Buckshot tears through the edge of the desk, and I barely keep from being flattened as it comes crashing down toward me. I kick backward, rolling out of the way and to my feet.
So far Bustillo is the first mage I’ve run into on this trip. It was really just a matter of time and I’m actually a little surprised it’s taken this long. Most of the people whose heads I’ve busted have been your run-of-the-mill narco thugs. Tough bastards, dangerous, but normal. Normal I can eat for breakfast.
I unload the Benelli at him. Five rounds, but I’m not really expecting anything to connect. He’s already on the move and any mage worth the title is going to have defensive spells ready to go at a moment’s notice. Bustillo works for Sinaloa, which is about as cutthroat a cartel as they come. They’re not known for coming at you in a fair fight. He’s going to have something extra special up his sleeve for just such occasions.
Sure enough the buckshot scatters as it gets close, splitting into two streams of pellets and peppering the wall on either side of him with holes. I drop the shotgun, it’s useless, anyway, and scoop up the obsidian blade from where it’s embedded itself into the floor. As I grab the knife, Bustillo gets hold of his submachine gun and stitches a line of bullets across the room.
I drop behind the desk. Like Bustillo I have defensive spells, too. Apparently, they’re not as good as his are. Even with the magic in my tattoos redirecting most of the rounds I get tagged by a bullet in my shoulder. Normally, that would be a problem.
But normal left the building a long time back. The bullet that gets through my protections mushrooms on contact and stops dead. The jade crawling through my body has gone up to my shoulders and down most of both arms. I can’t scratch it, can’t break it. And it’s really good at stopping bullets. A small bright spot in an otherwise fucked situation.
I pull the Browning. I don’t think I’m going to get close enough to him for the knife to be very effective. Even the Browning isn’t going to do much good. It’ll make big holes, but unless I can do something about his magical defenses it’s not going to do a whole lot.
“So was I right?” I say. “You think I’m an idiot for rejecting Santa Muerte’s ‘gift’? I’m thinking you see yourself as a much more worthy recipient of it, yeah?”
For somebody who’s just one more stepping stone to getting what I want, Bustillo’s turning out to be a big pain in my ass.
Bustillo says nothing, but I can hear footsteps nearby. I can feel him drawing power from the local pool of magic. It’s slow, a trickle. He’s hoping I won’t notice. That gives me an idea.
Mages get their power from within and without. We have our own reserves, and we can tap into the ambient magic that infuses a place. Different places have more or less power. Some places are better for certain types of spells than others. And each place has a flavor, a scent to its magic given by its people, its history.
New York tastes like hot metal and granite, San Francisco like hammered brass and filigree. Los Angeles is a twisty mess of cultures and flavors that changes from block to block. The magic here in Durango is wild, violent. Hot and sweet. A product of its history.
“Because, you know, I’ve heard that before. Folks who figure if they can kill me they can take my place as Santa Muerte’s favorite. Better yet, if they can get hold of Mictlantecuhtli’s blade, they can take my skin, take my place as Santa Muerte’s pet. That’s why you were really waiting for me, isn’t it? Wanted some uninterrupted quality time to take my skin?”
When mages draw power from the pool, they’re doing it because their own power isn’t sufficient to do what they want. That’s a plus and a minus. On the one hand, yay, more power.
On the other hand, we’re all drawing from the same, constantly replenishing pool around us. But it doesn’t replenish quickly and there’s only so much of it at a time. Right now, Bustillo is using a drinking straw to suck on a lake. And as long as the power is there, he can keep pulling it in, building it up. Use it for whatever big spell he thinks will take me down.
“You know, a guy tried to do that to me a while ago,” I say. “Carve me up like a chicken and wear me like a suit. I stuck a bomb in his eyeball and blew his head up. The hell of it is, that didn’t kill him.”
“You don’t deserve it,” he says.
“Damn right I don’t deserve it. Nobody fucking deserves it. I’m in the middle of a cosmic threesome I didn’t want to have and I’m the one getting fucked.”
“So give it to me,” he says. “You want to get rid of it. I want to take it.”
“Dude, you have no idea what you’re asking,” I say. “Believe me when I tell you, if I could give it to you, I’d wrap it up in a bow and hand it to you. You think this is going to put you at the right hand of God. It won’t. It would just put you under her thumb.”