crouched down. Red worms began crawling through the grass and Alicia turned, running low and fast. The Presence seemed to push her and she sped up as much as she could.

  “Thud,” her boot caught in a twist of old grass and she fell, almost losing the shotgun. She scrambled to her feet as a shot buzzed over her head, and she dropped again. Die by fire or by lead? Fire or lead? She froze.

  A hand grabbed her collar, almost dragging her to her feet. “You’re mine, bitch,” ‘Sto hissed in her ear. He shook her and jerked the shotgun out of her hand, then twisted that arm behind her and pushed, forcing her to bend double. “Stupid—“ She reached for the revolver with her other hand, trying to draw it just enough to let the hammer come back …

  “Bang” and his hiss turned into a scream. He staggered back, pulling her off her feet before he let go of her collar to clutch his gut. Had she shot him? Had Fabian? She looked down and realized she’d fired the revolver through the end of the holster. No time left to think, she started running again, leaving ‘Sto and the shotgun behind.

  Fabian caught up with her just as they reached the shed. He heaved the door open and she dove in. He followed, slamming the door and barring it. She heard a popping, whooshing noise outside, the sound of the flames racing through the old, dry grass, driven by the chinook wind. Heat rolled over the shed and seemed to radiate in from the walls, despite the thick insulation.

  She clung to Fabian, and he held her, pushing her down into the cooler air close to the floor. “Don’t listen, ‘Licia,” he ordered, clamping his hands over her ears. She heard screams and the roar of the flames as the fire swept by. They cowered in the shed as scorching air gusted overhead. The screams stopped. Alicia felt tears running down her face. She didn’t want ‘Sto to die. She didn’t want anyone to die. Except for the man she’d killed, the one who tried to kill Fabian and her.

  After far too long, Fabian let go of her head. She stayed down on the bare dirt of the fire shed. He sat up. She kept her eyes closed. He opened the door, hissing, “Still hot.” Alicia didn’t move. “The emergency appears to be over, although I believe you will not be hanging out washing until the grass regrows, Miss Salazar. And I need to replace a shotgun.”

  She scrambled to her feet and joined him, coughing and holding her sleeve over her face as the wind blew ash into her nose. The pastures smoked, black and still, for at least a mile to the west. But the garden, and the house, and sheds remained standing. The Presence felt satisfied. Alicia looked back at the charred grass and noticed a large lump on the ground. “Fabian, what’s that?”

  “That is something you have no need to look at, Miss Salazar,” and he put his hands on her shoulders, turning her away. “And neither do I. What we do need to look at are the house and any remaining attackers.”

  They crept around the north side of the house and she winced at the char on the old paint. We need to repaint. And not the cheap white stuff, either.

  “It appears we are now the owners of a slightly used SUV, Miss Salazar.”

  The SUV remained in front of the house, along with Nepo’s pick-up. She walked around the two vehicles, noting the dead men, victims of the first shots. The back of the SUV stood open and she peered inside. What’s that stuff for … oh. Oh no, I’m going to be sick. She made it to the edge of the trees before losing her lunch. When she finished Fabian crouched down beside her and offered her water from a bottle someone had dropped. She rinsed her mouth out. “Thank you.”

  He stood and helped her to get to her feet. “Did you touch anything, Miss Salazar?”

  “No. Don’t want to leave fingerprints or evidence.” She leaned away a little, as if scared, and admitted, “I read about that in one of Mr. B’s novels. The fun one with the purple cover.”

  Fabian’s sigh could have shaken the leaves from the trees lining the drive. “Philistine. I recommend you read Margery Allingham or Agatha Christie instead, Miss Salazar. Medical studies show that B’s writing causes near-terminal brain-cell catatonia, which does explain why New York reviewers fawn over him so.”

  His dry tone and words triggered a spate of giggles. Alicia tried to stop them, but giggles became tears, and she grabbed him, hiding her face against his chest. Taken by surprise he hesitated, then embraced her, holding her closer and patting her back. “I quite agree, Miss Salazar. I quite agree.”

  Five: Darling May

  Alicia waited until after the police finished their investigation and her parents recovered from the shock. And after she stopped having nightmares about shooting Elmo Pacheco and ‘Sto. To no one’s surprise, the grand jury no-billed the matter, leaving Fabian and Alicia safe from lawsuits by the families of the deceased. Nepo and ‘Sto died in an accident, caught between the fires when the wind briefly changed direction, or so the coroner and grand jury ruled, and the other deaths were considered either justifiable homicide, or manslaughter (the one Nepo had shot). Papa Salazar had raged, then wept, and at last agreed that Alicia had no choice in the matter. Her Mama had pursed her lips, patted her foot, and muttered something about people who court evil fates getting what they ask for before almost smothering her daughter to death in a hug.

