Not Your Destiny: Chapter 34
Marked
Book 1: Not Your Destiny
Chapter 34
It feels good to walk out to Helga, open the door and climb in. Ángel clicks the seatbelt in place, twists the ignition and curls his fingers around the steering wheel. He lifts his foot from the brake, just letting gravity help him roll toward the end of the driveway.
Heat. Flames.
He jams on the brakes, stops with his heart hammering, eyes closed. He exhales roughly, pushes the images away.
That was the last time he drove Helga. The last time he was sitting right here, in the driver’s seat. The last time he started her up and actually hit the gas.
But it’s not everything about Helga, and it’s not now. He blinks, takes another slow breath. Helga’s engine rumbles encouragingly, and he rubs the dashboard. It’s clean, shining like someone buffed it, and washed the windows as well, rubbing the streaks away.
She’s as perfect as an old car can be.
“Sorry, I just panicked.” He pats the steering wheel, twists to look behind himself before edging to the end of the driveway, then carefully backing out. “We’re just going to go see Papi, park on the street for a bit, then we’ll head to the shop. You’ve spent enough time there that you probably miss the Mustang after a night away.”
Ángel doesn’t think about the implications of that statement, that if Helga’s bonded with the ‘stang, what does that mean about him and Tony?
It’s never easy to park near the central offices, and in the end, Ángel has to walk a few blocks before he gets in to see Papi. When he gets there, Papi ushers him straight into the office, closes the door.
“You don’t trust someone,” Ángel says.
“I think something’s off,” Papi replies, gesturing for Ángel to take one of the chairs. Papi takes the other one, rather than sitting behind the desk, and they both lean back and prop their feet up, mannerisms mirroring one another.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Ángel admits. “I’m almost certain something’s off. Did you know that the Mollicone’s case is closed?”
Papi’s expression is neutral. “I haven’t read the report yet, but yes. I’ve been told there wasn’t enough evidence of an accelerant found. The burn patterns could be natural.”
Ángel gives him a dark look; he knows the burn patterns weren’t at all natural. There were hot spots, and cooler spaces, as well as the spots affected by his own attempts to call water. “And what do you think about that?”
“I think that without any further evidence, the case will remain closed.” Papi drops his feet, leans forward. “Ángel, I know they’re your friends. But my people have been—”
“I think you should investigate Ronnie Hamilton.” Ángel blurts the words out, interrupting Papi mid-sentence. When Papi says nothing, Ángel repeats them. “I think you should investigate—”
“I heard what you said.” Papi glances at the door. He stands, picks up the phone on his desk and presses a button. After a moment he says, “John, I need you to make sure that I’m not interrupted. If anyone wants to leave paperwork, they can leave it with you. If they want a meeting, schedule it no earlier than an hour from now. Do you understand?” A pause, and Papi nods. “Thank you.” He sets the phone back on the hook, returns to his seat and sits slowly.
“Talk to me,” Papi says, so Ángel does.
“The Mollicones are Lince,” he says, and Papi raises an eyebrow. “Right, we’ve been over this. Lince, the Cruz family, protectors. Tony thinks someone has it in for his family, and he thinks it’s someone like us. Another family in the church, someone trying to protect the community from evil demons. Which they’re not.”
“Which they are not,” Papi agrees. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “What does this have to do with Ronnie Hamilton? He’s not a Mage. He’s not even Talented. It would be in his service records if he were.”
“He hates Tony. And I mean hates him.”
Papi’s gaze narrows. “How do you mean?”
“His kid went off on me about how much he hates cats,” Ángel tells him, his wrist on display. “I didn’t think about it then, because I didn’t think Daphne’s nephew would know about them being Lince. They’re private, right? I thought Daphne knew, because of something Tony said to me on New Year’s Eve, but I didn’t think she’d tell her nephew. And besides, why would he hate cats that much? But I was thinking, that’s the kind of hate you don’t just have. It’s not something you’re born with. That’s the kind of hate you learn from your parents.”
“So maybe Ronnie Hamilton just hates cats,” Papi points out. “Normal house cats.”
