21 Shades of Night, page 197
I snort when I look at it. Glossy, dark hair, braided in a Celtic knot, and preserved in some sort of acrylic. Mounted on a pendant and chain. Chills go over me, to be handling a dead woman's hair so fetishistically preserved.
Still, I need all the help I can get. I mutter “Beautiful,” and press on. “What was Imogene like?” Anything I can use to identify her again, no matter what she looks like.
“I don't know—” Her lips twitch, and she wipes away a tear. “She was stubborn. Nothing could get her to budge. When she was a nine or so, she decided she hated baths, screamed at me when I made her take one anyways. Eventually, she started sneaking and just sitting on the floor with the water running when she was supposed to be bathing. I missed it, until she got a urinary tract infection that hospitalized her for a month when it went into her kidneys.”
I fidget in my seat, and let her continue.
“It was the same, with her hair. She hated combing it so much, insisted she wanted dread locks.” She shuddered. “Even giving her ugly hair cuts to remove the snarls wasn't enough; the argument only ended when I buzzed it all off.
“Things started to change, at fifteen or so. She started going steady with a boy a town over. Her friends started avoiding her, and she got much more withdrawn. I talked to her about the importance of not neglecting your friends for a boy, and she smiled and nodded. But it kept getting worse, until the only one coming to see her was that boy. But he was so sweet to her, so sad every time he dropped by and she was alone. I was glad she had him. He was so nice, so respectful, and I knew how rare that could be.
“He moved to college a year ahead of her, and she got even more withdrawn. I thought it was the distance, him being around less. But that didn't actually help me shake her out of it. She decided to go to the same college as him, to be close. I begged her against it; 'if it's love, it'll keep,' I said. She got accepted so many places, places she'd dreamed of going since she was a girl; her heroes taught at USC and she had talked about studying there since twelve. It was out of character. But she wouldn't hear of it.”
She pauses, and bites her lip, stifling a sob. “My first inclination something was wrong, was three weeks into her freshman year. I got a call from her, begging me to come pick her up. She wouldn't say why. I went, of course, used a tank of gas I couldn't afford to replace. She came home with me, not caring about whether she returned to class, and it took me a week to talk her into going back. While she was packing, I walked in on her, and noticed bruises on her arms. She insisted they were from a dance class, and I believed her.
“Three of those calls later, when they appeared on her neck, I stopped believing her. I thought someone must have raped her at a party. I tore into her for not watching how much she was drinking, for behaving so irresponsibly. She confessed, that Mark was angry that her dance classes were co-ed, didn't want other men touching her, even to lift her up or interact. That they'd been fighting about it for months, and that it was to the point where her teacher arranged the choreography to avoid giving her partnering sections, because he'd follow her to class and stare in and harass whoever she was with. She asked me to come to report it with her, and I did. Her father hit me once; she wasn't around at the time, but knowing that she might have been was enough to make me leave on the spot. I stayed with my mom until the divorce was final, and that was the part Genie remembered. I'm—I'm sidetracking, though.
“She said she had tried taking it up with the campus administrators, as he was following her on campus, and she was living in an on-campus dorm, and they had done everything possible to prevent her from reporting it short of physically restraining her. They'd made her feel she was overreacting, crazy, inconveniencing him in ways that might hurt his education. Or they threw so many options at her at the same time that she couldn't remember them all, not with as sleep deprived as she was from propping a chair against her door every night when her roommate was asleep, and removing it before her roommate woke. She was terrified he might try forcing his way in.
“I asked her why she hadn't told me, how things could have gotten that bad, and she said that early on, he'd roughhoused with her, choked her into unconsciousness. It wasn't aggression, wasn't a fight, but it did convince her that if he wanted to kill her, he could. She said she'd believed that unless he wanted to kill her, she'd be fine.”
