Lyn Gala

Texas Charm, chapter 9 (Patreon)

Published:

2018-06-02 16:18:38

Imported:

2026-06

Tags:

Aberrant Magic

Content

When Art spotted Zach walking across the squad room, his stomach unknotted. So much was going on that he hated having Zach out of his sight for too long, and he’d been gone for nearly two hours. Art stood, and guilt returned when he saw a flicker of fear in Zach’s expression. While Zach would never fear Art himself, he clearly feared having another fight. That would explain why he’d gone to check on the crime scene alone.

“Hey, how’d it go with IA’s interview? Could Lytle explain his ticket spree?” Zach asked with an overly bright smile.

Art followed Zach’s lead and focused on the case. “According to Lytle, he wrote the tickets because his niece and her friends were getting harassed by Minton as they walked home to and from school. The kid is young enough that he didn’t recognize Minton’s name. Apparently he’s not a fan of the evening news.” Art felt like an old curmudgeon complaining about the young whippersnappers who did everything wrong, but he didn’t have much respect for Lytle or the general state of his ignorance.

“How old is the niece?” Zach asked, which was an odd question.

Art sat and studied his partner. “Fifteen.”

Zach’s face twisted with disgust. “I don’t know what make a grown man look at a child and think to himself that he wants that.”

“The captain called the coroner. They’re fast tracking Minton down in autopsy, and they’re going to check to see if the surgeons missed part of the tumor or if it was growing back.”

“This case just keeps getting creepier,” Zach said softly. “But I’m not surprised he’s targeting younger women.”

“You aren’t?” Now Art knew Zach had dug up some evidence.

“I found a witness,” Zach said with unvarnished glee. “I found an unreliable witness who has delusions, but the little men who were trying to kill her fired their guns and dropped something in a trashcan outside the crime scene boundaries. I found a high-end department store bag full of women’s panties.”

That was their best evidence yet that whoever had been with Minton in that park knew the man was acting out his fantasies again, but since this was Zach’s theory, it was Art’s job to poke holes in it. “Could someone have thrown their underwear away in a park?”

“Unless the someone in question wore different styles and sizes of underwear, I doubt it. Some of the panties were colorful and cotton. The sort of thing a younger woman might wear.”

“Could your witness have planted the bag?” That seemed like a stretch, but they’d seen stranger.

“She couldn’t have gotten a bag from an upscale place like Tres Mariposas, and since she lives around that park, she’s not trash picking in nice enough places to find one. I think our killer brought it.”

Art leaned back in his chair “Or Minton did. They could be his trophies.”

“If so, he would never throw them away,” Zach countered. “He may not have gone beyond stealing underwear, but if he was harassing girls and collecting underwear, we both know where he was headed.”

“If this creep was hanging around my house with my little sisters, I would have been very tempted to do something,” Art said. He had a large family and the thought of a sexual predator touching any one of them was enough to make him forget he was a cop.

“In this neighborhood, people would have called the police, not driven him out to Devil’s triangle. Minton didn’t live in some low-income area where people don’t trust the cops,” Zach said.

“Yeah, but what if whoever killed him hadn’t meant to kill him?” That would match the strange combination of hesitation and overkill. “Maybe they took him out there to scare him, and the death was accidental. They lost their temper.” Art could imagine that happening.

“That might explain why the underwear was left in a trash barrel on the far side of the park. The witness I talked to said that the two guys came in and that one of the guys then left something behind in the trash. But based on where the trash barrel was, whoever drove Minton out there must have parked on the opposite end of the park.”

“So, let’s run some theories,” Art said. “Someone came home and found our guy peeping in a window, maybe he pulled a weapon and forced Minton into the car.” When Zach picked up the story and seemed to relax into their old rhythm, Art blessed the universe for giving Zach a forgiving nature.

“This is an upper class neighborhood. They don’t DIY a lightbulb change, so why would they suddenly decide to handle their own security?”

“If they knew about Minton’s past, they may not have trusted the legal system to deal with him.”

“Or the person has a bad relationship with the police,” Zach said. “Traffickers have been using houses in nicer areas lately.” He fell silent.

Art didn’t throw another theory out. He was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of their fight, but he didn’t have much experience opening these sorts of conversations. Either Zach talked about his feelings or they both ignored the problem until it didn’t matter anymore. Art felt like he didn’t hold up his end of the relationship. However, every time he tried to talk more, he felt like he was whining or that he sounded like a judgmental asshole. Silence was so much easier—at least until his silence hurt Zach.

“Could we be looking at a teenaged suspect?” Zach asked.

“What?”

