by Jax Garren
“I’m not used to talking about myself. But if you really want, I can come up with something to tell next time.”
He nodded happily. “I’d really like that. Whatever you want. I’m not asking you to dredge up awful memories or anything. Just something about you—like, uh, the best birthday you had. Or your favorite class in school. Or...” Could he ask about places she’d lived? That was her reality, so he decided to go for it. “The weirdest family you lived with.”
That made her smile, and he released a breath. “That’s easy. Fifth grade. The family was also a cat shelter. They had nine foster kids and over twenty cats.” Her smile turned nostalgic. “I really liked it there. The fosters were annoying—they made it pretty obvious they took us in to fund their cat rescue operation—but there was always a kitty to rub your face in when you were having a bad day. There was one, Skimbleshanks, this bobtailed calico that I wanted to take with me when I left, but”—she shrugged—“can’t have a pet as a foster.” She dragged her water to her, sucking it down like she was suddenly nervous. “Does that count as a story about me?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. Tell me more!”
“A lot of them end with, ‘but I couldn’t because I’m a foster kid.’ You gonna handle that without getting all sympathy-faced weirdo on me?”
“I promise.” He held up his pinky finger.
She smiled shyly and took it. “I’ll try to come up with something for next time I see you.”
“Man, you don’t have to work so hard to get me to talk about myself.”
She smirked at him. “I bet it’s your favorite topic.”
He couldn’t stop the affection he knew was in his eyes. “Second favorite.”
The speakers cut off as a band began to warm up near them. Energy surged through him as Huehue practically whined inside his head to join the music.
Micheladas and two half-empty bottles of beer slid onto the table with a smile from one of the servers. Rafael winked at her, got a giggle, and turned back to Freyja. “How’s Bryn?”
“With Ande still. I talked to her briefly. She’s going to stay there for a while, at least until she’s a little more stable.”
Rafael picked up his drink and tipped it toward her. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, but that one’s for you.” He said something he normally wouldn’t. “So you should try it.”
She pulled the mug, rimmed with chili salt, toward her with a dubious expression. “What’s in it?”
“Beer, lime juice, hot sauce... other things.”
Her eyebrows shot up suspiciously. “Other things?”
“I don’t know how they make them here. There’re a variety of ways.” He took a sip and sighed in relief at the taste of a Texas michelada. “They don’t make these right in—” He’d almost said New York. “Other places.”
Looking worried, she took a tiny sip, then put the concoction down and looked at it. “That’s, uh, pretty good.” She put her hands flat on the table. “How much alcohol is in it?”
He pointed to the half-empty beer beside her. “The remainder of that.”
“And what else?”
“That’s it. You have to work hard to get tipsy on these.”
She looked between her beer and the drink like she was making a tough call, then finally pushed the beer over to him. “You can have this.” The michelada she pulled tightly back to her, cradling it in her hands like she was quite pleased with herself. Then she took another sip. “That tastes so weird!”
“I can tell by your smile that you hate it.”
All the fingers in her left hand except the center one folded away as she took her next drink. He chuckled at her friendly petulance and was rewarded with another shy grin. “We have things to discuss.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, enjoying just hanging out with her. “You want to bring Bryn over to the lair? Get her away from Ande?” That made her smile disappear real fast. He leaned over and rubbed her hand. “Sorry to—”
“No, it’s a sweet offer. But I don’t know how to take care of her. I feel like I should. I’m her daughter; she took care of me.”
“But you’re nineteen and not a trained psychiatrist, which is what she really needs.”
“Was she horrible that first night?”
“Not at all. She was... difficult at first, but then I calmed down and she calmed down. I was panicked about leaving you with them, and she seemed to pick up on that.” He went ahead and told her the whole story of his night with Bryn, making it as lighthearted as possible.
Despite his joking tone, Freyja chewed the edge of her thumb, eyes wide in horror. “So... my mother stripped in front of you, force-fed you applesauce, and set the motel room on fire.”
He shrugged and shot her a silly expression. “Yeah, that accurately sums up the beginning of our acquaintance.”
She stared at the table for a moment, hand covering her eyes, her mouth twitching like she couldn’t figure out if she should be laughing or crying.
He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, trying to get the smile back. “It’s cool. I appreciate people who can get rowdy. Bryn and I were instant BFFs.”
Freyja glanced up at him through her lashes, looking embarrassed and grateful. “Thank you.” She squeezed his fingers back.
“So how did you spend that night? I bet it was less entertaining.”
She told him what had happened at the military base—and how they had a new Nemain to worry about. Thanks, Ande...
Somewhere in there the food arrived, and he was pleased to see Freyja dive in with gusto. Finally they came to the important part. “So, who’s in the gang?” he asked.
“The...?” she asked him quizzically.
“Sekhmet? Osiris? Bryn? I’ve been assuming we’ll bring them in, but I wanted to check with you.” He sopped up mole with a tortilla. “We should have an official initiation ceremony.”
She stared at him like he was speaking crazy. “We’re barely partners, and you want to initiate more people?”
“Is that offense in your tone?” he teased but studied her face to see if that might be the case. He’d kinda miss it just being the two of them.
