He slouched in his chair, fingering the letter. “You want to go there.”
“I have to.”
“How? Driving cross-country?” Grant narrowed his eyes. “I know that look on your face.”
I hesitated, and held up my right hand, staring at the fragments of armor encasing my fingers and wrist. “I could be there in seconds.”
“Not worth the risk, Maxine. You don’t know what you’re doing with that thing. You could end up in New York City before there even was a New York City, and what then?”
“Exploring America before it went European holds some appeal to me,” I replied dryly. “How’s that for a vacation?”
Grant shook his head, jaw tight with concern. I understood. I knew better than to try to time travel. I watched television. Folks who messed with that shit usually ended up destroying the world. I already had enough on my plate, thank you very much.
But she addressed the note to you by name, whispered a bleak voice inside my head. Your name.
I gritted my teeth. He said, “You’ll have to fly. And I’m coming with you.”
“I know,” I said, staring at my hands, the armor—suddenly feeling like Zee, unable to look anyone in the eye. When Grant did not reply, I forced myself to meet his gaze—and found him staring. “You thought I was going to argue?”
“You usually do,” he said gruffly. “Lone warrior. Venturing into the wilderness, beating your chest about how you don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
I thumped my chest. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“It sounds sexier when you’re naked.”
I wanted to thwack him in the head. “Is it too much to confess that I just don’t want to be apart from you?”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
“Good.” I looked away from him, unable to handle the intensity of his gaze. Too many years spent alone, too many expectations to overcome that I would always be alone. And here, this man, who rocked me with emotions I was still unaccustomed to feeling. What I felt for him defied words.
My skin tightened. I glanced at the window, and found the overcast sky not much lighter. But the sun was moments away from cresting the horizon, somewhere beyond the clouds. Dawn.
Zee stepped over the laptop, dragging Dek and Mal by their tails. Watching me carefully, Raw and Aaz dropped their razor blades, and clambered close—all of them crawling into my lap, wrapping their long sharp arms around me in tight, fierce hugs. I felt tension in their small bodies, hesitation—too much left unresolved in their silence. They knew it, I knew it. Nothing to be done about it now. I kissed their heads anyway, thinking of my mother and grandmother, and listened to the symphony of purrs that rolled through my body like thunder.
“Sleep tight,” I whispered.
I felt the sun rise. In the blink of an eye, the little demons disappeared into my flesh, coating me with smoke and fire—five pairs of red eyes, glinting across my body. Every inch of me, from between my toes to the middle of my neck and scalp, now covered in tattoos: my boys, tingling beneath my clothes as they settled restlessly into dreams.
My face was the exception, but the boys could shift positions in an instant if danger arose, making me entirely invulnerable. Nothing could kill me while they slept on my skin. Not a bullet, not fire, not a nuclear bomb. If I were held under water, the boys would breathe for me. If I was thrown into a pit and locked up without food or drink, the boys would nourish me from their own strength.
But only while the sun was in the sky. At night I turned vulnerable, mortal.
The armor on my hand had also changed its appearance. With the boys away from my skin, the metal had been simple, unadorned, bright as polished silver. Now, like a chameleon, it had dulled to match the coal black shadows on my flesh—engravings of coiled delicate lines appearing mysteriously to blend with scales and the sharp etched angles that were bones and hair, and claws.
Like roses, I thought, staring at my armored hand; and then glanced at the FedEx envelope where I had placed the fragment of leathery human skin.
Grant followed my gaze. “This is going to be ugly.”
“Always is,” I said, and reached for the laptop to start searching for flights.
The problem with murderers was that they usually took you by surprise. Not just with the act itself (though few ever really expected to die suddenly, violently). It was the actual perpetrator who could be a shock: familiarity, motive, lack of motive, the very fact that this was a person no one would expect to kill.
Murder was premeditated. Murder was planned. Murder required a commitment—not just to kill, but to live with the killing.
I had taken lives, demonic and human, but always in self-defense, or in the defense of others. I had learned to sleep at night despite the death on my hands. I could look at myself in the mirror without flinching. Usually.
In the case of Ernie’s murder, I assumed that someone had been hired to take him out; perhaps the kid found shot nearby, or someone else. The attack on Ernie had been deliberate and vicious. Knives were always vicious. Stabbing someone again and again took a level of resolve and intimacy that pulling a trigger didn’t quite reach. To kill someone like that meant you were used to murder—extremely desperate—or you really hated the guts of the person you were attacking. Sometimes all three.
Ernie had covered his tracks, though. It would have taken resources to follow him. Or someone who knew him well. The mysterious Winnie had known where he would be. Chances were good someone else he trusted had been in the loop, too.
I thought about that a lot during the flight. It was six hours from Seattle to New York City. I had never been on a plane. Never wanted to be on a plane. I hated the idea, even though I knew, intellectually, that a domestic flight would not be dangerous. It was international travel that caused trouble—moving from night to day, and back again. The boys might wake up.
But by the time we landed at La Guardia, I was a mess. Air pressure, air sickness, bad air, no air. No zombies, though. I had been seeing less of them over the past few months. Most of the parasites had left Seattle—run from my presence—but ten minutes inside New York City, I wondered if something else was at work. No dark auras, anywhere. Not even a taste. Far cry from the last time I had been here.
It was a little after seven in the evening when the cab dropped us off in front of Winnie’s apartment building. It was located on a quiet street filled with brownstone walkups, tilting trees, and the nearby glow of a small deli. Still daylight. I listened to the hum of air conditioners bolted outside windows, and the hush of quiet laughter from the couple at the intersection.
Winifred’s apartment building, unlike its neighbors, was taller than five stories, a cream-colored concrete block of windows with a green awning over the double-wide glass doors, and an elevator visible at the far end of the small lobby. Red geraniums framed the entrance, overflowing from massive clay pots.
I watched the street, listening to the rippling sensation on my skin as the boys shifted restlessly in their dreams. Not quite a warning, but close enough. I glanced at Grant, and found him also watching our surroundings; intense, a hint of gold in his brown eyes.
“Anything?”
“Nothing remarkable. But something doesn’t feel right.” He briefly nudged my shoulder. “Don’t.”
I frowned. “Stop reading me.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Who said I was worried about you?”