I just laughed. I mean, seriously. Come on.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “And that sure was some princely behavior, killing your boyfriend like that.”

Maria’s scowl was like a dark storm cloud over her head. “Hector died,” she hissed in a scary voice, “because he dared to break off our betrothal. He thought to disgrace me in front of everyone. Me! Knowing, as he did, of the royal lineage running through my blood. To suggest that I would—”

Whoa. This was a new one. “Wait a minute. He did what?”

But Maria was off on a rant.

“As if I, Maria de Silva, would allow myself to be so humiliated. He sought to return my letters and asked for his own—and his ring—back. He could not, he said, marry me, after what he had heard about me and Diego.” She laughed, not pleasantly. “As if he did not know to whom he was speaking! As if he did not know he was speaking to a de Silva!”

I cleared my throat. “Um,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he knew. I mean, that was his last name, too. Weren’t the two of you cousins or something?”

Maria made a face. “Yes. I am ashamed to say I shared a name—and grandparents—with that—” She called Jesse something in Spanish that did not sound at all flattering. “He did not know with whom he was trifling. There was not a man in the county who would not have killed for the honor of marrying me.”

“And it certainly appears,” I couldn’t help pointing out, “that at least one man in the county was killed for refusing that honor.”

“Why shouldn’t he have died?” Maria demanded. “For insulting me in such a manner?”

“Um,” I said, “how about because murder is illegal? And because having a guy killed because he doesn’t want to marry you is the act of a freaking lunatic, which is exactly what you are. Funny how that part didn’t trickle down through the annals of history. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure I get the word out.”

Maria’s face changed. Before, she’d looked disgusted and irritated. Now she looked murderous.

Which was kind of funny. If this chick thought anybody in the world cared about what some prissy broad had done a century and a half ago, she was mightily mistaken. She had managed to kill the one person to whom this piece of information might have been remotely interesting—Dr. Clive Clemmings, Ph.D.

But she was still apparently high on the whole we-de Silvas-are-descended-from-Spanish-royalty thing, since she whirled on me, petticoats flying, and went, in this scary voice, “Stupid girl! I said to Diego that you were far too much of a fool to cause trouble for us, but I see now that I was wrong. You are everything I have heard about mediators—interfering, loathsome creature!”

I was flattered. I truly was. No one had ever called me loathsome before.

“If I’m loathsome,” I said, “what does that make you? Oh, wait, don’t tell me, I already know. A two-faced backstabbing bitch, right?”

The next thing I knew, she’d pulled that knife from her sleeve and was once more pointing it at my throat.

“I will not stab you in the back,” Maria assured me. “It is your face I intend to carve.”

“Go ahead,” I said. I reached out and seized the wrist of the hand that was clutching the knife. “You want to know what your big mistake was?” She grunted as, with a neat move I’d learned in tae kwan do, I twisted her arm behind her back. “Saying my losing Jesse was my fault. Because I was feeling sorry for you before. But now I’m just mad.”

Then, sinking one knee into Maria de Silva’s spine, I sent her sprawling, facedown, onto the porch roof.

“And when I’m mad,” I said as I pried the knife from her fingers with my free hand, “I don’t really know what comes over me. But I just sort of start hitting people. Really, really hard.”

Maria wasn’t taking any of this quietly. She was shrieking her head off—mostly in Spanish, though, so I just ignored her. I was the only one who could hear her, anyway.

“I told my mom’s therapist about it,” I informed her as I flung the knife, as hard as I could, into the backyard, still keeping her pinned down with the weight of my knee. “And you know what she said? She said the trigger to my rage mechanism is oversensitive.”

Now that I was rid of the knife, I leaned forward and, with the hand I wasn’t using to keep Maria’s arm bent back against her spine, I seized a handful of those glossy black ringlets and jerked her head toward me.

“But you know what I said to her?” I asked Maria. “I said, it’s not that the trigger to my rage mechanism is oversensitive. It’s that people…just…keep…pissing…me…off.”

To emphasize each of the last six syllables of that sentence, I rammed Maria de Silva’s face into the roof tiles. When I dragged her head up after the sixth time, she was bleeding heavily from the nose and mouth. I observed this with great detachment, like it was someone else who had caused it and not me.

“Oh,” I said. “Look at that. That is just so interfering and loathsome of me.”

Then I smashed her face against the roof a few more times, saying, “This one is for jumping me while I was asleep and holding a knife to my throat. And this one is for making Dopey eat bugs, and this one is for making me have to clean up bug guts, and this one is for killing Clive, and oh yeah, this one is for Jesse—”

I won’t say I was out of my mind with rage. I was mad. I was plenty mad. But I knew exactly what I was doing.

And it wasn’t pretty. Hey, I’ll be the first to admit that. I mean, violence is never the answer, right? Unless, of course, the person you’re beating on is already dead.

But just because a hundred and fifty years ago this chick had had a good friend of mine offed, for no other reason than that he had very rightly wanted out of a marriage with her, she didn’t deserve to have her face bashed in.

No way. What she deserved was to have every bone in her body broken.

Unfortunately, however, when I finally let go of Maria’s hair and stood up to do just that, I noticed a sudden glow to my left.

Jesse, I thought, my heart doing another one of those speeding-up, skidding things.

But, of course, it wasn’t Jesse. When I turned my head, what I saw materializing there was a very tall man in a dark mustache and goatee, dressed in clothes that were somewhat similar to Jesse’s, only a lot fancier—like he was a costume party Zorro or something. His snug black trousers had this elaborate silver filigree pattern going down the side of each leg, and his white shirt had those puffy sleeves pirates always wear in movies. He had a lot of silver scrollwork on his holster, too, and all around the brim of his black cowboy hat.