Shady Lady

  “Something to drink?” she asked.

  Given my current endeavor, only one drink would do. “Shady Lady.”

  In a place like this, she wouldn’t be carded, but Shannon still ordered a Coke. “Gotta keep my head clear. I’ll be your designated driver.”

  She had a point. I handed the server a bill to cover our drinks and murmured, “Keep it.”

  The waitress brightened and went to give our order to the bartender. It didn’t take long for her to serve us. Mine was pretty, made with melon liqueur, tequila, and grapefruit juice, garnished with cherry and lime, and it tasted better than it looked. I’d be the first to admit that I needed a drink, after the turn my life had taken.

  Shortly, Zaragoza returned, phone in hand. “He wants to speak with you.”

  I took the cell and said, “Hello?”

  “So you make your first move.” Escobar sounded amused. “I wondered how long it would take.”

  “You said I should stay alive. You never said how or using what resources.”

  “I know,” he answered. “Which is why I am giving you the soldiers you ask for. This should prove quite entertaining.”

  “I’m so glad.” I gave the phone back to Zaragoza, who spoke a few more words in Spanish and then terminated the call.

  “It seems you speak the truth,” he said, sitting down once more. “It took four phone calls to reach Señor Escobar, but he knew who you were at once.”

  “Excellent. In addition to the men, I need a safe house in the area, something you don’t think Montoya would know about. A recent purchase would be best.”

  Zaragoza thought for a moment. “We have a place down in the industrial area. It’s not a good neighborhood, but people are unlikely to notice any strange occurrences there and even less likely to answer the police, if they ask.”

  I paused. “You’re not even going to ask how I know him?”

  “I have learned the hard way to restrain my curiosity,” he said with a faint trace of irony. “But if I had to guess, I would say you’re his latest brujas.”

  Shannon smirked at me. With her black clothing, dyed hair, and heavily outlined eyes, she fit the profile. I neither confirmed nor denied his supposition, but merely smiled. If fear laced their obedience, even better—they’d be less likely to cross us.

  “Give me the address.”

  He scrawled it on a napkin. God, I could get used to this kind of power. No wonder people worked for Escobar. His name carried serious weight.

  “Anything else, patrona?”

  “Find me a property owned by Montoya, something it will hurt him to lose. Something . . . expensive.”

  Zaragoza grinned, showing a slight gap between his two front teeth. “This mission, I could get to like it a whole lot.”

  “Can you get me the info?” I remembered it took a day or two for Esteban to get his hands on a list of properties, but I suspected Zaragoza could get faster results with Escobar’s name lending weight.

  “Let me make a few calls.”

  Shannon leaned over and whispered, “You can be scary, you know that?”

  I allowed a sharp smile. “Good. We’ll need that.”

  For a few moments, I watched the couples dancing. Now Paulina sang “Causa y Efecto”—a more up-tempo song than one would expect to hear in here. It hurt a little watching them twirl and spin. Despite Shannon’s presence beside me, I felt lonely and unsure, but at the same time, a core of pride grew—that I was handling this myself, just like the fall into the river. I’d make Montoya wish he’d never been born for killing two innocent men, hurting Jesse, burning Chuch and Eva’s house, and rendering me homeless.

  By the time Shan finished her second Coke, Zaragoza returned. “He’s got a place in Sonterra, far north side of San Antonio.”

  “Perfect. I have a sketch here. . . .” I dug it out of my bag; it was very battered, but at least it hadn’t gone into the jungle with us. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Zaragoza froze and then crossed himself. “Madre de Dios.”

  “I take it you do,” Shannon said.

  The breath slipped out of him in a pained sound. “That’s Diego Montoya’s younger brother, Vicente.”

  Holy shit. I hadn’t been prepared for that. “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “Not much. He’s been out of Mexico for a long time.”

  I nodded. “Anything you can share would be helpful.”

  Zaragoza thought for a moment and then conferred with some of his men. “He’s always been a hedge wizard, little training. And for a while, he managed their business in Colombia, but lately the word is Diego sent him to the islands after his warlock died to learn the dark magick.”

