Chapter Twenty-Six
D ixie Goodwin died with a novelty t-shirt pressed to her neck.
That’s where Aiden had found Shay, on the sidewalk in front of the House of Blues, propping Dixie’s head in his lap while a security guard spoke sweetly to her, holding the slit on her throat closed with a newly purchased souvenir.
Another woman had wept and moaned, held back by a second security guard, uttering her name like a hymn— Dixie Goodwin.
Baby girl. Dixie. Sweetheart, no. Why. Dixie.
Graduating next year. Dixie. Dixie. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Dixie Goodwin. My best friend. What will I tell her mom? Dixie, honey, no.
Once Aiden had pushed through the ogling crowd, he’d set his hand on Shay’s shoulder and said, “We need to go.”
“Police’ll want my statement,” Shay had said. So, they’d waited, listened to whispers escalate, and after seven excruciating minutes, the police arrived, and Shay told an officer what he’d seen. “A girl,” he’d said, nodding. “Think she had a knife.”
But Aiden knew the marks on Dixie’s pale throat, still looped with purple beads.
He saw the place where claws had punctured, digging into her like gardening shears.
How Laura had flayed her, leaving her throat carved.
Blood followed cigarette butts into a street drain.
Dixie’s empty eyes stared at the starless sky, and Aiden wondered if she’d had time to be afraid.
Both security guards had corroborated Shay’s statement, and the coroner had arrived with the ambulance. Then they’d left, just like that, shuffling back to the Sheraton where Georgia, Dylan, Pru, and Camila hid in their hotel suite.
In the elevator, Shay inhaled, startled, and put two fingers to the bruises blooming above Aiden’s choker. “I almost?—”
“I’m fine, Shay,” Aiden said, and stepped into the hallway.
“We should text Kelly. Maeve gave me her number—we can get a hold of her, too.”
“Yeah, let’s deal with my sister first. We’ll call the calvary in the morning.”
“We’re supposed to be leaving in the morning, Aiden.”
“I’ll fly Maeve to New York,” he said, exhausted, and swiped his keycard.
Aiden had thought of nothing but Maeve and New York and Laura.
He’d dwelled on the options they didn’t have and mourned the time they’d lost. Raged against fate, challenged his consequences, welcomed a goddam war.
But everything had changed an hour ago. Laura, looking at Camila, had called for a cease fire.
Laura, finding another Ramírez, had fucked everything to hell and back.
Camila paced in the main room, chewing on her thumbnail.
When Aiden laid his eyes on her, he saw his sister, eleven years old, pacing in the kitchen, waiting for their father to return home.
Everyone talked at once. Georgia said, what happened, and Pru said, estás bien , and Dylan said, what a night, huh?
By the time Aiden understood Camila— get in here —he was already in the bathroom, and she was twisting the lock.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She whirled on him, forcing him to plop on the toilet seat.
She turned his chin one way, then the other.
Picked at his hands. Assessed his knuckles.
She touched his neck last, and even when he snatched her wrists, she broke free, shouting wordlessly at him.
They’d done this before. When they were teenagers, Aiden would return home with a blackened eye, or Camila would hide bruises with concealer, and they’d force roughened love onto each other.
Stop getting your ass kicked, Aiden.
I’ll cut his head off if he touches you again, Cami.
Camila unclipped the collar. Her knees hit the tile in front of him, and her deep, dark eyes welled as she tore at the band-aids, revealing punctures and the scarring gash. She covered her mouth with both hands, and Aiden turned away, staring at the shower—avoiding her, hurt over him.
“Aiden,” she said, breathless and weak. Her hands fluttered on his throat, too nervous to land. “Aiden, what’s he done to you?”
“Nothing, Cami. He got rough with a hickey—it’s not a big deal. Just a little bruise.”
“You promised me,” she snapped, resting her palms on the finger-shaped divots purpling his skin.
“You are my blood. You are mine , Aiden. Mine to protect, mine to look after. You think you can lie to me? You might be able to ignore what we are, but I am Camila Valentina Ramírez, and these are his hands. I feel it in my blood. I know it in your skin—blessed by brujería, made sacred, same as mine.”
Aiden exhaled hard. “It was an accident, manita. Shay would never— hey! ”
Camila threw open the door and stormed into the main room.
Her voice carried, high and loud and furious, and she swung her open hand, striking Shay across the cheek.
“That’s my baby brother, Shay! You think you can touch him without me knowing?
You think you can put your hands on him?
