Power: Arca Book 3 Read online

  “Actually…” Miguel cut himself off, sighing. “I’m not going to convince you, am I?”

  Sensing his capitulation, she pressed her advantage. “Not a chance. I’ll stay alert and go into hiding if there’s any sign of that psycho nearby, provided that Quentin gets to safety too. He’s been chingado off since he was kidnapped and tortured the first time. Going through it again would not help.” Zita flexed her shoulders and adjusted a weight on one machine.

  “Quentin’s been off?” Miguel asked.

  She ran a hand over her head, forward and back, debating how to answer. Finally, loyalty to Quentin had her downplaying it. For now. If he doesn’t shape up, I will have to call in the big guns and tell Mamá. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it right now. He probably just needs time.”

  ***

  One week later, Zita tugged her boring jacket again, a halfhearted attempt to force the too-small garment to close in front while she paced in the small hallway outside her manager’s office. She had always hated that black suit, not just because it was dreary and purchased for a funeral, but also because she feared the coat would rip at any moment. It was meant to be worn by a teenager, not an adult with a woman’s curves and serious shoulder muscles, however petite she might be. Wyn had assured her the outfit was as professional as her closet would get, whatever that meant. Earlier that morning, she had caught and returned a neighbor’s errant Chihuahuas, dogs that escaped the elderly woman at least once daily. She heard an ominous series of tearing sounds and prayed the jacket would last long enough to get through this meeting. At least the blouse is a nice, vibrant blue that matches some of the sequins in my good work sneakers. Trying to soothe the growing ache from holding her shoulders in an unnatural position required to avoid further damaging the strained fabric, she leaned against her supervisor’s door.

  Her boss finally returned, the scent of spaghetti and wine on her breath. The woman stopped, then took an involuntary step back, seeing Zita blocking her path.

  “Hi, Emilia,” Zita said. “We need to talk.”

  “Were you scheduled to be in today?” Emilia’s eyes darted left and right before returning to Zita.

  As she straightened, Zita shook her head and tugged at the stupid jacket again. “No, and that’s the problem. I’ve tried to talk to you through emails, but you just say you’ll let me know and never give me more hours.”

  One of her boss’ hands dove into her purse and emerged with a small bottle of antiseptic gel. She rubbed it over her dusky palms. “Yes, and I will get back to you on that. We don’t have much extra—”

  Another employee slipped by, headed for the bathroom, then stopped. “Zita? Are you back from your trip? Thank goodness! It hasn’t been bad for this time of year, but we’ve all been pulling long shifts and telling Emilia that she needs to schedule another person into the rotation to take off some of the pressure!”

  “I hope so. Munchkins doing good?” Zita said, straightening and putting her hands on her hips. She raised her eyebrows while watching Emilia’s reddening face.

  Oblivious to their silent byplay, the other tax preparer chuckled. “You know kids. Always up to something but otherwise good. Anyway, I need to take my break before someone else comes in…”

  “Not a problem,” Zita assured her coworker as she passed.

  Turning toward her boss, she caught the older woman eying her and the door as if one or the other would bite. Zita thumbed toward Emilia’s office. “Did you want to chat in there?”

  Her boss sidled a step away. “No, no need for that.”

  “We could use the lounge then.”

  “Why don’t we… just take a walk and chat? I’ll see you by the benches in a few minutes.”

  Finding herself ushered out the door, Zita stalked across the road. Since Emilia did not immediately appear and the Cuban-Chinese fusion food truck was there, she moseyed up to it. Her stomach rumbled in agreement with the decision.

  “Zita! So good to see you back again. I was getting worried,” the middle-aged woman in the truck said, loading up a plate without being asked. “Business hasn’t been the same without you.” She beamed and added a tiny container of tamarind ketchup to the order.

  Passing over a few dollars, Zita accepted her food with a fond smile. At least someone’s happy to see me. “Hola, Rosita! How’s my favorite food truck doing?”

