Blood Bargain

by Maria Lima

  A far-off shout interrupted my thoughts.

  "Something, over here..."

  Tucker and I exchanged glances, then took off running toward the shouting.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "What is it?” “What have you found?"

  The search group clustered around one of the rocky outcroppings that ran across this part of the area. The land was punctuated here and there with similar walls of rock; some were a part of the next hill, some were small remnants of a long-past geological event, walls of rock thrust out of the ground, hills sheared in two by whatever. I knew that several were artifacts of human intervention; the inevitable blasting that occurs when trying to build in this area. Limestone bedrock mere feet below the surface made construction extremely difficult.

  In this case, the rock wall face looked natural, erosion or a long-ago earthquake having exposed it to the outside world, the open face of a hill whose top stood well above our heads, some fourteen feet or so high. Clumps of mesquite and a few live oaks studded the area in front of the rock face.

  A dank, dark smell reached my nose, cutting through the dust and rank odor of too many sweaty bodies crowded together. I gasped and stopped still, a shiver running down the back of my spine as the memories crowded in, pushing away the present.

  "She's of no use, Branwen, she is not our kind."

  The cutting words make me cringe further back into the small corner where I'm sitting, my knees brought up close to my chest, making myself small. It's cold here in my thin shift and they haven't given me back my slippers this time, but I didn't want to ask them for my shoes. We're in a dark room, a single torch lights the damp walls. It's part of the old section and I wasn't supposed to be here. But after they ... I'd run and found myself here. Found a room. Found a corner.

  They came in a few minutes later. My mother first, then the Others. I stayed in the corner on the small ragged tuffet I'd found there, castaway furniture, like me. I'm not hiding exactly, don't really need to be. They never care what they say in front of me, but I still don't want to draw attention to myself. If they notice, it could hurt again. I stare down at the rag doll propped on my thighs. Maybe if I'm very, very still, they'll go away. I am so tired of hurting. Maybe if they forget about me it would be the same as my being like them. Maybe it would be the same as not being different.

  "She's my daughter. There must be some magick in her.” My mother's voice is nearly as knife-edged as the other's. I don't know the other's name. They never tell me their names before they hurt me.

  "We've tried a thousand times, Bran.” A second voice joins the first, this one softer, but still with the shiny bright hardness that marks all their speech. “It's not going to work. She's not—"

  "I know, Geraint,” my mother interrupts, impatient as always, except this time, she's impatient with Geraint, whichever one of them that is, and not impatient with me. I hug my knees tighter, smooshing Dollie. “She's not full blood. She's not magick.” She looks over at me briefly and then turns back to the two in front of her. “What do you propose we do now?"

  "She can be taken Above and returned.” The first one speaks again, his misty eyes now staring at me. I tuck my head down and stare at the floor. I can't stand their eyes. They seem to see inside, see me scared.

  "Above.” The one called Geraint seems to agree with the first one.

  "Above?” My mother says it as a question. “She may not be ours, but she's not human, either, Morcan. We can't ... and she is my daughter, my heir."

  The first one, Morcan, interrupts her. “She cannot remain here, Branwen. She cannot be the—your—heir without magick. Admit it, it failed. Contact her father."

  "Keira, Keira.” My brother's insistent voice brought me back to my surroundings. “What is it?” he asked, whispering.

  I shivered in the oppressive heat as I shook my head clear of the clinging cobwebs of memory. Memory I'd buried long ago, the last icy fingers of that far-away room replaced by the sticky dampness of the humid Texas air. I could still smell it, though.

  "Nothing ... the smell,” I said as quietly, wiping my damp face, hoping that Tucker, and anyone else who might be looking would think the dampness was sweat. I scrubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, removing the last of the tears.

  "It's a cave,” Tucker continued to whisper, keeping his voice low enough not to be overheard by the others.

  "That's what I smelled,” I said. “Was there anything else? Signs of...?"

  Tucker shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied. “I can't smell human other than this crowd. Some old animal bones, I think. Probably squirrel. Been out here too long to be from...” He let his voice trail off. “I can't be positive, though. All these people."

