Agave Kiss
(The fifth book in the Corine Solomon series)
A novel by Ann Aguirre
For Laura Bradford, who said, “A series set in Mexico? Really? Well, let’s see. . . .” Told you I could make it work. Corine’s HEA is for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m starting with Anne Sowards. I’ve mentioned her before, but I’m not sure if I’ve encompassed the depth and breadth of how much joy there is in working with such an amazing editor. Her notes make my books exponentially better, and I’m thrilled she acquired me. My gratitude extends to her assistant, Kat Sherbo, a woman of marvelous acumen and endless patience. Actually, I appreciate the entire Penguin team. Everyone who works on my novels has my deepest appreciation.
There’s also the Loop That Shall Not Be Named. I can’t say much, or the ninjas will get me, but trust me when I say they’re essential to my survival. I heart them. They’re my best friends and the wind beneath my wings, the spicy taco sauce on my cheese enchilada. Hm. Yeah, I’m stopping, before this goes too far.
Next, there’s Suzanne McLeod, who generally has first eyes on my books. I’m not sure how she became my crit partner, but it works beautifully, and my books are shinier because she’s so clever.
Have I mentioned my kids? They’ve grown into such magnificent people, and I’m proud of them. Their imaginations are so impressive; they can usually dream their way out of the awful situations I devise. Thanks for all the hours spent listening to me.
Finally, I thank Andres for . . . everything. I’ve never had a dream he didn’t help me build in some fashion.
Ghost Cottage
We had been in London for a week when my cell phone rang, an early call. My best friend, Shannon, had just talked to her boyfriend, Jesse, the night before, so it probably wasn’t him. It might be Tia, I supposed, concerned that I needed more money, but she had already wired me plenty.
I didn’t blame my teacher for being worried; it wasn’t every day that a pupil went to Sheol to rescue a friend, staged a minor coup, lost her lover, and then returned via demon gate to a different continent. The journey started on a remote mountaintop in Mexico and ended in a London alley. For obvious reasons, I was struggling to find a way for us to get home. Official channels were out, as the U.K. would ask too many questions about how we’d arrived without passports. A fresh headache throbbed, a vise around the back of my skull.
My gifts were complicated. Once, I only had the touch, which permitted me to read charged objects; they could tell me secrets people didn’t want me to know. Then I gained my mother’s witchy skill, but I burned her white magick out in Sheol, channeling demon energy at a ferocious rate. I could probably still read objects, and the demon magick lingered, an echo of the demon queen’s possession in Sheol. If I had any choice, I wouldn’t use that again. To make matters worse, the trouble probably hadn’t ended with my exit. Demons had long memories, and I still owed a debt to Sibella, the Luren Knight. With my luck, she would hunt me down.
The phone rang for the fourth time. My dog, Butch, nudged me. He was curled up on the bed beside me, and he looked worried as only a Chihuahua could.
“Hello.” I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but our friends in Texas were worried, wondering when we’d hop a plane. That depended on a number of factors.
“Are you all right?” Booke asked.
The love of my life, Chance, was gone; he’d sacrificed himself so Shannon and I could escape Sheol. Shortly after our crossing, we’d raised him on Shan’s spirit radio, which meant his soul hadn’t been destroyed by the demon gate, but . . . Shan’s gift permitted her to talk to the dead. So he wasn’t here anymore.
It was hard for me to think beyond my own pain, imagine what the future might hold. But for Shannon, I had to get things straightened out. Life went on whether I wanted it to or not.
“Fine,” I managed.
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time.”
“It’s not. Why?”
“I thought it might be because I haven’t been able to find you. Not online. Not on your cell. Not even in dreams. Where did you go that I couldn’t touch your dreams?” He sounded terse. Worried, even. Which wasn’t like him.
The Booke I knew was an unflappable scholar, better suited for research than human relationships. There was doubtless a reason. Maybe I’d learn why, at long last. Any other time, my curiosity would be piqued beyond bearing.
“I’d rather not talk about it.” My secrets matched his, though I hoped his didn’t come with such awful, aching depth. “You were looking for me, I take it?”
He inhaled sharply, his distress plain. It might be tough for him to ask for a hand, but I needed the distraction, so I waited for Booke’s request.
“I need your help rather desperately, Corine.”
Mentally, I was already packing my bag; I didn’t have as far to go as he imagined. “I’m listening.”
“It’s a bit complex to get into long distance. Can you come? I’ll pay for the ticket. I know it’s asking a lot —”
“I’m in London,” I cut in, hoping that would stem the apologetic tide.
The pause said I’d surprised him. I imagined he was weighing whether to ask what I was doing there, but in the end, he opted not to pry. He had been guarding his own secrets so long that it probably felt awkward to poke at someone else’s. And it wasn’t that I’d refuse to tell him; I just wasn’t ready, particularly over the phone.
“You already know I live in Stoke . . . it’s not far on the train.”
“Give me your address.”
He did, and I scrawled it on the cheap pad of paper provided by the economy hotel where Shannon and I had been staying. I hadn’t been looking forward to living here for an extended period anyway. The amenities were basic, at best.
“I suspect the cottage will strike you as a tad ramshackle, but inside it’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll leave the door unlocked, so just come straight in.”
“I’ll see you later today,” I said, and then rang off.
Maybe it was just as well we had a side trip, as I needed time to pull together our exit strategy. Our cooked passports would pass cursory inspections for national rail travel, but if we tried to leave the country, and they scanned them, well, that would be a problem, one that required a solution, and I was working on it.
Though I tried to stay out of the system, I had no outstanding warrants. I’d been questioned a few times over the course of my work with Chance, but mostly I had enemies I’d pissed off by discovering the very bad thing they’d done. Many of those people were in prison, but caution had become second nature; I worried about people finding me who shouldn’t, flagged by governmental forms.
“Who was it?” Shannon asked, as I started packing.
“Booke. I think he’s in trouble.”
She straightened from her lounge on the twin bed, covered in a rumpled black and white spread. “What’s going on?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
