by Reinke, Sara
“This is the wayob,” Pilar said, lifting the small, rotund figure with a gentle sort of reverence. “They visited my ancestors in the form of jaguars, and gave us the gifts of their speed and strength, their long lives.” Glancing up at Lina, she managed a weak smile. “That’s what my father used to tell us, anyway. He also used to say this statue was carved by the Mayans over a thousand years ago.” When Lina’s eyes widened, she added quickly, “I don’t know if that’s true. It could just be bullshit. My papí liked to tell stories, play practical jokes…” Her voice faltered, growing strained, and she looked away for a long moment. When she again met Lina’s gaze, her expression was solemn. “Whatever this thing is, my father died to keep it away from Tejano Cervantes.”
“What do you mean?” Lina asked quietly.
“I was there, in the garage, on the night Pepe Cervantes murdered him. I heard them asking him about this. About the wayob.” After a long, hesitant moment, she added softly, “Pepe and his crew…they raped me.”
Startled, Lina shook her head. “What?”
Pilar’s eyes had grown suddenly glossy in the lamp light, and when she blinked, Lina realized she was fighting back tears. “They all took turns…right there, in front of Papi. They made him watch. They wanted to know where the wayob was. But he wouldn’t tell them. So they killed him.”
Oh, my God, Lina thought. In that moment, as she watched the younger woman struggle proudly not to cry, she found she could no longer hate Pilar. Unable to speak, unsure what to say even if she could summon her voice, Lina went to Pilar, kneeling on the floor in front of her.
“I…I just…” she began clumsily. “Jesus, Pilar, I’m sorry.” Stiffly, she drew the younger woman into an embrace, and after a moment’s resistance, Pilar leaned forward, resting her forehead against Lina’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Lina whispered again, feeling Pilar tremble against her. She heard a soft hiccup, then a sniffle, and stroked her hand against Pilar’s thick, dark hair. “I…I’m so sorry, Pilar.”
They huddled together like that for a long moment, and when Pilar sat back, swatting at her cheeks, more smearing her tears all over her face than wiping them away, she held the wayob statue out between them like some kind of peace offering.
“Does Elías know?” Lina asked, and Pilar nodded, pressing her lips together in a thin line.
“Sí. No one else does, not even Valien or my mother. But I told Elías everything.”
“Even about this?” Lina asked, looking down at the statue. It was a hideous thing, with bulging eyes and sharp, cragged teeth.
Pilar nodded again. “Papi used to keep this in the wall safe at the garage,” she said. “It was there the night Pepe came.”
He could have stopped it, then. Aghast, Lina realized Pilar’s unspoken inference. Her father knew why they were there—he could have stopped them, saved himself…saved Pilar. But he didn’t.
“What’s so important about this statue?” she asked. “Do you know? Why would your father have wanted to protect it so badly?”
Why would he have let them do that to you?
Pilar shook her head. “I don’t know. Valien said it was because the wayob represents our corillo, and with it, Tejano could prove his dominance.”
That theory didn’t hold much water to Lina, though. She’d never been close to her own father, who had left when she’d been less than a year old, but she’d understood from Jackson that the Cadana family was tight-knit and fiercely devoted. She couldn’t fathom the idea that the patriarch of such a family—Pilar’s father—could have ever stood by, idle and mute, while his only daughter had been assaulted so brutally. Not over something as ridiculous as dominance.
Not even Augustus could be that heartless and cruel.
“Valien’s kept the wayob hidden at home since Papi died,” Pilar said. “But now…after what happened to Téo…” Her voice faltered and she shook her head.
“You said Téo talked,” Lina said, and Pilar nodded. “Did he send a message to Valien from Tejano…or whoever you think Tejano is working for?”
Pilar nodded again.
Elías was right, Lina thought. Tejano let Téo live so he could get a message to Valien—a message about that statue.
“I don’t know what Téo said,” Pilar said. “Not for sure.”
Lina read the unspoken inference. “You think they offered Valien a deal.”
“Sí. Valien would do anything to protect us. They must have promised to let us live, maybe to even keep our corillo in peace.”
