Gods & Monsters (32 page)

Sylvie ran the truck through a car wash, rinsing off any blood that might have seeped into the back, and called it done.

SEEN IN FULL DAYLIGHT, CACHITA’S HOUSE SEEMED ALL THE MORE out of place in what was otherwise a nice old neighborhood. Sylvie parked the truck in front of the massively overgrown lawn, scattering lizards and spotted cats. Feeling eyes on her, she turned. Cachita’s next-door neighbor stood in the doorway, staring over at Sylvie. When she realized she had Sylvie’s attention, she beckoned imperiously.

Sylvie gritted her teeth but adjusted her path. The woman, dressed neatly in jeans and a silk shell, looked like the type to get difficult if thwarted. Sylvie wasn’t in the mood for difficult. She forded the grass and stepped onto the neighbor’s close-clipped lawn.

“Are you with the city?” the woman asked. She was younger than Sylvie had thought. In her fifties, not the seventies she had imagined when Cachita had mentioned her cat-crazy neighbor.

“Nope,” Sylvie said. “Just visiting.”

“She’s your friend?” The woman’s mouth wrinkled in disgust.

“Not that either,” Sylvie said.

“Well, tell her I’ve called the city. She needs to get her house cleaned up. It’s an eyesore. It’s always been an eyesore, but we were assured the new tenant was going to fix it up.”

“Your cats seem to be enjoying it,” Sylvie said. “Isn’t there some limit to how many you’re allowed?”

The woman’s brows rose sky-high. “My cats? They’re not mine. They came with her.”

Sylvie absorbed that with a spark of strangely potent anger, nodded once, and stalked off the woman’s lawn.

“Where are you going? I’m not done.”

“Don’t care,” Sylvie said. She stormed up Cachita’s front path, pounded on the door. When there was no answer, she studied the warped front door, the gap that let AC bleed out. She kicked hard just beside the latch; the door groaned. She shifted her weight, braced herself better, and kicked again. The latch ripped through the humidity-rotted wood frame, and the door slammed open.

Sylvie kicked it shut behind her, found Cachita scrambling out of her bedroom, Taser in hand, bare feet, and panicked.

Recognition blossomed as Sylvie snapped on the overhead light, but her expression stayed wary.

“Did you lie about absolutely everything?” Sylvie asked. “Even your goddamned cats?”

Cachita’s shoulders drew tight, then dropped. She said, “You going to shoot me? Or you going to wait for answers?”

“You’re the one with the Taser,” Sylvie said.

“You’re the one with the gun,” Cachita said. Her eyes flickered downward.

Sylvie followed her gaze. One thing Cachita was right about. Sylvie didn’t even remember unholstering the gun.

Fallout from killing Patrice, from hanging out with a Fury. Her temper burned hotter and faster than usual. And that was saying something.

“How ’bout we both put our toys away,” Cachita said. Her voice quivered.

Another act? Or honest fear? Sylvie hated that she didn’t know. “You first.”

Cachita bit her lip, running calculations.

“I’ve got the gun,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got the advantage here.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got nosy neighbors.”

“Put it down,” Sylvie said.

Cachita sighed, let the Taser drop. “Happy?”

“Not even close.” Sylvie gestured Cachita closer, edged around her, picked up and pocketed the Taser; only then did she holster the gun.

“So your little assistant looked into me, I guess,” Cachita said.

“She did. Elena Valdes isn’t your cousin. You aren’t a reporter.”

“Hey, I could be,” Cachita said. It was a feeble rebuttal. The young woman looked suddenly tired. Burdened. It was more than just the sleep disruption; it was ground-in stress that she had managed to cover up with her act.

“Sit,” Sylvie said.

“I’m the host here,” Cachita said. “Just so you remember.”

“Sit,” Sylvie repeated.

Cachita flounced into a seat, a little of her previous attitude surfacing. “If this ends with bondage, I’m going to be pissed.”

“Who are you?”

Cachita laughed. “That’s your question? Isn’t that obvious? Sylvie, I’m you.”

SYLVIE LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM, THE GLOOM OF IT, THE FILES stapled to the walls, the disorder and chaos of a life, and grimaced. She pulled up the only other seat in the living room, a rickety ladder-back chair with a cane seat, perched on it. “You’re a PI?”

