Agave Kiss (Corine Solomon #5)

Agave Kiss (Corine Solomon #5) Page 39

Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll bring the silverware.

She had a sword? During our lifetime in Sheol, she’d become accomplished with a blade, and she had mentioned that she intended to continue fencing to keep her skills sharp. There was no doubt she’d keep Jesse jumping. He knew where we’d be, but there was no way he’d show, unless something horrible happened. He had to steer clear of breaking and entering; and that, I was sure, along with trespassing, would be the least of my crimes tonight.

“This is a bit absurd,” Booke said, as he drove toward the warehouse. “You’re setting up to cast a spell we don’t have.”

“We’ll have it.”

“How?” he demanded.

“Kel.”

A frown creased his brow. “Why didn’t you contact him in the first place?”

“He’s already playing bait to keep Barachiel off me long enough to do this. Problem is, I can’t do it without him. We tried.”

“And you were afraid if he stopped running, Barachiel would track Kel down and kill him.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s why you asked for the spell to hide our whereabouts. It’s a gamble.”

I nodded.

“Corine, I don’t know whether my magick is strong enough to block a demon of his strength. He may have resources of which I’m unaware.”

“Then you see why I didn’t want to call Kel until it became unavoidable.”

“He was always your ace in the hole,” Booke realized aloud.

“Yep. I didn’t want to put him at risk more than he’s already offered, but there’s no choice now.”

“Needs must, devil drives.”

There was nothing more to say. The final minutes were up on the scoreboard, game winding down. When we arrived at the warehouse, it looked even worse than it had on Google. Easy to imagine shady doings here. Booke took the tire iron out of the trunk and whacked the rusty padlock on the back door until it gave. Inside, it was dark, dank, reeking of pigeon shit and the acrid tang of urine. Not a romantic locale for a long-anticipated reunion. I wandered around until I found a janitor’s closet; fortunately, there was a dirty broom amid the other abandoned supplies, so I swept a portion of the cement floor clear. There only needed to be room to cast a circle, but my mother’s power was gone.

You have to use the demon magick.

Though the thought revolted me, I’d do it. My vow limited its practice to life and death, and this qualified. So one last stain to serve my purposes, and then I would turn my back on that world forever. But what if it hurts the baby? Was demon magick like drinking, drugs, or too much caffeine? Shit. Who would I even ask? No doubt I had made some impossible choices in my life, but father of child versus child? Much as I hated it, I’d have to pick our baby over Chance.

But maybe there’s a solution. You haven’t even gotten the translation yet.

I dialed the panic down to DefCon 4.

While I’d been tidying, Booke had cast his spell. He brought me the statuette, placing it in my hand with a sober look. “If everything goes to hell tonight, it’s been an honor.”

“Seriously? That’s your pep talk?”

“I am British, you know.”

That was a joke. I thought. So I laughed, but the sound resonated with nervous tension. Booke rubbed my shoulder with gentle affection, evidently over his prior aggravation. It hit me then that he’d be leaving soon. Regardless of how this ended he’d be in the wind, living out his dream of seeing the world before he replaced Ms. Devlin at the arcane library beneath Wonder Lanes.

Gods, I’ll miss him.

I checked the time. “I’m calling Kel. Get ready.”

Booke knew without being told that he had only seconds to keep us from ending up with Barachiel right on top of us. Hopefully his blocker would last long enough to bring Chance back, and then I’d help Kel fight the crazy-ass demon that had him on a magickal leash. We all would. The whole crew would be assembled at that point and ready for a fight.

Bring it on.

I whispered the summons soft enough that Booke couldn’t make out Kel’s true name, and this time, I put a little demon magick in the call. Using it in this realm stung, like pushing up too fast through the ocean and taking a load of salt water up the nose. But it didn’t hurt like using my mother’s magick had—and that worried me. I noticed no response from the baby, no pain, no nausea.

Kel appeared before me a few seconds later, battered, bewildered. He was also filthy, exhausted, covered in half-healed wounds. Gods, what had he been doing for the past two weeks? Booke smashed the statuette at our feet, bringing up a cloud of dust that shimmered, settling gently on my skin. The blocker was on the job. We’d see how well it worked.

“What have you done?” Kel demanded. “I warned you, this is madness.”

“We have a little time at least. Booke’s got us covered. Literally.” I paused for Kel to sense the truth, and some of his tension and rage diffused. “I need your help. You’re the only one who can do this for me. Believe me, if there was any other way . . .” I shook my head. “We tried. This is it.”

Anyone else would’ve persisted in the questions, but he read my desperation. Kel ran a hand down my cheek, left the stickiness of his blood behind. Fortunately, I had no open wounds on my face, or I’d be high as a kite right now. Last time, I went tripping balls after a hit of his blood. That made me wonder if all demon blood had healing properties, or only the ones who had been magickally fooled into believing they came from angelic origins. Not a critical question right now, though.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Ritual of Doom

Booke handed Kel his phone. “A precise translation, if possible.”