May pauses again, sobs into an embroidered handkerchief. “I—I can't really talk about the rest. Things got worse, she dropped out of college to go into hiding, he found her. She moved back home, he stalked her again. Legal scuffles, him doing a stint in prison for assault, and her getting more and more eroded, less and less herself at every turn.”
She sniffs wetly. “I thought, if I could just get her far enough, she'd be fine. If he was watching me to find her, I'd stay away from her. I helped her escape that one last time, and never saw her again. On the phone, she was different: colder, more aggressive. Even a minor question like 'do you want me to send you Christmas money' terrified her, as though I'd intended it as an attack. We fought more and more, and called each other less and less. But I knew she was safe, and took comfort in that. She had a restraining order, and he hadn't contacted her in so long.”
Her shoulders hunch together as she fights to maintain some kind of composure. “Then, a year after I hugged her goodbye, the call came. He'd found her, driven cross-country to reconcile, and started stalking her. The law enforcement in her new area couldn't find the old restraining order, and thought he was still in prison. Just another hysterical woman crying at shadows. She made one last panicked call to the police, claiming he was at her door, trying to force his way in. It took them an hour to respond, and when they didn't hear a disturbance, they didn't push further.
“No one knows what happens; everyone was at work, no one even around to hear the gunshot. Her neighbor got suspicious when he didn't see Genie leave for work that night, and noticed damage to the door. He called the police, and they opened it up to find her body.
“They found him in a motel an hour away. He claimed he'd done nothing; they'd had makeup-sex—” her face wrinkles, though I can't tell whether it's with rage or disgust. “But that she'd been alive when he left. The coroner said the evidence was more in line with sexual assault, and that there was a strong chance she would have died from other internal injuries had he not shot her in the head.”
I try to remember how I even ended up dragged in on this thing. May doesn't seem to notice—her speech doesn't slow or falter. “I don't know what Genie was like. Because by the end, she wasn't even there. I don't know that the woman in that grave is the same child I raised. I don't know if I'd recognize her.”
I sigh. That gives me basically nothing. I press a little further. “A favorite song, or color? Favorite movie?”
She stares at me a minute, then shrugs. “Who can say?”
I sigh, and stand to leave. “I'm sorry to have upset you, ma'am. I'm sure Genie is at peace.”
She doesn't move as I head for the door. I let it fall shut behind me, and look at my phone. This was a waste.
But there's a new message, from Narcisso.
CI says your man turned up, needed a couch to stay on. He's letting him stay til you talk to him. Keep this quiet, okay?
I text back an affirmative, and start toward the address, happy to finally have a direction. The place is in Dearborn, nearly two hours' drive away, but it's early yet. Finally, I'm getting somewhere. I begin to relax, even to sing with the radio. My nerves are shot with my eagerness, and I have to remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. I want to scream as rush-hour traffic piles around me, but I let myself accept this as my first true down-time in weeks.
Finally, I pull off the freeway, take the first turn toward the neighborhood the house is in, then I do a doubletake. There's a young woman walking along the sidewalk too quickly to be recreational. And she's familiar. At a stop sign, I glance over again. Though she's wearing a high turtleneck, I can see deep bruising showing through makeup. And that brings it all home. Narcisso's suicide victim.
Another MIA corpse, moving.
Imogene.
I roll down my window and prepare to shout at her, but a hand claps over my throat, and another over my mouth. “I wouldn't,” a rough voice says, and I tense as I try to place it. The hand backs off my mouth after I roll my window up, and a lanky man climbs into the front seat next to me. Levitt, Internal Affairs. I glance back, and the girl is waiting for a car to pass, and dancing in place. She flicks her skirt around her legs, and whips her leg around into a skillful, if uncoordinated, spin.
“Just drive; follow her.”
How the hell did he get in my car?
“I'm—”
“Yeah, yeah. Your informant. You two are going to the same place. Just drive.” His eyes aren't even on me, but I can tell that at any moment, he could act. As he looks at her, his expression is a mix of anger, fear, and affection. There's a slight tremble to his lips that wasn't there when last we talked.
