Shady Lady

by Ann Aguirre

  If I’d ever wondered whether he was a fully functional man, he put my curiosity to rest with slow hip movements. At some point he had been some woman’s lover. The name sounded old—why didn’t I stop this? I shouldn’t—

  Oh.

  His lips traced over the side of my throat, tasting the blood the demon had drawn. “Who hurt you, dādu? I will bring you his heart.” He nuzzled my ear, whispering in a language I didn’t recognize. “Ana dadika.”

  Even knowing he held another woman in his mind, I couldn’t pull free. I told myself I didn’t want to fight him; there was no telling what new hallucination resistance would summon. Slowly I grew conscious of my nakedness and that there could be people watching us. He wouldn’t thank me if I let him sweep me into the delusion.

  “Kel,” I whispered.

  His hands wandered, exploring me from shoulder to hip and back again. His tats blazed until they burned against my skin. He bit down on the curve of my ear. “Say it again.”

  “Kel.”

  “It’s been so long. So long since I touched you.”

  I exhaled slowly. If he moved or I did, protest would be moot. Already I could barely remember why I didn’t want to do this.

  “Look at me. I’m not Asherah.”

  Finally, the silver shine faded from his eyes. I could tell the moment he recognized me. But his desire didn’t vanish; since we were naked, I would’ve been humiliated if it had. Instead his longing gained layers. His gaze carried eternity, the weight of loneliness, and something unfamiliar. I only knew that I had never seen that expression in anyone before.

  “Binder,” he breathed. Dimly, I remembered Caim using that word. “You called me back. You gave me your breath.”

  “You needed it.”

  “I need this.” He shifted his hips as if asking a question.

  I didn’t ask why. In truth, I needed it too. No promises, just relief and the keen, knife-edged moment. I needed to wipe away the horror handling the demon’s harness had left behind.

  He lowered his head, and this time he kissed me. His lips felt fevered against mine, faintly flavored with my blood. It did not revolt me, only offered a coppery tinge, and then it was more, a kiss that took my breath and gave it back. Heat rose from his body like sunlight on crystal and quartz.

  “This creates energy,” he whispered into my throat. “I can use it to drive off that cursed sleep. I can’t leave you unguarded now.”

  I didn’t care about his reasons. I just wanted him. It was enough that he knew who I was. In answer, I wound my legs around his hips. I didn’t care how many people might be watching from the shadows. Let them think we were pagans or devils.

  He filled me with divine heat in one smooth motion, and I arched. His fingers curled around the rope of my braided hair, tugging my mouth to his. We kissed endlessly, our bodies rocking as one. As the heat amplified and his motions quickened, his tats shone brighter. I could feel them on my skin like starbursts.

  “Corine,” he murmured. “Binder. Thank you.”

  Kelethiel, son of Uriel and Vashti, I whispered back soundlessly. Thank you.

  His face struck me as reverent, as if we shared more than our bodies, as if for him, this counted as both prayer and ritual. I responded, letting the sweet glow carry me higher. Sheer intensity ratcheted my need to ferocious levels, and I lost myself in him, bucking and whimpering against his lips. When he came, the sigils on his skin lit in unison, bright and pure and powerful. Answering energy burned out of me like a meteor and fell into his skin. When the glow dimmed and died, there were no new marks on him. No dried blood. Just the old scars. With my fingertips, I found the place where once wings had grown. He shuddered beneath my light touch.

  “Will you get in trouble?” I asked.

  His head rested in the curve of my shoulder. He did not move. “For what?”

  “I just assumed . . .”

  His lips lifted against my skin; he was smiling. “I’m not celibate by vow. . . . The rules of your religions do not come from us. We are older than your writings.”

  I felt impossibly young and inexperienced beside him, yet safer than I ever had. “Oh. Well, I’m sure you—”

  He put a finger on my lips. “I needed to share that with you . . . for many reasons. To fuel my healing, as I said . . . but that’s not the only reason.”

  “There’s more?” Please, let it be something good. I needed to hear it, even if there were no promises. I didn’t ask for those . . . just a memory of his voice in the dark.