“Minton went out to Devil’s Triangle with the shooter, so he didn’t feel threatened. The shooter parked on the wrong side of the park if the placement of the underwear and our unreliable witness can be believed, and they were so scared of pulling the trigger that they shot Minton in the back and missed as many shots as they landed. That doesn’t sound like someone with a good plan. If anything, it sounds like someone who panicked or who lacks the ability to think through consequences. It could mean we’re looking at someone who was too traumatized to think clearly.”

Art groaned. “You think Minton raped someone. You think a rape victim might have done it.” Of all the theories Zach could have thrown out, that was the worst one. If their killer was a rape victim, it would put them in the difficult position of traumatizing an already distressed woman.

“It would make sense. That would drive an otherwise law-abiding person to commit murder, and if we’re looking at a juvenile suspect, a lot of these pieces make more sense.” Zach looked at Art as if waiting for him to start poking holes in the theory. The problem was that it did make sense. Trauma made people act illogically.

The silence that followed that comment was awkward. Art touched Zach’s arm. “We can talk at home tonight.”

Instead of jumping on that promise, Zach had a cautious look in his eyes as he nodded slowly. “Sure.” He swiveled his chair away and hit his space bar to wake his computer. Art definitely felt the sting of that, but he had a few hours to figure out how to start a real conversation with Zach.

Art was exhausted by the time they pulled up to the house that night. From the way Zach kept rubbing his temples, he was equally tired and nursing one hell of a headache. Art toyed with the idea of using their exhaustion to postpone any conversation. He didn’t want to risk a fight when they were both too tired to make reasonable choices.

Before Art could suggest as much, Zach turned and said firmly, “We need to talk.”

Art nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been an ass.”

Zach’s mouth fell open, and he gaped at Art for a few seconds. “But… what?” Clearly he’d expected Art to put up more of a defense.

“Carson mentioned that I’ve been a bear around the office. I’ll try to tone it down.” Art headed for the bedroom to lock up his weapon and change clothes. Maybe Zach assumed he was trying to run away, but he grabbed Art’s arm.

“Hey, whoa. I appreciate the admission, but I’d prefer answers.”

“I’m an asshole. When shamans are around, I’m more of an asshole,” Art growled.

“Fuck that. I’m used to you getting grouchy whenever someone steps on your tail. I want to know why you keep shutting me down every time I mention Pochi or even shamanism.” Zach gaze darted over to the side, and Art assumed Pochi had made his appearance. Art wondered what it meant that Pochi didn’t allow Art to see him most of the time. Maybe the guide didn’t trust Art.

Art headed for the bedroom again. “I’m going to change. I’ll be back.” Art thought Zach would follow, but he didn’t. Strangely, Art’s cat appeared, walked a circle at the foot of the bed and settled in for a nap. To hell with understanding Pochi, Art would settle for understanding his guide, but he didn’t expect that to ever happen.

By the time Art came out of the bedroom in shorts and an old college t-shirt, Zach had planted himself on a kitchen stool. As Art headed for the fridge, Zach said calmly, “I hate that you’re shutting me down about all this shamanism stuff.”

Art flinched and kept his gaze on the refrigerator contents. “I don’t want to shut you down, but I don’t trust people enough to discuss this in public were we can be overheard.” Art was proud of how logical and calm he sounded.

“Paranoid much?” Zach asked.

Art whirled around and barely bit down on a tirade about how humans were shitty enough to inspire paranoia and guides were worse. Honestly, they were both too tired for this conversation, but since he had been the one acting like an asshole, Art figured it was his turn to be reasonable. “I’m a strong shaman, and the new council is probably paranoid as all hell about our relationship with Salma.” Art wiggled his finger tween himself and Zach. “So it’s not paranoia; it’s common sense.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Zach admitted. “But you said we can talk here. What’s special about this house that you think it’s safe? Salma thinks it takes a shamanic power to set a privacy spell, and you have never developed your Talent. Even when I told you that I was willing to take the risk and that I wanted you to pursue your magic, you didn’t.”

Art crossed the kitchen, but he stopped just shy of touching Zach. It felt like their relationship was too raw for that right now. “If I had to choose between you and Talent, I would choose you every time. I do choose you. However, I made a choice to avoid developing my powers before we met, and I’m not likely to change it now.”

“Before me?” Zach frowned. “I assume from your tone that it wasn’t because of another lover and your need to avoid getting strong enough that you risked hurting them.”

“No.” Art rubbed his neck. Zach knew about Art’s previous boyfriends, so he already knew that Art had never been close enough to any of them for his Talent to make a difference. “I need a beer. You want one?”

“I’m fine.”

Art grabbed a beer out of the fridge and headed for the couch. Talking sucked.

Instead of sitting next to Art, Zach perched on the corner of the painted wood chair Art’s mother had given them. “I don’t mean to push,” Zach said.