  “What islands?” Shannon asked.

  I gave her a nod; I would’ve asked that myself. Leaning forward, I sipped my drink, listening, and considered what this meant. If he had some magickal talent even then, Vicente would have been present for the ritual Min conducted, and he would’ve known it for a true summoning. The Knights of Hell couldn’t be faked. But he must have been sent back to Colombia when she was stalling there at the end, claiming the astrological elements weren’t aligned for curse removal. Otherwise he’d have certainly told Diego that she was full of it. Therefore, the dynamics had shifted, and there was no telling what he’d learned since then. The scope of his power must be considerable since he’d sent Caim after me.

  “Haiti, Jamaica,” Zaragoza said with a shrug. “After he mastered his craft—and I’m telling street stories now, nothing more—Montoya sent Vicente to put the fear of God in his Colombian partners.”

  “But he called him back,” I guessed. “When he realized he needed help dealing with me.”

  “Tell me about it. Two brujas are way too much for one normal man to handle.” Zaragoza flashed us a sly grin edged in mischief.

  I tucked the sketch into my bag, shaking my head. “His brother. He’ll definitely keep him close, after what happened to his warlock, Moon.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “My people killed him,” I said softly. “I’ll take the men with me now.”

  He nodded. After he spoke with Escobar and then us, Zaragoza’s manner became deferential. Evidently he saw in my demeanor a woman worthy of respect. I’d never known the like.

  “García, Petrel, Santos, and Morales!” He beckoned to them.

  The four men, who had been playing cards, stood up and headed over to our table. García was mid-thirties, short and stocky, with unexpectedly graceful hands. Petrel was a tall, lanky youth who I would’ve taken for French or Belgian, if I’d seen him anywhere but here. Santos had the look of a grizzled war veteran, gone gray, and acne scarred, whereas Morales was the best-looking—smooth brown skin, dark liquid eyes, and the handsome features of a man who was used to getting what he wanted from women. I suspected that if anybody gave us trouble, it’d be him.

  “¿Sí, jefe?” Santos asked.

  “¡Inglés, cabrón!” Zaragoza switched to English himself. “Escobar has given you to these ladies. I expect you to obey their orders as if I gave them. ¿Comprenden?”

  Morales said, “Yeah, we got it.”

  I finished my drink in a long swallow. Though one cocktail wasn’t enough to impair me, I tossed the keys to Shan. I’d rather be in the passenger seat with this crew, where I could keep an eye on them.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Santos nodded. “Claro.”

  The men filed out behind us. Since Santos was the oldest, I judged him the senior member of the crew. “¿Tienes un carro aquí?” You have a car here?

  A flicker of approval in dark, deep-set eyes said he’d rather take orders from a güera who spoke passable Spanish. “Sí, patrona.”

  “Entonces sígame con . . .” I glanced at the rest of the crew and decided aloud, “Morales. Petrel y García conmigo.” Then follow me with Morales. Petrel and Garcia with me.

  Shannon swung into the driver’s seat while I rode shotgun. As she took off,
I punched the address Zaragoza had given me into the GPS. I kept one eye on the men, using the side mirrors, but Petrel and Garcia seemed content to wait until we rejoined the others. Just as well—I wouldn’t answer questions. I needed time to put on my game face, convince them I was tough, scary, and I meant business.

  In the dark, the neighborhoods grew progressively worse. We passed the railroad tracks and the streets became more industrial: warehouses, crumbling apartments with broken windows. Shannon parked the Forester in front of a run-down building. It had once been white, but graffiti had nearly obscured the paint on the front.

  “Around back,” Garcia said. “Don’t leave your ride on the street.”

  Petrel jumped out and went to open the gate. He fiddled with the combination lock and then swung it open for us. Shannon put the SUV in gear and passed through. He waited for the other car to slip in behind us, then locked up and followed at a lope.