Why the hell did he get in my car? And who the fuck is she?
“Why would she—”
“Just drive.”
She glances toward the car, and there's a sense of pressure against my face and head. But he's gone, no longer in the seat. No longer touching me. But I can't scream, can't move beyond movements he allows. What the fuck?
“You were there. At the hospital. The night we restrained Jennifer Brankewicz.”
A voice rumbles through my head: Just drive. And then he's next to me again, long fingers stretching as though he'd only love to break my neck. Or hers. What the fuck did I hear?
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 27
Standoff, Gene
I STARE AT another street sign—Dearborn isn't terribly familiar to me, though I think I had a second cousin who lived here or something. I shouldn't be in a terrible rush; my current form is surprisingly pleasant, feels almost natural, despite the lack of bindings. But I only have a little time here before the big guns find my trail.
In and out, and dump my body somewhere far away, to lead them away from him, if Owen won't come with me.
Without Abel's help, I have to actually steal cars, which requires tools, which I also don't have. It means a lot more care selecting forms, and a lot more walking. I couldn't have made this trek in the old man's form. But it's hard not to feel alive, with the wintry sun on my skin, and normal traffic around me. I need that now, since I'm never gonna feel that again with Abel touching me, inside and out. I need to find my own comfort, not look to him for it. That's how he got close enough to hurt me.
I pause at a crosswalk, waiting for a car to pull past, and I sing to myself and practice a few of my old dance steps. It was always habit; every moment of practice builds muscle memory, and it used to be such a joy to move.
The area around me is quiet, with nothing like the weight of that last ambush, or even the little zips of the sneaking predators. For the moment, I seem to be alone. There's a whisper of something, but it's so far off that I can't focus on it.
I relax, and do a cartwheel, when I'm sure no one's watching. A security camera might capture my underwear mid-flip, but no one else will. I laugh, to be doing something so reckless. And then tears prick in my eyes, knowing what Abel'd say if he saw it.
Next time I see him, one of us is gonna die. I need to convince myself it won't be me. I need to convince myself that I'll be strong enough to kill him, if I have the chance. No worries about how I'd face whoever he might become after I've erased his soul. No possibilities of fear, or guilt, or regret.
Or the loneliness of returning to an always empty apartment, should killing Abel be enough to redeem me to the powers that be, in the Hub.
The connection is stronger, thick enough that it almost pulls me along. Owen's still stressed, but soon I'll be able to comfort him and protect him. Maybe I can even make some sense out of why his own people are trying to exterminate him. So long as I can fix his life, I don't have to think about how broken mine is.
And I feel Loretta in my head, too, mainly as the sense of relief she'd have to know help's on the way. After this all settles down, and after she's cremated, it'll be a relief to let her presence go.
I sidle up to the two-story cookie cutter home that feels most familiar, and knock. A nervous looking kid of about twelve or thirteen opens it, stares at me. After a moment, he calls to someone in back. “Dougie, this one's for you.”
I raise my eyebrow. A different man, unkempt but cheerful, replaces the kid. “Whacha want, sweet thing?” I open my mouth, to answer, but he continues before I've gotten a word in. “Aderol? Mary Jane? Molly?”
I shake my head. “I'm a friend of Owen's. Is he in?”
He looks temporarily flummoxed. “Well, then. If you're visiting friends, why not visit me?” He lets me in, and puts his arm around my shoulders.
I dig my nail into the base of his thumbnail as I remove it. He shakes his hand and shrugs. “He's in. Didn't mention anyone visiting, though.”
I smile in as appeasing a manner as I can. “He wouldn't.”
“Why not?” He reaches to touch my hair. “Girl as pretty as you, a guy's gotta brag about.”
I smile sharkishly at him. “You think you can weigh out your pot with only one hand?”
