Coyote Episode 1 (Seal of Solomon) Read online

  COYOTE

  BRENDA PIERSON AND MATT LARKIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  COYOTE

  Copyright © 2014 Matt Larkin and Brenda Pierson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Matt Larkin

  Cover by Juhi Larkin

  Published by Incandescent Phoenix Books

  incandescentphoenix.com

  From Brenda: To everyone who ever harassed me to let them read my books. Y’all know who you are.

  From Matt: For Juhi, mera dil.

  “Please, Crispin, anywhere but there.”

  “That’s where the case is, Celestina.”

  “Send someone else then.”

  “Sure. Let me call my other agent who’s fluent in Spanish, knows every myth from Colorado to Guatemala, and has contacts on both sides of the border.” A dry pause. “Oh, wait.”

  I could feel Crispin’s glower through the phone. Of course I was the agent to take this case. But still … “Nogales?”

  “I’ve been getting reports from there for a solid week, Celestina. Someone’s got to check it out, and that someone is you. Get moving.”

  I muttered a string of Spanish at him, mostly because I know he hates it. The best part is he doesn’t speak it. So … Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of … shit, what’s the Spanish word for elderberries?

  Crispin sighed. “I know you don’t want this, Celestina, but I need you on this one. Please.”

  I rubbed my hand against my forehead. Crispin didn’t normally ask for anything. He knew my history with Nogales, Arizona. Things must be dire for him to beg me to revisit that part of my life. “Send me the file.”

  “I already did.” Click.

  I hope you step on a LEGO, asshole. Crispin might have saved me from my past, but that didn’t make him a saint.

  Sure enough, an encrypted email was waiting for me. I skimmed it.

  Ay Dios mío, I thought. This was bad. Four separate deaths, on both sides of the border. No connection between the victims. But each had died of asphyxiation, their swollen, blackened tongues choking them to death. No medical histories to explain anything remotely like this.

  It definitely sounded like a relic was at work.

  Resigned to returning to Nogales, I packed my bags and headed to the airport. The Seal of Solomon would assure I had a plane ready by the time I got there. There weren’t many perks to working for the Seal—we saw a lot of death, lots of suffering, and some of us pissed off powerful beings called jinn on a regular basis—but the perks we did have were nice. Free, private travel across the globe at a moment’s notice. Virtually unlimited expense accounts. The chance to make a difference—to make things right.

  I might have a lot in my past I’m not proud of, but I would be damned if I’d sit back and not try to redeem at least a few of my sins.

  By nightfall my plane had landed at a tiny airport a stone’s throw from the US/Mexico border. The September air was still hot, but lingering monsoon rains had curbed some of the famous “but it’s a dry heat” quality to it. After all, the relative humidity might be as high as 15%. The locals must be throwing a party.

  A taxi took me to my hotel—a modest two-story affair. No one who insisted on a 4-star hotel would stay in a place like Nogales. This wasn’t a tourist spot. Nogales was a small town, not unlike any other small community you might find across the US. The fact the government had literally split the town in half when they drew the border with Mexico just added a few habañeros to the melting pot.

  I snagged what sleep I could and ate some breakfast, then hit the streets. Crispin had been right on one thing—no one in the Seal had half the contacts here I did. They might be from the seedy side of life, drug runners and petty criminals, but sometimes those are the best contacts to have. These people knew things the cops could only guess at.

  The international border isn’t as impressive as you’d think it is. I’d seen more security around prisons and high schools than I saw here. It’s easy to picture people climbing the fence—after all, in some places it’s hardly larger than the walls around some backyards.

  My fluent English, Spanish, and dual-citizenship passport got me into Mexico without any fuss. The last time I’d visited my homeland I’d been kidnapped by my ex and caught in an enchanted dream with a fellow agent, Adaire Winfield. Between my issues and his psychosis it’d been an interesting ride. On the back of a ten-foot-tall jackalope. I wish I was kidding.

  We’d gotten ourselves out and Crispin had rushed us back to the States. Since then I’d been avoiding Mexico. Home it may be, I wasn’t anxious to relive any of that.

  I walked the streets of Nogales, Sonora like I was born to them. I’d spent enough years as a coyote—a person who shuttles drugs across the border—to practically claim it as truth. I knew every alley within a mile of the border, on both sides. I knew who would shelter me and who would call la policia if they saw my face. Years have passed since I left that life, but not much changes around here.

  I worked my way through my contacts methodically, visiting homes and restaurants and dark corners in abandoned alleyways. I talked to addicts, coyotes, corrupt businessmen. I could see recognition in their eyes when I mentioned the strange deaths. They knew what I was talking about. But they weren’t saying.

  This guy had the people scared. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had them terrorized. You could see it in their eyes. As soon as you mentioned anything close to the subject, they started fearing for their lives. It was like just thinking about what they knew would get them killed. It was one sure way to take over another gang’s territory—be bigger, badder, and crueler than the ruling lord. Make the people more afraid of you than their boss and it was just a matter of time before they’re yours.