Art nodded. He knew how much Zach hated conflict. He was pretty sure that avoidance of conflict and Zach’s hatred for using the law to trick the system out of justice combined to make him drop out of law school just shy of graduating. “You have a right to answers. I just don’t want to discuss it outside the house.” Art took a drink and prepared himself for some emotional bloodletting. “When I was sixteen, I decided I was going to use a ceremony to find some deep connection to the spirit world.” Art wondered how he had ever been so stupid. He would find his roots—reconnect with “his” people and earn his father’s respect. That had gone great.

“You make that sound stupid. It wasn’t. You found your cat.”

“Who is not one of my tribe’s spirits, or even one of the earth spirits.” Art got up and then couldn’t figure out where he wanted to go. He was left standing awkwardly with his beer in one hand. Slowly, he sank back down. “My father… he was very close to his tribe. I thought if I was closer to them, if I could learn sacred tribal ways that he would be proud of me.”

Zach moved to the coffee table and took the beer out of Art’s hand and put it to one side. “Okay,” he said, but then he fell silent. Art knew he was confusing the hell out of the man, but he couldn’t find the right words to make the pieces all fit, not even in his own head.

“The tribe has a person who guides ceremonies—it’s a very sacred role.”

“Like a Native American shaman?” Zach asked.

Art shrugged. “I only know what my tribe does, so I don’t know what other Native shamans do, but these singers will lead ceremonies. They know how to divert malevolent gods and how to attract the attention of helpful ones. They can change luck, and the tribe believes that our chanters and our gods, especially the Mother and Father, are the reason our tribe has endured through the rule of the Spaniards and the Catholic Church and the Mexican authorities.” Art wasn’t sure he believed any of that, but when he’d been sixteen, he wanted to so very much. These days, Art confined his beliefs to the Texas penal code.

“And you wanted to be one of these singers?” Zach guessed.

“Yeah. The first time I mentioned it, my father was so excited.” Art looked longingly at his beer, but it didn’t seem worth the energy to sit up and reach for it.

“He didn’t express his emotions much, did he?”

“No. Not so much.” Art smile sadly. “Now that I’m older, I think he just didn’t have the right words. Back then, I always suspected he didn’t have anything nice to say about me. I was a stupid teenager.” He shrugged.

“And how did he feel about you coming home a shaman?”

Art flinched. That was the center of this whole conflict. When the singer had told his father about Art’s alien guide, Art’s father had recoiled. It had been the single most painful moment of Art’s life. A suspect had once gut shot him back in the days before vests, and Art would go through that a hundred times again to avoid that look of disgust in his father’s eyes. “I didn’t come home a shaman, not the way Natives count being a shaman,” Art said. “I came home with a cat.”

Zach frowned. “What?”

Art looked into Zach eyes. “When Oberton talked to you about these ifrit guides, he talked about how they come from a deeper well of magic—from another world.”

“Why are we talking about Oberton?”

“Because it all relates.” Art rested his hands on Zach’s knees and willed him to understand how important this was. “When most people talk about shamans, they’re talking about someone who has a guide from a spirit plane. These guides are from another world.”

Zach sucked in a quick breath. “Are you implying that there are Native guides from this world? Is that what you mean by a Native shaman?”

Art shrugged. “Guides? I don’t know. I’m saying that at least some Native shamans have a connection to a power from this world. When I wanted to be a singer, I wanted a connection to my people’s spirits.”

“And instead you got a guide from another world,” Zach whispered the words and horror stained his voice as he finally got what Art had so awkwardly tried to express. Zach leaned forward and rested his forehead against Art’s. They sat there in silence, and Art tried to catch his breath. Sometimes the size of Zach’s heart was so overwhelming that Art didn’t know how to handle it. That’s how he felt now—like he had no frame of reference that allowed him to understand how quickly Zach had dismissed every shitty thing Art had said in favor of offering comfort. Zach rested his hands on Art’s shoulders.

“Exactly,” Art whispered. “The tribal elder who talked to me said that because my soul was linked to an outsider, the tribe needed to keep a certain distance from me. My cat is an outsider, and the tribe can’t have me around without inviting a stranger into their homes.” Art swallowed, and the pain floated on the surface like a rainbow of oil flowing across water.

Zach sat up. “That’s a shitty way to treat a sixteen-year-old kid. I want to find every adult who said that and punch them in their throats.”

The sheer fury caught Art off guard and he laughed. “It’s not like I lived with the tribe in Mexico. It didn’t make a difference in my life.”

“So, is this the stuff you told me about how the Native beliefs are different from the Vatican or the Egyptian ones?”

