"Magic In the Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Monk Devon)

Chapter Ten

    I jogged up the three flights of stairs, maybe because I wanted to get to my apartment and shower and change in time to pull myself together before the Hound meeting. Or maybe because that fight with the watercolor people on top of the rest of my day had shook me in a deep way that made me want to scream just a little.

    Yeah, mostly it was the second thing.

    Running up the stairs in a totally dignified and not scared of my own shadow kind of way let me release a little of that pent up panic, let my body burn while my mind rolled out the fear carpet and took a nice leisurely stroll.

    Whatever those watercolor people were-they had been a lot harder to get rid of this time. And despite not wanting to tell Zayvion, I was sure-positive-I had seen my father in the street. I was positive I had heard him.

    He had said something about gates opening and seeking death.

    Why did ghosts have to be so spooky? I mean, it had been a while since my dad and I had spoken to each other. He could have talked about the weather, asked me how my job was going, or maybe explained why even though he was dead he still felt the need to meddle in my life.

    Honestly, he could have just told me why he wanted me to seek the dead and what seeking the dead meant.

    I made it to my apartment door. All the other doors down the hall were closed, including the one where my newest neighbor, the creepy doctor from the coffee shop, lived. I unlocked my door, and then, because I was feeling more than a little jumpy, I drew a glyph to enhance my senses of hearing and smell, set a Disbursement this time (oh, hells, I hadn’t been setting Disbursements when we faced the watercolor people; I was so going to have magic pound that price out of me), and leaned close to my door to listen for any movement, any breathing beyond it. I sniffed and got only a noseful of the smells I am used to in my building, along with the slight smell of almonds that I decided must be my new neighbor.

    A motion at the corner of my eye caught my attention and I looked down the hall. I thought, for just a second, that someone had been standing there. Even though I had not enhanced my sight with magic, the pale green and blue tremor of fog-watercolor fog-at the end of the hallway near the head of the stairwell was enough for me to let go of magic.

    The hall was just a hall again. No fog. No movement. No sound.

    And nothing seemed to be moving in my apartment either.

    I walked in, flipped the lights on, locked the door behind me, and strode through the entire place, just to make sure I was alone.

    And I was.

    I wanted a shower, but that would mean getting naked in my bathroom again, and as good as hot water sounded, I just didn’t have it in me to get all naked and vulnerable yet.

    Last time I was in that bathroom, my dead father had seen me, touched me.

    “C’mon, Allie,” I said out loud. “Get over it. You’ve gotten over every other screwed-up thing that has happened to you.”

    Maybe I needed a cat. Or a dog. Something that would sense if there were anything out of the ordinary going on in my apartment. But a cat or dog would take time to care for, and I barely made time to take care of myself.

    Maybe something smaller that needed fewer walks in the park and less one-on-one time. A goldfish? How about a ghost-sniffing hamster?

    Ha.

    I took off my coat, hung it on the hook behind the door, and decided I could stall the whole get-naked thing while doing something useful. I pulled out my notebook.

    I wrote down everything that had happened today-the bus ride with Trager, the visit with Love and Payne, Stotts and his secret magic police, the Hounding job I’d go on tonight, Pike and the angry young Anthony, and of course the watercolor people, magical disappearing Life and Death glyphs, Grant’s opera tickets, my re-date with Violet for breakfast tomorrow, my dad’s empty grave, his appearance in the intersection, the encounter with the watercolor people, and the surprisingly powerful Mr. Jones. I noted that I was going to a Hound meeting and that I had a dinner date with Zayvion, who had said there were magic users out there, watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake. And that the price for that mistake might well be my death.

    Listed like that, my day was shaping up fan-damntastic.

    I pulled off my knit hat, dropped it on the half wall between my entryway and kitchen, and scratched at my wet, itchy head. I had delayed it as long as I could. Time to shower. I picked up a candle I had left there on the half wall and stopped in the living room to light it.

    A headache was looming, pressing at the back of my skull, not bad yet, but I knew in an hour or two, it would probably be a migraine.

    “Disbursements, Allie,” I said out loud, trying to fill the emptiness of my apartment with my voice. “Why do you always forget to set Disbursements? You are such an idiot sometimes.”

    I set the candle on the edge of the sink and left the door open. If the lights went out again, I wanted something to see by and a clear escape route. I took a deep breath and pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing but my empty shower. Good. I turned on the shower to give the water time to warm up. I undressed and kept glancing out at the hallway and peering at the corners of the bathroom.

    I tossed my clothes in the hamper and checked myself for bruises and cuts in the full-length mirror standing next to the hamper.

    No cuts, which was great. But the site where Trager had shoved the needle in my thigh was a hard, sore, hand-sized lump. A bruise spread out in thin tendrils that looked more like a broken spider web than a bruise. A glyph? I ran my fingers over it carefully and didn’t sense any magic left in it. But, yes, it was a glyph. Blood magic, though not any kind I was aware of. It had to be the thing that had made me feel so dizzy after he had stabbed me.

    I swore.

    But the glyph wasn’t the only new mark I carried. There were four dark red circles down my neck, a lot more on my left shoulder, and several on the outside of my hips, thighs, stomach, and what I could see of my back. They looked like finger-bruises, only they weren’t the right color for bruises. I gently rubbed the marks on my left shoulder.

    Ouch.

