by Ann Aguirre
As they fed from his terror, the summoned shadows gained form. They went from amorphous clouds of darkness to wraiths with faces twisted into rictuses of hatred and hunger. Shit, what have we done to you, Shan? She did not falter. The cadence of her murmurs took on the aspect of a spell, keeping them in check.
“At any moment,” Kel told Montoya’s assassin, “she can unleash them. They will make good their promises. You will face the dead you wronged.”
Time to play good cop. Doubtless I looked the part more than the other two.
“Pero no necesita ser así. Puedes cambiar tu destino. Solo dime dónde puedo encontrar Montoya.”
I paused, aiming a glance at Shannon, who paused her chant for a few seconds. The angry ghosts surged, nearly reaching the assassin’s skin. She stopped them with a murmur at the last second, and the gunman moaned in abject horror. Nothing like being confronted with your own sins.
“Sí, voy a hablar. No más, por favor. Montoya es—” He broke off, his face purpling.
While we watched, his face withered in the candlelight as if the spirits were, in fact, sucking the life out of him. Shannon shook her head, her denial discernible in the candlelight. His tongue swelled in his mouth, turning black and eventually rotting away in putrid chunks. It was like watching an accelerated film from the Discovery Channel, where they show you how decomposition works.
“Can you contain the ghosts?” I asked her.
But something else was already happening. The candles revealed a darkness rising from the ravaged mound of flesh. A jubilant, wordless cry sounded over the radio, and then, in a roil of black, they all went away. One last scream echoed in the tinny speakers, raising goose bumps on my arms.
And Butch barked twice.
“That’s our cue,” Kel said. “I’ll pack up here and meet you back at the room.”
Shannon and I scrambled for the exit. We couldn’t do anything for the dead man, but here, at least, they could burn the scraps of remaining flesh, although they would have to wonder what the hell had happened. Hopefully they would assume some animal had crawled in to die. That’d be the best possible outcome; maybe it would be a while before the next ritual.
“We’re going walkies,” I told Butch loudly in English. “Aren’t walkies fun?”
He looked none too convinced, but he did trot at my heels as I cut a path toward the lake. Maybe I could convince the security guards we were crazy tourists who didn’t want to waste a moment of our magical vacation sleeping. We crossed paths halfway to the shore. I beamed at the man in uniform.
“Bwa-noes noe-chays,” I offered in my worst American accent, and then added, “Kay bone-eeta!” while pointing toward the lake. I’d found the tourist persona helpful, as Mexican nationals assume you’re too dumb to be up to something if you can’t speak the language properly.
The security guard merely waved as he went by. For appearance’s sake, I let Butch pick our path back to the hotel, which meant we stopped every four feet so he could smell something. No problem, he’d earned it. When we reached the parking lot, I picked him up again.
At a glance, I could tell Shannon needed to eat. Though she was a trooper and not complaining, summoning screwed her sugar levels. Which was weird, because using my gift had a different cost. Still, once we let ourselves back in the room, I dug in my purse for the Snickers bar I kept on hand for just such an occasion.
Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped it. As promised, Kel sat waiting for us. He’d put the blankets and pillows back on the bed, not that we’d sleep again. It was two hours before dawn; I figured we’d leave at first light.
I asked the unspoken question. “What happened back there?”
Kel shrugged. “My guess? A trigger spell. Powerful sorcerers can set a curse that will be set off only if certain conditions are met.”
“Like a henchman about to betray el jefe,” Shannon said around a mouthful of chocolate, peanuts, and nougat.
“Exactly,” he answered.
“He definitely recognized the caster and he feared him.” I sighed. “Unfortunately, it leaves us back at square one. In Laredo, we had a list of his properties, but he’ll have sold them by now, and most likely plugged the leak Esteban exploited to get the info in the first place.”
Shannon asked, “Who’s Esteban?”
I gave her the short version of how I’d read a necklace for the guy—he worked for a rival cartel—and told him why his sister disappeared years before. Esteban had been so grateful he’d produced the information we needed to go after Montoya in his mountain fortress. That wouldn’t be happening again—and as we’d realized earlier, when we found Montoya, he’d have this new sorcerer at his side. Not. Good.
