Blue Diablo (Corine Solomon #1)

Sometimes I stole out to the woods and tried my hand at it, but my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe too much sorrow weighed the spirit down, unbalancing the chakras or preventing me from tapping my potential. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t make magick like she did. I just had the one soul-sucking trick.

Chance and I had faced off against a few bad apples in our time, practitioners used to getting their own way and not caring how they went about it. We survived a particularly nasty cockroach sending in Reno. Hope to God it’s not insects.

It wasn’t.

When we broke away from the crates and headed toward the door, it zeroed in on us: a wailing presence made of violent wind, dust, and dry leaves that had blown in through the broken windows. Like a sand-storm, the sending stung my skin, determined to force its way into my nose and throat. I’d once seen the remains of someone who choked to death in one of these, and it wasn’t pretty.

That was one of the cases Chance and I took pro bono. When a woman came to us and said, eyes downcast, “Somebody’s killing people on my block, and the police don’t care,” I just couldn’t refuse. One of those rogue practitioners had turned the projects into his personal hunting ground, testing new spells without giving a shit who got in the way.

I tracked him. Found him. Chance left him chained to a guardrail on an overpass, wrapped up with a bow for the cops to find. Oddly, law enforcement didn’t appear thankful. They called us vigilantes.

We had been, among other things, once upon a time. But I was out of practice.

I don’t want to go out like this.

My hair whipped around my face as the called storm fought to push into my nose and mouth. I should’ve put it up, braided it or something—long hair was a weakness out in the field. I saw sparks from holding my breath, but inhaling would be worse.

The winds buffeted, and I fought to keep my feet, but the gale sent me sailing. As my hand tore from his, Chance shouted, “Corine!” though it was madness to speak.

I landed hard, slamming into first a crate and then the wall. Dazed, I lay while the wind howled around me, more dust rising in a malignant manifestation of the summoner’s will. The leaves scraping my skin felt as though they were made of salt and ground glass, so I covered my face with my hands.

How do you fight a force of nature? If I stayed low it’d burn itself out, if I didn’t choke to death first. No practitioner possessed the power to rage like this indefinitely.

His head down, Chance came to me, crawling. Once I would have given anything to see him like this, but it lacked poetry now. I registered a surge of joy that he’d come for me. His fingers wrapped around mine.

“I thought I told you not to let go,” he yelled.

I almost laughed. He held on to me as we forced our way through, blind but determined. It became almost impossible to breathe, and I started to feel faint, afraid to inhale, afraid the demon dust would find purchase in my lungs and strangle me from the inside out. Worse—it might take root, giving the summoner a hold over me.

By the time we staggered outside, our clothes hanging in tatters, I heard sirens in the distance. Leaning down, hands on my knees, I took deep, gulping breaths, willing the black dots to leave my field of vision. We had to get out of here. It wouldn’t go well if they took us in officially. I had a history of being near crime scenes, though it was hard to tell what local law enforcement would make of all the windows being broken.

“Can you travel?” When he turned without waiting for my reply, I saw that his back was a nightmare of ruined flesh. If he didn’t receive immediate medical attention, it would scar. Hell, it might scar anyway.

“Yeah,” I told his bloody back, and limped after him.

A guy in a black hooded sweatshirt slid out from between two buildings. I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye and increased my pace to a quick trot. Most likely he was just a vagrant who slept in a box out back, but I didn’t take any chances. If the cops questioned him, he might be able to finger us. We needed to get gone.

Because fate isn’t always a capricious bitch, the Toyota started on the first try. As we left the La Quinta parking lot, I saw the glimmered reflection of red and blue lights in the rearview mirror. They’d have a hell of a mess to clean up.

I couldn’t think about the way Chance had put my safety first back there, how he’d thrown himself on top of me to shield me from flying glass. It controverted everything I knew—or thought I knew—about him. I certainly couldn’t think about the way he’d crawled through demon dust and howling winds for me.

Luckily, something else occurred to me. “Where was the night watchman?”

He cut me a grim look, taking his eyes off the road for only a second. “I hope he’s home watching TV. Nothing got out of that place alive, except us.”

I hoped he was right. It wouldn’t do any good to worry, though. “Where we going?”

“I know a safe house.” His voice bordered on curt because the pain had to be staggering. He’d taken the brunt of the glass, maybe had slivers embedded in his skin too. I noticed how stiff he sat as he drove, and my conscience cringed.

Chance made a quick call on his cell, but I couldn’t tell whom he was talking to. If the plan involved Tanya, I’d seriously think about going home, even if it meant abandoning Min to whatever fate had befallen her and breaking my word. Forfeiting my shot at IDing the bastards who had led long, happy lives after murdering my mother.

So maybe not. I’d stick.

Twenty minutes later, after Chance told me the plan, I gazed at him in disbelief. “Chuch? You’re entrusting our lives to Chuch?”