  So no luck at first sniff, then.

  I craned my neck and got up on tiptoe, balancing myself by holding on to Tucker's shoulder, trying to peek over the shoulders of the people in front of me. “Have you found something?” I asked, raising my voice.

  A ripple of words spread through the small crowd finally reaching me. “Damn, nothing.” “It's nothing.” “A cave mouth.” “Too small."

  I saw someone I sort of knew. “Hey, Chip, what was that? What did you see?"

  He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “Nothing. Someone saw what looked to be some clothes, stuck up next to a rock. Thought it could be someone's shirt. Nothing but some torn-up old rags. Look like they've been out here for years. There's a cave mouth, but it ain't much more than a few feet in. Looked different from a distance. Guess we're all tired."

  Tired came out as tarred. A long-time Rio Seco area rancher, Chip and his wife had spent most of their lives in and around the area. They were the bones and blood of the best of this land, the very people being overrun by the tourists.

  "Guess I'd better get on with it,” Chip said, and headed back the way he'd come.

  People started to turn away, walk back to their designated search patterns, most of them muttering tiredly under their breaths, exhausted from the heat and the fruitless search. I pulled on Tucker's arm and indicated that we should step aside.

  "I want to see,” I said quietly. “In case..."

  In case Alex Robles had come this way. In case something was there that the searchers hadn't noticed or that Tucker hadn't scented because of the crowd. And I wanted to not do this alone. Not when I could still feel...

  I've always known scents evoked vivid memories; the scent of vanilla and allspice was always the aunts’ kitchen during the Winter Solstice as they baked up cookies and pies, anxious to make sure I had treats like the other kids in my school. The dark richness of fresh meat was my father after hunting, my brothers bounding at his side, teeth nipping at each other, matted fur needing brushing and combing, the excitement of a good chase fueling the adrenaline actions of the boys, still boys despite their long years. A spicy dry smell underlain with a hint of powdery earth meant Adam; a similar mixture tinged with cayenne brought Niko to mind.

  But no matter how rich the memory, how evocative the scent, I'd never before lost myself as I'd just done. The closest I'd come was last year, when I'd accidentally touched Boris Nagy and lived his memory; touched Adam and done the same. This, this was all mine. My memory, my fear, my best-forgotten past, triggered by the dank dark odor of the cave mouth. Not that the caves of my mother's family were either dark or dank. The main cave rooms were full of light, of the brilliance of magick and mystery and of the cruel glitter that is the Sidhe. It was only in the bowels of the cave system, rooms long since forgotten and abandoned, that the odor remained. It was in those rooms that I'd played with my doli, in hopes of being forgotten and left in peace.

  "Y'all coming?” One of the searchers I didn't recognize was speaking to us. The rest of the group had dispersed, back to their search pattern, now yards ahead of us.

  "Go on ahead,” Tucker called back to the man. “My sister's a little woozy from the heat. We'll rest a while, then catch up."

  The man waved a hand in ack
nowledgement and turned back to the search.

  "Why don't you sit down a bit, Keira?” Tucker asked. “You do look a bit paler than normal. I'll take a closer look, peek inside."

  I nodded and looked for a suitable rock. Finding one fairly close to the cave mouth, I hiked over there and sat, taking a big swig from my mug. I could smell it, but this time, it wasn't as sharp, didn't trigger any memories. Tucker patted my back and then moved closer yet, feet deliberately scuffing up the ground as he used his shifter senses.

  After several minutes of this, I said, “Anything?"

  "Old bones, old blood, old fur,” he replied. “Looks like a wildcat or something used this as a lair sometime back. Those rags really have been here for years. None of these scents are recent."

  "Do you think you'd be able to scent Alex?” I asked. “He's been missing a while. Any of that blood human?"

