by Ann Aguirre
Instead of such a gambit, he stopped before me and stood silent. Gazing. Even in the poor light, he was unearthly in his beauty: angular features, sculpted mouth, and almond eyes shining cat-gold. He never had five-o’clock shadow, not even at midnight. Why had I never noticed that before, or the faint sheen of his skin? In the moonlight, he didn’t look quite human. I’d always just felt grubby by comparison and never wondered why.
“You look tired,” he said. “Lovely, but tired.”
I didn’t. Not lovely. I could believe tired.
I spoke in staccato bursts, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “You got here quick. The baby’s beautiful.”
“I was already on the way.”
I raised a brow. “Did you have a premonition?”
The dream I’d had in the trailer came back to me, an odd echo. Maybe that was something my mother could do, those true dreams. I wondered if she could control them. Not for the first time, I wished I could ask her—so many things.
“No. Look, can we go somewhere? Talk?”
“I passed a park on the way here.” Even if I had a hotel room, I wouldn’t take him there. I probably lacked the energy for this, but at least it was a distraction from my latest fuckup. What a cherry-topped disaster that forget spell turned out to be.
You lost your best friend, and your boyfriend. Had him for less than a week. That must be some kind of record.
“Which one’s yours?” Chance asked.
“The El Camino. You still driving the Mustang?”
He nodded. “I’ll stay close.”
“I’ll watch the stoplights between here and there. It’s not far.”
That said it all. At least the exchange had dried up my tears; I didn’t want Chance thinking I was pathetic. I drove with an eye on my rearview mirror, making sure I didn’t lose him. My heart twisted, because I knew what he wanted—some job done or a reading as a favor. In the latter part of our relationship, that comprised the sum total of our emotional exchanges. This time, though, this time I’d say no. I owed him nothing, and he was square with me. I wanted it to stay that way.
But I’d hear him out for old times’ sake, mostly because I couldn’t face being alone just yet. Otherwise, I’d have to think about all I’d lost: my home, Señor Alvarez, Shannon, Jesse, Kel. The damage was incalculable. Impossible. Unbearable.
No. I’d handle it. I always did.
It was a small park, well kept, with benches, a water fountain, and a playground. More important, it had security lights. We should be safe enough here. But I could stop looking over my shoulder, more or less. Or at least dial the paranoia down to normal levels. I’d walked through fire and come out different, darker, on the other side.
I parked beneath a lamp and set Butch down. Using a nearby water fountain, I filled the dog’s collapsible dish and gave him a drink. He expressed his appreciation with a wag of his tail and then set off to explore.
Chance pulled in only a minute behind me, and strode up the walk toward where I sat idly swinging. The wind smelled of distant mesquite, as if someone in a nearby neighborhood might be barbecueing in his backyard. The simple goodness made me ache. He took the swing beside me, but didn’t push off. His fingers were long and elegant wrapped around the chains.
“The reason I’m here so fast is because I was already on my way to see you.”
I smiled. “Sure. What’s the job?”
“No job.”
“What do you want me to handle?”
If I hadn’t been watching so closely, I would’ve missed his faint flinch. “Nothing. For the first couple of weeks after I left Kilmer, I was so mad at you. Here I’d broken my back begging for a second chance and it wasn’t enough.”
“I got that by the way you drove off without saying good-bye.” And by the way he’d FedExed all my Travis McGee books back to me without even a note. Those were nothing but ash now.
“But gradually, I started thinking about what you’d said and it sank in. My mom helped to explain it,” he admitted.
“How is she?”
“She’s fine. Thinking about opening a second store.”
“It’s doing that well?”
“Homeopathy is hot. People are reluctant to go to a doctor these days because it starts never-ending appointments and expenses. Times are tough.”
“I know. You were saying?” I prompted.
