[Corine Solomon 5] Agave Kiss (28 page)

The doctor pronounced me sound, but cautioned, “Make sure to take your prenatal vitamins daily and get plenty of rest.”

“I’ll make sure she does,” Booke promised.

I shot him a dirty look for making it sound like I couldn’t care for myself, but I knew he meant well, so I kept quiet. At the front desk, I paid for the office visit, then we walked out to the Pinto.

“Do you mind if we stop by a pharmacy before going to Wonder Lanes?”

“I intended to insist, if you didn’t mention it.”

“You’re a sneaky alpha male, you know that?”

“It often works to my advantage. Dress a man in wool cardigans and women simply don’t expect him to be domineering.”

“That was pretty amazing, right?” I touched my belly.

His expression softened, his gray eyes warm and friendly. “It was. I’m honored I got to be there.” He paused as we got into the car, and he didn’t speak until we were almost at the drugstore. “They didn’t have anything like that when Marlena was pregnant. I never heard my son’s heartbeat like that . . . and after he was born, I saw him very little. I don’t think he ever knew—”

Oh, man.

“I’m sorry.”

“I think of them as belonging to another life,” he said quietly. “It’s the only way to manage it. Since escaping Stoke, I’m a new man. I have to be. I won’t make the same mistakes.”

“No question of that. From what you told me you weren’t at all responsible or controlling back then, more of a hedonistic devil.” I grinned to show I was teasing.

“I still have those tendencies, but I’m doing my best to quell them.”

Booke waited in the car while I ran into the drugstore. As mine wasn’t a complicated scrip, it only took a few moments to get what I needed. Then I hurried back out. There wasn’t nearly enough time to do everything. With the baby to think about and Chance, whom I loved and might never see again, I felt like I was drowning; each breath was a gasp, pulled into tight, burning lungs.

As if he shared my dark mood, Booke fell silent as we drove back to Wonder Lanes. This afternoon, it was packed—jumping even—due to league activity. Men in bowling shirts high-fived each other over pitchers of beer. The high population made it easier to slip into the maintenance closet and then venture downstairs. I supposed if the foot traffic were higher, people might eventually notice, but there had never been more than four other patrons downstairs, no matter how often we came. The gifted didn’t often need to do extensive research in San Antonio, it seemed.

Another fruitless day dragged on. By the end of it, my eyes hurt, my back hurt, I was cranky, and I wanted a nap. Plus, I had a sick suspicion that I’d waited too long. Spent too much time on Booke and Kel—and that there was no way to find out what I needed to know before the deadline. Panic clutched at my throat with cold, clawing hands, until I had to put my head on the table to meter my breaths.

Booke’s hand rested on the back of my head. “Calm down. Nobody said this search would be easy. We have a little time yet.”

“I’m gonna fail. And then he’ll lose all desire to be human again—”

“Shh, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

Somehow I restrained my overactive pregnancy hormones; surely that was the reason I kept melting down. I’d been in some tough spots and rarely yielded to the urge to bawl about it. But lately, I couldn’t seem to help myself. The other night at Eva’s, I was watching a commercial about a woman who couldn’t get ahold of her mother due to a bad long-distance plan, and I nearly burst into tears.

Gods, I don’t think I can stand nine months, being this emotional.

Then I wanted to cry because that sounded like I didn’t want the baby—and that wasn’t true. In a long history of untenable situations and being an emotional mess, I had never been
this
mercurial or unstable. The inside of my head was a train wreck, teeming with dark thoughts and irrational fears.

“Smack me or something. I’m
crazy
.” I sat up, striving for control.

“In my day, it wasn’t remotely appropriate to manhandle expectant ladies.”

“Yeah, they frown on it today too.” I paused. “Do you seriously think—”

“I don’t know. But it’s certain he’ll never return if you give up. But that’s your call to make. I understand if it’s too much, especially right now.”

An exhausted sigh pushed out of me. “No. We’ll keep at it, right up until the wire. If I fail, it won’t be because I stopped trying.”

“We’ll start back in the morning. There are still twenty more books to examine, some of which might actually be relevant. Perhaps one full week will mark lucky seven indeed.”