  The investigation into the Latin Masters’ attack led the discovery of other things, things Alicia did not want to hear about. So she focused on making more jewelry, including a series of belts and necklaces in deep, flame-polished reds and golds entitled “prairie fire” that she sold for almost a thousand dollars per set. After paying taxes and her business fees, half the money went to pay for a marker for Tia Manuela’s burial plot, and the rest to Mona’s college fund. Fabian questioned her sanity, threw up his hands when she confessed to feeling guilty about ‘Sto’s death, and muttered something about having to write more to keep up with her. And that led to the confrontation the next afternoon.

  She cornered him in the garden, where he was setting out poles for the beans. “Mama’s making noises again. And twelve bean plants is a superfluity.”

  “Oh?” He hammered one last pole into the ground. “Twelve bean plants will not even to reach the level of an elegant sufficiency.”

  “Mama says people will talk and will stop buying jewelry if I continue living in the same house with an unmarried man. And you don’t have to shell the beans, I do, and twelve plants is enough.
”

  He shifted his hat back a little and wiped the perspiration away with great care. The first reconstructive surgery had gone well, but he needed to take extra precautions until the grafts rebuilding the rest of his nose finished healing. “These will be sugar-snap peas,” he pointed to the first stakes. “And your Mother should meet Santandar. She will stop worrying about your virtue and reputation.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Mama would die of heart failure. And then she’d want to know where he gets his shoes.” Alicia crossed her fingers behind her back. Here goes nothing. “Um, I have a better solution.”

  “And that is?”

  She blurted, “I marry you. You won’t be single any more and Mama can’t protest.”

  Fabian started laughing, then caught himself. “You’re serious?”

  She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Yes I am.”

  “Ah, allow me to rinse my hands and put these away, if you would be so kind, Miss Salazar. Might we continue this conversation in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.” By the time he came in the back door, she’d almost worn a path in the linoleum, pacing to cover her nerves.

  He cleared his throat. “You are aware that I am somewhat older than you?”

  “Only ten years, that’s a lot better than the Hollywood people.” She’d checked.

  “And that I would prefer not to travel over much?”

  She snorted. “I wouldn’t inflict busses on anyone but my worst enemy.”

  “And that traditionally, the gentleman proposes to the lady?”

  Oh, Dios mio. She planted her hands on her hips. “And traditionally, a Hispanic woman should never marry a black man, a white couple should never raise a black child, and I should be listening to corridos and mariachi music and conjunto and letting Nepo and ‘Sto run my life because it’s ‘culturally appropriate’ and ‘traditional.’ Now that that’s out of the way, will you marry me?”

  “Si,” and he offered her a box. “Me amo.”

  Inside she found a gold ring with a deep blue stone. It fit. She also discovered a small, carved wooden fox with tiny blue beads for eyes. “This is lovely. Thank you!” She threw her arms around him.

  He pushed the end of his burnoose away and gently kissed her forehead. And whispered, “I think it would be safer if we had a J.P. wedding. Because I am not up to both surgery and dealing with your parents’ plans for a wedding.”

  “Neither am I. The wedding I mean. I love my parents, but I’m not going to cook for eighty close relatives.”

  And they didn’t.

  Bonus Excerpt:

  While the Faculty Lounged … .

  A Cat Among Dragons/Powers Crossover

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to England. Please remain seated until the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign,” the flight attendant droned. Dr. Leigh Kendall did not bother listening. She could recite every safety announcement, from door closing to door opening, in English, Spanish, and French. Instead she made another note on her conference program, deciding that “Recent Developments in Deep-water Petroleum Exploration Modeling” interested her less than “Geology to English Translation: Explaining Grant Requests to Your New Administrator.” The geologist waited until two-thirds of the other passengers had disembarked before unfastening her seatbelt, collecting her exceedingly scruffy carry-on and joining the queue through Customs.

  Leigh emerged, scanned the crowd and made a direct line for an impatient-looking woman holding up a sign reading “USNM – IGC2015.” “I’m Dr. Kendall,” Leigh informed the woman.

