For added privacy, I went into the other room, decorated in plaid furniture and protective charms. First I needed to get my phone working, though. With reasonable deftness, I popped it open and switched the SIM card.

My cell doesn’t have roaming on it, you see. That’s for people who want to register for an account and put it on a credit card, leaving an electronic trail a mile wide. I go prepaid all the way, so I slotted the U.S. SIM into my phone and watched it search until it found a signal.

Bingo.

Backtracking to the front door, I located my purse and dug out Saldana’s card. Ridiculous the way my heart thumped as I dialed. You’d think I believed the bullshit I’d spun for Chance about the guy wanting to take me out for personal reasons.

On the fourth ring, he barked, “Saldana!” at me, almost making me disconnect.

I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “Uhm. Yeah. This is Corine Solomon. You said something about getting dinner tomorrow night.”

Relief colored his buttery drawl, which I liked quite a lot. “Glad you called, sugar. Just a minute.” I heard hoots in the background, so I guessed I’d caught him at a bad time. Movement, and then a rough whisper: “I don’t suppose you know anything ’bout the mess down at this warehouse? You all right?”

I made unconvincing static noises, though he sounded genuinely concerned. “Huh? You’re cutting out.”

Luckily he possessed a sense of humor. “Uh-huh. Logan’s Roadhouse, seven tomorrow night. It’s on San Dario, near the mall. Can you make it?”

“I’ll be there.” Whether Chance liked it or not.

“Oh, that you heard.” But I could sense his smile.

When I returned to the kitchen, the guys were eating a second plate of tamales, looking like they’d said everything important. Chuch glanced up and then indicated the seat opposite him. As I sat, I saw he’d laid out colored pencils and paper.

“I need you to sketch the symbols,” he said without preamble. “That’ll gimme a clue who might have some info. Most of the players in town work in Santería or straight hudu, but I know people online who can help with more exotic traditions.”

I blinked. Chuch is a regular Lone Gunman. Who knew? Chance did, I decided, watching him eat. That’s why he kept his card.

“That’s a remarkably logical idea. I’ve never done this before, though, and I’m not much of an artist. But I’ll try.”

As they ate, I tried to remember. In the end, I found it easier to re-create the whole thing, starting with the circles. I couldn’t draw the people so I represented them with Xs and then took my best shot at the symbols Yi Min-chin had drawn.

When I handed him the page, Chuch studied it for a minute and then shrugged. “Looks like a summoning circle.” Which I’d already guessed. “I’ll send it to a homie who’s into the hermetic stuff. Maybe he can hook us up.”

I studied him for a moment, unable to figure him out. “Why are you helping us? You know it’s dangerous.”

Chuch flashed a slightly gap-toothed grin. “My old lady took off and I don’t have anything better to do.” I held his look, and eventually he sighed, looking sheepish. “Plus I owe him money.” He jerked his head toward Chance. “I expanded my garage but business has been slow. Lot of people leaving Laredo. It’s a scary place to be lately.”

That made as much sense as anything. Muttering something about scanning my drawing, Chuch headed toward his home office. I didn’t like how quiet Chance was. He hadn’t said a single word since I came back into the room, not even when I took his plate to the sink for him.

If the silence held, I was going to say something stupid like Are you okay? when I knew he wasn’t. Finally I settled on “What’s on your mind?” Like I didn’t know.

“I keep turning it over,” he said, staring at his hands. “I wanted to think they must have some hold over her. But I keep coming back to the fact that she knew the spell, and there’s a lot I don’t know about her. You ever have that feeling? Like you’ve known someone your whole life but you don’t know them at all.”

I reached for his hand. No matter the ugly history between us, I was still his friend. I didn’t think I had it in me for it to be otherwise. Our fingers intertwined, his long and elegant, mine short and scarred. That was one good thing about the gift, I supposed. My fingerprints never seemed to come out right.

“No,” I said finally. “I never have that feeling. Because I don’t have anyone I’ve known my whole life.” The words came out starker than I intended, maybe because his sorrow cut through me like a knife.

If he’d been thinking, he would have remembered. Chance knew my history, at least the bare bones of it. He knew I’d spent my adolescence in foster homes. They deteriorated as the years went on because nobody wanted to take me. The first time it happened, I was handling a jeweled hair clip. It singed my fingers and I said without thinking, “This belonged to your great-aunt Cecilia. She was wearing it when she died.”

The gentle Methodist lady almost had a heart attack. She’d gazed at me, face pinched and gray, before snatching the hair clip away and fussing over burns she couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten. A retired school-teacher, Miss Minnie was actually the nicest about my weirdness, but she didn’t want me around after that.

