Ann Aguirre - Shady Lady

“You cannot hide,” he said softly. “Ignoring me does not change what will be. Refusing to acknowledge truth does not make it a lie. It only makes you a coward.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” I told him angrily. “Either I have free will or I have a destiny. It cannot be both.”

Kel smiled, and his tats gleamed blue in the dark, a tiny little ripple of power that I didn’t like at all. “No?” he asked, and I felt sure he already knew the answer, glimpsed from some high precipice.

“Well, maybe you do know how it all turns out. I don’t want to.”

And I didn’t—because such knowledge would pare away my humanity. As far as I knew, Kel couldn’t receive comfort from a touch or take pleasure in anything at all. Long ago, he had pledged to a greater good, and now he existed only to serve and follow orders. To me, that sounded like slavery.

Perhaps he read a glimmer of my thoughts in my expression. The light died away, leaving his face in shadow, revealing only the edge of his brow and the slope of his nose. He was magnificent and terrible in the dark.

“Some things about you, I cannot see.” He leaned in, and I froze, too astonished to breathe, until he plucked a struggling moth from my long hair.

Embarrassed and bewildered, I called Butch and fled back up the stairs as if all the hounds of hell followed at my heels, not a holy warrior sworn to guard me.

I woke to two silenced shots hitting the towels mounded to look like me. At Kel’s insistence, Shannon and I had bedded down on the floor in between the two beds. Now I appreciated his caution.

Her breathing said she was awake, but we didn’t speak. The slow grate of footsteps over glass, coming through the balcony door, suggested the gunman meant to check his work. He was competent; he’d just never run into targets like us before. Montoya should’ve briefed him better.

His shadow fell across the bed as he ripped the covers back. An oath escaped him when he saw he’d killed a number of dirty bath towels. Kel hit him from behind, wrapping a shoelace around the other man’s neck. Their struggle was relatively quiet, as such things go, until at last the gunman went limp. Kel made sure he wasn’t playing possum, and then he swung him over his shoulder, strode to the balcony, and jumped.

That was our cue. We weren’t conducting the interrogation in here; blood in a hotel room would arouse too many questions. For a moment I paused, shocked at the coldness of the thought. Likely, such a consideration wouldn’t have occurred to me before. I didn’t even know whether the thought had come from me or some darkness lingering from the demon who saved me . . . or the murderer’s weapon in my side. It was a pragmatic concern, however, and I could not deny its validity. Still, I shivered, a ripple of dread warning me that once I started down this path, there could be no return to innocence.

Yet I told myself I needed to find out what this hired gun knew. He couldn’t be a good man, or he wouldn’t be on Montoya’s payroll. Good men didn’t break into hotel rooms with a silencer and try to murder women sleeping in their beds. Determined, I threw off the blanket with Shannon hot on my heels. Since we were both fully dressed, I only needed to snatch Butch and hurry out the door. I took the stairs two at a time, an athletic feat that surprised me because I didn’t fall. When I hit the ground floor, I broke into a jog.

They had security here, but they wouldn’t say anything about registered guests exercising on the property in the middle of the night, so Shannon and I offered our best impressions of fitness nuts. The bored guard we passed just raised a hand in greeting; I could imagine his perplexity, but as long as he didn’t catch us doing anything worse, we’d be fine.

I ran through the parking lot and down toward the lake before doubling back toward the temascal hut. As she was taller than me, Shannon kept up easily. A smoky scent lingered, though the fire had gone out. I set Butch on the ground.

“You’re an important part of this plan,” I told the dog. “If anybody comes within sniffing distance, bark twice. I mean it—you can’t wander or be distracted by a bird.”

He lowered his head. I could almost hear what he was thinking: Not fair, that only happened one time. But he gave a yap, indicating he understood his mission. He was crucial to our success; early warning would permit us to escape undetected.

We sank to hands and knees to crawl inside; it was dark and close and there were stones inside that could be heated to inflict excruciating pain. In short, the place was ideal for inflicting physical and psychological damage. I sat down, and Shannon brought out the candles she’d tucked into her pocket. Kel had made a supply run earlier in the evening, lifting some from the patio tables for our purposes now. She lit the candles and eerie little flames kicked up in a semicircle, lending our faces a demonic aspect against the clay backdrop.

The killer lay like a Christmas goose, bound with arms over his head and ankles securely fastened. At most, he could flop around like a dying flounder. No threat—and if he moved with too much enthusiasm to the left, he’d burn himself on the hot rocks. To the right, he ran into Kel and his blades.

“Bring him around,” I said.

It might seem cruel to start with physical pain, but this man had tried to kill me, and it wasn’t as if he’d go away if I asked him nicely. These men played hardball and I had to prove I understood the rules of the game if I wanted to survive it. Still, I looked away as the guardian produced a knife, made a shallow cut, and then sprinkled salt in it. Incredible: The man could create a torture kit out of items found on a room service tray. In the same motion, he clapped a hand over the gunman’s mouth, anticipating the scream. The assassin gazed up at us, eyes wide.

Kel addressed him in Spanish. “You work for Montoya, yes?”

Not surprisingly, the killer kept quiet. He knew his life was worth less than nothing if he talked. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-eight, average build. Sweat damped his shoulder-length black hair, and his eyes gleamed like a frightened child’s—probably because Kel’s skull tats glowed faintly.

The guardian played with his knife, letting it hit the candlelight just so. “You jeopardize more than your life,” he said quietly. “If you die unshriven, it also imperils your immortal soul.”

Since Mexico was a predominantly Catholic country, he played that card well. I read soul-deep fear in the gunman’s body. He was thinking about that, dying here without talking to a priest one last time. We could do worse than draw a few cuts, of course. We could unleash the spirits on him, but I was reluctant to go that far if we didn’t have to. At this point, it was impossible to say what Shannon’s ghosts might do, or what could happen if they broke free. I wasn’t eager to relive that terrible night in the woods outside Kilmer.

Shannon added softly, “That wouldn’t be so bad, if you’d led a good life. But you haven’t. We know the things you’ve done for Montoya.”

I was proud of how quick she’d picked up Spanish. Like me, she wasn’t fully fluent, and she thought before she spoke—doing mental translations—but by the way the man whimpered, he took her meaning. Still, he wouldn’t break.

Kel carved a fresh line on him. Blood spilled from the wound, trickling hot over the killer’s forearm. With exquisite, awful artistry, he sprinkled more salt, and this time he added lemon juice and then ground it against the cut. I clapped my hand over the killer’s mouth and tried not to pity him as he ate his own screams. Shannon pinched his nose shut, frightening him with the threat of asphyxiation.