“But only if you give Tejano the wayob,” Lina said.
“I can’t let Valien do that,” Pilar whispered. “I can’t let my father’s murder…what happened to me…all of this be for nothing. Papi believed whatever this statue really is, it’s important enough to die for. I have to trust that—trust him, even now.” Reaching out, she practically shoved the wayob into Lina’s hands. “And you’re the only person I can trust to keep this safe.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lina sat on the couch after Pilar had left, holding the wayob in its little make-shift swaddling in her lap.
What the hell is this thing? she wondered. And what the hell am I going to do with it?
Her cell phone, which she’d placed on the coffee table in front of her, began to ring, startling a soft yelp from her. She had to laugh sheepishly as she reached for it. Jesus, now she was acting as nervous as Pilar had been, as if at any moment, she expected armed members from Tejano’s gang—or whoever was the “real El Jefazo,” as Pilar had put it—to come busting in through any and all available doors and windows, ready to snatch the statue right out of her hands.
She didn’t recognize the number on her caller ID, and her smile faltered as she answered the line. “Hello?”
“Hello, Detective. Lieutenant Fairfax passed your number on to me. I hope I’m not disturbing you…?”
“I…uh…Agent Simms,” she stammered. Lina glanced down at the statue in her lap, then gathered it hurriedly, shoving it and the surrounding wad of towels back into the shoebox. “What a…what a surprise. No, you’re not disturbing me at all. What can I do for you?”
She slapped the lid back on the box, then stood, cradling it against her hip with her free hand while she considered where to put it. In her mother’s closet or beneath the bed seemed too obvious, but the TV stand had a small cabinet area beneath it, designed to store DVDs or blue-ray disks.
“I just…” he began, but his voice grew hesitant. “What I mean, is…I wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight. At Pablo’s, I mean.”
“The purely professional not-date at nine o’clock?” Kneeling in front of the TV, she opened the cabinet base and stuffed the shoebox inside, resting it on top of Latisha’s copies of It’s A Wonderful Life and How Stella Got Her Groove Back. “Yes, we’re still on.”
“Oh.” Marcus sounded genuinely pleased. “Great, then. I’m just getting ready to sign in for my teleconference with the home office.” He said something else, but her doorbell rang for the second time in as many hours, and she missed it.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked with a marked frown as she walked toward the front door.
“I said I’ll see you then,” he said, the tone of his voice hinting at a smile.
The doorbell chimed again, as if whoever was outside grew impatient at waiting. Lina’s frown deepened. I agreed to babysit your goddamn statue for you, Pilar, she thought, aggravated, as she reached for the knob. That doesn’t mean we’re BFFs now or anything…
The thought trailed off, open-ended in her mind, as she opened the door. If Pilar had been the last person she’d expected to find on her doorstep earlier that evening, then she now found herself faced with the second-to-the-last.
“Angelina,” Augustus offered tersely with a perfunctory sort of nod. Even dressed casually as he was, in blue jeans and a button-down shirt, the cuffs turned back to the elbows, there was something intimidating and darkly imposing about the man, someth
ing that made her shy back a reflexive step. “I’m looking for Brandon. I’m hoping you might know where I can find him.”
* * *
Frowning, Lina pulled her cell phone out, watching nervously as Augustus strolled around her mother’s living room. He had the languid stride of a panther pacing the boundaries of its enclosure, his hands clasped lightly against the small of his spine, his expression unreadable, or perhaps slightly aloof.
She hadn’t had the courage yet to delete Brandon’s number from her contacts list, and called it up now, typing in a quick text message: It’s Lina. I need to talk to you. It’s important. Please reply.
She thumbed the “send” button and waited. Within moments, the phone vibrated furiously against her palm, and she jumped in surprise at his speedy response. For a moment, she felt a glimmer of hope—that he’d seen her message and responded so quickly because he still loved her. But then she saw the words message undeliverable on her touch screen.
Had he blocked her calls?
