Angel Town (15 page)

“Jesus.” It was the first time I ever heard her sound shocked. “All right. What else?”

“Saul. Tell him…”

She waited.

“Tell him I’m coming back. Tell him even dying won’t stop me, and he’s not allowed to let himself waste, because I’m going to need him.”

She said nothing. Maybe she knew it was a lie. But when I finally turned on my heel and looked at her, I found out her cheeks were wet too. Her hands were fists. The scar down her cheek flushed, and for a moment she was so beautifully ugly my heart threatened to crack.

“And you be careful. I’ll keep Perry as busy as I can, but this is likely to be nasty.”

She found her voice. “What about Gilberto?”

My conscience squirmed. I clamped down on it as hard as I could. “Gil’s coming with me. We’re going to visit someone.”
If he wants to. If he decides to.

But he was my apprentice. I already knew what he’d say.

M
elendez still lived on the north edge of the Riverhurst section, where the lawns were green and wide under the bloody dye of dusk. Sprinklers were going full tap among the fake adobes and the few Cape Cods, the expensive mock Tudors and other ersatz-glitz refugees. If you wanted truly antique houses you would go over to Greenlea where the yuppies elbowed each other over twenties mock-Victorians and organic boutiques. Or toward the edge of the suburbs, where there was a belt of poverty-stricken structures from the forties and fifties hanging on from before the blight of tofu housing development started.

Gilberto yanked the hand brake. I didn’t ask where he’d gotten the small black Volkswagen from; in return, he didn’t ask me what we were doing. He kept it below the speed limit, obeyed all traffic laws, and generally piloted the thing like an old granny. He even whistled tunelessly below his breath. Like he was having a good time.

Since Mama Zamba had disappeared, Melendez was no longer jester of the local voodoo court. He didn’t have Zamba’s appetite for gore and grotesque, but he did have a stranglehold on power—and he was in very good odor with his patron Chango. Anyone who parlays with a nonhuman intelligence is suspect in a hunter’s book, but I was living in a glass house at this point. Not only that, but Melendez had been…helpful, once or twice. In a limited sort of way, when he could see his own advantage.

Or when I had him by the balls.

The noise in my head had cleared a little, and I was feeling more like myself. Gilberto ghosted behind me, stepping only where I did, his pulse slow and even. I glanced back, and the half-grin fell off his face, almost shattering on the sidewalk.

This is serious business,
I’d told him,
and there needs to be no goddamn funny stuff. No face, no insults, no nothing. You keep your manners on, your mouth shut, and you don’t draw unless I do.

Si, senora bruja
,
he’d said, and it looked like he meant it.

Melendez’s faux-adobe hacienda sat behind its round concrete driveway. A brick bank in the middle of the heat-shimmering concrete held heavy-blooming rosebushes, a monkey puzzle tree, and a bank of silvery-green rue. Lemon balm tried its best to choke everything else in the bed, but aggressive pruning held it back. The fountain in the middle of the driveway was bone-dry, the concrete cherub who was usually shooting water out of his tiny little peeper looking sadly dejected. My smart eye watered, but I detected nothing other than the usual febrile etheric congestion.

Afternoons Melendez was usually ministering to the faithful at his storefront out on Parraroyos, nonprofit under the tax law but donations encouraged, drumming and chicken dinners pretty much every night. Today, though, I was pretty sure he’d be here. That’s one thing about being psychic—sometimes you’re home when someone wants you.

Gilberto hung back as we approached the wide iron gate, until I motioned him forward. I very pointedly did not ease a gun free of the holster. Busting in shooting and yelling wasn’t going to be necessary, no matter how much I liked the idea.

“Be cool, Gil.”

“I am very fuckin’ cool,
profesora
. Don’ worry bout me none.”

I shouldn’t be bringing you here.
I swallowed hard and crossed the driveway, checking the sun. Not much daylight left.

Everything around me rippled, chills spreading down my spine. The gem sang, vibrating on my wrist. I kept going, stepped through the gate, the courtyard closing around me. Another fountain here, seashell shaped, also dry. Was he having trouble paying his water bill? Not likely.

I didn’t even get to ring the bell. As soon as I stepped up to the door, there was a sound of locks chucking open. The door creaked as it swung inward, and a rotund little Hispanic male eyed me. He wore a bowling shirt festooned with pineapples, a pair of jeans, and there was a hint of a smile around his wide mouth.

