Agave Kiss (Corine Solomon #5)

Agave Kiss (Corine Solomon #5) Page 17

Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes, until I didn’t know why I was weeping, really. It was so good to see him hale and whole, but I hated the bargain he’d made, as if he’d traded one prison for another. But it was unlikely Twila would chain him to the bar, so however she used him, it would still be better than that damned cottage in Stoke.

“Was it bad?” I whispered, hugging him hard around the neck.

“Dodgy enough,” he answered, “and a bit humbling, but she kept her word. No demons. I shouldn’t like to meet those loa in a dark alley, however.”

“What now? Where will you go?”

“Are you cracked? I’ll stay and help you bring our lad back, of course.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be stupid. You only have a year, Booke. You’ve got to make the most of it. If you need money—”

“Tosh. I had a bank account in 1947. I’ve no doubt it’s quite healthy by now, though I may have some difficulty obtaining access, or retrieving the funds, if the account was closed due to inactivity.” He shrugged. “But I shall fret about that later. I propose a deal then. I’ll grant you two weeks. If we haven’t solved the problem by then, I’ll go about my business. Will you accede to those terms?”

“Sounds good,” I managed.

“Where’s Kel got to, then?”

“I don’t know. But we should get back to relieve Chuch’s mind. He’s going to be so happy.”

Until he finds out the terms of the deal. But I didn’t say so aloud.

“Indeed. I’m quite looking forward to the party, as it won’t be the depressing farewell I feared. But I do have one request,” Booke added.

“Shoot.” I was already headed for the door, lifting a hand to Jeannie.

“Let me drive.”

What the hell. If Booke wrecked the Charger, he could make it right with Chuch. He had the time, after all, and it appeared he was moving to Texas.

In reply, I tossed him the keys.

Amends

Booke drove like a bat out of hell—or to coin a specific metaphor, a recently released Englishman. He made the trip back at speeds Chance would’ve envied. I didn’t talk, fretting about Chance and Kel by turns. Fortunately Booke was too enthralled with the Charger to notice. He only turned to me if he had questions about the route, and those were few, as he’d been paying attention on the way.

After we arrived at the Ortiz place, he parked in the garage with a flourish and then leaped out on legs that were much stronger than the ones he’d left with. Chuch and Eva hurried out to see the results of our trip. Both froze in the doorway, hovering between delight and disbelief. I understood the reaction; part of me thought it was too good to be true. The aspect that understood how Twila worked worried about how things would turn out for him. He might have a long indenture ahead of him.

Then Eva clapped. “Look at you! It’s fantastic.”

Booke had the cheek to do a slow spin like a showgirl. It was absurdly charming. “Look at me indeed. I’m fantastic.”

“Si, no doubt,” Chuch said, grinning.

Booke flashed the other man a grin. “I wasn’t asking you, mate.”

“Are you hitting on my Eva?” The mechanic raised both brows, pretending to bristle. Or maybe, knowing Chuch, it wasn’t wholly pretense. In most situations he was pretty easygoing, but when it came to his wife and daughter, he was a rabid dog.

“No. Well, maybe a little. I’m out of practice, I fear.” Being a smart man, Booke changed the subject. “This automatic gearbox is rather spectacular, is it not?”

Dismissing the minor flirtation, the stocky mechanic headed over to his old friend to wrap him in a bruising, rib-crushing bear hug. Booke bore the embrace, at first with customary reserve, and then he returned it. They slapped backs for a good minute, and when they broke apart, they were both misty, which caused much throat clearing and them turning away to study random walls in the garage.

Eva and I exchanged amused glances, but she seemed touched too, as well as impressed by the change wrought by our trip to San Antonio. “So Twila solved his problem?”

“Yep. He cut a deal.” In a low voice, as we went back into the house to check on Cami, busy with blocks in her playpen, I explained the terms.

She shook her head. “That’s terrible. Chuch will hit the roof when he finds out. But servitude’s better than dying in a few days . . . or staying stuck in that house.”

“If she’s clever, she won’t make his employment unbearable. Then she will have gained a loyal, resourceful wizard for life.”

“He does know more about the arcane arts than anybody I ever met.”

I nodded. “After he completes his world tour, I’m sure he’ll want to ship his library over for use in any of Twila’s special projects.”

Eva gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m scared to think about it.”

“Too bad Caridad couldn’t help him.”

She nodded. “She pointed us in the right direction at least, but Ramon can do better.”

“You think it’s serious?” I hadn’t gotten that vibe from the couple; they weren’t like Chuch and Eva, communicating with a look or completing each other’s sentences. But others didn’t hit that level of synchronicity, even after years together.

“Who knows? Ramon wants to settle down. Trouble is, he keeps hooking up with these difficult women who I can’t imagine making good mothers.”

