Ann Aguirre - Hell Fire

Finally, the older man shoved the younger to his knees, both hands on his throat. He spoke, saying something I couldn’t hear. I strained to read his lips and failed, not for the first time. For a heartbreaking moment, the man on his knees clawed at his captor’s hands, desperate. His fear poured through me, sour and rancid. He didn’t want to acquiesce, but he’d die if he didn’t. He felt it, believed it, and so did I.

When the beaten man turned his face upward, I recognized him. Farrell. Whatever the old bastard wanted, Curtis had been forced to it—throttled into submission. He managed a nod, and the other man’s hands fell away just before Farrell blacked out. And I went with him.

I came to on my side, gasping for air. My throat burnt as if someone had been strangling me , and my right hand throbbed with an agonizing pulse. Jesus. Well, that’s new.

Through sparks in my vision that meant I was close to passing out again, I stared at my fingers, focused on wiggling them, and saw they were fire engine red but possessed no new marks. I lay there, breathing and reflecting. It was all I could do right then.

Dirt was less dangerous than metal. But no wonder the tracks didn’t look like much of anything. Two men fighting over the same space created the look of a monster rampage.

Jesse came upon me a few minutes later. “What the hell, Corine—did someone attack you? What happened? Can you talk, sugar?” He did a visual inspection of my injuries, lingering at my throat.

Christ, did I wear marks there too?

I managed to push to a sitting position, but standing was beyond me. Oxygen deprivation sent tremors through my limbs; I couldn’t seem to convince my body I hadn’t been choked. He swung me up into his arms before I could tell him not to, and my stomach whirled in response.

“Slowly,” I whispered, sounding hoarse to my own ears.

Jesse called to the others and carried me to the Forester, but he modulated his step so as not to jar me. He smelled of plain Ivory soap and a tangy citrus scent. I breathed him in, trying to identify the cologne, and then gave up, closing my eyes.

Jesse slid into the vehicle with me on his lap, and I didn’t try to get away. Then again, I wouldn’t have tried to escape unless a killer had a hold of me; I was that tapped out. Two doors slammed, and Shannon and Chance got in the front.

“Drive,” Jesse told Shannon, who started the engine on command.

She pulled out, gravel spinning beneath the tires. In making our getaway, we didn’t encounter any law enforcement types who’d ask awkward questions about why Chance was hanging around the house of the man he’d killed last night.

“What’s going on?” Chance asked.

Jesse answered, “At this point? I’m not sure. But take a look at this.”

I felt him angle my head, and then I did open my eyes. Chance swore in an entertaining mix of English and Korean. Mildly curious now that my nausea had started to subside, I lifted my left hand and touched my neck. Ouch.

I couldn’t remember ever taking an injury apart from my hands. Unless you count dying , a cynical voice said. My mother’s necklace might well have changed everything I thought I knew about my gift, both its boundaries and its dangers.

“Did someone attack you?” Chance demanded.

I shook my head slowly to make sure that much was clear. There would be no point in Shannon stopping the SUV so they could comb the area for someone long gone days before. Concentrating, I mimed writing.

Chance got it right away. He delved into Jesse’s glove box and found a pen and scrap of paper for me. I scrawled what I’d done, what I’d seen, and then passed it to my ex. His jaw tightened as he read, and he slanted a look over the seat that could’ve cut glass. Before he said a word, I could tell what he thought of my pushing my power.

“You’re out of your mind,” he bit out. “Are you determined to die here? Because I see you taking risk after risk and you don’t seem to—”

“Stop,” Jesse said quietly. “She’s been through enough at this point. She doesn’t need you yelling at her too.”

Chance’s eyes glittered like amber with ire frozen in their depths. “ Don’t tell me what to do where Corine’s concerned.” He looked as if he would break Jesse’s fingers and pull them away from me by force.

“Every time I handle, it’s a risk.” I pushed the words through a raw throat. “I made the choice; I’ll live with the consequences.”

“Where to?” Shannon cut in, diffident.

I silently thanked her for the change in topic. I struggled off Jesse’s lap and belted myself with some difficulty into my own seat. My fingers stung like hell.

“I need a drink,” I told Shannon. “Strong enough to burn off the clouds. Is there a bar anywhere nearby?”

In answer, she cut right on the county road and headed toward town.

After a short drive, she pulled up outside a roadhouse that sat just outside the city limits, a little way past Ma’s Kitchen. No signs revealed the name of the establishment, but small orange neon lettering proclaimed CHEAP COLD BEER. That was probably enough for local clientele.

Refusing Jesse’s aid, I slid out of the SUV. I brushed myself off as best I could and then gave up, figuring people who hung around in bars this early deserved my dishevelment. My knees felt shaky for the first few steps, but I declined to take anybody’s arm. They would just argue I shouldn’t be drinking if I couldn’t walk straight before I started, and they would have a point.

Chance opened the door for me and I stepped in, squinting at the dim interior. There were no lights on at this hour, just the uncertain light filtering through dirty windows. The place was open for business, though, and decorated with liquor store paraphernalia. Beer signs and old advertisements littered the walls.

There was nobody at the bar, nobody in here at all. A guy in a dirty yellow ball cap paused in stocking the bar when we came in. Did they even have tequila here? Drowning in a sudden onslaught of homesickness, I wanted some.

This place was nothing like the warm, inviting cantinas at home. It wasn’t even as nice as Twilight in San Antonio. Still, my nerves needed steadying, and I could use something to numb the pain.

The proprietor tried on a smile, as if he hoped we were there to spend money and not just use the toilet or telephone. At a glance, the place didn’t seem to have one—a public phone, that is. A handwritten sign pointed toward the rest-rooms.

“What can I get you folks?” His voice boomed out, jocular and forced.

Shannon asked for a Coke. Smart girl. I hadn’t even thought of her being underage when I suggested this; I wasn’t used to hanging around kids. Chance and Jesse both requested beers, but Jesse said the can was fine for him.

“Hell Fire,” I said aloud, my voice low and husky as a phone-sex operator.

He blinked at me. “I reckon I have no idea what that is, but if you tell me how, I can mix it for you.”

“Equal parts tequila, vodka, Red Aftershock, and a dash of Tabasco. Mix well, pour over ice.”

Their drinks came quick. Mine he had to think about. “I got the tequila and vodka,” he muttered, more to himself than me. Cheap stuff it was too. He dumped some ice in a glass, anticipating success. I watched, feeling almost cheerful about his uncertainty. He finally glanced over at me. “I don’t have no Red Aftershock.”

“Cinnamon schnapps will do,” I said, easing down at the bar.

Something spicy might clear my head and burn away the confusion. If nothing else, I needed to hold a drink that reminded me of home, one that burned as it went down. I missed Mexico. Georgia had been my home once, but it wasn’t anymore.