Battle Scars (5 page)

“I noticed.” I pulled the chewed stick out and sipped the drink.

“Don’t be hating.” He reached out and tapped the edge of my nose. “I’m yours and you know that.”

“Don’t mean I gave up the right to be pissed and think about scratching her eyes out.”

“As long as you remember whose bed I’m headed for every night.” Bran picked up my hand and pressed my palm to his lips. “Only yours.”

The soft kiss earned not just a sigh from me but from an assortment of female observers. Bran ignored them and winked at me, sending my pulse soaring again.

I retrieved my hand and focused on finishing the coffee, fighting down the urge to drag him into the washroom for a quickie. “You really slept in a tree?”

He winced. “Bad memories of back spasms.” He reached around to the small of his back with a pained expression. “Let’s say it was a learning experience and I did it the one time.” One eyebrow arched upward. “Just sleeping in the tree.” He leaned in. “But I am open to experimenting with different positions if you’re game later on.”

I pressed my lips together, tamping down my desire. “Later. Right now we’ve got to find these two before they get into trouble.” I paused, my mind running over the possibilities. “More trouble, that is.”

“Be able to cover more ground if we split up,” Bran said.

I choked on the mouthful of coffee I’d just taken. “What?”

He held up a hand. “Don’t get all upset. I’m not going to run off with Angie and drop you a postcard from Sault St. Marie.”

I glared at him.

“Or anyplace else,” he added. “I think it’d be a better use of our resources for us to split up. You take the streets and I’ll take the parks, the green patches these kids set up in for the night.”

“It’s not dark yet.”

“No,” Bran admitted. “So we’re not going to split up right now. But it’ll be dark in a few hours. I think our best plan of attack is for me to hit the old places I knew, see if the kids are still using them. You keep working the street, that’s your strong point.”

“And if you run into Angie? I figure she’ll be out and about doing good deeds now that she knows you’re on the streets. Waiting to ambush you if and when you show in her sights.”

Bran frowned. “I thought you trusted me.”

I took a sip of scalding coffee before answering. “I do. I don’t trust her.”

Chapter Three

I’d hoped it would be as simple as heading for the prime performance spots and tagging the two kids as they asked for cash—twice the fool me. In the next three hours we wandered halfway up Yonge Street, down and across both Queen and King Street and through alleyways that ruined a good pair of running shoes.

There were plenty of performers banging on drums, strumming guitars, offering fast charcoal sketches and a handful playing human robots. One slender girl danced freestyle to her boyfriend’s drumming on a set of bongos, waving her see-through silk scarves back and forth. It garnered a few dollars as I watched, mostly from leering businessmen pausing for a break and pretending to like the music.

I couldn’t begin to imagine what living like this would be like. I’d gone through my rebellious teenage phase, thought about running away from my foster home and making my way on the street with the usual romantic viewpoint of street life. I’d never followed through with it due to a kind and loving set of surrogate parents keeping me on the straight and narrow despite myself.

Bran squeezed my hand. “I can guess what you’re thinking.” He lowered his voice. “These young men and women are looking for what we all want—a better life.”

“This is a better life?”

“For some of them, yes.” He glanced at the girl who now was busy hawking the same scarves she’d been dancing with. “Sexual abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse from their parents, from their family and friends, from their community. This is the only place they can be accepted fully for who and what they are. Gay, straight, transgendered—there’s a lot of ways to be pushed into this world.”

“Until they get victimized again by drug dealers, pimps and general criminals.” I wasn’t in a mood to sing the praises of independent living.

He nodded. “For the most part, yep. Some make it, like Angie, and move on into a good life as an adult but a lot don’t.”

He sighed and dug in his pocket for a dollar coin. “It’s not the best option.” He flipped the coin into the open bucket, earning a wide smile from the young man working the drums and a wink and grin from his girlfriend. “But for some it’s all they have.”

“What was Angie’s story?”

“You read the article.”

“There was nothing in it about her. But did she tell you?” I was walking on shaky ground but couldn’t stop rolling. “How did she end up here?”

“I honestly don’t know. She refused to tell me and I didn’t push.” He shrugged. “Push too much and people clam up. I figured she’d tell me in her own good time. She never did. A lot of them never have their stories told.” A strangled sigh broke free. “They go to their graves, Jane Does and John Does and no one ever knows. Not even their parents, who keep waiting for that phone call, a visit from the police to say there’s some sort of resolution, maybe even a body they can bury.” He looked at the growing shadows between the buildings. “Instead there’s just silence.”

I squeezed his hand. “You okay?”

“Yes.” He squeezed back. “You need this done as fast as possible. Whether or not the kids want to go home we have to find them and at least let them know the trouble coming down on their heads. It’s one thing to be out here trying to make it on your own, another when you’ve got people actively hunting for you. And not with your best interests in mind.” He let go of my hand and strolled over to the couple, now much friendlier thanks to our donation.