“No.”
A spot of red sauce at the corner of her mouth caught his attention. Without asking permission, he swiped it off with his thumb. Her eyes widened, like he’d startled her, but she didn’t back up, didn’t put her fists up.
“I’m making a mess, I take it?” she asked, her ears turning pink.
He licked his thumb. “I like your mess.” Leaning in, he waited for her to look at him. “It’s not that I don’t like working with just you—I do. But we’ve got Macha, if they ever de-frog her, and whatever else Fort Mitchell can cook up, as well as these demons that keep cropping up... Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you one came after me already.”
Her eyes widened. “But you’re okay?”
She looked him over as if shocked he’d survived, and he frowned at her. “No, you’re talking to a ghost.” He huffed. “Don’t look so flabbergasted that I beat something.” With help. But he’d pulled the trigger.
“I got attacked, too—with other people around. I had to be all”—her voice turned stilted—“‘This is so weird! What are these?’” She shook her head. “I’m so not an actress.”
Her acting didn’t concern him—the people she’d been with were probably too freaked out to notice. What bothered him was—“I won your exit fair and square! Deal-breaking goddess. But note me not acting shocked you’re still alive.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Deepest apologies. You are a bastion of strength and manly virtue.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, the point is, these problems we’re facing aren’t small.”
She looked away, worry creasing her face. “Ishtar escaping,” she said in a tiny voice.
He squeezed her hand again. “I just think having more of us is a good idea. Sekhmet, you know her pretty well, right? You sent her with a message to me.”
“She
should be in. Sha—Osiris, I mean, did he actually head to Nigeria?”
“Yeah. But I think we’ll hear from him again. He’s still got Osiris but said he’ll bring it back when he has Osoosi.”
“Sure, if he doesn’t get himself killed.” Shawn had surprised everyone back in Shiraz when he’d announced he wasn’t coming back—that it had been a mistake to send someone else after what he wanted.
“I think he needs to prove to himself that he can earn it.”
“I didn’t earn mine.” Freyja shook her head, and the worry cleared from her face as if by force. “You know, Ande was going to give him Huehuecoyotl.”
Shawn might be brilliant, but the idea of that prudish nerd with Rafael’s godstone was insulting. Or hilarious. Both? He sneered. “They wouldn’t have gotten along.”
To his relief, Freyja chuckled. “Yeah, I can’t see him as, well, as you.”
“Damn straight.”
“He actually thinks shit through before running off half-cocked.”
It was his turn to flip her off, which made her laugh. “So we bring in Sekhmet, wait and see on the conduit formerly known as Osiris, and deal with Bryn when she’s better.” He leaned back in his seat, full and happy. “I know she’s older, but she’s clever and going to be a great asset. Having her in Kur was a lifesaver.”
“Having all of you there was a lifesaver.” Freyja stole a piece of meat off his plate. “This is not the poblano sauce.”
He took the opportunity to swipe a bite of chicken from her plate and held his fork up. “Daily special. Thought I’d give it a try.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie... She grinned like he was silly, but she clicked her fork with his, a meat cheers, before they ate each other’s food.
“Oh my gods, that’s good,” she said, then stole another bite.
The lively music kept going, but the vocals stalled out as the lead singer, who’d been sporting near-laryngitis the whole set, finally gave into the hacking cough that’d clearly been paining his throat. Rafael gave a shudder. “Dude needs to quit trying.”
He peeked around the palm to find the poor guy coughing into his arm as he tried to keep up with his bandmates despite his pale face and sweating brow. Allergies? Summer cold? Whatever, he shouldn’t be playing. And Huehue was chomping at the bit.
Giving in, Rafael stood up. “I have rescuing to do.”
“What?” Freyja looked suddenly alarmed. “What are you—people will see you!”
“These abs were not meant to hide in a corner.” He picked up his drum, and to his pleasant surprise, it morphed itself into a bajo sexto. He looked down at the guitar-like instrument that he’d played in high school but hadn’t touched in almost two years.
He’d make it work—at least it wasn’t an ocarina. Whatever. Huehue wanted to play. He pointed the neck up at the sky. “A little help wouldn’t go amiss here.”
Like a total jackass, he walked straight up to the band, who looked at him with leery expressions. He started singing the lyrics to the classic song they were playing as he pulled out a chair for the man who needed to sit before he fell over.
Eyes wide, the lead singer did indeed sit. Rafael strummed the bajo sexto, getting into the groove of the song, and like magic the chords came back to him, his fingers treading old territory like they’d never stopped. The crowd, who’d been mostly just enjoying their food, started to pay attention to the band as whispers and a few whistles sounded throughout the building.
Huehue was thrilled. Hell, Rafael was thrilled. He squeezed as much Latino influence into his music as his mainstream label let him get away with—something you could barely tell by the end of postproduction. But here he could just have fun singing beautiful music to a crowd who loved it as much as he did.
Chapter 26
ONCE AGAIN, GISELLE blinked at her partner, who was, frankly, rocking the front of the restaurant. She had no idea what the music was or what he was singing about, but he strummed his funny-looking guitar and crooned like a Latino Sinatra.
