Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (28 page)

Archer opened his mouth and then closed it.

Rake took pity on him. “With George Gaki busy doing thirty years for trafficking in culturally significant other-realm artifacts, I appealed for ownership of the beads in the faerie realm. You’ve been awarded custody.”

“You did that for me? After everything?”

“It’s because of everything that I did it for you.”

It was impossible to turn away from the look in Rake’s eyes. Archer had no desire to turn away in any case. He said shakily, “I thought seducing me was just part of your plan?”

“I thought you seduced me.”

 Archer’s irrepressible laugh rang out and Rake laughed too.

“That’s right,” said Archer. “I was forgetting.”

“How do you like Saint-Malo?”

“I like it.”

“Do you think I would?”

“I’d make it my business to see that you did,” Archer said seriously. “But it’s a long commute to your office.”

“I don’t have an office. I’ve resigned my commission.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. Rake’s smile was grim. He tapped Archer’s cheek lightly. “Close your mouth, sweeting. You’ll drown.”

“You resigned your commission?”

Rake shrugged. “I was ready for a change. In any case…Change is coming soon for us all.”

“I thought so! Didn’t I say so?” Archer exclaimed.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’ for the next three centuries, so give it a rest.”

“Three centuries? Is that all you give us?”

“You’re very young,” Rake said. “You might change your mind down the line.”

“Probably not. As you pointed out, I’m a little obsessive.”

“It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Tell me some other things you like about me,” Archer invited.

“Come closer and I will.”

Archer lifted his face up and Rake’s mouth met his in a honey-sweet kiss with just a hint of a bite. Above them the rain dripped slowly, steadily from the leaves. The shining droplets fell through the air looking like nothing so much as green glass beads.

No Life But This

Astrid Amara

I have no life but this,

To lead it here;

Nor any death, but lest

Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come,

Nor action new,

Except through this extent,

The Realm of You.

— Emily Dickinson

The overpowering smell of cooked meat and car exhaust couldn’t compare to the explosion of colors emanating from the wall of billboards outside Mexico City’s Benito Juárez International Airport. The thick, hot air was rank with jet fuel. Traffic noise battled a trumpet blasting enthusiastically over a car radio.

As he scanned the passenger pickup area for his ride, Deven took deep, calming breaths—just like his therapist had taught him. He wondered how the driver would recognize him. He didn’t look much different from the men around him...maybe a little paler, and maybe greener eyes, but they were hard to see through his sunglasses.

“Taxi?” a man offered, waving at Deven as he blinked on the curb. “Taxi, señor?”

“No.” Deven glanced around, looking for someone who resembled an Irregulars agent.

They had to know he’d landed. It had required special clearance to get his obsidian knives through security, and someone with authority had clearly pulled strings to procure him a business class seat on an overbooked flight with little advance notice.

“Mr. Shaw?”

Deven turned, squinting against the sunlight.

“I’m on your right,” the man said.

Deven frowned. “I see you.”

The man’s face was pink with sunburn, nose already peeling. His short brown hair darkened in sweaty patches at his temples, but his sleek black suit hid any sweat on his body.

“Sorry, I was told you have vision issues.” He held out his hand. “Agent Frank Klakow.”

Deven didn’t shake his hand. “ID?”

Agent Klakow’s smile faltered but didn’t fade. “Yeah, hold on.” He struggled with his wallet, tight in his back pocket, and pulled out his badge. Deven took hold of it, studying the image. After a moment the agent shone a pen light at the badge and text illuminated around the insignia. The refraction of light bent oddly, but in this case he knew this wasn’t an effect of his damaged eyesight but merely a seal of authenticity.

“So, the information I received about your vision was incorrect?” Klakow asked.

“I’m not blind. I have dark-adapted eyes.” Deven returned the badge and picked up his duffel bag. Klakow led him to a black sedan. Inside it was air conditioned and shockingly cold.

“Is this your first time in Mexico City?” Klakow asked, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“I was here a year ago,” Deven said. He watched the agent pull a seat belt across his chest and Deven followed suit, mimicking the man’s gestures as he’d learned to do over the last year. “But I stayed for only a few hours before I was repatriated to the US.”

Klakow pulled into the stream of traffic. “Well, it’s damned hot, that’s all I can say for it.”

Their car emerged from the concrete landscape of the airport and headed west toward the center of the city.

Deven removed his sunglasses and turned to view the city out the window but found the jumble of images too confusing to look at for long. He closed his eyes.

“Do you need to rest at the hotel before we go to the crime scene?”

“No.” Deven didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t sure exactly what he could offer the badges as a consultant, but they paid well. And it seemed like the kind of job better served with promptness.

Besides, it was something to do. Something better than running, or reading, or learning how to fish.

Deven sensed that Agent Klakow was staring, so he opened his eyes. The agent glanced at Deven frequently as he navigated the car. His eyes flickered to Deven’s neck, but Deven was used to it.

What he wasn’t used to was the look of pity that crossed people’s features when they spotted the jagged scar where Deven’s throat had been slit. It had happened so long ago Deven barely thought of it himself anymore.

“Has anyone briefed you on the investigation?” Klakow asked.

“I know someone was killed and Aztaw magic is suspected,” Deven said.

“Two people,” Klakow corrected. “One of ours, Agent Carlos Rodriguez, and his younger sister, Beatriz. Agent Rodriguez had come here to spend his vacation with his sister. None of his caseload had anything to do with the area.”

