Shady Lady

long ago. The object was crudely cast, not made by a master, but I saw the signs of handwork on it.

“May I see it?”

This was going to be tricky. If this was the object I was meant to retrieve, how could I get it out of the church? First things first, however: I leaned forward in anticipation as de León stood and crossed to the wall, where he took down the crucifix with reverent hands. He passed it to me with an expectant look, as if I ought to comment on its obvious age or weight.

I glanced at Kel, who took his cue. He began to question de León, drawing his eyes away from me. The sound faded to a low buzz as I curled my hand around it. Old things always carried layers, so I took the burn and watched the slow procession of years. Most came from faith and devotion, so I saw priests praying in procession. Such memories, though powerful, carried only the heat of a summer day.

At last I hit bottom, a charge so powerful it stayed in the silver, even as others added their own experiences. I saw a whisper of Ramiro Escobar in this priest’s lean build, though the resemblance came from stance and attitude. He had a proud face, even as he prayed, both hands wrapped around the cross. I fell into the reading as if the bottom had dropped out of my world.

Surprise surged through me. I had not expected to see her again so soon, though she had spent a great deal of time here in recent days. I noted her prettiness in an abstract way, as I strove to keep my manner paternal with every female parishioner. Bitterness laced the observation. First I had been sacrificed to the Church, and then I had been exiled from my home. I could not pronounce her name; it was something savage, so I called her Juana.

I showed none of that emotional turmoil as she genuflected. I had yet to explain the difference between kneeling to God and kneeling to me, and so the natives continued to do both. They seemed to think I merited such obeisance as part of my position, and it pleased me to receive it.

Thus, I smiled at her approach and bade her rise. Belatedly I noted the fear in her eyes. She wore bruises on her thin arms like matching bracelets. I started to ask what had happened, but she threw herself at me. I caught her because I thought she was about to faint, and then she pressed her mouth to mine fiercely, desperately. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, and then I put her away from me.

That life was not for me. My father had chosen my path, and I could not let the wiles of a half- mad native girl sway me. She fell to her knees and kissed the hem of my robe, my feet, and I cringed in horror and discomfort. Her weeping filled my ears with its shrill tenor. Soon her cries rose to a crescendo; they would draw others.

I begged her to be silent.

And then the villagers came.

I fell into my own body with a sense of queasy disorientation. My gift was not the same as it had always been. Ever since I’d touched the necklace that contained my mother’s power—and gods only knew what else— readings were irregular. In Kilmer, the power burned a piece of paper to ash. Before, I saw only what they saw, but this time I became the priest, thinking his thoughts while they soaked into the crucifix in his hand. I trembled a little, eyes closed.

A hand lit on my shoulder. Kel, I felt sure. The drone of conversation had ceased. Shit. I hated this part, where everyone treated me like a freak. When I opened my eyes, they were both staring at me.

“Estoy bien. No se preocupe,” I said, trying to convince all three of us.

“What were you doing?” the priest asked.

My hand shook when I reached for my beer to buy some time. I brought it to my lips and took a long swallow. Father de León watched me all the while.

Kel spoke for me. “Like the girl, she is angel-touched. She can see secrets left behind.”

Hm. Perhaps that was what the message meant. Unearth her bones. Learn her secrets. I didn’t know that I’d call what I did angel-touched, but that reply seemed more politic than the alternative when keeping company with a priest.

“Did it belong to him, then?”

I finished my beer and nodded. “Yes. And others too.” But his charge had been strongest, such shock and shame at the accusations. “I’d like to buy it.”

Ridiculous—we didn’t have the cash to pay for such a relic. Though our expenditures had been low, we had only seven hundred nuevos soles left. Yet I had to try. I didn’t want to sneak here in the dark to steal the crucifix. Surely Kel wouldn’t go along with that, even if I was “important.”

“It is part of the history of this mission,” Father de León said. “One cannot put a price on such things.”

As a former pawnshop owner, I noticed one thing straightaway: He hadn’t said no. That meant he was open to haggling, and that was my forte. He started out by naming an absurd price, ten thousand.

“Ridículo,” I said, laughing. I half rose, as if to leave.

“Espere. Quizás . . .”

Kel touched my arm lightly and whispered in my ear. The news made me smile. In the end, we dickered for a quarter of an hour before I got de León to accept six hundred cash and a matching pair of silver salt and pepper shakers: Eros and Psyche, of course. He could tell they were valuable and would buy a much nicer, newer crucifix, as well as other things for the church, but he hid his satisfaction well. Instead he wore a grave expression, as if he let the old one go only with great reluctance.

“It was a pleasure,” he said as I stood. “But why do you want it?”

“I work for a man descended from Father Escobar. He desires it for sentimental reasons.”

The priest nodded as if that made perfect sense. “What did you see when you touched the cross? What happened?”

I smiled slightly. “He didn’t hurt that girl. And I don’t know where he went, once he left it behind.”

“Not heaven, I think.”

No, probably not. I figured he’d headed north. If he was related to Escobar, he’d fathered children, just not on the poor girl who had wanted him to claim her baby as his own. I guessed she didn’t understand the concept of celibacy—only that he was powerful and could shield her from shame, if he so chose.

“Gracias por todo,” I told de León.

He waved as I tucked the crucifix into my bag and Kel followed me out. It was getting on toward evening. Everyone had gone home, so there were few people about, but still chickens and goats. The former squawked as we passed by, pecking at grubs I couldn’t see. We followed the track back to the village center, unrolled our sleeping bags, and I sat down, facing him.

“How did I do?”

He shrugged. “If that is the right object, then very well.”

I laughed. “Faint praise, indeed.”

In the dark, his tats glowed faintly, signaling power or strong emotion. With Kel I’d never been able to differentiate the two, and perhaps in him they were inextricably bound. That fact explained at least half of what rendered him so fascinating—and utterly off-limits.

“I don’t mean to slight you,” he said gravely. “I expected you to falter on the way. You have more fortitude than I knew.”

“More than I knew, frankly. There were a few times, out there”—I gestured toward the horizon, where the jungle we couldn’t see teemed with fearsome creatures—“when I wanted to give up.”

“I know.” His tone was gentle, but also impersonal, like a nurse offering reassurance to a patient when he’d had seen so many that they had become numbers and diseases instead of names and faces. Rarely, he displayed real emotion, but I had the sense it was painful for him—he needed the impassivity to function in a world where he comprised the only constant.

“You’ve been fantastic. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He tipped his head forward, acknowledging the praise. Only a faint curve at the edges of his mouth showed his pleasure, but I saw. His archangel probably never said, Good job, or, Thanks for killing that infidel. I had no idea why he wasn’t crazy; too much isolation could drive a person out of his mind.