She nodded, thoughtful. “We need help from somebody higher up the food chain this time.”
Like that was going to happen; I didn’t know any cartel bosses. In Mexico, it was bad news to evince curiosity about doings near the border. Living in the interior in a safe neighborhood was a different world from Juarez, Nuevo Laredo, or Tijuana.
We needed to move. . . . I just didn’t know where to go.
Kel had been quiet. I glanced over and saw his eyes were closed. For all I knew, he was communing with his archangel, and was about to dump us for new orders. I didn’t kid myself he’d care.
Sensing my regard, he sat forward in his chair. “There was a woman who helped you before. In Texas.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. I’m not dragging Eva into this. She’s got to be eight months along.”
“Not Eva.”
For a moment I couldn’t think of any other woman, and then it hit me. “You mean Twila?”
Right, he’d been shadowing me, so he had probably trailed me to her house. I knew that because he saved my life for the first time in the cemetery. Back then things were simpler, because I thought he wanted to kill me.
“Yes. She may have contacts we can use.”
“To do as Shannon suggested?” Surely he wasn’t endorsing the idea that we join forces with a rival cartel. That was like using a rabid dog to kill a few rats. The whole thing put me in mind of the old lady who swallowed the spider; this idea had a snowball-rolling-downhill feel to it.
“I have been watching the possible outcomes,” he said softly. “And that may be your only hope.”
The words dropped into the room like lead shoes, so when Shannon crumpled her candy wrapper and Butch whined, the sounds seemed extra loud. Even my breathing rasped in my ears. Kel alone appeared unmoved by the pronouncement. My little dog covered his muzzle with his paws and burrowed deeper into my arms.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
In answer, he clicked on the television; I judged the move wholly out of character until the clicking remote stilled. Kel left it on a news channel. I didn’t understand why, but we watched for five minutes in silence. And then the presenter answered my questions in the worst possible way.
I translated the Spanish mentally and came up with: Firebomb in Mexico City. As yet no terrorist factions have claimed responsibility. Luckily there was only one fatality and the blaze did not spread to adjacent buildings. Police suspect it may have been cartel related. Gang and drug violence on the rise—Kel muted the television before the man could complete the sentence.
“No,” I breathed.
Stop, I mentally commanded the announcer. I don’t want to see—
Oh. Before the images came up on-screen, I knew. It was my shop. Kel had known before the news came on; perhaps he had been receiving a bulletin in his head. From the beginning, he might have even known I’d never see the place again, and I hated him for his distance, his surety, and his calm.
Seeing the truth made it no easier to bear. Burned plaster and chunks of cement littered the street. As the camera swung around, they showed scavengers picking through the rubble. Once again, I was homeless, reduced to what I could carry. Chance had sent my belongings as promised, including my Travis McGee book collection. All gone. Those were my things, treasures Señor Alvare
z had—
One fatality. It sunk in at last, above my own misfortune. Oh God. Oh my God. He died because of me. First Ernesto, and now Señor Alvarez. Sick, I wondered how many innocents would die so that I might live. At what point should I stop running and take the bullet?
“When did this happen?” I asked hoarsely.
Shannon didn’t know, of course, but the question wasn’t for her. Kel answered readily. “Shortly after the gunman died.”
I thought about that, and came up with only one interpretation. “It was a warning. Montoya’s sorcerer must’ve known his spell went off. So now he’s telling me that no matter what I do to him, he will visit it upon me a hundredfold.”
“Yes,” Kel said. “You see why I counseled you to seek aid from one as powerful as Montoya.”
“Because you can’t just smite him,” I said nastily. “What good are you?”
Nothing I said touched him. He was made of ice and silver. “There are limits to my power, as there should be.”