I could only hope.

That night, I didn’t sleep much. I tossed and turned, and when I did finally drift off my dreams were haunted by images of failure. First, it was Chance, stranded in his father’s realm and forgetting all about his human life, and then it was my child’s accusing eyes every time some other kid mentioned his dad. From that point, the dreams morphed into nightmares, becoming odd and disjointed, and incorporated events from Sheol that still haunted me. I woke bathed in sweat that I’d thought was blood, and my heart was going like a trip-hammer. Taking a few bolstering breaths, I got up and padded barefoot to the bathroom. The fixtures were dull and water-stained, and the whole place needed to be regrouted, but for five hundred bucks a month, it was the best I could hope for. I tried not to wake Booke, but he was used to being alone so my footfalls roused him as I crept back toward the bedroom.

“Bad dreams?” he asked.

“That obvious?”

Booke shrugged. “I’ve had a few in my time.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“The worst one used to be dying alone and undiscovered.”

I came toward him, then perched on the edge of the couch, which was covered in rumpled bedding. “At least you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

He smiled at me. “See, things do get better.”

At that point, I really didn’t want to talk about it. “What time does the library open?” It made sense that it could only be accessible to the public during bowling alley operating hours, but I waited for confirmation.

“Not until ten.”

I smiled. “You’ll get to sleep in once you start this new gig.”

“It works out beautifully for all my anticipated carousing. You should try to get a bit more rest, Corine. For the baby, if not yourself.”

“That’s a low blow.” I
was
still tired, but I couldn’t face going back to bed. “Tell me something about your life.”

“Are you asking for a bedtime story?” His tone was amused.

Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the back of the sofa. “Maybe.”

“I’ve already told you the worst, but there are some amusing anecdotes along the way. You know that my father was an influential man among his peers. His spells were powerful and highly sought-after. Which meant we lived well.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by that, but I figured people hired his dad as a kind of magickal merc. Though not everyone did that, there were a number of practitioners who found it to be the most practical way to make ends meet. Some would cast any spell for the right coin; others had a code that prevented inflicting harm.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“I grew spoiled. Self-indulgent. As you already know from my behavior with Marlena. So when I chose to enlist, my father was surprised. And resistant. He couldn’t have his only son and heir at risk with common barbarians.”

“This was the Second World War?” I felt reasonably confident on that, based on what I knew of his life and my history classes, but it couldn’t hurt to confirm.

“Yes. My reasons for joining up were complicated. Part of it was hoping to impress Marlena, make her love me. But some small aspect of me wanted to do something important—fight the good fight. The propaganda films in those days were incredibly effective.”

“That was before the Internet.”

Ignoring me, he went on at length, describing the German countryside and the people he met. His voice took on a suspicious lull, but before I could protest, Booke did the job, and I passed out. It was daylight when I woke next; my sleep was dreamless. I didn’t know if he’d slept any more, but he’d clearly showered and was fiddling in the kitchen with an old toaster.

“What a dirty trick,” I muttered. “Was there ever a point to any of it?”

“Of course. And that point was to get you some rest. Mission accomplished.”

“One of these days, I want a real story out of you. I’m sure you have one.”

“I do,” he said, smiling. “Peanut butter toast and fruit sound all right for breakfast? Is your stomach sound today?”

I shifted in an experimental fashion.
No nausea.
I was a little queasy, but unless somebody started cooking pork roast, I should be fine.

“Got a crick in my neck, and I think I drooled in my sleep, but otherwise I’m well enough.”

Deadpan, he offered, “That is, obviously, your most charming quality.”

“Whatever. I’m taking a shower.”

Because I actually was hungry, I hurried through my daily routine—scrubbing up, washing my hair, and then moisturizing in the steamy bathroom. The niceties didn’t run to an air extractor, which meant by the time I finished, it was hard to see for all the steam. In the misty whorls and the fog covering the glass, I imagined I glimpsed Chance peering at me through the mirror, his expression anxious and imploring. But when I stepped forward to get a clearer look, the picture vanished, leaving me with a tightness in my stomach comprised entirely of fear. At that moment, I desperately wanted to hear his voice, a reiteration of his promise:
Even death will not keep me from you.
But there was only the sad drip-drip from the showerhead. Chance’s vow could only go so far; I had to do my part or there could be no happy ending.

