I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders as I ran my hands over the slick acrylic. It felt cool, rock solid and comforting. I immediately started pulling off layers of clothing until I was down to my bra, tossing everything on top of the pile spread over my bed.
"Tom?" I called down. "I may need some help up here."
"On my way." There wasn't a hint of teasing in his voice. It was rock solid and business-like.
"Wow." Tom stared at the mess I'd made of my room from the top of the stairs. "I guess you had a hard time finding this thing?"
"Just help me into it. It might be the only thing that saves my life today."
He frowned and picked up the guard. I held my hair out of the way. He touched my back and I flinched and let out a harsh hiss of air. The cuts must be deeper than I had thought.
"I want to clean and bandage those claw marks first. Nothing gets infected like human nail scratches."
I held my hair up again and nearly shrieked when he touched my back.
"Jeez Louise, Kate! What have you been up to?" He bent my right arm backward. The elbow felt a bit swollen, but it was nothing compared to the shoulder. I guess driving hadn't done it any good.
"Are your fingers tingling? I'm not an orthopedist, but that rotator cuff doesn't look too hot."
"It's fine," I replied stubbornly. Actually, it was fine, since it was so swollen it was numb.
Tomorrow would be ugly, though. I wiggled my fingers for him, surprised at the effort it took to make it look effortless.
"Uh-huh. And I suppose that this doesn't hurt a bit?" He bent my left arm at the elbow with one hand and with the other pressed down on my palm. Shooting pain made me cry out. I yanked my arm away.
I turned furious eyes to him. "What the hell was that for?"
"You try to use a knife with that hand and it may be the last thing you ever do with it. I can't let you go out and risk ruining yourself like this." I'd heard that before, from the surgeon who repaired me after my final match. The arm's not perfect, mind you, but there's nothing like someone telling me I can't do something to ensure that I will.
"Don't lecture me, Tom. And don't get all warm and fuzzy on me. Now is not the time." I saw his eyes go cold, and realized that he wasn't always a happy-go-lucky nice guy. "Fine. I'll clean you up, and don't worry—you bleeding all over the carpet doesn't really get my engine going." He turned abruptly and stalked into the bathroom. I heard him banging cabinet doors harshly and almost went to help, but I knew that part of what he was doing was releasing some stress. I understand that. He returned in a few moments with a wet
washcloth, a tube of antibiotic ointment and a box of bandages.
He was as good as his word. Warm and fuzzy
never came into play. My breath hissed between my teeth from the sting of the washcloth as he roughly scrubbed it against the opened skin.
"Hmph. It's not as bad as I thought from the amount of blood. None of them are deep at all." Tom made the observations as though to a
colleague while he smeared ointment onto the wounds.
"Most of the blood was his."
I could sense him smile. "Attagirl." He stood and went back into the bathroom for more bandages. It took quite a few of them to cover it all. When he was finished, I checked my mobility by twisting at the waist and bending over. I could feel them pull with the movement, but not enough that it would inhibit me in a fight. They did sting like an S.O.B., though.
"You'll need something to cover up that neck guard. If they see it, they'll take it. Maybe a turtleneck sweater?"
I shook my head. "Too heavy. I have to wear a coat." I went upstairs and dug through the clothing on the floor. The arm was starting to ache now, but I couldn't afford to let Tom see the struggle just to look natural. I finally found a flimsy cotton dickie to cover the guard, and then found a T-shirt over the top of it. It would only look like I was wearing a turtleneck.
Tom retrieved his drink from the counter and took a long pull of the harsh amber liquid that emptied the glass. He rested his hands on the tile, head down. "I want to help."
"Tom, that's a bad idea and you know it."
"You shouldn't be facing them alone." He met my eyes in the glass of the mirror. His face was flushed; his jaw thrust stubbornly forward.
"I'm not that easy to kill. If I was, they'd have gotten me last time." Brave words. But not a lie, and he could tell. He settled the neck guard over my shoulders and snapped the lock with an
annoyed shake of his head.
