Chapter Forty-eight
Two and a half weeks to the day later the cabbie—a human, Pete was quite sure—let her off in front of Jack's building reluctantly, staring out the windscreen with plain suspicion. 'You sure the young man's expecting you, miss?'
Pete hauled her two suitcases and trunk out of the cab's boot, panting. 'No.'
'I don't think much of this neighborhood,' the cabbie warned her as Pete paid him the extra for transporting herself and an inordinate amount of luggage from her old, now-sold flat to Whitechapel.
'It has its charms,' Pete told him. She hoisted a duffel over each shoulder and gripped her wheeled trunk, making the four-flight journey to Jack's front door in only slightly less than a decade.
This was patently insane, she reminded herself once more. She should just find a hotel, or take up Ollie Heath's offer of a spare bedroom until she could rent a new flat, in her price range and her name only, until her half of the sale proceeds came through and she could afford to eat something other than cheap takeaway and noodles.
Perfectly reasonable. She knocked. A sensation of power, a whisper against the part of her mind that dwelled in the Black, answered. That hadn't been there before.
'Got a new warding hex on,' said Jack, opening the door. He was wearing torn denim and a black button-down shirt stained with some kind of white phosphorescent powder, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. 'Lot cheaper than an alarm, and I think that ruddy son of Mrs. Ramamurthy's has begun cooking speed in his dear departed mum's kitchen. Fucking criminal element's everywhere these days.'
He took in her suitcases, and the sheepish expression Pete knew she was wearing. 'Going on holiday? Need me to water your plants and feed the cat?'
'You know I don't have a cat.' Pete couldn't look anywhere except the toes of her shoes.
'I do,' said Jack, 'but I'm at a loss as to why you're on my doorstep, so I figured small talk would be the route to take.'
'How are you holding up?' Pete blurted. Jack shrugged.
'Can't complain. Those tattoos are bloody effective, except for the one incident with the cursed monkey doll. Who would have thought it?' He smiled at her, the full force of the devil-grin. 'We both know you didn't come here to check on me, Pete, so why don't you just spit out the real reason.'
Pete started to turn around, to leave without another word, but Jack caught her arm. 'Pete. Tell me.'
'The flat's been sold, and with everything going on—work, being back to field duty, this idiotic dedication ceremony I had to go to so they could open my da's memorial auxiliary parking structure—I haven't been able to let another place,' Pete rushed out. 'It's not that I don't have a little savings—I do, but it can't be just anyplace and I know this is terrible and last-minute and that the worst thing for you would be to have some pushy woman intruding and me especially, seeing as how I can't really hold any kind of control over my talents, and well, I guess I just thought I'd ask you if I could stay. Just for a few weeks.'
Jack blinked, and then took the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth. The ember glowed. 'I keep odd hours,' he said.
'Police inspector,' Pete reminded him. 'Not a nine-to-five job, either.'
'I've been on a kick for the Anti-Nowhere League and I play them loudly.'
'Love them,' Pete shot back. Jack grimaced.
'You're bloody mad to pick me out of all the possible sofas you could sleep on, Caldecott. I mean—'
'I've accepted that, Jack. Nowhere I'd rather be.'
He sighed and stepped away from the door, pulling it wide. 'Then you're welcome, is what I was going to say if you'd let me finish.'
Pete grinned at him, and he finally grinned back, shaking his head. 'You mean it?' she asked. Jack nodded once.
'I mean it. Come in.'