  “You called me back from the pit and asked nothing in return. I know of no other way to express . . . no deeper—” Words failed him then.

  “I get it.”

  Maybe it seemed strange, but I believed we’d performed some ancient rite, and it also served as a way for him to say, Thank you, and I care. We said with our bodies what we could never speak out loud.

  He went on. “Ordinarily . . . I abstain. It is unfair to share such intimacy when I can never stay. And I have spoken too many good-byes.”

  That addressed his longevity, but it was more too. The moment they ordered him elsewhere, he would go. That much I knew. It hurt, but it wasn’t an impossible pain. Instead I felt lucky to have this moment; despite everything, I felt perfectly balanced.

  “Who was Asherah?”

  Behind his eyes, oceans of sorrow rose and fell in moontouched waves. “Someone I loved and lost, long ago.”

  That was no answer, but I didn’t press. I hadn’t earned his secrets, even if he was crushing me into the ground, draped over me like a blanket. I hesitated to complain; once he moved away, the moment would become a memory. So I asked something else.

  “What does ana dadika mean?” I butchered the pronunciation, but he recognized the phrase.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “You whispered it to me.”

  “Ah,” he said. “It is Babylonian, and it means, I am made for your love.”

  Melancholy washed through me. What wouldn’t I give to have someone say that to me for real? “I’m sorry I’m here instead of her.”

  One big hand curved against my cheek. “I’m not.”

  My breath caught. Fresh yearning rose and he didn’t try to hide it from me. This time we had no excuse, not even a thin one. We did it again because we wanted to.

  The End Is the Beginning Is the End

  At daybreak we dressed in clean underwear, filthy clothes, and our hiking boots. The village remained unnaturally quiet. I sensed people watching us through their windows and sometimes I caught movement in my peripheral vision, but when I turned, I saw only closing doors. A few children were bold enough to stare out the windows, but their parents swiftly pulled them away and closed the curtains against us.

  The silent message was clear: They weren’t coming out until we were gone. Based on the events of the night before, I understood their caution. Only the churned earth and faint, lingering smell gave a hint what had happened here. Maybe in a few days’ time, this would seem like a collective hallucination, and they’d start to forget. Today, the silent treatment proved a pain in the ass, and I didn’t look forward to more walking, but we wouldn’t receive further assistance. I was glad, however, that none of the villagers had come to harm because of me; I didn’t think I could stand more innocent blood on my conscience.

  I ate the last of the protein bars and drew some water from the public well. With a philosophical shrug, I filled my bottle, and Kel did the same. The parasites might bother me, but we needed to keep moving. If we lingered here too long, Montoya’s sorcerer might send something else, something worse, though that defied imagination. Since I hadn’t known demons could be summoned in corporeal form, there was no telling what gruesome surprises lay in store.

  In silence, I led the way toward the church, intending to ask the priest for directions, but the doors were closed, and he didn’t respond to my tentative knock. I glanced up at Kel, who said, “The best thing we can do is move along.”

&n
bsp; Since I agreed, I didn’t argue. Logistics posed a problem, however. “But where?”

  He canted his head while the day brightened around us, as if listening to silent voices. Then he pointed. “That way.”

  “Did your archangel tell you how far it is too?”

  Kel almost smiled. “No. I don’t call him—he calls me.”

  “Oh.” I fell into step beside him. The dirt track led toward gently rising hills. “So what did you do just now?”

  Once, I never would’ve bothered asking, but there was something between us now, even if impossible, ephemeral, and fragile as spider silk. He waited to answer until we had left the village some distance behind. I concentrated on walking.

  “I can . . . ask questions,” he said eventually. “Mine information.”

  “Kind of like a divine Internet?” The concept amused me.

  “A little. But it’s not as comprehensive.” He looked as if he wanted to explain further, but in the end, he chose not to, and I didn’t press.