I ignored him and went back upstairs. I put on the dickie and the T-shirt and then began
rummaging through the pile of clothes on the bed once more. Down at the bottom was my Colorado Rockies jacket. It's purple, white, and gray, but at least it's leather. With the biker jacket trashed it was the heaviest thing I had. Unfortunately, it's lined, so I was going to be miserably
uncomfortable. I'd have to drink water every hour to make sure I didn't wind up with heat prostration. I pulled it on, zipping it closed over the sweater. The elasticized sleeves made it possible to get to the knives at my wrist, but it was slower than I would've liked. The biker jacket had zippers I could open that made drawing the knives much quicker. The rays of sunlight streaming in the west window were already making me sweat. I pulled my hair out of the braid and ran a quick comb through it in the bathroom. The wavy hair falling around my shoulders would give further
concealment, and allowed some air movement to my neck. I drew the knives in front of the mirror, one at a time. Then I tried pulling both at the same time.
Tom gave me a long hard stare. His eyes never left me as he watched me draw and redraw the knives. He was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. I walked out of the bath and drew again. The shoulder ached. Slow, too slow—but the best I was going to get.
Tom didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was harsh and strained. "I hate this. I absolutely hate this. I'll go move furniture. If you get hurt, have the ambulance take you to St. E's and make sure that Joe calls me." There was a long pause before he continued. "But if they get you, or you die, so help me God I will kill Dylan Shea with my bare hands."
I didn't doubt it a bit.
11
We left within minutes, after I gave Tom my building key—and after multiple promises that I would be careful and I would keep him advised. It was sort of nice to have someone worried about me. But it was also scary.
I drove down to Colfax to look for Dusty,
Voneen or both. I had to admit that driving was a bit easier with the shoulder all numb. But I didn't look forward to tomorrow; again, if there was a tomorrow. Boy, aren't I just a ray of sunshine?
The rules said I couldn't run and couldn't leave town, but it's harder to hit an unpredictable moving target. That's me all right. Unpredictable and moving.
I parked Edna at a burger stand and sprinted across Colfax with the light. You have to sprint on Colfax, even when you have the light—and suddenly I was standing in front of the place. The building is both unassuming and gaudy. Neon screams at passers-by about the variety of X-rated offerings available inside, but the building itself is low-key, with wood paneling and brick, and
tastefully small windows. It's right at the edge of the Capitol Hill residential area, full of old towering houses that are once again becoming trendy. The shop has to stay low-key or it will die.
A pair of bikers were just swinging off their bikes as I walked by. The first guy, a blond, wearing a scarf tied around his head, lowered his sunglasses as I walked by.
"Whoa! Now there's something worth stopping here for!" I continued to walk, ignoring the comment and the resounding whistle from his buddy. I'm used to fending off catcalls when I run.
"C'mon, baby. How much for a couple of hours?"
"Not for sale," I finally said when I felt movement behind me. The pair kept following. They smelled of gasoline, oil and sweat. I was really not up to dealing with these two. I wanted to get what information I could and get off the street. I shrugged off the jacket. Most guys, when they see the wrist sheaths over my thick forearm muscles, will back off.
A low whistle eased into my ears. The voice that followed was a whisper of excitement so strong that I knew it wasn't faked. "Hit me, hurt me, beat me, burn me—take me with you, mistress." I stopped cold with wide eyes and blushed to my fingertips. That was not the reaction I expected. I did what any sane person would do. I retreated. The light just turned, so I bolted over to the next block. The pair didn't follow. They just laughed and elbowed each other in the ribs at my discomfort and entered the lounge.
I put the jacket back on quickly and tried to figure out my next move. I didn't know if I could go inside to ask questions. I could do violence just fine. But sex and violence?
"If you keep running from the customers, honey, you won't last long in this business. Mmm-hmm. Take it from someone who knows." I turned to the rolling alto voice. My eyes scanned the corner. They passed over a middle-aged black woman
sitting on the bus bench twice before settling on her. She was the only person who could have spoken. She wasn't dressed provocatively. She wore
blue jeans and a v-necked T-shirt. While it did show off her ample chest, it didn't appear intended to entice.
She smiled, showing strong white teeth. "Don't look so surprised, honey. I'll share this corner. You'll be attracting a whole different crowd than me anyway."
"No," I stammered quickly, "You don't understand. I'm . . . "
"Well, sure! It's obvious you're new. I haven't seen you anywhere down here, and I would have. You're very distinctive. You'll be popular if you can just get over being embarrassed."
