Agave Kiss

“I think it’s best if Corine rents the flat. It’s likely to be small, but I’ll happily sleep on the couch. That way, she has company . . . and backup, should she require it.”

Booke . . . I could stand rooming with him. And hopefully, as he noted, it wouldn’t be too long. Time felt like a ticking bomb, as if my relationship with Chance had an expiration date—and that was to say nothing of other dangers: an open dispute with demons, plus an insane “archangel” who intended to recruit me . . . or murder me. Either way. Ferocious certainty hardened my spine. There was no way that crazy bastard would ever hurt my baby.

“That’s fine,” I said into the silence.

Before they could pose objections, I got on the phone, reached the owner on the first try. “I’m interested in the apartment you have for rent.”

The woman sounded husky, as if she smoked, or did a lot of yelling. “Did you want to see it? I’ll need a month’s rent, plus half for damages.”

“To be honest, I just need a place for a little while. So I don’t really care what it looks like, as long as it’s clean.”

“It is that.” From her less than ringing endorsement, I figured it was a dump, but at this point, I didn’t care. She gave me the address over the phone, and I turned to Chuch with an inquiring look. “Can I buy the Pinto?”

“Three hundred bucks,” he said.

Eva swatted him on the arm. “You’re not charging her for that piece of shit.”

Oh, gods. Another argument.

“But she’ll get mad if she thinks we’re offering charity,” he protested.

“He’s right,” I said. “And stop talking about me as if I’m not right here.”

Getting away from my friends was paramount; they might smother me with good intentions, plus I needed space—and time—to plan my next move. Getting maimed by a hellhound hadn’t been in my playbook, and it definitely set me back in terms of progress. But I’d handle this, as I’d navigated every other obstacle.

I always knew a relationship with Chance wouldn’t be easy. But even I didn’t guess it would end up being this hard.

The drive to San Antonio felt like it got longer each time, though I was becoming very familiar with the highway in between. At the midway point, we stopped at a gas station to fill up, get snacks, and use the restroom. Inside the store, I spotted a rack of canes of all things. After pricing them, I decided I needed one, and added that to the fuel and food. I paid our shot, then used the walking stick to make my way back to the car, where Booke was giving Butch a drink. For somebody who had spent so much time alone, he sure knew how to look after a dog. I slid into the front seat again and nodded off before I realized what had happened.

When I woke, Booke had turned down a side street. I couldn’t tell what side of San Antone we were in, but it appeared to be inner city, near to the jail, judging from the bars on the windows and the number of bail bondsmen doing business in the neighborhood. Our building was a run-down adobe duplex, divided neatly in the middle. We were in the B unit, so I figured the landlady lived next door.

With a whispered admonition for Butch, I knocked on her door with cash in hand. The woman who answered wore a green sweat suit and a tired look. She didn’t ask questions, just took my money and handed over the keys.

“If you plan to stay over,” she told me, “then I need another five hundred this time next month.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“And keep it down over there. I don’t like a noisy neighbor.”

“We’ll be model tenants,” Booke promised.

As usual, his accent got a second look. Then she smiled. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

I limped over to our side of the house and unlocked the front door. The apartment was a dump. But then, what did I expect for five hundred a month, furnished? It looked like a crash pad for a desperate college kid whose roommate situation fell through at the last minute, but as the landlady had promised, the place was clean, albeit furnished in mid-century rummage sale. The couch sagged in the middle and the brown fabric was worn nearly through in places. Each end table came from a different set, and the coffee table had an odd leg; someone had hammered a different one into place so it sat faintly lopsided. There were no paintings on the walls, and no TV, not even an old one. The bedroom looked like a monk’s cell with a single mattress on a metal frame and an ornate crucifix on the wall. A battered chest of drawers sat to one side of the narrow window.

None of those things bothered me. Gods willing, I wouldn’t be here long. To my relief, the rental was on the ground floor; otherwise I might’ve had some trouble, as my leg still hurt like a bitch. My phone rang as I was putting my stuff away.

“Corine Solomon.”

“This is Sarah Messner calling from Our Lady. I’m pleased to report that the test came back negative on the animal that attacked you. There’s no need for the rabies vaccine.”

My knees went weak, dropping me onto the narrow bed. Best news I’d had all day. Maybe demonic possession rendered an animal immune to viruses. I pressed both palms to my belly and managed to say, “Thanks for letting me know.”

“You’ve made an appointment for your first physical therapy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I went to tell Booke the good news. He hugged me, then said, “You realize I won’t let you shirk your medical obligations.”

“I know. Single-minded pursuit of Chance is off the table.” I collapsed on the couch more than sat. Gods, was it the injury or the baby sapping my energy this way? I didn’t know how women survived nine months of this, and from what I’d seen with Eva, it would only get worse.

