Last leg of this mess. My hands shook a little as I went to meet Paolo. He was sitting in Denny’s—a mundane place for this meeting—just as Escobar had promised. In this setting, he looked even younger than he had at his father’s house. It was a wonder nobody had asked him why he wasn’t in school.

“Breakfast?” He rose as I approached, well mannered in a way I found odd, given what I knew of his father.

“We have time.” And I was hungry.

While we ate, we made small talk. Nobody could’ve guessed what we’d be doing later that night. Hell, I didn’t even know.

Though pancakes and eggs had sounded delicious, I couldn’t finish them. I fed the sausage to Butch in discreet nibbles. He took care of the bacon too. Afterward, I paid the bill, and we headed out to the Chevelle.

Paolo had a black duffel; I had only my purse. It seemed we both traveled light. He got in the passenger side, his face serene. Perhaps he was just too young to worry about the future, but I didn’t think so, and his serenity calmed my nerves. I trusted that Escobar wouldn’t risk a gifted heir without a strong conviction that he could prevail.

“Does he have you do stuff like this a lot?” I asked, putting the car in gear.

“No. This is a test.”

My heart nearly stopped. “Of what?”

“My skill. My loyalty. If I pass, he will reward me with more responsibility in the organization.”

“Rite of manhood?” Talk about hard-core. Escobar sure loved his trials.

“Sí, near enough.”

Throughout the day, I got a number of phone calls for a woman named Juanita. Apparently she’d traded her phone to Ramos without informing her creditors. I blew them off, and at noon, we headed for the border.

Crossing into Mexico never took very long. While the United States cared a great deal who got in, Mexico just wanted people to spend money. The agent checked our documents with cursory interest and waved us through.

Across the border lay a shantytown bearing the unlikely name of Blanca Navidad. The residents who founded the place claimed it snowed in the desert when they started building their homes: tin roofs, scrap wood and metal, chunks of scavenged cement. As far as I could tell, they had no electricity, and from the smell, no sewage disposal either. Most of the Navidadians worked in the maquiladoras, which were duty-free export assembly plants. The place made me sad as we drove past.

“I would live in a place like this,” Paolo said softly, “if my father had not taken me in.”

As far as I was concerned, Escobar owed the kid more than a living, but it never did any good to get between child and parent. “Lucky he did.”

“Not really. He kept only the gifted. My mother was nothing, a native whore.”

My fingers clenched on the steering wheel. “She gave you life. I’m sure she loved you.”

Paolo raised a brow. “Did she? Is that why she sold me to el Señor for eight hundred pesos and twenty-one grams of skag?”

Shit. Maybe you’re better off with Escobar. Since I didn’t know what to say, I drove on in silence. We passed through Nuevo Laredo and kept going. I remembered accompanying Chance to the zona, and how he’d fought for me there. No. Not Chance. Think about Jesse. Wonder if he’s healing.

The surrounding land was dry, a long, low valley. According to the GPS, we had arrived at the correct coordinates—and several hours early. We’d long since left the main highway, off the beaten path on a dirt road. I wanted to check the place out, so I parked the car and got out to look around.

Montoya had chosen well; there was no cover for miles. Mountains in the distance on either side rendered this spot remote in ways few modern locations could match. There was just endless brown scrub sloping to unspoiled peaks.

Now we just had to wait. Butch didn’t seem to mind; he could nap anywhere. I fidgeted and shifted and considered all the potential worst-case scenarios. In self-defense, I studied my grimoires and tried to commit a couple of spells to memory that might work, if I could cast them quick enough. I sat on the hood of the car and watched the road behind us. I pondered my options.

After arguing a little with Paolo about the viability, I went to work with salt and chalk dust, placing them carefully to the left of the driver’s door. Against the dirt road, it didn’t show, but the energy I used in crafting the circle mattered more than my tools; when my enemy arrived, I’d be ready.

At last the bass roar of a powerful engine signaled an arrival, and the dust trail rising confirmed what we heard. I got my athame out and hid it behind my back. As he parked, Montoya had to be thinking, Look at her . . . she’s helpless. Dead meat.

A stocky man in late middle years, Montoya eased out of the driver’s seat, an enormous gun dangling from one hand. He hadn’t brought an army of thugs, as I expected. Instead, only Vicente emerged. Even numbers? That decision suggested Montoya had complete confidence in his brother’s ability to deal with me up close, and I hated to think what led to that surety.

“You’re dumber than you look,” Montoya growled, leveling his gun on me. “You brought a boy with you? Only a boy?”

Before I could reply, Vicente lobbed a spell, crackling blue energy. I dove behind the Chevelle and it hit the hood with a hiss, dissipating with the smell of a lightning strike. Fuck. He called it before and held it ready. I don’t even know to do that. There’s no fucking way I can beat him in a straightup duel.

Paolo crouched beside me as Montoya opened fire. They sprayed the dirt and pelted the old Chevy; I hoped like hell they wouldn’t break my summoning circle. I needed to get close enough to pull my ace in the hole, but with the two of them out there, it would take some quick thinking to push those five feet.