As he showed them the photographs I sniffed the air. It was a long shot that I’d be able to pick any Felis out of the odor soup clogging the street around us but it was worth a shot.

Nothing. A spicy curry from the restaurant nearby, a smattering of perfumes from the pedestrians and bad body odor from a bike courier. The two performers rated above the bike courier, with a hint of soap clinging to the young girl.

Bran returned a minute later. “No dice. They’re new here, just came in from Vancouver last week.”

“What, they take vacations?”

He chuckled. “Depends on how bad-ass the police are. If there’s a clamp-down on street entertainers in one city it’s worth it to commute to another until the heat dies down and you can go back. That is, unless it’s more profitable where you move to.”

I ran a hand through my hair, digging out a blond knot at the edge of the ponytail. “Either way it doesn’t help us.” I looked at the sun, ducking in and out between the skyscrapers as it headed for the horizon. “Going to be quitting time soon. Streets are going to get busy.”

“Evening audience. It’ll be good for the entertainers, not so much for the beggars—the commuters won’t have time to stop and drop coins into cups but the people hitting the bars and plays and movies might want to enjoy a bit of music before and after the show. The soup kitchens will be handing out meals and then shooing the kids out for the night.” Bran glanced at his watch. “As good a time as any to split up.”

I couldn’t fault his logic.

I didn’t have to like it.

“Give me some of those pics.” He took the handful I offered and folded them into a tight square before slipping them into a pocket. “Thanks.”

“Be careful.” I hesitated, unsure of how to word my concerns. “These aren’t the same kids you knew from before. We’re old enough to be the enemy.”

“Don’t worry.” He kissed my forehead, earning a whoop of approval from the drummer who launched into another crazed rhythmic solo. “I’ll be careful. Keep your phone on and I’ll see you at home.”

I scowled but said nothing.

Bran walked down the street, stopping once to turn and wave at me. I waved back with a forced smile.

The drummer thumped something low and foreboding as I headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

Two hours later I stumbled through a tent city under the Gardiner Expressway, an above-ground highway speeding along the edge of Lake Ontario. It’d been built years ago to offer commuters a more direct route into downtown Toronto and now jogged by the fresh skeletons of new condo units springing up along the lakeshore. A second highway under the Gardiner helped, supposedly, with traffic by allowing slower vehicles to pull into dilapidated industrial areas and ancient government buildings waiting for their demolition paperwork.

The dead zones between the condemned warehouses and the fresh, sparkly condos offered a good spot for an impromptu city, the elevated highway offering some protection from the elements with one of the pillars marking the start of the settlement.

I’d gotten here after a few missteps, running on directions given me by one of the older street kids, a young woman who sported a cast on her hand courtesy of a bad fall.

At least that was what she said.

It’d cost me a few dollars to pry the information out of her about shelters out of the way, off the beaten track and off the official radar. Bran might have his spots but they could have shifted and closed in the years since he’d written the article. I also suspected the two lovers might want to shift closer to the lake and as close to the wilderness as they could get, trying to keep in touch with their farm heritage. There was a bit of greenery still within walking range and the few inches of sand that qualified as a “beach” for the tourists foolhardy enough to risk a dip in the lake.

I surveyed the lone barrier to the camp, a rusted and half-down wire fence. Numerous holes cut in the wire let me through to the rest of the camp tucked behind a line of bushes and trees originally planted to try and beautify the area and ending up choking on the carbon monoxide. Now the short bushes and eight-foot trees marched the perimeter in a zombielike state, browned leaves and shredded bark gasping for air.

Cardboard boxes mixed with dark green military surplus tarps with wooden frames to build shelter after shelter, some linked together by necessity. A handful of actual tents were scattered throughout the compound, their bright neon colors dimmed by time and the weather.

No one challenged me but I could smell them, knew they were watching me, assessing if I was a danger or not. This wasn’t a kid’s camp—adults only. There was no sign, no announcement but I could tell by the inhabitants that teenagers wouldn’t be welcome unless they were passing through. No loud music, no room for skateboarding.

I walked through the packed dirt circle I guessed was the center of the camp. Eyes followed my movement but no one said anything.

There was a slowness in everyone’s actions, the weariness of years weighing them down far beyond what would be usual. Men and women looked up at me with blank faces before returning to their small campfires.

I flinched at seeing one woman in my age group, her long black hair tucked into the back of her flannel shirt as she poked at some dying embers. She didn’t look at me but kept focused on the small flames, feeding them just enough to stay alive. A tattered flag attached to the lean-to behind her lay limp, the faded colors not enough to identify it.

