“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Caridad told Booke. “But it would’ve cost a great deal, if I had been able to.”

Ramon cocked his head. “But I told you, he’s like family to Chuch, amor. That means he’s kin to me too.”

Her dark eyes hardened, and she gave her hair a haughty toss. “I don’t give my talents away. Doesn’t matter who the client is.”

I hurried out to the garage before I could get tangled in the argument, where I found Chuch studying two cars. One was an old Charger, and the other said it was a Maverick. Either looked okay, but the Maverick seemed more finished. The Charger still had some problems in the paint, not that cosmetic issues mattered. Finally Chuch handed me the Charger keys.

“This one’s better under the hood. I want you two to get there safe.”

“Thanks, papi,” I said with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Hey, somebody’s gotta look out for you.”

I softened. “I know . . . and thank you. I’m glad you and Eva are all right.”

“Better than ever. I never wanted to be a dad before I met Eva, but . . .” He paused, rough face charming with the goofy love he had for his wife and daughter.

“You’re one of the good ones,” I agreed.

He didn’t ask if I meant husband or father. Clearly, it was both. And when Cami came of age, she would get the coolest, safest car ever. I envied her a little, all those father-daughter moments I had missed. It wasn’t enough knowing my dad saved my life; I wished he could’ve shared it too.

But at least we got to say good-bye.

“I think Shannon’s planning to bring Jesse over for dinner. I heard Eva talking to her on the phone earlier.”

“Tell her where I went, then. And why.”

“Will do.” Chuch favored me with another squeeze; then he went to tell Booke we were rolling.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, familiarizing myself with the setup. Good thing the car was automatic. Though I’d driven stick, I wasn’t expert, and I tended to grind the gears. Chuch wouldn’t thank me for burning out the clutch on a vehicle he was trying to restore to classic status and then sell at an awesome markup. Collectors paid a pretty penny for a muscle car in cherry condition.

A few minutes later, Kel helped Booke out to the car. The Englishman moved at a shuffling pace, and his balance wasn’t the best. Seeing him so hurt me. In my mind’s eye he was the calm, competent scholar. Not old. Not feeble. I’d imagined him as ageless, an immortal guardian of all knowledge, arcane and otherwise. This felt like learning that Athena, the goddess of wisdom, wore false teeth.

“Shotgun,” Booke said, as if I’d make him ride in the back.

Then I realized Kel meant to accompany us. Well, he did have to keep up appearances. If the archangel spied on him again, it wouldn’t do for him to be caught chilling in Laredo while I took a road trip to San Antone. Even an overconfident tool like Barachiel might realize he was being played, then.

So in response, I pulled up the passenger seat to let Kel climb in. “Sorry it’s a little tight.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said.

Of course, he claimed that about a lot of things. It hurt a little, knowing I couldn’t make it better, but I’d made my choice.

So I just nodded. “Then let’s rock and roll, boys.”

Bitter Bargains

Twilight hadn’t changed since the last time I was there, still housed in a nondescript building with a small, unassuming neon sign marking its existence. The neighborhood was still deceptively downscale, with drunken college students roaming around the seedier clubs in the vicinity. Inside, it was a combo of brothel and roadhouse with velvet and wood accents. Per usual, the jukebox was banging away with a Dropkick Murphys tune; this time it was “Kiss Me, I’m Shitfaced.”

Damn, I wish. I wished I had nothing to regret other than going home with a smooth-talking stranger.

Jeannie, a pretty woman in her forties who sported a ponytail, was tending bar tonight. She narrowed her eyes on me, as if she recognized me but couldn’t place me. Then a smile split her cheeks. “Corine! It’s been a coon’s age. Bucky was just asking me about you the other day. What’ve you been up to?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

And one I’d had enough of telling.

I went on, “We need to see Twila, if she can squeeze us in.”

Her expression immediately sobered; then her eyes went to Booke. In his old-fashioned slacks and sweater vest, he stuck out like a sore thumb. “I’ll see if she can make time for you. Have a drink on the house.” Jeannie waved the assistant ’tender over to take our orders.

“Do you have lager?” Booke asked.

“Keith’s Pale Ale work for you?” the man asked.

Booke looked blank. “Why not?”

It took only a few seconds for him to open the bottle. It wasn’t every day you saw a man this old out for a night on the town, so his quiet, respectful tone obviously stemmed from Booke’s age. “Would you like an iced glass, sir?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be Bohemian tonight.”

The bartender flashed an appreciative smile at Booke’s wit, then he turned to me. “For you, miss?”

“Mix me an Agave Kiss.” I felt the need for a happy drink.

As I watched, he expertly combined tequila, white creme de cacao, double cream, and Chambord, then rimmed the glass with white chocolate flakes. For the final touch, he garnished the beautiful creamy cocktail with a skewer of fresh raspberries. I took it, thanked him, and tasted the delightful concoction.