“I thought you can’t die,” Montoya taunted in heavily accented English. “Made a deal with the devil, no? Yet you cower like a little bitch, not the fearsome red witch. So beg me, and I make your death quick instead of giving you to Vicente, like I plan.”

His brother rumbled a low, awful laugh, full of such anticipation as to make my skin crawl. “Don’t beg,” the sorcerer said.

More bullets sprayed the ground, slamming into the Chevelle; we were pinned down. If only I’d been faster, if only I hadn’t hesitated. Dammit, we needed to get to the circle. Fear slammed in my veins, creating adrenaline, and to compound my desperation, Vicente started a new spell.

“Is there anything you can use nearby?” I whispered to Paolo.

In answer, he leaned out and scanned the ground. “Nothing but rocks and dust.”

That was an old schoolyard trick, but given our situation, it couldn’t hurt. “Try to distract them, but don’t get shot.”

I shuddered to think what Escobar would do if I survived but his son did not. By the sound of their footsteps, our enemies were pushing closer. Montoya laughed, the son of a bitch. I rolled beneath the car and squirmed on my belly as a minor dust devil sprang to life. They cursed and spit, trying to clear their eyes and mouths. The sorcerer’s concentration faltered, and Paolo taunted him with gutter Spanish; I understood only about half the words, but judging by Vicente’s roar, the boy had flair.

Once I had line of sight, I started my own spell. Drawing down the power, I used one of the two I’d memorized from the blue grimoire. My mother’s books contained no lethal spells, but this—if I cast it correctly—would cause some pain. My palms burned as I whispered, “Things that buzz and fly and crawl, heed me, heed my call. Come, come, you fearsome, darken swarm. Oh, feed and eat! Upon my enemies ye shall feast. As I will, so mote it be.” Even on my belly, I could complete the gesture, flaring my palms outward in a “V,” fingers fluttering like insect wings.

An orange glow burst forth and struck the dirt in front of Vicente. His scornful laugh rang out. “You missed.”

On the other side of the Chevelle, Montoya shot at Paolo, who countered with a mix of quick reflexes and telekinetics. Then a droning sound began, increasing as the dark cloud drew closer. Vicente turned, and a muffled sound of horror escaped him when the bugs enveloped him: stinging, biting, trying to crawl down his throat and into his mouth. He screamed and Montoya whirled, going to his aid.

In that respite, I asked Paolo, “Can you kill them with your TK?”

“I don’t think so. They’re both wearing body armor, and there’s no wall to slam them against. I could try to break their backs on the hood of the car, but I’ve never done that before, and I won’t have the energy left for defense. Do you want me to go for it?” Stumbling and slapping all the way to the trunk of his car, Montoya got a fire extinguisher and shot a white cloud on Vicente, driving off the bugs. They were both furious, bloodlust burning in their eyes. I had to decide fast—Paolo or me. Who’s going for the home-run swing?

Before I realized I’d made a decision, I whipped my athame out and slashed my palm. Me. It has to be me. I’ll end this.

“Guard our backs,” I told Paolo.

With my bloody palm curled toward me, I crawled the distance to the circle they hadn’t noticed, drawn as it was in the pale dust. I whispered, “By fire, earth, wind, and rain, I call you forth, Dumah Porai Valyonatha. I offer sacrifice in your name. As I will, so mote it be. In the name of Solomon the Binder, whose blood I carry, you must obey.”

Now free of my swarm and enraged beyond sanity, Vicente raised a hand to unleash a spell. I felt the magick gathering in the air, swelling like summer lightning. He used a mishmash pidgin for his casting, no doubt learned in the islands, and I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t know what he was doing, nor how to counter it, but something terrible would happen if he finished the incantation. He was done fucking around, letting us dodge and hide.

Because I’d summoned her before—and she was already in this realm in a human host—Dumah appeared in a swirl of inky smoke. I spoke quickly, racing Vicente to the finish. “For this single moment, my enemies are yours. In return for your help I offer you their souls and their power. You will not harm me or mine.”

Annoyance flashed on her ephemeral face and then she registered those outside the circle. Greed and hunger replaced her displeasure. I wasn’t binding her to me permanently and forcing her to serve; this was a simple summoning—catch and release. I hadn’t broken the letter of our agreement . . . but it bothered me just how good I had become at negotiating in such degrees.

As Vicente released his spell, the demoness whispered in my head: Done. This time, I knew to drain the energy from the circle before breaking it, and Dumah flowed in inky darkness toward the two men. She ate the magickal energy en route—it strengthened her—and then she continued toward them.

Montoya responded by unloading his whole magazine, the last of his ammo. I had no defense against that; Dumah was a creature of spirit, and could not stop a bullet. Maybe this was it. Butch whined as I dove; I tried to save him from the impact.

There was no need.

Bullets hung in the air like black hailstones, mere inches from my body. Paolo trembled, his face pale and damp. Sweat rolled off him from the strain of such fine control, and then they all fell, bouncing against the ground. I couldn’t believe his father had asked this of him—and I was glad I hadn’t asked him to kill for me. Better I should bear another astral scar; it was worth the price to see this nightmare ended at last.