UNSEEN: THE BURNING

by Nancy Holder

  “Buffy,” Buffy replied. “But I guess you already knew that.”

  “Yes,” he said. He shook her hand firmly. “I work in the security department. Ruben Velasco is my boss.”

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to him.”

  “We all are. We’ve heard from Sunnydale today, though. He’s awake. It looks like he’ll pull through okay. He’s a tough old guy.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Don Francisco, who is Miss de La Natividad’s grandfather, has asked me to stay close to you, as long as you are a guest of the family. I’m certain that you are safe in this house, but since we don’t know what’s going on, we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “I don’t really need a bodyguard,” Buffy protested.

  “I’m sure you don’t. According to Salma, you are the bodyguard. But Don Francisco insists that I be at your disposal.”

  She took another look at him. He was a very good-looking man, and at other times in her life, to have him “at her disposal” would have sounded promising indeed. But she was not in one of those times. She had Riley—and she was in the city of Angel’s. More complications of the heart, even ones that only occurred in her mind, were not what she needed.

  “That’s very kind of him.”

  The man inclined his head. “The comfort and safety of his guests is paramount for him. I won’t be in your way, and you have the full run of the house and grounds. But I’ll be there if you should need anything. In the meantime, perhaps I can show you around. As I said, I highly doubt that we are in any danger here. But on the off chance that we are, you should know your way.”

  Buffy believed him. The elder Mr. de la Natividad had shown at lunch that he was a good host. He was a handsome, silver-haired gentleman who had come to the table in a fine suit and tie. He and his wife, the bruja, Doña Pilar, had made sure that Buffy and Willow were comfortable and well-fed. And apparently safe.

  Doña Pilar was a tiny woman, gray and shriveled and barely taller than the massive table on which they had dined. But her eyes shone and she sparkled with life and energy, and throughout the big lunch she had kept up a running commentary that left everyone in stitches, despite the solemn nature of the gathering. Salma’s mother, Carolina, a serious and elegant woman in her mid-forties, had joined them at lunch, but Salma’s father was in the city on business and hadn’t been able to get home.

  “That would be great,” Buffy said. “Bodyguarding is a little outside my usual range of activities, so maybe you can give me some tips.”

  “I will do my best,” Elfredo promised. “You’ve seen the library. Shall we start with the grounds?” When she nodded, he took her elbow and led her from the room.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be bored hanging around with me,” Buffy said as they traveled the long corridor toward a side door. “I don’t expect to be in any danger.”

  “That’s when I like my job the most,” Elfredo replied. “When there’s no danger.”

  You and me both, Buffy thought. But on the bright side, maybe I can use him. “Do you know Nicky?” she asked.

  “Of course. I have been with the family for six years. I know them all.”

  “What do you think of the idea that he might have gotten involved in some kind of gang? A rich kid like him? Why would he do that?”

  Elfredo unlocked the door and pushed it open. Buffy watched the way his arms bulged as he did. He shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, it is not uncommon,” he said. “Many wealthy Mexican kids here in the States find themselves drawn to criminal gangs, street gangs. I’m not sure why. Are they bored? Are they looking for some kind of national identity that they’re not getting at home?”

  They stepped out into a side yard. Rows of herbs grew in patches near the house, and farther away, a flower garden bloomed in a riotous profusion of reds, pinks, yellows, greens, violets, and whites. Buffy gasped at the beauty of it.

  “Doña Pilar’s herbs,” Elfredo explained. “The de la Natividads try very hard to live like Mexicans, but there’s no escaping the fact that they are here in Norteamerica, not at home. So maybe it’s a way for these kids to reconnect with their homeland, to band together with other Mexicans in a way that is at odds with their own family life.”

  “You’d think with all the advantages a kid like Nicky would have, he wouldn’t be sucked into that kind of thing,” Buffy offered, hoping for more insight.

  The man hesitated. Buffy understood that he was being discreet for the sake of his employers . . . and his employment, probably.

