Shady Lady

Page 7

I considered before I made the offer, but it should be safe enough, and the waiters circulating among the guests looked fit and strong. “If you want to stay here and swim while we go looking for the island witch, it’s fine with me.” I did glance at Kel for confirmation. “That would be okay, right?”
He nodded. “I have no reason to believe they know where we are right now. Of course, that could change.”
Yeah. Whomever Montoya had found to hex my Eros saltshaker might be able to scry our location. That was a pretty powerful and specific spell, however, and so it wouldn’t be accomplished with a flick of the wrist. Such things took time and preparation; we couldn’t waste our head start.
“That’d be cool,” she said. “I’ve never really been on vacation.”
I didn’t let my emotional response to that show on my face. My mom had taken me camping. Maybe we’d never gone anywhere like this, but I had those memories, at least. I didn’t envy Shannon’s recollections of her own mother.
“You have a suit?”
“Duh.” She grinned. “I looked this place up, remember?”
“Then just charge your food to the room when you get hungry.” I managed not to tell her to put on sunscreen. Besides, Shannon didn’t want to lose her Goth pallor, so when she wasn’t swimming, I was sure she would sit in the shade.
It was early, and she hadn’t showered. If it were me, I wouldn’t bother if I was going to the pool in a little while. Butch hopped into my purse, which answered my unasked question—it seemed he wanted to go in search of the island witch with Kel and me.
The guardian waited by the door. “I arranged a boat downstairs.”
Wow, that was fast.
“So they know Nalleli here?”
“I didn’t ask about her. They do, however, handle lake tours for their guests.”
It made sense. Tourists who came looking for the famous Catemaco witches would be referred to charlatans in the zócalo. Likewise, those who wanted the grand tour of the lake . . . well, the staff helped out with that too. I wasn’t sure if the locals knew the name Tia had given us, but we didn’t want to leave a trail a mile wide.
“Are you sure Shannon will be all right?” I asked as we went down the stairs.
We passed through the small garden and through the lobby out into the pool area before he replied. “Do you want a detailed analysis?”
“Please.”
“Should Montoya manage to uncover your location by arcane means, the spell will be keyed to you, so as long as you’re not with Shannon when the attack comes, then she’ll be fine.”
“You’re saying this is safer for her.” Damn. I wished I’d left her in Mexico City to run the shop. Not that she would’ve agreed to it.
“No question.”
There were a few sunbathers already, and some Europeans were eating on the patio, basking in the sunlight. They spoke German, as best I could tell, and the older woman in the group had painfully fair skin. I hoped she put on sunscreen too.
Palapas lined the lakefront, the kind you usually saw in beach towns like Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. Here, there was no white sand; instead the little shelters sat atop rich green grass. The soil was damp beneath my soles, but not enough to sink. It had been raining, so the lake lapped nearly to the top of the concrete rim. There was no fencing, so you could fall into Lake Catemaco pretty easily. I didn’t know how deep it was here.
To the left lay an impressive play area. There were no kids running around yet. If Shannon were a bit younger, she’d get some use out of the swings and the slide. Of course, if she were younger, she would still be with her father.
Today, I wore a pair of long cargo shorts and walking boots, paired with a yellow cotton peasant blouse. The bugs would be bad out on the water, but I didn’t have any repellent on me. Somehow I doubted insect bites would prove a problem for Kel.
“It’ll be a while,” he said. “I thought you could read the dagger before we go.”
I’d almost forgotten. With trepidation, I sat down at one of the white wrought-iron tables; the paint had peeled in spots, showing the darkness beneath. Placed just beyond the patio, they sat on the grass, where parents could watch their children at play. At this hour, the place was quiet, the sun only just starting to warm the day.
Kel handed me the weapon. A waiter came over, but he waved him away with a terse request for café. I gazed at the blade for a few seconds, and then braced myself. Knives were never good.
I reached for it and wrapped my fingers around the handle. Fire blasted me as if I’d stepped into the heart of a volcano. How my skin could still be on my body, I had no idea; my vision washed red, and then I fell into a nightmare.
So many killings.
I saw them all, one by one, superimposed like ghostly, silent reels shown in some infernal theater. Agony streaked through me with each death. The cries felt like they must surely choke me, and it got worse. The man had last used this weapon to murder a child—an object lesson. I caught some of the words, mouthed with angry gestures. I watched the shock and grief, and could do nothing to stop it. It was a past thing, untouchable, immutable.
I bore it and held my silence.
Then it showed me something new. Not a death. An argument. The man spun the blade in his hands, and his anger suffused me. He got up in another man’s grille, someone who bore an unmistakable resemblance to the face Tia had crafted. But before he could strike, the other man gestured; the assassin slammed to the ground, and the knife dropped out of his hand. I lost the thread there.