“I realized it’s not fair to expect you to give up everything for me. If we try again, it has to be about what we want. And if you don’t care to live in Tampa, if that brings back too many bad memories or makes you feel like you’re doing all the giving, then I have to make a change.” He flattened his hands on his knees and gazed out over the grass, where Butch had cornered something small and furry. “I called in all my loans. Everything owed me has now been paid. I also hired a guy to help my mom with the store. She doesn’t know it, but he’s also protection for her, since . . . Well, you know. Just in case.”
The certainty in his voice hit me like a fist. He was driving across country, intending to join me in Mexico City, when Chuch told him about the baby? Talk about a leap of faith.
I exhaled shakily. “Why didn’t you call me? Not once. Not in six months.”
Funny. Chance never wondered how I’d feel about his grand gesture. He just assumed I’d welcome him with open arms after a long silence and a bitter parting. No need to discuss anything with me, because I’d always be his for the taking. He still didn’t understand that I needed a full partnership . . . but this was forward progress, at least.
Now I had to decide if it was enough.
“I didn’t want you thinking this was more of my bullshit promises,” he said quietly. “You wanted action, right? Here it is.”
Low, almost desperate laughter burst out of me. “We’re like that couple in the story. At Christmas, she cuts off her long hair and sells it to buy him a chain for his pocket watch. He sells his watch to buy her pretty gold combs for her hair.”
“ ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ ” he said, frowning. “The moral of that story was that it didn’t matter because they had love. Somehow I don’t think that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Not exactly. See, my shop’s gone, Chance, and now so’s your business. Neither of us has anything.”
He froze, studying my face. “I thought you were here because of the baby, but . . . you’re not. At least, not entirely.”
“Hardly. Montoya kept me busy.”
Chance swore in a mixture of English and Korean and then slid off the swing to kneel before me. “What happened? What can I do?”
“Nothing. I took care of it.” With Paolo’s help I had. Yeah, I served as bait in Escobar’s trap, but I’d proven myself more dangerous than anyone expected, using Dumah as my finishing move. “He won’t bother Min—or anyone—again.”
Something like fear flickered in Chance’s face, as if he didn’t quite recognize me. But he didn’t back off. Instead he took my hands in his; as always they felt warm in comparison to mine. Not fever-hot like Kel, nor with Jesse’s safe heat. But familiar and precious, nonetheless.
I expected him to ask why I hadn’t called him for help. He didn’t.
“I suppose there’s no point in asking. Done is done. I want you to know, I understand now. . . . I did you a disservice by not realizing you aren’t the same woman, and if I want to be with you, then I need to—borrowing my mother’s expression—court you properly. There are no guarantees, but you wanted proof that I’m not all talk. Here it is.”
The enormity of it humbled me. “And you’ll go anywhere I want?”
“I’ve no ties anymore, Corine. You take the lead this time. I’ll follow. And I’ll do my best to open up.” Chance lifted my palms and kissed them with a tenderness that acted as the sweetest balm. “I’ll tell you about Lily. I know it has to be different this time, because I won’t get another shot with you.”
Lily had to be the lover who had died because of him. I didn’t remember hi
m ever mentioning her name before. That had to mean something.
There was no telling how much cash he had in the Mustang. If he’d called in all his loans, it must be a lot. We could go anywhere. Seductive thought. Or I could take him to Mexico City, where we could rebuild together. Hard to say how much temptation to try again came from not wanting to be alone, how much I wanted to say yes because I’d lost so fucking much tonight. Was Chance my consolation prize?
His fingers tightened on mine, giving away his tension.
“We take it slow,” I said at last. “Dating, no promises. Not yet. You need to get to know me again—and vice versa.”
I wasn’t the same woman. Not even a little bit. This Corine might surprise him; he might not want her when he realized how deep the shift ran. He believed he loved me, but he didn’t know me, not anymore. Chance remembered the woman who gave up everything for him, followed him blindly, and let him make all the decisions; he loved that complete and selfless devotion. I couldn’t offer that again.
“Absolutely.” The relief in his voice nearly floored me.
