Esperanza (46 page)

They kept running until they reached a black truck parked on an empty street. Wayra dropped Ian’s pack on the ground and in the blink of an eye changed from canine to man, then touched Ian’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be really pissed.”

The pain this time was minimal. But nothing else was. Robbed of his exquisite senses, vaguely aware of what had just happened, of what it meant, Ian threw himself into Wayra, shouting,
“You prick, you lousy prick, you didn’t tell the truth!”
They crashed to the ground, rolled, and Wayra pinned Ian’s hands behind him. “It was the only way to get you through it.”

“Get the fuck off me before I bite your arm or something,” Ian snapped, and Wayra moved away from him. Ian sat up, brushed off his shirt. “I liked you better as Nomad.”

He stood, grabbed his pack, got into the truck. Ian didn’t know what angered him more—the fact that Nomad wasn’t just a lovable dog or that he had been deprived of such an exquisite sensory experience.

From the moment the plane landed in Quito, Dominica pushed Dan Hernandez hard. She ramped up his adrenaline to counteract the effects of the altitude, worked on his pituitary and hypothalamus so they released endorphins that made him more receptive and compliant, convinced him to keep drinking enormous amounts of water.

After he got through immigration and customs and hailed a cab into the city, she offered the name of a small hotel in Quito’s new town that was close to restaurants, Internet cafés, bookstores, all that was familiar to him. When he gave the name to the cab driver, she allowed herself to relax and reached out, searching for Tess.

Nothing. Since Tess and her group had a two-week head start, it was possible they were already en route to Esperanza. The more she thought about this, though, the less likely it seemed. No local tour agency offered trips to Esperanza. It had been crossed off the tourist list years ago, after three busloads of international tourists had been attacked by
brujos
on a lonely stretch of road well south of Río Palo. All eighty-two of them had bled out.

The government, naturally, blamed it on an unidentified virus. But the Ecuadorian people knew the real reason. From time to time, some entrepreneurial tour operator dismissed the urban legend about
brujos
and launched a tour to Esperanza. It usually took only one or two trips to convince the operator it was a stupid idea—hazardous roads, roving groups of
banditos,
and drug smugglers looking for easy marks. Tourists who found their way there tended to arrive in vans, cars, or on local buses—the Bodega del Cielo was a hub for local transportation to spots all over Ecuador. They were young, in their twenties and thirties, traveled in pairs or small groups. Since they were generally healthy, the
brujos
welcomed them as part of the growing pool of humans on which to feast. But generally, the route to Esperanza remained a well-kept secret, so she felt that Tess and her little group would still be in Quito, trying to find their way to the city.

As soon as Dan checked into the pretty hotel, Dominica pushed him to walk over to the bus station and buy a ticket to Otavalo. From there, he would be able to get to Ibarra and then to Esperanza. But the endorphin
high was wearing off, he was sliding into adrenal exhaustion, the altitude was winning. He refused to acknowledge the suggestion. He collapsed on the bed beneath the open window and immediately dropped into a deep sleep. Dominica made some minor adjustments in his brain chemistry that would keep him asleep longer than usual, thus giving her a chance to slip away and return before he woke.

When his brain waves slowed sufficiently, she slipped out of him and immediately mourned the loss of color, physicality, of those wonderful human senses. But it was easier to tap into the information she needed, call to her own kind, see the people on the busy Quito streets who were being used by
brujos.
Not many. Maybe a dozen in this part of the city. Usually, in the larger Ecuadorian cities, it was many times that. It meant members of the various
brujo
tribes who lived outside Esperanza had been summoned home—by Rafael? Pearl?

She sent out a call to Rafael and Pearl, then moved restlessly through Quito, trying to zero in on Tess’s signal. Even though the signal wasn’t supposed to be affected by distance, she couldn’t get a fix on it. Had Tess found some way to diminish or mute it? Perhaps the chaser who had prevented Dominica from entering Tango Key was shielding Tess’s signal in some way.