Finally, the dagger flashed the killer’s fight with Kel, lightning-fast and fierce. By the time I returned to the world of lake, pool, and palapas, and Kel came back into focus, I sat doubled over, breathing in raw, ugly gasps. Nausea racked me. He touched my back, tentative as the brown bird hopping around the base of the table, hoping for scraps. My hand burned, but something had shifted in my gift. The flower pentacle scar from my mother’s necklace absorbed the damage—and that was new.
“Take it away,” I said hoarsely. Not his hand. The knife.
To my vast relief, he did.
“Nothing helpful?” he asked at last.
“Only that the man who used it is a professional. He killed on orders, not for pleasure.” I’d seen no signs of enjoyment, but those rare flashes when I saw his reflection in windowpanes, he had eyes like death, hollow and empty.
“We could have guessed as much.” He paused, frowning and thoughtful.
“I’m glad you killed him.” The last death—the child—would haunt me. “But at least I got a good look at the man who hexed me. I have a few corrections for your sketch.”
“We’ll do that when we get back. It’s time to go.” He stood up and headed toward the lake.
Voyage to Monkey Island
The morning sun warmed my skin as we waited for the boatman. In the distance, I spotted a flat-bottomed lancha churning the water; white spume sprayed in its wake as if it were propelled by fire-extinguisher foam. A large awning shaded the boat, which he piloted from the back. It was a bit battered but seaworthy. This vessel could hold eight more people, but we’d hired a private tour.
“He’s ten minutes late,” Kel said.
That was pretty good. In the city, if I scheduled an appointment with a repairman, I’d be lucky if he showed up on the promised day. Punctuality was an individual judgment more than a social imperative.
“How much is this costing me?” I whispered, as the boatman pulled up. The prow nudged the cement rim gently, and the man leapt onto shore with rope in hand. Steps led down into the launch, making it easy for us to board.
The other man answered—so he understood some English. “Four hundred pesos.”
That was reasonable, thirty bucks or so, depending on the exchange rate. Catemaco wasn’t a big tourist spot, so they hadn’t jacked up the prices. The food probably wouldn’t cost a fortune while we were here, either. Good thing, as the pawnshop took care of Shannon and me, but I wasn’t rich.
I peeled off a couple of bills and passed them over, and the boatman beamed at me. His teeth were very white in a sun-weathered face. “Me llamo Ernesto. Bienvenidos.”
As we boarded, he seemed so pleased, chattering about the sights he would show us, including Monkey Island, that I couldn’t bring myself to cut him off. So we listened while he practiced his English until he came to a word he didn’t know, and then he substituted in Spanish.
Obligingly, I supplied the word for him. “Monkeys.”
I always found it funny that there were two words for monkey in Spanish: chango and mono. I’d asked if one meant ape, but though chango was more slang, it still meant monkey. Spanish was weird that way: two words for monkey, and esposas meant both wives and handcuffs. That said a lot.
Ernesto had a thick accent. “You’re going to love the Monkey Island.”
I didn’t share his certainty. Monkeys struck me as sinister, falling under the category of things that looked almost human, but weren’t, really, like dolls and clowns—all creepy in my book.
Shannon looked so small from this distance, capped with a shock of black hair; she waved from the balcony as we got under way. I waved back and took a seat in the middle when the boat accelerated. Ernesto was still talking. We would stop first at the city market, he said, and for a mere fifty pesos more, he would disembark to buy fresh fruit for us to feed the monkeys.
I glanced at Kel, who murmured, “It might be best if we let him give us the regular tour in addition to going to see Nalleli. That way, our destination isn’t so singular.”
And we wouldn’t stand out in his memory if someone questioned him later. It made sense, though I wasn’t keen on the delay. There must be other tourists who asked to visit Nalleli. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure how we’d find her.
“Do we know which island she’s on?” I asked in a whisper.
“I’m sure he does,” he answered, tilting his head back toward our guide.
It made sense. The island witch might be the only true curandera—or bruja, depending on the type of magick she practiced—in the area, though Catemaco was famous for its witches and warlocks. But tourism dictated that most were performers and charlatans more than true practitioners. I needed someone with real power, and I hoped Tia knew what she was talking about.
The boat gathered speed, leaping out toward the middle of the lake. Wind whipped across my face, and Butch popped his head out of my bag. I clutched him to my chest. If he got overly excited and jumped, I’d never see him again in a lake this size. It was enormous.
Buildings on the shore looked strange and exotic—as we neared the zócalo, a gold cathedral edged in red caught my eye. It rose above the palm and mangrove trees, and the brightpainted boats that crouched at its feet seemed as supplicants to the stately structure. We passed an orange and white building on the way to the mooring place. The reason it drew a second look? On the concrete wall below, it read, HOTEL DEL BRUJO, in black block letters, and the architecture reminded me of an old houseboat.