He withdraws. “Can't blame a guy for trying, can you?”
“Yes, yes I can.”
Owen comes down the stares, blinking back sleep. He sees me. “Dougie? Heard voices.”
I smile as welcomingly as I'm able to; I can't frighten him away.
“You got a friend, man. Cute, too.” Dougie slaps my ass and dances out of reach as he backs out of the room. I flip him off.
Owen stares at me. “I don't have friends. Who are you?”
Dougie rummages in the kitchen—he's still listening in.
“I'm Gene. Just here to talk.”
His eyes flash black, and I realize mine probably do too, to him. His eyes linger on the bruises on my throat, and he pales.
“You were—” He fumbles at how to describe our last meeting.
I nod. “And we've got some shit to talk about.”
“Yeah,” he says, but his eyes flick toward the doorway Dougie retreated through. There's a click as a trigger cocks. A second later, Dougie emerges with a pistol pointed at me.
I laugh. “Seriously?”
Dougie's hands are shaking; I doubt he's so much as taken that thing to a range.
I step toward him. “You don't want to do that, Dougie, do you?” I approach him slowly, until the muzzle is pushing into my breastbone. “You don't want to shoot little,” I inhale, to push my breasts against the gun, keep his eyes on them. Thank fuck I'm wearing eye-candy today. “Old,” I bite my lip, and lick it, drawing his eyes upward, away from the gun. “Me?” I shove his arm to the side, away from me and Owen, and whip out a nasty punch, breaking his nose and sending him reeling temple-first into the wall.
He's down for the count. I grab the pistol; don't want him reaching for it when he comes to.
Owen scrambles up the stairs, and I point it at him. “Stay. I wanted to be peaceable. We're just talking, unless you try to end the conversation.”
He says, “You aren't going to kill me,” and takes another step back.
“No, but I've got a lot more experience with guns than you. Do you want to gamble that I can't shoot your knee out? Right picture, with the kids in the pool.” I flick my eyes upward long enough to sight in the shot, and pull the trigger. The frame shatters. I have the gun back on him in an instant.
He raises his hands. “Okay, let's talk.”
Chapter 28
Hounds, John
I CAN’T TELL if Levitt is even there, half the time. I keep turning to look, and finding him gone. Every time, I wonder if I'm going insane, and prepare to pull over. But when I do, his hand comes back on my neck, reminds me that he could break it before I got my hands off the steering wheel. There's something wrong with his eyes, too, beyond the ugly expression in them. “Who are you? You're not IA.”
He laughs. “Well, kinda.” His way of talking reminds me of Genie's. The defensiveness, the focus on the right question. Hell, his eyebrows even twitch the same way hers did. I have no doubt that these two were close, at one point. Two psychotic peas from the same evil pod.
“Seriously. What are you?”
“A friend.”
“Whose?”
He shrugs. “Yours, for the moment. You're looking for her too.”
I don't know if I should be protecting her, or cheering him on. “Why? Are you, I mean.”
“We protect our own.”
“Who's we? Her we?” He's not a corpse, so they can't be the same. At least, I can't see any injuries or marks on him.
He shakes his head. “You don't need to know. And you wouldn't understand.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Are you going to kill the Jonas kid?”
He rolls his eyes and falls silent. The girl disappears into a house. I pull over. “I'm not leading you there for you to hurt anyone. I just want to talk to him. She's irrelevant.”
He shrugs. “Have it your way.”
“I'm not moving a fucking inch until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
A little bemused grin flashes across his face. “Fine then. I'm a demon trained to track other demons. You are following a demon. Good enough?”
I open my mouth to laugh, argue, something, but am interrupted. A shot rings out, near enough that it could be—no, probably is—from the house we're watching. Levitt can wait.
I get out of the car and run toward the noise. The door is locked, so I prepare to kick it in. Though Levitt wasn't behind me then, he is now. “I mean it. You don't fucking move.”
