by Jax Garren
She shook her head. “No, that’s no pain. Sperm donor. I have no clue and no interest, really,” she said honestly. “Bryn—my mom—was gay, and it was just her and me.”
“So she decided to parent alone? Brave woman. My mom didn’t last two years as a single parent before she remarried, and she had Abuela helping.” He snorted, looking sympathetic and relaxed. “I mean, she loves my stepdad enough—he’s a good guy. But they did it for the collaboration, not some great love affair.”
It was weirdly comfortable, chilling and chatting with Coyote. He didn’t freak out about stuff like some people did, just accepted her weird history and moved on. It was exactly the calm friendliness they needed right now. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No way. I’d do the same thing. If I had to choose between tempestuous romance and reliable companionship, no question I’d take the latter.” Interestingly enough, he seemed like he meant it. “I prefer people I can count on.” He gave her a lopsided but pointed grin.
The bicycle. She’d put in effort to get to him when he’d called, which meant he’d been genuinely impressed and not just bullshitting her politely.
The slow drip of the coffee maker alerted her it was about done, and she headed that way, wondering if maybe she should tell him a little more about her screwed-up family history. Finally she ventured, “Bryn didn’t exactly decide to go it alone.” She hesitated.
“You have my attention,” Coyote prompted, tone full of curiosity.
“How do you like your coffee?” Fortunately, she found cream in the refrigerator and poured a generous amount in one of the mugs hanging on a little rack on the counter before sliding the coffeepot out of the holder.
Coffee—smell the goodness—made everything better.
“Black,” Coyote said from right behind her. “I drink it black.”
She turned to face him, and he leaned back against the dining table, trying to look casual while his amber-eyed attention was riveted to her. She chuckled at his barely restrained curiosity. “I didn’t learn this until my mom was dead. She never talked about it. But mom was as married as Texas would let her be back then. Her partner was pregnant with me when she was”—she hesitated, then forced the word out—“incarcerated.” Keep your voice light, light like it doesn’t matter, like it’s funny to you, too. “I was born in a prison.”
It wasn’t a joke. A chilling memory assaulted her of Sofia’s stepfather and his beer breath and raging eyes as he pressed bullets in his study. Your mother birthed you in jail, and far as I’m concerned you should’ve stayed there. Born in sin to two sinners. That was the day they’d officially declined to keep her, sending her into the foster system for good. She rubbed her shoulder, longing for a blanket, a fire—something to push back the cold. Her mug nearly missed her mouth as she took a sip, trying to warm up that way. “Weird, huh?”
And there it was on Coyote’s face, the look of disbelief like she was some form of alien species, born on the newly discovered planet Jail. Words began fumbling from his mouth. “I didn’t even know that was... I mean, I guess if I’d thought about it, I’d know that has to happen sometimes, women giving birth in prison, I mean... Uh, that sucks.” And he kept going.
Trust fund boy. She poured another mug and handed it to him, breathing through the pain so she could be the calm, stable grown-up here. “Like I said, I have all kinds of class. Just not the expensive kind you have.” She set her mug down, hard, on the counter. “You know what? I may never have been richy-rich like you, but Bryn was a lawyer and Sofia was a biomedical engineer. They weren’t, like...” What she wanted to say was “trailer trash,” but that was so insulting to so many people—like Sofia’s parents. Who deserved the moniker. Still, her anger got the better of her, and she lashed out with, “They weren’t like Sofia’s mom and stepdad, with their praise-Jesus Sundays and their Monday-through-Saturday terror of anyone outside their little white-bread community.” Too angry. Too angry. “I know, hashtag not-all-Christians—no disrespect intended to you or your family if that’s how you were raised.”
He managed to get his composure back and grabbed her arm as she tried to walk away. “What, you think just because I’m brown I was raised Catholic?”
She wrinkled her nose because that was exactly what she’d been thinking. Her own preconceived notions took the edge off her anger at other people’s, and she managed to give Coyote a rueful look. He rubbed her shoulder, and she let herself relax into the touch. It felt good to have someone know and still reach out.
