Then it occurred to me to ask, “How did you learn to shoot? I thought the U.K. had much stricter gun laws than the U.S.”
“Not for soldiers,” Booke said quietly.
Mentally, I did some math. He had been thirty-six in 1947, which meant he could’ve fought in World War II, but he’d said he had been with his lover for eight years, which would’ve taken place during wartime. But maybe they were separated until it ended . . . ? As I pulled into traffic, I decided to find out.
“Did you fight?”
“Yes. Perhaps that’s why the romance seemed so much more desperate, more doomed . . . and therefore, more important. Ironically, by the time she told her husband everything, I was a different man. War changes you.”
It had started as an indulgence of his ego, ended in tragedy. “So those eight years, it was off and on . . . all the stolen moments you could snatch.”
“Precisely. I lived for those hours when she could sneak away . . . or I was on leave. Though toward the end . . .” He lifted a shoulder in a weary, self-deprecating shrug. “I loved her, but she wasn’t the woman I wanted her to be.”
I made a left turn, heading toward the highway. The directions fluttered on the scrap of paper on the dash, lifted by the vent, while Butch paced in the backseat. If he had his Scrabble tiles, he’d be Han Soloing all over the place, with a bad feeling about this. He wasn’t the only one, but Kel was my friend. I never left people behind if I had a choice. Just one more errand, and then we’d see how bad the opposition was.
“I get it. Love is worth fighting for.”
His face went pensive. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that is. That’s why you mustn’t give up on your young man, no matter what.”
The lump in my throat surprised me. “I won’t. I’m facing some pretty steep opposition, maybe even going up against nature itself, but if hell didn’t stop me, death won’t either.”
Booke gave a half smile. “Remind me never to cross you.”
Unlikely Heroes
The arcane shop where Booke bought his supplies was housed in an Oriental Home Furnishings shop. Or that was the front. If you had the fortitude to shake off the aversion spell, you progressed to the real goods in the back. This time, I couldn’t see the runes pulsing, but I felt them; and without my mother’s magick, I had a strong inclination to get out before we ran into the creepy old woman again.
Booke grabbed my arm, forceful when he had to be. “None of that,” he cautioned me in an undertone. “We’ve a job to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He cut me a chiding look for the sarcasm and led the way toward the private sales floor. Though he’d never been to this shop before, apparently he was familiar with the premise. The room was filled with short shelves covered in esoteric supplies: wands, chalices, athames, and spell components, cunningly arrayed. There was a young woman at the counter this time, and I let out a small sigh of relief. Not subtle, it seemed, as the clerk focused on me.
“You’re glad not to see my great-aunt.” She had strawberry blond curls, blue eyes, and she hardly looked old enough to be out of high school, but something told me her baby face was deceptive.
So I didn’t bother to dissemble. “Maybe a little.”
“She’s retired now. In recent years she’d gotten a bit . . . odd, which makes for poor customer service.”
The girl went on, “I’m Karen. If you need anything specific, have questions, or can’t find what you’re looking for, let me know. If we don’t stock it, I’m sure I can special order what you need.” There was a reassuring solidity behind her prettiness, making me think I wouldn’t converse with any demons through her anytime soon.
“I have a list,” Booke cut in.
His accent made Karen take notice, as did most Texan females. She brought him colorful powders, stored in glass vials, small ceramic figures, various herbs and liquids. It was like watching an alchemist prepare to transmute lead into gold—while carrying on a courtly flirtation. At the end of the transaction, she slipped him a business card, and I didn’t think it was for special orders. I grinned at him as we went out to the Pinto, parked at a meter a block away. We passed Popeyes on the way, so the air smelled like fried chicken and biscuits. He didn’t notice, too busy smirking.
I teased gently, “You should be ashamed, the way they tumble for you. What about Dolores?”
“She and I shared an amicable, somewhat calisthenic evening, not to be repeated.” He held up a hand as I swung into the car, forestalling my commentary. “At her request, not mine. She knows I’m leaving and isn’t interested in playing at a long-distance romance.”
“I’m glad you were up front with her.”
“I don’t lie to women to get what I want. I’m not a scoundrel,” he said in an aggrieved tone, but his word choice made me laugh.
“I think you mean ‘dog’ or ‘player.’”
“My original point stands.” He changed the subject, becoming brisk. “Is there a safe place where I can craft my foci?”
Starting the Pinto, I thought about that. There was no way I’d condone any magickal shenanigans where I was staying; no more complications for the Ortiz family. At one point, I’d used an Escobar safe house, but I wouldn’t go there without the boss’s sanction. My options in Texas were limited . . . and then I had it.
“If you’re not picky, yes.”
“I just need quiet and room to work,” he said.
“Then this will suffice.”
Making a decision, I put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, and drove toward Ramon’s trailer, where Chuch had stashed me when I was laying low after a long day of driving the Montoya cartel crazy. Hopefully, nobody had rented the place. If so, I’d claim to be lost, and try to find an alternative. But from what I remembered, it was more of a crash pad than a home.
Booke and I bickered amicably as we rolled toward our penultimate destination. I teased him about his lady-killer moves and he gave as good as he got. It was good to see him acting normal, a man with a future instead of one who had given up on happiness. When I found him at the ghost cottage, he’d seemed so beaten, so hopeless. I never wanted to see him that way again.
The Pinto rode like a horse wagon, no shocks to speak of, but at least if I lost this ride or it got blown up, Chuch wouldn’t stroke out over it. Given how things were shaping up, either possibility seemed plausible. I was lucky I remembered the route Chuch had taken when he delivered me here, past the highway, past town, past everything worth seeing.
This RV park was a little slice of hell. Trash lay in moldering heaps, rusted carburetors and engines up on blocks. As I recalled from my last visit, one trailer nearby had license plates all over it, and the diagonal neighbor collected hubcaps. Stolen, I was sure. Trees featured sparsely in the landscaping, but on the plus side, if you were looking for broken glass to do an abstract mosaic, you only had to look down. Plastic bags blew in the wind, tangling in the scrubby bushes. As I parked in front of a run-down single-wide, Booke stared.
“Do they even have trailer parks in the U.K.?” I wondered aloud.
“Yes, but they’re called caravans . . . and they’re nothing like this.”
I imagined not. The cracks in the underpinning had gotten worse, so that the vinyl hung completely askew on one side. For obvious reasons, the door wasn’t locked. Since I’d been inside once, I thought I was prepared; only I wasn’t—but not for the reasons I expected. Someone had hauled off the plaid purple couch, and the stained brown carpet had been removed too. The subfloor had been covered in new vinyl, and it wasn’t catastrophically ugly. Nobody would ever mistake it for real Italian tile, but it was a big improvement. All of the rubbish had been
