Shady Lady

by Ann Aguirre

  Sunset over Lake Catemaco defied description. The colors melted into the water, but the sunlight went fast. There was very little transition, and no city lights to stave off the dark. Gnats buzzed around the window; we wouldn’t be able to stay out here long. This time of year, they flew in clouds.

  When we had only fries left on our plates—and I was more picking at mine than really eating them—he broached the subject. “We can’t go back to Mexico City.”

  So he already had an idea of what I had in mind, and he wasn’t on board. That was less than ideal, since he played a vital role in capturing the next guy they sent to kill me. I couldn’t manage that alone.

  “Then what do you suggest? I have a girl and a dog depending on me for their livelihood. If we—”

  “Stop,” he said. “It would be best if you sent Shannon away until the dust settles. I’m sure her father would take her in.”

  Well, of course. Jim Cheney had moved out of Kilmer just a few weeks after we left. He hadn’t even waited to sell the house. Now settled in Oklahoma City, he sent Shannon regular cards and e-mails; they spoke on the phone every Sunday night. He had a good-size two-bedroom rental house; I knew because he’d sent us pictures of the place. He’d put a daybed and a computer desk in the second bedroom, so he could also use it an as office. From Shannon’s other comments, I knew he was doing handyman work and basic carpentry.

  No wonder Kel had wanted to have this conversation out of earshot. She wouldn’t be pleased, especially not when she’d just started to feel safe with me. We had a good thing going, and she fit in pretty well in our neighborhood, considering she was a white Goth girl living in Mexico.

  I swirled a fry in catsup and then ate it to buy time, considering the pros and cons. It would be good to know she was safe. I wasn’t sure if physical safety was worth the emotional damage, though. I didn’t want Shannon to think I didn’t trust her to pull her own weight or value her enough to believe she could help. After all, she wasn’t a kid—and that made up my mind.

  “Look, I appreciate your concern, but she’s my worry, and I’m not sending her away. She’s my friend . . . and besides, we might need her.” At his doubtful look, I explained how she’d helped in Kilmer, what she could do, how she’d invented a portable personal protection charm—otherwise known as Tri-Ps—and repaired Chance’s luck, at least while he held the clay tablet inscribed with runes similar to those found on the public library building where my phone had worked.

  He considered my words with a somber look and then asked, “Did she bring the radio with her?”

  The balcony door slid open in answer. Shannon stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. “Of course I did.”

  So much for a secret discussion.

  Kel glanced over at Shan and seemed to register her determination. “Then forget it. I’ll do my best to protect both of you.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly. But she was talking to me, not him, and the quiet pleasure in her face rewarded me far better than anything I’d known prior.

  I grinned at her. “Let me guess. You’re a champion eavesdropper.”

  “Yep.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t a lot to do in Kilmer.”

  Obviously there was no point in staying outside, and with the gnats swarming, it was smart to head in. I let Kel bring the furniture while I carried the tray; Shannon rang the kitchen to tell them we had dishes outside to be collected. Afterward, she and I sat cross-legged on our bed, facing him, with the TV running for background noise. I’d always found it comforting—like nothing bad could happen in a house protected by a laugh track.

  “You want to go back to Mexico City so you can sell those,” Kel said, indicating the salt and pepper shakers with a tilt of his head.

  I laughed. Already he knew me better than I’d expected, but he couldn’t read me like a book. Not like Chance. “Well, of course I’ll give them to Señor Alvarez while we’re there, but no, that’s not my primary motivation.”

  “What is?” Shannon asked.

  I laid out my plan, and Kel shook his head. “Montoya will send someone. Before we got Nalleli to remove the tracking spell, the sorcerer would have relayed our new location, at least in general terms.”

  “The tracking spell went out on the island,” Shannon put in, “but you told me Nalleli said they wouldn’t be able to scry her.”

