Shady Lady

Shady Lady (The third book in the Corine Solomon series) A novel by Ann Aguirre

For Sharon Shinn,

whose words made me sigh

and wish I could ever write so well.

She has since proven herself as gracious

and charming in person as one would imagine.

Thanks for everything.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once more, I’m starting with Laura Bradford, who goes beyond the call. Thank you for the DMV, District 9, and the Toys “R” Us Bakugan mission. I hit the jackpot the day you said, “I don’t know if I can sell a science fiction novel, but I think I want the challenge.”

As always, I thank Anne Sowards. Her notes make every book better and I am so lucky to work with her, along with all the other talented people at Penguin.

Next, there’s Lauren Dane. She never fails to make me feel better when the chips are down, and she’s first to cheer me on when I score. Lauren is so talented and so smart, and I am so lucky I can run things by her while I’m working. My books wouldn’t be as good if I didn’t have her ear.

Here’s a shout to Bree and Donna. Both of you have been there, and I appreciate it more than words can say. I’d give either of you my seat in the lifeboat any day.

The incomparable Ivette takes meticulous care that everything in the book makes sense.

I also need to thank Stacia Kane. She convinced me to write what I wanted and not worry about convention. The book is better for her bravery and its daring.

Then there’s Laura Bickle. She gets my work from the ground up; thanks for being a sounding board during revisions.

Additionally, thanks to the fine staff at La Finca in Catemaco, who made my research trip a fabulous vacation, and thanks to the real “Ernesto,” who took us out in his lancha, showed us the sights, and did not suffer a dire fate.

Thank you to Teté, a New Age expert, and Estelle, a real-life curandera, for insights that enriched this book and brought Tia to life.

Finally, I thank my family. If they weren’t so awesome, I’d never be able to keep a schedule. My kids are fantastic, and I’m so proud of them. They’re smart, capable, kind, and a whole lot of fun. I’m lucky to have them.

Then, of course, there’s my husband. To give you an idea the kind of guy Andres is, when he comes home from a long day of work—and a longer commute—to find I’m cranky because my draft isn’t going well, oh, and I’ve been interrupted eleventy-four times by peddlers, he listens and then cooks dinner. I’d never ask it, but how cool is that? He also has an epic ability to plot logical consequences for the messes my characters find themselves in. Without him, this book wouldn’t be as good.

Many thanks to my fabulous proofreader. You know who you are.

As always, I must convey my utmost appreciation to my readers. You guys are the best. Please keep writing; that’s ann.aguirre@gmail.com. I love hearing from you.

If Death Is the Answer, What Was the Question?

Lust sizzled through me. There were two of them, a matched pair. I knew a woman wasn’t supposed to want such things, but sometimes we had desires—dark desires—that couldn’t be denied. There was no doubt about it.

That was the sexiest set of salt and pepper shakers I’d ever seen.

Briefly, I imagined Chance’s reaction to my infatuation. Corine, he’d say, why don’t you make love to them? You’re making me jealous, woman. With some effort, I put him from my mind. My ex didn’t deserve to be the voice inside my head.

Instead I focused on the treasures I’d found outside my back door. Crafted of pure silver, they depicted lovers reaching toward each other, separated by whatever distance their owners dictated. I studied the artful lines and the graceful arches of the spines. These were classically inspired, likely a representation of Eros and Psyche. On closer inspection, I noted that the pepper flowed from holes in Psyche’s fingertips. I couldn’t believe where the salt came from.

Wonderful. The designer had a sense of humor.

I didn’t expect trouble from these two. Mentally bracing myself, I curled my left palm—now marked with a flower pentacle—around Psyche, lifting her out of the pretty white box. Heat flared, but it brought no pain. As I’d thought, there was no trauma attached. Though I would have loved to keep these, my gift whispered of the fortune I’d make selling them to a professor visiting from Spain. In my mind’s eye, I saw a flickering image of my prospective buyer. I’d recognize her when she came in, and make sure to show them to her.

After the mess in Georgia, I was happy to be in Mexico. Things hadn’t been the same since I found my mother’s necklace; for a moment, I saw myself kneeling in that demon grove, shadows gone green from the Spanish moss, the smell of verdant decay in my nose like a damp, mildewed rag. I reached out and took the necklace— against Jesse Saldana’s warnings—and lived my mother’s death. I hadn’t survived it, or at least, when I came back, everything had changed. My ability was no longer the simple “touch” it once was; I thought I’d received my mother’s power, but I wasn’t a trained witch. Nor did I know who to trust with the revelation. At this point, I didn’t know how to discipline my new power, and that was made for a bad situation, considering the cost at which I’d gained it. In time, I’d move beyond the pain of all those deaths in Kilmer, and these peaceful months at home had helped.

But I was curious about these salt and pepper shakers. As a handler—someone who could read the histories of charged objects—sometimes I wanted to see the stories, even when I didn’t have to, especially when there was no grief or trauma involved. I didn’t read every item that came across the counter in the pawnshop, but when I thought something might have a happy story to tell, I wanted to see it for myself.

As I reached toward Eros, the bell above my door tinkled. Sunlight cut through the shadows, golden motes of dust whirling in the air and hinting at how hot it was outside. The heavy rock walls and cool plaster interior made it possible for me to stand my shop with just a simple oscillating fan. In fact, it was cooler than any un-air-conditioned building I’d ever seen in the U.S.

I recognized the man standing in the doorway, though he was not either of the ones I might’ve expected. Kel Ferguson stood well over six feet and he was heavily muscled. Tattoos covered his skin, even on his skull, written in angelic script. He had eyes like shadowed ice and he professed to be the Hand of God, tasked with killing those who would push the world toward the end of days. Once, in Laredo, he’d claimed if he had been on the job at the time, he could’ve prevented the Holocaust.

I didn’t know if he was crazy, but I did know the man was damn near unkillable. In Texas, I had watched him take multiple wounds so deep they showed bone; I saw him fall. And then he rose again, ready to fight on. Whatever else he might be, I was pretty sure he wasn’t entirely human. I also wasn’t sure whether we were still on the same side. I froze, eyeing him across the counter.

“Corine.” He inclined his head toward the saltshaker. “Don’t touch that.”

My right hand rested on the counter, mere inches away from Eros. I’d intended to read him, now that Psyche