“Fenestra aperta est. Et omnes leges ejus. Intrate, grata,” I said as I punched Francisco again, this time in the stomach. It was getting hard to see straight; the poisoned blood had done a number on me, but I needed to push through. No time to fall back.
There were shouts from upstairs, the clatter and dull thuds of automatic weapons and grenade launchers as something crashed through the compound gates. Dragon had arrived. I wish I could have seen the look on the faces of the tired, drunk, stoned mara members as an armor-plated, thirty-two-short-ton garbage truck blasted through, Lauren at the wheel.
Dwayne and Gretchen tore through the MS-13 soldiers like a buzz saw. Bodies and parts flew everywhere. The man and the dog moved in seamless coordination. More bangers were pouring down the stairs into the living room. Several of them fired on Dwayne as they descended, but he spun his body, twisting and snapping the chain. Impossibly, the chain was everywhere a bullet was supposed to be, knocking them off their path toward him. Dwayne launched himself up the stairs, plowing into the stunned mass of gunmen. Gretchen had Dwayne’s back, finishing off the last of the gang standing in the living room, ripping at their shins and wrists, maiming them and disarming them.
Francisco shoved me back, trying to get enough space to cast. He barked out a quick, dirty spell, “Totonqui xochitl tlaxilia,” and flowers of black fire spilled from his free hand, engulfing me in ebony flames. I felt my clothes begin to catch and smelled crisping hair, but I had to hold. I charged at him, low, with a roar and felt my arms wrap around his legs in a football-style tackle. We both went down, and he began to burn too.
“Coyonia,” I began, speaking in the ancient Nahuatl, the language of Francisco’s gods, “talaih tlamanalli…”
“No!” Francisco shouted. The awareness of what I was doing fell on him. I had torn down his pacts and wards with his own patrons. He was just another piece of sacrificial meat to his vengeful gods now, like the rest of us. I was offering him up, along with myself, if I died. Bloodthirsty gods hated getting played by mortal wizards, and they really couldn’t pass up a twofer.
“… otechompahpaquilti,” I finished as I began to feel my skin redden and blister from the black fire. I grabbed a pistol off the floor, discarded by a now-dead banger. Francisco struggled with me, panic giving him strength. I jammed a thumb into one of his wide eyes, and he screamed and let loose of the gun long enough for me to double-tap two rounds into his chest. I rolled off him, both of us burning, me hacking and tossing the gun. “Aquam mergit et lenire flamma ignis,” I gasped, and the wizard fire was gone. I was smoking, and soaking wet. My burns stung, but they felt better, a temporary magical remedy. I leaned back and watched Francisco burn, as a proper sacrifice should.
“Good to see you again, Francisco,” I wheezed.
There was a loud boom, and the house shook. I was pretty sure that was our ride backing up to the front door. I struggled to my feet, pausing on my knees to puke. My blood still had more than your daily recommended requirement of magic venom. I knew the spell would unravel and fade now that Francisco was past tense, but in the meantime I felt like ass.
I looked around at all the bodies and recalled why I had wanted Dwayne with me. He had already worked his way upstairs, and I noticed that it seemed pretty quiet in the house. I stumbled against the walls, like a pinball, until I reached the front door, unbarred it, and opened it. The garbage truck’s interior, usually filled with garbage, was on the other side of the door. The compartment was clean and had benches for passengers. The walls of the chamber were packed with bulletproof blankets. I heard an intercom speaker hiss as the mike in the cab was keyed. “You got him?” Dragon asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I ran into Francisco, you remember that asshole?”
“Yeah,” Dragon replied with a hiss and click. “You give him my love?” I looked back at the still-burning remains.
“Yeah,” I said, “I did.”
“Okay we got incoming, LAPD and sheriff’s department, in about four minutes,” she said. “Get your answers and let’s go!” I struggled up the stairs, pausing until a dizzy spell passed, and reached the second floor. More bodies, and Dwayne and Gretchen leading a man in a Thom Browne suit and tie out into the hallway. He looked Middle Eastern. His haircut was short and professional and he carried a dull silver armored case. He looked more pissed than scared.
“I was just bringing him down to you,” Dwayne said. “This guy gave me like twenty different names, but he was packing up and deleting computer stuff in there, and the computer told me his real name is Luis Demir.”
“You looked him up using his computer?” I asked. Dwayne shook his head.
“No, brah, the computer’s shot. The spirit in the computer actually told me; it’s got a voice, man, we’ve discussed this.”
“I don’t know what sitcom you two fell out of,” Demir said in flawless, unaccented English. Gretchen growled at him, showing bloodstained teeth.
“Three,” I corrected. “She’s touchy about that.”
“But you have no idea how big the people are you just fucked wi—”
“Let me save you some time,” I interrupted Demir. “I don’t care about you or your business associates. You acquired identity data from a girl some years back. Her name