Plus, we still had the problem of his luck, but maybe we could manage it this time. Maybe if I got regular cleansings, we could deal with it and minimize the effects. I’d be proactive and seek solutions instead of wishing for miracles. “We won’t be living together right away,” I cautioned.
“If we rebuild on your property, we could have two flats put in up top,” he offered softly. “That way I’ll be close by, but you can always send me home.”
It was a reasonable suggestion, but I hadn’t seen the extent of the damage. Maybe it would prove an impossible task, or I’d have trouble with the fideicomiso. I was too numb to make plans, and it felt wrong to leave Shannon so quickly. I wanted our future, our shop. It remained to be seen whether Chance could be part of that.
As he rested his head on my knees, I put my hands in his silky hair and breathed in the smoky, sweet scent of burning wood. Somewhere, somebody was singing a Spanish love song, and it curled through me like a ribbon of light, banishing some of the darkness and desperation.
Chance couldn’t know about Chuch’s house yet; he must’ve come straight to the hospital. He didn’t know how close to dying I’d come or that I could cast spells and bind demons or had whispered kisses into a fallen angel’s skin while his tattoos glowed blue against a deep jungle night. I had my own secrets now—and not just shameful ones. At base, I no longer felt unworthy of Chance. Maybe this time we could make it work because we’d be equals.
Time would tell.
Read on for an exciting excerpt from
Ann Aguirre’s next Sirantha Jax novel,
Aftermath
Coming September 2011 from Ace Books
Dying isn’t like living; it requires no effort at all.
I just have to sit quietly and let it happen. But I can’t. Like a fish with a barbed hook caught in its mouth I twist and pull, desperately fighting my way back to the anguished meat I left in the cockpit with Hit. She has no way home without me, and if I don’t succeed in this, the consequences will be far worse than two lost females. Despite the siren call of grimspace and the scintillating colors, I must live; it’s never mattered so much before.
I have to get back. I have to warn them, or every ship that tries to jump will never come out again.
As I draw closer, the pain ramps up. At least I have the assurance that the nanites will repair the damage, so whatever I’ve done to myself, I won’t wind up trapped in my own body. If March were here, he’d help anchor me, but Hit lacks his Psi ability, which means I’m on my own. Instead of the door in the far horizon—that place of passing through—I focus on my body. Past the silent screaming I can hear my heartbeat, faint and sluggish, right now no more than a reflexive physical response. Yet it might be enough.
With each thud, I pull myself closer, as if that tenuous thread is a rope I can grasp with ghostly hands. Each pound of my pulse brings me a little closer, and then, with a wrench almost as agonizing as the one that tore me loose, I fall back in. My hands move, and I feel Hit beside me. You back, Jax?
Sickness boils in my veins. I don’t feel right in my own head, as if I’ve come back smaller somehow, but I block it off from her. She’s done enough. The consequences from this point on are mine alone.
Yeah, I reply, time to go home.
I don’t know whether I’ve been gone minutes or hours, but we’ve tarried too long regardless. Grimspace is a bitch mistress that will drain you dry and leave the husk without a second glance—and without my implants, this suicide run would’ve killed me, no question. Weakness racks me, but I can get us out; I have that much left. Though it might break me, I’m determined to bring my pilot home safely. The colors glow brighter as grimspace swells within me, and it feels as if a door opens in my head. Thanks to the neural blockers, I can’t feel the associated pain; the ship shudders and sails through.
We emerge in straight space, high over Venice Minor. Such a long, impossible journey, when we didn’t go anywhere at all. Not really. Not in the sense of distance, but this is the nature of paradox. My hands tremble as I unplug, and then the scene unfolds before me.
Lights twinkle in the dark, but they are not stars. Mary, no. We weren’t fast enough. So many Morgut ships made it through; they dim the constellations. Their shapes are alien to my eyes, like creatures that came out of the sea, finned and spiny, with odd appendages and strange designs. Because we’re so small—a two-person vessel—we haven’t registered on their sensors yet; there are too many energy signatures clustered in a small area for our numbers to leap out at anyone. But it’s only a matter of time, and we have no weapons.