Art nodded. “Partially.” The fact was that he didn’t understand as much about Native shamanism as Zach assumed because Art never could be one. He would always be the outsider, and his cat was proof of that.

“And does this relate to why you feel safe talking in the house and not out of it?”

Art got up and headed over to the wall. They had decided early on that both of them should be able to hang anything that gave them pleasure, so Zach’s architectural drawing from when his school choir had gone to New York hung next to signed and framed Superbowl tickets from a game Art had attended with his father. They had Mexican painting and woven baskets and three Romanian plates with stylized flowers that Zach’s great-grandmother had carried on the ship when she immigrated to the United States. Art reverently touched a thin drum with stylized figures burned into the wood along the sides. “My father gave me this.”

“It’s beautiful.” Zach said. “I always loved that piece.”

Art turned. “It’s powerful.”

“It is? Pochi hasn’t even noticed it, and he usually gets curious around magical power.” Zach wrinkled his nose. “If I’m honest, he gets excited and aggressive too. Well, except with other shamans, and then he’s just confused. He’s an odd bird.”

Art ran his thumb over the figures burned into the wood side. “He may not be able to see it because the power isn’t from the spirit plane. My father worried that having a guide meant that I was vulnerable. The elder told my father that some guides are good, but others would try to trick me into become a bad person. They might tempt me. I thought their distrust of guides was the influence of the Catholic Church, but the elder insisted that the tribe had distrusted chabochi spirits long before the Jesuits showed up in tribal lands.”

Art let his hand drop, but he continued to stare at the drum. This was his most valuable possession and the most tangible link between him and his father, and yet in some ways he hated the drum like nothing else in the world. “My father asked the singer to give me something to protect me. The elder gave me this and told me to keep it close and the other guides would never find me. Art turned to face Zach. “The elder who blessed this drum for my father asked a sukristo to use this drum as a window into this world to watch and protect me.”

“Sukristo?”

“One of the tribal spirits. I don’t know exactly how it works because I’m not a shaman, but I do know my guide can come in my home, and other guides can’t. They can’t hear what goes on in here. I’ve had other shamans test the protection. When I’m in here, they can’t even feel my life force. I’m invisible.”

“Because your sukristo protects you?” Zach sounded dubious or maybe just confused.

“I don’t know the secrets of my tribe. I don’t know what a Native shaman would see if he stood here. I don’t even know if sukristo are real or if it’s a name for some natural phenomenon. I only know that guides can’t see past this. Some mortals might get a feeling from it, but that’s because mortals who haven’t spent too much time around shamans have a better feel for power that comes from the Earth.”

Zach moved to Art’s side and studied the drum. When Zach closed his eyes, Art figured he was calling Pochi. A half second later, the hummingbird appeared on Zach’s shoulder and tilted his head in Art’s direction. Art still felt uncomfortable about having a stranger share their house, but Pochi was Zach’s guest and Art tried to be civil.

Zach pointed to the drum. “What do you see?” Pochi turned his head in the direction of the drum. After a good minute, Zach said, “All I’m getting is a general sense of confusion.”

“It works. That’s all I know.” Turning his back, Art headed for the couch again.

“Your father must have worried about you, huh?” Zach studied the drum.

“I’m sure worry was in there somewhere,” Art added in a flat voice. No doubt Zach was right, but that was a wound Art couldn’t afford to reopen.

Zach sat on the middle couch cushion, his thigh brushing against Art’s. “Any good games on tonight?” he asked. He smiled.

“I’m sure we can find something,” Art said with gratitude.

“I’m going to get a beer, you find a game.” Zach grabbed Art’s abandoned bottle and handed it over.

Thirty minutes later, they were settled on the couch in a comfortable silence while the announcers screamed their descriptions of the soccer game. Zach suddenly blurted out, “Wait. You said mundanes who didn’t hang out with shamans could feel that drum. Are you telling me that mundanes have magic?”

Art shrugged. “Not a lot, and not the sort of otherworldly magic shamans have, but they can be attuned to powers from the earth. I assume that’s why so many tribes have everyone go on a spirit quest—because mundanes can connect to the magic here. I sometimes wondered if you wouldn’t have found a Native spirit if you had gone on a quest because you were always drawn to that drum.”

“I…” Zach fell silent and finally blew out a breath. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

Art didn’t answer immediately, but after his team stole the ball and narrowly missed a goal, he said softly, “Yep.”

Chapter 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-6-19034447

Chapter 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-2-19050307

Chapter 3: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-3-19066252

Chapter 4: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-4-19087127

Chapter 5: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-5-19132901

Chapter 6: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-six-19159661

Chapter 7: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-7-19179823

Chapter 8: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-8-19190078

Chapter 9: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-9-19201497

Chapter 10: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-10-19220764