    Sticky moisture clung to my fingertips. Those red spots hurt. I wasn’t exactly bleeding, but I was sort of weeping fluid. The marks burned like someone had peeled my skin off. I touched the ones on my neck more carefully. Same thing-raw and painful.

    I didn’t think Trager could have caused these marks. I would have known if he touched me like that, no matter how glyphed and dizzy I was.

    No, I knew where I must have gotten them from-the watercolor people touching me outside Get Mugged. I had felt light-headed after that-drained and sort of sunburned. And these were the marks left behind from their attack.

    I didn’t have any Band-Aids.

    I wasn’t even sure I had any painkillers in the house.

    I bet this was going to sting like hell in the shower.

    I could do this. I could get in the shower, wash off despite being afraid my dead dad was going to show up again, and despite the pain it might cause my new wounds.

    I stepped in the shower and did not pull the curtain closed. So what if I got a little water on the floor? It probably needed to be mopped anyway. With the curtain open I had a better chance at that clear escape route.

    The water hit my shoulders, and sure enough, it stung like mad.

    Fabulous.

    So instead of taking a nice relaxing soak, I shivered in the heat of the water and made it quick. I washed my hair with shampoo that stung, then rubbed soap that stung over my skin, and patted myself dry, which also stung.

    Not that I was bitter about it or anything.

    I got out of the shower, wrapped the towel around me, and brushed out my hair, tucking it behind my ears. Then I opened my medicine cabinet. That lingering headache was moving in, sinking down into the back of my head and squeezing at my temples. All I had in the medicine cabinet were some cold pills, cotton swabs, a bottle of aspirin, and Bactine.

    I pulled out the painkillers, tipped four tablets into my palm, and then swallowed them down. Next I uncapped the Bactine and squirted the antiseptic over each of my raw marks. It helped some-took the sting out-but the cold rivulets of antiseptic that snaked down my body made me shiver.

    I blew out the candle and took the aspirin with me into the bedroom. If I was going to get through tonight, I would need to chew down at least another eight of these things.

    I didn’t keep prescription painkillers in the house for a reason. Being a Hound and using magic for a living made it way too easy to fall into abusing substances for pain relief.

    I dressed in an extra layer, a soft cotton long-sleeve shirt so that the raw marks wouldn’t get scratched by my wool sweater, and wore a pair of tights beneath my jeans for the same reason.

    Next on were wool socks, a black scarf my friend Nola knitted for me, a spare pair of leather gloves, and the only other coat I owned: a short black leather trench. It wasn’t as warm as my other coat, but it would keep me dry. I pulled on a new slouchy knit hat.

    Back in the living room I picked up my journal, and my wallet, and after locking the front door behind me, I strolled back down the hall and stairs to catch the bus to the meeting.

    I looked good. Very secret agent-ish.

    I made it to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up and found an empty seat near the door. For the next twenty minutes of stop and go, my headache thrummed along merrily. The painkillers weren’t doing squat so I went over everything that had happened today and what I understood about it.

    A lot, and not much.

    I was apparently being haunted by my father. He wanted me to look for dead people or dying people, or the just plain dead. If he wanted me to “seek the dead” by doing something stupid like killing myself, he was so outta luck. Still, he had said those words with Influence, so even while I was sitting on the bus tapping my foot impatiently, my mind kept going back to his words, to the need to seek the dead that he had put on me.

    Thanks a lot, Dad.

    Meanwhile, Zayvion, who I still had feelings for and really shouldn’t trust, all but told me he was part of a secret group of magic users who went around killing people. I should tell the cops about them, about him, but first I needed to find out what he knew about my father’s death. I didn’t want to tip off the people who might be watching me that I had caught on yet-people, for all I knew, who might be involved in where my dad’s body was. I wasn’t going to do anything drastic until Zayvion gave me the information I needed. If I could find my dad’s body, make sure he was all buried and happy, he might stop haunting me.

    So much for me not believing in ghosts.

    But I wasn’t the only one. Grant believed in ghosts and was all buddy-buddy with the kooks who hunted them. Okay, maybe not kooks, since I myself had seen some weird shit today. But I was so not going to let any ghost chasers check out my apartment. After all, I’d seen my dad in the freaking middle of a freaking intersection today-I didn’t think this ghost problem was limited to my shower.

    And even though the watercolor people must be ghosts, they were different from my father’s ghost. For one thing, they didn’t speak and use Influence on me. For another, they had those empty black eyes. And they could pull apart perfectly good, perfectly strong spells and eat them.

    Freaky with a capital “eeky.”

    Sure, my dad had touched me in my bathroom, and I’d smelled his familiar, living scents, but his touch hadn’t hurt, hadn’t left marks. The watercolor people’s touch sucked.

    Literally.

    So maybe there was more than one kind of ghost running around the city.

    Pike had said he’d talk to me at the meeting. And since he ran with the cops I figured he might know as much or maybe even more than Zayvion.

    The bus stopped in Ankeny Square. Today wasn’t Saturday, so the open air market that usually drew people to this area, even in bad weather, was not set up, leaving empty parking lots, a handful of old and renovated brick buildings, and, beyond more buildings toward the east, the Willamette River.

    I got out and took a good sniff of the place. Dirt, diesel, oil fumes, river, and the stink of people, restaurants, and garbage. Too many smells for me to know if I were being followed by anyone.