Kel skimmed the pages with quick cognition. Then he handed the cell back. “It’s a spell to part the veil. Not to Sheol. Elsewhere. But it won’t work unless you have help from the other side.”

“I do,” I said. “Can you lay it out for me? What do we need to cast it?”

Without protest, Kel made a shopping list for Booke, who took the keys to the Pinto and hurried off, muttering, “They’re going to love us at the shop.”

“You don’t have to stay,” I said to Kel. “Just write down what I need to do. I’ll take it from there.”

“Barachiel will find me,” he replied wearily. “The wizard’s spell will slow him, but the ending is inevitable. Knowing the truth, I cannot swerve. We’ve played cat and mouse for days.”

Judging from his injuries, Kel had been the mouse. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everything ends, dadu.”

This time, I didn’t forbid the endearment. While he was constant, he was also an immortal half-demon, bound to a maniacal creature that believed it was an archangel destined to rewrite the world. It had been working toward that until I stumbled into the mix. With a combination of Chance’s backlash luck and my own stubbornness, I fucked up Barachiel’s life; he didn’t take rejection well either.

“Seriously, I don’t want you here if Barachiel shows up. I’ll have backup.” Whether Booke, Shannon, Chuch, Eva and I could take out an ancient demon, I had no idea. But Kel would die if we didn’t. “Just write the spell down.”

I handed him a notebook from my purse, along with a pen. Kel heaved a sigh, but he wrote in his lovely, old-fashioned hand. A few minutes later, I took the pad from him, scanned the steps.

“That doesn’t look too bad.”

“What you’re not seeing is that all great workings require a sacrifice.”

“Shit. Like a life? If I cast this spell, it might kill my baby?”

Oh, gods, no. No. Fate couldn’t be so cruel. I’d gladly die to give Chance the life he wanted in this world, but I couldn’t kill our child for him. He wouldn’t want me to if he knew that was the price.

“You choose the sacrifice before you cast.”

“So it wouldn’t just randomly take my kid?”

Kel shook his head. “Generally, it’s a magickal sacrifice, an artifact or a foci brimming with power.”

“It’s not death magick, then.”

“Not usually, though death magick would serve as a workable substitute.”

“Dammit. I don’t have any—oh. I could give the spell the touch . . . and what’s left of my demon magick.” I gazed up at him, anxious. “Would that be enough?”

“I don’t know. It depends how much power your partner brings to bear on the other side.”

“It’s all I have to offer,” I whispered. “I’ll try.”

The ritual would leave me a normal human. That wasn’t a deterrent, however, as that was all I’d ever wanted, my whole life. If this didn’t work, I’d end up a single mom, just like my mother. It has to work. I was in no way strong enough to follow the example set by Cherie Solomon. All those years, she knew where my father had gone—and that he was never coming home.

Chance is. He promised.

Kel went over the ritual with me with tireless patience, drilling until I felt sure I had memorized all of the steps. By the time the others started arriving, I’d recited the incantation eighteen times. Shan got there first, sword in hand. Tonight, she eschewed her usual Lolita-goth gear; she was practically garbed in black leggings and a fitted black tee, no loose fabric to interfere with her movements or allow an opponent to grab hold of her. Likewise, she’d bound her black hair back into a tight French braid. Her makeup was still Shan: eyes heavily lined in kohl, ivory pale cheeks, and a blood-red mouth. She looked like a poster of a vampire I’d seen once; I didn’t say that, as she was so over the undead.

“You nervous?” she asked, giving me a one-armed hug.

“Kinda. If I let myself think about what I’m doing for more than two seconds.”

“Semper fi.” She threw some complicated hand gestures at me, which could’ve been military, or they might’ve been gang signs.

I ignored them. “Isn’t that the Marine Corps motto?”

“That’s not the point. What does it mean?”

Though I didn’t speak Latin, I actually knew this. “Always faithful?”

“Yep.” She flashed me a triumphant grin. “And that’s you.”

My heart gave a little squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Where’s the dog?”

“Cowering in my purse. I’m thinking of charging him rent.”

Butch gave an indignant yap and trotted out to greet her. He wagged his tail hard enough to shake his whole body when she rubbed him just the way he liked. Sadly for the dog, it couldn’t last. She moved off for some practice swings, and her arcs with her sword were beautiful to behold.

Next, Chuch and Eva rolled up, looking like they could star in an action movie. Both had dressed in dark, nondescript clothing. Eva was strapped with a 12-gauge shotgun and a handgun in a thigh holster. Chuch had automatics, plus a duffle bag bulging with other goodies. If shit went down, he’d make it real. I squinted, realizing that was the same bag he’d carried the tarp in the other night.