Her frown deepening, she punched his number again, this time calling the line. Brandon was deaf; he wouldn’t hear the ringtone, but he kept it set to vibrate to alert him whenever he had new text messages—the better for that son of a bitch to keep his leash on Brandon tight, Lina thought with a glare directed at the back of Augustus’s head.
Brandon always kept his phone on, and always carried it with him, thus Lina felt bewildered and more than a little dismayed when her call rolled straight over to the phone’s default voice mail greeting. Obviously Brandon hadn’t set up a voice mailbox, so there was no option for leaving him a message, but the fact that she hadn’t even heard the line ring before the voice mail had engaged suggested Brandon had either turned his phone off, or disconnected the line entirely.
She couldn’t imagine that he’d block her calls deliberately so that she couldn’t reach him, no matter how hurt or angry he felt at their break-up. But if he’d changed his number so that she couldn’t reach him, there was no way in hell he’d have done so without letting Augustus know.
Then what the hell is going on? she wondered.
Opening her contact list, she texted another number—Jackson’s—even though she wasn’t sure she’d get much, if anything, by way of response from him, either.
9-1-1, she typed. That was their personal text message lingo for Hey Jackie, I need to talk to you ASAP. During Latisha’s ongoing struggle with breast cancer, it was a code she and Jackson had agreed on when relaying critical information to one another.
She hadn’t talked to her brother since he’d moved out of Latisha’s house. He’d been Brandon’s private tutor years ago in Kentucky, and still regarded the younger man as fondly as he would have any brother, so she figured if anyone knew how to get in touch with Brandon, it would be Jackie.
What’s up? he replied.
Brandon’s sister, Tessa, called me, she typed. She’s been trying to reach him and can’t. She’s really worried. Do you know where he is?
She hated to lie, goddamn it, but couldn’t see any other choice. Jackson wouldn’t willingly give her any information on Brandon or his whereabouts otherwise. He blamed her for Brandon’s abrupt departure, not because he was aware of their relationship—he’d never speak to her again if he learned of that—but because he figured Brandon was just as pissed as he was about her rejoining the police force.
After a moment in which she matched Augustus pace-for-pace across the living room, Jackson replied.
He lost his phone helping me move, he said, and Lina heaved a sigh, relieved to learn Brandon wasn’t deliberately avoiding contact with her. I’m not home right now but I’ll let him use my phone when I get back to the apartment so he can send her a message.
Usually in his texts, he’d refer to her as Scarecrow at least once, and it would grate on her last nerve. It was his nickname for her from childhood, one he’d made up because he liked to tease her by saying her arms and legs were as skinny and scrawny as a scarecrow’s. But he didn’t this time—or say good-bye, either—and she felt a pang of sorrow because she knew he was still pissed at her.
He’d be even more pissed if he knew what I’m about to do, she thought unhappily. Turning to face Augustus, she said, “I just talked to my brother and he said Brandon lost his phone. They’re staying together at an apartment upstairs, above a garage one of Jackie’s friends own. Brandon misplaced his phone during the move. But he’s fine, Jackie said. I can give you the address, if you’d like.”
“That would be appreciated, yes,” Augustus murmured, tipping his head once in an acknowledging nod as he paused to look at a framed photo on the wall, a picture of Lina and Jackson when they’d both been teen-agers.
Lina ducked into the kitchen and dug through her mother’s junk drawer, trying to find a pen and a scratch pad. “So, uh…I’m sorry you came all of this way for nothing.” She scribbled down the address to Valien’s shop as fast as she could and brought it to him, holding it out in her hand. “I…uh…I’m sure Brandon will feel bad about it, too.”
“Thank you.” Augustus slipped the note from her hand, awarded it a perfunctory glance, and tucked it in the breast pocket of his shirt. He stood near the coffee table now—where Lina realized she’d left the pile of Latisha’s medical bills, most of which were prominently marked with the words PAST DUE in large, bold print.
Stifling an inward groan—because she did not want Augustus Noble of all people aware of her family’s financial woes—she darted forward, positioning herself deliberately between him and the coffee table, blocking his immediate view. “I’d, uh, take you over there myself, show you the way, but I…kind of have plans tonight,” she told him—another not-so-subtle hint.
