Blue Diablo (Corine Solomon 1)

My hands trembled as I took up the tweezers, probing the first wound. Chance let out a sob of breath that made me feel as though I were torturing him intentionally. I took back all my wishes for him to suffer, but it was too late.

There’s probably a lesson in that.

Because it seemed to help, I tried to keep my motions mechanical: retrieve a sliver of glass, blot the wound, repeat.

“I’m sorry.” I spoke in a low litany, hating that I had to hurt him.

By the time I finished, I felt sick and he looked worse. He shook from head to toe, his fingers white where they gripped his knees. “Done?” His voice sounded raw, I imagined from the screams he’d swallowed.

“All but the disinfectant.”

Chance didn’t argue. Though normally doctors recommend simple cleansing with water in case of irritation, we couldn’t take the chance with demon dust. It had to be flushed out. Otherwise not only would the wounds fester; whoever wanted us dead could eventually work Chance like a puppet before he died.

This stuff was the worst of the worst, something I’d only heard about before that night in Reno. My mother had mentioned it in passing, but now I knew you had to kill a demon’s corporeal form and burn it to ash, and then use it in the ritual in order to wind up with a sending like this. Really wicked shit.

I hated that his welfare rested in my hands, but he wouldn’t go to a hospital, never had as long as I’d known him. I watched as the peroxide boiled out the cuts, seeing the telltale shadow in the pink discharge. Yep, this was undoubtedly the right decision.

“Smear my mother’s salve on the worst ones. I put it in your backpack.”

“Good idea.”

Though she’d formulated it for burns, it would promote healing in cuts as well and anesthetize some of the pain. I went to get it but had to spend a moment leaning against the wall before I could return to the bathroom. Hurting him damaged me in ways I didn’t care to contemplate right now.

“Almost done,” I said, stepping back into sight. “I brought you a change of clothes too.”

I painted the ointment down his lean, wounded back. I didn’t just hit the worst; I covered all of them and then began the tedious process of taping cotton and gauze in place. I wasn’t looking forward to changing the dressings, but I owed him.

“That’s a lot better,” he murmured, looking almost human again. “Why don’t you rinse off too? I’ll get changed and then we can talk.”

I let myself enjoy a spurt of irritation, like I wouldn’t know to shower without his instruction. Instead I got a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and exhibited exceptional common sense by not arguing. I made it quick, though, soaping everything in less than five minutes. My skin felt tender, as if I’d had a powerful exfoliating treatment.

When I joined the guys, they were already eating what looked like excellent homemade tamales, and I have some experience in that area. Chuch stood up when I entered; Chance didn’t. He ate with silent economy that told me he knew he needed the fuel more than he wanted the food. Our host waved a hand vaguely around his rather retro kitchen. I took in the burnt sienna countertops and avocado appliances.

“I got frijoles y queso, pollo verde, and dulce. What kind do you want?”

To my mind, tamales should never be sweet. “I’ll have the first two, please.”

Chuch quirked a brow. “How many?”

“One of each.”

I let him wait on me, feeling new aches spring up as I settled onto the chair. When I hit the warehouse wall, I’d banged my knee pretty good and I felt it now, a slow throb like a toothache. Chuch laid in front of me a green pottery plate, two tamales, a little cream, and some crumbled cheese. Then he seasoned them with a dash of salsa. My mouth watered.

The mechanic joined us at the table, attending his own food. It felt like forever since we’d eaten in Monterrey. I dug in, content to let Chance explain the situation, but he was in no hurry. I couldn’t honestly blame him.

“So why’d you two turn up at my door looking like this?” Done eating, Chuch folded his arms, leaning back with an expectant expression. “And is it gonna follow you to my house?”

“It might.” Chance shrugged. “But your wards are solid, right?”

“Never had nothing get in.” Seeming worried, Chuch searched Chance’s face with his gaze, a hard, penetrating look. “But there’s always the first time. Don’t hold back on me, mano. I got to know what I’m dealing with.”

“A sending rolled us over on the west side,” I told him around a mouthful of tamale. I ignored the look Chance shot me. “Nasty piece of work. Demon dust and a howler wind.”

Chuch flinched. “Shit. You don’t call that up on your first try. You two pissed off somebody powerful.”

I’d been testing him in case the salt was a fluke, but it seemed the mechanic knew his way around more than an engine. His grandmother must’ve taught him well. The rest of the world, full of normal people, lived in blissful unawareness about things that went bump in the night. But a filmy veil of unwanted knowledge and bitter experience would always separate folks like Chuch, Chance, and me from those lucky, ignorant mugs.

Blotting his mouth on a paper napkin dotted with green frogs, Chance regarded us somberly before he spoke. “We did, but I don’t have a choice. They have my mother.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” After glancing between us, Chuch settled on me as most likely to answer his questions. I wished I had the answers.