Deven considered asking what Rodriguez’s caseload typically consisted of, then thought better of it. Participating in the investigation would be hard in any case—Deven had a very good reason to distrust badges—but he would need to overcome his hostility toward the agency if he was going to remain on their payroll.

Klakow turned the car onto an unevenly paved road and Deven opened his eyes. They maneuvered through a densely packed neighborhood. Low single-story structures plastered in faded pastel colors lined the narrow street. All the windows were barred. Bright billboards rose above the structures bearing words in giant fonts.

“The victims’ skulls were smashed in with no apparent sign of a struggle.” Klakow shook his head. “Rodriguez was one tough motherfucker. There’s no way he wouldn’t have defended himself unless he was taken by surprise.”

“Was there a lot of blood?” Deven asked.

“No.” Klakow sounded impressed. “The forensics team commented on that. Several pints of blood seem to be missing.”

“That’s typical of deaths related to Aztaw magic.”

“They use human, not Aztaw, blood in spells?”

Deven nodded.

“So I assume they wouldn’t leave something that valuable behind,” Klakow said.

“If you know all this, then why did you hire me?”

Klakow smirked. “We know some things about the Aztaw, but you’re the only one who’s actually lived with them for an extended period of time and has practiced their magic. Hopefully you’ll catch details we’d otherwise miss.”

The streets narrowed and the buildings grew more dilapid-ated. Bright yellow tarps stretched over stalls erected on sidewalks selling piles of cheap clothing and household goods. The sidewalks were packed with bustling people. Deven stared, amazed by their sheer numbers. He’d never seen so many human beings crowded in one place.

“Where are we?” Deven asked.

“Tepito barrio. Beatriz Rodriguez’s house is a few blocks away.”

The buildings looked impoverished, with rusted metal awnings and chipped plaster corners. Power lines drooped down nearly at street level and formed webs across the skyline. Piles of shiny litter clustered over the broken pavement. Dark blue corrugated garage doors shuttered closed blocks of shops.

Deven concentrated on a building corner, finally realizing he was staring at peeling, colorful posters layered upon each other. Deven felt triumph at finally comprehending what he saw, and then confusion. Why would anyone want to look at that mess?

They turned onto Republica de Paraguay. Agent Klakow maneuvered the car to a stop along the sidewalk in front of a two-story, persimmon-colored plaster building. There was little outward sign that a murder investigation was underway—no police tape, no crowds of onlookers as Deven had come to expect based on the television shows he watched. The street appeared nearly vacant.

But as Deven glanced around, he saw other things. Two men in suits down at the end of an alleyway. A dog that watched closely as they got out of the car. There was a smell here too, barely detectable above the overwhelming odor of roasting pork. The sizzling odor of the supernatural world, a smell of sulfur and ozone, pervaded the air like a nearly forgotten memory. It burned Deven’s nostrils.

It made him homesick.

Klakow led them to a crooked red wooden door, held open by a man in a suit and sunglasses. Following Klakow, Deven climbed a narrow set of stairs up to the second floor.

 “The good news is, you have a great magical forensics team working with you,” Klakow said, breathing harder as he climbed the steep staircase.

“You aren’t leading this investigation?” Deven asked.

Klakow turned and smirked. “No, though you’re going to wish I was.”

“Why?”

“Because the bad news is, you’re working with Agent Silas August.”

“Bad news? Why?”

“August is a complete prick. The only agent who could ever stand working with him was Rodriguez. He was August’s partner for the last six years, so needless to say Rodriguez’s murder hasn’t sunnied August’s disposition.” Klakow pushed the door open.

Inside the small room were half a dozen people, some in business suits, others in personal protection gear, collecting evidence. Klakow stepped carefully over the chalked outlines of two bodies and pointed Deven toward a tall man standing near the window, speaking on a cell phone.

He was thin and handsome and dressed as if planning to attend an awards ceremony. He wore a tailored charcoal suit and a fitted white dress shirt with the collar open. His black, wavy hair accentuated the distinct angles of his pale face—sharp cheekbones, long nose, and piercing blue eyes.

The man turned and gave Deven a cold, cursory glance without bothering to interrupt his telephone conversation. Deven found himself looking away from the intensity of the man’s stare and that’s when he noticed the stains on the floor.

Bloodstains formed sprayed haloes around the heads of the body outlines. Dark, serpent-like soot stains marred the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall. Deven noted the cracked glass in the framed photographs; the burned paper, matches, and a copper bowl dented inward with great force; and shattered pieces of jade ground into the carpet, glinting in the low apartment light.

And covering every surface, hundreds of them, the tiny, broken bodies of dead quail.

Deven’s heart began to race.

The sharp clap of a phone snapping shut startled Deven’s attention back to the agent.

“I’m Agent Silas August. You the Aztaw expert?” August asked.

Deven felt nervous under such scrutiny. “Yes. I’m Deven—”

“About goddamn time you got here.”

“No spell on earth can make the traffic in this city any better,” Klakow said. He patted Deven on the back. Deven tensed at the contact. “He’s all yours.”

August fixed Deven once more with his steely glare. “First impression?”

For a second, Deven thought the agent meant himself. Deven caught up quickly. “This isn’t a murder,” he said.