    The wind was still blowing, gustier here, so I crossed the busy street at a good clip, walked up to the building, and walked in.

    A thick, heavy cloud of smells hit me as soon as I stepped into the building that was currently occupied by several clothing stores, restaurants, and other retail outlets. Got a nose full of incense, hot dogs, candles, soap, garlic, frying oil, espresso, and more.

    Why in the world would Hounds want to meet in a place that was so overloaded with smells? It didn’t make any sense. But the more I thought about it as I wandered around, the more I realized it actually made a lot of sense. Too many smells was a better cover than no smell at all. I couldn’t distinguish any one person’s scent. I simply could not Hound without magic here. It was the perfect way to ensure a level playing field, a way to disguise our scents from each other.

    Tricky.

    And since Mr. I’m-not-awake hadn’t told me where, exactly, they were meeting other than on the lower level, it made this whole thing into one big smelly treasure hunt.

    If only my head weren’t hurting so much, I might actually have enjoyed wandering down the mazelike hallways, lit with “vintage” (i.e., dim) lighting, and passageways that led to bricked up doorways or maintenance closets. This was no place to be wandering around tired, hurting, and irritated.

    So what was I doing? Yeah. D. All of the above.

    Anyone could be lingering in the shadows. Anyone could be waiting behind the jogs of brick walls. It looked like the kind of place Trager’s men would hang out. How great was that?

    “Beckstrom?”

    I slowed my pace. A man, the owner of the voice, stepped out from where he was indeed hanging out behind a jog in the wall. He was a little shorter than me, thin in a smoked-leather sort of way. His face was sallow and clean shaven, his blue eyes startled pinpoints beneath light brown hair combed back slick. He had that ruddy bloodshot look to him that spoke of too little sleep, too much whiskey, and too many years of chain-smoking.

    “Yes,” I said.

    “This way.” He turned and walked halfway down the hall and then leaned his shoulder into the wall to pushed open a door I would not have noticed on a casual stroll by.

    He kept walking through the door. I paused on the threshold. A narrow corridor stretched out from here, dirt floor to either side of an uneven wooden walkway. The walls were bare studs with a random scattering of drywall nailed into place. At the end of the corridor was another hall that ran to the right, toward the river, though we were belowground and there were no windows to confirm I had my bearings straight.

    Was there any chance he actually wasn’t a Hound and wasn’t taking me to the Hound meeting? The way my day had been going, yes. Yes, there was a high probability he could be anyone taking me anywhere for any reason. Right down Lon Trager’s gullet, even.

    “Where are we headed?” I called out, still standing in the doorway.

    He glanced down and back at me like I was stupid. “Hound meeting.”

    Okay. Was that so hard? I shut the door behind me and followed my whiskey-drinking white rabbit all the way down the corridor and then down the next, which opened up-and I mean there was no door, just a wide-open wall with the rough edges of bricks sticking out like bad teeth-to reveal a room beyond.

    “Vintage” didn’t begin to describe this room.

    Stained wallpaper that may have once been yellow and green but now leaned toward brown and browner covered the three walls, curling back in the corners and torn at the seams. The lighting was a huge brass and glass chandelier that was probably worth a small fortune, and the floor of the room was covered by several layers of threadbare rugs that looked like they’d grind down to dust if you put too much weight on your heels.

    Old-timey. Funky with the stink of mold and rotted wood. And likely the cheapest, crappiest meeting space in Portland. While one part of my mind took in the room, the other part of my head was tallying the people and details.

    Ten people in the room, six men and four women. Most of them stood against the walls, equidistant from each other like they were holding down territory. At the table, which was four sawhorses supporting a plank of plywood in the middle of the room, sat Pike. Anthony, still in his gray hoodie, glared at me from the far right corner, where he was getting his slouch on. Other than my guide, Whiskey Guy, who wandered over to my left to claim an empty spot of wall, I didn’t recognize anyone else.

    Okay, this was where my jaded outlook on being a Hound kicked in. It was easy to identify a Hound in a room-all you had to do was find someone who looked completely antisocial, yet became too curious too quickly, and of course was hiding an additction.

    “Allie Beckstrom,” Pike said in his gravely voice, “meet the Pack. I’m only gonna go through this once, so pay attention. That’s Sid Westerling.” He pointed to the first man standing on my right.

    Heavyset and blond enough to have Norwegian ancestors, Sid wore wire frame glasses and looked like he should be sitting behind a computer, not sniffing down spells. I guessed him for prescription painkillers. He nodded a hello. “I think you and I worked the Spatler case a few years back.”

    I frowned, dug for the memory, found it. “Right. You were fast.”

    He grinned and tucked his thumbs in the sides of his Dockers. “Yes, I was. Still am.”

    “That’s Dahlia Bates,” Pike said, indicating the woman who sat on a metal folding chair next to Sid.

    She was motherly looking and had short hair colored from a box that was probably called Glorious Sunset. She exhaled like she thought holding her breath would make her invisible. Or maybe she just hated the stink of mold as much as I did. Downers, I guessed. Maybe Valium.

    “Davy Silvers.”

    A young man, thin, also sat in a metal chair, the back of his head resting against the brick wall, dark circles beneath his closed eyes. His skin was a little too pale and green. Out of the bunch, I figured he was the one who answered the phone when I called.