  “Dr. L. Kendall or Dr. R. Kendell?”

  “Leigh Kendall, from the University of Southern New Mexico.”

  The driver glanced down at her list of names. “Very good, Ma’am. Two more people are coming in and then I’ll drive you to the conference site.”

  A Nigerian petrogeologist and a Brazilian fluvial geomorphologist arrived a few minutes after Dr. Kendall, and the four loaded luggage into a small van. The two men seemed more interested in reading or resting their eyes than making introductions, so Leigh just watched the landscape go by, occasionally shaking her head.

  “Is there a problem Dr. Kendall?”

  “No, I’m just not used to seeing this much green in November. I live at the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert,” the geologist explained.

  The driver nodded. “I’m from Mainland in the Orkney Islands. This many trees make me uncomfortable. I’m used to seeing the sky.”

  Soon, at least soon by what Leigh recalled of London Metro traffic, they turned off the M1, heading northwest to Bletchley, the home of the University of Southern New Mexico’s remote campus. The faculty at the main campus had joked about the university’s ad campaign “from the desert to the Arctic” but with a new emphasis on environmental ecology and deep-well oil recovery, having an overseas campus made sense, at least to the administrators. A large parcel (by English standards) of prime real estate for the new facilities helped lure the American university across the Pond, Leigh recalled. She’d been on sabbatical, taking core samples in southeastern Alaska, when the regents announced the creation of the branch campus.

  A very cold drizzle encouraged the three conference goers to hurry out of the van and into their hotel once they reached Bletchley. Leigh checked in, took a quick shower, and walked through the blowing mist to the actual meeting location. She’d brought lots of wool and fleece and already appreciated the extra insulation. “Leigh Kendall,” she told the student running the registration desk. “L-e-i-g-h.” Her mind catalogued him, greywacke.

  The young man handed her a thick envelope. “There is no electronic version of the latest schedule yet, Dr. Kendall. Several people complained because their electronics cannot access the Internet here, so everything is hard copy for the moment.”

  “Thank you,” and she got out of the way, finding a convenient pillar to stand next to as she looked at the papers and made certain that she had her entry tickets and that her name had been spelled correctly.

  “No, my name is ‘Na Gael,’ not ‘Nagel’,” a woman sighed and Leigh glanced up. “N-a space capital G-a-e-l.” The student hunted some more before producing the correct envelope. “And I heard your comment about the Internet so there’s no need to repeat it, thank you.”

  “Ah, yes, um, Commander Na Gael.” Utterly confused, the student handed over a fatter envelope to a very conservatively dressed woman. Leigh shook her head at the woman’s long skirt. It wouldn’t last ten minutes in the field. The other woman walked past the professor. Leigh saw the heavy cane that Na Gael leaned on and wondered if she had been part of that field trip group that got caught in the rock fall a few years ago, at the meeting that Leigh missed.

  Well, what she needed was a good beer, to flush her e-mail, and hot food. Leigh put her information away and ventured back into the murk. As she’d hoped, she found a pub less than two blocks from campus. A pint of stout with a stew chaser put Dr. Kendall in a better frame of mind. She winced at the hotel’s Internet charge and decided to take her computer back to the university, where she logged on with her faculty ID and made good use of the wireless system. The mist thickened to rain before she finished answering student questions (“Yes, you muse use full sentences and paragraphs. Even scientists have to be able to communicate clearly in the written language. No, you cannot use fourteen-point font. Yes, the honor code applies to labs as well as written assignments, so flunk both lab partners and send a note to the Honor Council representative.”). Leigh logged out, returned to the hotel, and after reading for a few hours she went to bed.

  Meanwhile, Commander Na Gael flopped out on her bed and listened to her husband’s account of his Martinmas plans. “How many? All off from school?” She shook her head, smiling, imagining ten children romping through Schloss Drachenburg, chased by their parents. “And are you having goose? No? What kind of Martinmas is it without a roast goose?” Her mouth started watering as Joschka described the menu for the adults. �
��Mmmm. Barbara’s niece can have my vegetables and I’ll take her share of the venison. You know, Awful, using those kinds of words over the phone is illegal in some places.” She smiled at his laughter. “Well, have a thick slice for me, then. No, beloved,” she shook her head. “I can’t leave Britain, not now. You know that. I love you too, heart’s own.” After he rang off, Rachel stroked her wedding band and wondered yet again if access to the Power of the Isle of the Mighty was worth the price.