made me feel queasy.
“I want to,” he promised.
I studied his face, and eventually I believed his sincerity. Since it made no sense to argue, I jingled the Pinto keys in my palm. True to his word, Booke was fast in the bathroom, returning with damp hair and fresh clothes five minutes later. On the way to the car, I teased him about making the walk of shame, but since I had to explain what I was talking about, it killed some of the humor. Still, he seemed amused when he got the gist.
“Yes,” he said drily. “It’s very humiliating for the world to know I had intercourse last night. I don’t know how I’ll bear it.”
“Smart ass.”
I got into the Pinto and stuck the key in the ignition. Like most of Chuch’s cars, this one ran well. Not perfectly, but the engine sounded smooth enough, though the exterior looked like crap. The Pinto had patchy paint, bits of primer showing through, two doors didn’t match the sides, and the hood was a different color entirely, making the car resemble a quilt.
“Are we going to that seedy cantina I’ve heard so much about?”
I nodded, putting the car in drive to pull around the garage and onto the street. Without GPS, we’d have to rely on my memory, so this should be fun. However, as I’d been there more than once, maybe I wouldn’t get lost.
“Oh, that’s splendid. I can’t express how delighted I am to be having adventures of my own, rather than hearing about them.”
“Stick with me,” I muttered, “and you’ll get more excitement than you really want.”
Booke leveled a sober gaze on me. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Finding Kel
A quick call to Ramon netted me an address for his ex-girlfriend, Caridad. Since I would be arriving today with cash in hand, I didn’t imagine she’d mind seeing me during business hours. Booke, Butch, and I drove downtown, which was a little run-down, populated with Popeyes and cheap clothing stores, along with a shop that sold various designer knockoffs. I got lucky with a parking space, and we only had to walk a block down to the small storefront where Caridad had her shop.
Orange neon rimmed the window and a small palm glowed red at the center. The frosted letters read FORTUNES BY CARIDAD; and the sign with the hours on it had been flipped to OPEN, so I pushed through the door, jangling a bell tied to the top. Booke came up behind me to stand at my shoulder while I took stock of the room; it was decorated like an old-fashioned parlor with velvet and damask furniture in hues of wine and saffron. In the middle sat a table with a black fringed cloth. Handwoven tapestries covered the walls, presumably to make potential patrons forget they were five minutes away from chicken being sold by the bucket.
“The only thing missing is the crystal ball,” Booke said.
I nodded as Caridad came out of the back.
“I suspect you don’t want your palm read,” she said, after she placed me. Booke, she seemed not to recognize at all, which was probably for the best. “So I won’t give you my usual patter about palmistry. What do you need?”
“My friend’s gone missing, and I have reason to believe he may be in trouble. I wondered if there was a way you could scry for him.”
Once, I could’ve cast this spell myself. Now, I’d only be able to do it via demon magick, and I was resolved not to use it, unless it was a matter of life and death. I didn’t know how bad things were for Kel at the moment, so I needed to find out. If it required deploying Dumah to save him, I would . . . but
Her gaze narrowed. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I’m paying cash.”
“Do you have any of his personal effects?” That was the magic word apparently. Caridad cared more about the state of my wallet than for my morality.
I cast a look at Booke and then answered softly, “No. But he and I were lovers once. He said that means we still have a . . . connection.”
“Does your friend have any unusual qualities?”
“Yes, definitely.” If I understood the question correctly, she was asking if he was gifted, or could use magick. Since I wasn’t about to tell her he was Nephilim—or half demon, whatever—that was the most I could reveal.
“Then it’s possible I can scry for him using your blood. Unless this connection he mentioned is strong, however, the results will probably be weak and limited, provided it works at all. The cost for the spell is five hundred dollars, payable up front and regardless of results.”
Without haggling I counted out the bills. “I assume you don’t do your real workings in the front?”
She shook her head. “Let me flip the sign and lock the door. Go on back.”
We passed through a black velvet curtain into a more utilitarian space. Caridad had a stove for cooking potions and salves, a plain wood table, and four rows of shelves filled with various components neatly labeled in glass canisters. Booke took a seat as Caridad joined us. Muttering, the witch set the ingredients she needed on the counter, then she turned to me with a sharp silver athame.
“I need seven drops of your blood in the chalice, please.” Now that she had my money, she was polite and professional, no hint of the arrogance that had colored our interaction at Chuch’s place.
After pricking my finger, I squeezed out the requested amount; then she gave me a gauze pad. “This will take a few moments.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“No. Just permit me to focus.”
The hair rose on my arms as she summoned her power. Caridad mixed the herbs along with oil, water, and my blood, which gave it an oddly prismatic effect. As she whispered to the mixture, images resolved in the shimmering liquid, but they were vague and weak; I could only make out what looked like the thrashing of limbs —
But she was frowning. “It looks as if he’s confined. Chained. I can’t make out more, unfortunately. If you had something that belonged to him, I might be able to pinpoint his precise location. But this is the best I can do. I’m sorry.”
I pushed out a slow breath. “It’s fine. I’ll track him down another way. It’s enough to receive confirmation that he needs my help.”
“Was that all?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks for your time.”
Caridad escorted us to the door, unlocked it, and turned the sign back to OPEN. “Please consider me if you need more assistance. Have a good day.”
I supposed there were worse things a witch could be, other than mercenary. Before we set out for La Rosa Negra, I gave Butch a drink and let him stretch his legs on the sidewalk. He promptly found a strip of grass and anointed it. Then he trotted back to me with a cocky Chihuahua strut.
“Done?” I asked.
Affirmative yap.
The trip wasn’t bad if you stuck to the highways.
Driving in Texas was always a bit of a crap shoot, as sometimes there were great ruts in the roads, but not this time. Highway repair crews had been out recently, so the Pinto putted along, reliable if not desirable. Sadly, the route didn’t offer much in the way of scenery—dry scrubland interspersed with rest areas and the occasional overpass oasis. Summer had fried the grass to a fire-hazard brown, and I imagined I could hear it crackling like tinfoil in the breeze as we blew past.
Booke was quiet as we drove, then he seemed to make a decision to exist in the present with me. I could only imagine what memories had been haunting him. He’d lost the woman he loved, a son he hardly knew, and his whole life. This had to feel like a dream to him sometimes, where he feared wakening with all his muscles
