Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

M y weekend was a blur of rest and gardening. Monday morning found me back in La Paloma delivering bundles of lavender and some charms to Wicked and a head shop-slash-bookstore, where I inquired about Sexton's oil lamp.

The guy behind the counter looked like Nicolas Cage in Mandy and sounded like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused . His name was Beau Glazier, and he owned the shop and was the only employee. He was also the nephew of one of my tenants, Trini Orosco.

"Nah, man. I ran across a Persephone's Ear a couple decades back, but I haven't seen anything in years. Want me to put out some feelers?"

"If you would." I shot a glance over my shoulder then leaned in closer. "I've also got a book request, and this one pays well. Keep it on the DL."

Beau's eyes glittered. "Down low, got it. What's the name of the book that I never heard about from you?"

" Weret-hekau Maleficium ."

"No freaking way." He shook his head. "It's cursed. Every grimoire that comes out of Egypt is cursed."

"That's a harmful stereotype," I said, as if I hadn't thought the exact same thing.

"It's the truth. The ancient ones didn't mess around when it came to protecting their stuff. I once sold an Egyptian tome that grew teeth and tried to bite me when I put it on the shelf." He shivered. "Not touching that one, sorry. But I will look into the artifact for you. The usual finder's fee applies, amiga."

"Thanks."

Guess that took care of Plan A regarding Alpha Floyd's book. Looked like I'd be moving to Plan B and dealing with the contact he'd provided. It wasn't the end of the world—I hoped—but it would've been nice to have a backup.

Having reached a dead end there, I moved on to my next line of questioning. "Have you heard any talk about Mictlantecuhtli lately?"

Beau wasn't only a dealer in drug paraphernalia, rare books, and paranormal artifacts, he was a purveyor of information. Short story was, if something weird was happening around town, Beau would know about it.

"The Aztec death god? Tell me you aren't messing with death gods, Betty. Bad enough you're poking around ancient Egypt."

"Not me. I came across something recently that gave me pause, is all. Heard anything?"

"Nah. There's a cult on the other side of Smokethorn worshipping Ra, but that's just normal culty stuff—witching hour text readings, wearing falcon headgear, weekend orgies, stuff like that. Nobody's sacrificing animals or anything dark."

"Can you ask around? Usual fee." I could swing Beau's fee. Especially if he helped me find Sexton's lamp.

"Sure."

"Best to be discreet."

"Discreet is my middle name. Sometimes it's my first and last, too." He gave me a veneer-perfect smile.

"Thanks."

Beau nodded to the bulletin board in the hallway leading to the back room, where I'd hung a FOR SALE flyer with details on the Siete Saguaros Park. The board was spelled to be visible to paranormals only. Mom had done the spell five years ago, and it was still holding strong.

Of course it was.

"No takers on your property yet?"

I glanced at the paper. All the hanging tabs were still attached. "No."

He gave me an intense look. All Beau's looks were intense, but this was a little more so. "Your mom wanted you to stay here, you know."

"I know." I stifled a sigh.

"Lila was a real good witch."

"I know."

"She would've never abandoned those folks at the park." He dialed up the intensity, flashing eyes like blue pools at me.

"I'm not abandoning them, Beau."

"Walking away from the park is abandoning them, Betty."

"No, it's not. I won't leave unless I find a proper buyer. I've had offers," two total in three years, but he didn't need to know that, "and turned them down because they weren't right. I won't abandon your aunt, Beau."

"Tía Trini loves it there." The intensity in his eyes morphed into tenderness. "After having survived marriage to my pendejo tío for forty years, she deserves peace."

"And I want that for her. I won't leave unless the right person's able to take over. They have to resonate with the soil, otherwise?—"

"Your mom would never have left them," Beau said, his words the equivalent of someone grinding their heel into my heart.

Someone I didn't know walked in and waved to Beau. He lifted a hand, two fingers raised. Not a peace sign, a "give me two seconds" sign. Or both. With Beau, it was hard to tell.