Hell, it just felt good to have someone reach out.
He pulled her against his side, and despite her better judgment, she let him, needing it. “Because you’d be right. Or Abuela tried anyway. My mom and stepdad weren’t so big on religion.” Gods, his dimples... “Stereotypes are a real time saver.” He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear affectionately. “Until they’re not.” He narrowed his eyes, bouncing from foot to foot, and she could tell he desperately wanted to ask something.
“What did my birth mom do to land herself in prison?”
He gave her a pleading grin—gods, he had a good one. “Yeah. Was she...” More bouncing, and Giselle cringed, wondering if she’d already said too much and now he knew her mother was the country’s most infamous murderer. “Was she a conduit? Is that why she went to jail?”
Giselle expended a rush of air at his correct, but not the whole story, assumption. Maybe it was better to just leave it that way. She’d confessed enough for one night.
“Is that where you got Freyja from? Her?”
Huh, he’d gotten it wrong. “My moms were both conduits. Sofia got caught. Bryn didn’t.” Which wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t the most important part. Feeling disconnected once again by her giant omission, she wandered back toward the living area, Coyote hot on her heels. “I didn’t know that part until I came of age. Freyja was Bryn’s godstone. I have no idea what happened to my birth mother’s godstone. My guess is the government has it, even though they claim not to.” Before he could ask which goddess Sofia had channeled, she hurried onto a new topic. “And on that note, I have pages from the book. Want to check them out?”
She pulled up the images on her own “crime” phone and passed it over. He looked like he might ask her the dreaded question anyway, then—thank the gods—got distracted by her phone. He took it like he had no idea what it was, turning it over like some alien technology he couldn’t fathom, and she rolled her eyes. Finally he pressed the halves together and looked at her with a confounded stare. “You have a flip phone? I’ve never seen one of these!” He turned it back and forth like her cheap Cricket purchase was something fascinating. “I mean, I probably did when I was a toddler or something. I think maybe Abuela had one.”
She snapped at him. “All right, privileged white boy, do you want to see—”
“Hey! Privileged brown boy here. And, seriously, how do you see anything on this screen?” He tapped buttons while squinting at it. “Even Coyote’s eyes aren’t good enough for this. Please tell me it has Bluetooth... oh, thank gods.” He grabbed a remote control and for some reason turned on the TV.
“It’s my second phone I bought for our work; gimme a break! My other phone is normal, but some of us don’t shit hundred dollar bills.”
He pointed at the computer station without looking up. “Go get your Batphone. On the right. This thing is going into—”
“Don’t you dare say the trash or fire or something like that. People still use these, jackass.”
He shut his mouth, then opened it again. “Into the local women’s shelter.”
She shoved his shoulder, irked but for some reason still amused. “Good almost recovery.”
“Hey, I was always going to say that.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure.” At the computer station, she found two identical giant phones—tiny tablets?—charging. “What’s this?”
“The latest Galaxy. You’re welcome.”
“Aren’t those the ones th
at catch on fire?”
“My bad, I’ll return it and upgrade you to a sliding keyboard instead.” A fuzzy image of Osoosi’s page appeared on the television like something out of Star Trek. Except with a crappy photo.
“Asshole.” But she grabbed the phone and charger on the right and then realized she couldn’t stuff the giant thing into her bra like a flip phone. “I need pockets.”
He chuckled while standing way too close to the TV in order to study the image and then flipped to the next one. “You’re talking to the guy whose costume consists of a skirt and no underwear.”
A pouch hung around his neck, though... wait. “You don’t have underwear?”
He grinned, unabashed, though he didn’t look at her. “And you do under that leather?”
“I...” She blushed.
“That’s what I thought. Pagan gods. Sex and blood, man. Sex and blood.” He backed up a step. “It’s in Arabic script.”