Sweat cools on my forehead as I study the scene. My mother died to give us a chance, and with some relief, I note there are no more dreadnaughts. If we can get ships up here, we have a chance in this final battle. It looks as if they’re positioning to bombard the planet. The flagship is enormous, with jutting guns powerful enough to take out entire city quadrants. As yet, I don’t see any movement from the armada; they must still be forming up and executing repairs down below.
I hope they weren’t sending reinforcements here when I changed the beacons. But I refuse to let fear govern my actions. That’s not me, and it never will be. First off, I must bounce a message about what I did, but we’re close enough to the Morgut fleet that they’ll definitely catch the transmission and then blow us to hell. I weigh the risks and decide the warning can wait until we land; if I die here, then I’ve set humanity back a hundred turns in terms of using the beacons to navigate. Still, I don’t feel good about the call. At this point, every second counts.
“Do we make a run for the surface?” Hit asks.
“We can’t do anything here.”
No weapons, no shields. So that’s the answer. She offers a brief nod in reply, and then we start the insane journey home. As we approach the atmosphere, the enemy fleet notices us, and Hit dodges shots coming in hot on our stern. One successful strike and we’re done. But she flies like other people dance, and even negotiating the burn as we fall planetside, she manages to skew us away from the incoming barrage. I can only watch; I’ve done my part, and the rest is up to Hit. Her constant maneuvering makes for a rocky reentry; she can’t calculate the best angle and take care with the ship hardware, so I watch the ground sail toward me at an insane speed and fight the urge to close my eyes. The flagship shoots wide, its missiles zooming past us toward the ground. Ha. Missed.
The clouds whip past, and the tiny dots on the ground resolve into lines and then trees; the green and brown patchwork sharpens into the lines of my mother’s garden. In the distance I glimpse the blue shine of the sea, but several alarms flash red, and a low whine fills the cockpit. The small ship rattles as if it might break apart entirely. I do shut my eyes then.
Our vessel goes into a low roll as we near the ground; impact flings me forward, but the harness catches me. I’ll have bruises to show for this most recent bit of insanit
y. I risk a look and find we’re upside down, but more or less in one piece, outside the hangar at my mother’s villa. I don’t know who’s more surprised, me or Hit. She flashes me a triumphant grin and a high sign.
“Pretty fragging good, right?”
“Maybe the best I’ve ever seen,” I admit.
She winks. “I won’t tell March.”
We’ve burned out the stabilizers, but otherwise we did remarkably well. Maybe only a tiny ship like this one could’ve gotten past the vanguard of the Morgut fleet. I imagine the rest of them lost in grimspace, trying to interpret the new signal and failing. They’ll die there, no matter how powerful they are or how indestructible their dreadnaughts.
“Does the comm still work?”
“It should.”
I set it to Tarn’s personal code and then bounce a message at the highest priority. “Don’t let any Conglomerate ships jump. They won’t be able to interpret the new beacon frequency without instruction. Give coordinates for a central meeting point and instruct them to make their way via long haul. Doesn’t matter how long it takes—it’s better than being lost. I’ll explain everything fully when I see you.”
Not content with toppling the closest thing we had to a stable government, I’ve now crippled interstellar travel. But it was for a good cause. I’m still positive I did the right thing, no matter what they do to me later. If it means prison time or an execution, I’m not sorry. Someone had to make the tough call, and I was there.
The doors are jammed from the rough landing and don’t respond to the computerized controls, so Hit and I kick our way out. My limbs still feel weak as I pull myself up; I’m not prepared for the wreckage that greets us. Oh, not from our ship. All around us, the jungle burns, black smoke swirling toward the sky. Stone rubble constitutes all that’s left of the villa, just a bombed shell with broken walls rising no more than two meters. Cracks web the foundation, charred black, and I can smell death in the air. It’s not a scent you forget.
