Hungry Ghosts (Eric Carter #3)(6)

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

“She needs you for something,” Bustillo says. He pours out more tequila for us. “Do you know what?”

“No. And I don’t care.” Not anymore. For a while it was driving me crazy. Second guessing her. Trying to figure out her game. But then I realized, it didn’t matter. Because whatever it is, I’m not going to let it happen. I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her husband. I’m going to kill her avatar. I’m going to kill anyone who gets in my way.

“You don’t? It seems you’ve been given a gift. Why not accept it?”

I’ve heard this one before. Everybody seems to think it’s like a fucking Christmas present.

“I know this game. This is where I say, ‘I don’t want it,’ and you say, ‘But the power! The opportunity!’ And I say, ‘You don’t get it,’ because you don’t. It’s not a gift. It’s my sister’s murder. It’s my friend’s death. It’s me trapped in jade. It’s a debt I haven’t paid back, yet. And now I think we’re done here.”

“Yes,” he says. “I am very sorry.”

He says it less as someone offering condolences and more as someone who is apologizing for something he’s done. Or, more likely, something he’s about to do. I don’t give him the chance.

I grab the shotgun and pull the trigger. It goes off in my hand with a thunderous blast that should vaporize Bustillo’s chest, but he’s fast. I feel a flare of magic as he lets off a spell he already had primed, and the desk, a thick, oak monstrosity that has to weigh a few hundred pounds, flips up blocking him and forcing my shot to go into the ceiling.

Minor talent, my ass. With as much power as he’s got I can see why his ass is so chapped that he’s not the one with Santa Muerte.

Buckshot tears through the edge of the desk, and I barely keep from being flattened as it comes crashing down toward me. I kick backward, rolling out of the way and to my feet.

So far Bustillo is the first mage I’ve run into on this trip. It was really just a matter of time and I’m actually a little surprised it’s taken this long. Most of the people whose heads I’ve busted have been your run-of-the-mill narco thugs. Tough bastards, dangerous, but normal. Normal I can eat for breakfast.

I unload the Benelli at him. Five rounds, but I’m not really expecting anything to connect. He’s already on the move and any mage worth the title is going to have defensive spells ready to go at a moment’s notice. Bustillo works for Sinaloa, which is about as cutthroat a cartel as they come. They’re not known for coming at you in a fair fight. He’s going to have something extra special up his sleeve for just such occasions.

Sure enough the buckshot scatters as it gets close, splitting into two streams of pellets and peppering the wall on either side of him with holes. I drop the shotgun, it’s useless, anyway, and scoop up the obsidian blade from where it’s embedded itself into the floor. As I grab the knife, Bustillo gets hold of his submachine gun and stitches a line of bullets across the room.

I drop behind the desk. Like Bustillo I have defensive spells, too. Apparently, they’re not as good as his are. Even with the magic in my tattoos redirecting most of the rounds I get tagged by a bullet in my shoulder. Normally, that would be a problem.

But normal left the building a long time back. The bullet that gets through my protections mushrooms on contact and stops dead. The jade crawling through my body has gone up to my shoulders and down most of both arms. I can’t scratch it, can’t break it. And it’s really good at stopping bullets. A small bright spot in an otherwise fucked situation.

I pull the Browning. I don’t think I’m going to get close enough to him for the knife to be very effective. Even the Browning isn’t going to do much good. It’ll make big holes, but unless I can do something about his magical defenses it’s not going to do a whole lot.

“So was I right?” I say. “You think I’m an idiot for rejecting Santa Muerte’s ‘gift’? I’m thinking you see yourself as a much more worthy recipient of it, yeah?”

For somebody who’s just one more stepping stone to getting what I want, Bustillo’s turning out to be a big pain in my ass.

Bustillo says nothing, but I can hear footsteps nearby. I can feel him drawing power from the local pool of magic. It’s slow, a trickle. He’s hoping I won’t notice. That gives me an idea.

Mages get their power from within and without. We have our own reserves, and we can tap into the ambient magic that infuses a place. Different places have more or less power. Some places are better for certain types of spells than others. And each place has a flavor, a scent to its magic given by its people, its history.

New York tastes like hot metal and granite, San Francisco like hammered brass and filigree. Los Angeles is a twisty mess of cultures and flavors that changes from block to block. The magic here in Durango is wild, violent. Hot and sweet. A product of its history.

“Because, you know, I’ve heard that before. Folks who figure if they can kill me they can take my place as Santa Muerte’s favorite. Better yet, if they can get hold of Mictlantecuhtli’s blade, they can take my skin, take my place as Santa Muerte’s pet. That’s why you were really waiting for me, isn’t it? Wanted some uninterrupted quality time to take my skin?”