“At this point, we’re not sure.” I didn’t look at Chance as I filled Chuch in with as much as I knew, anyway. Which didn’t amount to a whole lot. He seemed surprised to hear I’d been living in Mexico City.

Chuch said, “I’ll tell you straight. The only players in this area who could afford a sending like that are the narcotraficantes. Could be two or three different cartels, though.” My expression must have reflected disbelief, because he added, “What, you think the cartels don’t pay for hexes? It’s not like Hollywood, prima, all automatic weapons and shady dudes with oily mustaches. You live in Mexico; why don’t you know this?”

“Sorry.” I conceded the point with a nod, glad I hadn’t offended him.

“Anyway, hard telling who your mama crossed, no? What was—” Chuch caught himself, but I didn’t want to see Chance’s reaction to the slip. “Er, what is your mom like?”

“She has nothing to do with drug dealers,” Chance said savagely. He laid down his fork as if he wanted to stab someone with it. “She owns a homeopathy store in Tampa.”

The other man’s dark eyes gleamed flat and hard under the kitchen lights. “So she knows things, uses her skill to heal the sick. A curandera: that’s what she is now, primo. But what was she before?”

To my amazement, Chance had no answer for that.

I cleared my throat. “I think we’d better find out. I’m as ready as I’m going to be. So it’s showtime.”

Both men swung their heads my way as I brought the button out of my shorts’ pocket. Since I had scabs atop old scars on my left palm, I used my right hand. Closing my fingers and my eyes, I let the pain come. It washed over me in waves, flames licking down my nerve endings.

Pain unlocked the door.

A dim and murky scene boiled up, obscured as if by smoke. Candlelight. I focused on the images. Four men in dark clothing stood around a circle drawn in colored chalk. At the center stood a woman, and my heart clenched. Yi Min-chin. I saw her lips moving as she led the ritual. Silver glinted as she raised a knife high.

Chicken blood. The cement was stained with chicken blood.

Sacrifice complete, the men knelt to her and she painted arcane symbols on each brow in turn. The spell had the look of a covenant to me, as if his mother had made a deal that night, a compact signed in blood.

I watched as she plucked a button from her blouse and flicked it toward the crates. She was definitely leaving a trail for me to follow. I just didn’t know whether I wanted to find her after what I’d just seen.

Feeling the tamales rise, I opened my eyes, letting the button clatter onto the table. It was useless now, like a dead battery. My right hand stung but plastic didn’t sear like metal. No new marks. Though I didn’t want to, I shared what I’d seen.

The mechanic shook his head, eyes wide. “You got that kind of hudu? Could tell that from a button? But you acted like you couldn’t believe the cartels use magick when they’ll do anything to control their territory? I think you were bustin’ my balls.”

I didn’t bother to say what I did wasn’t magick. Besides, Chance was already gearing up to argue, sparing me the need to explain. He gripped the edge of the table, quietly livid. “That . . . that’s wrong. They must’ve faked it somehow, planted it for us to find. She isn’t—she doesn’t know about—”

Very gently Chuch asked him, “You sure, primo?”

I don’t say my visions are always right. Sometimes the sound track makes all the difference; sometimes I interpret what I see incorrectly. It happens. But I don’t know what other spin I could put on this. Yi Min-chin led that ritual with expert precision. She knew the meaning of those symbols. I couldn’t blame him for fighting the idea that his mom wasn’t perfect. In this world, sometimes a mother represents the only glimpse we ever get of pure generosity, someone who puts our welfare before her own.

Mine wore attar of roses and sang “All the Pretty Horses” to me before I slept. She’d also practiced her craft openly and unwisely in Kilmer, Georgia, believing in the tolerance of her neighbors. When that mistake caught up to her, she gave her life for me.

I’ve been suffering ever since. It weighs on me because I feel like I need to live twice as worthy a life in order to make up for her sacrifice. And I’m so tired.

For a long moment Chance glared at us both, as if we were to blame for his shattered illusions. Then he dropped his head into his hands. I’d never seen him like this, broken and unsure. I ached because I no longer had the right to comfort him, no longer felt sure he’d welcome my hands in his damp black hair.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “If she’s in trouble, I have to help her.”

Blood never stops calling for blood.

Rock and a Hard Place

“I get that,” Chuch said, nodding. “I’d do the same. But you’ll get yourselves killed if you don’t start playing smart. This is out of your weight class.”

“With all due respect,” I returned. “You don’t know what I weigh.”

The mechanic sized me up with a glance. “One forty-two,” he decided. “If you’re being literal.” His accuracy left me blinking as he went on. “If not, then you need to fill me in.”

“I’m retaining water,” I mumbled. And doughnuts. Neither guy was stupid enough to say it aloud if they thought it. “I’ll let Chance do the honors. I have to make a call.”

Chance glared at me, but he already knew Saldana wasn’t our problem, so there wasn’t much he could say. He could’ve played the jealous ex, but he wouldn’t want to show that side in front of Chuch. Plus they really did have stuff to discuss.