into hers in the mirror at Tía’s.
He’d loomed so large, his presence so close, that she’d thought at first he would
slide his hands over her shoulders and pull her back against him. Not the behavior
she’d expect, but there’d been a daredevil air about him, a hardness and recklessness
that …
“Esmeralda Salinas, you’re full of it!” she hissed at herself, looking into the mirror,
glad that Rafael didn’t lurk there to feed her lunatic fantasies. The man got under
her skin and made her want him, but there was nothing other-worldly about that. And
she’d be very unlikely to wind up with whatever job he was trying to fill, so … screw
everything.
She put on her favorite earrings and dawdled over a necklace. She fingered her prettiest,
a delicate gold chain holding an ornate cross with emeralds. A present from her mother
on her fifteenth birthday, she seldom wore it, because she knew her life wasn’t what
her mother had intended when she gave the necklace. Sometimes she thought of the chain
as a curse, meant to embarrass and shame her whenever she stepped over the thin line
her mother tried to draw in the sands of moral behavior.
Laughing at herself, she snatched up her favorite necklace, a clunky fashion piece
with oversized amber and brown beads pieced together with leather. The colors went
well enough with green, she supposed, and the gift from an ex-student she’d counseled
always boosted her spirits.
She snatched up her purse and hurried downstairs.
Andy sat in a rocking chair on the porch, ear bud attaching him to his ever-present
music, and shot her an indifferent glance as she passed.
“Off to the devil’s lair?” he asked as she reached the bottom step.
“The devil’s lair?”
“Oh, I know the townsfolk call it Witches Haven,” he said, nodding sagely. “The man
who built it—twenty years ago or more, I guess—called it that.” He smiled and winked.
“The parties, you know? But that dude that owns it now, he’s no witch. The devil,
that one. Mad as hell about what happened to his baby sister. You might want to be
careful, Esmeralda Salinas.” The words issued out in a strange tone that raised the
hair on her arms.
“Why should I be careful, Andy?” Esme demanded, aware that Andy still would rather
see her gone than here, although she didn’t know why he disliked her.
“I hear Benton wants your aunt gone—or dead,” the watchman said, still rocking the
chair and swinging a foot. “I bet she’s glad I decided to come down here from Chicago
with her. Good luck with the devil,” he added, and closed his eyes in dismissal.
• • •
Even in the broad daylight and looking for the place, Esmeralda could see how she’d
missed it those times before. Death Curve started out as an innocuous bend, although
there were speed warning signs with their contorted arrows. But the steepness and
the “s” part of the curve took a driver by surprise, and strangers undoubtedly would
keep their eyes glued to the turns. Up on her left, a hill loomed, a little higher
than most in the immediate area.
Untrimmed cedar, so predominant in the Hill Country, stormed up the hill, quilting
in dull green with patches of brown where weather or disease had claimed a tree. The
growth was so dense that the hill itself seemed dark and unwelcoming.
The house on the hill—not at the front of the summit, but set back, with a dark rock
fence shielding part of the view—was even darker. Unlike so many of the rock homes
in the area, the house appeared built of very dark timber, treated perhaps to prevent
decay, but providing a fort-like façade that made no effort to be inviting.
The drive itself began several hundred yards beyond what seemed to be the front of
the property and Esme almost missed it, having to brake sharply and then wait as an
annoyed biker scooted around her, scowling her way.
“Sorry,” she muttered, not any
He’d loomed so large, his presence so close, that she’d thought at first he would
slide his hands over her shoulders and pull her back against him. Not the behavior
she’d expect, but there’d been a daredevil air about him, a hardness and recklessness
that …
“Esmeralda Salinas, you’re full of it!” she hissed at herself, looking into the mirror,
glad that Rafael didn’t lurk there to feed her lunatic fantasies. The man got under
her skin and made her want him, but there was nothing other-worldly about that. And
she’d be very unlikely to wind up with whatever job he was trying to fill, so … screw
everything.
She put on her favorite earrings and dawdled over a necklace. She fingered her prettiest,
a delicate gold chain holding an ornate cross with emeralds. A present from her mother
on her fifteenth birthday, she seldom wore it, because she knew her life wasn’t what
her mother had intended when she gave the necklace. Sometimes she thought of the chain
as a curse, meant to embarrass and shame her whenever she stepped over the thin line
her mother tried to draw in the sands of moral behavior.
Laughing at herself, she snatched up her favorite necklace, a clunky fashion piece
with oversized amber and brown beads pieced together with leather. The colors went
well enough with green, she supposed, and the gift from an ex-student she’d counseled
always boosted her spirits.
She snatched up her purse and hurried downstairs.
Andy sat in a rocking chair on the porch, ear bud attaching him to his ever-present
music, and shot her an indifferent glance as she passed.
“Off to the devil’s lair?” he asked as she reached the bottom step.
“The devil’s lair?”
“Oh, I know the townsfolk call it Witches Haven,” he said, nodding sagely. “The man
who built it—twenty years ago or more, I guess—called it that.” He smiled and winked.
“The parties, you know? But that dude that owns it now, he’s no witch. The devil,
that one. Mad as hell about what happened to his baby sister. You might want to be
careful, Esmeralda Salinas.” The words issued out in a strange tone that raised the
hair on her arms.
“Why should I be careful, Andy?” Esme demanded, aware that Andy still would rather
see her gone than here, although she didn’t know why he disliked her.
“I hear Benton wants your aunt gone—or dead,” the watchman said, still rocking the
chair and swinging a foot. “I bet she’s glad I decided to come down here from Chicago
with her. Good luck with the devil,” he added, and closed his eyes in dismissal.
• • •
Even in the broad daylight and looking for the place, Esmeralda could see how she’d
missed it those times before. Death Curve started out as an innocuous bend, although
there were speed warning signs with their contorted arrows. But the steepness and
the “s” part of the curve took a driver by surprise, and strangers undoubtedly would
keep their eyes glued to the turns. Up on her left, a hill loomed, a little higher
than most in the immediate area.
Untrimmed cedar, so predominant in the Hill Country, stormed up the hill, quilting
in dull green with patches of brown where weather or disease had claimed a tree. The
growth was so dense that the hill itself seemed dark and unwelcoming.
The house on the hill—not at the front of the summit, but set back, with a dark rock
fence shielding part of the view—was even darker. Unlike so many of the rock homes
in the area, the house appeared built of very dark timber, treated perhaps to prevent
decay, but providing a fort-like façade that made no effort to be inviting.
The drive itself began several hundred yards beyond what seemed to be the front of
the property and Esme almost missed it, having to brake sharply and then wait as an
annoyed biker scooted around her, scowling her way.
“Sorry,” she muttered, not any
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