  “So our last known location is here. Or nearby,” I finished, annoyed with myself. People had hunted me often enough—through means both magickal and mundane—that I should be well able to predict their movements. “If we stay put, the next hitter on Montoya’s list will come to us.”

  Fortunately, we had a killer of our own.

  Kel nodded. “That seems likely.”

  “That’s good, right?” I considered the interrogation aspect of my plan. “We’ll have ample chance to question him.”

  The corners of his mouth curled. “You’re a formidable woman.”

  “I don’t like being threatened,” I said. “I like it even less when people make good on those threats and try to kill me.”

  Most likely we could expect Montoya’s man to burst into our room in the middle of the night. Instead of running, like sensible people, we hoped for that development as the best possible outcome. How fucked-up was that?

  With a faint sigh, I picked Butch up. After dinner, he needed a bathroom break before we could retire for the night. The dog nestled into my arms as I opened the door. Kel followed me like he thought I might be in danger every waking moment, and based on events to date, I couldn’t say he was wrong.

  “Lock the door,” he told Shannon.

  Worry dawned on her pale face, as if up until this point, it had all seemed like a game. I didn’t want her traumatized, but a healthy amount of fear offered a certain value. Though I’d come up with this plan, anxiety thrummed through my veins. Butch caught my mood and stood up in my arms, licking my cheek with his little tongue.

  “It’ll be all right,” I told him.

  He yapped twice, disagreeing with me. I let that go. You just couldn’t win an argument with a Chihuahua.

  When we reached the ground floor, I set him down just off the path and let him frolic in the manicured foliage. In the distance, I could hear drums and chanting; it came from the small clay house at the far end of the property. Smoke rose from the building, indicating that a tourist group was participating in the temascal ritual, which involved smearing mud all over your body and sitting in a steam bath with a local shaman. With faith and preparation, you could experience visions and learn about your animal spirit guide as well as purify your spirit. But after my time with Nalleli, I didn’t need a cleansing; nor did I imagine Kel had any dirt clinging to his soul.

  The lights lining the walk shone brightly enough for me to keep an eye on Butch. I made sure not to look at Kel, who carried sigils in his skin that rendered me wildly uneasy; I didn’t want to recall what he’d said about my bloodline or what it portended. He astonished me when he turned my face toward him, forcing me to meet his gaze. In the dark his eyes shone like mirrors, silvered and reflective. Though he dropped his fingers right away, I could feel them burning on my cheek.

  “You cannot hide,” he said softly. “Ignoring me does not change what will be. Refusing to acknowledge truth does not make it a lie. It only makes you a coward.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” I told him angrily. “Either I have free will or I have a destiny. It cannot be both.”

  Kel smiled, and his tats gleamed blue in the dark, a tiny little ripple of power that I didn’t like at all. “No?” he asked, and I felt sure he already knew the answer, glimpsed from some high precipice.

  “Well, maybe you do know how it all turns out. I don’t want to.”

  And I didn’t—because such knowledge would pare away my humanity. As far as I knew, Kel couldn’t receive comfort from a touch or take pleasure in anything at all. Long ago, he had pledged to a greater good, and now he existed only to serve and follow ord
ers. To me, that sounded like slavery.

  Perhaps he read a glimmer of my thoughts in my expression. The light died away, leaving his face in shadow, revealing only the edge of his brow and the slope of his nose. He was magnificent and terrible in the dark.

  “Some things about you, I cannot see.” He leaned in, and I froze, too astonished to breathe, until he plucked a struggling moth from my long hair.

  Embarrassed and bewildered, I called Butch and fled back up the stairs as if all the hounds of hell followed at my heels, not a holy warrior sworn to guard me.

  Dead Man Says What?

  I woke to two silenced shots hitting the towels mounded to look like me. At Kel’s insistence, Shannon and I had bedded down on the floor in between the two beds. Now I appreciated his caution.

  Her breathing said she was awake, but we didn’t speak. The slow grate of footsteps over glass, coming through the balcony door, suggested the gunman meant to check his work. He was competent; he’d just never run into targets like us before. Montoya should’ve briefed him better.

