Agave Kiss

Page 7

I studied him, wondering if he could be this detached. My decision meant we’d probably never see each other again. And while a long-term relationship was off the table for oh-so-many reasons, it stung for him to show so little concern over our final parting. What did I want, exactly? I had no idea. Kel pretty much wrote the book on stoic acceptance. But whatever he thought or felt, it was, frankly, irrelevant. And pursuing it wasn’t fair to either of us. It served no purpose to dig into his state of mind just to sate my curiosity. He didn’t owe me a damn thing.
“Will you get in trouble for helping me?”
“I’m not on the clock right now, though I have permission to be here.”
In Peru, Kel had told me he could access his archangel in his head, along with a sort of divine Internet that let him find information that other members of the host knew. If I was interpreting his words correctly, he currently wasn’t plugged in. Which meant we had a little time.
“Okay, here’s the situation.” In as few words as possible, I explained Booke’s problem, and then concluded with, “That’s why I called you. I wondered if you could disrupt the spell.”
He had told me he couldn’t interfere with most human interaction, unless specifically directed to do so, though I was starting to wonder how much of that was bullshit hand-fed to him by the archangel that Ninlil claimed had started life as a demon. I mean, if Kel found out he could do what he wanted without reprisal, it might get ugly for those who had bossed him around for eons. But then, I had no guarantee that anything Ninlil fed me in Sheol was the truth either. An old saying went: there’s his side, her side, and then there’s the truth. That adage fit this situation.
“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” he answered.
“But these aren’t usual?” I hoped not, anyway.
“You said the original caster is deceased?”
I nodded.
“At that juncture, his will ceased to be a factor.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore whether he wanted the spell to last forever,” I guessed. “Since he didn’t have the life expectancy to make his will reality, you can affect the outcome?”
“I can,” he acknowledged.
“Will you? As a favor to me?”
“You realize it’s not a solution. Dispelling the magick won’t restore Booke’s lost years or stop the march of time.”
“I know,” I said softly. “And so does he.”
“There is a way. It requires the blood of a Luren.”
That made sense, given that the Luren were a race of preternaturally beautiful, seductive demons who drank blood. So it stood to reason that their blood would possess certain rejuvenating qualities.
I cocked a brow. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”
“Whether you want to find the preservation spell, before I unlock this place.”
“Oh. In that case, it’s not up to me. It should be Booke’s call.”
I wasn’t at all surprised when, ten minutes later, after having heard what was on the table, he shook his head. “No, I’ve had enough dark magick. There’s always a cost to incantations that require a demonic touch, and I’ve paid as much as I care to.”
Though part of me wanted to protest—we’d never gotten to travel as I had promised—I didn’t say a word. Shan’s brow was creased with sadness; it was different knowing your friend was living on borrowed time. Yet shouldn’t Booke get to dictate when he died, as he’d had no say whatsoever in how he’d lived? Butch approved of this decision with an affirmative yap, then he trotted over to Booke to rub against his shins.
The Englishman picked the little dog up and cradled him in the crook of his arm. “Think that was a wise choice, do you? I tend to agree. Age apparently does bring wisdom.”
“If you’re all prepared, I’ll do as Corine has asked now.” Kel strode toward the front door.
I wasn’t ready but five more minutes wouldn’t help. So I said nothing. Instead, I followed Kel, curious as to how he would unravel the spell. His tatts glowed with arcane light, and silvery rays shone from his fingertips, gradually expanding toward the barrier that was strongest at the front door. The light brightened until it was unbearable, rippling outward over the cottage walls, then dropping away in falling sparks, as the enchantment blew apart. I narrowed my eyes, trying to track the expenditure of energy, but a low boom shook the house from the roof down.
Then I felt the heat zing through me, blinding me a second time, and when my vision cleared, everything had changed. It was twilight with a ruddy light shining through the window. All the work Booke had done on his pocket space had carried over into the real world, superimposed over the abandoned cottage. Now things were no longer dusty and abandoned. I wondered briefly what had happened to the rats and spiders displaced in the phase shift, but I was too thrilled by the view through the window to linger on the thought long; it showed wind blowing through the tall grass and whipping through the tree branches.
You did it. Thanks, Kel.
My eyes smarted a bit, tears slipping from the corners. I dashed the moisture away impatiently as I hurried toward Kel. He swayed, one hand braced on the doorjamb. His face was pale, his tattoos still glowing with a residual light, giving him an ethereal air. I touched him without thinking; my hands went to his shoulders to offer support. To my surprise, he spun away from the wall to accept my help.
He leaned into me, head bowed toward mine. “An incredible amount of rage and malice went into that working.”
“How did you break the curse?”
“I drew it in and then expelled it along with enough force to shatter the curse.”