  The cook shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Ah, you think I don’t know you say that to all the trucks? We talk, you know. Business has been down since that company closed a few doors down and you’ve been out of town or wherever. All my other regulars must be dieting. I’ve hardly seen anyone and may have to move to another corner soon. The only customers I’m getting is when Chinese speakers stop by to ask why nobody at your office speaks a civilized language anymore. They wouldn’t even do that if they didn’t see my signs.” She waved at her menus, prominently displayed in all three of Rosita’s languages, English, Spanish, and Chinese.

  The smile dropped from Zita’s face. “They’ve been turning people away? I made that big sign in Chinese with instructions on how to make appointments even if I’m not there.” She turned and scanned the front window of the office, frowning when she didn’t see the splash of crimson where it had been before.

  Nodding, the vendor said, “It’s gone. Far as I can tell, the only Chinese getting service in there these days are the ones who speak enough English to brave one of the others. My mother will be worried if you’re not available come tax season. She doesn’t want to step on any toes by picking the wrong person in Chinatown. Did you finally decide to hold out for a raise?”

  Zita shook her head. “No, she just hasn’t been giving me any hours, and almost all of those are loaning me to other offices.”

  “You should find a new boss, one who pays better. I’d hire you, but you’d eat all my inventory.” The twinkle and sympathy in Rosita’s eyes softened the sting out of her words.

  Her smile rueful, Zita nodded. “True, that. Nobody makes Peking chicken and yucca fries like you though, so can you blame me?”

  They chatted amicably for a few more minutes while Zita waited for her food to cool after a quick bite of a fry seared her mouth. Finally, however, Rosita had to handle other customers, and Zita gave up waiting to eat. Commandeering a nearby bench, she sprawled on it and dug into her food.

  Several minutes later, Zita had finished her chicken and had started on the fries when she caught sight of her boss scurrying across the street. She called out a greeting and gave a restrained wave, licking salt and ketchup off her fingers before she did so.

  Stopping six feet away from Zita’s bench, Emilia took a deep breath as she approached and smoothed her asymmetrical jacket down over broad hips. Her eyes darted around the street as if afraid of being seen. When he spoke, her words were as rapid as an assault from a machine gun. “Zita, it’s a pleasant surprise to see you, but you really shouldn’t have come all this way without letting me know first. As it is, I have only a few minutes to spare, and it’s only luck that you caught me in at all.”

  Probably because you were at lunch for two hours. This doesn’t sound promising. Drying her fingers on a napkin, Zita held out the cup of fries, knowing her boss’ partiality to the treat. “Want some? I’ve got plenty.”

  Emilia took a step back before she caught herself with a visible effort and plastered on the smile she used with difficult customers. “How sweet of you to offer, but I just ate. Thank you for your consideration. How are you doing? Any relapses?”

  “Relapses?” Zita said, trying to recall if she’d ever mentioned that her cancer had been in remission for over a decade. “I’m fine. My health has been great. Never felt better.”

  “You sure? Not feeling odd at all?”

  After a second, Zita realized what her boss was actually asking. “Are you talking about the coma sickness? I haven’t been sleeping more or less than I did before that, and my doctor cleared me.” Or at least the local witch and her handy healing spe
ll. I’m not going through any testing until I know if having powers shows up in the bloodstream.

  Another smile greeted her words, but Emilia’s eyes did not match. “Good, that’s good.” She gripped her handbag close over her stomach, her knuckles turning white.

  Zita withdrew the cup and plucked out a fry while she considered her boss. Is she frightened or is it just the way she drew on her eyebrows this morning? Her body says flight, but her face says business. She went straight to the point. “No problem. So, listen, about my hours—”

  “Zita, I can’t give you more hours, not now and probably not anytime soon.” Emilia raised both hands in the air and retreated a step. “Don’t come in unless I call you. What with the budget cuts and all and the new district head cracking down, I just can’t do more for you.”

  Feeling her own, entirely natural, eyebrows climb toward her hairline, Zita said, “Wait, isn’t that the job you wanted? I’m sorry you didn’t get it.” So someone else would be in charge here to give me more hours.

