Free [Corine Solomon 5] Agave Kiss by Ann Aguirre Page B

had Booke squared away, I meant to find some way to save Chance. The need to act on that pounded in my head, echoed in my heartbeat, but I had to take care of my friend first. It’s not a betrayal, I told myself. Chance will understand.
    Thinking of him in present tense helped.
    An hour later, the courier arrived. I took the liberty of answering the door—and I was relieved to find Booke’s documents ready to go. The passport looked fantastic for all its speed. Hard to believe Stenton had taken the picture with a digital camera just a little while ago. I tipped the messenger generously, and he saluted me before heading back down the stairs.
    From the kitchen came the sounds of the witch as she worked, muttered imprecations and rattling pots. A strong medicinal smell lingered in the air; gods, I hoped we didn’t have to ingest the charm for our passports to work in the scanners. That might not end well. But to my vast relief, when the woman emerged, she was carrying three sachets, which we were to wear around our necks.
    “As long as the bags remain in contact with your skin,” she explained, “you should have no trouble. The machines will malfunction just long enough to process your immigration.”
    “You make these often?” Booke inquired.
    “Often enough. I’ll have my cash now if you please. Then you need to quit cluttering up my front room. I’m for bed, and if Stenton sends anybody else my way in the next eight hours, I may turn him into a toad.”
    “The client or Geoff Stenton?” I wondered.
    “Both?” The witch laughed as I paid her, counting out the cash. “Mind you, use those within forty-eight hours. The spell won’t hold its charge forever.”
    “We’re on our way to the airport,” I assured her.
    Shannon roused on the first try; it took longer to wake Kel, who was in his trancelike sleep. “Come on, you two. We have a plane to catch.”
    The earliest flight left just before five in the morning, and we were only three away from that now. In short order, I hurried them out to the taxi and gave our final destination. I wished I could’ve spent longer in the U.K., but there were pressing issues elsewhere. In the taxi, I borrowed Shan’s phone again to email Chuch.
    We’re heading for Laredo. Given travel times, it will be late tomorrow or the next day. Booke’s with me, long story. Tell you when I see you. Would mean a lot to him if you throw a party. Invite all your friends and relatives. Trust me when I say he has reasons to want to be surrounded by people. Including our arrival time in case you’re willing to give us a ride from the airport. That was a long enough message for a tiny phone keyboard in a moving vehicle at night. Satisfied with how I’d managed things so far, I hit send and gave Shan back her phone.
    She stared at me in bemusement. “You seem . . . wired. Manic, almost.”
    “I feel a little frantic,” I confessed softly.
    There was no way I could confess aloud what I truly feared—that Booke would pass away in transit. But I think she knew. She put her hand on mine and squeezed. “You’re doing your best.”
    “Hope it’s good enough,” I muttered.
    The rest of the journey passed in a blur of lines and waiting. For the sake of efficiency, we got Booke a chair, which he hated. But it meant slipping the main security line for one more handicap friendly. We flashed our passports multiple times, but the real test of the charm around my neck would come when we entered the U.S. He didn’t need a visa, as British citizens could visit for up to ninety days on a tourist form. Given Booke would be lucky to have a month, let alone three, I didn’t figure immigration would pose a problem.
    By the time the pretty, polite stewardess settled us on the plane, I was running on fumes. Shan sat with Booke in the first row, still grilling him more about the war. Since he didn’t appear to mind, I let it go. Maybe it was a relief for him to be able to tell his stories. I mean,