CHAPTER FOUR
Jonathan winced. This was a bad time for his mission runner, Dominic Joe, to break through. Nic was tracking his vitals. He would have gotten an alert on the inevitable surge in heart rate and the adrenaline dump when Jonathan had started fighting a bear. Depending on how much he was bleeding, his blood pressure might be dropping, too. He yanked his phone out of his pocket. “I’m fine.”
Cassandra’s head swiveled over to him, eyes wide. She clearly believed he was nowhere close to okay.
“The hell you are. I’m sending Gabi.”
“No!” He said it loud enough that Cassandra jumped. Nic was overreacting, not that Jonathan could blame him after the last mission.
“Why?”
“I can’t talk now.” Officially, a mission runner made the decisions. In reality, the runner and those in the field usually came to agreements together, and this was especially true if they were friends. He knew Nic would back off, even before he heard his frustrated sigh. “Call me soon,” he said and hung up.
“How did he know you were hurt?” Cassandra demanded, and Jonathan shook his head. Almost too late, she saw a stop sign and jammed on the brakes, making him lurch forward in his seat. “Christos,” he muttered under his breath.
She gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “How hurt are you? Are you going to die in my truck?”
“No. Turn here.” He directed her past an old building, covered with graffiti—elaborate, unreadable letters, disgruntled green skulls—and down a block of small houses in disrepair.
When they walked up to the driveway to the stucco house, he staggered. He pounded the heel of his hand against the door a few times and then braced a forearm against the frame. They waited.
“There’s a hospital not too far from here,” Cassandra said.
Jonathan banged harder.
The door opened. Morty Silva stood there, his slightly hunched, stout frame wrapped in a shiny maroon bathrobe. He looked the same as ever, other than grouchier than usual, the way most people would be if you rousted them out of bed in the middle of the night. Although he was sixty-five or seventy, he had a full head of dyed-black hair, slicked straight back like Elvis or an Italian gangster in a movie. “What’s going on, Ace?”
“My back needs stitching up.”
He stood aside and invited them in with a jerk of his head. Scents of cinnamon and incense filled the dim and cluttered room. Morty gave Cassandra a keen look and then turned on Jonathan as he slammed the door shut. “What did you do?”
“Messed up.”
The older man glared, his head lowering like a bull’s. “Why do I get the feeling I should be calling the cops on you right now?”
Cassandra’s eyes went wide.
Jonathan clutched a low bookshelf for support. “Sew me up first?”
“Go in the bathroom before you bleed on my rug.”
Jonathan lurched down the hall while Morty introduced himself to Cassandra as though he had all the time in the world. The older man wasn’t Manus Sancti, but an occasional consultant. Jonathan sat down on the lid of the toilet, rested his folded arms on the sink, and laid down his head.
When Morty came in and peeled back part of the first makeshift bandage, he said, “God damn. You should have gone to the ER.” Good. His wounds might at least make Morty forget he was mad. “’Course, I know you guys avoid them if you can. What the hell did you do?”
“Fought a bear.”
Morty dug around in the medicine chest. “You win?”
“Does it look like it?”
“You’re still breathing.” He dabbed a wet washcloth on the exposed part of the slash, and the smell of rubbing alcohol hit Jonathan’s nostrils. “Where was your gun?”
Jonathan let out a harsh exhale and turned his head to see what Morty was doing. “I set it down.” He could’ve picked up the weapon right after Cassie’s unsuccessful struggle with him, but he’d been trying to get her to trust him.
Morty flipped open a first aid kit. “Not like you to leave it lying around.” He threaded a needle and swabbed it with more rubbing alcohol. “I’d give you some whiskey for this, but I don’t have any in the house.”
“Good for you.” The last he’d heard, Morty was giving Alcoholics Anonymous a second try—which had probably taken more courage than trying it the first time. Empaths were natural addicts. They sought out ways to dampen the onslaught of emotions from others in addition to their own. As the needle bit into Jonathan’s skin, he wondered if Cassandra had gone home. He couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t.