  Santos led us in the back way. The inside was surprisingly nice. Clean. Worn tile covered the hallway, leading up to the ground-floor apartment. Inside, it had been decorated in tasteful rustic style. Heavy blackout shades beneath the bars on the windows prevented anyone on the street from seeing what went on in here.

  Perfect.

  “Here’s the job,” I said, once we all settled in. “You drive to San Antonio. Once there, you hit this address.” I passed it to Santos. “I want it blown the fuck up. Montoya spent a lot of money in Sonterra, and when you’re finished, it should be nothing but soot and smoke. If anyone gets in your way, end ’em. I mean Montoya’s guys, of course. Try to stay away from the five-oh. Any questions?”

  Shannon’s soft intake of breath said I’d surprised her. She sank down on the plain brown sofa with dismay written on her face. Before we were through, she might want to go live with her dad after all.

  Morales leveled a slow smile on me. “Naw, jefa. You want us to go in hard and quiet and slip out like ghosts.”

  “Exactly. And make it quick. After you get some sleep, I’ll have more work.”

  “No hay problema,” Petrel said. “There’s a reason Zaragoza tapped us.”

  Santos gestured and the soldiers rolled out. Once we were alone, I went back out to the SUV and brought our things in: Shannon’s battered bag and my new flowered suitcase. It was hard to believe that earlier today, we had been shopping. I had been with Jesse and he’d said he loved me. Everything was different now.

  I wasn’t just allied with Escobar with the vague agreement that I would serve as bait. I’d given orders to his men, like his lieutenant. Part of me felt sick, while the rest knew I’d do whatever it took to end this. I refused to consider what the final cost might be.

  This was my breaking point—even a cornered rat would fight, sometimes with more ferocity than folks believed possible. While I hated the necessity, I wouldn’t shrink from it. They had gone too far. I didn’t want this. I hadn’t started it. But from this point on, I would make an implacable adversary; I would protect the people I loved.

  I set the bags down and scoped out the place thoroughly—two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, and bath. One bedroom had a full-size bed; the other offered bunk beds. I guessed this was where they stashed their women and children. The furniture was clean, despite the neighborhood, and the door had a heavy steel core. Seven dead bolts, plus a chain and crossbar reinforced it. Clearly they didn’t mean for anyone to get in who didn’t belong.

  “You know he might have family there,” she said softly. “People who haven’t done anything. There might be staff who don’t know what he does for a living, only that he pays well.”

  “I considered all of that.”

  “And you’re still going through with it?” I hated the disillusionment in her voice. She rested her elbows on her knees and wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

  “Escobar made it clear I need to drive Montoya crazy. I have to push him over the edge if he’s going to contact me, so I can arrange a meet.” Where he’ll be shot like a dog. “And I don’t know how to accomplish it other than to pay him with his own coin. There may be casualties. I accept the risk.”

  “I see your point,” she said dully. “But I’m glad it’s not on my conscience.”

  There was nothing I could say. I had already let slip the dogs of war, so I merely got out my cell phone. I called the FedEx customer-service line and spent twenty minutes being transferred around, while I gave people the tracking number of the package Tia had sent from Mexico. In the end, I managed to get the grimoires rerouted. The perky rep promised I’d have my package in the morning.

  “We should get some sleep,” I told Shannon.

  “I guess.”

  I hesitated, wishing I could make up for disappointing her like this. “You can have the big bed if you want.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to check my e-mail.”

  Her attitude hurt, but I couldn’t rouse any anger. It was a good thing I wasn’t officially a witch, part of some coven, or this path would get me booted for violating the “do as ye will, an it harm none” tenet. I took the lower bunk bed as a sort of penance, and my dreams that night were uneasy.

  In the morning, I awoke to pounding on the apartment door. I’d slept in my clothes, so I rolled out of bed fully dressed with my heart hammering. Nobody should know we’re here. Still, I stopped off at the kitchen for a knife. Stupid as it seemed, I felt better with a weapon in hand, even if I couldn’t use it expertly. Anything that could break down the door would likely eat me in one bite. Nonetheless, I braced myself.