“Senor Melendez.” I kept my hands where he could see them.

He studied me for a long, tense-ticking fifteen seconds. His gaze traveled up over my shoulder, and I knew Gilberto was staring back. Melendez waved one pudgy hand, as if shooing away an insect. He examined me from top to toe, taking his time.

I suffered it.

“
Ay de mi,
” the little butterball finally breathed. “
Ay, mamacita
, you took
El Camino Negro
. And you come back.”

No shit.
“I’ve got a few questions.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Bet you do. I just bet you do.” He seemed content to just leave it at that, sucking at his upper lip, and didn’t move. The heat was a thick blanket, I tasted sand and rot, and buzzing rose inside my head. A ghost of sweat touched my back, training clamped down and I kept my hands loose with an effort.

“Melendez.” I didn’t raise my voice. “Your cooperation is
not
optional.”

“And what about
mi patron
, eh?” He grinned, his teeth shocking white. The spirits paid for good dental care, at least.

“His isn’t optional, either.” I stepped forward, Gilberto following silent behind me. Melendez retreated, and the cool and quiet of the voodoo king’s house enfolded us.

The kitchen was stainless steel and sharp edges, a blue-tiled floor and every surface painfully scrubbed. The light was warm and electric, even though there was a wide window looking out onto the blue shimmering jewel of the pool in the backyard. A faint tang of cigar smoke hung in the air-conditioned breeze, and the tall silver fridge stopped humming. Uncomfortable silence rose, and when I pointed Gilberto dropped onto a tall stool at the breakfast bar. His shoulders hunched before I gave him a meaningful look; he straightened and buttoned his lip.

Nice to know I still had the quelling glance.

Melendez opened the fridge. Glass clinked, and he came out with a couple brown bottles of expensive microbrew. He cracked the beers with practiced twists, and handed me one. “You got to know,” he said finally. “You owe Chango a bullet,
bruja
. Don’t think he forgot.”

“I haven’t forgotten either. This is about something else.” I took a long pull off the bottle. “Time’s a factor, Melendez. So spit it out.”

He took a pull off his beer, made a face. “I ain’t got much to spit. It ain’t pretty out there,
bruja
. Faustina on Seventy-Third, she dead. Mark Hope, he dead too. That cocksucker on Martell Avenue with his fancy cigarettes, gone. Luisa de la Rocha, Manuelita Rojo, that Dama Miercoles bitch, they gone too.”

“Wait. Hang on.” I stared at him.
That’s every big mover in the voodoo community, for Christ’s sake.
“
All
of them? You’re telling me they’re dead?”

“Well, they ain’t in fucking Baja, fuck.” He took another pull. “
Es Los Otros, los diablos.
No warning.
La Familia
, they gave no warning. Just, one second everything fine. Then bam! Dead, dead,
muerto
, and the spirits screaming about the treaty broken.”

Gilberto shifted uneasily on his stool, his hands cupping his sharp elbows, and under his sallowness his pitted cheeks were pale. He stared at me, and I was abruptly reminded of just how young he was. Had I ever been that wide-eyed?

“No warning? When was this?”

“Couple months ago.” Melendez’s eyes glittered sleepily, hooded. The cigar smell drifted across the room, and a thin thread of smoke curled up from the open mouth of the beer bottle.

This just keeps getting better.
“So the hellbreed all of a sudden started killing voodoo practitioners. The movers and shakers. Why are you still alive?”

A sneer twisted his plump face. “I in
strong
with Chango,
bruja
. You know dat. He tell me long as I stay inside he protect me. Now here you come. What you want, eh?”

It took several long throat-working swallows to get the beer down. I didn’t taste a single bit of it, which was a shame. Nothing like getting an unexpected gift to make a cold beer go down nice and easy.

“I want to talk to Chango.” Might as well get it all out in the open. “About several things, but we can start with Perry.”

“
El Diablo Rubio
?
” Melendez paled and set the bottle down with a click. Beads of condensation on its surface glittered. The pool sent dappled reflections through the window, making a pattern-play on the roof. “Aaaaaah.”

The lights flickered. The reek of cigar smoke thickened, and my hand dropped casually to a gun butt. Gilberto hunched on the stool, his eyes wide, and as much as I wanted to give him a reassuring glance, I didn’t. I watched Melendez, who seemed to swell inside his chinos and blinding-white shirt.