He’s questioning, but he’s not rejecting the hypothesis. Ángel recognizes that posture, the way Papi leans a little closer, his head cocked. The faraway look as he stores information, sifts through it on his way to unraveling a problem.
“I think he was talking about Lince.” Ángel lifts his arm, extends so that his wrist is stretched. “This isn’t a house cat, Papi. This is Lince. That kid thought I was Lince.”
Papi makes a small, thoughtful noise. He gets up and moves to the seat behind the desk, takes out a pad of paper and makes notes to himself. Ángel tries to stay quiet, but it’s impossible to sit still. He feels like he’s close to answers, and as if his skin might burst if he doesn’t figure out a way to get them.
Ángel pushes to his feet, paces to the window and looks out, then back close to the door. Papi coughs, and when Ángel glances over, Papi crooks his finger, motions for Ángel to move away from the door.
“Do you think someone’s listening in?” Ángel asks, and Papi rolls his eyes.
“They can’t hear anything if they try,” Papi says, writing again. “But there’s no reason to tempt someone into trying. You’re going to run into Hamilton when you walk out of here, probably. Don’t give him any reason to wonder why you were here.” Papi glances up again. “Thank you for the breakfast.”
“The what—oh.” Ángel nods, following along with the excuse. He sinks back into his seat, crosses his hands and taps his foot against the leg of Papi’s desk. “What are you doing?”
“Making a list of things I want to check into that Hamilton’s been involved in.” Papi’s pen scratches; it sounds like a long list. “If he’s capable of a hate crime against the Mollicones, then it’s possible that he’s capable against others. I have some cases I’d like to take a look at and review.”
“Mm.” Ángel keeps tapping his feet, rubs his hand against the ink on his wrist. He wonders if the Lince can feel the moon coming, if they’re all as joyous as this one on his wrist seems to be. It’s leaping straight for the full moon, meeting it head on.
The scratch of the pen pause. “Ángel.”
“Hm?” He looks over. Papi is staring at his wrist. “What?”
“How are things with Tony?”
Ángel blinks at him, wordless. “He’s… he’s having a rough time right now.”
Papi’s eyebrows rise. “I’m not surprised. His entire world is upside down.”
“Daphne—” Ángel inhales, tries to start the sentence over. He feels the weight of Papi’s gaze, struggles under it. “Tony was dating Ronnie Hamilton’s sister.” He pauses while Papi makes another note, breathes a little more easily with the momentary lack of his regard. He smiles slightly when Papi’s attention returns to him. “Was dating. They broke up. A few times since we’ve been here, and um….”
“Is he your soulmate?” Papi nods at the mark on Angel’s wrist.
Ángel curls his arm towards himself, cradles the mark against his chest. “No. Why do you ask?”
“I pay attention, Ángel,” Papi says dryly. “Remember, part of my job is looking for clues. Trying to find answers. And right now, as much as I want you to feel comfortable coming to me, this might have bearing on what’s going on. Is Tony Mollicone your soulmate?”
Ángel tries to relax the tension, letting go by inches. “No,” he repeats. “I mean, yes, I like him.” He huffs, smiles ruefully. “More than like him. I have a crush a mile wide on him, and yes, to just get it out there since I already told Abuela, I’m bi. She said you’d figured it out.”
Papi nods, makes a motion for him to continue.
“But Tony’s already inked,” Ángel says. “He was inked before this happened to me, and while I really wouldn’t mind if it were him… I mean, I’d be really happy if it’s him, because Papi—”
Papi puts a hand up. “I don’t need the details, not any more than I wanted to know with anyone else you’ve ever dated. I’m happy if you’re happy. But….”
Ángel isn’t sure what Papi’s waiting for. “But, what?”
“Have you asked him?” Papi leans on the desk, gestures at Angel’s wrist. “Did you ask if any of that ink was your mark?”
“Of c—” Ángel cuts off. Wait.
No.
He saw the ink the next day. He looked at it more closely on the Sunday after the marking. But there was so much ink. “It all means something to him,” he says slowly. “He has moons for the Lince, like—” He stops that thought before it finishes, but Papi nods, as if he knows that Ángel was going to mention Abuela’s ink. “He has the rose, and the ink on his back, and it all just—it means something to him. His parents watching over him, even. The same ink I thought about getting for Mami.”