I shook my head. "No. I'm not a hooker. I'm a courier."
That raised her eyebrows. "Well, okay. I should warn you, though—the cops work this area a lot. You carry anything harder than weed, and they'll bust your ass."
Shit! Wrong kind of courier! This conversation was going badly. I took a deep breath and worked for control. The woman watched me. I opened my eyes and held out my hand to her. She eyed it suspiciously.
"Okay, let's just start over. My name is Kate. I work as a bonded courier, but I'm here looking for a couple of missing girls. I'm hoping someone has seen them."
Now the woman's face shut down. She didn't
take my hand. Her voice was harsh. "We don't want no trouble down here, and we don't tell tales. Maybe the girls want to be missing." Okay, now this was more of the reaction I was expecting. I could deal with this. I pulled back the offered hand.
"You're right. They probably don't want to be found. But bad people are after them. I've been sent to keep them safe. I can't do that if I don't know where they are. They're just kids." She snorted a short blast of air that was close to a laugh. "Honey, I've been on the street since I was twelve. I've seen my share of bad people and I haven't seen any down here. The neighborhood's gotten better. They're safe enough."
I noticed that the bench where the woman sat was in the shade of a large tree growing from a hole in the middle of the sidewalk. I moved over and sat down next to her. She scooted over to keep the same distance between us. I could smell her perfume now. It was an older fragrance, one that my mom used to wear sometimes. I think it's called Evening in Paris. It felt a little surreal—something in my brain connected it as a comforting smell. I smiled at the woman and shrugged my shoulders.
"Sorry, but I'm dying in this outfit." Her reply was the stern voice of a mother. Why didn't it surprise me that she might be one? "And you're a fool to wear it. You need to get some sense, girl. If you're going to do detecting, you aren't doing so hot at being low-key. You stand out like a sore thumb."
I chuckled. "No shit. I'm going for protection." I stared at the woman's hard, life-weary face with intensity. "The Thrall is after one of the girls. I have to find them." I was hoping that she'd been on the street long enough that she understood that the vamps aren't just myth.
I got the reaction I was hoping for. She hissed in a deep breath and her face grew worried. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "So you believe they're real, too?"
I laughed then, a startled sound that ended with a deep breath. "Oh, I know they're real. I've met the queen. It's why I'm wearing leather in the middle of a hot July afternoon." I pulled the two photos of the girls from my pocket and passed them to her. She glanced at them and started to cackle. She held the photos aloft. "I knew it! I just knew it!"
"You've seen them?" I asked eagerly. Her face sobered suddenly and she handed back the pictures. "Oh, I've seen 'em, honey. But you won't be finding them. No, ma'am!" She pointed to the girl in tie-dye. "That one's dead—not more than a couple of days ago. The other girl ran off." I looked down at Voneen's young face, trying so hard to look cool in the photo. "Are you sure? How do you know she's dead?"
"Why, honey, they only lived a few doors down!" She pointed at a decrepit brick building less than a block away. She saw my look and shook her head. "Won't do you no good to go look there, neither. The cops have already cleaned out the place, and the landlord, he's already got a new tenant in the spot. Rooms are hard to come by down here, and someone dying in the room don't matter to folks round here."
"So how do you know which one died?"
"I called the ambulance, girl!" She pointed a long finger at Dusty's face. "This one here—she comes screaming into the street that her friend was dead. I held her in my own arms, honey! I went upstairs with her, and she was right. The other one was stone cold, lying on the floor of the bath. I called the ambulance and told that little bitty thing to get moving, or the cops would have her downtown for questioning in two shakes. That scared her. Yes, it did. You could tell she was running from
something." She made small clucking noises and shook her head with pity.
She leaned toward me and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "But I saw the marks, honey! I saw the teeth marks, right on that dead girl's arm. Mmm-hmm. Yes, I did. I know some boys on the squad—we've met a couple of times. I asked them what she died of. The coroner said it was a drug OD." She tapped her temple. "But I know, honey—I've seen the people that have been bled down. The evil ones, they got that poor girl." I stared at the hooker, and returned my gaze to the photo.