He woke up on Morty’s bed without any recollection of lying down there. Sunlight streamed in through the small window, and his Glock—unloaded, he recalled—lay on the nightstand next to him. The jagged pieces of the night before reassembled themselves in his head.
“Morning, babe.” Morty’s greeting in the living room was definitely not directed at him. He heard Cassandra’s voice, though he didn’t catch what he said. She’s still here. His heart sped up.
Last night, when he’d wrapped his arms around her to stop her from grabbing his gun, the feel of her body pressed against his had triggered a lust in him as extreme as it was inappropriate. Remembering it now, a fantasy took over his mind. He imagined restraining her, but not against her will this time. Tying her up and kissing and stroking her, discovering all the secrets of her body and making her beg for more until she finally came undone.
There was something wrong with him, thinking like this. He had no business wanting someone he’d assaulted. He started to get up, and pain sliced across his back. Try that again, he told himself, and rolled to his side before sitting up. He moved to the closed door to listen.
Cassandra asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“It’s about six in the morning.”
“Jesus.” She gave a rueful laugh. “I haven’t crashed on anyone’s couch since college.”
“You needed the rest. He got in your head, didn’t he?”
The visceral memory of forcing his way into Cassandra’s psyche made Jonathan feel sick. The recent injuries probably weren’t helping. He rested his forehead on the door, and his mind flickered back to the beautiful sky of her soulscape, the sunset more colorful than any he’d ever seen in real life. Or was it a sunrise? He’d never see it again. Finding goodness when he’d expected evil, after seeing so much evil lately, had affected him in some way he couldn’t even name.
She asked Morty, “Can you do that, too?”
“Nah, nothing like that. I get a sense of people’s feelings, mental states.”
“Oh.” She didn’t sound surprised. Maybe she’d already reached the point where nothing would surprise her. “You must be part of his secret group.”
“They wish.” Well, he wasn’t wrong. There had been talk of recruiting Morty, although no one had ever approached him directly, as far as Jonathan knew. Between the ex-priest’s empath abilities, his ghost talking, and his expansive knowledge of lore, he would have been a worthy addition.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Not that kind of doctor,” Morty said. “I’ve just had practice. So has he, but you can’t sew up your own back.”
“Where is he?”
“Still out for the count, on my bed.”
“Is he going to be okay?” A note of worry strained her voice. Strange. She shouldn’t be concerned about his welfare.
“I think so. He bled a lot, though. Passed out once before I was done.” Did Morty really have to tell her that? Not that there should have been anything embarrassing about blood loss.
Jonathan remembered now that after Morty had made him drink a full glass of water, a second glass of orange juice, and left him to sleep in his bedroom, he’d texted Nic, filling him in on what had happened. Nic had again suggested sending Gabi Bravo to join him. Jonathan had convinced him not to, pointing out that a second Knight might make Cassie feel more threatened, which would increase the likelihood of another animal attack.
A few hours later, when Jonathan had gotten up to go to the bathroom, he’d seen that Nic had texted him orders from Capitán Renaud. Under no circumstances was he to leave Cassandra Rios by herself, and he was responsible for making sure no one else got hurt. He’d have a couple of days to investigate the animal attacks, and if he couldn’t solve the issue, he’d bring her in. At El Dédalo, with its staff of trained Mages, she could be controlled and contained while a Scholar worked on the problem.
Jonathan couldn’t fathom anything he wanted to do less than drag Cassandra Rios against her will to a compound in the middle of the New Mexico desert. The solution had to be close at hand, and he would find it.
He scanned the little bedroom—austere but with posters, book pages, and flyers covering the walls—and spotted his backpack sitting in the corner. Either Morty or Cassandra must have put it there. When he bent over to dig through the backpack, the stitches felt like laces of fire. He found the extra magazine, loaded his weapon, and shoved it back into the concealed carry holster inside his belt. Then he pulled out his spare shirt, a black button-down, and eased into it, only doing two buttons at the bottom so the fabric wouldn’t rub against his wounds. Had he taken off his shoes and socks? Morty had done it, probably. Embarrassing. Barefoot, he emerged to see the man handing a mug of coffee to Cassie, who sat on the sofa.
