[Corine Solomon 5] Agave Kiss (8 page)

“Go on, then. I’m ready to listen. You’ve been cryptic in the past, talking about me being important, hinting I have a destiny. Now, you’ve said you’re to recruit me?”

“Time to give the pitch,” he said tiredly. “The archangel to whom I report has been building alliances, preparing to wage a war against demonkind.”

“What has that got to do with me?” I asked, puzzled.

“The duality of your nature. You’ve tasted white magick and demon power. Ultimately, you rejected the demon queen and returned home. Thus, my archangel believes you’ve chosen a side.”

“That seems . . . far-fetched. Just because I didn’t want to stay in Sheol, it doesn’t mean I want to . . .” I trailed off, unsure what I was being asked to do.

“Fight?” he supplied.

“Would it come to that?” It didn’t sound like a viable option for me. I wasn’t exactly the warrior princess type.

“If Barachiel has his way, it will. He wants to conquer demonkind utterly. He’s been building toward this confrontation for centuries.”

“Why does he want me? What would I be doing?” Already, the rejection trembled on the tip of my tongue. I had learned the hard way that if powerful creatures sought you out, it was almost never to your benefit.

“If you agree, he’ll explain everything to you personally,” he answered.

I stared. “Isn’t that like asking me to sign on the dotted line without reading the contract first?”

“He’s not accustomed to being refused anything he wants. To his mind, you should be honored to be chosen.”

“Like in the old days when an angel appeared in a halo of golden light and the peasant scrambled forth in an adoring stupor to do his bidding?”

A reluctant half smile curved Kel’s mouth. “Precisely. He has not adapted well to the Information Age.”

“Then . . . I have to decline. I’m sorry. But it’s not fair to ask me to accept something like this without more details.”

“Nobody ever said life was fair,” he murmured, turning away.

“Ignoring me won’t work,” I whispered.

He shifted, so he was gazing at me full on again. “What is it, Corine?”

“What aren’t you telling me? I know you well enough to realize something’s bothering you about all this.”

Surprise flickered across his impassive features. Doubtless it was my assertion that I knew him. He tried to be remote and untouchable as a mountaintop, but I had scaled his heights, breached his imperturbable silence. And now I knew how to interpret his minuscule expressions.

Kel clenched both hands into fists, balanced them upon his knees. “I’m trapped, Corine.”

“I know.” That wasn’t news, however.

His mouth firmed into a taut, angry line. “You don’t. When I report that I’ve failed to recruit you to our cause, my next order will be to kill you.”

My blood chilled in my veins. “You wouldn’t—”

“I don’t want to,” he said, low. “But I am incapable of rebellion.”

“But . . . you were flogged in the arena.” I remembered his scars, and the way he’d trembled when I ran my fingertips across them, how he flinched when I traced the place on his shoulders where his wings used to be. “What for, if not refusing to fall in line?”

“For being a half-breed. For being insolent and irreverent.”

“You were whipped for . . . mouthing off?” I asked, trying to understand. “But you never actually denied a command?”

“If I could, I would have.” His anguish sharpened the words, made a weapon of them, until I had to reach for him.

My palm covered his knotted fist, and I stroked his knuckles until his fingers unfurled beneath mine. Then he turned his hand slowly under mine, until our palms aligned. A small part of me still loved him. Not as you build your dreams around a man, but in the way you love the stars for shining, showering ephemeral brightness.

“What did they make you do?”

“The archangel learned I had a lover,” he said quietly.

I was afraid I knew where this was going. “Asherah, the goddess of desire.”

He shook his head. “Like you, she was human, though she
was
a priestess.”

“He ordered you to kill her?” It seemed like the logical conclusion.

“Yes.” The raw syllable told me how much the memory still hurt him, two thousand years later.

“And you couldn’t refuse.”

“Only humans have free will.”

“But you’re so strong. There must be a way to resist your orders.”

“Do you think I would not walk away from endless war, endless death, if it were so simple?” Kel angled a hard look at me.