  His shadow fell across the bed as he ripped the covers back. An oath escaped him when he saw he’d killed a number of dirty bath towels. Kel hit him from behind, wrapping a shoelace around the other man’s neck. Their struggle was relatively quiet, as such things go, until at last the gunman went limp. Kel made sure he wasn’t playing possum, and then he swung him over his shoulder, strode to the balcony, and jumped.

  That was our cue. We weren’t conducting the interrogation in here; blood in a hotel room would arouse too many questions. For a moment I paused, shocked at the coldness of the thought. Likely, such a consideration wouldn’t have occurred to me before. I didn’t even know whether the thought had come from me or some darkness lingering from the demon who saved me . . . or the murderer’s weapon in my side. It was a pragmatic concern, however, and I could not deny its validity. Still, I shivered, a ripple of dread warning me that once I started down this path, there could be no return to innocence.

  Yet I told myself I needed to find out what this hired gun knew. He couldn’t be a good man, or he wouldn’t be on Montoya’s payroll. Good men didn’t break into hotel rooms with a silencer and try to murder women sleeping in their beds. Determined, I threw off the blanket with Shannon hot on my heels. Since we were both fully dressed, I only needed to snatch Butch and hurry out the door. I took the stairs two at a time, an athletic feat that surprised me because I didn’t fall. When I hit the ground floor, I broke into a jog.

  They had security here, but they wouldn’t say anything about registered guests exercising on the property in the middle of the night, so Shannon and I offered our best impressions of fitness nuts. The bored guard we passed just raised a hand in greeting; I could imagine his perplexity, but as long as he didn’t catch us doing anything worse, we’d be fine.

  I ran through the parking lot and down toward the lake before doubling back toward the temascal hut. As she was taller than me, Shannon kept up easily. A smoky scent lingered, though the fire had gone out. I set Butch on the ground.

  “You’re an important part of this plan,” I told the dog. “If anybody comes within sniffing distance, bark twice. I mean it—you can’t wander or be distracted by a bird.”

  He lowered his head. I could almost hear what he was thinking: Not fair, that only happened one time. But he gave a yap, indicating he understood his mission. He was crucial to our success; early warning would permit us to escape undetected.

  We sank to hands and knees to crawl inside; it was dark and close and there were stones inside that could be heated to inflict excruciating pain. In short, the place was ideal for inflicting physical and psychological damage. I sat down, and Shannon brought out the candles she’d tucked into her pocket. Kel had made a supply run earlier in the evening, lifting some from the patio tables for our purposes now. She lit the candles and eerie little flames kicked up in a semicircle, lending our faces a demonic aspect against the clay backdrop.

  The killer lay like a Christmas goose, bound with arms over his head and ankles securely fastened. At most, he could flop around like a dying flounder. No threat—and if he moved with too much enthusiasm to the left, he’d burn himself on the hot rocks. To the right, he ran into Kel and his blades.

  “Bring him around,” I said.

  It might seem cruel to start with physical pain, but this man had tried to kill me, and it wasn’t as if he’d go away if I asked him nicely. These men played hardball and I had to prove I understood the rules of the game if I wanted to survive it. Still, I looked away as the guardian produced a knife, made a shallow cut, and then sprinkled salt in it. Incredible: The man could create a torture kit out of items found on a room service tray. In the same motion, he clapped a hand over the gunman’s mouth, anticipating the scream. The assassin gazed up at us, eyes wide.

  Kel addressed him in Spanish. “You work for Montoya, yes?”

  Not surprisingly, the killer kept quiet. He knew his life was worth less than nothing if he talked. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-eight, average build. Sweat damped his shoulder-length black hair, and his eyes gleamed like a frightened child’s—probably because Kel’s skull tats glowed faintly.

  The guardian played with his knife, letting it hit the candlelight just so. “You jeopardize more than your life,” he said quietly. “If you die unshriven, it also imperils your immortal soul.”