One eyebrow arches higher than the other. “But you didn’t ask.”
Ángel drops his gaze. He can hear the suggestion in those words. “No,” he admits. “I didn’t actually ask outright whether any of the ink was a surprise, newly inked drawing overnight. He knew I was looking. Why wouldn’t he have said something?”
“He was dating Daphne, right?” Papi points out. “Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he wasn’t as secure in his own self as you were.”
Or maybe he was as angry as any Lince would be, at the idea of a Mage affecting their life. Changing their heart, or forcing them to fall in love. “I’ll ask,” he says slowly. “Eventually, when it’s a good time for it. I’ll ask.”
“Good.” Papi looks back over his notes, runs a finger down the page as he seems to mentally check off items. “Did it seem to you as if Tony didn’t think the fire was an isolated incident?” he asks, tapping against his paper.
“The way he said not to worry about it?” Ángel nods. “Yeah.” He has a feeling he knows what Papi is thinking, and he clenches his hands, uncertain whether he wants this instinct corroborated or not.
“Give me a minute here.” Papi picks up the phone, cocks his head while waiting, listening it to it ring. “Hi, I need you to get me something from records. No, it’s not a cold case. It was closed, back in—when was the accident?”
Ángel doesn’t need to ask which one. “Four and a half years ago. In May, during the storm. I don’t remember the exact dates.”
“May 2012,” Papi says. “A car went off the road during the storm, both passengers killed before help arrived. Who were the first responders on the scene?”
Ángel fidgets while Papi waits.
Papi sits upright, tense and stiff. He grabs the pen, tucks the phone into the crook of his shoulder and holds it with his chin as he writes. “Mm-hm,” Papi murmurs into the phone. “I see. He filed a report. Was he the one who called it in? How long after the accident occurred—ah, okay. Yes. Lucky, yes. Pity he wasn’t able to do more.” Papi scribbles more notes, then sets the phone back on the hook. A moment later he sets the phone down.
“Ángel.” Voice low, serious.
Ángel straightens. “Yes?”
“In a moment, you’re going to walk out of here,” Papi says quietly. “You’re going to act like we’ve had a great late breakfast, and you’re going to smile and wave, and you’ll talk to everyone on your way out just like you always do. You’re not going to rush. But when you get to your car, you’re going to drive straight to the garage and you’re going to tell them to get out of there. Let the cleaners do their work, but I want all of the Mollicones gone and I want them to make it obvious that they’re gone. If you think the cleaners should have today off, then do that.”
Angel’s heart is rough in his chest. “Why?”
“In May of 2012, a young firefighter witnessed an accident during the storm,” Papi says slowly. “He stopped to help, to administer aid, and he called it in. He said he saw the truck go off the road, that it flipped twice, and that one passenger was dead on impact. He tried to save the woman, but she was dead by the time an ambulance got there. When asked, he said he didn’t know what happened, that the truck just swerved and went off the road. Investigations after the fact found debris in the road, and three out of four tires were blown. Between that and the rain, there’s no way they could keep control. The debris was unusual—metal pieces, blocks of wood—but was chalked up to the wind and the storm tossing debris around. The case was closed as an accident.”
“Who called it in?” Ángel asks. He knows, but he has to ask. Has to hear it.
“Ronnie Hamilton,” Papi says quietly. “It could be a coincidence.”
“Or he could have covered up evidence both times.” Ángel rises quickly, makes it to the door before Papi stops him, a hand on his shoulder.
“Slowly,” Papi says. “And smiling. I’m going to speak with Hamilton, but I don’t want him to leave here angry before you’ve had a chance to talk to the Mollicones. So right now, everything’s fine. Understand?”
Ángel wants to run out, race through the office and down the stairs. He wants to peal out fast enough that the cops will hear him.
He can’t do that, though. So he nods slowly, tries not to shake when Papi drags him into a hug.
“We’ll make sure they’re safe,” Papi promises.
Ángel’s glad to have backup, because he needs to make sure they’re safe, too. They’ve become another family for him, and he wants to protect them.
