I stopped, keeping several feet between us. Angelo might be my brother, but I trusted him the way a javelina would trust a bobcat. “The family business is poison, Angelo. If you don’t get out it will kill you.”
Silence hung in the air. Neither of us said anything, but we were both thinking it: Like Gabriel. Shot dead on our last drug run. Angelo had fled, but I’d been caught—by Crispin. He’d been FBI back then. Or was it CIA? He’d used both as a cover working for the Seal. I still don’t know what he’d seen in me that night, but after that I never went back to my old life. How could I, after witnessing what it had done to our brother?
Angelo broke the silence, grunting like he knew I was right but would never admit it. He retreated through the swinging door to the kitchen, returning with a tortilla fresh from the griddle. He flung it to me like a Frisbee, and I caught it out of reflex. It was scorching hot, but I rolled it up and took a bite anyway. We all have our weaknesses.
“So what are you doing back here, hermana?”
“I’m looking into some mysterious deaths in town,” I replied.
He glanced at Nikki, who went back to the kitchens with a quick wave in my direction. She might tend toward annoyingly happy, but I couldn’t help but like her.
Angelo rested his elbows on the bar. “I remember. You’re some kind of policia now.”
“Investigator.” The last thing I wanted was to be compared to the police. That would shut mouths faster than anything. “I’m not a cop. I’m just trying to find out if anything spooky is happening.”
At that, Angelo crossed himself. We might not be much for religion, but old habits die hard.
There was something about Angelo’s demeanor that set me on edge. He was always jumpy, twitchy, as anyone who’s spent his life looking over his shoulder would be. But his silence was intense, and he refused to look me in the eye. Not terribly uncommon for him, I’ll admit, but I grew up with Angelo. I could tell when he knew something.
“You might as well say it now,” I grumbled over a mouthful of tortilla. “If anything happens in Nogales you’re one of the first to hear about it. We both know that.” We exchanged glares while I continued munching on my tortilla. Ambrosia. “I won’t leave until you tell me.”
It was petty, playing the sibling stubbornness against him, but it worked. Angelo knew I was serious—I’d proven that often enough when we were kids. He continued to glare at me, fiddling with a cuff on his wrist, clinking his rings together. But he talked.
“I’ve been hearing bad shit lately, Celestina. They say there’s a new power in town, one who doesn’t like anyone else stealing his territory. They say he’s a monster.”
“They say he have a name?”
Angelo’s eyes got wide and crazed, like a maniac’s. “The only thing I’ve heard is ‘he goes on all fours’.”
I nearly choked on my tortilla. I shivered in the stifling bar, unable to maintain my composure. I’d heard that before. It was part of a Navajo phrase: with it, he goes on all fours. In their native tongue, yee naldlooshi. The name they gave to the most vile and terrible monster of their folklore. A skinwalker.
It was my turn to cross myself. “Ay Dios mío, Angelo, please tell me you heard wrong.”
“No. That’s what he’s called.” He eyed me warily. It wasn’t often I broke down like this. “You know something ’bout this guy?”
“Maybe,” I said, coughing. “I hope I’m wrong, but … I think I do.”
Shit. Shit shit shit. If that’s what was causing these deaths, I’d stumbled into a pit of rattlesnakes.
“Celestina,” he said, his voice grave, “this man is serious. He ain’t giving anyone a pass through his territory. If he knows you’re snooping around, and he thinks you’re onto him … he ain’t gonna give you leave cause you got a pretty face and fancy job.”
“I know that. But what can I do?”
“Leave.”
I looked at Angelo. He was staring at me, more intense than I’d ever seen him before. “What?”
“Get out of town. Leave this alone. The last person to look into this guy … it wasn’t pretty, Celestina. The same will happen to you.”
Things really were bad, if even my brother was scared of this guy.
“I can’t just leave, Angelo. People will continue to die if I let a skinwalker loose.”
“What can you do to stop it?”
