Because I wished somebody would do that for me, I regaled him with stories about La Rosa Negra, though I don’t think he believed me about the cherry classic cars surrounding the dive. I told him about my first visit there, Esteban, whose sister’s body I helped to find, and the killer we brought to light years later through the tattoos on his knuckles. Without meaning to, I told him about dancing with Chance—the first time he ever broke his long-held reserve with me. In that moment, my hands clenched on the wheel. I could feel him moving behind me, his arms around me, his scent wrapping me up. With every fiber in my being, I ached.
When I paused, Booke said gently, “You love him so.”
There were no words, so I just nodded. The conversation stalled after that. Just as well. I needed full attention to navigate the busier streets of San Antonio. Laredo wasn’t a Podunk town, but there was more traffic here, more people too. After a series of wrong turns, I located the right street. In daytime, the area was on the seedy side. Darkness cloaked the peeling paint on the surrounding houses, the sun-faded pavement and cracked sidewalks with scraggly grass forcing its way up through the cement. A few kids were sitting on cars half a block up, likely lookouts for whoever ran the business in the neighborhood. I ignored them, knowing they wouldn’t pay any attention to the Pinto. A major player wouldn’t be caught dead in this ride.
La Rosa Negra was a lime green one-story building in crumbling stucco. It needed a coat of paint; hell, it could’ve used one the first time I visited. Inside, the bar was quiet, no waitress, just the guy behind the bar. He had long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, and he chin-checked me in greeting, as I came out of the sun into the shady interior. Behind the counter, the picture of the maiden with the black rose clenched in her teeth still hung in its place of honor. The ceilings were low, beams and plaster giving the place a rustic air reinforced by the mismatched furniture and the scarred dance floor, empty at the moment. Ranchera music played quietly on an old radio, not a song I recognized, though. I scanned the room for potential troublemakers, but there were only a couple of drinkers . . . and one matched the description Chuch had given me, including the straw cowboy hat.
“That’s our guy,” I told Booke, who followed me to the old-timer’s table.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked in English, then repeated in Spanish to be polite.
Beto offered a smile in reply, showing a couple of missing teeth. His sclera were faintly yellowed, his nose red, but he seemed happy to have company. With a broad, sweeping gesture, he indicated the seats opposite. “Not at all.”
Booke and I settled. Then I said, “I heard you used to do some border work.”
“I’m no coyote.” He narrowed his eyes. “And even if I did help some people out back in the day, I’m retired now.”
“That’s not why we’re asking,” Booke put in. His accent surprised the old man, defusing some of his righteous indignation.
Beto cut an uncertain look at me. “What then?”
“I need to find someone, but I only have a vague idea where to start. A friend said you might be able to identify a sketch of a rock formation.”
“Maybe. Buy me a drink, tell me a story, and I’ll have a look.” He waved the ’tender over without awaiting my response. “The good tequila, make it a double. She’s paying my shot.”
I nodded; as I put my money on the table, Booke said, “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Please.”
At the barman’s inquiring look, I added, “Nothing for me. I’m driving.”
And trying to find a chained Nephilim. But I didn’t figure the ’tender cared, though he might’ve heard weirder stories in his day. He served us quickly, then returned to his semi-doze behind the bar. To Beto I gave a condensed version of the situation: my friend was missing, but he’d managed to describe what he’d seen before we were cut off. That version of events had the benefit of not making me sound like a total headcase, even to a drunk.
Beto knocked his booze back without waiting for salt or lime. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then said, “Show me what you have.”
I pushed the sketch across to him. “It’s not much, I know.”
He perused it with a faint frown. “I feel like I should know this place, but I can’t place it. The formation is unique.”
“That’s what I thought too.” Booke killed his bourbon with a pleased expression.
The cool thing about rolling with Booke was that for him, everything was an adventure. For the longest time, the modern world had just been a fable, though technology trickled into his prison via demon magick. Still, it must be hard to envision the changes until you saw them with your own eyes. Harder still to accept that you’d never see anything firsthand; instead you’d live out your unnaturally long life alone. Macleish had planned his punishment well.
“Any suggestions?” It had been a long shot that this former coyote would be able to place the locale at a glance. My luck just didn’t run that way.
“Hire a witch to dowse?” Beto offered.
“That won’t work,” I murmured. “We already tried. Well, thanks anyway.”
As I pushed to my feet, the old man snapped his fingers. “Must be your lucky day, señorita. I just remembered where I’ve seen that place. Back in the bad old days, it was used as a temporary holding pen for girls—”
“Who had been kidnapped and enslaved?” I’d stumbled into a human trafficking ring back when I was trying to locate Chance’s mother, kidnapped by a cartel she crossed years ago. Ambivalence stirred in reaction to Beto’s revelation. On one hand, I was glad the op had been shut down for good when we took out their chief warlock . . . but so many girls had died.
But the idea of driving out to a remote hidey-hole associated with cartel business? It didn’t seem like the sanest thing I’d ever done. But what the hell.
“Can you give me directions?”
“I think so. Let me make a call. I was only out that way once, and I wasn’t driving.” He gazed at me expectantly, so I handed him my phone.
The subsequent conversation passed in rapid-fire Spanish; I caught bits and pieces, but some of it was too fast for me to translate. By the time he hung up, Beto looked pasty, and when he flattened his hands on the table, they were trembling.
“They’re not using it anymore, but I just talked to an amigo. Said he knows a guy who went out there recently, but . . . he never came back.”
So there’s something guarding Kel. Makes sense.
“You feel like battling some demons?” I whispered to Booke.
He flashed me a wide smile. “I feel as if I’ve waited my whole life for someone to ask me that.”