The weight fell on me like my collapsed shop. When I turned to Shannon, I saw the echo of it in her eyes. She, too, had been displaced. She, too, had lost her home—for the second time in less than a year. I tried to bite back my tears, but when I saw her eyes swimming, I stopped fighting it. We went into each other’s arms and wept for everything we’d lost. I couldn’t tell her it would be okay; I had no platitudes, but I wouldn’t ever leave her. That much I could promise.
Kel stood and gave us his back. It might’ve been embarrassment at our weakness or kindness in offering privacy. “Get ready. We’re heading for Texas in an hour.”
Vagabond Blues
It took us nearly a whole day to reach Texas.
I received four texts from Jesse during that time. Something’s wrong. What’s up? He also tried to call, but the mountains played hell with reception and the connection dropped before we could talk. I replied without revealing how bad things were; there was no point in worrying him. Instead, I texted: I’m fine, try not to worry. I know you’re soaking this up and I’m sorry. I’ll explain when I see you.
As we drove, I thought about the strange dream and his sadness over me. God, I didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe it was backward of me to want to protect him, but I did. His life had been golden, with a family who loved him no matter what. I didn’t want my darkness rubbing off on him; deep down, I hoped if I ever came out on the other side of this mess, he might be waiting and I could make a place in his world, even if I hadn’t been born to it.
His reply came in slower. . . . I could sense his resignation. You’re safe?
Yes, I typed, and then leaned my head against the window, watching the world go by. Eating or sleeping didn’t seem important, given current events, so we committed to finishing this journey in one go. Since it was a seventeenhour trip, it helped that we could all take turns driving.
We headed up the coast through Tampico and Tamaulipas, staying on the cuotas—toll roads—and carreteras— highways. I rode in back because I didn’t want Shannon to see me crying and I teared up at odd moments. I hadn’t felt so bereft since my mother died. Her grimoires had been upstairs, and I didn’t know if they’d survived the explosion. Following her example, I’d kept them in a fireproof box, but someone would probably steal them from the wreckage before I got back.
Montoya intended me to run home, shocked and grieving, where he’d take another crack at me. That was the other purpose behind the bombing—to herd me. Well, I took the warning, but I wouldn’t let him drive my decisions, however painful that resolve proved to be.
Kel was behind the wheel when we reached Avenida de las Americas and started seeing signs directing us toward International Boulevard. We crossed at Brownsville via the international bridge over the Rio Grande. For the first time since I’d known him, he donned a cap to cover his tats. Likely he knew law enforcement would look longer at somebody all inked up, and most people wouldn’t recognize the patterns; an average cop would take them for gang symbols.
Once we were back in the U.S., we put two hours between the border and us. I felt a little safer on American soil, but not much. Montoya had a long reach, and even now, his sorcerer was probably working on a way to locate us. Fortunately, scrying spells proved nearly impossible to tune correctly so long as the target stayed on the move.
Though it had been my turn for several hours, Kel didn’t pull over to let me get behind the wheel. The little car hurtled down I-37 as if he knew for a fact we had something chasing us. I didn’t ask if that was true, because I feared he’d tell me. Shannon had dozed off a few minutes before, her head lolling against the smoky glass. I didn’t blame her; according to the dashboard clock, it was pushing two a.m. At that point, he and I were both running on caffeine, sugar, and stubbornness.
“Feeling better?” he asked at length.
“Sure. A long-ass car trip with only minimal stops for food and hygiene could cheer anyone up.”
To my surprise, the corners of his mouth tugged, as if he fought the urge to smile. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, either, and this time—reflected in the rearview mirror—I was sure. His face revealed only microexpressions, but they did exist. Before I could question him, a black SUV came roaring up from behind us.
Even before it passed and cut us off in front, I had a bad feeling. A second SUV practically attached itself to our rear bumper—if Kel didn’t keep the speed steady, we would find ourselves smashed between these two automotive beasts. I swallowed hard as a third zoomed up on the left and kept pace. Shit. They had us completely boxed in.
I slid over to the left side, directly behind Kel, and tried to get a look inside the other vehicle. So far they hadn’t made contact or tried to force us off the road. That seemed unlike Montoya. Unfortunately, the windows were tinted too dark to make out anything about those within.