    He lifted one hand in a wane hello but did not open his eyes. Alcohol. Probably something else in the mix too.

    “Anthony Bell.”

    I glared at Anthony, who still stunk of the sweet cherry scent of blood magic and drugs, probably coke or speed. He sniffed and spit on the floor. Nice.

    “Theresa Garcia.”

    She stood slightly away from the wall and, from my vantage, studied me from just above Pike’s left shoulder. She wore a suit jacket and black slacks over her solid build. Her hair was pulled back in a braid. She couldn’t be over five feet tall but looked like she could wrestle a bull elephant to the ground. Her hazel eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and she did not break eye contact. I figured her for hard core exercise and maybe the occasional weekend bender.

    “Tomi Nowlan.”

    A girl who looked like she was twelve going on twenty-one leaned hip and shoulder against the wall, and chewed gum. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears but a lot of bangs hung in a heavy curtain to edge her eyes. She had on a hoodie and low-waisted jeans that showed a thin glimpse of hipbone where three thin razor scars shone white against her white skin. Her belt was wide and black, anchored by a heavy silver buckle shaped like a doggy bone. She gave me a flat stare, blew a big pink bubble, and bit it with her back molars. A cutter.

    “Beatrice Lufkin.”

    Beatrice was also standing, wearing jeans and a nice beige sweater. Walnut colored hair stuck out in wild curls barely kept in check by her wide flower-pattern headband. Her eyes were too large in her round, freckled face, but she smiled, revealing dimples, and surprise, surprise, she seemed genuinely happy to see me. “I’ve hoped to meet you for some time now,” she said. “You’ve done some really great jobs in the city.”

    “Thanks,” I said, feeling like I might have a chance at making friends with her. I guessed her drug of choice was probably weed, mushrooms, and wine coolers.

    “Jamar Legare.”

    Jamar was at least three inches taller than me and wore his mustache and beard in a circle around his mouth, his dark curls shaved close to his scalp, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide his deep brown eyes. He had on a jean jacket with a hoodie under it and seemed comfortable surveying the room, one thumb tucked in his front pocket.

    “Afternoon,” he said.

    I nodded to him. Tough call, but I’d guess alcohol.

    “Jack Quinn.”

    Whiskey Guy, the closest person on my left, was in the middle of lighting a cigarette. He gave me a brief nod.

    The prospects of me having my own bit of wall to lean against were pretty low, since the room wasn’t very large, something made worse by the low ceiling. Everyone was scattered to maximize the distance from each other. So I just stood to one side of the door, nearest Whiskey Guy-I mean Jack-and blond Sid on the other side of the door to my right.

    “Davy,” Pike said, “is this it?”

    Davy, the Hangover Kid, opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Yep. Everyone who said they’d come.”

    I was right. He was the one who answered the phone.

    Okay, so my theory that Hounds didn’t know one another had been seriously thrown out the window in the last minute or so. It looked like all these people knew one another and knew other Hounds working in the city. Maybe I was the only one disinclined to hang out. Maybe in my push to be free of my father and his expectations, I’d taken the concept of solitary into every other aspect of my life. Maybe Hounds hung out all the time at special Hound bars, had Hound parties, and, hells, did Hound job-share and babysat one another’s Hound kids.

    “Anyone have any news?” Pike asked.

    No one spoke. Not even me. I had no idea what they considered news. Did ghosts count? Being hunted by a blood and drug lord? Magic assassins?

    “Anyone have any complaints about an employer?”

    Silence.

    “How about leads on jobs?” he asked.

    Nothing.

    At this rate, the meeting was going to be over in about thirty seconds.

    Pike pulled a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “Who’s working where?”

    Sid cleared his throat. “Gotta job with the cops. Don’t know where yet.”

    Pike noted that in his book and then looked expectantly at motherly Dahlia next to Sid.

    “Nothing that I know of,” she said.

    “Davy?” Pike asked.

    Davy didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “The college wants me to run the halls for a couple days. Probably do it this week.”

    “Do it sober,” Pike said.

    Davy shook his head like he’d heard that before and hadn’t listened last time either.

    Anthony spoke up. “I’ll be wherever you are, old man.”

    Pike noted something in his book. From the motion of the top of his pen, I was pretty sure he’d just written “ass.”

    Theresa the elephant wrestler said, “I’m still on retainer with Nike.” She shrugged. “It’s been quiet.”

    “Good,” Pike grunted. “Tomi?”

    “Jesus, Pike,” the cutter girl said, “do we have to do this every week?”

    “Every week you show up. Every week you want someone to know where the hell you are and who the hell you’re putting your life on the line for.”

    She chewed, blew, popped. I noticed Davy’s body language changed, and Tomi glanced from beneath her heavy bangs over at him, at his still-closed eyes, at his just-a-little-too-shallow-to-be-relaxed breathing, at his hands that had clenched, probably unconsciously, into fists.

    She bit her bottom lip and looked away.

    “I have a private client,” she said in a dull tone. “In the West Hills. That’s all I’ll say.”

    Davy’s fists went white at the knuckles.

    “Bea?” Pike asked, shifting the tension in the room.

    “Me?” Beatrice smiled, and those dimples nipped her cheeks. She nodded, her wild curls bouncing. “I’m still pulling morgue duty for at least the rest of the month. And if I get killed there, at least you’ll have plenty of witnesses on the slab. If you can get them to talk!” She giggled.