She must have crashed there. It had nothing to do with him. After getting attacked, she’d been exhausted. Was she all right?
Morty saw him and straightened up. “He lives.”
“Hey, Morty,” he said, not looking at her. “Thanks again. I’ll have them—they can pay you.”
“She’s all right,” Morty said. “No thanks to you, barging into her head. You scared the living daylights out of her. I felt the aftershocks on her last night, as soon as she came in.”
Cassie said, “It wasn’t just the…mind-reading thing.” From the tone of her voice, Jonathan guessed that she didn’t want to be taken for a weakling, though anyone would be shaken by a psychic invasion. “He tied me up and threatened to blow my brains out.”
Morty’s mouth fell open. He gave Jonathan a look of utter disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
There was no good answer for that. Jonathan stared down at the rug.
Morty must have felt his shame, and he said in a less hostile tone, “You’re going to need to explain this to me.”
“Actually, I’d like to hear your opinion.” Still avoiding her eyes, he ventured into the room. He winced at the pull on his stitches as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch from her, leaving as much space as possible between them. “When Cassandra gets mad at someone, a wild animal attacks them.”
“Huh.” Morty’s lower lip jutted out thoughtfully. “That’s a new one. A wild animal like, say, a bear?”
“For instance,” Jonathan said dryly. “There’s also been a jaguar, a coyote, and a javelina.”
“I’ll try not to piss you off,” Morty said to Cassie.
“The jaguar killed her ex,” Jonathan said.
Morty sobered. “Ah, yeah. I heard about that.”
“But she’s not doing it on purpose. Any idea what could cause it?’
“Not offhand, no. It’s strange that they’re different animals.”
“Really?” Cassandra interjected. “That’s the strange part?”
“They’re all from the desert, except for the jaguar,” Morty commented.
“The jaguar is, too.” Jonathan respected Morty and didn’t like correcting him. “They used to be common in this part of the state, just like in Mexico and further south. People thought they were extinct, but recently, a few of them have been seen north of the border.”
“Good for them,” Morty said. “So you’re thinking they’re regular animals? I talked to an expert last year about all the local lore, right when I first moved out here. She said no one she knew had seen a skinwalker in a while.”
“We haven’t dealt with one for over a century,” Jonathan said. Cassandra lifted her eyebrows. “Which isn’t to say they aren’t out there. But we were sure these were regular animals controlled by a witch—Cassandra.”
“I go by Cassie,” she interjected.
“Cassie,” he corrected himself. “Given the time delays between when she gets mad and they attack, that theory still makes sense. It takes a jaguar some time to get from the desert to Scottsdale. A little less time for a bear to get to her house on the outskirts of town.” Jonathan shook his head. “But it just started happening recently, and she doesn’t know why.”
“Right.” Morty stood up. “You guys want pancakes?”
Cassie said, “Oh my God, yes, I’m starving.” Their host disappeared into the kitchen.
Jonathan rubbed his shoulder, although it wasn’t sore. The gashes in his back, on the other hand, throbbed in pain. He asked her, “How are you feeling?”
“How are you? You’re the one who got mauled.”
“I’m fine.”
She looked him up and down, making him aware that his shirt hung open. No doubt she noticed how scarred up he was, which probably didn’t make him seem any more trustworthy.
He searched his brain for something else to talk about and cleared his throat. “Sorry you lost your job.”
She blinked. “I’ll find something else.”
“What did you do there?”
“Nothing important. It was a mining company—you probably knew that much. I dealt with the clients.”
This was good. A normal conversation. “You liked it?”
“I liked some of the people.” She shook her head. “They, um… The company said they had these high environmental standards, but I think it was bullshit.”
“Do you know what you want to do next?” He felt strange asking the question. All his life, he’d known what he was meant to do.
