Shady Lady (3 page)

Subtle.
I slid him an inquiring look. From what distance did he plan to guard me? Would it be up close and personal or did he prefer to sit outside in an SUV like they did in the movies? I felt pretty sure that holy warriors didn’t operate like spies, though.

“I was hoping you’d invite me to sleep on your couch, so dinner would be welcome.”

She brightened. “Consider yourself invited.”

“Ready?” I asked him.

He responded with a nod, so we headed out the back, which led us through a jumble of crates and piles of junk I had yet to examine. The metal door opened into an alley littered with broken pavement. Two stray dogs fought over food scraps, and I gave them a wide berth. There was no point in unleashing the fearsome fury of God’s Hand on a couple of hounds.

Heat hung in the air, making it feel dry and sharp in the lungs. Kel didn’t appear affected by it—of course he wouldn’t—but I was sweating by the time we reached the corner. He must’ve known the market was within walking distance, because he never suggested we drive.

A tangle of electrical wires hung over my street with shady trees guarding the parrot-bright buildings. Sun dappled the concrete and found bits of crystal to make it sparkle. The sidewalk was rough and uneven; he took my arm a couple of times to help me over slabs of overlapping cement. Houses with their high walls and sturdy gates gave way to businesses: a doctor’s office, a dry cleaner’s, an OXXO—a convenience store—and the
comedor
, where I bought my beans and rice. Overhead, the sky was too blue and beautiful for me to want to believe that somewhere in this lovely country, a powerful man wanted me dead, but if I didn’t take action, he would get his wish.

We came to a busy street, the one with the
farmacia
on the corner, and waited until it was clear. An old man sold flowers and magazines in the median; he raised his hand in greeting. Everyone recognized me around here, most likely because of the hair. Once a week, I walked down to buy a copy of
Muy Interesante
and practice my Spanish reading. Sometimes I bought
un ramo de rosas
too—it seemed criminal
not
to when one could do so for ten pesos.

At the first gap between zooming cars, Kel shepherded me across as if I’d never done this before. I cut him a look, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, and I would’ve sworn for a brief instant that God’s Hand was smiling. By the time we passed into the side street shaded by tall buildings and stately laurel trees, I decided I must’ve been mistaken.

The
avenida
that led to the marketplace took us up a steep incline; walking in the mountains was much harder than hiking on level ground, and by the time we reached the top, I was puffing a bit. So much for my resolution to work out—in some regards, I didn’t have much discipline.

Acacia and rubber trees lined this backstreet, and a park opened up inside the framework of buildings, after we crossed one more road. From here I could see the red awnings, where people sold fresh fruit, vegetables, cleaning supplies, clothing, knockoff designer handbags, and homemade food, along with even more interesting items. Tia offered some of the most intriguing selections you could find anywhere in the city, in fact.

Kel broke the silence at last, following my gaze up the mountain, where the market sat at the far end of the park. “Is that where we’ll find her?”

I thought he knew the answer already, but he studied my face, as if seeking confirmation. So I nodded and led him across the brownish grass. Four kids were swinging as we passed by, their cries echoing as we climbed the final hill.

My palm sweated where I held the white box; it was a little unnerving to carry something that could kill me. I didn’t want this, but Montoya’s gambit signaled an end to my hard-won peace. Deep down, I always knew the confrontation was inevitable. You didn’t do what I did and get away with it.

When we drew closer, I inhaled the scent of hot melted cheese, chorizo, and tacos al pastor. At the far end of the market, a man had set up a grill, and he was serving a queue of customers who devoured his food standing up. Kel glanced that way, and I shook my head, smiling.

“Shannon will never forgive you if you eat elsewhere. Come on. Tia’s over here.”

Since it was almost four when we arrived, Tia was putting away her wares. Her hair drifted in silver wisps out of its customary bun, and she had on a blue and white flowered dress with a red apron atop it. Part of her stuff sat at her feet in two bags, charms and potions to solve any ill. I wondered how she had intended to get them home, prior to our arrival.