“Home sweet home,” Booke said as he settled beside me.

I glanced at the tired furnishings and the scarred veneer on the shelves. It was, unquestionably, a depressing base of operations. But not for long, I promised myself. You’ll get this sorted. Then Booke can travel . . . and you can go back to Mexico.

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“I know. I chose to.”

Butch wandered around the apartment, smelling everything. I wondered how many different tenants he could still detect. Now and then he paused to growl. Booke watched in apparent fascination as the dog asserted his dominance over his new surroundings. I struggled to my feet to show him where I’d put his food and water dish in the kitchen. He licked my fingers as I jiggled the bowl, so I stroked his head. Poor little dude had really gone through a lot in the past months.

So have I.

After Butch ate, he trotted to me and pawed my leg, but when I went to pick him up, he gave two negative yaps. Which meant I got to play the guessing game.

“Something on your mind?”

One yap. Yes.

“Should I get the Scrabble tiles?”

Again, yes.

“Would you mind?” I asked Booke. “They’re in my purse.”

“Your dog really talks.”

I raised a brow, wondering if I hadn’t mentioned that to Booke. No, I was sure I’d regaled him with stories prior, and I wouldn’t have omitted such a pertinent detail. “This is not news.”

“But . . . I thought it was colorful embellishment for the sake of the story. Scrabble tiles! How marvelous.” Smiling, he went to the small table where I’d dumped my bag earlier.

The tiles were still in their Ziploc baggie from the last use. Butch pranced at my feet, his body shaking so hard that I’d think he needed to go outside if we hadn’t paused on the way in. By the time Booke put the letters on the floor, he was whining.

“We get it, this is important.” Deep down I hoped it was another message from Chance.

Butch had told me that he visited sometimes—and only the dog could see him. That must be incredibly lonely. Chilled, I glanced around the apartment, wondering if Chance was standing at my shoulder. I wished I could sense him—I wanted to—but nothing supernatural communicated with me. Butch pawed at the tiles, frantic in his haste. This was obviously important.

youre running out of time

“For what? Chance?”

Butch gave an affirmative yap. Then he went back to work. This time the letters shaped into:

if you dont open the way during the festival of the dead it will be too late

I glanced at Booke, who got out his phone. He Googled, then said, “It’s in October. You have a few weeks yet.”

But given the complications so far, I could understand why Chance was worried. I still hadn’t figured out a way to handle things on my end. The only thing I knew about opening gates between realms involved sacrificing a soul, and I damn sure wasn’t doing that. But there must be a solution, somewhere.

“Why? I don’t want to wait another year, but—”

By the way that Butch went after the tiles, Chance had an urgent message to convey. I stopped, waiting for the letters to fall into shape. Booke patted my hand as if he could make things better with a touch. And it helped a little.

next year i wont remember you

Shit. “Is that your father’s solution to your unwillingness to assume Daikokuten’s mantle?”

this realm strips you of mortal ties

That made sense. Otherwise people who crossed over would constantly be trying to get back, like Chance. I guessed only his divine heritage made it possible for him to hold on to us—me—for this long. But time was running out. No wonder Butch had been so agitated. I felt that way myself.

“What can I do?”

open the way

i love you

Feeling stupid, I said to open space, “Chance, don’t give up. I’ll find a way. See, you have more reason than ever to get back here.” I drew in a hard, hurting breath, wondering if I should tell him like this. “We’re having a baby.”

Silence. The Chihuahua eyed me, but didn’t respond. Instead, Butch sat back on his haunches, studying me with liquid, sympathetic eyes. By his current demeanor, I guessed Chance had gone, but I needed to confirm. “It’s just us now?”

Affirmative yap.

“Did he hear me?”

I got the dog equivalent of a shrug. It was possible Chance had heard me as he was slipping away, but Butch couldn’t guarantee that. Dammit. You should’ve said something sooner, given him a reason to fight harder.

Still, I owed appreciation where it was due. “Thank you, buddy. You gave me a much-needed heads-up.”

If I didn’t solve this problem in fourteen days, Chance would be lost to me forever. That could not happen. In my head, I heard that stupid song from Jeopardy! I blocked out the nerves that were surely creating that distraction, then turned to Booke.

“You’re the resident genius. You said you want to repay me. This is the time. I’m . . .” My voice broke. “I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t have anything left to give, and yet it’s more critical than ever—”

“Hush, sweetheart.” His tone was endearingly avuncular as he drew me against him, and I ugly-cried all over his gray sweater. “You didn’t just let me die . . . and I’m not going to let you lose the man you love either.”