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I texted my sister, Sam, yesterday—she’s a park ranger. I thought that might be fun. Sam was at Organ Pipe, and there were a lot of problems with the drug cartels, but she’s at Bryce Canyon now.” Interesting that she’d describe the job as fun, even knowing it could be dangerous. “Anyway, Sam said it takes a long time to become a park ranger, but on the upside, the pay is crap.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
He doubted it was a reflection on him. She was the kind of person who said whatever was on her mind. He could appreciate that. In the past, he’d dated more than one woman who’d made him feel like he was always guessing about what they were thinking and feeling. He’d always felt like he offered all of himself and had gotten thin slivers in return. Not that there could ever be anything romantic between him and Cassie, but if they were going to figure out this curse together, her openness would make it easier.
“I can see why you thought I was an evil witch, though,” she admitted. “I mean, if witches and demons are real.” She peered at him. “They really are?” He nodded. “What else is there? Vampires?” Most people in her position would have been significantly more freaked out than she was by this conversation.
“They’re extinct.”
“So you’re not one.”
He straightened, offended despite all he’d done. Vampires had been disgusting creatures. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you can read minds? Not to mention you fight like a…like a person who’s super good at fighting.”
Well, that wasn’t so bad. He reminded himself that sonámbulos had the wrong idea about vampires. “If I were one, I’d bleed a lot less. I’m a hundred percent human.”
She shifted on the sofa to face him. “And you said there were shapeshifters? Like werewolves?”
“Hundreds of little packs. There are wolf Shifters in Arizona, in Springerville.”
“No way. I’ve been to Springerville! I might’ve met one! Wait, do they look different?”
Her astonishment amused him. “When they’re human, they look like anyone else. And they’re not just wolves. There are others close to here—coyotes in New Mexico and elk in Colorado.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you lying to me?”
“I’m never going to lie to you.” He knew he sounded too earnest, but he meant it.
“They’re all over the country?”
“All over the world. Foxes in Osaka, tigers outside Wuhan, lions in Nairobi, seals in the Shetland Islands. And lots more. Mice in Chicago.”
She burst out laughing. “Mice.”
Jonathan remembered the skinny teenage boy who’d helped him track down a banshee. “They’re really nice.”
Cassie gave a little smile, as though she found this adorable. “Are all shapeshifters nice?”
“Ha, no. Every pack’s different. And every individual.” He shrugged. “Like people.”
“And your whole job is to fight evil, magical things?”
After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. He was saying way too much, but he needed her to understand him.
She traced the rim of her coffee cup with her thumb. “That sounds hard.”
Of course, he thought of Michael. Silence hung between them, broken by a clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
“Fine. You don’t want to answer questions about your creepy-ass fraternity. What about zombies?”
“Brain eaters, no,” he said. “Animated corpses, yes.”
“Jesus.”
“Real,” Jonathan said. “Definitely tortured and executed. Everything else is a matter of faith—” He registered her bemused look and stopped. “You weren’t asking about that one.”
“That’s okay. Go on.”
He shrugged. “Morty’s a better person to ask about religious stuff.”
“How come?”
“He used to be a priest.”
“‘The Lord hath sworn, and will not repent, Thou art a priest for ever after the order of Melchizedek.’” They both looked up at Morty, standing in the doorway. “It’s too early for theology,” he said. “Come eat.”
They squeezed around the small table in the cramped kitchen drenched with the smells of coffee, butter, and syrup. Morty had sliced up bananas to go with the pancakes.
Cassie shoved a bite into her mouth at once. “I never have anything for breakfast but coffee. But I really should.”
Before Morty sat down, he put a black pill and a glass of orange juice in front of Jonathan. “Iron. You need it.”
Jonathan washed the pill down. The syrupy pancakes were probably a good idea, too.
Morty began cutting his up. “So. You all thought Cassie was a badass witch, and they sent you to deal with her in your usual civilized way.” He paused and looked at her. “How much does she know?”
“Too much,” Jonathan said at the same time she answered, “Nothing.”
“And I’ve given my word not to say more.” Regret tinged Morty’s voice. “There’s no use telling you anything anyway. They’ll wipe your memory if they have to.”
“What?” Cassie whipped her head around to stare at Jonathan. “Are you going to wipe my memory?”
