Shady Lady

apart from my low-ebbing energy, I was also being practical.

Kel stepped into the shop, and when he returned, he carried a small bag. He produced tortas wrapped in waxed paper, and two icy orange sodas. A few moments later, the owner brought us a couple of rickety chairs. Clearly he wanted us gone but he also didn’t want trouble. He set them down with a muttered imprecation, well outside the store. I sat down gratefully as the day died around us.

We ate in silence, but I could finish only half of my sandwich. I gave the rest to Kel, and downed the Fanta in a thirsty rush. I ached from head to toe. By the time we finished and balled up our trash, a dark town car was pulling up to the curb. Two men in black got out. Since it was nearly dark, they didn’t wear shades, but their impassive expressions matched what I had come to expect in minions.

One of them went into the store to settle our account; the other waved us into the backseat of the vehicle. They drove us to an airfield an hour outside the city, and soon, we were in the air. Thank all gods and goddesses this was nearly done. I’d had enough of playing this man’s game, and I badly wanted some return on my time and trouble.

The flight was long, and we stopped once to refuel—I didn’t know where. Kel and I stayed on the plane. He was so quiet it troubled me, but I could find no way to inquire. At the second takeoff, he surprised me by curling his fingers through mine.

“You don’t like to fly?” I guessed.

His mouth turned down ever so slightly. “Not like this.”

Ah. I understood. I wished I didn’t. In my mind’s eye, I saw scars, not wounds he’d taken fighting, but those inflicted while he knelt bound and unable to resist. The amputation of his wings had been a punishment for some transgression; I knew that much. The demon had hinted that the archangels abused him both because of his human mother and his own disobedience. How much of that was true? He hadn’t denied anything, as I recalled, except the idea that desire required penance.

At length, we slept, and I held his hand until we landed. When I opened my eyes next, I recognized this airstrip, and the house in the distance. We were back on Escobar’s property, wherever that might be.

Goon A escorted me from the plane while Goon B took charge of Kel. “You will be permitted to bathe and change before you see el Señor.”

I found the honorific amusing because that was also what some people called God around here. Or maybe I just was too tired to know what was funny. “Gracias.”

Paolo stood waiting for me on the veranda. When I turned, I couldn’t see Kel anywhere. I started to protest but he held up a hand. “Your companion will not be harmed. He is simply not part of your business with my father.” He spoke kindly, gently, but his eyes reflected the same implacable core I’d glimpsed in Escobar.

Divide and conquer. I recognized the tactic, but I couldn’t think of a reason to fight it. Kel could take care of himself.

“Okay,” I said wearily. “I’ll take that shower.”

The boy led the way to the suite I’d occupied before, what seemed like ages ago. I cringed a little, catching hints of my filth in reflective surfaces along the way. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the wreckage that greeted me when I stepped into that palatial bathroom.

My hair stood in a wild nimbus on top, a straggling, messy braid down my back as if those feral demonic monkeys had styled it for me. I had a long scratch down my throat from where the demon marked me, and various bruises darkened my skin. More shocking, my face was thin and sharp, browner than I could ever remember seeing it. The blue of my eyes gleamed brighter by comparison. I got my biggest surprise when I peeled out of my filthy clothes. I ran my palms down my stomach. Ribs. I could feel my ribs. I had no idea how much weight I’d lost out there, but I could see the difference. The muscles—and apparently I had some—showed much closer to the skin now.

Well, whatever. It wouldn’t do to keep Escobar waiting—any longer than necessary, anyhow, because I didn’t mean to rush this shower. Given free rein, I’d spend days getting clean.

A long while later, I stepped out of the stall. I took advantage of the nourishing creams and then wandered into the bedroom, steam trailing me like wistful air elementals. I tried not to be outraged when I saw he’d replaced the clothing in the wardrobe with smaller sizes. I was even more agitated when they fit. I hated the idea that Escobar could foresee every eventuality, as if he were privy to a celestial chessboard nobody else could see.

“If that were true,” I said aloud, “then he wouldn’t need me to help him take out Diego Montoya.”

I told myself I wasn’t putting on the white dream of a dress to impress anyone, but part of me wanted Kel to see me wearing such a lovely thing. It was a pure slice of feminine vanity, but it suited me, and I would’ve never dared to wear a halter top before. I made sure it was tied tight before I went to work on my hair. It took longer than I liked to dry it, but after so many days of braids, I wanted to wear it loose.

Paolo knocked on the door as I finished up. He paused for a moment, taking in the picture I presented, though I was too old for him. Still, it was a kind flattery, one seen often in Latin men. “Come. It is time.”

His escort was unnecessary. Along the way, he showed off for me a little, spinning another white rose in the air. I caught it and found it had already been stripped of thorns. So when I stepped into Escobar’s sanctum sanctorum, I carried a white bloom. White dress, red hair, brown skin, blue eyes—I didn’t think I’d ever been so exotic before. I hoped Escobar didn’t expect a virgin sacrifice to seal the deal. That ship sailed long ago.

I wasn’t surprised at all to find him standing before the windows, back to me. That sort of pose offered all kinds of power advantages, especially if I sat. I didn’t. I was patient; I could wait him out.

The backpack that contained the crucifix sat on a striped damask chair nearby. To confound his expectations, I crossed the room and stood beside him. This side of the room had a majestic view, and for the first time I realized the house had been built into the mountainside. Below lay only open space.

He turned then, assessing me in a glance. “Show me what you found.”

Obedient, I snagged the backpack and dug inside it. Happily, someone had already disposed of the other noisome items it’d contained, leaving only the tarnished silver cross. Making sure of my shields—because I assuredly did not want to read this thing, as I had likely imprinted it with my struggles—I lifted the icon into the light.

“Here it is.”

“Tell me the story.”

After offering it to him, I summed up what I’d learned. “You placed the clay statue there,” I finished. “You must have, like a marker for me to follow.”

“Not me,” he said. “One of my men.”

“Why didn’t you have him fetch that thing home? Or do it yourself?”

His lips quirked. “Do I look as if I would enjoy trekking through the jungle?” As a matter of fact, no. “I admit to being curious as to how you deciphered the markings. Your phone indicates no outside help. Does your companion speak Aymara?”

I merely smiled. Let him wonder.

Accepting my silence as reply, he went on. “And the relic would have done me no good without someone to give me the answer I sought.”

“Which was?”

“Whether the story was true.”

“Why did you care? It was so long ago.”

“Blood matters,” he said gravely. “Would you not wish to know whether you came from a line of liars and rapists?”

I found his concern for family honor peculiar and offkilter, given how he had built his own empire. Still . . . “Yes. I’d want to know. But why did you think it would be so bad, that handling?” In truth, my courage had been tested more in other ways over the course of the trial.

“Wouldn’t it have been, if it had been true?”

Ugh. Yes. The priest might’ve clutched it, reliving his awful deeds, and his salacious sadism would’ve filled me as if I were a drunkard’s barf bucket.

“I’ve done it,” I said then. “Passed your challenge. May I go now? I need to reassure my friends and get some rest before we begin.”

Get your live bait, right here. Sweet Georgian bait. That would go over big with the folks in Texas.