“Do you know Arabic?” That would be an awfully lucky coincidence.
He glanced at her and back at the screen as he switched to the next image and Badb Catha appeared. “Ew.” More flipping. “No, and I’m not sure the language even is Arabic. Arabic script can be used for Arabic or for Farsi, Urdu—a bunch of languages. Even more, depending on how old this book is.”
“Oh.” Rawan sometimes spoke to her family in Farsi, and the Quran on her bedside table was in Arabic. She could probably help. Except if Giselle planned on keeping her secret, it wasn’t like she could show some pages from a book of conduits to a frigging acolyte.
“I can get this translated,” Coyote said.
“You can?”
The next image came up, Freyja in all her glorious garb, and longing hit Giselle as fiercely now as it had when she’d first seen Coyote-as-Rafael on the lawn of the party. Desire like that led to stupid things—like risking her life for a feather cloak, or a good working relationship with Coyote for a hookup with fake Rafael.
Coyote looked at the image, then at her, then back.
“I look even less like her in a T-shirt.” She couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
He bumped shoulders with her. “I can’t wait to see what a badass you’ll be.” His voice turned softer, a little less arrogant as he added, “I mean, you already are one. You’ll be unstoppable.” They both stared at the screen again. “Got any ideas about where to look for your stuff? I figure finding your gear is as good a place as any to start our adventures.”
The eagerness in his voice managed to both encourage her with his zeal and distress her with his innocence. “Doing this is a big risk—a felony. I’m doing it anyway because it’s my mom’s legacy, and I want to be a part of that. But why are you here? This isn’t a game or a lark. This is dangerous work with a high risk of incarceration, and unlike me, you’ve got a lot to lose.”
He looked at the floor thoughtfully for a moment, and she appreciated that he was taking the question seriously. Finally he said, “I haven’t done much to be proud of in the last couple years, and I need to make some big changes. When the godstone literally turned up at my feet, I knew it was what I was looking for—the chance to be someone who does good in the world.”
“There are a lot of ways to do good in the world that don’t involve committing a felony.”
His smug grin came back. “Yeah, but name one that’s this cool.” He turned back to look at her picture. “I’ll keep up with my charity donations—I know that’s important. But this? Getting involved, working with you, this is where I’m meant to be. So let’s find your shit. I ask again, got a place to start looking?”
She sighed. “One, but I’ll need to go there without you. My birth mom’s parents’ place. My so-called grandparents and I don’t get along—they could’ve taken me in and didn’t. But it’s possible somebody stashed something there.” She did not relish seeing them again. Not one bit.
Coyote reached a hand out and rubbed her shoulder sympathetically, and any last bubbles of tension between them evaporated. “Give me a call when you’re out, okay? We can meet up or just talk.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Partner.”
She gave him a half smile, not quite ready to use that word yet. His eyes got big with that hopeful puppy-dog look that was going to be the death of her. “I’ll let you know if I find anything. Meanwhile I should probably get my bike out of your car.”
A look of minor frustration crossed his face—she knew her all-business answer didn’t have the friendly intimacy he wanted. But the look passed quickly, and he nodded, accepting it. “I already texted the front desk. The valet will have it together for you, but let me order you a Lyft so you’re not pedaling home in the dark, yeah?”
“Don’t worry, I can...” She chuckled nervously, and for some crazy reason told him the truth. “Actually, I’d really appreciate that. If you don’t mind.”
To her consternation, his smile made a reappearance, and he looked relieved as he swiped her Batphone. “Of course not. Anytime.”
“I just don’t want to be a leech.”
He snorted like that was hilarious as he tapped away at the screen. “You’re not even close.” His dry tone said he had some experience with being used. “Enter the address. Account’s set up.”
He handed her the phone back, and she looked around them again with a more critical eye. He was awfully generous, making it too easy for people to take advantage of him. A shot of protectiveness made her jaw clench. Anybody who saw the world through his rosy glasses—for Pete’s sake, he trusted her enough to finance a partnership, and they’d met on Monday—needed somebody to watch out for him.