  Emilia shuffled pointy-toed heels and frowned. “Yes, but I’m certain everything will work out for the best. The truth is, we don’t have the hours to give you because we lack the clients.”

  Zita waved a hand toward the window. “What happened to the sign? You’d get more clients if that was back up since people have to commute past here to get to the Chinese grocery store. You need me to do another one?”

  Emilia’s eyes darted away. “Oh. It fell when the floors were being cleaned and got ruined.” She fumbled in her purse, withdrawing her ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer.

  Feeling as if she was missing something, Zita tilted her head and stared at the woman. “I laminated it to prevent that from happening.”

  The bottle squirted from her boss’ hands and went flying.

  Zita jumped up and caught it before it could hit the sidewalk, offering it to Emilia. “You want me to make a new sign?”

  Emilia could not wave in negation fast enough. “You know what? You can keep that. You’ll need it to cleanse your hands after eating, anyway. The sign… we need to make our window conform to corporate standards, so we can’t have it there any longer. Listen, Zita, I understand if you want to hand in your notice, but I can’t give you any more hours.” She babbled a few other things, but Zita stopped listening.

  Well. That clears up what she wants; she wants me to quit to avoid a discrimination lawsuit for firing me because of the time I spent in quarantine. She needs to woman up and say the words if she wants me gone. I’ll keep even the few hours she’ll give me until I can get something new. Zita shoved her new bottle of hand sanitizer into her jacket pocket with more force than necessary. Her throat had an unexpected lump in it, and she realized Emilia had fallen silent. “I see. Well, if you don’t have the hours for me now, I understand. I’ll see you when the classes for the spring tax season start next week?”

  Emotion flickered on her boss’ face, none of it happy. “Ah, yes, the training.”

  Zita forced out what she hoped was a pleasant expression and tugged her jacket, ignoring the tearing sound from one shoulder. “Right, the mandatory training. Is it here or at the main office?”

  A smile so bright that it seemed radioactive suddenly appeared on Emilia’s face. “Guess what? Remember what you wanted last year? You can take all of those courses online. I got special dispensation.”

  From who, the Pope? Pain seared Zita’s tongue as she bit herself to keep from saying the words aloud. “Cool, then. Will you send the link, or should I check corporate?”

  “No need to disturb anyone at corporate,” Emilia said, still wearing a sickly expression. “I’ll send you the link. Now, I really must be going.”

  “Great, then I’ll email to remind you if I don’t see it soon,” Zita said, plopping back down on her bench and picking up the discarded fries. At least she has to pay me for the training classes. That should cover rent for this month if I eat a lot of rice and beans. Plus, I got a quick nap while waiting for her, and that irritating woman didn’t show up in my dreams. It’s bad enough she uses some power to nag me while I’m sleeping, but she won’t even be specific about what she wants me to do.

  Without even a glance back at Zita, Emilia skittered across the street and disappeared into the office.

  “Hey, Zita. What’d you do to her?” Rosita called out.

  She bit into a fry. Set off every germophobic bone in her body. Apparently, so now she’s trying to get me to quit. Aloud, she pretended ignorance. For some reason, everyone always believed her when she did that. “I think something disagreed with her stomach.”

  Rosita sniffed. “Should have bought her lunch from me instead.”

  Chapter Six

  As she drove her brother’s van toward the office the next day, the setting sun was in her eyes. Zita grumbled to herself and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she passed through Jessup, a little Maryland suburb. While the road was pretty—lined with trees, random strip malls, and cramped houses, many of which had been converted to businesses—she ignored it all in favor of calling her brother.

  He didn’t pick up, so she fumed into his voicemail. “Look, Quentin, I don’t mind getting a few extra hours, but I’d rather not get them because you’re blowing off work to get laid. I especially prefer to avoid any more jobs where a horny slut in lingerie and a martini-soaked smile is waiting to be serviced. She ordered me to send out a male with a big dick, as if I’m a pimp! Then she tried to skip paying me even after I let her in her stupid house. Now I know why your crew asked me to cover this one. Neta, a vice squad will bust you if you’re doing clients like that. Mano, you’re out of control. I can’t believe I missed dinner for this and covered for you with Miguel. Call me.” She slammed her phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat.