I opened my mouth, but closed it without a word. I didn’t know. I honest-to-God had no clue how to go up against a skinwalker. Men and women trained in the Witchery Way, knowledgeable in all kinds of magic and ritual, turned to pure evil by unspeakable acts. Legend said these things were fast, agile, and impossible to catch. Even if you did catch one, a bullet wouldn’t necessarily do the job. I’d never considered they could be real—after all, who really wants to think a monster like that could actually exist?
It made a horrible kind of sense, though. The Navajo said the skinwalker could change form by wearing the pelt of the animal they would turn into. But maybe that pelt wasn’t just any animal skin … what if it was a relic? A powerful artifact left by the jinn, unthinkably dangerous in the hands of men? If a power-hungry drug lord had managed to get his hands on a relic that would allow him to turn into a monster … I couldn’t help it. I crossed myself again.
“Celestina,” Angelo said, his voice stern like it used to be when he’d tried to imitate our father. “You’re out of your depth. These are bad people, and you’re …” He paused. If he said just a girl I was going to lose it. “It’s dangerous. You can’t do anything here. Go home and play investigator somewhere else.”
“Angelo Miguel Alejandro de la Cruz!” I pointed my finger at him. “Don’t you dare think to tell me what to do. You’ve been trying to run my life since we were kids and it brought me nothing but trouble. I’m grown now and out of your control. I have a job to do—a responsibility to help these people—and I will not let you stop me just because you don’t think I’m strong enough to handle myself.”
Angelo’s eyes burned with rage and his hands balled into fists. For a moment I thought he would leap over the bar and punch me. I almost wanted him to. I could hold my own in a fight, and it would be cathartic to beat the little shit some.
“Get out,” he said. “You turned your back on the family once. It shouldn’t be hard for you to do it again.”
I blinked at him, stunned for a second, before turning on my heels and storming out of the bar. Angelo had never forgiven me for leaving after Gabriel died, or abandoning him in the coyote business to work for the Seal. He didn’t understand. How could he?
I’d stormed all the way across the border before I stopped fuming. The Arizona side of Nogales was cleaner, for the most part, and very clearly back in the States. Case in point: first thing I saw? McDonald’s.
McDonald’s would have coffee. Coffee would make me happy.
I went in, bought myself the biggest cup I could, and settled myself into a booth at the back. Time to get refocused. Brother aside, I had more important things to worry about.
I stared out the window, fiddling with my cup, mulling over what I’d learned. A skinwalker. Unbelievable.
It fit the facts. Blackened and swollen tongues. That could be caused by corpse powder, a favorite magic of the skinwalkers. And hadn’t Angelo said he was a monster? That might not have been a metaphor.
But what would a Navajo monster be doing in Nogales? The Navajo nation was half a day’s drive to the north. Perhaps the relic had traveled, or the jinn weren’t terribly picky on keeping cultural references in that group.
In all my research, I never remember hearing of anyone actually killing a skinwalker. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way. The Navajo were notoriously shy about sharing stories of the skinwalkers. Speaking of evil could bring its attention upon you.
There had to be a way to kill it. And I had to find it, before this creature killed again.
* * *
I spent the next day on the Inter
net. What a fabulous invention. Sure, it might suck away peoples’ attention spans with social media bleeping and blinging at you every moment of the day, and instant entertainment of any kind imaginable at the touch of a button, but the information you could find … it’s staggering.
There are plenty of sites that mention skinwalkers, mostly in the “mythological creature and fantasy” databases, but when you start compiling the knowledge there isn’t much out there. The websites will tell you all about the pure evil it takes to become a skinwalker, the varied gruesome ways in which they can kill people, how incredibly difficult they are to track or kill, but as a serious pursuit of an all-too-real monster it isn’t much to go on. My eyes had long since gone blurry, even with four cups of coffee energizing me, and I was no closer to finding anything concrete with which to locate or stop the skinwalker. Maybe if I knew the damn thing’s name I could do something, but short of that I came up completely empty.