With a wink, he gave her that brilliant grin that said he was up to no good in ways that only someone with a firm safety net could risk.
Maybe it was inevitable that he’d panic or get bored or something would change his mind and he’d pull up stakes. No, not maybe. Eventually everybody moved on; that was the way life worked. As her heart fluttered a little too much at his devil-may-care smile, though, she realized as long as he was here, she’d be part of that safety net, ready to catch him so he could keep that smile. “You’re a mess,” was all she said.
His face pinched as he walked her to the door. “Not that I disagree in general, but because I got you a rideshare?”
She couldn’t help laughing at that. “Yeah. Because you got me a rideshare. And an apartment and a phone and a laptop. You know I may come here on the regular for the free coffee, right?” Which was a lie because her dorm had free coffee. Not as good, but free was free.
“Whatever it takes, mi diosita,” he said with mock seriousness.
Chapter 16
THE NEXT DAY, GISELLE sat in the passenger seat of Rawan’s car, staring at the well-kept double-wide in an upscale trailer park about an hour north of Malverde. Political signs, religious iconography, and flags—both American and Confederate—sprouted like colorful weeds all through the neighborhood, but nowhere were they more audacious or virulent than the Jacksons’ perfectly gardened plat. Her heart raced with memories long since shoved into the darker crevices of her mind as she wondered what—if anything—she might find here.
“You lived there?” Rawan asked in a voice that tried and failed to be neutral as her gaze appeared to land on a statue of a cross with the words “We don’t burn witches” etched into the crossbar. A machine gun strapped across the center clearly stated a quicker alternative to burning them at the stake.
The public knowledge of conduits—a type of witchcraft, according to some—had done nothing to heal the growing divides in America’s cultural landscape.
“A little less than a month. Ellen Jackson is my biological grandmother, and she lives here with her husband, Carter.” When Giselle, as a bewildered kid, had moved into a house with a grandmother and step-grandfather she’d never known existed, Carter had told her that her “real” mom would die in prison, then predicted that Giselle would too. Things had gone downhill from there.
Rawan
whistled like she was trying to be casual while not-so-secretly freaking the fuck out. “And they took you in temporarily because your mother was horribly murdered.”
“They took me in because she was missing. They kicked me out after she was found horribly murdered.”
The horrified look on Rawan’s face would be comical if Giselle wasn’t working so hard not to hyperventilate. Rawan squeezed her hand and held it. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I will never again tease you that Rafael’s music saving your life is a dramatic statement. I’m just glad it did.” Another squeeze.
Giselle swallowed. Think happy thoughts, something that’ll get you moving. “Still up for the party tonight?” Rawan had an invite to a party that, rumor had it, the members of Rage Riot would be at, as they were all in town for the weekend to rehearse for their upcoming tour. As a roommate par excellence, Rawan had offered to take Giselle.
“Of course! Just gotta make it through this, and then we go home and make sure you look so gorgeous Señor Marquez can’t keep his eyes off you. So let’s get this done!”
Giselle’s cheeks heated. Like Rafael, who could have literally any woman, would look twice at her. But still, partying with him and the rest of the band? Even if she barely—or never—talked to any of them all night, it was an experience she’d never dreamed could be possible.
She just had to make it through this horrible experience first. “Okay. Let’s get this done.”
“You got this! I’m here for you.”
Giselle turned from the house to look at her roommate. They’d only known each other the two weeks since move-in, but when Rawan had caught Giselle researching bus routes to Sinton—there were none—she’d immediately offered to waste her own Saturday driving Giselle an hour away. While that’d seemed like a bad idea, what with the whole acolyte thing, it wasn’t like Giselle could get there on her bike. Luckily, Rawan hadn’t even asked why she needed a lift into the middle of nowhere until they were almost halfway there, giving Giselle plenty of time to formulate a plausible answer. “You really may be the best roommate ever.”