“You did that for me? After everything?”

“It’s because of everything that I did it for you.”

It was impossible to turn away from the look in Rake’s eyes. Archer had no desire to turn away in any case. He said shakily, “I thought seducing me was just part of your plan?”

“I thought you seduced me.”

 Archer’s irrepressible laugh rang out and Rake laughed too.

“That’s right,” said Archer. “I was forgetting.”

“How do you like Saint-Malo?”

“I like it.”

“Do you think I would?”

“I’d make it my business to see that you did,” Archer said seriously. “But it’s a long commute to your office.”

“I don’t have an office. I’ve resigned my commission.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. Rake’s smile was grim. He tapped Archer’s cheek lightly. “Close your mouth, sweeting. You’ll drown.”

“You resigned your commission?”

Rake shrugged. “I was ready for a change. In any case…Change is coming soon for us all.”

“I thought so! Didn’t I say so?” Archer exclaimed.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’ for the next three centuries, so give it a rest.”

“Three centuries? Is that all you give us?”

“You’re very young,” Rake said. “You might change your mind down the line.”

“Probably not. As you pointed out, I’m a little obsessive.”

“It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Tell me some other things you like about me,” Archer invited.

“Come closer and I will.”

Archer lifted his face up and Rake’s mouth met his in a honey-sweet kiss with just a hint of a bite. Above them the rain dripped slowly, steadily from the leaves. The shining droplets fell through the air looking like nothing so much as green glass beads.

No Life But This

Astrid Amara

I have no life but this,

To lead it here;

Nor any death, but lest

Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come,

Nor action new,

Except through this extent,

The Realm of You.

— Emily Dickinson

The overpowering smell of cooked meat and car exhaust couldn’t compare to the explosion of colors emanating from the wall of billboards outside Mexico City’s Benito Juárez International Airport. The thick, hot air was rank with jet fuel. Traffic noise battled a trumpet blasting enthusiastically over a car radio.

As he scanned the passenger pickup area for his ride, Deven took deep, calming breaths—just like his therapist had taught him. He wondered how the driver would recognize him. He didn’t look much different from the men around him...maybe a little paler, and maybe greener eyes, but they were hard to see through his sunglasses.

“Taxi?” a man offered, waving at Deven as he blinked on the curb. “Taxi, señor?”

“No.” Deven glanced around, looking for someone who resembled an Irregulars agent.

They had to know he’d landed. It had required special clearance to get his obsidian knives through security, and someone with authority had clearly pulled strings to procure him a business class seat on an overbooked flight with little advance notice.

“Mr. Shaw?”

Deven turned, squinting against the sunlight.

“I’m on your right,” the man said.

Deven frowned. “I see you.”

The man’s face was pink with sunburn, nose already peeling. His short brown hair darkened in sweaty patches at his temples, but his sleek black suit hid any sweat on his body.

“Sorry, I was told you have vision issues.” He held out his hand. “Agent Frank Klakow.”

Deven didn’t shake his hand. “ID?”

Agent Klakow’s smile faltered but didn’t fade. “Yeah, hold on.” He struggled with his wallet, tight in his back pocket, and pulled out his badge. Deven took hold of it, studying the image. After a moment the agent shone a pen light at the badge and text illuminated around the insignia. The refraction of light bent oddly, but in this case he knew this wasn’t an effect of his damaged eyesight but merely a seal of authenticity.

“So, the information I received about your vision was incorrect?” Klakow asked.

“I’m not blind. I have dark-adapted eyes.” Deven returned the badge and picked up his duffel bag. Klakow led him to a black sedan. Inside it was air conditioned and shockingly cold.

“Is this your first time in Mexico City?” Klakow asked, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“I was here a year ago,” Deven said. He watched the agent pull a seat belt across his chest and Deven followed suit, mimicking the man’s gestures as he’d learned to do over the last year. “But I stayed for only a few hours before I was repatriated to the US.”

Klakow pulled into the stream of traffic. “Well, it’s damned hot, that’s all I can say for it.”

Their car emerged from the concrete landscape of the airport and headed west toward the center of the city.

Deven removed his sunglasses and turned to view the city out the window but found the jumble of images too confusing to look at for long. He closed his eyes.

“Do you need to rest at the hotel before we go to the crime scene?”

“No.” Deven didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t sure exactly what he could offer the badges as a consultant, but they paid well. And it seemed like the kind of job better served with promptness.

Besides, it was something to do. Something better than running, or reading, or learning how to fish.

Deven sensed that Agent Klakow was staring, so he opened his eyes. The agent glanced at Deven frequently as he navigated the car. His eyes flickered to Deven’s neck, but Deven was used to it.

What he wasn’t used to was the look of pity that crossed people’s features when they spotted the jagged scar where Deven’s throat had been slit. It had happened so long ago Deven barely thought of it himself anymore.

“Has anyone briefed you on the investigation?” Klakow asked.

“I know someone was killed and Aztaw magic is suspected,” Deven said.

“Two people,” Klakow corrected. “One of ours, Agent Carlos Rodriguez, and his younger sister, Beatriz. Agent Rodriguez had come here to spend his vacation with his sister. None of his caseload had anything to do with the area.”

Deven considered asking what Rodriguez’s caseload typically consisted of, then thought better of it. Participating in the investigation would be hard in any case—Deven had a very good reason to distrust badges—but he would need to overcome his hostility toward the agency if he was going to remain on their payroll.

Klakow turned the car onto an unevenly paved road and Deven opened his eyes. They maneuvered through a densely packed neighborhood. Low single-story structures plastered in faded pastel colors lined the narrow street. All the windows were barred. Bright billboards rose above the structures bearing words in giant fonts.

“The victims’ skulls were smashed in with no apparent sign of a struggle.” Klakow shook his head. “Rodriguez was one tough motherfucker. There’s no way he wouldn’t have defended himself unless he was taken by surprise.”

“Was there a lot of blood?” Deven asked.

“No.” Klakow sounded impressed. “The forensics team commented on that. Several pints of blood seem to be missing.”

“That’s typical of deaths related to Aztaw magic.”

“They use human, not Aztaw, blood in spells?”

Deven nodded.

“So I assume they wouldn’t leave something that valuable behind,” Klakow said.

“If you know all this, then why did you hire me?”

Klakow smirked. “We know some things about the Aztaw, but you’re the only one who’s actually lived with them for an extended period of time and has practiced their magic. Hopefully you’ll catch details we’d otherwise miss.”

The streets narrowed and the buildings grew more dilapid-ated. Bright yellow tarps stretched over stalls erected on sidewalks selling piles of cheap clothing and household goods. The sidewalks were packed with bustling people. Deven stared, amazed by their sheer numbers. He’d never seen so many human beings crowded in one place.