By mid-afternoon I couldn’t keep my mind, or my eyes, focused any longer. Fear of the skinwalker made me jittery, and sitting in my hotel room sounded like torture. So I took to the streets. It was the hottest part of the day, and most everyone would be indoors for a siesta. I didn’t mind the heat. If nothing else, it gave me some privacy as I wandered.
God only knows how I ended up in front of Miguel’s little church. Maybe it was just a reflex, an instinct born of my times here as a coyote. Confused? Scared? Go to the church. It had given me sanctuary back then. It had to do so now.
Yeah, that sounded right. It had nothing to do with how often I’d been distracted by thoughts of Miguel.
I hated how even a fleeting thought of him set my heart racing. Hadn’t I gotten over him by now? Hadn’t almost a year of abuse under Lobo’s control gotten the idea of romance out of my head? Apparently not. Just thinking about going in there and seeing his face again was making me tremble like a schoolgirl meeting her crush between classes.
I didn’t want to be that woman—the one who was reliant upon a man for her happiness. Those women were destined to have their hearts broken. I’d learned that lesson the hard way. If I wanted happiness, I damn well had to find it myself.
Maybe I should go in there and face him. Let reality sink in. He was a priest, untouchable. I was my own woman, no longer in need of him or anyone else. Maybe that would help get him out of my mind.
Nice, Celestina. Way to justify getting what you want.
I sighed. I just wanted to be with him again, and I knew it. But that was impossible. And standing here like a lost child was not going to help me get over Miguel, or stop the skinwalker.
I turned and walked away before I could change my mind.
* * *
I was getting ready to turn in for the night, shutting off my computer and slipping into some shorts and an old T-shirt to sleep in, when a noise from outside made me freeze in my tracks. Was that scratching? Or pounding? My heart raced as I remained completely still, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.
I shook my head, forcing myself to laugh quietly. A day reading about bumps in the night and terrible monsters had made me jumpy. I’d have nightmares to scare the dead if I tried to sleep now. Maybe there would be something good to watch on TV—something to get my mind off monsters. Like Happy Days or The Andy Griffith Show.
The next bump in the night was definitely not in my imagination. It shook the entire room, rattling the window in its frame. The scratching came next, hideous sounds like nails on a chalkboard … or claws on glass.
I tiptoed to the window and peeked out a gap in the curtains. Something hairy stared back at me, flat black eyes malevolent and bloodthirsty. I screamed, running to my nightstand and grabbing the two best weapons a girl can have: her cell phone and a pistol. I raised the gun to the window and dialed with the other.
The window shattered and a hairy limb swept into the room, tipped with gigantic black claws. I dropped the phone, number half-dialed, and held the gun steady with both hands. Bang.
The skinwalker was less than twenty feet away, in a confined space. It should have been a guaranteed hit. But the damn furry thing dodged the bullet. It howled in rage, or maybe laughed at my pathetic attempt, and kept coming. Fast.
Bang bang bang.
Three more bullets, from less than ten feet. It dodged another, but two sunk into the meat of its shoulder. It charged through, showing no sign of pain.
Too bad my bullets weren’t silver. Wrong myth, I know, but it’s not like they could be any less effective.
The skinwalker reached me then, and there was nothing I could do. I braced for the sharp pain of claws ripping through my organs and prayed. I might not be religious anymore, but hey. Old habits die hard.
Miguel would be proud of that.
* * *
The skinwalker didn’t kill me. It took me into the desert, held tightly in its massive arms like a damsel in distress from the old westerns. It was humiliating to be carried away like that, flailing and fighting for all I was worth. The skinwalker didn’t seem to care.
Well after the lights of Nogales had faded into the distance, I finally passed out.
I woke to a campfire. The stars were still shining overhead, but the faintest ribbon of pale blue lined the horizon to the east. The air was cold and clear, as only could be found in the desert at night. I breathed in the smell of wood smoke and creosote, that distinctive smell that makes rain in the Sonoran desert smell so amazing. There was nothing quite like it.