  The path led toward the mountains in the distance, hulking and dark, wreathed in mist at their peaks, but the way before them lay green and bright. My steps followed a route that looked as though it had been worn by horses and donkey carts. I didn’t think cars had ever been out this way. It would take a helicopter to reach this hidden valley.

  For this last leg of our journey, we had water, but no food. I regulated my sips and kept walking. In the distance eucalyptus groves rose, slim and straight, but far enough that we wouldn’t pass through unless the path turned. Instead we trudged through pampas grass, interspersed with the brightness of coral trees, orchids, dusty ferns, and lady’s slipper. Other plants defied my ability to name them, blooming in a profusion of yellow, scarlet, and shades of pink. The landscape was a study in contrasts: here brown, there green, prickly and delicate by turns. I particularly admired a plant with veined oval leaves and red bell-shaped flowers that hung in a graceful cluster.

  Now and then, Kel slipped off to forage; he found breadfruit, wild potatoes, and a couple of custard apples. The first two needed to be cooked, but we could eat the latter now. As if in response to my thought, he broke one of the apples in half and I took the offering. Inside, the green tuberculated fruit was pale, dotted with dark seeds. I pried those out and tossed them away; then I ate greedily, finding the taste a perfect blend of pineapple, strawberry, and mango. I’d never had anything so good. Using my fingers, I scraped out the last bit and then dropped the skin.

  “There’s another one,” he said, “but we should save it for later.”

  I nodded. After taking a little more water, I had the energy to go on. My muscles burned, and I had bruises and cuts from the confrontation with Caim; I didn’t mention them. Kel might feel compelled to heal me again, and my crazy reaction to his blood sounded worse than bearing the pain.

  Come nightfall, he built a fire and roasted the breadfruit and potatoes on sticks. By that point, I was ravenous, and could hardly wait for the food to cook, let alone cool. I burned my tongue as I ate and didn’t care at all. Insects and birds serenaded through the meal, though the smoke kept the worst of the former away. Kel broke the last custard apple and I devoured it as dessert. The temperature dropped enough for me to be grateful for the sleeping bag after we finished the meal.

  It’s a good thing he didn’t go comatose, I reflected. I would’ve had no way to get out of the village, no way to move him, and the villagers’ animosity would’ve manifested, if Kel had been unconscious. One lone woman wouldn’t seem like a threat with her protector down. If the Peruvian villagers weren’t worrisome enough, failure to move on would’ve earned Montoya’s sorcerer another shot at us. Without him, I wouldn’t know which way to travel or how to find food.

  Even now, he protected me, per his orders, but it was more too. He set his sleeping bag no more than five inches from my own. Part of me wanted a repeat of the night before by crackling firelight, beneath this star-studded sky, though the rest of me knew it would be ludicrously unwise.

  “Will you remember?” I asked into the silence.

  Maybe time fades it. Maybe he won’t. But, I told myself, he recalls Asherah. And there was no telling how long ago he’d lost her. While I awaited his reply, lyrics from an old Sarah McLachlan song ran through my head.

  But Kel knew what I meant, and his answer pierced my heart. “Yes. Always.”

  That was comfort of a sort. Even when I died, as I inevitably must, last night guaranteed me some form of immortality. Silence fell and I closed my eyes.

  In the morning, we had the rest of the breadfruit and potatoes. We walked on.

  Eventually the track widened and went from dirt to rough pavement. Miles farther, I heard the roar of a distant engine. Civilization at last.

  I waved my arms frantically as the rattletrap truck barreled toward us. A raised thumb might not convey the urgency. At first, the driver passed us, and my heart sank, but he slowed and pulled to the shoulder. Without looking at Kel, I summoned the last of my energy and sprinted toward the vehicle.

  A quick conversation and the last of the cash convinced the driver to take us to the nearest city, where he was headed anyway. At his request, we got in back. I didn’t blame him; we smelled pretty rank.

  The trip took most of the day, and the wind whipped my face like mad, but the weather was clear, and by dark, we arrived in Huánuco. This city was big enough that our appearance drew attention in a different way from in the village.