She smiled when she spotted me.
“Buenas tardes
.
”

Kel returned her greeting in perfectly accented Castilian Spanish. My brows rose; I wouldn’t be able to keep secrets from him in Mexico—that was for sure. Tia studied him for long moments and then extended a gnarled hand, which she rarely did. He accepted the handshake, only to have the old woman spin his palm upward and peer at it. She made a noise as if she were sucking false teeth, but those that remained in her mouth belonged to her naturally.

“
Mucho gusto
,” she murmured.

When she let go, I had the feeling she knew things about him that I never would, but the knowledge swam and drowned in her murky eyes; she’d never tell me what she’d seen. Tia told us to finish packing up the stall’s contents. Her home wasn’t far. Since we were here, we could help her carry things. I didn’t argue; it never did any good.

We made quick work of her potions and charms. Before long, we were following her down the street that paralleled the park. Her house sat farther up the mountain, the levels built into the rock itself, but she had an amazing view. Kel said nothing, merely carried three heavy bags with an ease that said he could bear any burden. It was a reassuring quality in a guardian.

I had visited her home before; sometimes I gave her things to sell in addition to her own wares. This time, I tried to see the place through Kel’s eyes. The house was terraced, the adobe whitewashed pale as milk so it glimmered in the sun, contrasting with the black wrought iron on the windows. The upper level had cement-and-plaster balconies, gently curved. As we stepped through the latticed front gate, I noted Tia had planted new flowers in the front—hibiscus and dahlia, angel’s trumpet and flowering sage. Her garden was beyond lovely, the courtyard paved in ornate terra-cotta tiles. Some of them had cracked, but it didn’t give the sense of disrepair. With moss growing green against the clay, it was more of a natural reclamation.

Tia handed us the rest of the bags so she could unlock the door. Within, it was dim and cool. My shoes made no sound against the marble floor. It was a nicer home than you might expect from a woman who cleaned houses for a living, in addition to selling potions and charms, but Tia worked so hard because she claimed it kept her young. Given how well she moved, I couldn’t argue with the results.

“Put everything on the table,” she instructed in Spanish, and then led us into the sitting room, where she met with clients.

Here, the furniture was so old, it felt different from modern couches in the lack of springs. With its solid wood frame and plain cushions, this was more like a futon, only it didn’t flip to form a bed. Everything in her home belonged to the rustic hacienda style, and had been crafted by hand.

Kel sat down beside me. He seemed to take up more than his half of the sofa, due to presence more than physical size. Which was impressive. But unlike most men, he didn’t sprawl; he contained himself in as little space as possible, as if he were accustomed to being confined.

Like any good hostess, Tia offered us refreshments, which I declined. We needed to get down to business. The social stuff would have to keep for another time, assuming I survived.

I hefted the white box. “I have an item for you to examine,” I said in Spanish.

“It’s a saltshaker, but it’s got a killing hex.”

She crossed herself and regarded the case dubiously. “What do you think I can do with it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about the kind of magic used.”

Tia considered for long moments, brow furrowed, and then nodded. “I have one charm that might prove useful. Do you know if it’s meant only for you, or will it work on anyone who touches it?”

I glanced at Kel, who answered, “It’s keyed to Corine.”

Wonderful.
From my mother—who had been a witch—I knew such specificity required sophistication and finesse in the casting. In most cases, it also required a personal effect or some physical tie, like locks of hair, blood, or nail clippings.

“I would rather not test that,” Tia said with a grin creasing her weathered cheeks.

She stood up and headed for the kitchen. A few moments later, she came back with a tray, including a crystal bowl, salt, a cup of mixed herbs, and a slender stick carved out of green, fragrant wood. She was also wearing a pair of long black satin gloves, perhaps a remnant from an old
Día de los Muertos
costume of
La Calavera Catrina
, which came from a zinc etching by José Guadalupe Posada in 1913. It had since seeped into Mexican celebrations, a feminine skeleton in silk and tulle—death all dressed up.