He had a point. His archangel—or whatever the hell the creature was—had a powerful hold on him. Maybe magickal compliance was in effect, making Kel think he didn’t have free will, due to the bullshit mythology he had been fed since birth. Regardless, it also meant I was in a hell of a mess. If I didn’t sign on with a being I wasn’t convinced had humanity’s best interests at heart, Kel would kill me. And then he’d spend two thousand years grieving.

Shit.

“How long do you have before he gets suspicious?”

“I’m not sure. He has many concerns, many agents. And I’m not his most important emissary.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said tiredly.

Kel laced his fingers through mine. “Nor do I. Even before I met you, I was weary of war, sick unto death.”

“But you can’t die.”

“No.” The word carried infinite sorrow.

“I don’t understand what the archangel wants from me. I’m not the Binder anymore. My mother’s magick doesn’t work. Which just leaves the touch. What good could that possibly do him?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But this I promise . . . I won’t hurt you, Corine.”

“You can’t know what the future holds.” If I had the option, I’d take a do-over in Sheol, find some way to save Chance. “Anyway, it’s not our most pressing concern. Can you stall?”

“A few days at least. He won’t expect instant capitulation from you, I think.”

That sounded as if the archangel knew me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. “What’s his name, anyway?”

“Barachiel.”

“Is he an utter bastard?”

The question startled a quiet chuckle out of Kel. “Yes, rather. I used to tell myself that he got his orders from a higher power. It was the only thing that made my mission bearable.”

“Is the bloom off the rose?”

He inclined his head. “I am unable to grasp how it can matter to a divine being whether you work for Barachiel or not. Lately, it seems as if his will has supplanted any other . . . if there ever was anything more.”

I hated to see the pain engineered by such a crisis in faith, but it might be better that he had lost his blind fanaticism. “I can’t answer that. The demons said a few things that made me think maybe . . . but mostly, it seems like we’re on our own.”

“I thought so too, long ago. But after Asherah died . . . they broke me. Made me believe, somehow, that every horrific deed served a higher purpose.”

“Maybe you had to accept that,” I offered. “Or go crazy.”

“You mean my belief was a form of self-preservation?”

“Possibly. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”

His smile was fleeting. “You are an odd woman, Corine Solomon. I’ve slain many, but you’re the only prospective victim who ever tried to console me.”

“Is it working?” I wondered aloud.

“Somewhat.”

That seemed like a good place to let the conversation rest. I left my hand in his as a comforting gesture and didn’t protest when he turned his face toward the window. He closed his eyes, tilting his head against the seat; gods, I hoped we could wake him up when the train stopped.

To my relief, it wasn’t a problem.

When we arrived in London, Shannon hailed us a cab, and I helped Booke climb into the back. It was late enough that we should be ashamed of turning up at Geoff Stenton’s door, but I’d drag his ass out of bed if I had to. Booke needed this passport urgently.

Fortunately, the forger lived on the ground floor. Otherwise, I’m not sure whether Booke would have made it. He looked older and frailer with each passing moment. My heart broke a little as I thumped on the knocker, relentless, until I heard movement within.

The man who flung the door open was short, balding, with a pair of smudged glasses hastily perched on a broad nose. His shirt was undone and it looked as if he’d put on a pair of sweatpants that he’d grabbed from the floor. They sported a number of interesting stains, particularly around the knees. I hoped his documents were better than his hygiene.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

“Eva sent me,” I said.

“Good for you. Come back at a decent hour.”

“You don’t understand, it’s an emergency.” I indicated Booke, holding my arm for balance. “He has to get out of the country right away.”

Stenton studied my friend, frowning. “Is he a war criminal or something? Never mind,” he added. “I don’t want to know. Since you’ve gotten me out of bed, you may as well come in.” I didn’t know that much about British regional dialects, but when Geoff said “something” it sounded like “somefing.”

We all traipsed inside. Within, the place was a typical townhome with a front room, a hallway that had a half bath on one side and ended in a small kitchen. The place was cleaner than the forger’s pants. He beckoned us upstairs with an impatient wave of one hand.

“My studio’s upstairs. Can you make it?” Stenton asked Booke.

“I’ll manage,” he answered.

