by Ann Aguirre
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 Alvarez 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 Ke
l, 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 in 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.
A disembodied voice sounded on the intercom, different from the man in the SUV. “You will find clean clothing in the armoire. Please avail yourself of the facilities. In half an hour, someone will escort you to my study.”
Even if I had wanted to argue, I saw no button I could press to make my fear and fury known. I slid off the mattress and onto the thick, plush carpet, and then glanced down at myself. My jeans were stained; my shirt still carried orange smudges. God only knew what my hair was doing. It would serve this bastard right if I confronted him in all my stink, but I couldn’t stand myself another minute.
In the wardrobe, I found a small array of attire: a pair of jeans, designer slacks, a couple of blouses and sweaters. More unnerving, they were all my size. I closed the door on such creepiness and went into the bathroom. If possible, that was worse.
Oh, it was a dream of a room, all gilt and marble; there was a Jacuzzi and a separate glass stall for when you wanted to rinse off. Since I didn’t think it was right to lounge in a spa tub when my friends might be dead and I had been abducted, I glared at the offending opulence as I got in the shower. Even the toiletries bespoke an unnerving knowledge of me. The expensive shampoo and conditioner smelled of frangipani, my preferred scent.
Well beyond worried and now into creeped-the-fuck-out, I rushed as I would never ordinarily do. I only had thirty minutes anyway, if I didn’t want some goon dragging me out of the bathroom naked and wet. Clean clothes would armor me for what was to come.
I dried off and couldn’t resist the frangipani body cream. All this luxury had the effect of diffusing my fear, cutting it with anger instead. I could use the boost of looking more together than I felt. Worry gnawed at me underneath, mostly about Butch and Shannon. If they weren’t okay—
I cut the thought and dressed quickly. Each article contained silk; I could tell by the way it slid against my skin. They had even provided shoes; I growled over the fact that they fit when I jammed my feet into them. Someone knew me better than I knew myself; they’d bought black slacks and a matching V-necked sweater. Add platform Mary Janes, and you had an outfit I’d buy on my own. This look leaned toward the conservative end of my spectrum, but still. I might’ve thrown myself out a window if the closet had contained long skirts and peasant blouses.
I checked the time and found I had enough remaining to deal with my hair. Since it was wet, I could only plait it, but I went with a French braid so I didn’t look schoolgirlish. I needed power for this confrontation.
A few moments later, a knock sounded. Really? We’re pretending I have a choice? Why not just drag me by my hair? I wore a scowl when I flung open the door, hoping I didn’t appear frightened. I didn’t want them to think they’d succeeded in terrorizing me, although they totally had.
“Follow me.” It was the same henchman who’d said, You’re going to be difficult, right before he drugged me.
Because I wasn’t looking for a repeat performance, I fell in behind him. He spoke not a single word as he led me down a long, luxurious corridor—I recognized some of the artists whose work hung in a display worthy of a gallery. Priceless objets d’art lined the walls, but it was simple and elegant, not as if the owner sought to boast of what his money could buy.
We passed a number of rooms, some of which I would be hard-pressed to name. Others I knew, like library, conservatory,
dining room. My escort swung open an ornate, beautifully carved teak door. This room was unquestionably a man’s study, from the gleaming desk to the matching wing-backed chairs. Even the carpet seemed manly, with its muted maroon pattern. Reflexively, I started pricing the furniture for what I could get for it in my shop—and then I remembered I had none.
“Wait here,” the henchman told me.
“Of course.” I didn’t know whether he noticed the biting sarcasm. Probably not. Thugs were not known for their intellectual acuity.
He left, shutting the door behind him. I knew this tactic. They were watching me to see what I’d do alone. The waiting was meant to soften me up, so I’d agree to anything by the time my captor arrived.
I obliged them by wandering, a sign of nerves. In my circuit, I read the titles on the shelves. The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. So he’s a learned man and a strategist. There were titles in other languages as well; evidently this villain was multilingual, as he owned texts in Chinese, Russian, German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. It was also possible he was a collector, which boded ill for me. Maybe he’d change his mind when he found out I wasn’t a natural redhead.
A soft footfall from behind made me spin from my scrutiny of the shelves. A man in his late forties stood before me. He was tall and slim, almost painfully elegant in a white linen suit. His sharp, foxy face came to a point at his chin, balanced by the blade of a nose. Bronze skin contrasted pleasingly with a spill of iron gray hair. He gave the impression of careless grace, but I had the feeling he never made a move without orchestrating it. His eyes shone like black pearls, lustrous but containing terrible depth.
I didn’t know exactly what Montoya looked like; in my vision where I saw Min with four men, he could’ve been any of them, so that offered no help. As my host padded forward, I noted he wore no shoes. Interesting dichotomy, that informality when measured against his crisp white clothing—perhaps it was meant to disarm me.