Read Online Protector (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 5) by Christine Pope - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine Pope
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within her to wake up and tell her where her friends were. But she saw nothing, only the glare of the bright afternoon sun coming in through the car’s windows, a glare that somehow managed to penetrate her closed eyelids, burning down out of a hard, bright blue sky with not even a single cloud in it. You couldn’t hide under a sky like that. It exposed everything.
Trying not to sigh, she opened her eyes just in time to see Alex pull off the freeway and head slightly northeast, along wide boulevards planted with cactus and palm trees in the center dividers. It looked very unlike Jerome. Well, to be fair, so did Flagstaff, but Flag had a certain wild woolliness in common with Jerome, whereas Scottsdale might as well have been on another planet, with its expensive homes and upscale-looking shopping centers, and equally upscale and expensive cars on either side.
Maya’s house was intimidating as well, a handsome Santa Fe–style compound with an actual courtyard with a fountain in it. Everything about the place made Caitlin feel small and shabby, like a poor relation coming to visit some rich great-aunt in the city or something. Which was silly, because it certainly didn’t matter how rich Maya de la Paz was or wasn’t, or how homespun the McAllister witches might seem in contrast to all this splendor. The important thing was whether Maya could help her or not.
Luz didn’t seem inclined to stand on ceremony, but only led Caitlin and Alex through the courtyard with its bright-blooming flowers and on past a massive front door of aged timbers banded in black iron. As they entered the foyer, fully two stories tall, Luz called out, “ Mamita! We’re here.”
“In the living room,” a soft voice replied, so whispery and dry that Caitlin could barely hear it.
The three of them entered the living room, where a tiny woman sat on one of the leather couches there. A knitted afghan covered her legs, and a glass of water was sitting on a lap tray on top of that, as if she didn’t have the strength to even reach as far as the coffee table to get her refreshment.
It took everything Caitlin had in her not to stare. This — this was the fabled Maya de la Paz?
For the woman before her looked as dry and shriveled as if she’d been left out in the Sonoran Desert for fifteen years, her hair white, her olive skin cut through with deep furrows, as if rain had pressed it into the sorts of gullies Caitlin had seen in the washes and canyons near her home. Her hands, where they rested on the tray, were covered in raised veins and age spots, and seemed to tremble.
Somehow Caitlin found her voice, managed to say, “Hello, Mrs. de la Paz.”
“Maya,” the woman said in that soft, whispery voice, which sounded like a rustle of brittle leaves. “You seem surprised.”
“No, I — ”
A lift of her hand. “You should be. This is not how I should be…or how I would choose to be. My clan has not spoken of it to anyone.”
For the first time, Caitlin tore her gaze away from Maya’s withered form, saw the naked worry in Luz Trujillo’s face, the sadness in Alex’s dark eyes. Whatever had happened to their prima , it seemed to be something more than merely old age or illness or infirmity. No wonder the de la Paz family had done its best to conceal the condition of their matriarch.
“But this is not why you are here,” Maya went on. “I wish to speak with you of what happened to your friends. Come, sit here on the sofa.”
Not daring to protest, Caitlin moved away from Luz and Alex, and took a seat on the couch, sitting down carefully so as not to jostle the fragile old woman. Seen up close like this, she appeared even more brittle, as if she might snap in two if Caitlin made too sudden a move.
For all that they were framed in wrinkles and bags, and so deeply shadowed they looked almost sunken, Maya’s black eyes were very bright. They glinted now as she looked at her daughter and grandson. “You two — there is some fresh
Trying not to sigh, she opened her eyes just in time to see Alex pull off the freeway and head slightly northeast, along wide boulevards planted with cactus and palm trees in the center dividers. It looked very unlike Jerome. Well, to be fair, so did Flagstaff, but Flag had a certain wild woolliness in common with Jerome, whereas Scottsdale might as well have been on another planet, with its expensive homes and upscale-looking shopping centers, and equally upscale and expensive cars on either side.
Maya’s house was intimidating as well, a handsome Santa Fe–style compound with an actual courtyard with a fountain in it. Everything about the place made Caitlin feel small and shabby, like a poor relation coming to visit some rich great-aunt in the city or something. Which was silly, because it certainly didn’t matter how rich Maya de la Paz was or wasn’t, or how homespun the McAllister witches might seem in contrast to all this splendor. The important thing was whether Maya could help her or not.
Luz didn’t seem inclined to stand on ceremony, but only led Caitlin and Alex through the courtyard with its bright-blooming flowers and on past a massive front door of aged timbers banded in black iron. As they entered the foyer, fully two stories tall, Luz called out, “ Mamita! We’re here.”
“In the living room,” a soft voice replied, so whispery and dry that Caitlin could barely hear it.
The three of them entered the living room, where a tiny woman sat on one of the leather couches there. A knitted afghan covered her legs, and a glass of water was sitting on a lap tray on top of that, as if she didn’t have the strength to even reach as far as the coffee table to get her refreshment.
It took everything Caitlin had in her not to stare. This — this was the fabled Maya de la Paz?
For the woman before her looked as dry and shriveled as if she’d been left out in the Sonoran Desert for fifteen years, her hair white, her olive skin cut through with deep furrows, as if rain had pressed it into the sorts of gullies Caitlin had seen in the washes and canyons near her home. Her hands, where they rested on the tray, were covered in raised veins and age spots, and seemed to tremble.
Somehow Caitlin found her voice, managed to say, “Hello, Mrs. de la Paz.”
“Maya,” the woman said in that soft, whispery voice, which sounded like a rustle of brittle leaves. “You seem surprised.”
“No, I — ”
A lift of her hand. “You should be. This is not how I should be…or how I would choose to be. My clan has not spoken of it to anyone.”
For the first time, Caitlin tore her gaze away from Maya’s withered form, saw the naked worry in Luz Trujillo’s face, the sadness in Alex’s dark eyes. Whatever had happened to their prima , it seemed to be something more than merely old age or illness or infirmity. No wonder the de la Paz family had done its best to conceal the condition of their matriarch.
“But this is not why you are here,” Maya went on. “I wish to speak with you of what happened to your friends. Come, sit here on the sofa.”
Not daring to protest, Caitlin moved away from Luz and Alex, and took a seat on the couch, sitting down carefully so as not to jostle the fragile old woman. Seen up close like this, she appeared even more brittle, as if she might snap in two if Caitlin made too sudden a move.
For all that they were framed in wrinkles and bags, and so deeply shadowed they looked almost sunken, Maya’s black eyes were very bright. They glinted now as she looked at her daughter and grandson. “You two — there is some fresh
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