Agave Kiss

me something about your life.”

“Are you asking for a bedtime story?” His tone was amused.

Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the back of the sofa. “Maybe.”

“I’ve already told you the worst, but there are some amusing anecdotes along the way. You know that my father was an influential man among his peers. His spells were powerful and highly sought-after. Which meant we lived well.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by that, but I figured people hired his dad as a kind of magickal merc. Though not everyone did that, there were a number of practitioners who found it to be the most practical way to make ends meet. Some would cast any spell for the right coin; others had a code that prevented inflicting harm.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“I grew spoiled. Self-indulgent. As you already know from my behavior with Marlena. So when I chose to enlist, my father was surprised. And resistant. He couldn’t have his only son and heir at risk with common barbarians.”

“This was the Second World War?” I felt reasonably confident on that, based on what I knew of his life and my history classes, but it couldn’t hurt to confirm.

“Yes. My reasons for joining up were complicated. Part of it was hoping to impress Marlena, make her love me. But some small aspect of me wanted to do something important—fight the good fight. The propaganda films in those days were incredibly effective.”

“That was before the Internet.”

Ignoring me, he went on at length, describing the German countryside and the people he met. His voice took on a suspicious lull, but before I could protest, Booke did the job, and I passed out. It was daylight when I woke next; my sleep was dreamless. I didn’t know if he’d slept any more, but he’d clearly showered and was fiddling in the kitchen with an old toaster.

“What a dirty trick,” I muttered. “Was there ever a point to any of it?”

“Of course. And that point was to get you some rest. Mission accomplished.”

“One of these days, I want a real story out of you. I’m sure you have one.”

“I do,” he said, smiling. “Peanut butter toast and fruit sound all right for breakfast? Is your stomach sound today?”

I shifted in an experimental fashion. No nausea. I was a little queasy, but unless somebody started cooking pork roast, I should be fine.

“Got a crick in my neck, and I think I drooled in my sleep, but otherwise I’m well enough.”

Deadpan, he offered, “That is, obviously, your most charming quality.”

“Whatever. I’m taking a shower.”

Because I actually was hungry, I hurried through my daily routine—scrubbing up, washing my hair, and then moisturizing in the steamy bathroom. The niceties didn’t run to an air extractor, which meant by the time I finished, it was hard to see for all the steam. In the misty whorls and the fog covering the glass, I imagined I glimpsed Chance peering at me through the mirror, his expression anxious and imploring. But when I stepped forward to get a clearer look, the picture vanished, leaving me with a tightness in my stomach comprised entirely of fear. At that moment, I desperately wanted to hear his voice, a reiteration of his promise: Even death will not keep me from you. But there was only the sad drip-drip from the showerhead. Chance’s vow could only go so far; I had to do my part or there could be no happy ending.

A little voice whispered, Maybe his father’s right. He’s not meant for you.

With great fortitude, I shut the doubts down. I couldn’t afford them. After wrapping in a rough towel, I went to the bedroom to dress and braid my hair. All signs indicated it would be another long, fruitless day at the arcane library, poring over our last few possible tomes. If we didn’t find the spell soon—well.

I took care of Butch’s needs and then headed grimly out to the car. Though we had a week left, it felt as though time had already run out.

Against All Odds

At four that afternoon, I gave up hope.

It might be hormones, but I had spent so many days belowground that I was probably suffering from SAD, as well as feeling sad, but when I laid my head down on the library table, I didn’t have the heart to read on. This was just wasting my time when I should be planning for my baby’s future, not spinning my wheels. The tears I expected didn’t come, though. Instead I had this awful, creeping numbness.

I’m sorry, Chance. I left it too long—

“Corine! Wake up.” Booke’s excited voice attracted the attention of the two elderly women who had been paging through resource materials with us all week. For them, I suspected it was a hobby more than life and death; everyone knew how elderly witches could be after retirement.

“Did you find something?” I asked without raising my head.

Gods, I was so tired. Surely this wasn’t normal. Otherwise, how did women manage to hold down a job? All I wanted to do was sleep, even with so much resting on my shoulders. He yanked me upright, not particularly delicate in his excitement. Booke didn’t notice my dirty look, as he was reading aloud in what sounded like Old German. Not that I was an expert. I’d barely made it through The Miller’s Tale during the brief portion of my high school career when we studied Chaucer.

When he paused, I put in testily, “Translation, please?”

“Right, sorry. Basically, the text references the ritual we’re looking for, naming another tome. It wasn’t on the list Ms. Devlin gave us, most probably because there’s no existing translation. The volume we need is that old, probably written in Sumerian or Babylonian.”

“And there happens to be a copy of it here in San Antonio?”

He bit his lip. “Unfortunately, no. It’s not a book at all, in fact. More a set of scrolls. And I’m not sure whether I can run down a surviving copy in time. There weren’t many . . . and only the most prestigious private collectors would own such a rare treasure.”

“So . . . we have six days to track down the rarest of rare ancient scrolls, get a translation, and flawlessly perform an unknown ritual?”

Booke sighed. “When you put it that way, it sounds rather daunting.”

“At least we have a lead now. Do you know any top-tier collectors?”

“I can put out a few feelers,” he said. “And I’m sure the curator could give me some names.”

“There’s no point in hanging out here, though. We’re not finding what we need on these shelves.”

“Yes, at least we’ve hurdled this particular obstacle.”

“Is that how you see this venture? Like a course laid out with hoops for us to jump through and barricades to clamber over?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted sheepishly.

“No wonder I’ve been so miserable. My coordination sucks.”

“But your determination is top-notch.”

“Smooth talker. Save it for Dolores.”

“Speaking of which . . .” He winked. “I’ve got an engagement tonight. Will you be all right at the flat on your own?”

“You’re seeing her again?” My eyes widened.

“Not Dolores. Ms. Devlin.”

“You’re incorrigible. So I’m taking the car and the dog, and you’ll make your way home when you’re good and ready?”

“That’s the size of it. May I have the spare key? And I trust you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Here you go.”

Amusement at Booke’s ability to find the bright side of any situation carried me all the way back to the dismal apartment. Where I had my mood ruined by the demon laying in wait. Sick terror roiled in my stomach, knotting the bread from the sandwich into a heavy lump of dough that I might launch at the impossibly handsome