“I’m a god’s bitch,” Cachita said. “Just like you and Justice.”

“I’m no one’s dog,” Sylvie said.

“Then you’re lucky. Or deluded,” Cachita said. She put her face in her hands. “Or your god is kind.”

“Gods aren’t kind,” Sylvie said. “Not their nature.”

“Tell me about it,” Cachita gasped. Laughed again. “Oh god.”

“So you’re Tepeyollotl’s—”

“Yes.”

“He hired you? To find Azpiazu?”

“Hired is a human word,” Cachita said. “I’m not sure there was anything human about what happened to me.”

Sylvie said, “Tell me?”

Cachita shuddered.

“C’mon,” Sylvie said. “You’ve latched onto me. You’ve studied me. You’ve been hunting any excuse to talk to me. You’re dying for an audience.”

“Your girl looked me up? She tell you I was an anthro student?”

“Yeah.”

“Latin American culture,” Cachita said. “I went down there. I worked there. In Mexico. I went down worried about
los narcos
. About my health. About making something new and noteworthy academically out of plowed ground. I didn’t worry about gods. I didn’t even believe in them.”

“Atheists are fair game,” Sylvie said.

“Know that now.” Cachita rubbed her face. Her lashes were spiky with tears that didn’t quite fall. Too controlled for that. Too tired for the catharsis of it.

“So instead of finding a study topic, you found Tepé.”

“He found me. My dreams first, then my waking hours. Until every moment of every day was filled with his presence. He’s not . . . He’s not very good at communicating,” she said. “It was like being forced under a waterfall while someone yells at you. Except the waterfall was blood and screams and knives. I thought I was going insane. I
was
insane after a month of it. Then I started waking up with a jaguar in my room.”

“Off-putting,” Sylvie said.

“One word for it,” Cachita said. “ ‘Terrifying’ was another. But it shocked me sane again. It wasn’t in my head, you get that? Something there. Something impossible. But real. Something I could touch. Something I could smell. Other people saw it. I could tell by the screaming.” Cachita shrugged. “The last time I saw it was in a hotel, and it had stopped first to eat some woman’s dog.

“So the next time the yelling started, I yelled back. It was that or crumble. It helped. He stopped sending jaguars and shaking things. Still get house cats and uncontrollable kudzu. And a lot of anger. He wants Azpiazu found. He wants Azpiazu dead.”

“He give you any ideas on how to accomplish that?”

“I just need to summon him,” Cachita said. “That part’s easy. It’s finding Azpiazu that’s fucking things up.”

“Been there, done that,” Sylvie said. “Let’s back up. Summon Tepeyollotl? That’s not going to happen on my watch.”

“You found him? And you didn’t call me?” Cachita wailed it, a woman who learned her chance at freedom might have escaped her.

“You lied to me,” Sylvie said. “I didn’t have any reason to think you’d be useful. Your own damn fault.”

Cachita panted, brought herself under control. “I thought we were going to be partners.”

“You researched me,” Sylvie said. “You know I don’t do partners.”

“What happened?” Cachita said. “With Azpia—”

“I know what you mean,” Sylvie said. She closed her eyes briefly, the better to shut out Cachita’s burgeoning hope. “We found his lair. We saved one of the women. Then he came back and caught us in the act.”

“No,” Cachita said. “No, dammit, he’ll have moved by now! He’ll be gone. You ruined our chance. He’ll be in a new state.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Sylvie said. “Stop panicking. He wants something, and he’s close to getting it, Cachita. Stop reacting and start thinking. Why did Tepeyollotl change his mind?”

“What?” Cachita said. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, dared to rise and start pacing. Sylvie watched, but didn’t try to make her sit again. Cachita looked like she was the kind who thought on her feet. “Tepeyollotl changed his mind. . . . You mean the curse?”

“I do,” Sylvie said. “First he curses Azpiazu with uncontrollable shape-shifting and immortality. Then he . . . decides no? To kill him instead?”

“Azpiazu controlled the curse,” Cachita said. “That was never Tepeyollotl’s intention.”