    My eyebrows shot up. Okay, she wasn’t all freckles and sweet strawberries and cream like she looked. I made a mental note: never underestimate Beatrice. Or anyone else in the room for that matter.

    Jamar just shook his head and smiled. “Damn, girl. You gotta get a different job. You sound like you’re starting to enjoy sniffing corpses.”

    Bea, still giggling, gave him a huge smile and shrugged, her hands up, like who could blame her.

    “I’m working a new section of MLK Boulevard for the police,” Jamar said. “Mostly day work, looking for trap and trigger spells, illegal Offloads. Gang crap. Nothing I can’t handle.”

    “They going to open that up for another Hound to work it with you?” Pike asked.

    Jamar pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “I asked maybe a month ago. Don’t think they have it in the budget.”

    Pike noted that and then waved his pen at Whiskey Guy. “Jack?”

    Jack exhaled smoke. “City called me in for some piddly things. Public nuisance illusions, screwing with the art in the parks, stink spells in public halls, that sort of shit.”

    “Okay,” Pike said.

    And that left me.

    “Allie?” Pike looked over at me.

    “I have a job for the police. Tonight. With Detective Stotts.”

    At the mention of his name, the body language in the room changed. There wasn’t a person in that room who liked Stotts. Interesting. Apparently his cursed reputation had proceeded him.

    “Has anyone ever worked for him?” I asked.

    Sid, next to me, rubbed at the side of his nose. “I Hounded for him. Once. Spooky shit happens around him. People die.”

    “So I’ve been told,” I said. “But since I’ve been out of the loop with all this”-I waved my hand to include them all-“Hound bonding stuff, I was hoping someone here could tell me what’s so dangerous about working for him. Maybe give me a couple examples of what happened to other Hounds.”

    No one said anything for so long, I figured the Hound bonding stuff didn’t include sharing the details with the new girl of how one another died. Or maybe they didn’t know.

    Then Jamar spoke. “I heard about a guy, name was Piller, I think. He worked a serial murder case for Stotts. Some lowlife robbing old people, killing them, and dumping the bodies up in the coast range. Used a lot of Binding, Hold, and Influence spells. There was always a mark of magic left behind in the old people’s houses. The killer liked to leave a ‘note,’ you know? Anyway, on the third time out, Piller was Hounding back a spell-getting close, real close to the killer. But just before he could pin the guy, Piller walked off the Steel Bridge and died.”

    “Walked off the Steel Bridge?” I asked.

    “That’s what I heard.”

    Bea piped up. “Remember Rosalee? She took a job with Stotts. Illegal tapping into the cisterns of magic beneath the city and Offloading the price of using that magic onto some unregulated S and M joints-killed a few politically influential customers while they were doing some back door ‘negotiations.’ ”

    She giggled, and several other people chuckled. “I would have killed to see that! Anyway, Rosalee took her money and left the state the day after the job was finished. They found her dead at a truck stop in Nebraska.”

    “That could be a horrible coincidence,” I said with little conviction.

    Sid snapped his fingers. “Wasn’t Herm-Har-What was his name? The Swedish guy?”

    “Herlief,” Dahlia chimed in.

    “Right,” Sid said. “Herlief. He worked a couple cases for Stotts-maybe three or four. Did okay. Until his head fell off.”

    “Oh, come on,” I said.

    Sid put one hand over his heart. “I swear, it’s true. He was Hounding for Stotts. I don’t remember what the case was-” He looked around the room.

    Jack stabbed his cigarette toward Sid, leaving a trail of smoke behind. “Magical coercion-someone trying to make people join something, give all their money to something…”

    “Right,” Sid said. “So it wasn’t even dead body and kinky sex stuff. Herlief traced the spells back to the perps, and then the next day while he was getting coffee, a cable from a construction site snapped, whipped down, and bam!” He snapped his fingers again. “Severed his spine. Took his head right off.” He chuckled.

    Okay, this was one sick group of people. Still, I understood the laughter-gallows humor. It could have been anyone of them, anyone of us, in those Hounds’ shoes.

    As a matter of fact, tonight, it was going to be me.

    “But no one actually died during their Hounding job, right?” I asked.

    Pike shrugged. “It’s happened. Death is a risk when you work for the police. Any of them.”

    And his understated acceptance of that did more to calm me than if he had told me there was no chance anything would go wrong. After all, Pike had been Hounding for the police for years. And he wasn’t dead yet.

    “Okay,” I said, bracing myself for my next question. “Any of you ever seen a ghost?”

    The easy smiles stalled out, and even Davy opened his eyes and leaned forward to give me a weird look.

    “I have a possible client who says he’s seen a ghost,” I said with a straight face, because Grant might someday be a client, and he told me he’d seen a ghost once. I know, I was lying and justifying my cowardly behavior. But I didn’t feel the need to come off like one hundred percent wacko at the first meeting.

    “He’s seen full-body apparitions and glyphing that appeared on a wall and then disappeared. He thought the glyphs were warnings.” I left out the Death glyph part.

    Davy was the only one who spoke. “You Hounded a ghost sighting?”

    “No. Look, I’m just asking if any of you have had any experiences involving ghosts.”

