Agave Kiss

An hour later, I almost didn’t recognize Booke when he strode out of Twila’s office, but the chunky sweater vest and the seventy-year-old slacks gave him away. He looked exactly as he always did in my dreams—nut brown hair with a gentle wave, soft gray eyes, lean, acetic face. Despite the indenture that bought him those additional years, I couldn’t stifle the happy squeal as I bounded toward him. He caught me in his arms and lifted me, not a romantic gesture, but more of a demonstrative one: Look how healthy and strong I am.

Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes, until I didn’t know why I was weeping, really. It was so good to see him hale and whole, but I hated the bargain he’d made, as if he’d traded one prison for another. But it was unlikely Twila would chain him to the bar, so however she used him, it would still be better than that damned cottage in Stoke.

“Was it bad?” I whispered, hugging him hard around the neck.

“Dodgy enough,” he answered, “and a bit humbling, but she kept her word. No demons. I shouldn’t like to meet those loa in a dark alley, however.”

“What now? Where will you go?”

“Are you cracked? I’ll stay and help you bring our lad back, of course.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be stupid. You only have a year, Booke. You’ve got to make the most of it. If you need money—”

“Tosh. I had a bank account in 1947. I’ve no doubt it’s quite healthy by now, though I may have some difficulty obtaining access, or retrieving the funds, if the account was closed due to inactivity.” He shrugged. “But I shall fret about that later. I propose a deal then. I’ll grant you two weeks. If we haven’t solved the problem by then, I’ll go about my business. Will you accede to those terms?”

“Sounds good,” I managed.

“Where’s Kel got to, then?”

“I don’t know. But we should get back to relieve Chuch’s mind. He’s going to be so happy.”

Until he finds out the terms of the deal. But I didn’t say so aloud.

“Indeed. I’m quite looking forward to the party, as it won’t be the depressing farewell I feared. But I do have one request,” Booke added.

“Shoot.” I was already headed for the door, lifting a hand to Jeannie.

“Let me drive.”

What the hell. If Booke wrecked the Charger, he could make it right with Chuch. He had the time, after all, and it appeared he was moving to Texas.

In reply, I tossed him the keys.

Amends

Booke drove like a bat out of hell—or to coin a specific metaphor, a recently released Englishman. He made the trip back at speeds Chance would’ve envied. I didn’t talk, fretting about Chance and Kel by turns. Fortunately Booke was too enthralled with the Charger to notice. He only turned to me if he had questions about the route, and those were few, as he’d been paying attention on the way.

After we arrived at the Ortiz place, he parked in the garage with a flourish and then leaped out on legs that were much stronger than the ones he’d left with. Chuch and Eva hurried out to see the results of our trip. Both froze in the doorway, hovering between delight and disbelief. I understood the reaction; part of me thought it was too good to be true. The aspect that understood how Twila worked worried about how things would turn out for him. He might have a long indenture ahead of him.

Then Eva clapped. “Look at you! It’s fantastic.”

Booke had the cheek to do a slow spin like a showgirl. It was absurdly charming. “Look at me indeed. I’m fantastic.”

“Si, no doubt,” Chuch said, grinning.

Booke flashed the other man a grin. “I wasn’t asking you, mate.”

“Are you hitting on my Eva?” The mechanic raised both brows, pretending to bristle. Or maybe, knowing Chuch, it wasn’t wholly pretense. In most situations he was pretty easygoing, but when it came to his wife and daughter, he was a rabid dog.

“No. Well, maybe a little. I’m out of practice, I fear.” Being a smart man, Booke changed the subject. “This automatic gearbox is rather spectacular, is it not?”

Dismissing the minor flirtation, the stocky mechanic headed over to his old friend to wrap him in a bruising, rib-crushing bear hug. Booke bore the embrace, at first with customary reserve, and then he returned it. They slapped backs for a good minute, and when they broke apart, they were both misty, which caused much throat clearing and them turning away to study random walls in the garage.

Eva and I exchanged amused glances, but she seemed touched too, as well as impressed by the change wrought by our trip to San Antonio. “So Twila solved his problem?”

“Yep. He cut a deal.” In a low voice, as we went back into the house to check on Cami, busy with blocks in her playpen, I explained the terms.

She shook her head. “That’s terrible. Chuch will hit the roof when he finds out. But servitude’s better than dying in a few days . . . or staying stuck in that house.”

“If she’s clever, she won’t make his employment unbearable. Then she will have gained a loyal, resourceful wizard for life.”

“He does know more about the arcane arts than anybody I ever met.”

I nodded. “After he completes his world tour, I’m sure he’ll want to ship his library over for use in any of Twila’s special projects.”

Eva gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m scared to think about it.”

“Too bad Caridad couldn’t help him.”

She nodded. “She pointed us in the right direction at least, but Ramon can do better.”

“You think it’s serious?” I hadn’t gotten that vibe from the couple; they weren’t like Chuch and Eva, communicating with a look or completing each other’s sentences. But others didn’t hit that level of synchronicity, even after years together.

“Who knows? Ramon wants to settle down. Trouble is, he keeps hooking up with these difficult women who I can’t imagine making good mothers.”

Yeah, I didn’t see Caridad with babies clinging to her lace skirts either. Without her, however, Booke wouldn’t have a second chance. As I’d lost my powers, it required a real witch to judge how powerful the curse was—and to advise us as to who could break it. I didn’t think he regretted his deal with Twila; gods willing, he never would.

Shortly thereafter, Eva went into the kitchen to begin cooking. People would arrive late tomorrow afternoon, so she needed to get a head start on party food. Booke came into the kitchen in an easy, loping stride. He was at least two inches taller, lean as a blade, and bristling with nervous energy. His gray gaze sought and found me by the patio doors, where I had been gazing out into the backyard, where Chuch intended to build a play area for Cami but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

“I’d forgotten how good I could feel,” Booke admitted in an abashed tone. “I’d gotten accustomed to all the aches.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It was killing me to think—”

“Then don’t.” He cut me off before I could complete the sentence. “I’m already making a list of all the places I intend to visit . . . if I can resolve the logistics.”

“I’m not sure how well your fake passport will serve without a charm, but I have an idea as to how you can get a real one.”

“Tell me?” He propped himself against the French doors, expression eager.

“You know how there’s this mystery in Stoke as to what became of you?”

“I’ve read accounts on the Internet,” he said drily, as if aware of the irony.