No One Lives Forever by Jordan Dane

captain all the confirmation he needed.
    Score one for the home team.
    Grimacing out the window, Christian distracted himself with the changing terrain. Entering Cuiabá, the capital of the state of Mato Grosso, he found the city held traces of its colonial past mingled with newer development.
    Known as the southern gateway to the Amazon, the city served as a beacon of civilization on the edge of Brazil's great wilderness. He had seen photos of the city in his latest research, but nothing like seeing the real thing. Intersected by a river named after the city, the urban setting looked peaceful in the photos, with its flat terrain and skyscrapers nestled between an abundance of trees.
    But after what happened to Charboneau, Christian knew a seedy underbelly existed in this picturesque place. Mankind tainted perfection with its very nature.
    Still, Cuiabá had an undeniable old-world charm. Only a sidewalk's width away from the bustling street, multicolored facades of old villas lined the thoroughfares. The artist Van Gogh wouldn't have enough pigment on his palate to do the city justice. Tall, ornate custom window cornices and colonnades were painted in white and set against walls of vivid blue, yellow, green, and burnt orange, giving the city a festive appearance. Under streetlights, the splashes of brilliance assaulted his eyes, a departure from the more conservative use of color in Chicago. Wrought-iron balconies and gateways accented the quaint colonial manor houses. Without much thought to city planning, apartment buildings stood next to more modern office high-rises and ancient cathedrals. The new sprouted amidst the old, a hodge-podge of culture.
    On the tepid night air, strange smells overwhelmed his senses, an unfamiliar fusion of a people's culture and the earth. The enticing aroma of exotic foods mixed with the pungent smells of sweet, rich soil, livestock, and the surrounding marshlands, Brazil's lifeblood. Laughter and music served as the backdrop for a lyric language he did not understand, but welcomed. The flood of new sensations bombarded his senses like a hail of bullets, sweet torture. This time, his heightened awareness felt like a gift—a gift he wanted to share with only one woman.
    God, I wish you were here. His heart ached for Raven. He closed his eyes and fought to clear his head, wanting to stay in the moment.
    When he opened them again, a flash of light drew his attention, a well-timed distraction. Candles burned in votives or glowed within old broken liquor bottles. They were displayed in windows, on sidewalks, and on several of the front stoops to shops. A variety of tributes hung beside them, from religious symbols to cigars, the shapes murky in the flickering light. The unfamiliar practice caught his eye.
    "What's with the candles?"
    "Macumba ritual. In your country, you might have heard it called voodoo. The people of my country are superstitious. They are drawn to the supernatural, an influence brought to Brazil from the days of slavery. The custom comes from a blending of African spiritual beliefs with that of the Roman Catholic faith."
    "Why burning candles? What are they for?"
    "I am not an expert, but I have heard the rituals are an attempt to make contact with the Orixás, or spirits. Perhaps they ask for protection from evil or hope to gain good fortune."
    Gazing out the passenger window, Christian mumbled under his breath, "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to burn a candle for good luck."
    "Never underestimate the necessity to protect yourself against evil. You can never be too careful. The curse of the evil eye has its power."
    The police captain's statement struck him as odd. Yet when he glanced toward the man, Duarte kept his eyes on the road, diminishing the significance of his words. Regardless of the man's intention, Christian sensed his implied threat.
    "You sound like you believe in Macumba, Captain."
    Duarte shrugged. "In my line of work, I find many people like to blame the spirits for