No wonder he looked ill. That sounded an awful lot like how I felt after handling a particularly evil object. Because I always craved a gentle touch after a bad reading, I put my arms around him. Kel tensed, probably because people didn’t comfort God’s Hand.
“Easy,” I whispered. “I’m not making a move, just grounding you.”
I wasn’t sure he knew what I meant, but after a shudder wracked him, he put his arms around me and held on tight. He probably felt sick as hell; there were limits to what a Nephilim could tolerate. I rubbed his back, trying not to remember how we had been together. Savoring that memory felt like a betrayal of Chance.
“I wish—” He broke off, leaving me to wonder.
“Better?” I asked, focusing on his welfare rather than words left unspoken.
“I need to sleep to regain my full strength. But I’m well enough, all things considered.” His tone sounded strange as he stepped away from me.
“What things—” I started to ask, but Shannon and Booke joined us by the front door before I could complete the question.
“We’ll talk later,” Kel said, flinging the front door wide. He looked ready to collapse, but he had done what I asked.
As always.
A cool, inviting wind blew through the house, so long untouched by natural forces. Tears glinted in Booke’s eyes as he turned his face toward the breeze, then he set Butch gently onto the floor. He moved with the care of a much older man; his steps were tentative, shaky, even. I took his elbow, knowing the weight of those years was already coming to bear on him. It might not show instantly like a fast-forwarded video of a decaying rose, but the pain must be phenomenal.
Worth it, I thought, for a taste of freedom.
“I had forgotten what the world smells like,” he breathed.
Booke crooked his elbow, as if he were my escort, and not the other way around. In stately procession, we made our way to the front step of the cottage. Kel and Shannon followed. The yard was completely overgrown, the sky awash in purple, and I could tell by his expression that he had never seen anything so lovely. For me, it was a melancholy beauty; certainly there was pastoral charm, but it came knowing Booke’s time to appreciate it was limited.
“I have an idea,” I said then. “We’ll take a trip. Our passports should be good enough to manage rail travel. Would you like to see Paris? We’ll go. Italy? There too, if we can.” The unspoken subtext was that I didn’t know how long Booke had, but I would be damned if I didn’t keep my pledge to him.
“I have no documents,” Booke pointed out wryly.
That was a problem, but I’d figure out a way around it. Dreaming didn’t make sense in our current situation; nor would I leave him alone. Yet I’d promised him the world, and he would have it, however much could be experienced in the short while he had left. It went without saying that he would die somewhere along the way. I didn’t let myself think of that. No more good-byes. I can’t take much more. But the universe had never listened to my pleas. If there was an intelligence running the show, as Kel’s archangel claimed, then it was singularly uninterested in Corine Solomon.
“There has to be a solution,” Shannon said. “We’ll think of something.”
Booke tilted his head, entranced by the dying rays of the sunset. “Think fast. I’m a very old man, you know.”
Sands of Time
While Shannon arranged for a car to pick us up and Kel lay exhausted on the sofa, I helped Booke gather his things. He did have a birth certificate, but without a current passport he wouldn’t be able to leave the country. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to apply and wait for proper channels. We had to figure this out now.
Then it hit me.
“Eva,” I muttered, already dialing.
“You’ve thought of something?” Booke asked.
I waved him to silence, and he went back to packing, his movements slow and measured. Fortunately, the time difference worked in our favor, as it was earlier in Texas. Eva answered on the third ring.
“It’s me,” I said. “How are you?”
“Good. Tired. Cami keeps me hopping.” Cami was Chuch and Eva’s daughter. I was fuzzy on how old she was, given the time slippage in Sheol, but this didn’t seem like the time to ask.
“Chuch and the baby?”
“They’re both fine. Are you all right? Is Shannon with you?”
Dammit. I had explanations to make, so I summarized as fast as I could, leaving out the ineffable account of Chance’s death. When I finished, she said, “I get the feeling this isn’t a social call.”
“I’m with Booke. If you have contacts in the U.K., I could use them.”
“My contacts,” she repeated. “Not Chuch?” Obliquely, she was asking if I needed papers, not weapons.
“Yeah, do you know anyone?”
“I used to. Let me make a few calls and get back to you.”
So strange, but my friends Chuch and Eva had a colorful past. Chuch had been an arms dealer before he met the love of his life, Eva, who was a talented forger. They’d left their lives of crime to settle into connubial bliss in Laredo. Now Eva was a stay-at-home mom, and Chuch restored classic cars. But they both had helpful underworld contacts at moments like this.
“Can she help?” Booke asked.
I turned to him; in the few moments I had been otherwise occupied, he’d already aged. His features reflected another five years in fine lines. His hair was a little thinner, his shoulders more stooped. At the rate the real world was catching up to him, he might not have more than a day or two. Part of me desperately wanted to find a Luren, no matter what Booke thought . . . but it would be wrong to make such an enormous choice for him. I had to respect his wishes.