    Everyone shook their heads. But it did not escape my notice that they had all become awfully quiet and sober at the change of subject. Strange. Ghosts could startle them to silence, but people’s heads popping off-that was comedy.

    Or maybe asking about ghosts meant I was nuts. I mean, I had a reputation too. Besides my being the daughter of Daniel Beckstrom, it wasn’t exactly a secret that magic knocked holes in my memory. It didn’t take a genius to wonder if magic took potshots at the rest of my mental facilities.

    Screw it. I so didn’t care what they thought.

    “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

    Pike gave me an I’ll-talk-to-you-later look. That, at least, was something.

    “Anything else?” he asked the room in general.

    More head shaking.

    “Good. Anyone Hounding for non-police want backup?” No one answered, including me, because I didn’t know what he was talking about.

    “Looks like we have Sid, Jamar, and Allie doing police work,” Pike said, referencing his notes. “Who volunteers for backup?”

    “I’ll take Sid,” Jack said, exhaling smoke. “I’m on call, but I already did a job today. Don’t think they’ll call me back until tomorrow.”

    “That’s okay with me,” Sid said. “So long as you keep a low profile. And stay downwind with those cancer sticks, okay? They kill my sniffer.”

    Jack just gave him a crooked-tooth smile. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

    “Theresa,” Pike asked, “do you have time around your Nike duties to take Jamar?”

    “This week, sure,” she said.

    “Don’t know that I like that,” Jamar said. “It can get dicey in that part of town. Lots of drug movement over there.”

    “You do your job,” Theresa said, “and I’ll do mine.”

    Jamar just took a deep breath and let it out while shaking his head.

    This looked like some sort of weird buddy-system, job-shadow matchup.

    “Anyone want to tell the new girl what’s going on?” I asked.

    Pike continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Who wants to take Allie?”

    “Take Allie what?” I said.

    “I’ll do it,” Davy said.

    “Do what?” I asked again.

    Tomi stiffened and stopped chewing her gum. She glared at Davy.

    Davy looked across the room, made eye contact with her. “I’m not doing anything tonight,” he said to Pike, though it was obviously aimed at Tomi. “And the college doesn’t need me for a few days. I’m free.”

    Tomi held very still, her face blank. But she was young. She hadn’t figured out how to keep the pain out of her eyes yet.

    She did know how to recover quickly though. She tossed her bangs and muttered something that was ninety-five percent obscenity and five percent poetry. She looped her thumbs in her belt and stared Davy down, daring him to challenge her.

    Pike broke up the little lovers’ spat by speaking up so Davy would have to look at him. “Drink and eat something first. I don’t want to hear about Allie tripping over you or her worrying about you being out there.”

    “Wait,” I said. “Out there? Do you mean when I Hound for Stotts tonight? No. Absolutely not. No way. I work alone. I always Hound alone.” I so didn’t want this kid on my tail. Especially if Trager were after me.

    “Settle down, Beckstrom,” Pike growled. “He’s not going to do any Hounding. And you don’t owe him a cut on the job or any favors, unless maybe someday you want to volunteer to shadow him. He’s just going to be in the neighborhood while you’re doing your job. An extra pair of eyes and ears. Someone to call for help if things go wrong, that’s all.”

    “That’s all?” Okay, why was I the only one in the room who thought this was a massively bad idea? “People die when they Hound for Stotts, remember? Heads fall off?”

    “I’m not Hounding for Stotts,” Davy said. “You are. All I’m going to do is be on the same street or block when you’re working, keeping an ear out in case something comes up.”

    “Well, good luck, because I’m not going to tell you where I’m Hounding.”

    Davy grinned, and some of the pale sick look seemed to leave him, revealing a mischievous, disarming twinkle in his eye. He was young-maybe as young as seventeen-but he was also very clearly a smart, ambitious man. “You won’t have to tell me. Finding you will be half the fun.”

    I opened my mouth.

    “And,” he said, cutting me off, “I’ll stay so far out of your way you won’t even know we’re in the same city.”

    “That’s it, then,” Pike said. “We’re done.”

    Everyone pushed away from walls and chairs and started toward the door. They all filed out, no one touching each other, not even inadvertently. No one talking.

    Too damn weird.

    Pike was the last to get up, which was good. I had some talking still left in me.

    He pulled his coat off of the back of the chair and put it on while he strolled over to me. “Glad you could make it.”

    “Pike,” I said. “This is crazy.”

    He paused in his effort to zip up his jacket and gave me a hard look. “You have some problem with me trying to make sure people stay alive?”

    “No.”

    “Then I don’t want to hear it. You don’t like it, don’t show up next week.”

    He walked past me, waiting for me to leave the room so he could turn off the light and shut the door.

    “Until then, you’re stuck with Davy keeping an eye on you tonight. Don’t underestimate the kid; he’s good.” Pike started down the half-constructed hallway.

    “I work alone,” I grumbled behind him.

    “Allie.” He sighed and stopped. He turned to me. “We all work alone. Having Davy watch you isn’t about the job. It’s about you. He’ll have a cell phone on him. If something goes sour, he’ll call 911. Easy as that. So stop whining and shut the hell up. You kids drive me batshit.”

    I laughed. I don’t know why. I guess it was I’d never thought Mr. Tough Guy would willingly set himself up for babysitting duty.