She narrowed her eyes, wishing she’d heard him play the Rage Riot song in Kur, because, damn, she’d been completely wrong about his voice.
No, wishing Coyote was Rafael wasn’t going to turn the man who wanted her into the man she wanted.
Checking the door for signs of law enforcement, she drank the last of her michelada and considered ordering a second—they were really good—but immediately rejected that idea. She had to keep her head on her shoulders.
Instead, she pulled out her phone and checked social media to continue catching up on what she’d missed while she was in Iran. She itched to post pictures of the amazing adventures she’d had across the ocean—including the crazy plane flight. Most people she’d grown up with were posting drunk parties and their first baby. Giselle’s accounts were all planner art and a few selfies of college—low-key, nerdy little bits of a boring life.
Furtively checking around, she swiped to a different account, one with all the safeguards in place she could put up. One photo of the moon over the desert, one of the salt caves, one of the plane. A life she couldn’t believe she got to live. Coyote seemed to think they should be more public. She thought being more public was a terrible idea, but these little bits of herself—the successful, cool, adventurous parts—she couldn’t help sharing with the void on an anonymous account and letting them vanish into the ether twenty-four hours later. It was stupid, almost like posting a fantasy life, but few things gave her so much pride.
Done with that vanity, she flipped back to her regular account and scrolled. EJ, her ex, continued to vacillate between begging her to see him and being an asshole—delete that mess. Sadie, a friend from middle school she’d managed to keep up with online, had just had her second baby, this one with a new baby daddy—but this time it was real love, of course. Ugh... She’d try to knit up booties and get them in the mail.
Ariana, a harcore mean girl from the group home, had posted a video to the group chat they’d set up a long time ago as a warning system for trouble. Most people on it had moved on, and the timeline was empty, aside from Ariana’s video. Giselle almost skimmed past it—that wasn’t her life anymore—but intuition or something made her plug in her earphones and watch.
A grainy screen came up that didn’t show the sterile chaos of Holy Book, where they’d lived, just a tiny room with a washer and dryer and assorted clutter. Ariana’s terrified eyes shone stark white in the darkness as she lay curled up on the floor. “They don’t know I got my phone still. Y’all, I need someone to come get me. I messed up big this time.”
Giselle checked the time stamp—just a couple hours ago.
A gunshot, and Ariana screamed, looking up. “Get me out!”
Light flooded the room, and she started sobbing before the video cut out.
A chill passed over Giselle. She looked up the location on the phone, and—thank heavens—was able to pinpoint a location in Corpus Christi, about an hour east.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. Ariana had run away twice in the time Giselle had lived there, always talking about her new boyfriends and how they were going to give her a better life. The girl had shitty decisions down to a science.
She’d also grown up, rumor had it, with a mom who’d started trading her for drugs when she was something like seven. Weird how that could give a girl a deranged worldview.
It only took a few seconds to flag down Mercedes. “Can I get the check? I have to go.”
“Then go.” Mercedes held out her hand like Giselle should just walk out the door.
“No, to pay. I may take him with me. Not sure.” She thumbed toward Coyote, who was so intent on crooning that he hadn’t noticed her yet. Her instinct was to leave him be to have fun singing. But she’d pissed him off so badly by going to Kur without him she should probably at least tell him what she was doing.
See, she could learn.
To her nervous shock, the woman put a hand on her cheek in an affectionate, not-at-all-a-slap way, and Giselle had to stop hers
elf from bringing up her fists. “You eat here whenever you want. Every day. It’s fine. You saved my niece. I owe you more than food.”
“Oh... uh, I’m, uh...” Between the affection and the uncomfortable praise, Giselle didn’t know what to do other than duck her head and blush furiously.
“I’ll pack you two up a slice of tres leches for the road. Just be a moment.” She hustled back to the kitchen.
Giselle dug in her pocket for cash and threw a five and some ones on the table, unsure what sort of tip she should leave—she’d never even seen a menu. At that point, Coyote finally caught her eye. She pointed at her phone and then the door, hoping to convey “Gotta go.”
He nodded and shot her a stern look that she interpreted as “Don’t you fucking leave without me” before he gave the band a giant nod and said to the audience, “It’s been great!” without actually finishing the song.
Nothing a lot of random strumming wouldn’t settle out, or so he seemed to think as he jammed a bunch of chords and started bowing. The band behind him wound to an awkward close as he marched across the restaurant to enthusiastic applause, blowing kisses and taking high fives as he went. He dropped a bill of his own on the table—probably something a lot better than she had—and grabbed her hand to wind them through his new fans, this time boldly but idiotically exiting out the front.
When they got back outside, he gave her a giant smile.
“You were quite the mariachi. Good job.” She let herself sound condescending, even if she had been impressed. The last thing Coyote needed was a bigger ego.
His smile dissolved into disbelief. “That wasn’t mariachi music. Don’t you know anything?”
She pointed to her pale forearm.
“But are you a Texan?” he asked.
Before she could respond, Mercedes showed up with a Styrofoam box large enough to hold half a cake.
“Gracias por todo,” Coyote told her affectionately as he grabbed the container.