  I peered out the peephole, and I recognized Petrel first. His height made him memorable. Relief blazed through me. After undoing all the locks, I let them in. They carried the smell of fire and smoke with them, and they all wore wolfish smiles. No visible injuries.

  I asked nonetheless, “How’d it go?”

  “No major hitches,” Morales said.

  “Do you have a phone?”

  He nodded, so I extended a hand for it and programmed my number in. “If you need to get in touch with me, that’s how.”

  Hesitantly, Santos offered me a package. “Are you expecting this? Should we dunk it? We pulled up just as the delivery guy was about to leave.”

  “No, don’t.” I snagged it from him, recognizing Tia’s spidery writing on the label. “It’s definitely for me.”

  Shit, I’d forgotten there was no way into the building from the front. Those doors were boarded up, as if the place had been condemned. They must’ve intimidated the driver into handing the parcel over. I couldn’t worry about a FedEx driver’s bad day, however.

  “García wanted to chuck it,” Petrel said.

  “Well, you wanted to open it, cabrón.”

  They were like children, fighting to impress the schoolteacher. I stifled a sigh.

  “Good work, all of you. Head home and get some sleep. I want you all back here tonight for round two, because that was only the beginning.” I made a point of patting Morales on the shoulder, because he was young and cocky, and he’d least suspect a casual touch. Sure enough, he smirked as he made his way to the door.

  As the soldiers left, Shannon stumbled into the living room, where I sat opening the package. Tia had wrapped the grimoires in newspaper, so it smudged off on my fingers. I washed my hands after I threw the paper away; I didn’t want to stain the pages. These books were incredibly old, and they summoned a mental image of my mother as soon as I took the first one in my lap.

  “Oh, wow,” Shannon breathed. From her tone, she’d either forgotten she was mad at me or the grimoires trumped her anger. “Can I see?”

  “Sure, but don’t read any of the incantations aloud.”

  I handed her the blue one—with runes etched in silver, it was the smallest and contained the most advanced spells. I wouldn’t try those for a long time, assuming I could make the magic work at all.

  “Okay. I’ll be careful.” She touched the engraved cover with reverent hands.

  The one I held was oversize and boun
d in vermilion leather; before she died, my mother had let me practice some charms. I couldn’t remember whether I’d ever gotten one to function properly. I just knew I’d enjoyed spending time with her, measuring the herbs and saying the words. These were blessings, mostly, and mild spells. With these, I could make someone crave strawberries or give them a gentle run of luck; it was suitable for children.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened a spell book for the first time in many years. Even the smell—old paper and ink—filled me with nostalgia. I could almost hear my mother murmuring, Be careful with that, Corine.

  I flipped through the book until I found the spell I wanted. Nothing heavy, nothing difficult or sophisticated. Eyes fixed on the page, I memorized the chant. This was it—the big test.

  Taking a deep breath, I went to the kitchen and rummaged for a plain white ceramic dish and a book of matches. I set both items on the table. Across the saucer, I laid a strand of Morales’s hair, the one I’d stolen. Thus fueled, if I couldn’t make this spell work, I never would. It was that simple.

  With my eyes closed, I created a mental image of Morales: his black hair with a hint of a wave, his liquid brown eyes and caramel skin. I added the cocksure smile and the glint in his eyes, the hint of a swagger in his step. Then I sent the heat of my gift to fuel the compulsion; the same fire that burned me when I read an object would touch him, just a whisper.

  Once I held his visage firmly in mind, I whispered, “By fire, earth, wind, and rain, you will not rest until you hear my voice again. As I will, so mote it be.” In speaking the last words, I struck the match and burned his hair until there was nothing left but the lingering smell.

  Shannon came to the doorway of the kitchen, watching with a raised brow. “What did you do? Did it work?”

  I don’t know, I started to say.

  And then my cell phone rang.

  Swerve

  After assuring Morales we were fine, I disconnected.

  Shannon stared at me with a touch of amazement. “You made him call you.”