Supernatural: Coyote's Kiss (12 page)

Dean thought of Gordon Walker, the hunter with the vendetta and the hard-on for killing vamps. Of Dean’s own hard-earned lessons on when to kill and when to let live. But even Gordon, as far off the deep end as he may have been and even after he was turned, still believed he was doing the right thing. Black and white, that was how he saw it. Even he didn’t hunt purely for sport. For the thrill of watching something suffer and die. Just the idea of it made Dean’s skin crawl, like a dry drunk listing to stories about someone else’s bender. Because, after all the time he had spent torturing souls in Hell, he knew exactly what he was capable of. Because he knew how easy it would be for him to go down that same road. Because he knew how much fun it would be.

He took a big slug of ice water, wishing it was whisky.

“There was...” Xochi began, then paused and shoved her plate aside, expression hard and distant. “A death. Our little brother Atlix.”

Dean felt like he ought to say something to comfort her from the obvious pain she was feeling, but he couldn’t find the right words. He just looked down at the shallow cut on his hand, feeling awkward and useless.

“The male children in our family do not hunt,” Xochi continued. “Atlix was nineteen, a student at UNAM. The first and only member of our family to attend college. Such a smart kid, loved computers. He wanted to be a video game designer. We always joked that he was going to make millions killing make-believe monsters while the rest of us lived in poverty fighting the real thing.

“That never happened. He was kidnapped and murdered. It was... retribution. The children of
Xolotl,
monstrous dog-headed creatures native to Southern Mexico, they came for him in the night. They wanted revenge for one of their own that had been tortured by Teo.” She curled her scarred hands into fists. “I was away on a hunt at the time. I rushed home as fast as I could, but I was too late. I couldn’t save him.

“Because of Teo’s irresponsible actions and indiscriminate killing, the elders made the decision to initiate me as the head of our family instead of her. But before the ceremony could be performed, Teo broke into the family temple and stole the sacred knife
Itztlitlantl.
Even if our brother were still alive, this act of sacrilege can never be forgiven.”

Dean saw that whatever emotion or vulnerability she had let slip while talking about her murdered brother had been swiftly buried, hidden under the quick-dry cement of righteous anger.

“Right, okay,” Sam said. “So what’s Teo doing here in Yuma?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Xochi said. “Maybe she is after our Borderwalker because she wants the challenge of hunting difficult and unique prey. Maybe she wants to beat me, to take my victory for herself and show that she is still the better hunter.”

“And what the hell did you do to Brewer after she left?” Dean asked.

She told them. Dean suddenly didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

“So you think this weird disconnect you felt in Brewer’s memory was some kind of psychological block?” Sam asked.

“Maybe,” Xochi replied. “Or maybe possession.”

“Possession?” Dean put his burger down. “Like demons?”

“No,” Xochi said. “Much more subtle than that. I’m beginning to think Huehuecoyotl wasn’t lying. I think there may be a larger force at work here. Something big.”

“So what’s the next step?” Sam asked, efficiently devouring the remains of his protein salad.

“The Borderwalker was injured in our fight,” Xochi said. “It may take her several days to recover her strength.

Meanwhile we should go to the last man, Porcayo. Follow him. Learn everything we can about him and see if we can find anymore clues that will let us know who is behind this.”

“Where’s he at again?” Dean asked.

“Fullerton, California,” Sam replied.

“Okay,” Dean said, holding up a hand for the check. “Sounds like a plan.”

“One more thing,” she said, turning back to Dean and smirking, shooting him a mock dirty look. “Back when you were pretending we were FBI agents, did you name me after
Selena
?”

“I was on the spot,” he said. “It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Hey,” Sam said. “It’s better than Crockett and Tubbs.”

“
Pendejo
!” She punched Dean in the arm. “I hate that whiny bitch. Next time you let me think of names.”

Dean was feeling a little light-headed that night when they pulled into a kitschy motel with a neon sign that read “THE PRICKLY PAIR.” Beneath it was a large painting of a busty pin-up cowgirl in a checked bikini hugging a huge, blatantly phallic cactus. Dean was looking forward to the day when they stayed in a motel that didn’t feature any cacti in its décor.

Xochi pulled her bike in behind the Impala and parked it under the sign.

“Okay,” Sam said, heading toward the tiny office. “Two rooms, right?”

Xochi pulled off her helmet and shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I have a blanket.”

“What?” Dean asked. “You’re just gonna sleep outside? On the ground? Screw that. We’re getting you a room.”

“Unless you want to share a bed with my brother?” Sam put in with a grin.

“Sam,” Dean said. “Knock it off.”

“You can use my bed,” Sam said.

“With or without you in it?” Xochi asked eyebrow arched.

“Your choice,” Sam said. “But if you want me in it, it won’t be for sleeping. I don’t sleep.”

“I prefer my own room,” she said with another one of her patented smirks. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Sam said. “Thank...” He pulled out his wallet and thumbed out a stolen credit card, reading off the printed name. “Duane Swierczynski.”

Sam went into the office. Dean leaned against the Impala, still feeling fatigued and slightly off balance. That fight had really taken a lot out of him, and he figured he was still suffering residual effects from the night before. The cut from Teo’s stone knife on his right hand throbbed as he opened and closed his cold fingers, massaging his wrist with his other hand. It felt inexplicably strange, like touching someone else.