  Since Mexico was a predominantly Catholic country, he played that card well. I read soul-deep fear in the gunman’s body. He was thinking about that, dying here without talking to a priest one last time. We could do worse than draw a few cuts, of course. We could unleash the spirits on him, but I was reluctant to go that far if we didn’t have to. At this point, it was impossible to say what Shannon’s ghosts might do, or what could happen if they broke free. I wasn’t eager to relive that terrible night in the woods outside Kilmer.

  Shannon added softly, “That wouldn’t be so bad, if you’d led a good life. But you haven’t. We know the things you’ve done for Montoya.”

  I was proud of how quick she’d picked up Spanish. Like me, she wasn’t fully fluent, and she thought before she spoke—doing mental translations—but by the way the man whimpered, he took her meaning. Still, he wouldn’t break.

  Kel carved a fresh line on him. Blood spilled from the wound, trickling hot over the killer’s forearm. With exquisite, awful artistry, he sprinkled more salt, and this time he added lemon juice and then ground it against the cut. I clapped my hand over the killer’s mouth and tried not to pity him as he ate his own screams. Shannon pinched his nose shut, frightening him with the threat of asphyxiation.

  This man tried to murder you. You will not feel sorry for him. But I did. I also loathed myself for doing this, and loathed Montoya for making it necessary, even as a colder part of me nodded in approval; that aspect felt like a terrifying stranger struggling beneath my skin. The cartel hit man thrashed beneath our hands, but Kel held him still. By the time we let go, he lay writhing on the clay tiles, oxygen deprivation shorting his logic. His breath came in ragged pants.

  “Do you know this man?” I asked, producing the sketch. I had worked with Kel to refine the image, based on what I’d seen handling the other assassin’s dagger, and the candlelight was sufficient for our suspect to get a good look.

  His eyes widened until the rolling whites shone. Clearly he did, but he turned his face away and bit down on his tongue. I worried that he’d chew through it to keep himself from talking.

  “Physical pain alone won’t break him,” Kel whispered. “He smells frightened, but he fears Montoya and his sorcerer more.”

  “For good reason,” I muttered. “All we can do is kill him. The sorcerer can summon demons to eat his soul and use his body as a puppet.” I recalled the monkeys, and a shudder worked through me.

  Shannon said, “I’ve been thinking. Before, you said the warlock was working on his own, and you took him out. So I suspect Montoya will keep his caster close thi
s time.”

  I considered. “Yeah. Likely. So if we find Montoya, we find the sorcerer. We can take them both.”

  Kel stared down at our gunman. “And he knows where to find them.”

  “We have to break him.” I didn’t like it, but some things had to be done. “If not physical pain, then we move to plan B.”

  Time to raise the stakes.

  “Check.” Shannon dug into her bag for the radio.

  As soon as she clicked it on, the hissing started. This was no ordinary radio. Using it, Shannon could contact the other side and summon the dead to her. Moreover, we could hear what they had to say on the tinny old speakers. Inside this tiny clay hut, the results would be terrifying.

  She had never attempted to attune to spirits with whom she hadn’t been personally acquainted before, but this would only work if she called the killer’s victims. Without meaning to, I reached for Kel. He glanced at me, brow furrowed, but his fingers folded around mine—apparently he was permitted to give reassurance.

  Shannon closed her eyes while she fiddled with the dial and whispered in Spanish. For a while, the only sounds within came from the eerily crackling radio and her pale, parted lips. In the candlelight, she owned a fearsome, witchy aspect—and the gunman couldn’t look away from her.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded. “What are you doing?”

  Nobody answered him. That silence built even greater dread.

  I knew the moment she made contact. The atmosphere chilled, and shadows grew where there was no light to cast them. They swarmed around the killer’s prone body, crooning to him in Spanish. I understood snippets, and fear went livid in me too.

  Traitor. You murdered me. I will eat your heart and build a house of your bones.