  It sucked for an investigator, though. It meant there was nothing you could offer to get them to talk. Money was worthless, because a dead man can’t spend it. Sanctuary is a hope too alien to be conceivable. So you did a lot of asking, not a lot of learning, and about ten times the amount of legwork information gathering like this should take.

  Maybe that’s how I found myself wandering into the small adobe church. If there was one person guys like these would talk to, it was a priest. Men and women said things in confession they wouldn’t admit to themselves in the light of day. I should know. I used to do the same.

  Inside the grounds was a small garden, the plants green and lush despite the limited amount of rainfall. Walking paths snaked through the garden, leading to benches and crucifixes and places to think on God and the bigger issues of life.

  Memories surged through me as I stepped through the old wooden gate. I’d spent more than my share of time contemplating here. This had been my sanctuary. The old priest had never turned me away, even though he knew what I was involved in. What would he think of me now? I’d left my life of drugs and crime. I’d like to think he’d be proud of me, protecting the world from brujeria, as he’d call them.

  The inside of the church hadn’t changed at all. Same wooden beams on the ceiling, same statues of saints lining the walls. Same overwhelming sense of holiness that made me want to crawl away and never show my face again. I stood in the doorway, palms sweating. Every single one of my sins weighed
on my conscience. After the things I’d done, I’d stain the perfection of the altar just by looking at it.

  I crossed myself, took a deep breath, and entered the church. I didn’t burst into flames.

  “Father Ramos?” I called. My voice was dry as the desert itself.

  “He’s no longer with us, God rest his soul,” someone replied. The new priest stepped out from behind the altar. He was a few years older than me, surprisingly young to wear the collar. He was only about 5’8 but he was handsome with dark brown eyes and hair that always managed to look perfect in its messiness. His smile was warm and filled me with joy.

  Ay Dios mío. Why did it have to be him?

  It took me a second to find my voice again. “Miguel?”

  “It’s Father Santiago now,” he said. From the catch in his voice, he was as off-balance by the meeting as I was. He still hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from my face.

  I stared at him. Miguel Santiago, street kid. When we’d first come to Nogales from Mexico City, Miguel had been the one to show us the ropes. He’d taught us how to get drugs across the border and shown us safe places to sleep. From then on, we’d been a family. Nothing could tear us apart.

  It had taken Gabriel, my oldest brother, a while to get used to the fact his little sister had fallen in love with his best friend. Even longer when Miguel had fallen in love with me.

  But then Father Ramos had pulled Miguel off the streets. We saw him less and less as he spent more time with the priest. We saw the signs, and we knew what was going to happen long before Miguel left for seminary. He was leaving the life for good. And if that meant treating my heart like a piñata, well … it came with the territory.

  I blinked and looked away from Miguel. That was at least a lifetime ago. We weren’t deserted, lonely teenagers anymore. We’d grown up. We had lives.

  And he was a priest. Damn it.

  “What are you doing here, Celestina?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, Father.”

  He shifted a little, like he was uncomfortable with me using the title. Served him right. “Nogales is my home, Celestina. This chapel is my home. Once Father Ramos passed, do you really think I could have let this place go on without him?”

  Of course not. Father Ramos was a father to us all, in more ways than the honorific said, but Miguel had always been closest to him. He would have to carry on Father Ramos’ tradition.

  “How long since he …” I couldn’t complete the question.

  “Not quite a year.”

  We stood in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  More silence.

  “Celestina? You never answered my question. What are you doing here?” He paused. “Are you in need of confession?”

  Oh, wouldn’t that be rich. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been at least a lifetime since my last confession. I’m having lustful thoughts about my priest …

  “No. There have been some strange deaths in Nogales,” I blurted. “Black tongues, asphyxiation. I thought you might have heard something about them. You know, since people … talk to you.”

  I cringed. Smooth, Celestina. Faced with my first love after five years apart and I couldn’t even string a coherent sentence together. Suddenly all my time at the Seal meant nothing, and I was just an awkward sixteen-year-old fawning over the cute boy next to me.

  Or the love-struck eighteen-year-old who watched the man I was supposed to marry leave me to become a priest. It was because of that I went back to Mexico City. I was lost, confused, heartbroken. Desperate for love. So when Lobo had shown an interest in me, I hadn’t fought him.

  I shuddered. What a mistake that had been.

  I hastily wiped a tear from my eye before it could fall. I couldn’t let Miguel see me cry.

  He took a few steps toward me. I had to fight the urge to fall into his arms, as I had when we were on the streets. He’d been my strength back then.

  I had to be my own strength, now.

  “Are you all right, Celestina?”

  I blinked away the last of my tears and buried the pain. He wasn’t Miguel anymore. He was Father Santiago.

  Right.

  “I’m fine.”

  A few more steps, until he was only a couple feet from me.