  Tucker wiped his brow with his bandanna and came to squat next to me. “Nope, nothing human's been here in the past few months, I'd wager.” He took the mug from my hand, popped the top off and shook some ice into his mouth, crunching it. “I can't tell from the entrance, it's too small for me to go in comfortably. Wanna try?"

  I shuddered. “Me? Not so much,” I said. “You know how I feel about tight, enclosed spaces."

  "Claustrophobic, sister mine?” Tucker chuckled.

  "A bit. Besides, what's the point of going in there if you know there's no way Alex, nor any of those kids for that matter, were here?"

  "Curiosity?"

  I stood up and brushed the dirt off my backside. “Yeah, well, remember what curiosity did,” I said.

  "Ah, but I'm no cat."

  My brother ... sarcasm becomes him.

  "Well, then, oh hound, shall we?” I motioned in the direction of the search.

  "I'm thinking not."

  "Not?"

  "As in the opposite of—"

  "I know what it's the opposite of, Tucker,” I broke in, a little annoyed. “I don't know why not."

  "Because...” His voice trailed off. Tucker brought a hand up to shield his eyes, looking around the landscape as if he was searching for something in particular. I mimicked him, hoping I'd see whatever it was, too. Nothing stood out. Same old scrub mesquite, a few live oaks and a whole lot of rocky dirt, studded here and there with cactus. The buzz and hum of the searchers great fainter as the group continued to walk away from us, toward the farm-to-market road that signified the end of their day's goal.

  A shrill sound interrupted. Damn. My phone.

  I dug it out of my pocket and flipped it open without looking at the display.

  "Hello?"

  "Keira?"

  "Carlton? What is it?"

  "You asked me to call you. You know, about that missing man."

  "Crap, I'm sorry, Carlton, I've ... never mind,” I stopped myself, because there was no way I could even begin to explain any of this. “Did you find something?"

  "Actually, no, not really,” he said. “Rick Asher and I have been talking to a few folks on the search teams. Everything seems to be fine ... more or less."

  "More or less?"

  "Yeah, well, nothing I could really pinpoint, but when we went out to the Pursell place, they weren't exactly friendly."

  "You went out there? I thought you said you weren't going to."

  I could almost hear the shrug of Carlton's shoulders. “Had a good excuse, with the missing kids. Figured at the least, I could round up a few more searchers."

  Bless you, Carlton, I thought. He had come through.

  "I really appreciate that. I know it was tough for you,” I said.

  "Yeah, well.” He did the over-the-phone equivalent of “aw shucks.” I decided to cut him a break.

  "Did you have any luck? Was Judge Pursell there?"

  "Nah, he doesn't go out there much, I hear. Not since he remarried. Too many reminders of Greg."

  "Who's Greg? I thought it was his latest wife who didn't like the place."

  "Greg was his son. You don't remember that story?"

  I wracked my brain for the elusive memory. “Wasn't there something ages ago? He died?"

  "Declared dead, anyway,” Carlton answered. “Went on a caving trip about ten years ago and was lost. Judge's first wife, Greg's mother, never came to grips with it. She divorced him and moved somewhere east, Maryland or something I think. She died a few years later. Judge did the legal stuff about Greg right after that. He married trophy wife number three a few years ago."

  "Bitsy's number three?” Had Kevin told me that? I couldn't remember.

  "Yeah, second one didn't last long. She left him less than a year after they were married. This one seems to be sticking around."

  "Whatever flips his tortilla, I guess. So who'd you all talk to out at the ranch?"

  As I spoke, I moved back over to the rock and sat down, motioning for Tucker to do the same. He shook his head, but came closer and crouched down next to me. I had no illusions. He was following both sides of the conversation as per usual. It didn't bother me—saved me from having to recap it later.

  "The foreman,” Carlton answered with a snarky tone. “Not the friendliest sort, is he?"

  "Pete Garza? Definitely not,” I said. “Did you get a chance to talk to any of the hands?"

  "Actually, that's the thing. There weren't any."

  "Excuse me?” I sat up straighter. Tucker did the same. “None as in ‘not home now', or none as in ‘gone for good'?"