“
El Diablo Rubio,
” I echoed softly. “
Si. Buenas tardes, Senor Chango.
”

A long, low, grating laugh, too big to come from Melendez’s chest. Smoke rose from his cuffs, eddying in swirls that opened like crying mouths. Little fingers of vapor threaded across the tiles, reaching for me. “
Buenas tardes, hija.
” It wasn’t the little man’s voice—it was richer, deeper, and crackling with authority. “Still owe me
una bala
, bitch.”

“I haven’t welshed yet,” I reminded him. My bitten fingernails tapped the gun butt. “Perry, senor. I’m looking to hand
los diablos
a world of hurt, and I haven’t forgotten the help you gave me last time.”

The spirit riding Melendez’s body rolled his shoulders back in their sockets, his rib cage oddly torqued. Tendons popped, creaking. The smoke billowed, knee-deep now, but swirling uneasily away from me and Gilberto.

It eyed me, a spark of red inside each of Melendez’s dilated pupils, before his eyes rolled back in his head. Still, the spark remained, burning against the whites, a tiny blood-gem.

My right wrist ached, force humming up my arm and shaking my shoulder. I waited.

“
Una bala
,” he said finally. “In
el rubio diablo’s cabeza
. You kill him for us.”

Well, isn’t that handy.
It was my turn to shrug. “That’s the plan. What can you tell me about
El Rubio
’s little game?”

The bloody pinpricks rolled, fastened on Gilberto. “Why you bring him here? Little man in a big man’s house. He got too much brag in him,
bruja
.”

“Don’t you look at him.” Snap of command, I straightened, and my fingers had curled around the gun butt. “You’re dealing with me,
padre
,
no me chingues
.”

And God help me, but it reminded me of the first time I’d seen Perry down at the end of the bar in the Monde. Mikhail had said very much the same thing, and at the time I hadn’t wondered why they seemed to know each other, since Perry had been new in town. The old hellbreed who used to run Santa Luz had just died a bloody, screaming death, but I hadn’t seen it. I’d been locked up at Galina’s during
that
whole set of events, still an apprentice, prowling and trying to escape through the greenhouse too.

Nothing ever changes, Jill. Ever.

The spirit twitched. Melendez’s whole body jerked, knees bending. His boat shoes scuffed against the tiles, a sad, squeaking sound. “We lost too many,
bruja hija
. Not weak, but you on you own. I look after
mi hijo
here much as I can, and him
only
, when dat
rubio cabron
come callin’.”

“Understood.” And it was probably for the best, too. “What’s Perry planning, senor? Tell me everything, leaving nothing out.” That was the most important question, and I didn’t know how long the
loa
would ride his horse. The smoke thickened, curdling.

Melendez’s body let out a long slow hiss. “
La Lanza.
Yes. He aims to use
la Lanza
, and open the door all the way.”

My skin chilled, gooseflesh threatening to rise. “Open the door?”

“Between here and
there
,
mi hija
. Between you and them. Like they did before,
mi hija.
 This time they have
la Lanza
, and it will prop door open like broomstick.”

Oh, my God.
There was only one thing that could possibly mean. I went cold all over, and glittering little insects with sharp tiny feet prickled me everywhere. “
Y la Lanza? Que es eso?
”

“
La Lanza.
” Another long hiss of escaping air, another frothing billow of cigar smoke. “
El rubio
, he hide it under the eyes of
los santos
, and he lie to keep you away from it and from
los padres
,
sus amigos
no more.
Es la Lanza del Destino
, and
los diablos
can’t touch it. Only
las marionetas de carne
, the ones they bargain with.”

Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ.
I hadn’t realized I was gripping the counter with my right hand. Indigo tiles groaned as the gem made a low melodic sound, and I had to work my fingers free with an effort. I’d left splintered marks. “Tell me where,
senor de los parraroyos
.
Where
are they going to throw the party?”

But Melendez swayed. “Owe me a bullet, bitch,” the spirit rumbled through his mouth, and the entire kitchen rattled. “Go serve it to
el rubio
. And if you die before you do it, I find you, and I make you
pay
.”

Oh, no worries about that.
“Don’t threaten me.” I couldn’t kill a
loa
, but I could make things very uncomfortable for his followers.

If I survived this.

“
La puerta no debe abrirse, bruja.
Stop him. They send you back for this.”

Really. Thanks. I would never have guessed.
My mouth was so dry I had trouble forming the words. “
Gracias
, senor.”