  I looked him in the eye, daring him to deny my strength. I didn’t need him, or anyone, anymore. I would stand without them. I …

  I paused, looking at him more intently. There was supposed to be empathy, or surprise, or something in his eyes. But they looked empty. And bloodshot. It could have been grief, or lack of sleep, but I’d been in the life long enough to recognize the signs.

  “Miguel, are you using again?”

  His jaw tightened and he very deliberately did not move. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. To hide a tremor?

  “Damn it! You went into this life to leave all that behind! And now you’re going back to it?” But you aren’t coming back to me?

  I covered my mouth with one hand, realizing I’d shouted at a priest. I was the worst Catholic girl ever.

  Remember why you’re here, Celestina. Information. That’s all.

  I pushed away the emotion, deep inside where it couldn’t betray me. I was Celestina de la Cruz, agent of the Seal of Solomon. This was a man who could give me information about a relic. He’s not The One Who Got Away. I would not let my heart get broken again.

  “The deaths,” I said, keeping my eyes on the floor. Bare stone, polished smooth by thousands of feet over a hundred years or more. Made beautiful through the abuse it had taken.

  Like I might be, someday.

  “You know anything I’m told in confession is confidential,” Miguel said.

  “I’m not asking for details. Just direction.”

  He paused. I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t return the gaze. I couldn’t stand to see him like this. The collar, the signs of use, all of it was heartbreaking.

  “You might want to get a drink,” he said. “Catch up with relations.”

  I groaned, but nodded. I knew where Miguel was telling me to go. I’d just hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to that.

  * * *

  It was midafternoon, just before dinner rush. I followed winding, seemingly random streets, breaking away from the farthest edges of the markets around the border and into a locals-only neighborhood. The asphalt was broken and littered with trash. At least three stray dogs sniffed through the refuse—there had to be more I couldn’t see. If Nogales had anything, it was stray dogs.

  Before long I paused, inhaling deeply. The smell of fresh, hot tortillas was a drug all on its own. It also told me I was almost there.

  I followed the scent to a tiny restaurant with no sign out front. Either you knew to come here, or you weren’t told about it. Those who didn’t know were better off for it.

  The interior was dim, only brilliant sunshine streaming through large windows lighting the room. Empty bottles of tequila and Dos Equis lined the top of the walls. Ceiling fans whirred lazily in the heat. This place was an oven on summer afternoons, but that’s why Hispanics love our siestas. Get up early and get your work done, sleep during the hottest part of the day, and party til the wee hours of the night. ¡Esto es la vida!

  I wove through shabby chairs and sloping tables to the bar, where even more bottles of liquor—full ones, this time—lined the back wall. An old tube TV hung from the corner, playing clips from the latest fútbol match. I might be an American now, but I’ll never call it soccer. I have my pride.

  The woman behind the bar looked like she belonged in a minivan, wearing yoga pants and chain-drinking Starbucks lattes. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. I wasn’t considered tall, only 5’5, but she was even smaller than me. A plain black t-shirt was stretched tightly across her chest, tasteful jewelry sparkling everywhere. What was a woman like that doing in Mexico?

  “What can I get for you?” she asked with enough pep to make a cheerleader pro
ud. Okay. Add perky and overly friendly to the stereotype. Her accent was one hundred percent American. East coast, maybe?

  “Is Angelo here?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the back. Who are you?”

  “I’m his sister.”

  Her eyes grew huge as she stared at me. “Oh my God. You’re Angelo’s sister!”

  Yeah, that’s what I said.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just … it’s great to finally meet you. I’m Nikki. Angelo’s wife.”

  That stopped me cold. Angelo was married? To an American? Mamá would be rolling in her grave.

  “Nikki? What’s going on out there?” My brother came out from the kitchen, froze, and eyed me like I was an unpleasant hallucination. Medium height, too skinny for his own good, arms laden with leather cuffs and silver rings, he looked just like I remembered. Right down to the bloodshot eyes and perpetual grimace.

  “Celestina?” he asked, his voice rough like he’d just finished screaming. He’d sounded like that ever since a particularly bad run-in with some gang members and a garrote. He looked from me to his wife and back. “Mierda.”

  “Good to see you too, Angelo.” I glanced at Nikki. “So glad you’ve been keeping me updated on family events.”

  “Like you would have cared,” he said.

  Ouch. “You could have given me a chance to care in the first place.”

  He looked down, ashamed. Ha. Back at you.

  “Well, now you know. Nikki, Celestina. Celestina, Nikki. If you have a problem with her you can keep it to yourself.”

  “I’m an American now, too, Angelo. I don’t have a problem with you marrying one.”

  He acted like he didn’t care, but I saw him stand just a little straighter. I smiled at Nikki, and she grinned back at me.

  I eyed the bar. “I’m surprised you still have this old place.”

  He looked me over, taking in my well-cut jeans and blouse. I wasn’t flaunting—only a fool would flaunt in the places I had been going—but I didn’t look shabby, either. “I’m surprised you even remembered it. The family business was never that important to you.”