  "I'm not exactly sure. Got a funny vibe about that foreman, but nothing I can officially do. Kind of got the feeling the hands all left. Not necessarily coming back, either. I don't know. I've got nothing concrete. When we went over to the Coupe place after, to see if we could round up some of those boys to help search back by the old school grounds, Rick talked to a couple of the hands there. They didn't want to say much, but I got a little info. Seems ol’ Pete Garza's Bitsy's second cousin. One of the guys used to work for the Pursells, but left when Garza came on board. He told Rick that even though he had to do more work at Coupe's, at least the foreman isn't mean."

  Well then, that was certainly interesting. So Pete was family. I filed that tidbit away.

  "Did they know anything about Alex?” I asked.

  "Nothing specific,” Carlton said. “A couple of the guys remember him. They used to party with him from time to time, but that's it. We couldn't get much out of them. They don't cotton much to the law around the C Note, even though they're all legal."

  "I get that,” I said. “So now what?"

  "Not much more I can do, Keira."

  I could hear the apology. Not that it did a whole lot of good, but I suppose he had gone out on a pretty thin limb for me.

  "Who'd he talk to?” Tucker asked.

  I shot him a “what?” glance.

  "At the C Note, which hands? You know, names?"

  Ah, I got it.

  "What are the names of the guys you talked to, Carlton ... at the Coupe place?"

  "You figuring to go out there?"

  "Maybe."

  "Hmm. Don't go getting into any trouble,” he said. “This isn't your cousin, not family. No excuses."

  "No trouble,” I agreed. Of course not. None whatsoever. At least no more than was already on my plate.

  "Hang on a sec."

  I could hear the sound of rustling paper. Typical Carlton. Even with an unofficial “I'm your friendly sheriff” visit, he'd taken notes.

  "One guy was Juan Gutierrez, the other was Paco Ramon. They usually hang out at the Diamondback some afternoons."

  "The Diamondback? That old pool hall out Route 1685? That still open?"

  "Yeah. Barely, but they get fairly good business from the ranch hands and such."

  "Thanks, Carlton,” I said. “I appreciate it."

  "Sure thing, Keira. You know, if you run across something not right, call me. If it's a matter of a guy taking off on his family and seeking better pasture, do me a favor? Let it lie."

  "No
worries, I will.” I hesitated before I asked, not sure if I really wanted to hear more right now. But no matter, I was part of the search so I figured I'd better. “Carlton, before I go, any sign of the kids yet?"

  A deep, heavy sigh on his end was all the answer I got for a moment. “Maybe,” he said. “I'm not so sure they're missing anymore. More like ran away."

  Now this was a turn of events. “You're sure?"

  "Not positive,” he answered. “But the more we talked to Mrs. Wentz and her mother, the more I got that hinky feeling I told you about yesterday."

  "Still?"

  "Yeah. I had one of my female deputies talk to a few more of their classmates. Something's not adding up in the various stories from the parental side. I'm not calling off the official search yet, but if we don't turn anything up by the end of today, I will."

  "You're that sure."

  "Yeah. My guess at this point—and it's in no way official—is that one set of parents or another, or maybe all of them, were upset that somebody in that group was dating someone else. And the other two kids backed up the unlucky couple. From the sound of things, there was some sort of fight at home. I'm not clear who was involved but it's looking more like Mrs. Wentz and Missy had words. I imagine about Jimmy Stahl. Those Wentzs aren't the type to want their precious daughter dating some no-'count kid from the sticks."

  Wow, Carlton, bitter? I thought. Not that this at all reflected on his own marriage to Carol Connors, daughter of Texas royalty: oil money. I refrained from making that observation. Tucker, however, snorted a bit. I poked him and continued my conversation with Carlton.

  "Which leads you to believe they took off,” I said.

  "Makes the most sense. They had Jimmy's truck, so I'm thinking instead of going three-wheeling, they probably ran away."

  "Even so, don't you have to keep looking for them? They're not of age, are they? I thought they were sixteen or seventeen."