  “For Nicky, that would be so,” Elfredo said blandly. He led Buffy through the flower garden, toward a wall that rose up a hundred yards from the house. “I’m sure for some of them, perhaps most, it’s a matter of survival on hard streets. But not for all of them. Wealthy boys don’t have to steal to feed their families. They don’t have to sell drugs, or shake down merchants. If . . . someone close to Don Francisco’s grandson has become involved in these kinds of activities . . . and I truly hope no one has . . . I can’t imagine Nicky de la Natividad remaining friends with him.”

  Buffy took that in, but she wasn’t taken in by it. This guy’s just spouting the Party line.

  “Nicky is a wonderful boy. He has shown every sign of growing up to be a fine young man,” Elfredo continued.

  They stopped near the wall. It was ten feet tall. At the top of it, two rows of wire were stretched between posts that jutted up every six feet. “The top wire is barbed, as you can see,” Elfredo said. “The one below that is electrified. The surface of the wall’s top is inset with ground glass. No one would come over that wall happily, or in one piece. This is the environment in which Nicky grew up. Safe, but possibly feeling confined.”

  “Poor little rich boy,” Buffy mused aloud, hoping to draw the man out. “Don Francisco casts a long shadow. It might be hard to make one’s own mark with a grandfather like him.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Elfredo said loyally. His face was a mask. “Nicky is a resourceful, clever young man.”

  That’s exactly what I’m worried about, Buffy thought.

  Tad Barlowe was beyond tense, and it took a lot to freak Tad Barlowe out. He was a uniformed cop who guarded the prisoners at the 77th Street Police building, and he’d seen a lot of bad stuff, including a guy who had hanged himself in his own cell.

  But this was worse.

  Part of the 77th was a temporary detention facility, a holding area for people awaiting trial. As such, it was not Casa de Hardened Criminals particularly; most of the guys inside quickly figured out that it didn’t make a lot of sense to act up, because it would just make things go worse in court.

  Two days ago, his own pen had gone berserk and stabbed him in the arm. Just flew up from the desk, spun around like that kid’s head in the movie, and stabbed him. He had tried on all sorts of explanations for size, and none had fit.

  So he’d told himself that it was an isolated incident, a one-time freak of physics. That didn’t freak him out much less, but it was something to hang onto. Just one of those weirdo things that happens in life.

  But then it turned out not to be so isolated after all. In fact, weirdo things were happening all over the cell block. Not in the rest of the building—so the cops in other sections of the 77th didn’t quite understand why those in the jail were so on edge. Last night in a bar, a couple of them had tied a string around a pencil and tossed it onto the table of some jail guards, then had made it dance around the table, hooting with laughter.

  One of them ended the evening with a broken jaw, and three cops were on suspension today for fighting in public.

  Tad almost called in sick. He could have done it—the wound in his arm would have given him a good enough excuse for a day or two. But as bad as going into the 77th was, it still wasn’t quite as bad as staying home, with his wife, Penny, hovering over him as if he were on his deathbed. So he pulled on his uniform and went in.

  Only to find that the mood today was, if anything,
worse than it had been the day before. Not only were the guards on edge, so were the inmates.

  “Stuff’s been flyin’ around all day,” Henry Murson told him. Henry was getting off shift just as Tad was coming on. “A cot pinned one guy up against the wall of his own cell. Clothes, pillows, shoes. Everybody’s so uptight, it’s like the entire population’s standin’ on the edge of a razor blade waitin’ for someone else to slip.”

  Great, Tad thought. A recipe for disaster. Should’ve stayed home after all. Murson went on to tell him that tempers were frayed, that if he looked sideways at someone—officer or prisoner—he was likely to find himself in a shouting match, or worse.

  “All I can say, buddy, is I’m glad I’m headin’ home,” Murson continued. “Better you than me, at this point.”

  “Yeah,” Tad responded. “I’ll be thinking about you, safe and warm in a bed somewhere.”

  “Seriously, Tad,” Murson said. “Don’t let your guard down for a second. There’s some major bad stuff goin’ down here today.”