Dominica finally picked up a faint trace and headed north out of Quito, following the four-lane highway toward Otavalo. It led her to the center of the city, where people filled the plaza, browsing through the endless displays of wools and textiles, handicrafts, artwork, jewelry, leather goods. She felt wary about Otavaleños, about the camaraderie her kind had shared with them over the centuries. Consent and cooperation were not hallmarks of the
brujos
and in recent years, the camaraderie had begun to fray, break apart, as tribes of
brujos
expanded their hunting grounds farther south. She must exercise caution here. While Otavaleños were peaceful people, they didn’t live in fear of
brujos
as so many Ecuadorians did.

She finally pinpointed the signal, coming from inside a colonial structure, the ExPat Inn. Eager to see Tess, she drifted closer—and was instantly repelled. It shocked her. How could this building be protected? By what?

“Extremely low frequency waves,” Rafael said, manifesting himself to her right.

“It’s the newest defense against us,” added Pearl, who appeared on her left.

“But how long has it been in place here?”

“Unknown,” Rafael replied. “We haven’t been down here in a while. We heard about Ben, Nica. We’re really sorry.”

She appreciated the condolence, even though it was disingenuous. Neither of them had liked Ben much. “I’m pleased you’re doing better, Rafael.”

“I just had to understand my limits. I hear you failed to find the man?”

You
failed. He didn’t emphasize the word, but she knew that was the implication. “No one has
failed,
Rafael. We’ll get him. And her.”

“Explain to me, Nica, why killing them before we seize the city is so important?”

Dominica felt Pearl’s tension and suddenly understood Rafael wasn’t here to back her up. He hoped to evaluate her strength, resolve, motives, and then manipulate this information to make her look too weak and indecisive to lead the tribe. He wasn’t just seeking a
brujo
takeover of Esperanza. He intended to overthrow her as the leader and install himself as the king of a city of
brujos,
a country or continent of
their kind.
Dominica threw herself at him, a real joke since neither of them was physical or even inhabiting a virtual human form. But he felt it energetically, as only a
brujo
could, the full brunt of her disappointment and rage. “I rescued you and Pearl, nurtured you, trusted you, brought you up through the ranks, Rafael. Now you presume to depose me? What kind of gratitude is that?”

Rafael somehow disentangled his energy from hers, a maneuver so swift and certain that she suspected he’d learned it in counseling, which meant that the insurrection in her tribe went deep. “You represent the old way, Dominica. We’re sick of the old way of doing things. But know that the city is ready for an incursion by this liberation group or anyone else. We have done our part.”

With that, he thought himself away. “Do you agree with him, Pearl?”

“No. His counseling was a disaster. He can’t seize to kill, can’t seize for sex because it might mean that the host will bleed out, can’t function the way
brujos
must. He’s weak. I voted to have him banished. I was overruled. We, he and I, don’t . . . agree on anything anymore. But there are many who believe in him, who believe that he symbolizes change.”

“How many?”

“A majority. But you have loyal followers, those who believe the chasers are up to no good, that you and only you grasp the larger picture. Your followers believe that Rafael is just a rabble-rouser. Right now, your followers are stronger, but not in numbers.”

“And what do you believe, Pearl?”

They regarded each other like sisters whose passions were divided, but whose inviolate connection, a kind of spiritual DNA, they both acknowledged. “What is it that the physical beings say? Men are from Mars? Women are from Venus? Living or dead, it’s true. Let’s go do what we’re here to do.”

Just like that, Pearl turned her attention to the people on the street and Dominica sent out a call to her followers, to surround the building with fog. “How about them?” Pearl asked, gesturing at a couple of tourists. “They seem to be part of a tour. They look nonthreatening.”

And overweight. That meant clogged arteries, diabetes, arthritis. But she would be borrowing the body, not inhabiting it forever. “Let’s do it.”

Dominica and Pearl came up behind the women, slipped into them.

“Did y’all feel that?” drawled the woman Dominica had taken. “Lordy, it felt like someone was strollin ’cross my grave.”