A little voice whispered,
Maybe his father’s right. He’s not meant for you.

With great fortitude, I shut the doubts down. I couldn’t afford them. After wrapping in a rough towel, I went to the bedroom to dress and braid my hair. All signs indicated it would be another long, fruitless day at the arcane library, poring over our last few possible tomes. If we didn’t find the spell soon—well.

I took care of Butch’s needs and then headed grimly out to the car. Though we had a week left, it felt as though time had already run out.

Against All Odds

At four that afternoon, I gave up hope.

It might be hormones, but I had spent so many days belowground that I was probably suffering from SAD, as well as feeling sad, but when I laid my head down on the library table, I didn’t have the heart to read on. This was just wasting my time when I should be planning for my baby’s future, not spinning my wheels. The tears I expected didn’t come, though. Instead I had this awful, creeping numbness.

I’m sorry, Chance. I left it too long—

“Corine! Wake up.” Booke’s excited voice attracted the attention of the two elderly women who had been paging through resource materials with us all week. For them, I suspected it was a hobby more than life and death; everyone knew how elderly witches could be after retirement.

“Did you find something?” I asked without raising my head.

Gods, I was so tired. Surely this wasn’t normal. Otherwise, how did women manage to hold down a job? All I wanted to do was sleep, even with so much resting on my shoulders. He yanked me upright, not particularly delicate in his excitement. Booke didn’t notice my dirty look, as he was reading aloud in what sounded like Old German. Not that I was an expert. I’d barely made it through
The Miller’s Tale
during the brief portion of my high school career when we studied Chaucer.

When he paused, I put in testily, “Translation, please?”

“Right, sorry. Basically, the text references the ritual we’re looking for, naming another tome. It wasn’t on the list Ms. Devlin gave us, most probably because there’s no existing translation. The volume we need is
that
old, probably written in Sumerian or Babylonian.”

“And there happens to be a copy of it here in San Antonio?”

He bit his lip. “Unfortunately, no. It’s not a book at all, in fact. More a set of scrolls. And I’m not sure whether I can run down a surviving copy in time. There weren’t many . . . and only the most prestigious private collectors would own such a rare treasure.”

“So . . . we have six days to track down the rarest of rare ancient scrolls, get a translation, and flawlessly perform an unknown ritual?”

Booke sighed. “When you put it that way, it sounds rather daunting.”

“At least we have a lead now. Do you know any top-tier collectors?”

“I can put out a few feelers,” he said. “And I’m sure the curator could give me some names.”

“There’s no point in hanging out here, though. We’re not finding what we need on these shelves.”

“Yes, at least we’ve hurdled this particular obstacle.”

“Is that how you see this venture? Like a course laid out with hoops for us to jump through and barricades to clamber over?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted sheepishly.

“No wonder I’ve been so miserable. My coordination sucks.”

“But your determination is top-notch.”

“Smooth talker. Save it for Dolores.”

“Speaking of which . . .” He winked. “I’ve got an engagement tonight. Will you be all right at the flat on your own?”

“You’re seeing her again?” My eyes widened.

“Not Dolores. Ms. Devlin.”

“You’re incorrigible. So I’m taking the car and the dog, and you’ll make your way home when you’re good and ready?”

“That’s the size of it. May I have the spare key? And I trust you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Here you go.”

Amusement at Booke’s ability to find the bright side of any situation carried me all the way back to the dismal apartment. Where I had my mood ruined by the demon laying in wait. Sick terror roiled in my stomach, knotting the bread from the sandwich into a heavy lump of dough that I might launch at the impossibly handsome male lounging on my couch. At a glance, I ID’d him as White Hair, who had crashed Chuch’s backyard BBQ. His insouciance on Twila’s turf made me nervous, as Jesse had been clear about what would happen if the demons pressed their claim; and since I was under Twila’s protection, her retaliation would be even worse. From his expression, the Luren no longer cared.