In answer, he clicked on the television; I judged the move wholly out of character until the clicking remote stilled. Kel left it on a news channel. I didn’t understand why, but we watched for five minutes in silence. And then the presenter answered my questions in the worst possible way.
I translated the Spanish mentally and came up with: Firebomb in Mexico City. As yet no terrorist factions have claimed responsibility. Luckily there was only one fatality and the blaze did not spread to adjacent buildings. Police suspect it may have been cartel related. Gang and drug violence on the rise—Kel muted the television before the man could complete the sentence.
“No,” I breathed.
Stop, I mentally commanded the announcer. I don’t want to see—
Oh. Before the images came up on-screen, I knew. It was my shop. Kel had known before the news came on; perhaps he had been receiving a bulletin in his head. From the beginning, he might have even known I’d never see the place again, and I hated him for his distance, his surety, and his calm.
Seeing the truth made it no easier to bear. Burned plaster and chunks of cement littered the street. As the camera swung around, they showed scavengers picking through the rubble. Once again, I was homeless, reduced to what I could carry. Chance had sent my belongings as promised, including my Travis McGee book collection. All gone. Those were my things, treasures Señor Alvarez had—
One fatality. It sunk in at last, above my own misfortune. Oh God. Oh my God. He died because of me. First Ernesto, and now Señor Alvarez. Sick, I wondered how many innocents would die so that I might live. At what point should I stop running and take the bullet?
“When did this happen?” I asked hoarsely.
Shannon didn’t know, of course, but the question wasn’t for her. Kel answered readily. “Shortly after the gunman died.”
I thought about that, and came up with only one interpretation. “It was a warning. Montoya’s sorcerer must’ve known his spell went off. So now he’s telling me that no matter what I do to him, he will visit it upon me a hundredfold.”
“Yes,” Kel said. “You see why I counseled you to seek aid from one as powerful as Montoya.”
“Because you can’t just smite him,” I said nastily. “What good are you?”
Nothing I said touched him. He was made of ice and silver. “There are limits to my power, as there should be.”
The weight fell on me like my collapsed shop. When I turned to Shannon, I saw the echo of it in her eyes. She, too, had been displaced. She, too, had lost her home—for the second time in less than a year. I tried to bite back my tears, but when I saw her eyes swimming, I stopped fighting it. We went into each other’s arms and wept for everything we’d lost. I couldn’t tell her it would be okay; I had no platitudes, but I wouldn’t ever leave her. That much I could promise.
Kel stood and gave us his back. It might’ve been embarrassment at our weakness or kindness in offering privacy. “Get ready. We’re heading for Texas in an hour.”
Vagabond Blues
It took us nearly a whole day to reach Texas.
I received four texts from Jesse during that time. Something’s wrong. What’s up? He also tried to call, but the mountains played hell with reception and the connection dropped before we could talk. I replied without revealing how bad things were; there was no point in worrying him. Instead, I texted: I’m fine, try not to worry. I know you’re soaking this up and I’m sorry. I’ll explain when I see you.
As we drove, I thought about the strange dream and his sadness over me. God, I didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe it was backward of me to want to protect him, but I did. His life had been golden, with a family who loved him no matter what. I didn’t want my darkness rubbing off on him; deep down, I hoped if I ever came out on the other side of this mess, he might be waiting and I could make a place in his world, even if I hadn’t been born to it.
His reply came in slower. . . . I could sense his resignation. You’re safe?
Yes, I typed, and then leaned my head against the window, watching the world go by. Eating or sleeping didn’t seem important, given current events, so we committed to finishing this journey in one go. Since it was a seventeenhour trip, it helped that we could all take turns driving.
We headed up the coast through Tampico and Tamaulipas, staying on the cuotas—toll roads—and carreteras— highways. I rode in back because I didn’t want Shannon to see me crying and I teared up at odd moments. I hadn’t felt so bereft since my mother died. Her grimoires had been upstairs, and I didn’t know if they’d survived the explosion. Following her example, I’d kept them in a fireproof box, but someone would probably steal them from the wreckage before I got back.
Montoya intended me to run home, shocked and grieving, where he’d take another crack at me. That was the other purpose behind the bombing—to herd me. Well, I took the warning, but I wouldn’t let him drive my decisions, however painful that resolve proved to be.
Kel was behind the wheel when we reached Avenida de las Americas and started seeing signs directing us toward International Boulevard. We crossed at Brownsville via the international bridge over the Rio Grande. For the first time since I’d known him, he donned a cap to cover his tats. Likely he knew law enforcement would look longer at somebody all inked up, and most people wouldn’t recognize the patterns; an average cop would take them for gang symbols.
Once we were back in the U.S., we put two hours between the border and us. I felt a little safer on American soil, but not much. Montoya had a long reach, and even now, his sorcerer was probably working on a way to locate us. Fortunately, scrying spells proved nearly impossible to tune correctly so long as the target stayed on the move.
Though it had been my turn for several hours, Kel didn’t pull over to let me get behind the wheel. The little car hurtled down I-37 as if he knew for a fact we had something chasing us. I didn’t ask if that was true, because I feared he’d tell me. Shannon had dozed off a few minutes before, her head lolling against the smoky glass. I didn’t blame her; according to the dashboard clock, it was pushing two a.m. At that point, he and I were both running on caffeine, sugar, and stubbornness.
“Feeling better?” he asked at length.
“Sure. A long-ass car trip with only minimal stops for food and hygiene could cheer anyone up.”
To my surprise, the corners of his mouth tugged, as if he fought the urge to smile. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, either, and this time—reflected in the rearview mirror—I was sure. His face revealed only microexpressions, but they did exist. Before I could question him, a black SUV came roaring up from behind us.
Even before it passed and cut us off in front, I had a bad feeling. A second SUV practically attached itself to our rear bumper—if Kel didn’t keep the speed steady, we would find ourselves smashed between these two automotive beasts. I swallowed hard as a third zoomed up on the left and kept pace. Shit. They had us completely boxed in.
I slid over to the left side, directly behind Kel, and tried to get a look inside the other vehicle. So far they hadn’t made contact or tried to force us off the road. That seemed unlike Montoya. Unfortunately, the windows were tinted too dark to make out anything about those within.
My phone pinged. The message had nothing to do with our current situation, but I flipped it open and looked anyway. My stomach clenched.
I read the text aloud. “ ‘Pull off at the next rest area.’ ”
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice taut with tension.
“No. But I suspect they’ll force the issue if you don’t comply.” That was the point of boxing us in, and our car couldn’t take the damage three SUVs would inflict.