"I'll look for your lamp, Betty. Tell my tía I'll stop by this week."

I walked out, feeling like dogshit on the sole of a shoe. No matter how much I tried, nothing I did to make things right was good enough.

The head shop was only two blocks down from Ronan's, and I'd parked Mom's Mini there because I knew I'd be stopping by. I needed to find out if Alpha Floyd had agreed to my deal.

But first, tacos.

Halfway between Ronan's Pub and Beau's head shop, sandwiched between a music shop and a jewelry store, was a tiny, no frills, hole-in-the-wall taco place ironically named El Rancho Grande—The Big Ranch. The signage was the name burned into a live-edge wood slab and hung from rusted chains in the single window. A hand-drawn chalkboard menu and religious paintings adorned the walls, and the dining area was barely large enough to accommodate four tables. People tended to take their orders to go.

It was eleven, so the line to the register was only to the door, instead of down the sidewalk and around the corner the way it would be at noon.

The bobcat shifter owners of El Rancho Grande didn't play games. The menu was straightforward—tacos, beans, and rice. Mexican drinks—jamaica, horchata, aguas de fruitas, and real sugar Coke in a bottle. That was it. If you wanted a burrito or a latte, you'd be going somewhere else for it. But they had the best variety of tacos this side of the Mexican-American border, hands down.

"Ocho tacos de maiz, dos de cada, uno de adobada, chorizo, carne asada, y papas."

"?Quieres algo de tomar?" the kid behind the counter asked.

"Una jamaica grande, por favor."

My Spanish was weak, but it got the point across. Mom hadn't spoken the language much at home, and my abuela Lulu had passed when I was a kid, so I didn't use it unless I happened to be watching a telenovela or ordering food.

The order was finished quickly, and I was slurping my large hibiscus tea on the sidewalk outside when a crisp, female voice called out to me.

"Betty Lennox, I need to speak to you. Now."

And here I'd thought my day couldn't get any worse.

I stifled a grumble, pasted a smile on my face, and slowly spun around. "Hello, Se?ora Cervantes."

Maria Cervantes was petite, pretty, and prim. She was the sort of person who made you uncomfortable in her presence at best, boiling with rage at worst. She gave the impression that she approved of no one, and I was pretty sure that was because she didn't.

Her printer-ink black hair was sprayed into oblivion, so she'd probably just walked out of the beauty shop up the street. What rotten timing.

"Have you found a buyer for the park yet?" the elderly woman asked.

"No, Sra. Cervantes. I haven't."

Her pale brown eyes glared into mine. "Will you be renewing the protection spell soon?" She'd lowered her voice to a whisper, but it felt more like a seethe.

"Yes. I'm doing it tonight. Fennel will deliver your new key after it's done."

"I wouldn't have had to ask Lila. When she was around, we had the saguaros for protection."

It wouldn't be a good look to strangle an eighty-five-year-old lady on the street, but it would've been satisfying. "I am aware of that."

"You'll let me know the second you find someone?"

"Yes, Sra. Cervantes."

She gave me a toe-to-teeth look of disapproval, her gaze raking over my spike-heeled ankle boots, faded blue jeans, and black boatneck sweater. I'd worn the flower again, because I liked how the red looked with my lipstick, and that was the only thing the se?ora seemed to approve of.

Or, at least, she hadn't disapproved of it with a curled upper lip the way she had everything else I was wearing.

She sniffed the bag. "Is there a carne asada taco in there?"

"Yes, ma'am." I dug one of the two out and handed it to her. She gave me what counted for a smile in her world—a slight twitch of her lip—thanked me and strolled off.

Porcupine shifters weren't all as prickly as Sra. Cervantes, but she was certainly living up to her animal's reputation.

I made it to Ronan's a couple minutes after noon.

Gladys was finishing up her shift. I gave her the other carne asada taco and a chorizo one. "Thanks, sweetheart. I'm real grateful you tried to help me, Betty. Don't worry if it doesn't work out." She patted my hand. "I've got a son in New Jersey who says I can come stay there with him. It's a nice state, and his pack isn't too bad."

