Agave Kiss

“Yes, ma’am.”

I went to tell Booke the good news. He hugged me, then said, “You realize I won’t let you shirk your medical obligations.”

“I know. Single-minded pursuit of Chance is off the table.” I collapsed on the couch more than sat. Gods, was it the injury or the baby sapping my energy this way? I didn’t know how women survived nine months of this, and from what I’d seen with Eva, it would only get worse.

“Home sweet home,” Booke said as he settled beside me.

I glanced at the tired furnishings and the scarred veneer on the shelves. It was, unquestionably, a depressing base of operations. But not for long, I promised myself. You’ll get this sorted. Then Booke can travel . . . and you can go back to Mexico.

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“I know. I chose to.”

Butch wandered around the apartment, smelling everything. I wondered how many different tenants he could still detect. Now and then he paused to growl. Booke watched in apparent fascination as the dog asserted his dominance over his new surroundings. I struggled to my feet to show him where I’d put his food and water dish in the kitchen. He licked my fingers as I jiggled the bowl, so I stroked his head. Poor little dude had really gone through a lot in the past months.

So have I.

After Butch ate, he trotted to me and pawed my leg, but when I went to pick him up, he gave two negative yaps. Which meant I got to play the guessing game.

“Something on your mind?”

One yap. Yes.

“Should I get the Scrabble tiles?”

Again, yes.

“Would you mind?” I asked Booke. “They’re in my purse.”

“Your dog really talks.”

I raised a brow, wondering if I hadn’t mentioned that to Booke. No, I was sure I’d regaled him with stories prior, and I wouldn’t have omitted such a pertinent detail. “This is not news.”

“But . . . I thought it was colorful embellishment for the sake of the story. Scrabble tiles! How marvelous.” Smiling, he went to the small table where I’d dumped my bag earlier.

The tiles were still in their Ziploc baggie from the last use. Butch pranced at my feet, his body shaking so hard that I’d think he needed to go outside if we hadn’t paused on the way in. By the time Booke put the letters on the floor, he was whining.

“We get it, this is important.” Deep down I hoped it was another message from Chance.

Butch had told me that he visited sometimes—and only the dog could see him. That must be incredibly lonely. Chilled, I glanced around the apartment, wondering if Chance was standing at my shoulder. I wished I could sense him—I wanted to—but nothing supernatural communicated with me. Butch pawed at the tiles, frantic in his haste. This was obviously important.

youre running out of time

“For what? Chance?”

Butch gave an affirmative yap. Then he went back to work. This time the letters shaped into:

if you dont open the way during the festival of the dead it will be too late

I glanced at Booke, who got out his phone. He Googled, then said, “It’s in October. You have a few weeks yet.”

But given the complications so far, I could understand why Chance was worried. I still hadn’t figured out a way to handle things on my end. The only thing I knew about opening gates between realms involved sacrificing a soul, and I damn sure wasn’t doing that. But there must be a solution, somewhere.

“Why? I don’t want to wait another year, but—”

By the way that Butch went after the tiles, Chance had an urgent message to convey. I stopped, waiting for the letters to fall into shape. Booke patted my hand as if he could make things better with a touch. And it helped a little.

next year i wont remember you

Shit. “Is that your father’s solution to your unwillingness to assume Daikokuten’s mantle?”

this realm strips you of mortal ties

That made sense. Otherwise people who crossed over would constantly be trying to get back, like Chance. I guessed only his divine heritage made it possible for him to hold on to us—me—for this long. But time was running out. No wonder Butch had been so agitated. I felt that way myself.

“What can I do?”

open the way

i love you

Feeling stupid, I said to open space, “Chance, don’t give up. I’ll find a way. See, you have more reason than ever to get back here.” I drew in a hard, hurting breath, wondering if I should tell him like this. “We’re having a baby.”

Silence. The Chihuahua eyed me, but didn’t respond. Instead, Butch sat back on his haunches, studying me with liquid, sympathetic eyes. By his current demeanor, I guessed Chance had gone, but I needed to confirm. “It’s just us now?”

Affirmative yap.

“Did he hear me?”

I got the dog equivalent of a shrug. It was possible Chance had heard me as he was slipping away, but Butch couldn’t guarantee that. Dammit. You should’ve said something sooner, given him a reason to fight harder.

Still, I owed appreciation where it was due. “Thank you, buddy. You gave me a much-needed heads- up.”

If I didn’t solve this problem in fourteen days, Chance would be lost to me forever. That could not happen. In my head, I heard that stupid song from Jeopardy! I blocked out the nerves that were surely creating that distraction, then turned to Booke.

“You’re the resident genius. You said you want to repay me. This is the time. I’m . . .” My voice broke. “I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t have anything left to give, and yet it’s more critical than ever—”

“Hush, sweetheart.” His tone was endearingly avuncular as he drew me against him, and I ugly-cried all over his gray sweater. “You didn’t just let me die . . . and I’m not going to let you lose the man you love either.”

“Okay.” Booke’s unconditional support gave me the strength to clamber to my feet. “Let’s check out this arcane library.”

My backpack was already in the bedroom, courtesy of Booke, and he’d staked his claim on the couch. He gave me his arm like a proper gentleman, though I think it was more out of concern for my balance than out of good manners. Together, we headed out to the car, and Butch trotted at my heels with a faintly aggrieved doggy sigh. Without urging, he hopped into the back of the Pinto. Booke still had the keys, so when he swung into the driver’s seat, I didn’t protest. My right leg was iffy anyway, and it made sense to rest it as much as I could, as much as the mission allowed.

“This is a terrible car,” he observed, starting it.

“At least it runs. And I have a propensity for misplacing my rides, so I understand why Chuch didn’t want to sell me anything he could make real money off restoring.”

“I can’t imagine there’s much demand for a classic Pinto.”

“Exactly. That’s why I don’t have the Charger or the Maverick. And he took a loss on this.” It was all I could do to get him to accept a measly three hundred, when I knew he’d paid four, then bought some parts and spent some time on the engine, if he hadn’t gotten around to the body yet.

“It can be hard to let friends help when you’re in a bind, but they have the comfort of knowing they did right by you. And you can offer the same support when their backs are to the wall.”