Broken Souls (11 page)

We talk until the sun
peeks through the curtains. Scotch has been replaced with coffee. Tabitha has curled herself into a ball on the couch, pulled in on herself. Body language telling me getting into her car and coming here was the mother of bad ideas.

“Rough ride,” she says when I’ve told her everything I can think of. “You know, I hadn’t really believed you when you first told me about Santa Muerte. I mean, I had trouble with the whole ‘seeing the dead’ thing. Never would have believed you if Alex and Vivian hadn’t vouched for it. But some Mexican death icon? Come on.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “But then Alex dies and Vivian tells me it’s your fault, but doesn’t know how. You don’t return my calls. I didn’t know what to believe. So after a couple of months I wrote you off. And then Alex comes screaming in here.”

“I didn’t call because—”

“I get it. And, to be honest, thank you. I think I’d probably have lost it if you’d shown up on my doorstep the next day with those freaky eyes. I had a lot to adjust to. Fuck, I’m still adjusting. So Santa Muerte’s a real thing? Like walks and talks and all that shit?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Because she’s a fucking Mexican folktale, isn’t she? I mean, I know she’s not. Or at least I know that things like her are out there. Alex taught me that much. Though I never thought they were so . . . big. And Vivian’s done what she can. And you might be a jerk, but I don’t think you’re blowing smoke up my ass. But I need you to tell me again. She’s real?”

Some of the things I deal with, most mages have never heard of, much less met. Like it or not I’m in a pretty exclusive tier of the magic club. It’d be hard for even some seasoned mages to accept the things I’m saying.

And Tabitha, though she might be a talent, is new to it all. Alex was training her, trying to get her some control over her own magic. You spend a lifetime not knowing about any of this stuff and it suddenly comes crashing down on you? She’s only one step removed from being normal. Still in that whole “What the Fuck” phase. Yeah, I’d be questioning things, too.

“Yes, she’s real. A lot of things are real. Voodoo Loa, demons, vampires, all that shit. It might not be what you think it is, or work how you think it does, but chances are it’s real. Or something very like it is real. I don’t know what Santa Muerte wants or why she wants it from me, but she’s real enough.”

“Okay,” she says. She unfolds herself on the couch, stretches and cracks her neck.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. At some point you just need to accept it, right? Whether or not you believe in a bus it can still run your ass over. But she’s not your immediate problem, is she?”

“No, she’s not, though I can’t shake the sense that the Russian is related, somehow. And Alex showing up at the same time? That’s too coincidental. Even with magic involved.”

“Does seem kinda odd,” she says. “Jesus, when did I get to the point where this was all just ‘odd’?”

“It’s a sign you’re getting used to it.”

“I’m not sure I want to get used to it. I grew up in Fullerton. You don’t get much more white-bread than that. That’s normal. That’s safe. This stuff? No. This is the exact opposite of safe.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Maybe I should have stuck with the scotch.”

I don’t know what to tell her. To me this is normal. I’ve lived with this my entire life. Living with magic insulates people the way money does. We get homeschooled because, well, shit, can you imagine mages in the L.A. public schools? There’s a recipe for disaster.

“I know it’s scary,” I say. “But this is the real world. Like it or not your eyes are open. Can’t close them now.”

“Speaking of which,” she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She grabs a Kleenex from a box on the coffee table, wipes her nose. “Sorry. It’s still a bit much. You know I used to be really close to the people I went to high school with? College, too. Then I moved up here and I didn’t talk to them much. Now I don’t talk to them at all. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to talk to people I spent my entire life with. Friends, family. What do I tell them? What do I tell them that doesn’t get me committed? That doesn’t put them into danger?”

“Nothing,” I say. She looks hard at me, clearly not the answer she was looking for. “You just said it. You tell them this stuff you put them in danger. Hide it behind New Age horseshit if you really need to talk it out with them. Avoid coming out and saying magic. Say you’re Pagan, whatever. But keep the truth away from them. It’ll get them killed. Hell, the people on the train, today. They didn’t know about this stuff and it killed them just as dead.”

“I don’t want this, Eric. I really don’t want this. It scares the living shit out of me.”

“Then walk away from it. You can still do that. It’s not easy, but it’s doable.”

“Is that what you did? Tried to walk away?”

“To get away from my life here, sure, but not that. If anything it got me in deeper. I’m stuck with it. I can’t get away from magic any more than you can get away from being a woman. But you’re not me. You’ve got a little talent and you know this shit’s real, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay in the life. It’ll stick with you. Know that. This life will try to pull you back. You won’t be able to get away from it completely, but you can get some distance from it.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Embrace it. You’re already in a great place for that. Vivian knows this life. She’s got to have introduced you to some of the more savory people in it. Not everyone’s an asshole like I am, you know.”

That earns me a smile. “You’re not that bad,” she says, and then seems to remember she’s talking to the guy with the blacked-out eyes. The smile fades. “Except you really are that bad, aren’t you?”

“I try not to be, but I don’t think I do a very good job.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Distant, closed off. A minute later she says, “So, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. At first I figured I’d just find the Russian, and, I dunno, kick his ass or something. Figured that’d be the end of it. But now? He’s got Kettleman’s power, he’s got the knife. Who knows who else he’s killed? Fucker’s got a small army, though I think we put a dent in that at the hotel. I think my plan’s still the same, but I need to find him before he can find me.”

“How do you think he found you this last time?”

That’s been bugging me since it happened, but I hadn’t had time to really dig into it. “I’m not sure he was looking for me,” I say. “Gabriela seemed to think he was coming back to finish her off. Who’s to say that wasn’t his plan and I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“But what about the Bentley?” she says.