With my help, he clambered up the stairs, but I could tell by his expression it was painful. How old was he now? Eighty? I wished I could calculate the rate at which the years were catching up to him. Then I might be able to predict how long he had left. My sense of urgency built even more; I had to show him something lovely before he died. I’d
promised
.

If my mother taught me anything, it was the importance of keeping my word.

Frequent Flyer

Conscious of time
ticking away, I made short work of our business with Geoff Stenton, and I paid him handsomely for the interruption to his sleep. The others milled in various stages of boredom, until he needed Booke to pose for a picture. Then Stenton referred me to a local witch who could help us leave the country with our false passports.

“How long will Booke’s cooked documents take?” I asked.

He considered. “Ordinarily, a couple of days, but with what you’re paying, I’ll get it to you within a few hours. Where should I send it?”

“Do you think the witch would mind if you sent a courier there?”

Stenton shook his head. “No, we’ve often dealt with gifted who have a need to leave the country in a hurry.”

I didn’t doubt that at all. Geoff gave off a sketchy vibe, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. That concluded our business, so we caught a cab to our next destination while Booke grew frailer by the moment. At night, London radiated a much different vibe than Mexico City. Even in the evening, there were always people milling around open-air cantinas, dogs lolling on the sidewalk in hope of scraps. Police cars patrolled with their lights flashing, though you only had to worry if they turned on the sirens. The lights were just to let you know they were watching. London was quieter by comparison, less yelling in the street, certainly no mariachis, but there was plenty of traffic, even at this hour.

The cabbie dropped us at the door of a crumbling brick row house. I could tell that the neighborhood wasn’t the best. If only I had my witch sight, I could check the premises for wards and see how effective her work was. Crazy, but I had gotten used to my magick, started taking it for granted. And then it was gone, leaving me to miss it. The same could be said for Chance. I banged on the door with a closed fist, angry with the awful grief that hung around my neck like an albatross. The fury accompanied the feeling because it implied I had accepted he was gone. It was a stage in the mourning process—and I
did not
concede that he was beyond my reach.

Even death cannot keep me from you.

I kept thumping on the painted red door, until it swung open to reveal a podgy little woman with her hair up in curlers; I hadn’t known women still did that. At first, the witch was no happier about being awakened in the middle of the night.

“Come in, before the neighbors decide I’m running a bawdy house.” She stomped inside, muttering, “At
this
hour? Can’t imagine what Geoff was thinking.”

“Probably that you wanted to get paid,” Shan said.

“What do you need then? Spit it out.” I couldn’t blame her for the attitude, as being rousted from a warm bed by demanding patrons who wanted a spell right now had to suck. This never happened when you ran a store with regular hours, one of the compensations of working in retail. When she saw my cash, her mood improved dramatically.

Inside, her room was busy with arcane accoutrements paired in uneasy truce with excessive lace and handcrafted knitted goods. I wondered if she could make an athame cozy, and then decided I was too tired to be funny. Shan helped Booke over to a chair with a kindness I found touching. She hadn’t known him as long, but he was definitely part of our crew, even if he’d been a virtual member.

As my friends got comfortable, I followed the witch into the kitchen, where she had all her components—and maybe it was exhaustion, but it amused me to find esoteric ingredients neatly labeled in glass spice jars and ceramic canisters. While she put on a pair of reading glasses, I summarized our business.

As it happened, people requested this particular charm from her quite often. Once she put the kettle on and checked her stock, she found she had two of them ready, but she needed to make a third. Which worked out well, as we were waiting for a messenger anyway, and I was spared the need to ask if we could hang around her parlor until Stenton came through. She shooed me away, but I found it hard to settle, worrying about whether I was doing the right thing with Booke. Maybe she had Luren blood in stock . . . but no, I’d promised him I wouldn’t. It was his choice, dammit.

Shannon curled up on one end of a sofa and went to sleep. That was a gift I shared; under normal circumstances, I could sleep anywhere, but I was too tense to be able to relax. Kel nodded off at the other end, and I didn’t bother him, knowing he had depleted his resources in setting my friend free. I could see the changes in Booke’s face already: more lines, faint liver spots dotting his temples. His hair seemed a little thinner, a sparse silver down.