I recollected seeing a simple sign for Hostal Ochoa a few blocks back. It had been slightly off our route and down a side street, but I thought I could find it. This time I led the way, retracing our steps. After making the last left, I saw the white sign once more.
“There,” I said, pointing.
It was a tall, narrow building, part concrete and part adobe. We mounted the few steps to the dark wood door. I’d never gone backpacking in Europe—the tour with Chance had been more upscale—so I didn’t know whether one knocked or simply entered. Kel answered the question by trying the handle; the knob turned, so we stepped into the foyer, furnished simply in rustic style. The wood gleamed in the faint light, warm and welcoming.
A round, middle-aged woman came down the hall toward us. Her hair had been oiled and braided in a complex, impressive corona about her head. Her welcoming expression faded toward uncertainty when she got a good look at Kel. I tried to assuage her worry with a smile.
“Necesitamos un cuarto, por favor.” I didn’t ask if he wanted his own room.
“Claro. How long will you be staying?” she asked in Spanish.
“Una noche? No estoy segura.” I hoped not more than one night, anyway. It occurred to me to wonder whether we had cash in our backpacks. I didn’t even know what country we were in.
“Está bien.” She gazed at me, probably gauging how much she could ask. Since I was wearing jeans and a pullover, I didn’t look affluent. The backpack made me look like a traveler on a budget. She decided on, “Cuarenta.”
To my vast relief, Kel produced a couple of orange bills from one of the pockets in his pack; it wasn’t as pretty as any of the Mexican banknotes. I read the currency as he passed it over. Holy crap, we were in Peru; I managed not to let my shock show. Looking as if she felt better already, the woman led us down the hallway to the stairs.
They were narrow and dark as we climbed, but the house smelled fresh and clean. Plain wood floors needed no other adornment. On the third floor, she paused and opened a door near the stairs. The room was spartan and contained nothing other than a chair and a full-size bed. I presumed the door in the wall was a closet.
“The bathroom is over there.” She pointed down the hall. “Shared, but I have no other guests on this floor tonight.”
Good to know.
After informing us where to find towels and that breakfast would be served at eight a.m., she hurried out. I closed the door and turned the bolt. Since our room faced the street, I headed over and closed the curtains as well. It made the room seem even smaller—and it wasn’t large to start with—but I could deal. I told myself it was cozy, seated myself in the chair, and rummaged through the backpack.
I found five hundred nuevos soles, a map, and five pairs of clean underwear. Ew. How long did he expect this to take? If Escobar’s estimate was accurate, I’d be wearing these same clothes for almost a week. I had socks too, and hiking boots. When I glanced up, I found Kel studying me.
After opening the map, with a fingertip I traced the black ink path that had been drawn. “It looks like we’re supposed to head into the jungle from here.”
“Up the river.”
I checked the scale and swore. “That’ll be a hell of a hike.”
It was a good thing Escobar had provided me with boots, but breaking in new footwear by wearing it for miles at a time was a crappy idea. Not like I had anything else. Everything I owned had been blown to shit, along with Señor Alvarez, who hadn’t wanted to look after the shop for me this time. I’d known he didn’t, and instead of closing the place, I’d made him an offer too sweet to refuse—fifty percent commission on anything he sold. The paper crumpled in my hands.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t set the bomb, but I put him there in my place.” Much as I appreciated the effort, I wouldn’t be letting myself off the hook anytime soon.
Doubtless sensing I wouldn’t be swayed, he changed the subject. “Did you find a pendant in your bag?”
I dug into the pack once more and found the necklace wrapped in tissue in a side pocket. Kel was already wearing his. When my fingertips brushed the metal, they singed, but it was like catching the embers of a fallen star, unexpected and magical. Images whispered in my mind’s eye, showing me glimpses of the pretty young woman who had woven a protective spell on this medallion as if she were twining summer roses in her hair. Watching her I couldn’t help but smile, despite our circumstances, and I dropped the leather cord around my neck.
“Saint Christopher,” I said.
“Patron saint of travelers.” His eyes were gray and grave, quiet like clouds gathering the strength for snow.
“Is that all true? The saints and miracles.”
“I don’t know. I’m not Catholic.”
Again, the hint that angels and divinity lay outside the purview of organized religion. Oh, how his secrets intrigued me.
“This is meant to hide us, isn’t it? Keep us from Montoya’s sorcerer.” Pity no such spell lasted forever. I could quietly disappear. But crossing Escobar would be suicide, as that move would leave me with two cartel bosses on my back.
“It is.” He turned from me abruptly. “You should sleep.”
“I suppose you don’t?”
If that was the case, I should get off the chair, because he’d be sitting on it all night. Pity it wasn’t padded, but the room didn’t lend itself to such extravagance. There were no rugs, nothing that could be stolen or broken. Fortunately, I found the sheets clean, if slightly threadbare, when I turned down the bed. The gold and brown spread echoed the warmth of the wood, so the room was charming in its simplicity.
I’d almost forgotten the question by the time he answered, “I sleep.”
There was no reason to make this complicated; most of the time, he didn’t even seem to like me, so it wasn’t as if I had to worry about unwelcome advances.
“Then do. We’re safe, and it’s hard to know when we’ll see a bed again.”
In an economical motion, I peeled out of my jeans. I removed my bra in a tricksy maneuver without taking off my shirt and slid beneath the covers. I rolled over on my side, giving him the choice to take the chair or climb in behind me. He moved around for a little while, and then he switched off the light. Eventually the mattress dipped with his weight.
“Are you certain you’re not frightened?”
I thought about that, lying in the dark. Impossible question. I was afraid of what I might do in order to survive. I was afraid of the thing Escobar had sent me to find and the pain of reading it. I feared harm coming to my friends as a result of my bad choices. Hell, if I was honest, the idea of going out into the jungle scared the shit out of me too.
“I am. Of course I am. But you’re the least terrifying part of this.”
“It has been . . . long since I heard such. I’ve not been tasked with protection for many years.”
“You slay and move on,” I guessed.
I felt him nod. The pillow rustled, and I braved a look over my shoulder at him. He lay on his back, hands beneath his head. “They called me that, too, once.”
Slayer. Sword. Wrath. Those were old words. A shiver rolled through me. I admitted to myself that Hand of God sounded less fearful.
“If I asked how old you are, would you tell me?”
“Are you asking?”
I eased over onto my back, deciding it was rude to talk without looking at him. “I’m curious.”
“Older than the sands . . . and new like fresh-minted coins.”
“That’s no answer,” I muttered.
“Sleep now.”
Perversely, I didn’t want to, even though I knew it was sensible advice. The morning would come fast, and with it, unbelievable hardship. On a whim, I reached over and put my palm on his chest. He’d removed his button-down while I was facing away, leaving only the undershirt. Relief coiled through me when I felt the reassuring thump of a beating heart. I pulled my hand away, but not before he levered up on one elbow to stare at me, his tats kindling blue in the darkness.