I turned to go. This wasn’t a place to find two young people starting out in the world. This was a place filled with weary, broken souls.

The strong Felis scent rocked me back on my heels, almost physically pushing me back. It was thick and male and definitely nearby.

He’d snuck up on me with the ease of a practiced hunter.

“Don’t get too many family here.” The low rumble came from behind the dark red pup tent to my left.

I froze.

He laughed and stepped out into the dying sunlight. “Calm down, kit. Ain’t no reason to be scared of old Red.”

I stared at the elderly Felis. He stood almost as tall as Bran and wore a battered old leather jacket and jeans. His salt-and-pepper beard matched his hair, both neatly trimmed.

Red scratched his chin. “Geez woman. I ain’t that ugly.” He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Come on over here and we’ll talk a bit. Been a while since I had decent company.” His voice rose as he finished the sentence, prompting a shout from another man a few shelters away. The undecipherable reply didn’t have any visible effect on the Felis, who motioned me over to the side of the tent.

“Malcolm there been grumpy for days. Says it’s the full moon. I say it’s the bad meat he pulled out of that Dumpster.” Red chuckled. “But here I am, not introducing myself.” He extended a hand. “Red.”

“Rebecca.” My fingers disappeared in the calloused knuckles. He gave a light squeeze, nothing more than a love tap by Felis standards.

He frowned. “Nah. You look like a Susie.” He released my hand and jabbed a thick index finger at me. “Susie.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

Red gestured toward the side of the tent. “I got some tea here. Might be a bit strong.”

I followed him to a small clearing where a dark blue coffeepot sat over a small fire.

“Don’t want to get the place ablaze.” Red sat down on one log. “Get the firefighters here and they’ll clean us all out.” He looked toward where Malcolm was. “He done got us out of here once by setting fire to his damned tent. Don’t like losing everything and having to start from scratch.”

I sat down on a tree stump. He busied himself with two metal cups, obviously survivors from an ancient camping set.

The tea was dark and strong, searing my lips both with heat and taste.

Red grinned as I took my second sip. “A bit rough. Been stewing for a bit.”

“Nice,” I rasped.

“So.” He Changed in front of me, so quickly it took my breath away. “Let me see ya.”

The red tawny fur on his face offset the black and white in his beard and short hair, giving him a somewhat comical appearance. He smiled, displaying his sharp incisors.

I almost gave myself whiplash looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Malcolm, thank God, stayed in his own little world.

“Well?” Red leaned in.

“I—I can’t.” I cupped my hands around the metal mug. “I can’t Change.”

He frowned. “Whattamean?” He tapped his claws on the side of his mug, the clanking sound ripping at my ears. “You’re family. You’re Felis.”

“I can’t Change.” I tried not to sound bitter. “Haven’t been able to for years.” I didn’t want to even try and explain how I’d managed a Change here and there, usually when my life or Bran’s was in danger. Better to let that sleeping cat lie.

“Huh.” Red sipped his tea, accepting my disability without comment. “You’re an odd one, Susie. But you’re family.” He Changed back, the fur and claws disappearing within seconds. “Bet you were a looker when you could, eh? Have all the young boys sniffing after ya.”

I felt my cheeks burn at the compliment and smiled, despite the situation. “Thank you.” I took another drink, letting the acidic tea scorch my throat. “What Pride are you with?”

He frowned. “Now that’s a good question.” He dug in one pocket of his jacket and came up with a half-eaten energy bar. “You want some?”

“I’m good.” I watched as he nibbled on the dark brown square.

Red drank more tea, then took another bite.

I waited.

“I came from the east. By the big water.” His forehead furrowed. “I think. Been so long that I forget if it was a dream or not.” He tapped his temple with the half-wrapped bar. “Got a bit addled after a car accident. Started walking and ended up here.” The energy bar swept across the compound. “Home sweet home.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of his claim. If he was truly off the grid he was an anomaly, a rogue from his Pride. It was more likely his Pride knew exactly where he was and allowed him to live his life as he wished as long as he didn’t risk exposing the family. They should have informed the local Board of his relocation but for all I knew Jess and the others were familiar with Red and just let him be.

I put my mug down, grateful for the chance to avoid scalding the rest of my stomach lining. “I’m looking for two teenagers.”

He eyed me, the steady gaze of a hunter sizing up a potential ally or enemy. “You’re too young to have kids, Suz.”

“Not mine.” I withdrew the pictures from my pocket and unfolded them. “These two. Young lovers come to the big city.”

Red finished the bar and put the empty wrapper back in his pocket before taking the photographs. His hands moved back and forth as he squinted to focus on the images.

“Hmm.” He scratched his chin, sending a flurry of flakes downward. “This boy, he’s a Chandler. Bad blood there. Don’t know the girl but she’s pretty.”