"Nice or not, if you wanted to live in New Jersey, you'd be living there. This is your home. You shouldn't have to leave it to survive."

"That's the way it goes sometimes." She set the foil-wrapped tacos on a napkin behind the bar. "Ronan's got me fixed up pretty good here. I come in at nine and leave by one. It's a pity shift, but I need it, so I'm taking it."

"The place opens at ten. What do you do at nine?"

"Receive deliveries and packages for the boss, wipe down any tables the staff might've missed the night before, check the bathrooms, that sort of thing. Mostly I drink coffee and read the paper." She winked. "See what I mean? Pity shift."

It sounded nice. After I got Gladys squared away, maybe Ronan would hire me to work those hours. Like Gladys, I wasn't above taking a pity shift.

"Where is he?"

"Ronan? He went to talk to Alpha again." She made a face. "He should be in a real good mood when he gets back."

One of the patrons—there were ten of us—asked Gladys to turn up the radio. She did, and AC/DC's "T.N.T" poured through the crackly speakers. Gladys made the rock n' roll salute at the guy and sang along.

I set my bag o' tacos and drink on the bar. Tacky to bring a drink into a bar, but I doubted Ronan would care. I drew the line at eating in front of everyone, though. I'd wait until Ronan arrived before digging in.

I texted the number Sexton had entered into my phone with his weird finger power yesterday.

No idea what you meant by Vita.

His reply was immediate: Think about it.

Great. He had no intention of cluing me in. I moved onto the next subject. Job accepted. Timeline?

Within two weeks.

Pay?

We haggled a little over the pay, landing on a fair percentage, with a bonus if I found it in the next three days. His lamp wouldn't be easy to locate, but it would be far less dangerous to handle than the book Floyd Pallás had asked for.

Gladys rock n' rolled over to me again. Patted my arm. "Thanks for what you're trying to do, Betty. Even if it doesn't work out, I want you to know I appreciate it." She smiled, and I noticed she was wearing the same shade of red lipstick Mom used to wear. More scarlet than my dark cherry shade.

In that moment, I missed my mom so much it was an actual ache. Mom had taught me to choose a lipstick color based on my skin tone, not how pretty the color was—an interesting lesson for an eight-year-old playing dress up. When I was older, she'd taught me to wear good quality cosmetics—ones not tested on animals by the company or the country where they were sold.

I took a sip of jamaica to chase the emotion from my voice. "Are you going to poker night?"

"Yep. Ida's picking me up. She's excited about those new glasses you got her." Gladys leaned in. "If I brought you a pair of mine, could you maybe spell them for me, too? My night vision ain't what it used to be."

"You bet," I said.

"Do you take payments?" she asked.

"From you, I only take payment in life tips."

"You got yourself a deal." She patted my arm again. "Hell, I'll even throw in some wine snacks."

"Perfect."

The door whooshed open, and Ronan strode in. He was sweating, his face was beet red, and I would've wagered his eyes were glowing behind his black shades.

"Life tip number one," Gladys said. "Don't let a guy who looks like that in a T-shirt get away from you."

"Nice visit?" I asked Ronan, pretending not to hear her.

"Office." He strode across the bar and down the short hallway. A door slammed open, and a chair made a squeaky sound of protest.

"Yeesh." Gladys made a face. "It must've been bad. You'd better go talk to him."

"Not sure I want to now," I said.

"It'll be fine. You look real pretty with that flower in your hair. That'll cheer him up."

"Yes, that's what I dressed for today. To soothe Ronan's bad mood."

"Well," she lifted one shoulder in half shrug, "maybe it isn't what you dressed for this morning, but it can't hurt to use your looks to your advantage. Never failed me." She winked.

The woman had a point. I snatched up my tacos and drink and went to Ronan's office.