My phone pinged. The message had nothing to do with our current situation, but I flipped it open and looked anyway. My stomach clenched.
I read the text aloud. “ ‘Pull off at the next rest area.’ ”
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice taut with tension.
“No. But I suspect they’ll force the issue if you don’t comply.” That was the point of boxing us in, and our car couldn’t take the damage three SUVs would inflict.
“Very well.”
They’d chosen their spot with care. Two miles up the road there was a rest area; no cars came up from behind to challenge their blocking trifecta. Kel slowed as they did and guided the vehicle into the nearly empty lot. As in most such places, there was a twenty-four-hour building that offered a foyer full of tourism pamphlets and, beyond that, restrooms. Along the front nestled a bay of vending machines. At this hour, I saw only semis in the far parking lot—not many, either.
Fear roiled in my stomach, making a mess out of the chips and chocolate. I curled my hands into fists and braced them on my knees. I didn’t know whether to get out boldly and ask what they wanted, or sit here waiting to be summoned.
“They want to talk,” he said quietly. “If they’d wanted you dead, one shot would’ve done it as we drove. Here, they have greater vulnerability.”
That was certainly true. Kel was no longer handicapped by managing an automobile, so he could fight. Maybe they didn’t know who—or what—he was. Another advantage they couldn’t factor.
Thus bolstered, I climbed out of the vehicle. Slamming the door jolted Shannon awake, and I saw alarm when she registered the three black SUVs, but he stilled her with a hand on her arm.
Thank you, I thought. Keep her safe for me.
Everything looked pale and wan beneath the lights. I heard bugs whirring around the building, distant sounds of cars on the highway. I played cool and leaned against my car door like I wasn’t expecting a shot through the forehead any second. Wait, no—they’d give me two to the back of the head, make it look like an execution to avoid questions.
For several long moments, nothing happened, and then a strange man—strange i
n the sense that I’d never seen him before—stepped out of the nearest SUV. They drove Denalis, I noted, less flashy than a fleet of Hummers. I was conscious of my wrinkled clothing, dark circles beneath my eyes, messy hair, and orange Cheetos dust on my chest, but I didn’t move. If we were going to have a stare-down before he spoke, so be it.
Henchman One paused, a hand on the open door. “Corine Solomon?”
“Who’s asking?”
In answer, he twirled two fingers in the air. Three more guys stepped out, grabbed me before I could do more than throw a wild punch, and chucked me headfirst into the Denali. My face skidded across fine gray leather and someone slammed the door behind me. In a squeal of tires, we were moving.
Oh, shit. I’d been kidnapped.
I lunged for the door, only to be brought up short by one of the thugs. He didn’t hurt me, but he effectively blocked me from flinging myself out of the moving SUV. The sister vehicles stayed in the rest area, and as we sped away, two shots rang out. I screamed and pounded on the glass.
No, no, no, no. Kel can fight incredible numbers. He’d done it before. I had seen it. The guardian could live through damn near anything—maybe even a bullet in the brain—but Shannon . . . No, not Shannon. A scream built in my throat.
Shortly, the other two SUVs flanked us, providing protection, I supposed. Four men accompanied me in this one, and they all wore black and impassive expressions. They were mixed nationalities, so I couldn’t be sure who’d taken me. Regardless, it meant nothing good. I tried again to get to the door, though we were on the highway and doing eighty. Dumb, sure, but no worse than believing gangsters wanted to talk.
“You’re going to be difficult,” a man said with faint exasperation. His accent was difficult to place, but it wasn’t Mexican. Not Canadian either, more like—
Before I could make up my mind, a needle prickled my skin and I fell into a dark hole.
I woke in a sumptuously appointed room, all white—impossible to keep clean without an army of maids attending to every smudge and spill. Judging by the pristine carpet, whoever had taken me possessed such an army. I fought down a sick certainty that, like Señor Alvarez, Shannon had died because of me. My head felt thick from whatever they’d drugged me with, and my tongue tasted funny.