“But it took him this long to decide to send someone after him? A human agent? No. That doesn’t make sense. Something changed, Cachita. You’re not a reporter. But you were a student, and you’ve done decent research. Take yourself out of the equation and think about it. Why kill him now?”

Cachita said, “I’m the first human he’s reached out to in centuries. I knew that. His language. His thought patterns. He’s archaic and totally uninvolved with this modern age. He’s violent and simplistic. He wants. He takes.”

“So what does he want?” Sylvie said. “You can’t tell me you didn’t research him. Not if he’s holding your leash.”

Cachita shook her head, not a rebuttal, but a sort of exasperation. “You want to talk about Tepeyollotl now? Azpiazu’s the problem.”

“Yes and no,” Sylvie said. “Azpiazu’s pissed off the god. He’s outthought Tepeyollotl’s curse and punishment. But if we don’t know how Tepeyollotl thinks—”

“He doesn’t,” Cachita said. “He’s broken. Badly broken. Look, Shadows, here’s a history lesson. Tezcatlipoca was one of the primary gods in Aztec culture. He had . . . aspects, like a mirror. He showed different faces, different things, to his people depending on their needs. He juggled personalities. He reshaped himself, over and over and over. He was clever. He was cunning. He was . . . everything.”

“ ‘Was’ being the operative word,” Sylvie said.

“When the Aztecs crashed. In the sixteenth century, when the Spaniards came, complete with sorcerers as well as soldiers, Tezcatlipoca was spread thin across his region. Focused in different directions. I’m not sure what the sorcerers did—Tepeyollotl doesn’t remember—but he shattered. Became only the parts, separate and fading. Tepeyollotl, the jaguar god, the earthquake bringer, is all that’s left of Tezcatlipoca, and he’s mostly animal instinct.”

“So Azpiazu can outthink him,” Sylvie said. “Tepeyollotl’s curse was powerful but simple. A reaction to a slight—”

“Killing of his acolyte by a sorcerer,” Cachita said. Her pacing slowed. “Yes. He reacted at once. He didn’t think about it. He hates sorcerers.” Outside in the yard, in the overgrown grass, cats howled. Cachita flinched.

“He can hear us?”

“I’m not sure if they’re his spies or just reacting to his interest in me,” Cachita said.

“Assume spies,” Sylvie said. “Safer that way.”

“Well, I’ve no secrets from him,” Cachita said. “He’s been in my head, in my dreams, in every thought I ever had. Go ahead and speculate. Why not? It’s not like he’s easily offended or something. Not like he curses those he thinks are betraying him.”

Sylvie got up, found a can of soda in Cachita’s barebones kitchen, and passed it over to the woman. She was close to hyperventilating. Cachita pushed it away, and Sylvie said, “Take a sip or two. Calm down. You’re not betraying him. You want Azpiazu dead. So do I. We’re just trying to spare Tepeyollotl from making the trip to this plane.”

Cachita said, “It’d be easier if we just called him when we found Azpiazu.”

“No, Cachita,” Sylvie said. “No, it really wouldn’t. There’s nothing easy about a god’s presence on earth.”

She looked mulish, and Sylvie fought down the urge to argue. She could press that point later. The more urgent problem was Azpiazu. “He’s going to need another woman,” Sylvie said. “The spell is broken, right now.”

“You don’t think he’s just running,” Cachita said, coming back to the topic Sylvie needed her to focus on. “You think something else is happening.”

“Yes,” Sylvie gritted. “Wales, my consultant, says the magic he’s using is too strong, getting stronger.”

Cachita licked her lips. “Magic is like any force. Struggle with it, and you get stronger. Isn’t that all it is?”

“The weight he’s lifting is a godly one,” Sylvie said. “Not exactly easy to build up to. Even if it’s a broken god.”

Cachita stepped to the papered-over window, leaned her head against it, then slunk toward Sylvie, as wary as one of the feral cats outside. She crouched near Sylvie’s chair, and said, voice a bare whisper, “Thing is. I thought. I thought I was getting used to him. To his words. The feel of him in my mind. In my dreams. But maybe”—another glance toward the walls of the house, another pitch lower in tone—“maybe he’s getting weaker.”