A man sat across the fire. He was hunched in on himself, as if wounded. Blood oozed from a couple of wounds I recognized instantly. The skinwalker, in human form. Bleeding out from my bullets.
I sat up slowly, and he raised his head. Sweat stood out on his forehead despite the night’s chill. His bloodshot eyes were feverish, crazed … and horribly familiar. My heart physically began to hurt as tears burned my eyes. “Angelo?”
“Celestina,” he said. “When did you become such a damn good shot?”
I gaped at him for a few heartbeats. When I spoke, my voice croaked. “When did you become a Navajo monster out of legend?”
Angelo smiled at me, though it looked twisted and sickly. And wicked. “I told you no good would come to you if you stayed.”
“I’m still alive.”
“For the moment.” He stated it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, I shivered. “You found out my secret, ruined everything. Don’t think I’ll spare you just because you’re my sister.”
“If you’re going to kill me, why didn’t you do it back at the hotel? We both know you could have. Why all this?” I asked, gesturing to the fire and the empty desert around us.
He shrugged. “You’ll probably be my last kill. I want to make sure I enjoy it.”
I cringed, and he laughed. He still fiddled with the cuffs on his arm—with one cuff, in particular. This one didn’t have the glossy, smooth quality modern leather does. The firelight didn’t shine off it. It looked more like … a pelt. A silver-grey pelt. Coyote skin.
The relic.
Angelo saw me staring at it and grinned, revealing his teeth like a predator. His silver rings shone in the light as he flourished his arm and the relic on it. “Like it? I think it fits my style pretty well.”
“Does Nikki know?”
A shadow passed over his face. For a second he looked like my brother again, sad and lost and hungry on the streets. “No. She thinks I visit the clubs every night with some buddies.”
“Does she know anything?”
He shook his head. Mierda. He’d married this girl, brought her to Mexico, and she had no idea her husband was a coyote. Won’t that be fun news to break? Welcome to the family! Your husband is a drug-running monster and your sister-in-law works for a secret agency collecting magic artifacts. You’ll fit right in.
Angelo coughed, the sound wet and deep like chronic pneumonia. A sound like that would send people to the hospital.
I couldn’t get the relic out of my gaze. “Where did
you get it?” I asked.
“This old thing? Had it for years.” He shrugged casually, but his expression was filled with intensity. He locked his gaze onto mine. “Took it from an arrogant jackass who always thought he knew better than me.”
My breath caught in my throat. Gabriel. Angelo had said that about him his entire life. Gabriel, the oldest, always leading us into more and more trouble. He’d cared for us, in his own way. Wanted us to be able to stand on our own feet. Angelo had hated him.
My stomach went sour as the implications ran through my mind. My oldest brother had had that cuff. Which meant either he hadn’t known what it was, or he’d been a skinwalker, too. I’d touched relics like this before. There was no way to mistake them for benign pieces of jewelry. They practically thrummed with power, and even if you were oblivious they had ways of making you see their power. No, there was no way Gabriel hadn’t known. He’d been a monster. And Angelo had taken it from him …
Ay Dios mío. The only way to actually become a skinwalker was to commit a heinous crime. Most commonly, it was the murder of a close relative. “You killed Gabriel.”
Angelo showed me his teeth again. It wasn’t a smile. It was a threat.
I shot to my feet, fists balled at my side. Before I could even think of throwing a punch Angelo was at my side, restraining me with arms far stronger than they should have been. Already his bullet wounds were closing. Damned supernatural healing. He was fever-hot, though, his skin practically burning mine.
“No you don’t,” he whispered in my ear. “Don’t think you can stand up and play hero. I’ve got you caught. No one escapes a skinwalker.” He pushed me back down, hard enough to make me sway with the pain. Bruised tailbone, hyperextended knees … that would make running difficult. Not like I could have outrun Angelo in the first place.
Coyote Episode 1 (Seal of Solomon) Page 2
