Ann Aguirre: Devil's Punch

When I found Min—helped save her from her past—I incurred the wrath of the Montoya cartel. I’d resolved that threat, but in doing so, I crossed a Knight of Hell. That didn’t come without cost; demons weren’t known for forgetting. When he’d crawled back through the gate I opened, he must’ve carried a grudge with him. I’d vanquished him. Stolen his true name. A note, therefore, seemed like pretty small payback. There was no doubt it heralded more horrendous things.

Her smile faded at my silence. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” I showed her the note, then translated it aloud.

“You don’t know what this means?”

“I have some ideas. Nothing certain.”

Tia nodded and returned to the tortillas while I went to my room to see if I could get some answers. Which meant getting out my athame. I searched both grimoires, blue and crimson, until I found the necessary spell; then I read it twice to be sure I understood the steps. This wasn’t one I had practiced with Tia. Divination didn’t seem to be my thing; I’d had more success during our training with more proactive spells and charms.

Fighting a rising tide of worry, I dug out my magick chest. Constructed on Tia’s orders, it was a small, warded box a foot long and just as wide. Made of good cherrywood, banded with willow, it was an elegant piece, but more important, it protected my spell components, kept them fresh and prevented people from meddling with them. I’d inlaid it with a strong avoidance spell, more powerful than the one on the store where I’d bought my chalice and athame with Shannon.

To be cautious, I copied the coordinates before I got started, and then the message itself, just in case something went wrong. Though my control was better, it still wasn’t perfect. Next I set the note in the center of my desk and then arranged four white candles around the edges. Taking a deep breath, I lit them. After sprinkling a powder of sage, bay, and mugwort—commonly used in divination spells—around the outer edge, I whispered the words that encapsulated my intent. With my athame, I pricked the tip of my finger and drizzled my blood across the powerful herbs. And then I traced the athame through it. I fixed my desire in my mind—unshakable, immutable. There was a pull, painful, some resistance, but it wasn’t a block. Just…residual strength left from the last person who had touched the note. I might’ve tried to read it with a touch, but it was unlikely that the person had held it long enough to imprint it, and I needed the practice with my spells. This wasn’t dangerous. At worst, I would destroy the paper, and I had a copy of what it said.

More resistance. But this wasn’t a spell that changed anything. It didn’t do anything complicated; it was only meant to show traces of magick. Darklight kindled in shadowy swaths, streaking the paper. The stench of sulfur and brimstone whispered at the edge of my senses. That was confirmation enough. I dropped concentration. Demons had definitely had a hand in creating this thing, maybe even possessing the person who delivered it.

Feeling ever worse, I packed my arcane things. I took care in sealing up my magickal chest, and then I wrapped my athame in red satin. I gazed up at the ceiling, simple white plaster. Cobweb in the corner. Maybe the demons were screwing with me, but they weren’t known for being practical jokers.

Butch padded into the room, his nails clicking on the tile floor. He grumbled at me, so I picked him up. “Should I?” I asked him.

He yapped. Which was affirmative. I didn’t doubt he knew something was going on, and his opinions had saved my ass before, crazy as that sounded.

“And so it’s come to this, taking advice from my dog again.”

He wagged his tail as I stroked his head. I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to call Shannon; I still had her number. If she picked up, I’d just disconnect, knowing she was fine. No need to torture myself with the future I’d lost, though I was building a shop that could accommodate her desire for us to do vintage clothing as well as trinkets. Just in case. That meant I hadn’t entirely given up hope.

My heart pounded unpleasantly as I hit speed dial. She was my first contact. Best friend. Kid sister. Apprentice. All those words applied to how I felt about Shannon Cheney, but none was quite big enough. Losing her hurt worse than anything ever had, even my breakup with Chance. And I’d loved him like a madness.

International cell calls took a while to connect, and then it rang. And rang. Five times, then it kicked to voice mail. Unease stole over me. Maybe she didn’t answer because she didn’t recognize your number. The note isn’t talking about her. It can’t be .

Jesse came next on my phone. It had been that way from before, and so Chance was further down the speed dial, like number seven. I hadn’t changed it, full of superstitious fear that if I moved Shannon, it would be the same as accepting she wouldn’t ever remember me. It’d be like giving up on her—on our friendship and our plans—and that I would not do.

So she was one. Jesse, two. I wrestled with indecision, but before I could make up my mind, my phone rang back. Shannon’s number. Thank you. I shouldn’t answer it, but on the off chance that things were starting to come back to her, I had to.

“Hello?”

Silence on the line, for a beat too long. And then: “You just called my girlfriend’s phone. Who is this?”

Jesse . The revelation felt like a fist in the heart. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. She was young for him, but ten years or so wasn’t the end of the world in terms of age difference. What did you expect? You left them together with no memory of you, no recollection of why they mattered to each other. It was natural for them to fill in the blanks .

Shannon had just enough issues to hit Jesse’s white knight complex…and she was alone in the world, apart from the dad she didn’t want to see. She needed him. There was no way he could resist. Still, it hurt, though things were good with Chance. The pain existed because their hookup made me feel…replaceable. I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to Jesse breathe.

“Well?” he demanded. He sounded odd. Angry.

Finally, I answered, “She was a friend. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

Hoping that would be enough. I couldn’t drag this out. Couldn’t.

“Have we met? Your voice sounds…familiar.” Now he seemed unsettled. I pictured him raking his hand through his tawny hair.

“Yeah.” No point in lying.

But that reply opened the door to more questions, answers he wouldn’t believe—or maybe he would. Maybe the fog was finally lifting. Too late. Too damn late. They’d moved on without me. I felt cheated and hurt but not angry. And not even surprised, really. Back in Kilmer, I’d seen the beginnings of a crush forming on Shannon’s end, though I’d never thought it would go anywhere. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t have done this. Fuck. I had to get off the phone.

“Just have her call me, I guess, when she gets a chance.”

“I’d love to.” But his tight tone caught me, and it left so many questions. He was too upset to wonder when he’d met me, this mysterious friend of Shannon’s, and that meant the bad things promised by the note on Tia’s front gate had come true.

“But?” Why don’t you hang up? Idiot .

“I don’t know where she is.”

My fingers tightened on the phone until I felt them going white. The hard edges bit into my palm. “How long has she been gone?”

“I saw her yesterday. She left her phone at my place, but I didn’t worry about it because we were supposed to meet for lunch today. When she didn’t show—”