tried to smile, but my teeth were chattering.
“Cold,” I mumbled.
He handed me change. I put that in my pocket, almost forgot to take the paper with me, tugged it off the counter, and stepped back into the flow of the crowd. I went blank for a couple seconds. Someone brushed past me, bumped my elbow, and I got moving again. Down the street. To Get Mugged, because I could not think of what else to do. I stopped outside the wood-and-glass door and the smell of coffee was suddenly too much, too strong, too sour, and I thought I might puke if I had to walk in there.
I wanted to go away. Wanted to go somewhere where someone could explain to me why my father was dead.
A woman pushed the door open from the inside and I had to step back to let her out. The practical part of my mind took over, caught the door. I walked in and sat at a table in the back where I could watch the door.
Sitting was good. Really good. I kept my coat on, and my backpack. It was hot in the little brick shop; the coffee roaster must have just finished its job. The air was thick and moist with the heat and overcooked smell of roasted beans. Even so, I was shaking cold. I put the paper on the table. I turned it over so I couldn’t see the headline. That was worse. The bottom half of the paper was filled with pictures of my father, dressed in his business suit and smiling. I could almost imagine his voice, low, encouraging.
My throat tightened and hurt. But it was as much from anger as sorrow. How could he die on me? Why? Why now?
People die, sure. But not my dad. Never my dad.
I left the paper on the table and got myself over to the counter to order coffee. The girl behind the bar was bristling with multicolored piercings, including the one through her left eyebrow that had some sort of light worked into it and changed from blue to pink every time she blinked.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Coffee, black, with a shot of espresso.” My voice sounded a little low, a little soft. It was like I couldn’t breathe, like maybe I’d swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls and they had filled up my lungs and stuck in my throat. I cleared my throat, handed her money, and picked up the steaming mug at the far end of the counter.
I thought about leaving, about going back to my apartment, and crawling into bed, like when I was little and didn’t want to hear my mom and dad yelling, didn’t want to hear my world chipping away word by word. But my apartment was horrible and probably still stank, and I couldn’t deal with one more horrible stinking thing right now.
I sat at the table and took a drink of the coffee. Hot, bitter to the point of being sharp. It was like a slap to the face, painful, but kind of good too.
I took a second drink, then stared out the window until I’d finished half the cup. My head cleared a bit, my nerves settled some. I didn’t want to read the paper on the table. So I didn’t. Not until I finished my coffee. Then I pulled my shoulders back and turned the paper over so I could start at the headline.
The report said that my father had been found in his office, dead, late yesterday afternoon. The receptionist had found him. She’d gone in because he wouldn’t answer his phone and had an important call on hold. She’d called the police. The paramedics who arrived pronounced him dead. They didn’t list the cause but said it was a suspicious death.
The police weren’t willing to announce suspects yet, but they were working some strong leads and wanted information anyone had in connection to the case.
The rest covered my father’s life, his highly publicized dispute with Perry Hoskil over the invention and patenting of the Beckstrom Storm Rod that had changed magic distribution throughout the world, his playboy lifestyle, his six wives, one child, and the humanitarian causes he’d been involved with over the years—causes I knew he’d only taken on for the tax write-off.
Neat. Tidy. The entire life and death of a man who was a mystery I had never been able to puzzle out, summarized in a thousand words or less by a stranger.
I stuck the paper in my backpack. I should really go to the cops now. I didn’t have much information, although I had been at his office earlier that afternoon. I could tell the police I was there and what we talked about. I could tell them Zayvion Jones had followed me up to his office and could corroborate my story.
As a matter of fact, Zayvion had been in dad’s office longer than I had. I rolled around the idea of Zayvion being a hit man, capable of murder. The image of him when Mama had yelled came to me. He’d seemed angry then, dangerous. But not murderous. Still, I suppose it was possible. The article didn’t say how he’d died. But I hadn’t smelled blood on Zayvion when he’d come out of my dad’s building, hadn’t smelled the sour heat of anger or violence on him, nor spent magic.
Zayvion struck me as the kind of person who was good at keeping his cool. Even so, he’d seemed a little jumpy at the deli. And he had spent a lot of time looking out the window at the street.
I rubbed my eyes. Okay. Go to the police, tell them I thought my dad was involved in a hit on Boy, then tell them that I knew nothing about my dad’s death even though I’d chosen yesterday of all days to visit him, and sure, I’d been angry at him, and yelled at him and stabbed him while I was there.
Didn’t that make me sound like a wonderful daughter?
So much for a trip into the countryside. I’d be stuck in the city, maybe even jail, for the next couple of weeks at the least.
Great. I tightened my backpack straps and left the coffee shop. The police station wasn’t that far away and the walk would probably help, right? Maybe help my day feel more normal, mundane—like the day everyone else was having, or at least those people who hadn’t just found out their father was dead.
I glanced up at the sky. No blue, just clouds blackened with rain. A drop hit my forehead, then another landed on my bottom lip. Then the sky let loose a heavy rain.
Lovely.
About two blocks into my march, it occurred to me that I could call a cab or catch a bus. I had money in my pocket. But I just kept walking, getting more soaked by the minute.
A woman with very blue eyes strode over from beneath a building awning and stopped in front of me. She was shorter than me, stocky like maybe she’d done some time on the football team back in college. She stank of lavender and was pretty in a desperate I-used-to-be-a-cheerleader sort of way.
“Allie Beckstrom?” my stalker asked, her voice all daisies and lollipops.
“Excuse me?” I said, like I didn’t hear her right.
“Remember me? We ran into each other on the Lansing job.”
I did remember her. She and I Hounded a hit someone had put on a banker maybe a year ago. She’d been hired by the bank; I’d been hired by the banker’s son. I successfully traced the hit back to someone inside the company. Turned out my client’s father was threatening to go to the authorities about the corporate magic-use policy. The bank had been “test marketing” low-level Influence and Glamour—spells designed to attract investors— and they’d proxied the use onto the stockholders without the stockholders’ permission.
I had gotten an arrest out of it, and the case caused yet another flurry of legislation that fell short of managing business magic. Still, the people who hired Bonnie had not been happy with how it all turned out, nor with her.
“Sure,” I said. “Bonnie Sherman, right?”
“Yes!” She smiled wide enough to flash me her back molars, a sight I could have done without. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Her eyes were too wide, her breathing too fast. Even without magic I could smell the hunger on her. She was so hot for a fight I could almost taste the adrenaline on the back of my throat. She was also on something and I figured it was painkillers. One of the other drawbacks to being a Hound—it hurt, often and a lot.
I am not stupid. I know when things are about to go down.
“You working for the cops?” I asked casually while I drew upon the magic I stored in my bones, a magic I was certain she could not detect.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “The cops, and lots of other people. I’ve incorporated, even hired my first employee—an office boy to take care of phones and filing. And you? How is every little thing, rich girl?”