Two upholstered chairs were wedged in front of an antique mahogany desk. Three wide matching bookcases lined the wall behind the desk, and that was the extent of the decoration in the room, except for a couple of framed photos on the top center shelf.

One picture was of a woman in front of a café. She looked to be in her fifties and had pale white skin, tons of freckles, and braided auburn hair. That had to be his mom.

The other was of an Afro-Latina teenager in a graduation cap and gown. She had short, curly brown hair and an ear-to-ear smile. I recognized Aurora, his little sister.

The rest of the shelves were packed with binders and stacks of papers, file boxes, some water bottles, and several clear containers filled with what looked like bar supplies. Ronan didn't entertain in this office, he worked in it.

I shut the door behind me and sat in one of the chairs. Anger was wafting off Ronan in waves. He tossed the lavender I'd given him last night into a tiny flower agate bowl on his desk. It was wilted, drained of all its calm.

"Taco?" I set the five remaining tacos on the desk and chose the papa. The rest I pushed across the desk to him. "They're from El Rancho Grande."

He sat fuming while I unwrapped my potato taco and bit into it. I sank into my seat, my mind adrift on a cloud of taco-induced ecstasy.

"You look satiated, and you're only halfway through that thing," he grumbled.

"It's a taco," I said, washing the bite down with a drink of the sweet jamaica before taking another. "It had me at hello."

He slipped off his shades and set them aside. If his eyes had been glowing before, they weren't anymore. He pulled the foil-wrapped bundles close and took a sniff. "Damn, those cats make good tacos. Chorizo, adobada, and potato?"

"Yep. I chose the adobada especially for you."

He unwrapped the first one. "How'd you know I like them?"

"Most wolves do. A dozen adobada tacos at El Rancho Grande is called the full moon special for a reason." I polished off my taco and snagged a napkin from the bag to wipe my hands. "Got any more of those Valentine's Day polvorones?"

His smile started out slow, but soon took over his entire face and brought his shoulders down from around his ears. He pulled open a desk drawer and tossed one to me. "Betty, I don't know how you managed to make me not want to punch the wall anymore, but you did it."

"T'was the tacos," I said.

"T'was it?" He bit into one, and I unwrapped the cookie. "I don't know. I've rage-eaten tacos before." He chewed, swallowed. "Maybe it's the flower in your hair."

"Oh good, it's working. Gladys suggested I use my feminine wiles to soothe you." I shook my cup to remix the crushed ice with the sweet hibiscus tea.

"She's a genius. Tacos and feminine wiles are two of my favorite things."

He finished the tacos, and I ate my cookie, and then we got down to business.

"I confirmed the deal with Alpha." He cracked open a bottle of water and took a healthy slug. "I want you to know I don't like any of this."

"Don't worry. It's not the most dangerous thing I've ever done." Hell, it wasn't even the most dangerous thing I'd done this week .

"This book…" He scrubbed his hand over his face. Sighed. "It's important to him. You're right. He didn't even haggle. He's giving you Gladys and the thirty percent."

Which meant he didn't expect me to succeed. Well, wouldn't he be surprised?

I hoped.

Ronan withdrew a card from the back pocket of his jeans and slid it across the desk. "Here's the bookseller's card. They're based in L.A. I want to go with you to meet with this person."

"Unnecessary." I tucked the card into my purse and plucked the wilted lavender out of the tiny bowl, examining it the way a jeweler would a precious stone.

"Necessary." Ronan stood, his wolf behind his eyes. "I don't like it, Betty. Something is wrong with the situation."

"I know." I stood, picked up my drink and my purse, and opened the door. "If it wasn't dangerous, he wouldn't have asked me to do it."

"Betty…"

"Aww, you're worried about me." I gave him my sweetest kiss-my-ass smile then let it drop off my face. "Thanks for your concern, but I don't need it or your protection. I have a mystical cat, an unprincipled gnome with a violent streak and—" I held out my hand, and the dying lavender blossomed in my palm, scenting the room with its perfume, "I have my magic."