I gathered she was taking no chances with poor Eros. Given my track record in romantic relationships, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a warning in the form of the would-be instrument of my death:
Love will be your doom.
Smiling at such hubris, I watched as Tia perched on the edge of the sofa and arranged the items.

First, she rimmed the bowl with salt and then sprinkled the remainder into the water. Next, she scattered the herbs, and finally, she stirred the mixture with the stick, all while whispering what sounded like broken fragments of a prayer.

I caught snippets, like “
en espiritu sancti
” and “
el buen Señor
,” but mostly, it was too soft for me to understand. When she finished chanting and mixing—the water was a cloudy pool by this point—she picked up the white box, opened it, and—with one thumb holding Pysche in place—she tipped Eros into the bowl.

With a hiss, the herb-and-salt-infused water turned black as ink and it roiled as if a thousand tiny snakes swam in its depths. Tia cupped her hands, guiding the liquid, which solidified into a substance that resembled black Jell-O.

Beneath the permanent suntan, her face paled as she worked, air-sculpting the lines into something she saw only in her mind’s eye. Before long, the thing in the bowl began to look human; she was crafting a viscous bust of the spell caster.

It wasn’t a perfect image, of course, but I would most likely remember this face, if I saw him—and it was most definitely a man. Kel stood up and, without bothering Tia, went looking for a pad of paper. Shortly, he sat down and started sketching in quick, bold lines—good on him; there was no telling how long this spell would last.

As he was putting the finishing touches on the drawing, the creation wavered. Tia swayed, and then Eros came spurting out of the thing’s mouth, landing in a wet, slimy spatter on top of the tray. Now we just had a disgusting saltshaker and a bowl of dirty water. My friend looked worse for the wear, so I made her a cup of tea. I had been to her house often enough to know to manage.

When I returned, she seemed a little stronger, but her voice was hoarse.
“Magia negra, muy negra.” Bad magic, very dark
: as if I couldn’t have guessed that by the reaction to the water she’d blessed.
“Magia sangrienta.”

That actually helped. Certain voodoo traditions used blood, and so did the darkest hermetic traditions. Practitioners like my mother never used blood; neither did Tia. I also knew of a few shamans who used it, but in sympathetic magick, not baneful.

Most would laugh at the idea of magick and hexes. The world was divided into three groups: practitioners, those who
wanted
to believe in the paranormal, and those who scoffed at it. Skeptics comprised the vast majority; practitioners were rare, and the ones who wanted to believe or had seen something unusual tended to get lumped in with those who claimed aliens had abducted them or that the government had put hardware in their heads to make sure they always bought American cars.

At any rate, Tia’s work gave us a place to start.

Area 51, a message board used by the gifted community, offered untold resources. People there could likely tell me some names of practitioners who could—and would—craft such a special blood-based spell. After all, not all sorcerers, witches, and warlocks were willing to hire out as mercs; many felt that demeaned their gifts.

While Tia sipped the hot tea, I cleaned up the mess. I was careful not to touch Eros; I merely carried the whole tray to the kitchen and left him alone while tidying up. I could hear Kel talking in his low bass rumble and I marveled at his perfect, elegant Castilian accent, so different from the one I’d picked up here. It sounded like he was reassuring her. With Tia, he showed gentleness I had never seen from him before, and I made a note to question him about it later.

She had more color in her face by the time I came back to the sitting room and her hands were steady. But the air felt thick and cloying, as if her spell had some residual effect. No breeze whipped through the open windows, and this high on the mountain, that stillness was unusual at this hour in the evening. It seemed as if the world held its breath.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked in Spanish.

“Quinientos.”
Five hundred—it was more than she’d ever charged me before, and yet it wasn’t as much as it sounded.