Devil's Punch

Devil's Punch (The fourth book in the Corine Solomon series) A novel by Ann Aguirre

For Jen, who saw the beauty in the bones

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Laura Bradford, my shiny agent, who never tells me an idea is terrible. I also doff my hat to Anne Sowards, Kat Sherbo, and the Penguin team. (I don’t actually wear hats, but it’s an awesome image, right? Thought so.)

Jen, Bree, Lauren…and the PoP loop, of course. You’re my go-to crew. You never let me down. *fist bump*

Next, there’s my family. I love you guys so much. Thanks for everything. I feel like there are no words, which sucks, considering what I do for a living. Just know that every pot of veggie chili is chock-full of love. And beans.

Thumbs up to my fabulous proofreaders, Fedora Chen and Katy Sprinkel, and to my copy editor, Jan McInroy, who a did a terrific job on this book.

Finally, I thank caffeine, liquor, and chocolate—without which none of this would be possible.

And as always, I offer utmost appreciation to my readers. Y’all rock. Please keep writing; that’s ann.aguirre@gmail.com. I love hearing from you.

New Beginnings

I carried the last of Chance’s boxes up to the flat.

Mexico agreed with my ex, physically speaking. The constant sun was similar to Florida, though the weather was milder and more temperate in the mountains, the humidity lower, and so his skin glowed golden, a fine contrast to his inky hair. His features were sharp, feline, but sculpted in a way that you could stare for hours and never tire of marveling at the cut of his cheekbones or the curve of his mouth.

Looking at his impossible beauty, I was reminded again that he wasn’t human. He didn’t sweat or grow facial hair. Once I’d written that off as a unique genetic boon, but it was unquestionably more. While his mother, Min, was human, I was positive his father had been something else. I had no idea what.

Smiling at me, Chance was confident again, and I’d always loved that about him. Generally speaking, he didn’t indulge in long moments of self-doubt. He brushed past me on the stairs, carrying a carton of linens; he smelled of lemon, carambola, and rosewood, top notes from his cologne, Versace Man Eau Fraîche. Less familiar than the Burberry he’d once sworn by, but I didn’t smell of frangipani anymore either. By tacit agreement, we’d decided on a fresh start all the way.

My ex had been serious when he said he’d do whatever it took to be with me, including moving south of the border and starting a new life. The two of us had a complicated history, fraught with old mistakes and regret. But maybe this time our relationship had a real shot.

His building was simple stucco, painted canary yellow with azure trim, a bold color scheme typical of the neighborhood. Down the block, there was a house painted lavender and mint green. His new place had a fantastic view of the mountains instead of the crowded streets below. I stood by the window, lost in thought. Chance was lucky to find something close to Tia’s house. In Spanish, tía meant aunt, and I’d never been clear if people had been calling her Auntie so long it had supplanted her proper name. At any rate, she’d adopted me as part of her family; I felt like a favored niece with her. In recent days, she’d become my mentor as well.

After we’d returned to find my store in ruins, Tia let Chance sleep on the couch while he sought a place of his own; it took three weeks for him to locate a one-bedroom in the neighborhood. During his search, I sorted out the paperwork and paid the workmen with Escobar’s money; he was the rival drug lord with whom I’d allied to take out the Montoya cartel before they could kill me. The Montoyas put me on their hit list over the part I’d played in liberating Chance’s mother from their clutches. So maybe joining forces with Escobar wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did, but it felt like my only viable choice for survival at the time. Ergo, I made a pact with Escobar to destroy the Montoyas, and when we succeeded, I walked out with a briefcase full of money—well, enough to rebuild my pawnshop.

It would be better than before, once it was finished, and I’d still have a nest egg in case of future disasters. With Chance around, such events became more likely. Oh, he had his own money, and he’d help, if he felt responsible, but I didn’t want to depend on him—or anyone—again. I’d learned how well I like self-reliance.

After Chance shook hands on a rental agreement, he’d offered to let me room with him, no strings, but I didn’t want to start our relationship that way. Living together right off? Uh-uh. I’d meant it when I told him I wanted to go slow.

When Tia offered to let me stay with her while I rebuilt, it seemed like the ideal solution. I got a place to live; she benefited from my help around the house and I could drive her around more easily. Plus she was training me to the extent that she knew spells and charms. No matter how inept I proved, she never lost patience.

Any other curandera wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. By dealing with Maury and summoning his mate, Dumah, to solve my problems, I’d marked myself as a black witch, one who trafficked in demons. Maury was the entropy demon I’d set free in Kilmer; he saved my life when one of the elders stabbed me that horrible night in the forest. When that debt came due, he had me summon his mate in repayment. I managed to trick him on the letter of the agreement, so while Dumah writhed inside the circle, I renegotiated our terms. In the end, I wound up with his reluctant acquiescence to use his mate as backup against the Montoyas. When push came to shove, I did. I fed those men to a demon to save my own life.

That decision made me anathema to those who worked on the side of right and light, though I was hardly a witch at all, having just realized I could access my mother’s magick, along with the awful touch that once comprised my sole skill. When my mother died saving my life, I gained the ability to read objects with a touch, known among the gifted as psychometry, but my talent wasn’t natural and painless; it carried the pain of the fire that claimed my mother. In the dark Georgia woods where I found her necklace, I touched the metal and unlocked the rest of her abilities. From that point, I felt the difference in my blood and bone. I knew that spells would respond as they never had before.

Fortunately, Tia had studied the darkness of my choices, and then she shook her head. “What I see you’ve done, that’s not your heart,” she’d said. “I know you.”

Most wouldn’t be so kind or understanding. Already, I’d noticed a few people crossing the street to avoid me. As in the U.S., there were gifted in Mexico, but because of my crippled abilities—and the limitation of the touch—I could never ID them unless we made contact and our talents sparked. Now, with my witch sight, I could spot them from a distance, not an aura but a halo of dark or light, depending on their gift and how they used it. My own was a grimy mixture of bright and shadow, mottled from my contact with Maury and Dumah. I tried not to look at it any more than I had to. If there was a way to scrub off those choices, I didn’t know what it would be. No, the consequences would remain with me forever. Even if I spent my lifetime doing good deeds, practicing white magick, at best I would be—to others—a nether witch who denied her fundamental nature.

Even if the viper doesn’t bite, it’s still a snake.

Despite ostracism from some of her friends and colleagues, Tia had taken me into her home. I’d asked, “Don’t you mind? They won’t speak to you anymore. You’re an outcast now…like me.”

She’d given me a fleeting smile. “I’m too old to care about such things, child. I don’t have much longer, and I choose to spend those days helping you. At least you’re willing to do my shopping when my legs hurt. That’s more