“No.” Capitán Renaud might order a Mage to do it, though. He truly didn’t know what was going to happen to her if they didn’t solve her problem quickly. Cassie’s eyes narrowed.
“He doesn’t have that talent,” Morty informed her. “Not personally, that is. His job is judge and executioner.”
Jonathan bristled. “Do you know what this world would be like if it weren’t for us?”
“You know I do. It’s when you have human targets that I get a little cranky.”
Jonathan stabbed at his pancakes. “We don’t have much choice with witches who kill. They can’t be convicted in courts, and historically, they can’t be rehabilitated. They always get worse.”
“Historically,” Morty repeated.
“The last witch I dealt with? In less than a month, she went from giving people nosebleeds to drowning them in sinks full of their own blood.”
“Ugh.” Cassie grimaced.
Morty said, “Come on, Ace, we’re eating here.”
“I’m just saying. Once witches start doing harm, it gets worse fast.”
She asked, “You knew she did it because you mind read her, or whatever you call that?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like? Going into the psyche of someone really evil?”
“You don’t want to know.” Some images stayed with a person forever.
Morty asked, “If you all thought Cassie was so dangerous, why didn’t Michael come with you?”
“Michael—” A wave of grief rolled over him, and he couldn’t continue.
This had happened a few times since the memorial service. He’d be fine, and then sorrow would come out of nowhere and blind him. Tears and revenge both honored the dead, and Jonathan had already offered up both, even if the latter hadn’t given him satisfaction. Now wasn’t the time for this. Deliberately, he set down his fork.
“Ah, kid.” Pity filled Morty’s voice. “I’m sorry.”
Jonathan didn’t look at either him or Cassie. “The Taos possession. You must’ve read about it.” His voice came out tight but steady.
“I did. I figured possession, anyway. The victim had been to the Urraca Mesa portal?”
Jonathan nodded.
Cassie asked, “He was someone you worked with a lot?”
“Yeah. My younger brother.”
She put her hand over his. Jonathan flinched as though her touch burned him and looked over at her, startled. She withdrew her hand. Her eyes were filled with sympathy, her mouth slightly parted. How could she be so soft to someone who’d been so hard with her?
Capture bonding. The thought gave him a heavy feeling in his gut. She was a natural fighter, but she’d lost, and now she was emotionally identifying with her abuser. It was a survival instinct, one he’d been taught to resist as part of his interrogation training, but she was a sonámbula with no training at all.
“Your boss had no business sending you out this soon.” Morty’s voice was a growl. He’d never liked Capitán Renaud.
“I wanted to go.” Being idle at the headquarters, El Dédalo, had nearly driven him out of his mind. Most people spent a week or two with their family after a loss, but that only consisted of Jonathan’s father, whose company wouldn’t have been much of a comfort in any circumstance, and who now blamed Jonathan for his favorite son’s death. “We should, um. Focus on the mission. I mean, on Cassie’s situation.”
Morty pressed his mouth into a grim line. “All right. Cassie, he said this started not too long ago?”
“Rick was the first time.” She looked ill. “As far as I know.”
Jonathan asked, “Did you do anything unusual in the weeks before that happened? Visit a psychic, take part in any rites or séances?”
“Rites? I went to Mass with my parents once. That’s it. Unless you call signing divorce papers a rite.”
“Did you come into possession of any unusual objects lately? A piece of jewelry, any kind of antique?”
“Hardly. I was trying to get rid of stuff, not get more.” She took another bite of pancake.
“Get rid of things?” Morty chimed in. “How come?”
“Rick kept the house. I moved out. I had to box up my stuff, and I threw things away right and left.”
Jonathan leaned forward. “Did you throw away anything unusual?”
“No, just a bunch of crap. You wouldn’t believe how much garbage I accumulated in only five years of being married.” She shook her head. “I moved in with my folks for a month with all my boxes, so I wanted to pare down.” She froze. “Oh, God.”
“What is it?” Jonathan asked.
She wrapped her arms around her middle. “I think I know what happened.”