Silver Nitrate(84)

“It’s…kind of. I mean…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“She was trying to cast a hex, drawing runes. I stopped it. Reflected it. I don’t know…I’ll take you to your apartment.” She winced and pressed one hand against her ear.

“I don’t have any booze in my apartment, so let’s go to yours. You look like you need a drink.”

“Make it three.”

She did have a bottle of tequila that she hadn’t opened. As soon as they walked in Montserrat grabbed the first two cups she saw on the drying rack and filled them with booze. They were not proper tequila glasses, but she placed them on the table.

“That was messed up.”

Tristán sipped his drink. Montserrat downed hers so quickly she thought it would burn a hole in her throat. She was a light drinker. One glass was enough for her. Tristán almost spat out the drink in his mouth when he saw her pouring herself a second one and downing it with equal haste.

“Holy shit, slow down,” he said. “Are you okay, Momo?”

She pressed a hand against her forehead. It felt warm, like she might be starting to run a fever, but the ringing was growing muffled.

“I feel a little shitty,” she said, setting her cup down.

“Well, of course you do, Charlie McGee.”

“Don’t fuck with me tonight, Tristán.”

“I’m saying that you set a piece of paper on fire.”

“Reflected a spell,” she muttered.

“That too. And you’re not sure exactly how you did it?”

Montserrat frowned. It was hard to put it into words. There’s a rhythm to his words, she thought. Three beats to the bar. It flows. Learn the pattern, you can dance it.

“I was looking at Ewers’s book. He discusses the rudimentary idea of it,” she said at last. She poured herself more tequila, drank it quickly.

“You’re still reading that thing,” Tristán said, grimacing.

“Among other titles, it’s over in my office,” she said, pointing in its direction.

“What did you draw on her table? I didn’t see.”

“Just the word ‘no.’ The way we used to write it.”

“Why would that work?”

Montserrat opened her mouth to explain Ewers’s ideas about magical actions and reactions, his florid mixing of knowledge gleaned from here and there, plus her own scribblings, which had now multiplied and took up many pages in her notebook. It was like trying to explain poetry to someone who wants to read a recipe. Ewers’s book had a system, but it was beautifully, sometimes surprisingly arranged, and depended not only on logic but emotion. Sound was much the same way. You can show someone how to splice tape, but getting the feel of it is a different tale.

Montserrat threw her head back. “I’m nursing a migraine, and I need to drive you home.”

“You’re not driving me home looking like you were just mashed by a steamroller and stinking of tequila. Come on, let’s tuck you in bed.”

Montserrat protested, but he hauled her up by the arm, and they headed to her bedroom. She lay down and watched wearily as Tristán took off her shoes. She’d done that for him on numerous occasions, and now the roles were reversed.

She didn’t relish it.

Then he took off his own shoes and dumped his jacket in the corner.

“What?” he asked. “I’m not sleeping on that stupid couch of yours. It’s lumpy.”

“You could go back to your apartment.”

“And be killed by an axe murderer? You don’t split up in a movie.”

“It’s not a fucking movie,” she said, rubbing her hands against her eyes, but Tristán was already taking the left side of the bed. She considered unbuttoning her jeans and slipping out of her t-shirt since Tristán had no problem stripping down to his underwear, then decided against it after throwing him a weary look.

He laughed. “Calm down, I’m not going to start rubbing myself against you.”

“So you claim,” she muttered.

“Fine. I’ll make a wall of pillows.”

She closed her eyes. “Sure.”

Sleep came easily, which was an oddity for her. She was nocturnal and welcomed insomnia like an ardent lover. But she felt absolutely drained, and although the ringing had subsided, the migraine remained, making the blackness of sleep a welcome escape. It was three a.m. when she woke up. The numbers on the clock by her bedside glowed a bright red.

Montserrat felt Tristán’s soft breath against the back of her neck. He was too close to her. Probably accustomed to sprawling across his king-size mattress, he was driving her toward the edge of the bed. She could feel the bulk of him curled against her.

She tried nudging him with her elbow. Instead of turning away, he moved closer to her, an arm settling against her midsection.

Montserrat sighed, and for a couple of minutes she thought to simply let him be, but she was in an uncomfortable position and wanted to turn around, and she couldn’t when he was practically draped over her.

“You’re crushing me, you idiot,” she said and tried elbowing him again, which had no discernible effect.

He simply lay there, flush next to Montserrat, one hand now curling against her stomach, as if trying to hold her in place, his breath loud against the base of her neck. She was considering kicking him when he spoke in a whisper.