    “I bet you’re a real hit with the grandkids,” I said.

    Pike nodded. “I am.” He started walking again. “So talk to me about seeing ghosts.”

    “I didn’t say I’d seen a ghost.”

    “You can’t fool a nose. Lies stink.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You stink, Beckstrom.”

    “Gee,” I said, “if I knew I was going to get such a great pep talk, I would have come to one of these things a long time ago.”

    “Fine. Don’t talk.” We had reached the door at the end of the corridor, which the other Hounds had closed behind them. He rested his hand on the latch to pull it open.

    “Wait.” I rubbed at my forehead and gave up on trying to decide if I should be honest with Pike. Who else could I trust? At least I knew he wanted what was best for Hounds. And I was a Hound. So maybe he wanted what was best for me. And if not… well, I’d just deal with that.

    “I have seen a ghost.”

    Pike let go of the door and crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned back on a bare stud, patient as a stone.

    “I saw my father’s ghost. He said, ‘Seek the dead,’ and he touched me. He smelled like wintergreen, Pike. Just like when he was alive.” I kept my tone and gaze level, even though thinking about it made me feel like I needed to wash again. I was sure Pike noticed my elevated heartbeat, the acrid smell of my cold sweat.

    “I saw more ghosts too, but they were different from my dad. Sort of pale pastel colored, with black holes where their eyes should be. But they were still people. I could count the buttons on their shirts, see the laces on their shoes. They touched me too, and it burned…” I pressed my lips together and then let out a frustrated sound. “Don’t just stand there and stare at me. Do you know anything about ghosts? Do you know anything about them messing with magic?”

    He frowned. “What do you mean?”

    “They, some of them, the watercolor ones, suck. Magic,” I amended. “Spells. I could see them when I cast Reveal, and they pulled my spell apart and ate it like it was cotton candy.”

    The silence that stretched between us would have been comical if I wasn’t worried that there were things out there-ghostly things-that could do that kind of shit.

    “What are you using to manage the pain, Allie?” he asked.

    Sweet hells. He thought I was hallucinating.

    “Aspirin. Tylenol. Bactine.”

    He sniffed but could smell no lie on me.

    “I’m not joking, Pike. And believe me, I don’t like standing here in front of you and sounding like an idiot. I prefer to be an idiot in the privacy of my own home.”

    Pike looked down at his shoe. “I’ve seen… things. Ghosts, I suppose you could call them. Heard voices, all that.” He looked back up at me. “But I’ve been in wars, Allie. And wars either blind a man or open his eyes to things he can never look away from. I figure some of the things I’ve seen have more to do with that than actual spirits. You seeing your father, I can understand. It’s hard to lose a parent.”

    “He said, ‘Seek the dead,’ ” I said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

    He shook his head. “Not enough to go on. Maybe he was trying to tell you we all end up there-dead-someday. No way to know.”

    “I guess not,” I said.

    “Now, the other ghosts you’ve seen-the magic eaters? I’ve been around this town for almost as long as magic has been in use, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

    “I know what I saw,” I said.

    “Didn’t say you didn’t. So let’s assume you saw ghosts-or something-that could take apart a spell like cotton candy and eat it. If there really is something out there like that, then we might just have a problem on our hands.”

    Had a real flair with the understatement, that man.

    “Have you talked to anyone else about it?”

    “I mentioned ghosts to a friend of mine. I didn’t talk about the magic eating thing.”

    He stared off in the middle distance, obviously rolling options around. “I’ll ask some people I know. But I think the best way to find out what you’re experiencing might be to ask Stotts about it.”

    “Yeah, that doesn’t work so good for me,” I said. “I have a strict rule: only one person per day gets to find out how crazy I am. Plus he’s signing my paycheck. I don’t need him thinking I’ve gone insane.”

    “I see,” Pike said. “When you decide to stop being such a pansy ass and worrying about what people think about you instead of your own safety, talk to Stotts. He has the inside track on a lot of the weird shit that happens in this town.”

    “Anyone ever tell you you’re a jerk?”

    Pike grunted, but it sounded more like a laugh. “At length. Now talk to me about Trager,” he said.

    “First tell me what happened to your hand. It was bleeding this morning.”

    “That’s none of your business, Beckstrom.”

    We stared each other down until I got tired of it.

    Jerk.

    “I had a little meeting with Lon Trager today. On the bus.”

    So much for Pike the jerk. Even though he didn’t move, didn’t twitch, he transformed into Pike the killer.

    “Explain.” Cold as steel.

    “He sat next to me. Had six of his thugs with guns with him. Told me he wanted me to do him a favor, and all the bad blood between us would be forgotten. He said he wants to make nice.” I waited, but Pike didn’t say anything.

    “He wants me to bring you to him. By midnight tomorrow.”

    “And?”

    “And he got some of my blood.”

    We both knew what that meant. Trager intended to use my blood with magic. I, however, didn’t know what he might want to do with it other than cast that glyph thing he’d left on my thigh. I hadn’t studied blood magic in school. Probably because it was illegal.

    “What do you think he’s going to do with it?” I asked.

    Pike was looking straight at me, but I could tell from his unfocused gaze that it was not me he was thinking about. He was weighing possibilities, costs, outcome.

    “Nothing good,” he finally said. “I want you to let me take care of him.”