  The streets were narrow, cobbled in places. Many of the homes were adobe, as in Mexico, but there was a faintly Mediterranean influence as well in the open terraces and breezy arches. Stone walls marched up gentle inclines to the market; this was a proper zócalo filled with merchants, artists, and artisans in a beautifully landscaped garden. We didn’t linger there.

  People gave us a wide berth. Not that I cared. I wanted this madness to be over, so I could see my friends again, and then take the next step toward handling Montoya. He’d killed a man I admired and respected, along with Ernesto, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Montoya had nearly slain me twice. I felt hard as I never had before, coolly determined. As long as I had Kel beside me, I feared nothing; I’d come to rely on him more than I cared to admit.

  Outside a tiny convenience store, I found an outdoor outlet for my cell phone. We worked quickly to disable the deterrent measures; then I plugged in and powered it on. It wouldn’t be long before someone caught me and shooed me away. My tired eyes located the street sign—oh, God, it was littered with “Q”s, “L”s, and “A”s, not Spanish. I’d never pronounce it, assuming I could get hold of Escobar.

  He’d put his number in my directory as Efraín. I hit the green button on my keypad and lifted the phone to my ear. It rang three times and then: “Bueno. I trust you have good news for me,” he continued in Spanish.

  I answered in kind, though my mind was slower at translations than I would’ve liked. So damned tired. “I have it. I’m in Huánuco, on . . .” I spelled the street for him and then glanced at the store for the number.

  At that point, the owner stepped onto the walk and started cursing me for stealing his power. The socket had been secured; Kel had snapped the padlock and I’d pried the cap off it, so I couldn’t argue with his outrage, and I had little currency to soothe his distress. My partner in crime overheard.

  “Give him the phone,” Escobar ordered.

  I did as instructed.

  Five minutes later, the owner handed it back with downcast eyes and he hurried back into his shop. I honestly didn’t want to know what Escobar had said or promised. “¿Ahora qué?” I asked. Now what? It was a good question.

  “Wait there for my men,” he answered. “The proprietor has been instructed to offer you food and drink. He will be recompensed.”

  “Hecho,” I said. Which meant, roughly and in short, You have a deal.

  Since, after that, I had permission to use the outlet, I sent texts to both Jesse and Shannon. I did
n’t feel up to long phone conversations with either of them. Doubtless Chuch and Eva would want to hear my story too, so apart from my low-ebbing energy, I was also being practical.

  Kel stepped into the shop, and when he returned, he carried a small bag. He produced tortas wrapped in waxed paper, and two icy orange sodas. A few moments later, the owner brought us a couple of rickety chairs. Clearly he wanted us gone but he also didn’t want trouble. He set them down with a muttered imprecation, well outside the store. I sat down gratefully as the day died around us.

  We ate in silence, but I could finish only half of my sandwich. I gave the rest to Kel, and downed the Fanta in a thirsty rush. I ached from head to toe. By the time we finished and balled up our trash, a dark town car was pulling up to the curb. Two men in black got out. Since it was nearly dark, they didn’t wear shades, but their impassive expressions matched what I had come to expect in minions.

  One of them went into the store to settle our account; the other waved us into the backseat of the vehicle. They drove us to an airfield an hour outside the city, and soon, we were in the air. Thank all gods and goddesses this was nearly done. I’d had enough of playing this man’s game, and I badly wanted some return on my time and trouble.

  The flight was long, and we stopped once to refuel—I didn’t know where. Kel and I stayed on the plane. He was so quiet it troubled me, but I could find no way to inquire. At the second takeoff, he surprised me by curling his fingers through mine.

  “You don’t like to fly?” I guessed.

  His mouth turned down ever so slightly. “Not like this.”

  Ah. I understood. I wished I didn’t. In my mind’s eye, I saw scars, not wounds he’d taken fighting, but those inflicted while he knelt bound and unable to resist. The amputation of his wings had been a punishment for some transgression; I knew that much. The demon had hinted that the archangels abused him both because of his human mother and his own disobedience. How much of that was true? He hadn’t denied anything, as I recalled, except the idea that desire required penance.