Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(35)

“I’m not carrying,” Hajo said.

Lon didn’t press it, so I assumed he read Hajo’s answer as honest. “All right. Let’s go.”

We piled in Lon’s SUV. I drove. Death Boy and Lazy Eye sat in the second row behind us, their feet wading in Jupe’s pile of comics. Lon sat in the passenger seat with a short-barreled Lupara shotgun in his lap, like some Sicilian mobster. I wanted to ask him who he planned on shooting, Hajo or some dead bodies, but he was in a black mood, so I let it go.

Before I put the car in gear, Hajo spoke up from the back. “There’s the little matter of payment before we start.” I glanced at him through the rearview mirror and pulled the brown, half-ounce bottle of the potion out of my jacket pocket, handing it to him through the front seats. Then I pulled out onto the street and headed toward Ocean Drive.

Hajo held the tiny bottle up against the window, checking the level of the liquid in the dimming afternoon light. He unscrewed the dropper top and sucked up the medicinal.

“Bob?” Hajo prodded.

“Is this really necessary?” Bob asked. “I told you, I can vouch for her.”

“Open wide,” Hajo insisted.

“Only one drop. No more. It’s brewed from a mixture of calamus root and Atropa belladonna.”

Hajo paused.

“Deadly nightshade,” I clarified. “One of the most toxic plants known to man. One too many drops could cause heart palpitations and blindness. A few more could kill.”

“One drop. Got it,” Hajo said. “Open.”

Sour and depressed, Bob opened his mouth and allowed Hajo to drop the liquid on his waiting tongue. Bob made a face and swallowed.

“How long for it to take effect?” Hajo asked.

I waited as Bob’s pupils dilated into enormous black holes. “Now,” I said.

Hajo studied Bob. “How long does it last?”

“Thirty minutes. An hour. Depends on the person.”

“Have you dosed me with this before?” Bob asked me nervously. He was starting to sweat again; he was quite possibly the sweatiest demon alive.

“I never thought I needed to,” I replied.

He sighed and swallowed hard. “Go ahead and do what you’re gonna do, Hajo.”

Hajo spun the bottle in his hand, thinking for a short time before he spoke. “I can’t ask you to do something you wouldn’t mind doing. That proves nothing. It has to be something that you would only do against your will or better judgment.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Lon and I glanced at each other.

Hajo settled on his test. “Since you and Mr. Butler aren’t the best of friends, Bobby boy, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be eager to piss him off any more than you already have. That would be the last thing you want right now.”

Bob panicked, reacting to the vassal effect and Hajo’s suggestion as Lon turned to glare at them, unhappy about where this was headed.

“Even though you’re deathly scared of him, you’d do anything for Cady, wouldn’t you?” Hajo said. “Why don’t you show Cady how you really feel about her. Kiss her. Now.”

Lon and I uttered a series of outcries that quickly erupted into random angry shouts as Bob unbuckled his seat belt and stuck his head between us. He was mumbling as he reached for me—saying that he was sorry, that he had to do this.

“Sit down!” Lon barked, shoving at Bob.

Hajo laughed as Bob pressed forward. For several seconds, the front seat was a mass of tangled arms and Bob’s clammy lips trying to make contact with my face, then Lon stuck the antique sawed-off shotgun into Bob’s chest. “Sit the f*ck down.”

Bob wailed, but tried to push the gun away, undeterred. I cut the wheel harder than I expected—I was unaccustomed to driving something so big. The SUV swerved violently, hit the curb, and plowed over it. Bob’s head slammed against the side of seat. Lon grabbed the oh-shit handle and braced himself while cussing me out. I got control of the car, but not before a couple of drivers honked, and not before my heart rate tripled.

Bob moaned and gripped the side of this head, trying to catch his breath. This had gone too far. Nobody could stop Bob but the person who dosed him.

“Hajo!” I bellowed into the rearview mirror. “Make him stop!”

Lon twisted in his seat, shoved Bob roughly, and pointed the Lupara at Hajo. “Now, you son of a bitch.”

“All right, all right!” Hajo said, still fighting back laughter. “Bob, stop trying to kiss Cady. Sit in your seat and be a good boy. Simon says.”

Bob whimpered as Hajo pocketed the little vial, pleased as pie. “You brew good stuff, Cady,” he concluded. “Now let’s hunt your dead body. Where’s this tracking object you promised?”

We drove around La Sirena with the rear windows cracked while Hajo held Bishop’s key in his hands and went into some sort of mild trance. One hour passed, then another. On occasion, he mumbled a quick direction: “Turn right,” or “Trail’s gone cold. Loop back around.” Compliant but depressed, Bob was crumpled in the seat next to Hajo, wedged up against the door.

Lon and I sat in silence as rain drizzled, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm on the windshield. Worry stalked me from a distance. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more: for Hajo to find some thirty-year-old mass grave, or for him to fail and find nothing. Either prospect was undesirable, and both made me anxious.