“Dean,” Xochi said. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said, clenching his right hand into a tight fist. “Just tired, I guess.”

Sam returned with two keys attached to large plastic cacti emblazoned with room numbers 202 and 203.

“Upstairs,” Sam said. He handed one of the cactus keyrings to Xochi. “You take 03, we’ll take 02.”

Sam and Xochi went ahead, while Dean followed close behind. As he watched Xochi walk up the stairs in those tight leather pants with her gun-belt straps cinched just below the generous curve of her ass, he started to sweat, feeling so light-headed he thought he might not make it to the top. Xochi certainly did have a spectacular ass, but no ass in the world was that good. What the hell was the matter with him?

He made it to the top and paused, gripping the metal railing. The weak, dizzy feeling passed as quickly as it had come and he shook it off, heading down the breezeway to their rooms.

“Goodnight, boys,” Xochi said, keying open her room. “Tomorrow, Fullerton.”

“Right,” Sam said, opening their door. He held it open. “Dean, you coming?”

“In a minute,” Dean said, looking out over the dusty parking lot.

Sam shot Dean a look.

“I just need a minute, okay?” Dean said. “I’ll be right in.”

“Okay,” Sam said. He closed the door.

Dean leaned against the railing. The rough, peeling paint flaked off under his touch. He looked at the closed door to Xochi’s room. Thought about knocking, but didn’t.

She really was an amazing hunter, one of the best he’d ever seen. So graceful, so intuitive, utterly unflappable under pressure. They worked together like a well-oiled machine. Like tango dancers. Like they’d been doing it for years. She was everything he could ever want in a hunting partner and then some, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore the chemistry between them. Which was really the last thing in the world he needed. It didn’t help that every time he found himself thinking about what it would be like with Xochi, he would think of Lisa, see her standing alone on her porch, shrinking down to nothing in the Impala’s rearview mirror. Of the stony finality in her voice when she’d told him to stay away from her and Ben. He thought of what Sam had said. Surely, she’d moved on with her life, right? Why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t
he
?

When he realized that he was just doing mental gymnastics to excuse sleeping with Xochi, he felt like a heel. The year he’d had with Lisa and Ben was the only time in his life when he’d ever been genuinely happy. And here he was trying to rationalize that away so he could spend a guilt-free night banging a chick with a nice ass.

Clearly, a drink was the answer. Hair of the dog that bit him. That was becoming the answer to way too many questions in his life, but he was too worn down to care.

He reached for the doorknob for room 202 and the dizziness suckerpunched him hard enough to rock him on his feet. The knob seemed to recede away from his fingers like scenery outside the window of a speeding train. He might have said Sam’s name, or maybe he just thought it.

The next thing he knew he was on his back on a sagging motel-room bed, looking up at a large brown water stain shaped like the state of Texas. Sam stood over him on the left and Xochi on the right. She was holding his right wrist in both of her hands. She looked beautiful and deadly serious.

“Dean,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been cut by
Itztlitlantl
?”

“What?” He frowned. “You mean your sister’s knife?”

“It is not her knife,” Xochi said. “By right it is
my
knife.”

“Okay, whatever,” Sam said. “I don’t care about your family drama right now, just tell us what’s wrong with Dean. Is he poisoned?”

“Worse,” Xochi said. “That knife was crafted by the great grandmother of my great grandmother’s great grandmother,” she said. “Carved from the tooth of a slain
Tzitzimitl,
a Star Demon. These are extremely powerful creatures whose obsidian bite can slice through souls. For this reason, they are also know as Souleaters.

“
Itztlitlantl
is the perfect weapon against ghosts and other unquiet spirits. It would also kill our rogue Borderwalker without a problem. But if it cuts a living human... The knife didn’t just cut your hand, Dean. It cut into your soul.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dean said.

“I wish I was,” she said. “Your soul is wounded and must be healed.”

“Awesome,” Sam said. “It couldn’t have been me that got cut with this thing.”

Xochi looked up at Sam with an unreadable expression. Dean could see wheels turning inside her head but couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.

“So what are you gonna do,” Dean asked. “Give me a stick to bite on while you pop a few stitches into my soul?”

“I can do nothing for you,” she said. “I’m no
curandera
.”

“Okay so...” Dean frowned. “What happens now?”

“Your soul will die.”

“Die?” Dean looked from Xochi to Sam and back again. “Whoa, what do you mean
die
?”

“It’s not so bad,” Sam said. “Not having a soul. I’m doing fine without mine.”

“You don’t understand,” Xochi said to Sam. “Your soul isn’t in your body, but it is still vital. Still alive. If the soul dies, the body is left a mindlessly animated, rotting corpse.”

“A zombie?” Dean tried to sit up but couldn’t. “You mean I’m gonna go all
Night of the Living Dead
and try to eat your brains?”

“You won’t try to eat our brains, no,” she said. “But when the soul is dead, or if it has been devoured by one of the
Tzitzimimeh
, the animated body is attracted to other living souls. It will obsessively chew and claw into living flesh in a desperate attempt to get at the soul within, like a moth banging mindlessly against a light bulb.”

“Great,” Dean said. “How long do I have?”

“It’s a small cut,” Xochi replied. “Twelve, maybe twenty-four hours.” Her expression was grave. Dean felt sick to his stomach. He looked up at his brother.