“That’s alright.” Augustus smiled at her, thin and courteous. “I’m sure I can find it. Thank you for your time, Angelina.”
She side-stepped, herding him toward the front door. She nearly got him there, too, but then he paused, turning to face her again, and she stifled an inward grimace.
“I thought you should know—Michel Morin is dead.”
She blinked. “What?”
He nodded. “He was murdered.”
Her mouth felt suddenly tacky and dry. She’d liked Michel, goddamn it. As arrogant and infuriating as Augustus could be, his best friend had been the polar opposite. Welcoming to Lina, friendly and kindhearted, he’d been the sort of man she had taken a shine to immediately. Michel had also been the one to explain the Brethren concepts of breeding mates and pair bonds to her—how some humans and Brethren were inexplicably, irresistibly drawn to one another, both physically and emotionally, just as other Brethren were naturally predisposed to bond with their own species. He’d hoped to reassure Lina that her relationship with Brandon was secure; that they were a pair-bond couple. But instead, the information had only worked to convince her of the opposite—that they were anything but meant to be.
“Who did it?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
Augustus shook his head. “As of my departure, that had yet to be determined.”
The admittance surprised her. To hear Brandon tell of it, Augustus and Michel were as close as brothers, and had been for hundreds of years. Augustus had helped to smuggle Michel and his family from the Brethren farmlands when the Davenants had tried to murder them by setting their houses ablaze. Michel had returned the favor a hundred years or so later by helping Augustus sneak his wife, Eleanor, off the farm, and treating her for a potentially fatal blood disorder.
Why would Augustus leave Michel’s family—and his own—in California when they must have needed him? she wondered. Could he really have been that worried about Brandon?
“There was a Brethren assassin on the clan grounds at Lake Tahoe,” Augustus said. “His name is Aaron Davenant.”
“Davenant?” Lina said, recognizing the name—and all of the implications that came with it. “He killed Michel?”
“I don’t know. Not with any certainty. He escaped after being cap
tured, and when I left, his whereabouts were unknown. But he’s an extremely dangerous individual…as are all of the Davenants.” Augustus offered her a smile. “You should be safe from all of that now, though. Our affairs no longer concern you…do they?”
With another pointed glance—one she found she was unable to meet, and instead blinked down at her toes, feeling awkward and ashamed—he turned and saw himself to the front door. “Good-bye, Angelina.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brandon stirred, his head pressed against the glass of a passenger-side vehicle window, a vent pointed in his general direction blowing a persistent stream of air-conditioning into his face. His shoulders jerked intermittently, his fingers twitching, his legs still trembling uncontrollably from whatever kind of telepathic blast the man in the shadows had hit him with. He couldn’t move of his own volition, could barely open his eyes a bleary quarter-mast as he sat slumped to the side, held in check and prevented from planting face-first into the dashboard only by the restraining strap of his seatbelt.
He couldn’t turn his head, but through the windshield, he could see the man’s reflection in the dashboard lights. He was on the phone, using one hand to drive and the other to hold his cell phone up to his ear, and Brandon could read his lips through his reflection in the glass.
“…deal with that later, alright? You were paid to do a job, so get it the fuck done.”
Something about the man’s face—his sharp, angular features, the thin line of his mouth, the nearly lucent shade of his eyes—seemed familiar, but in his dazed state of mind, it took Brandon a long moment to remember.
The man in the tuxedo.
On the night of Lamar Davenant’s five hundredth birthday celebration, this had been the man Brandon had followed through the secret passageway behind the wall in the Davenant mansion; the one who had guided Lamar in his wheelchair down to a balcony overlooking the ballroom where he could address his guests.
“…I shouldn’t have to babysit you and your goddamn pack of Russian Army rejects…” the man was saying. His lips fell still, then turned down in a frown. “Russian, Serbian, what the fuck ever. I’ve driven twenty out of the last twenty-four goddamn hours, and I need to get my ass on the road again for another fifteen-hour haul. Needless to say I am not in a goddamn good mood. I’ll deal with Cervantes later.”