    “Like hells I will. Weren’t you just saying we have to watch each other’s backs? Hounds don’t Hound alone and all that crap? Trager wanted both of us there. Wanted me to deliver you to him. I’m not going to be left behind and killed because you want to take him mano a mano.”

    Pike’s face flushed, and I could see the veins at his temples. He was very, very angry. At me. I braced myself, ready to yell it out or, hell, fight it out with him until he realized how stupid it would be for him to take care of Trager alone.

    But Pike did not yell. He closed his eyes and rubbed his palm over his face. “Allie. This is between him and me.”

    “No, Pike. It’s not. I know you want to kill him for what he did to your granddaughter. But it’s time to stop being pansy asses and acting like we don’t need help. We should go talk to the police about this. We should get protection-both of us. I have proof that can put him in jail-he threatened me and stabbed me in the leg. No one can tamper with that evidence, and I can’t be bought. Let’s get him legal, so legal he’ll never see the light of day, never hurt anyone’s granddaughter again.”

    Pike pulled his hand away from his face. He didn’t look angry. He looked tired.

    “Allie…”

    “Legal, Pike. Let’s do this right. Let’s get this bastard for life.”

    He looked down. Stared at the floor. Finally he nodded. Slow. Beaten. Old.

    He tipped his head back up. “You’re right,” he said, his voice tired. “That’s the smart thing to do. Get the police on it, help them if they need it. I could find him if they want me to. I’ll never forget that devil’s stench. But I can’t go down to the station today. I promise I’ll meet you there tomorrow afternoon.”

    A wave of relief, a knot of fear released in me. “Morning would be better, don’t you think?”

    “I got crap to do with Anthony-for his mother. It will take most of the night tonight and part of tomorrow.”

    “What kind of crap?” I was afraid he was evading this, evading me, trying to find a way to ditch on our deal.

    He winced. “Handyman crap.” He tugged his sleeve back to reveal his wrist. The gauze bandage was wrapped up his forearm about six inches, and thick gauze pads lay across the inside of his wrist. It looked like a poorly executed suicide attempt.

    “Pike, you didn’t try to…”

    “Christ, Beckstrom. What are you thinking?” He tugged his sleeve back down. “I damn near took my hand off with a goddamn circular saw this morning. And I still have to fix the sink, take care of a broken window, and patch a hole in the goddamn roof. I’m going to get that done before I deal with the cops. And you can wipe that smile off your face.”

    “I always knew you were a good guy, Pike.”

    “Shove it, Beckstrom.”

    “Noon tomorrow at the station?” I asked sweetly.

    He nodded. “Might be as late as one, but around then.”

    “You do know I’m going to talk to Stotts about Trager tonight, right?” I said.

    “Figured you would.”

    “He’ll want to put you under protective custody,” I said.

    “He’ll know where to find me, won’t he?”

    I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

    He didn’t say anything. That was almost harder, seeing him give in like that. It was another sign of how ready he was to retire, to be done with all this, to let the police take care of the city without him.

    “Thanks for doing this the right way,” I added.

    “You don’t think I’m going to do this without asking for something in return, do you?” he asked.

    “Seriously?” Not that I should be surprised. Nothing without a price in this town. Not even friendship. “What do you want?”

    “I want you to promise me you’ll stay here in the city. After I… retire. ’Cause this damn sure is going to be the last time I work with the police. And when the Hounds contact you, if they need you-even if they say they don’t-that you’ll go to them. Look after them.”

    “You know,” I said, “we’re friends.” I stumbled a little on the last word, but it was true. Of all the Hounds I knew, Pike and I had hit off a strange sort of dysfunctional teacher-student, or maybe even father-daughter relationship. “But you are so not my boss. No one tells me what to do.”

    “I’m telling you what to do. And I expect you to listen to me.” Then, a little softer. “Just this once.”

    What would it matter if I said yes? I didn’t think Pike was going to be retired for long. He’d be back, after he got tired of the sun and sand. Back to boss me and all the rest of the Hounds around. Back to take a kid under his wing and try to set him straight.

    “Okay,” I said. “I’ll look after your little sewing circle for as long as it lasts. That’s all I’m promising.”

    “That’s enough.”

    He leaned away from the stud and opened the door. The heavy smells from a restaurant mixed with the perfume of the candle shop. I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. But the smells were overwhelming and triggered my headache. Add to that a nice helping of brighter light out in the main hallway, and my hunger turned to nausea in three seconds flat.

    Neat.

    I walked past Pike into the light and stink of the rest of the world. It was still early afternoon. I had time to go home, chew down some more painkillers, maybe sleep off some of the get-a-clue-and-set-a-damn-Disbursement-next-time headache before I had to meet Stotts at the station at five.

    And right now, a little sleep sounded fabulous.

    “See you tomorrow,” I said to Pike as I headed toward the nearest set of stairs that would take me up into the retail space and on to daylight.

    “Allie?”

    “Yeah?” I looked over my shoulder at him.

    His pale blue eyes burned in the shadows from the hallway. “It was worth it.”

    And then he walked away, down the corridor quiet and quick.

    I hoped he meant getting the Hound group together was worth it. I hoped he meant Hounding for twenty-five years was worth it. I hoped he meant deciding to retire was worth it.

    Or maybe he meant putting Trager in jail once was worth it, and it would be worth doing it again. The right way.