Yeah, I didn’t see Caridad with babies clinging to her lace skirts either. Without her, however, Booke wouldn’t have a second chance. As I’d lost my powers, it required a real witch to judge how powerful the curse was—and to advise us as to who could break it. I didn’t think he regretted his deal with Twila; gods willing, he never would.

Shortly thereafter, Eva went into the kitchen to begin cooking. People would arrive late tomorrow afternoon, so she needed to get a head start on party food. Booke came into the kitchen in an easy, loping stride. He was at least two inches taller, lean as a blade, and bristling with nervous energy. His gray gaze sought and found me by the patio doors, where I had been gazing out into the backyard, where Chuch intended to build a play area for Cami but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

“I’d forgotten how good I could feel,” Booke admitted in an abashed tone. “I’d gotten accustomed to all the aches.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It was killing me to think—”

“Then don’t.” He cut me off before I could complete the sentence. “I’m already making a list of all the places I intend to visit . . . if I can resolve the logistics.”

“I’m not sure how well your fake passport will serve without a charm, but I have an idea as to how you can get a real one.”

“Tell me?” He propped himself against the French doors, expression eager.

“You know how there’s this mystery in Stoke as to what became of you?”

“I’ve read accounts on the Internet,” he said drily, as if aware of the irony.

“Here’s my plan. You apply for identification as your own son. It sounds crazy at first, but hear me out. If the original Ian Booke moved quietly to some remote village in South Africa, there’s no reason anyone would’ve known. They assumed he died and his house was sold, but in fact, no body was ever found. He married late in life to a much younger woman. If you’re willing to add four or five years to your actual age, on paper, it will make even more sense. I’ve done the math in my head. You were born in 1910. If you married at fifty-five and your new bride came up pregnant, say five years later, when you were sixty, your son, Ian Booke, Jr., would now be around forty years old.”

“It’s a plausible tale,” he admitted, “but I don’t see how that gets me documents.”

“Don’t you see? In most third world countries, they only require a minister or another official to sign an affidavit, saying you were born there, on that date.”

His clever face lit with an appreciative expression. “And in such places, they’re always in dire need of coin. You suggest I should bribe someone to sign the necessary paperwork, which would get me a South African birth certificate along with a credible identity that allows me to keep my own name.”

“Exactly.”

“Corine,” he said softly. “Why were you thinking about this? Didn’t you expect me to die?”

I ducked my head. “I was braced for the worst, but I hadn’t given up hope.”

He surprised me by tilting my chin up and planting a firm kiss on my mouth. It wasn’t at all sexual or romantic; it was a fierce thank-you of a kiss, one you would receive from the dearest of friends. Whatever else life had in store for Ian Booke, I hoped it would be wonderful. He turned shy then, and soon fled to the garage to assist Chuch. Those modern gearboxes didn’t repair themselves. I imagined after such a long confinement, the freedom was intoxicating. In the morning, we’d probably find him running down the road at top speed, simply because he could.

That night, dinner was a simple affair, as Eva was saving all her culinary creations for the fiesta. Chuch was downcast over that, but he soon cheered up over board games, where he and Eva kicked our asses. Booke and I just weren’t on the same page for Pictionary. Kel didn’t return before I went to sleep, and I worried about him until I drifted off.

No Chance that night. I was a little disappointed.

In the morning, I cleaned alongside Eva, making the house shine for guests. It was exhausting, but it took my mind off my worries. Hopefully, we’d finish in time for me to shower and get ready. Around two, Shannon showed up with boyfriend in tow.

Jesse Saldana was a tall, lean drink of water with a shock of sun-streaked brown hair and bitter chocolate eyes. He had a permanent tan, courtesy of his Mexican heritage, and he was an all-around good guy. I had semi-dated him a while back, but courtesy of a forget spell that went massively awry, both he and my best friend forgot all about me, just long enough to get together. Looking at them now, I couldn’t doubt it had been for the best. She radiated adoration and joy in equal measures, and he looked just about as gone on her. I caught them in a tender, unguarded moment as we prepared for the other guests. As they paused in the foyer, he leaned his head down to hers, just content to touch, and she reached up for a kiss that literally curled her toes, visible through the peep-toe of her platform Lolita Mary Janes. When Jesse saw me, his hands tightened briefly on Shan’s shoulders. I glimpsed unease as she turned—and as she spotted me, she lost a little of her radiance, like it wasn’t okay to kiss her man in front of me.

Yeah, this has to stop.

“Can you give me a minute?” Jesse asked Shan.

“Yeah, no prob. I’ll just, uh, help Eva in the kitchen. I guess.”

“Come on.” Jesse beckoned me out to the back patio, which was presently deserted.

I took one of the rattan chairs, waiting to hear what he had to say. While he collected his thoughts, I admired the tropical feel Eva had managed out here, making the most of the new terracotta tile with rectangular planters accented with round ones. All the blooms were lush and green, spiky fronds, flowing leaves, peppered with vibrant blooms. A few hanging baskets framed the space beautifully, making me want something like this back home in Mexico.