I’ll bury you in the ground, Bennett. I swear, on my motherfuckin’ name, I’ll be the end of you. You touch him again and?—”
“Whoa, Cami, holy shit, calm down!” Georgia shoved her way between them.
Shay flinched and went still. “Camila, it’s not what you think.”
“Have you seen his neck, Georgia?” Camila shouted, jabbing her arm toward Aiden who stormed into the room behind her. She lunged for Shay again, but Aiden caught her arm. “Look at him! Look at what you did to him, you abusive son-of-a-bitch!”
Georgia glanced at Aiden’s throat and her eyes widened. “Aiden, oh my God. . .”
“Stop, Cami. C’mon. We’re leaving—stop,” he said, and snuck his arms around her middle, hauling her backward. Trying to contain her wasn’t simple. Never had been. Like wrangling a really big, really mean cat. “Don’t throw elbows, bitch. That’s enough . I’m serious—Pru, can you…?”
Pru held her palms open in mock surrender, seated on the furthest bed next to Dylan. “That’s family shit,” she said, and shook her head. “Sorry, bro.”
Aiden rolled his eyes.
“I see you, Shay Bennett,” Camila spat, planting her feet as Aiden tried to drag her away. She relented, just enough to stumble backward, and hissed through her teeth. “Touch him again, and I’ll show you a real Ramírez witch.”
“Cami, seriously,” Aiden groaned, and tossed her into the hall. He sucked his cheek between his teeth, standing in front of the closed door with his hands on his hips. “You’re a healer. Last time I called you a witch, you threw a plate at me.”
Camila wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Don’t change the subject. You’ve still got a handprint on your whole fuckin’ neck.”
“Feel it,” Aiden bit out, and craned toward her. “Go on. Do your bruja shit. Feel those bruises and tell me he did it on purpose. Tell me Shay meant to hurt me.”
She narrowed her eyes but did as he asked, resting her palms on his neck, thumbs crossed beneath his chin. One deep breath later, Camila whispered, “Déjame. . .”
Sometimes, when they were kids, Camila would grab onto Aiden and come away with a truth he’d tried to hide.
Other times, she’d cry with him or scold him, share a burst of joy with him or spiral into anger with him.
As they grew into their teens, he shied from her affinity for spiritualism, but right then, he leaned into her power.
Pushed whatever brujería bullshit he carried in his blood to the surface and tried to meet her there.
Her eyebrows came together in concentration and she sighed, relieved or defeated. Both, probably.
“It doesn’t matter if he meant to or not, he still did. And this. . .” Her fingertips grazed the closed, pink line left behind from Cit’s knife. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. “You were so scared,” she croaked, watery and hiccupped. “What happened to you? What’re you doing? ”
“We’ve got two more shows and then I’ll be home, okay?”
“Aiden, no. No . Not after tonight. Not after?—”
“Yes, Cami. You saw a crazy fan tonight. Total fuckin’ nut-job.
She went absolutely apeshit and stabbed someone outside the theater,” he said, and laid his hands over her knuckles, holding her palms to his neck.
“Ghoul? Yeah, sure, maybe. Evil, definitely. But probably just another white-trash psychopath on a warpath. Either way, this tour is my job. I’m leaving tomorrow, and you are, too. Right?”
Camila made a frustrated noise. “Yeah. I have a bullshit early flight.”
“Good. We check out at ten and drive straight to New York. You know you can’t stop me,” he said, as kindly as he could, and pressed on her knuckles.
“But I’ll text you, all right? I’ll call Mama.
I’ll Facetime. I’ll let you kick the shit out of Shay if he gets too rough again. Lo juro. Pacto de sangre.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“What’s new?”
She rolled her eyes, gnawing on her bottom lip. After a beat of tense silence, her shoulders drooped. “Blessed Water,” she said, matter-of-factly, and dropped her hands to his rosary. “Wear this every day. Pray, light candles, read that damn book— use it . Listen to your instincts.”
“I will,” he said.
“Go get my purse.” Camila flicked her wrist at the door.
Aiden retrieved her purse, offering a tired, “Be right back,” to everyone waiting inside, and walked Camila to the elevator.
She kissed his cheek, scanning the marks on his neck again. “When you get home, I’m cleansing all your shit. Go ahead, roll your eyes again, I dare you.”
“Okay, fine. We’ll cleanse ,” Aiden said, and pulled her into a hug. He put his nose to her shoulder, inhaling remnants of her perfume—candied rose and burnt birch. “Text me before you get on the plane. Love you, Cami.”
“Yeah, love you, too,” she said, and stepped into the elevator. Her smile softened as she waved, and the doors slid closed.