“Mmmm. Fantastic.”

Booke was watching with both brows arched. “Drinks have certainly gotten complex, haven’t they? Martinis used to be the height of sophistication.”

“I don’t think this drink is particularly sophisticated,” I said, sipping it. “It’s more like dessert in a glass. But I could use something sweet.”

“You certainly could. I regret dumping my problems in your lap. You have enough to—”

“Don’t. If I minded, I’d have declined. I’m not that selfless.”

“I don’t want to be selfish, but I’d give nearly anything to live a bit. See the world. I’ve glimpsed it through the Internet, but to experience it?” Booke’s tone was both desperate and hopeful.

Before I could caution him not to offer such generous terms to Twila, the bartender cut in, “And for your tall, quiet friend?”

I glanced at Kel, who shook his head. “Apparently he’s not drinking tonight.”

“Designated driver, huh? Tough break, pal.”

That made me laugh because I couldn’t imagine Kel getting hammered and blowing off steam. He was so rigidly controlled all the time, all but the smallest emotions ruthlessly locked down. Doubtless that restraint made a life of servitude more bearable . . . and my amusement died. Poor Kel. I wanted to free him. Well, why not add it to my list of three impossible things to do before going home? It didn’t seem any more unattainable than bringing Chance back from Ebisu’s realm or saving Booke from the old curse that was killing him.

As I downed more of my drink, Jeannie came out of the back. I remembered the way to Twila’s office. The other woman nodded in response to my inquiring look. “She says she’ll see you.” Her voice lowered. “She said she was expecting you.”

I wasn’t surprised. “Come on, guys. The queen awaits.”

That was neither an exaggeration nor sarcasm. If anyone could be said to rule the state of Texas, all the supernatural events and portents, it was Twila, a voodoun priestess of incredible power. She kept tabs on all the witches, warlocks, wizards, and sorcerers, all the gifted parties in her demesne. For the right price, she could be convinced to help as well, but often what she wanted cost such dear coin that only the desperate were willing to pay it. That summed up our circumstances too.

Twila was a tall, dark-skinned woman with beautiful brown eyes, lined in kohl. She wore her hair in a mass of braids, caught together in a golden snood. It should have looked old-fashioned, but on her it was incredibly elegant, as she had an aura of majesty and command. Three rings adorned her slender fingers: one of onyx, one of jade, and the other ivory. I imagined there must be some ritual significance, but that wasn’t why we were here.

Her office was a treasure trove of the arcane. On my first visit, I hadn’t known much about the magickal world, but through my studies with Tia, I could sense the artifacts. Though I’d lost my ability to cast, I still felt the faint thrum through the soles of my shoes, an infinitesimal hum disparate from the bass thrum in the bar beyond. The whole room radiated power, a good portion of which came from Twila herself.

“Corine,” she said in her melodic accent. “It’s been a long time.”

She sat down at the massive cherry desk and indicated with a gesture that we should avail ourselves of the two leather chairs opposite. Kel shook his head once more, declining a seat. He was visibly uncomfortable in her presence; with him, that meant he wore a faint frown. I helped Booke into a chair before taking my own.

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

Her half smile alarmed me. “You’re a supplicant. The only question is what you seek.”

Straight to the point.

“Booke, will you do the honors?” Since it was his problem, it made sense for him to do the talking.

Which he did, in his plummy English accent. Twila seemed to enjoy his recounting of the tale, probably more than she would’ve in my drawl. Booke’s courtly manner didn’t hurt either. Though he was an elderly gentleman, he knew how to charm a lady. She was smiling when he finished, and not the hungry, eager one that made me think of sharks.

“Let me see if I understand correctly. You wish to be free of this curse . . . for me to undo the years you spent confined in Macleish’s prison.”

“You probably can’t banish so much time,” Booke said humbly. “I’m not asking the impossible. But yes, I’d like to live a little longer, so long as it doesn’t involve demon magick.”

Twila pushed to her feet in a graceful motion. “The loa have much strength, so I could do this, but I will require a great deal in payment as well. Are you willing to pay my price, Ian Booke?”

“Could do what?” Kel asked, the first time he’d spoken since we entered.

She cut her eyes sharply to Kel. “This is not your affair, fallen one. Twilight may be neutral ground, but you’ll start a war if you interfere with my work.”

His broad shoulders tightened, as if she’d injured him. He said nothing more. I chewed on the implication in her words. Did that mean Barachiel couldn’t touch us in here? I wondered if Twila was powerful enough to defeat him.

Using her desk for balance, Booke pulled himself to his feet, and for the first time I noticed he was her height, though his stooped shoulders made him seem smaller. “Before I answer, I must know what I’m bargaining for.”

“I’ll spell it out, monsieur. I can wipe away those years. You will be thirty-six years old with your life before you. The loa can do this, yes, without demons.”