  “Thanks, Henry.” He clapped Murson on the shoulder and watched him head out of the building. On the way to someplace more sane, which today was just about anywhere in the city of Los Angeles.

  There had been times when it was reversed. When the city was inflamed, on edge, insane, and coming into a building where everyone knew their place, where the only people with weapons were the ones in charge, was a comfort.

  There had been times when the city burned, and on those occasions Tad was always glad he was inside the jail with those who were already in custody, rather than on the line in riot gear, a transparent plexi shield all that stood between him and stones or bricks or bullets.

  He hoped those days were over for good.

  With a last look at sunset over the quiet city, he went inside.

  Into the madness.

  Chapter 11

  THERE WAS MORE THAN ONE KITCHEN IN THIS HOUSE, IT turned out. Doña Pilar showed Willow through the main kitchen, the one where two cooks had prepared the big lunch, and then they passed into another, smaller kitchen.

  This one was much less formal and high tech. It was a tiny room, by comparison to the rest of the house, not much more than a closet, really. In the center stood an ancient, scarred pine table, one leg of which had a folded bit of cardboard under it to steady it. Glass jars and canisters covered the countertops, each one carefully labeled in a precise though cramped handwriting.

  There were no doors on the cabinets, so all of the contents could be seen at a glance. An old white gas stove with four burners leaned against one wall. A variety of pots and pans hung from hooks near it. A double-basin sink on four wooden legs sat underneath the window. The whole room looked like it had been brought here as a piece from some smaller, poorer house.

  “This is where I am most at home,” Doña Pilar told Willow, in a thick accent. “This looks just like my kitchen back in Oaxaca.”

  “This is where you do your spells?” Willow asked her.

  “Yes, this is the place.” Doña Pilar turned to Willow and took the girl’s fingers in her own gnarled hands. Her skin was scaly but soft, and her touch was gentle. “I sense great power in you, Willow Rosenberg,” she said. “Great potential.”

  Willow smiled shyly. “Thanks,” she said. “I mean, I try, you know? I can do a few things. Comes in handy sometimes.”

  “Do not underestimate yourself, Willow,” Doña Pilar insisted, releasing Willow’s hands. “Your abilities are a gift, but it is up to you to use them wisely, to cultivate them, like a tall tree that you want to grow from the smallest seedling. If you care for them, they will never let you down.”

  Willow followed her as she walked slowly toward the table. The room smelled wonderful, of lavender and rosemary, beeswax candles and sandalwood incense. Dried herbs hung from wooden dowels along the soffit. Willow took in all the sights and smells, hungry for knowledge.

  “Have you always known about your power?” she asked the older woman.

  Doña Pilar gestured to a small, sepia-toned photograph framed in ornate, sparkling silver. It showed a lovely young woman wearing a tortoiseshell comb and lace mantilla over a plain cotton dress. On her lap was a very small girl with dark eyes and two long black braids, also in simple clothes.

  “Since I was a young girl. Twelve, thirteen. Mi madre, she taught me. She was a bruja also.”

  Willow stood beside her and together they admired the photo. “Have you taught your children some magick? Or your grandchildren?”

  The other woman sighed and turned from the picture. “My son? No. When he was young, it was not at all acceptable to practice openly. Our priest was very opposed to it, so Francisco made me promise not to.”

  She fingered the crucifix around her neck. “And my grandkids are interested only in the modern world, I’m afraid. The magic of computers and the stock market.” She smiled sadly. “I tried to show Nicky and Salma a little, but they weren’t interested.”

  At least, not interested at the time, Willow thought, recalling Salma’s concern about the books she’d found in Nicky’s room.

  “What kinds of things can you do?” Willow asked her, trying to change the subject to something a little cheerier.

  “Easier to say what I cannot do, my child,” Doña Pilar replied, with no small measure of pride in her voice. “Or what I will not do.” She held up her right hand and counted on her fingers. “I will not hurt others. I will not create wealth or property. I will not make someone love another. I could do all of those things, but I believe that is a misuse of my abilities.”