“Don’t underestimate him,” he said briefly. “His grandmother was a very gifted curandera, and he knows things.”

Curandera. Magickal healing woman.

Well, in my eighteen months in Mexico, I’ve gotten to know a few of those. The occult is a staple of everyday life there, and oddly enough, it blends seamlessly with pervasive Catholicism. People believe in curses that can make you sick, go blind, or lose all your luck. At the plaza near my house, there’s a shop where you can find a curandera.

Tia gives aura readings, does spiritual cleansings, reads palms, and makes charms, amulets, and potions—that sort of thing. She’s sweet as a bowl of figs. But I’m not sure being descended from someone like Tia qualified Chuch to help us out in this situation.

Don’t get me wrong; Chuch is a great guy. Funny. The last time we got together, he’d said, “You call me if you ever need body work done. I totally redid this guy’s Mustang, so cherry it was stolen a week after I worked on it.”

His full name was Jesus Maria Ortiz Obregón, but he told us, “I’m Chucho, but everyone calls me Chuch,” when we met at the Forever Wicker store in Lutz, Florida. Don’t ask what a custom car restoration artist was doing in a furniture shop on his vacation, but Chance always seemed to know what random encounters were meaningful, or maybe he just saved every contact we made, just in case. You never know when you’ll need your ride tricked out.

Whichever, he kept a Rolodex of business cards he put to use under the most unlikely circumstances. So I guessed it wasn’t too surprising that we’d turned up here, bags in hand. Chuch lived in a decent sized stone ranch house on the outskirts of town, and he had three cars in his drive, all in varying stages of renewal. I was still wondering about what Chance had said about not underestimating Chuch, when the door swung open.

I immediately revised my opinion of the mechanic. Salt lined the threshold, subtle but solid, and he had charms on the walls masquerading as art. Whatever he did in addition to restoring classic cars, he was a player. I waited for my invitation to enter.

Medium height and brawny, Chuch greeted us with a wave and a subdued smile. “Get inside, you two.” As we came into the light, he winced. “You need a doc, primo. Maybe you too, prima.”

Chance shook his head. “Not tonight, not before the sun comes up.”

“So it’s like that, huh? Right. You guys want tamales?”

That sounded good, but we needed to clean up first. “Do you have some old towels, maybe some peroxide? I want to take a look at his back.”

“I’ll set you up in the bathroom.” Chuch headed off to collect his first aid kit, leaving me to reflect that if two people turned up at my door in such a state, I doubt I’d be so laconic in my acceptance.

In this light, Chance looked ashen, his face taut with pain he refused to acknowledge. “Tell me you still have the button.”

Holy shit. I’d forgotten all about it. If I’d lost it, we might as well not have risked checking the warehouse. I felt a little sick as I thrust my hand into the deep pocket of my very abused sweater. Jumped when my fingers brushed beveled plastic and I felt the same spark I’d received from touching Jesse Saldana.

“I have it.” I didn’t pull it out, though, as I didn’t want to handle it right then.

“Bless that sweater,” he breathed. “I’ll never say a word about it again.”

“Sure you won’t.” I smiled only because I was meant to.

Chuch returned and beckoned us down the hall and to the left into a green and white tiled bathroom. I thought there must be a woman in his life because it was clean and guest towels hung on the rack in addition to the old ones piled on the counter. He had a thing for frogs too because cute little ceramic statuettes sat all over the room.

“They’re good luck,” he explained, apparently reading my look. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Join me whenever you’re ready.”

Shoulder against the wall, Chance watched me set out gauze, peroxide, and tweezers. I washed my hands, putting off the moment of truth. After about thirty seconds of lathering, I decided it wasn’t fair to prolong his misery.

“Let’s do this,” I said. “Take your shirt off, please.”

He managed a slightly roguish smile. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

Knowing Things

“Cute,” I said as he literally peeled the shirt from his back. Oh, shit. I wasn’t a nurse. There was no way I could handle this.

“How bad is it?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“It’ll take a while.” I kept my voice noncommittal, but he knew. Chance sucked in a breath as I started blotting. A shudder ran through me at seeing his red, red blood on my hands. “Maybe you should get in the shower and I’ll run some cool water over you so I can see what I’m doing.”

“You just want to get my pants off.” He shucked his trousers in one movement. The careless air cost him, though; he blanched as he stepped into the tub.

As the blood washed away, I saw the damage done to him on my behalf. I tried not to flinch as I directed the spray. Pink rivulets trickled down his brown back, staining the water at his feet. I continued until it ran clear.

A few of the wounds probably needed stitches, but I didn’t say anything, just supported him as he climbed out and stood shivering in wet boxers on Chuch’s fuzzy green rug. For a mere moment, I clung, enjoying the heat we generated. Chance leaned on me, damp forehead against mine. When I put the toilet lid down, he collapsed gratefully, turning his knees toward the shower so I could work.