“Yeah, that one I can’t explain. Tracking me shouldn’t be that easy. I need to figure out where that goddamn Russian is. It’s that simple. But I don’t even know his name.”

“Can Alex help you? I mean, you’ve talked to him, right? He seems to know some things.”

“So far he’s shown up on his schedule. And I’m still not convinced it’s actually him. He seems, I dunno, off somehow.”

“He is dead.”

“Yeah, but he’s not like any ghost I’ve ever met. It’s a moot point, anyway. I don’t know how to contact him.” She starts to say something, and stops herself. “What?”

“What about Santa Muerte?”

“Okay, I’m gonna ignore that you even said that.”

“No, hear me out. I know she’s all scary and shit. I mean, she scares you. Which means I’d probably pee my pants if I saw her. But she doesn’t want you dead, right? She’s got something in mind, but presumably you have to be alive for it. Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe you should just accept that she’s there.”

“We’re talking about an Aztec death goddess, here. That’s a big assumption. But yes, chances are she doesn’t want me dead any time soon. Maybe.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh? You said her husband was dead, suicide or something? Maybe she’s lonely.”

“You’re serious?”

“You talked to her before, right? Maybe you can talk to her again? You’re her—Okay, I have to confess, this weirds me out.”

“What, that I’m married to her? Try being on this side of the fence. And it’s not ‘married.’ It’s . . . linked, I guess. Not quite family. Not quite employer.”

“Are you sure? Because that ring’s telling me something pretty different.”

“No,” conceding her point. “I don’t know that for sure. This is kind of new territory for me. Okay, let’s assume I talk to her. What then? Get even deeper in with her when she helps me out? That’s a bad idea.”

“I don’t understand why. Maybe you need to accept it. Make it work for you. Give in. What’s so hard about it?”

I stare at her a second, speechless, not believing I’m having this conversation. “Because I’m pissed off. Because she murdered my sister to get to me. I left to keep Lucy safe, to keep Vivian safe, to keep Alex safe. And she took all that time, all that effort, everything I did, and fucking burned it. She is not my friend, she’s not my savior. She’s a fucking monster. And this ring doesn’t mean a goddamn thing other than that she’s branded me.”

“Okay,” Tabitha says. “Okay. Just exploring possibilities is all. I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I got to watch what she did to Lucy. I got to sit there and watch my sister’s ghost reenact her murder and then be used as a fucking paintbrush to write me a message in her own blood. She doesn’t get a pass. I don’t know what it’s going to take, I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I am going to fucking destroy her.”

“Okay, I—”

“I don’t know why you’re trying to defend her,” I say. “So stop.”

“But—”

“Drop it.”

“Fine. Okay. Forget I said anything. I’m sorry.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “So who else is there? There has to be someone who can help you. If this Russian guy tracked you down can’t you do the same to him?”

“Tracking spells aren’t my knack. I mean, yeah, I could try, but I suck at them. It’s like driving stick when you don’t know how. Sure, I know the theory, but the practice? I’d just as likely set something on fire.”

“So find someone who can. Jesus, Eric, work with me here. You’re not the only mage in town. Somebody’s got to be able to give you a hand.”

“Tabitha, my name is mud here. I’ve tried other mages, they want nothing to do with me. The only one who agreed to help me turned out to be a fake who wants to skin me alive. The last one I talked to just had her hotel burned down, probably because of me. I’ve tried talking to the Loa, nature spirits, the dead. Santa Muerte scares the hell out of all of them. The only things I haven’t talked to around here are—” Hang on.

“What? Something just happened. I see it on your face.”

“There might be something I can ask.”

“That’s good.”

“Not necessarily. The thing I’m thinking of is . . . volatile. But it would know. That helps. Thank you.” I’ve been dealing with figuring things out on my own for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have someone’s help.

“No problem. Any other problems I can solve for you? World hunger? Climate change? Traffic on the 405?”

“Maybe. Speaking of traffic, I have to figure out how to get back to my motel. Got a neighbor you don’t like whose car I can steal?”

“Guy across the street’s kind of a dick.”

“Perfect.”

“Eric, you’re not going anywhere. A few hours ago you could barely walk. Come on, sexy, you need sleep.” She stands and takes my hand, tugging at it until I get up. I’m not sure where this is going, and I’m not sure I want it.

“Tabitha, I don’t think I’m—”

“Me either,” she says. “Sleep. That’s all. But after this last night, after all we’ve talked about, I kind of don’t want to be alone right now. Okay? Sleep.”

“Sleep. Sleep is good.”

We don’t actually get to sleep for a good, long time.

___

Tabitha lifts her head from my chest when I startle awake, her arms and legs wrapped around me. Takes me a second to get my bearings. I’ve spent so much time alone that it’s weird to wake up with someone else.

“Hey,” she says, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Hey back at ya. So what happened to just sleeping?”

“You complaining?” she says.

“Not in the slightest. Just, you know, this is getting to be a habit.”

She laughs. “Twice in six months is a habit?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. I don’t spend a lot of time around people.”

“Maybe you should,” she says.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. The silence stretches, neither of us willing to break it. I glance at the clock on her nightstand. Already late in the afternoon. “I should probably get going,” I say.

“Struck a nerve?” She unwraps herself from me and rolls off the bed.

“A little, yeah.” I watch her as she pads to the bathroom and flicks on the light. I’m not sure but I think she’s added to the elaborate tattoo of cherry blossom branches that climb up from her hip and over her shoulder. More branches, more color.

“You get more ink?” I say, trying to change the subject.

“Couple months ago. Guy in Santa Barbara did it.” She turns on the shower, pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Look, I’m not trying to make this more than it is.”