  I want to stay here for weeks, Willow thought. Months. Tara and I could learn so much.

  “Sounds like a reasonable set of limitations,” Willow said, mentally making note of them for herself.

  With evident fondness for her new student, Doña Pilar tilted her head and folded her hands. She reminded Willow of the statues of saints in Catholic churches, posed in serenity and radiating goodness.

  “Each person must decide on her own limits,” Doña Pilar replied. “Those are mine.”

  Willow moved toward the table. Her hand hovered over a small stone bowl; Doña Pilar nodded and Willow picked it up. It was dark, shiny black, and quite heavy.

  “Have you been trying to locate your grandson?” Willow asked.

  Doña Pilar shook her head sadly as she came up beside Willow. “That bowl was given to me by a Navajo shaman,” she said. “He said it was for carrying good wishes.”

  Willow handed the bowl to her and the woman thoughtfully set it down.

  “I would have searched for Nicky, certainly,” she mused. “But some of the necessary herbs and a very precious talisman for a finder’s spell have been taken from me. They have been missing for more than a week now. I have been trying to replace them, but so far, no luck.”

  Taken? “Do you think they were stolen?”

  Doña Pilar threw up her hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows? But they were in this room, and now they are not. What do you think that means?”

  “Sounds stolen to me.”

  She looked pained. “I cannot believe that a member of my family would do such a thing. Or a member of our staff, either one.”

  “Has anyone else had access?” Willow asked gently, not wanting to state the obvious: “Missing” sounding very much like a synonym for “stolen” to me.

  “No. There are visitors from time to time. But no one comes in here.” Doña Pilar looked slightly puzzled. “Why would they?”

  “Do you think any of the family’s guests know that you’re a bruja?” Willow asked.

  The lady’s lined face scrunched as she thought about the question. “It’s not a secret. But it’s not something I talk about with just anyone.”

  “Well, then I’m honored you told me,” Willow said.

  “My granddaughter told you. But only because she knew I would anyway. You would have known, as soon as we spoke.”

  “I guess that’s true. The ‘take
s one to know one’ thing, right?”

  Doña Pilar’s laugh was a cackle that sounded to Willow like the “witchiest” laugh she’d ever heard. Her own face broke into a wide smile at the sound.

  “Yes, child, that’s right. But let’s not talk of mysteries we cannot solve, and problems that weigh on my heart. I have been working on healing elixirs.” She moved over to the stove, where a closed copper pot was simmering gently. She lifted the lid, dipped a wooden spoon into it, and drew out a small amount of a thick brownish fluid. “This will close cuts and prevent bruising,” she said.

  “Sounds like something we could use in Sunnydale.”

  Almost as if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and Buffy poked her head in. “Will, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure, Buffy,” Willow said. She turned back to Doña Pilar. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” She followed Buffy out into the main kitchen, which was deserted.

  “What’s up?”

  “I was talking to one of the security guys, Elfredo,” Buffy said, a little dreamily. “Great arms.” She snapped back to the present. “But anyway, he said that lots of rich Mexican guys in the U.S. get involved in these street gangs.”

  “Great,” Willow murmured, feeling protective of the worried old lady. “Doña Pilar can’t even track him down magickally, because someone’s stolen the herbs and a talisman she needs for that spell.”

  Buffy blinked at this revelation. “She have three guesses who?”

  “You think it was Nicky?” Willow asked, not surprised.

  “He takes off with exactly what she would need to track him down. Coincidence much?”

  “Nope,” Willow agreed.

  “So what I’m thinking,” Buffy continued, “is what’s really going on with Nicky is a combination of what we think and what Salma was worried about. He’s in with a gang, but he’s using magick in some way, too. Maybe he’s responsible for the shadow monsters. Maybe he learned a little too much at Grandma’s knees.”

  Willow sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. She was tired, and the sorrow in the house was preying on her, wearing her down. “She said he never seemed interested.”