  In her irritation, Zita almost missed the small, hand-lettered sign advertising One Dollar Tacos on Tuesdays, prominently placed under a street light. I should come back on Tuesday. Wait. That’s today!

  The van tires screeched as she cut across to the right lane, the rear of the vehicle fishtailing some as she searched for a safe place to pull over. A giant picture of tacos taunted her from the front window of a tiny taqueria that took up half of a house. The parking lot was full, and the one next to it was a weedy mass of red and orange-tinged forest. About a block away, she spotted a narrow turnoff where someone had widened a section of driveway to better access their mailbox, and she pulled in there. Another car honked as they sped past, but she barely noticed the sound over her stomach grumbling.

  Whoever lives here should be able to squeeze past me to their place. I’ll just grab food to go, and hopefully, nobody will notice me here behind this overgrown boxwood. If I keep moving, it’s warm enough to just wear my exercise gear and not get my work clothes dirty. As she hopped down from the driver’s seat, she paused, then stripped off her jacket and work coveralls, stuffing the wallet in a pocket of her capris, sealing the hook and loop fastener. Moving fast, she pulled down the magnet signs advertising Quentin’s business from the sides of the van and locked them inside.

  The last thing Quentin needs is a nasty online review because I needed to eat, even if it is his fault I’m starving. After tucking the keys inside her other pocket, she took off into the brushy tangle of the woods toward the promised taco land.

  As she cut through the vacant lot, a brief flash of unnatural light, shaped like a rectangle, caught her eye from deeper within the forested area. Wariness ran electric in her, and she shifted to a jaguar, slinking through the brush without a sound and leaving her shoes behind. When she heard voices, she slowed, stopping beneath an untamed red chokeberry bush and crouching low.

  To her dismay, she recognized Pretorius and Janus, standing close together. The big mercenary loomed over the scrawny teenager and was saying something too softly for even feline ears. Two beefy men in camouflage gear with Uzis waited nearby, whispering to each other.

  “Stay with the boy while I see wh
at I can get,” Pretorius ordered. He rose in the air, slow and gradual, drifting by the men.

  His guards saluted. “Yes, sir.” One shot the kid a smirk as he brought the gun around to hold in a ready position.

  Janus folded his arms over his chest and stared at his feet. Resistance sang in every tense line of his underfed body, and his shoulders slumped. As she watched, he brought a hand to his mouth and gnawed on his fingernails. He kicked at an abandoned square of metal stuck in the ground.

  The man next to him had no patience for the teen and freed a hand from his gun to slap the kid in the back of his head. “You’re not allowed to hurt yourself. Just wait for Pretorius to return, then you do your thing, and we all go back to the compound. You don’t want me to tell anyone you weren’t cooperative, do you?” His words held the flat accent of the American Midwest.

  Zita fought the urge to smack the guard, though a low rumble escaped.

  The other sentry came alert at her sound but didn’t seem to notice the jaguar hidden under the bush.

  His hand dropping from his mouth, the teenager glared. “No, no need for that.” His voice held sullen despair.

  I don’t know what I want more, Zita thought, to punch his captors, or to give Janus a sandwich and take him home to his family. The poor kid’s a living example of why I won’t let anyone know about my teleportation other than Wyn and Andy.

  The more watchful of the two guards continued to scan the area. “Did either of you hear something?”

  Her eyes narrowed. His English is fine, but his accent is Brazilian? Interesting.

  Janus grunted. “Cars. The food place.” He sniffed the air and licked his lips reflexively.

  His guards inhaled as well, and the one relaxed. “Probably was nothing,” he said.

  The scent of cilantro and seasoned meat was perfume to Zita, though she resisted the siren call for now. I don’t know what they’re doing here. I haven’t seen much worth portaling here to rob unless someone’s got a vendetta. Pretorius didn’t seem to be heading to the strip mall. Do I follow him or help the kid? She checked the sky.