“A chill jus’ went up mah spine,” said the other woman.

Lily and Cecilia, sisters from Virginia. They had never been to South America before, considered it a wild adventure, and were ready for just about anything. Lily’s body was in bad shape—arthritis settling into her joints, early stages of diverticulitis, and she might soon be facing heart surgery for two arteries that were eighty percent clogged. She took so many meds that her blood chemistry was completely screwed up.

“I really gotta pee.” Lily gestured toward the inn. “Let’s see if we can use the restroom.”

Dominica sensed that Pearl was doing the same thing she was, screening herself by dispersing her essence through the woman’s cells. But she felt uneasy as Lily approached the front door. She braced herself for a sudden and violent physical reaction from Lily—nausea, vomiting, bleeding, no telling what. But Lily waddled through the front door and into the building and Dominica experienced only the slightest twinge of discomfort. Lily’s fat protected her.

In the hotel lobby, Bob Dylan sang from a hidden speaker. War, change, heartache, all the sixties themes that were still relevant today. All hail Dylan. She hoped that when he passed on, he would end up in her tribe. But she wasn’t holding her breath on that one.

“Morning, ladies, may I help you?” asked a young woman at the front desk.

“Sweetie, may we use yo’ restroom?” Lily asked in her thick drawl.

“Of course. Straight across the dining room and into that corridor. It’ll be on your right.”

“Hold it,” said an older woman who stepped up to the desk. Slender, short, gray hair, early seventies, eyes like ice. “I’m sorry, but the restrooms are only for guests.”

Lily’s smile shrank. “And if you don’t mind my askin’, sweetie, who might
you
be?”

“Kim Eckert. The owner.”

The younger woman said, “Mom, it’s okay. Really. They’re just tourists.”

“You don’t know that,” Kim snapped.

Lily leaned against the edge of the counter. “Mrs. Eckert, I don’t mean to presume, but how would our being guests assure you that we aren’t . . . well, whatever it is you’re afraid of?”

Dominica decided she liked Lily from Virginia. Plenty of spunk and good old-fashioned balls. Dominica didn’t have to prompt her at all.

“I . . . well, I don’t know.”

“Fine. We’ll pay for a room. And then use the restroom.”

“Ridiculous,” muttered Cecilia. “I am
not
paying sixty bucks to use a bathroom.”

“That’s right. You’re only paying thirty,” Lily said, and slapped three twenties on the counter. “You can repay me later, Cecilia. Or not. I just know I am
not
going to pee in a disgusting Jiffy John or some bathroom where the toilet bowl is black. Now, Mrs. Eckert, may we use your restroom?”

“I guess it’s okay.”

“Wonderful.” Lily gestured at her sister. “To the restroom.”

As the sisters waddled off, Dominica felt strangely magnanimous toward Lily, toward both of them. She went to work on the plaque buildup in Lily’s heart arteries, the arthritis in her joints, the wicked pockets in her intestines. Then she tweaked her brain chemistry so that she wouldn’t stuff her face every time she sat down to eat.

“Now
what
is that woman’s problem?” Lily griped as she and her sister were in the restroom.

“No tellin’, Lil. Bitterness, who’s to say? You know, mah feet don’t hurt anymore. And that migraine I told you was comin’ on? Gone. Totally gone.”

“My joints don’t ache. I can breathe nice and easy. I think this country suits both of us.”

When they exited the restroom a while later, they were still discussing how much better they both felt. They were oblivious to the fact that they’d been compromised. Oblivious until Dominica suddenly noticed a white-haired
woman sitting at a table next to the window. Tess Livingston. But when had she gone gray? The night she killed Ben? Life’s little shockeroos.

No mother, no niece, just her, the horrible woman who had threatened and hurt her and killed Ben in that resort on Key Largo. Tess was scanning a menu and kept rubbing at her forearm. Dominica suspected the mark on her arm was activated when a
brujo
was nearby. No wonder she’d been ready for her and Ben that night in Key Largo.