Ann Aguirre - Agave Kiss

“Don’t think I won’t hold you to it either.” By his tone, he was dead serious.

On the way back to the apartment, I fell asleep. Chuch woke me as he pulled into the drive, a gentle touch to my arm that left me feeling like a narcoleptic. I was eating as well as I could manage, but stress and worry took their toll, and I didn’t do well alone in a strange bed at night. That was when all my fears played knick-knack on my head.

“Is Booke coming back tonight?”

I shook my head. “But I’ll be fine.”

There was still one Luren in the wind, but I had my Taser and a watchdog. It was unlikely I’d sleep anyway. All factors suggested that I wouldn’t get much rest until this thing played out. Even if the ritual didn’t end as I wanted it to, at least I’d have my answer: Chance or no Chance. Either way, I had to get back to my life.

“I don’t like leaving you alone. Eva would be pissed.” From his expression, though, he was ready to get home.

So I offered a small lie with a clear conscience. “I’ll call Booke. Get him to wrap his evening up early. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Thanks, prima . Now I can tell Eva I left you in good hands.”

Chuch came to the door and walked through to make sure I had no more unwanted visitors. I hoped the Luren intelligence network, which included the damned hospital orderly, took a while to notice White Hair’s failure and send the last Luren to handle me. No question they wouldn’t be social this time around. Barachiel killed the first emissary in a throwdown, and I offed another—well, nearly, anyway. I served him up for Twila, so I was an accomplice for sure. The gloves would come off in the final round, and I had no clue how to fight back.

Butch had been penned up, so I took him for a short walk around the neighborhood after Chuch left. It was dark enough to be creepy with a few broken streetlights, and I felt like somebody was watching me the whole time. The atmosphere got to the dog as well. He peed really fast and whined to go inside. He didn’t have to tell me twice.

The constant napping had screwed with my schedule, so I couldn’t get to sleep. I puttered in the apartment, vaguely creeped out by the memory of the dead thing on my kitchen floor. Dammit. At this rate, I won’t doze off until dawn. Eventually I laid on the couch and listened to the radio. There was no TV or stereo, and the analog music solution was so old that Shannon might be able to use it to talk to the dead. More to the point, it still worked, so I played it softly, so it wouldn’t drown out an intruder. Butch curled up on my stomach, keeping the baby company. My ears strained for footfalls, and around two a.m., I heard someone creeping toward the front door. Butch froze too, his ears cocked. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind if we needed to panic or not. Such indecision was unlike him. After rolling off the couch, I ran for my Taser. Gods, this was getting old. I missed safety and the right arms to hold me, having someone to lean on when I needed them most. Right then, I felt incredibly alone. But I was poised to strike, do what I had to do, as Chuch put it. Then I heard the jingle of keys.

Booke. It must be Booke.

As he stepped into the apartment, I wilted with relief, lowering the stun gun. He moved closer and I smelled a hint of alcohol. Is that why Butch didn’t greet him with excited tail wagging? In his defense, the Englishman wasn’t unsteady on his feet, but I could see he’d enjoyed a wild night.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until the morning,” I said quietly.

“Was worried about you. Also, Ms. Devlin’s not keen on sleepovers.” A faint softening of his vowels was the only sign he’d been drinking, nothing to worry about.

His motion didn’t seem impaired, and he hadn’t driven home, so no trouble in that regard. So why was Butch staring at him so intently, ears back, tail still?

My dog seemed suspicious—and if he was, then I took him seriously. He’d saved me too often for it to be otherwise. I took a cautious step out of Booke’s reach.

“There’s something wrong.” It wasn’t a question.

“I wish you hadn’t noticed,” Barachiel said.

Booke opened his mouth. Blood poured out. He managed one word. “Run.”

I woke in a cold sweat.

Butch was at my feet, snoozing away. Sunlight streamed into my face from the spotty windows. Though my neck was stiff and I’d had nightmares, that was actually the best sleep I’d had in weeks. These I could shrug off as mere bad dreams, not omens. Given the mess my life was in, it was understandable that I was scared. I’d have to be an idiot not to be. Mostly I tried not to think about everything that could go wrong, how many factors needed to align in only a few days.

Booke came home for real as I was eating breakfast. Crackers and tea first to make sure I kept my food down. Then half an hour later, I had yogurt and frozen berries. To make my doctor happy, I ate a spoonful of peanut butter for protein and took my vitamin. He looked content and exhausted, glowing with the enjoyment of personal freedom. I had a hand in that, I thought.

“Good night?” I asked.

“The best. She’s a wildcat.”

“Eh, you can stop there. Really.”

He grinned, pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot I’d steeped earlier. “And what did you do last night, Ms. Solomon?”

“Killed a demon, buried the body. The usual.”

His first sip choked him. “ Tell me you’re joking.”

Licking my peanut butter spoon, I shook my head and then explained in detail what had gone down. His expression darkened as he listened, and by the time I finished my account, his gray eyes were lightning fierce with outrage. This was the second time I’d pissed him off; and he had a pretty even temper. If we hung around much longer, he might throttle me.

“You should have called me. I wasn’t performing open-heart surgery . . . I was just having a bit of fun.”

“But you haven’t had any in a long time. At least not like that. I didn’t want to interrupt—”

“Shut. Up,” he bit off. “Your other friends seem unwilling to speak, but I am not. You have all the common sense and self-preservation of a tinned ham. Furthermore, you place your pride ahead of your own well-being, and that simply will not do. Not anymore. Your child must come first, now and always. You can’t fret about being a burden or any such rubbish. You’ve been alone for so long that you can’t imagine you can truly trust anyone and that, too, is bollocks. Unless you really mean to die alone, then stop it . Immediately.” He ranted longer, leaving me speechless. Not because the things he was saying shocked or hurt me. More that it had been ages since I had a friend who cared enough to yell at me.

Even Shan doesn’t go off on me like this. Ian Booke loves me.

I must’ve had a goofy, ridiculous smile on my face because he paused in the tirade to demand, “What?!”

“I’m sorry,” I said meekly. “You’re right. About everything. I need to stop feeling like I’m a pain in the ass when people want to help me. It’s just . . . hard. When you grow up the way I did, you have issues.”

His tone gentled. “Believe me, I understand, Corine. I was alone longer than anyone should be. But I’m letting the world in now. You should try it.”

“I will,” I promised. “I am.”

Starting with you.

And I truly hoped the nightmare had been only that, not a portent of dire misfortune to come.

Three days left. By this point, I was a total knot of anxiety, but when Booke’s phone rang, I froze. Hope stirred, but it was faint and unfamiliar, a tremulous shadow on the wall cast by someone else. He moved off down the hall toward the bedroom, speaking in low tones. I strained to overhear, but he was a master at turning his body so the sound didn’t carry.