Shady Lady by Ann Aguirre Page A

usually saw in beach towns like Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. Here, there was no white sand; instead the little shelters sat atop rich green grass. The soil was damp beneath my soles, but not enough to sink. It had been raining, so the lake lapped nearly to the top of the concrete rim. There was no fencing, so you could fall into Lake Catemaco pretty easily. I didn’t know how deep it was here.
    To the left lay an impressive play area. There were no kids running around yet. If Shannon were a bit younger, she’d get some use out of the swings and the slide. Of course, if she were younger, she would still be with her father.
    Today, I wore a pair of long cargo shorts and walking boots, paired with a yellow cotton peasant blouse. The bugs would be bad out on the water, but I didn’t have any repellent on me. Somehow I doubted insect bites would prove a problem for Kel.
    “It’ll be a while,” he said. “I thought you could read the dagger before we go.”
    I’d almost forgotten. With trepidation, I sat down at one of the white wrought-iron tables; the paint had peeled in spots, showing the darkness beneath. Placed just beyond the patio, they sat on the grass, where parents could watch their children at play. At this hour, the place was quiet, the sun only just starting to warm the day.
    Kel handed me the weapon. A waiter came over, but he waved him away with a terse request for café . I gazed at the blade for a few seconds, and then braced myself. Knives were never good.
    I reached for it and wrapped my fingers around the handle. Fire blasted me as if I’d stepped into the heart of a volcano. How my skin could still be on my body, I had no idea; my vision washed red, and then I fell into a nightmare.
    So many killings.
    I saw them all, one by one, superimposed like ghostly, silent reels shown in some infernal theater. Agony streaked through me with each death. The cries felt like they must surely choke me, and it got worse. The man had last used this weapon to murder a child—an object lesson. I caught some of the words, mouthed with angry gestures. I watched the shock and grief, and could do nothing to stop it. It was a past thing, untouchable, immutable.
    I bore it and held my silence.
    Then it showed me something new. Not a death. An argument. The man spun the blade in his hands, and his anger suffused me. He got up in another man’s grille, someone who bore an unmistakable resemblance to the face Tia had crafted. But before he could strike, the other man gestured; the assassin slammed to the ground, and the knife dropped out of his hand. I lost the thread there.
    Finally, the dagger flashed the killer’s fight with Kel, lightning-fast and fierce. By the time I returned to the world of lake, pool, and palapas , and Kel came back into focus, I sat doubled over, breathing in raw, ugly gasps. Nausea racked me. He touched my back, tentative as the brown bird hopping around the base of the table, hoping for scraps. My hand burned, but something had shifted in my gift. The flower pentacle scar from my mother’s necklace absorbed the damage—and that was new.
    “Take it away,” I said hoarsely. Not his hand. The knife.
    To my vast relief, he did.
    “Nothing helpful?” he asked at last.
    “Only that the man who used it is a professional. He killed on orders, not for pleasure.” I’d seen no signs of enjoyment, but those rare flashes when I saw his reflection in windowpanes, he had eyes like death, hollow and empty.
    “We could have guessed as much.” He paused, frowning and thoughtful.
    “I’m glad you killed him.” The last death—the child—would haunt me. “But at least I got a good look at the man who hexed me. I have a few corrections for your sketch.”
    “We’ll do that when we get back. It’s time to go.” He stood up and headed toward the lake.

Voyage to Monkey Island
    The morning sun warmed my skin as we waited for the boatman. In the distance, I spotted a flat-bottomed lancha churning the