That night, she called the social workers and said she wasn’t equipped to deal with “a child like me.” It got worse. I’ll just say, I can’t play at bondage during sex or watch the Exorcist, though it isn’t demons that drive my powers. There’s no enjoying such things when you’ve been tied to a bed for real.

I’ll leave it at that.

At first, the state of Georgia accused the host families of burning my hands to punish me. Ruined some lives, I guess. It didn’t matter what I said about it, although by the end, they had psychiatrists asking me why I felt the need to hurt myself. At eighteen, they cut me loose and I was glad to go. I sure left my mark, even then; left enemies behind me.

Shit, now I felt almost as low as Chance. I didn’t usually let it get to me. Done was done, and unless it was a slight you could avenge right then, it did no good to dwell on it.

All my aches came back tenfold, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to lose myself for a few hours. We couldn’t do anything until daylight anyway.

“Well,” Chuch said from the doorway. “I sent an e-mail to Booke, but it’s four in the morning there.” He peered at us. “You guys look like shit.”

I wondered how he’d look if he’d been in Mexico City just two days ago, innocently examining Dutch miniatures. By some miracle I held my tongue, as he was helping us.

“It’s been a long day,” Chance said quietly.

If there were a candle I could burn to make me forget how it felt to touch him, I think I would have lit it. Right then, I felt empty and broken, missing the way we used to be. His hand in mine wasn’t enough, but then I’d always needed more than he could give. Chance reacted on me like a drug, and I jonesed for him in ways that weren’t safe or sane. Quietly I withdrew my hand.

Chuch nodded. “How ’bout I get you bedded down? You still sleepin’ together?”

I answered, “No,” as Chance said, “Yes.” We exchanged a look, and then I added firmly, “He should have his own bed. I’m afraid I’ll hurt his back.”

Our host shrugged and set me up on the couch with plenty of pillows and a sheet to pull over me, as it was a warm night. “Sorry,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I turned the third bedroom into a home office.”

“It’s fine, thanks.”

I hoped I wouldn’t dream tonight.

Wicked Game

I dreamed of fire.

As on the worst occasions, I woke with the sheets sodden from terror sweat. The sky glimmered with pearly, predawn light, dispelling some of the gloom. I lay there, clammy, my heart thudding like I’d been running. For a moment I couldn’t get my breath and the shaking wouldn’t stop. Chance used to get up and make me hot chocolate whenever this happened, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. He wouldn’t speak, just deliver the drink in a ritual that let me know I wasn’t alone. I have no idea why, but cupping the mug between my hands always made me feel better.

You’d think it’d go away for good after so many years, but the nightmare always comes back in times of trouble, like a reminder. Things always get worse when the dream returns; it’s a reliable foretelling device in its own way. If I could be sure it was my mother, trying to reach me somehow, I wouldn’t mind as much. I don’t have much faith there’s anything left of her, though, and I’ve tried several speakers for the dead. They always claim there’s interference, a bad connection between this world and the next. I don’t try to reach her anymore. Like I said, I have the feeling she gave everything she was to me, and then just floated away in wisps of smoke, not even a ghost.

Still unsteady, I crawled out of my sweaty nest and headed for the kitchen. I’d make my own cocoa, dammit. If I could find it. Rummaging around in Chuch’s kitchen, I unearthed a box of instant. That’ll work.

As I filled a cup from the tap, a click made me spin around, sloshing water on my thighs. A tall, dark-haired woman stood glaring at me from the doorway that led in from the garage. “Who the hell are you?”

“Corine,” I said, wondering whether lukewarm tap water and a heavy mug would offer any real defense. She looked ready to claw my eyes out.

But her wrath went another way. “I’ll kill him,” she bit out. “No, I’ll cut his thing off. I’m gone four days and here you are in your underwear. Pendejo!” She stormed down the hall toward Chuch’s room.

“It’s not underwear,” I said, glancing down at my shorts. She wasn’t listening. With a shrug, I popped my mug into the microwave.

Within thirty seconds—and the microwave timed it—I heard, “Eva, corazon, I—ow!” Chuch emerged in a pair of pajama pants, heading for the kitchen at a dead run. Eva followed, steely-eyed and ready to castrate. “Corine, tell her it isn’t how it looks.”

“What isn’t?” Yeah, I played dumb as I mixed the chocolate powder into the hot water. Stirred, watching his agitation increase.

“You slept on my couch!”

He’d thank me for this later. “You said she left you. What business is it of hers?”

“Dios, I only went to my mama’s house to think about things. We’re still married, Jesus Maria Ortiz Obregón! You’re going to hell!”

Oops. Maybe I wasn’t helping. “You never mentioned you were married.”

Chuch eyed me with dislike as I brought the spoon to my mouth, tasting the cocoa. “It wasn’t important! You—”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Wasn’t important! Five years and it wasn’t important. Just like I don’t matter to you as much as your precious cars.”