figure closer to the hourglass type than was common where she came from. She had very little formal education, but he’d come to respect her almost fanatical pursuit of self-improvement and focus on the main chance.
Instead of the compliment that sprang to mind he answered the question:
“Why come here? Chasing rumors of gold. Back then a Spaniard would crawl naked over cactus for that. And later because this was where you sent relatives who embarrassed you, cousin Diego who couldn’t keep it in his pants with the alcalde’s daughter—”
She gave a snort of laughter as she wielded a spoon in a dish of something bubbling and brown.
“—the backside of nowhere with Apaches behind every rock, knives in their teeth. There was one caravan from Sonora or Chihuahua every year, sometimes every two years. My people here used to hunt buffalo with lances, and trade the hides to the wild Commanche for guns
they
got from the French, that was how poor they were.”
He helped her set the table as he spoke. He was pretty sure she thought that was a bit odd; she’d probably have considered him something of a sissy if she hadn’t seen him in action when they’d busted her out of
Rancho Sangre
and got Adrian’s kids. That was the estate of the California branch of the Brézé family.
There was a lot of hurry-up-and-wait in the Suck, and you could spend only so much time pumping iron. He’d had a fair amount of time to read, and it gave him the vocabulary to describe that little bit of quiet, picturesque isn’t-this-pretty New Urbanist hell-on-earth.
First it’s like Norman Rockwell. Then you realize it’s more like Stephen King.
“Then why did the gringos want this country?”
“Because it was between Texas and California and too big to jump over even with a running start.”
She laughed again. He thought she
also
thought it a bit odd he hadn’t hit on her to speak of. She’d ended up in Rancho Sangre as part of a job-lot of illegals Adrienne Brézé had bought from a coyote, a people-smuggler, quite literally as snacks for a party. Except that Shadowspawn liked to play with their food. He’d been a cop in the Southwest for years; he knew what was likely to happen to a girl in the pipeline for illegals, and then she’d caught Adrienne’s eye as a blood-donor-cum-toy, which was worse because an adept could seriously fuck with your head. Though that was better than what had happened to her companions.
Eric was surprised she was as together as she was, and at how fast she’d bounced back; they made them tough down there.
“And the people are all soft, like
mozitas
,” she grumbled as she set out bowls of a rich
menudo
.
“You were a little girl once,” he pointed out.
“Not like that.”
“Like Peter?” he said.
“No,” Cheba said. “He’s a man, that one, even if he
looks
like a girl. I got to know him at the hacienda.”
Actually Peter Boase wasn’t particularly girly-looking, just blond, fine-featured and small; he’d escaped and gone cold turkey from the feeding addiction, all alone in a little rundown motel room in southern Arizona. Cheba had done it with experienced Brotherhood medics to help, and it had still hurt like hell, like coming off mainlining black tar. She gave the tribute grudgingly, though.
“Let’s eat, then,” he said instead.
Dinner was
menudo
thick with the hominy used south of the border. The tortillas to sop up the rich broth and tripe with chiles and tomatoeswere made fresh from the hominy as well.
Café con leche
warmed little bodies that had chilled in the suddenly falling night.
And when I said kids shouldn’t have coffee, she just looked at me like I was crazy, told me that La Doña had had no objection and her people always had it before sleeping, for
cena,
mostly with sweet breads or cookies.
The children shoveled it all away with gusto and apparently with four hollow legs between them, though their table manners were excellent and they were slender-fit.
Instead of the compliment that sprang to mind he answered the question:
“Why come here? Chasing rumors of gold. Back then a Spaniard would crawl naked over cactus for that. And later because this was where you sent relatives who embarrassed you, cousin Diego who couldn’t keep it in his pants with the alcalde’s daughter—”
She gave a snort of laughter as she wielded a spoon in a dish of something bubbling and brown.
“—the backside of nowhere with Apaches behind every rock, knives in their teeth. There was one caravan from Sonora or Chihuahua every year, sometimes every two years. My people here used to hunt buffalo with lances, and trade the hides to the wild Commanche for guns
they
got from the French, that was how poor they were.”
He helped her set the table as he spoke. He was pretty sure she thought that was a bit odd; she’d probably have considered him something of a sissy if she hadn’t seen him in action when they’d busted her out of
Rancho Sangre
and got Adrian’s kids. That was the estate of the California branch of the Brézé family.
There was a lot of hurry-up-and-wait in the Suck, and you could spend only so much time pumping iron. He’d had a fair amount of time to read, and it gave him the vocabulary to describe that little bit of quiet, picturesque isn’t-this-pretty New Urbanist hell-on-earth.
First it’s like Norman Rockwell. Then you realize it’s more like Stephen King.
“Then why did the gringos want this country?”
“Because it was between Texas and California and too big to jump over even with a running start.”
She laughed again. He thought she
also
thought it a bit odd he hadn’t hit on her to speak of. She’d ended up in Rancho Sangre as part of a job-lot of illegals Adrienne Brézé had bought from a coyote, a people-smuggler, quite literally as snacks for a party. Except that Shadowspawn liked to play with their food. He’d been a cop in the Southwest for years; he knew what was likely to happen to a girl in the pipeline for illegals, and then she’d caught Adrienne’s eye as a blood-donor-cum-toy, which was worse because an adept could seriously fuck with your head. Though that was better than what had happened to her companions.
Eric was surprised she was as together as she was, and at how fast she’d bounced back; they made them tough down there.
“And the people are all soft, like
mozitas
,” she grumbled as she set out bowls of a rich
menudo
.
“You were a little girl once,” he pointed out.
“Not like that.”
“Like Peter?” he said.
“No,” Cheba said. “He’s a man, that one, even if he
looks
like a girl. I got to know him at the hacienda.”
Actually Peter Boase wasn’t particularly girly-looking, just blond, fine-featured and small; he’d escaped and gone cold turkey from the feeding addiction, all alone in a little rundown motel room in southern Arizona. Cheba had done it with experienced Brotherhood medics to help, and it had still hurt like hell, like coming off mainlining black tar. She gave the tribute grudgingly, though.
“Let’s eat, then,” he said instead.
Dinner was
menudo
thick with the hominy used south of the border. The tortillas to sop up the rich broth and tripe with chiles and tomatoeswere made fresh from the hominy as well.
Café con leche
warmed little bodies that had chilled in the suddenly falling night.
And when I said kids shouldn’t have coffee, she just looked at me like I was crazy, told me that La Doña had had no objection and her people always had it before sleeping, for
cena,
mostly with sweet breads or cookies.
The children shoveled it all away with gusto and apparently with four hollow legs between them, though their table manners were excellent and they were slender-fit.
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