each other like they were holding down territory. At the table, which was four sawhorses supporting a plank of plywood in the middle of the room, sat Pike. Anthony, still in his gray hoodie, glared at me from the far right corner, where he was getting his slouch on. Other than my guide, Whiskey Guy, who wandered over to my left to claim an empty spot of wall, I didn’t recognize anyone else.
Okay, this was where my jaded outlook on being a Hound kicked in. It was easy to identify a Hound in a room-all you had to do was find someone who looked completely antisocial, yet became too curious too quickly, and of course was hiding an additction.
“Allie Beckstrom,” Pike said in his gravely voice, “meet the Pack. I’m only gonna go through this once, so pay attention. That’s Sid Westerling.” He pointed to the first man standing on my right.
Heavyset and blond enough to have Norwegian ancestors, Sid wore wire frame glasses and looked like he should be sitting behind a computer, not sniffing down spells. I guessed him for prescription painkillers. He nodded a hello. “I think you and I worked the Spatler case a few years back.”
I frowned, dug for the memory, found it. “Right. You were fast.”
He grinned and tucked his thumbs in the sides of his Dockers. “Yes, I was. Still am.”
“That’s Dahlia Bates,” Pike said, indicating the woman who sat on a metal folding chair next to Sid.
She was motherly looking and had short hair colored from a box that was probably called Glorious Sunset. She exhaled like she thought holding her breath would make her invisible. Or maybe she just hated the stink of mold as much as I did. Downers, I guessed. Maybe Valium.
“Davy Silvers.”
A young man, thin, also sat in a metal chair, the back of his head resting against the brick wall, dark circles beneath his closed eyes. His skin was a little too pale and green. Out of the bunch, I figured he was the one who answered the phone when I called.
He lifted one hand in a wane hello but did not open his eyes. Alcohol. Probably something else in the mix too.
“Anthony Bell.”
I glared at Anthony, who still stunk of the sweet cherry scent of blood magic and drugs, probably coke or speed. He sniffed and spit on the floor. Nice.
“Theresa Garcia.”
She stood slightly away from the wall and, from my vantage, studied me from just above Pike’s left shoulder. She wore a suit jacket and black slacks over her solid build. Her hair was pulled back in a braid. She couldn’t be over five feet tall but looked like she could wrestle a bull elephant to the ground. Her hazel eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and she did not break eye contact. I figured her for hard core exercise and maybe the occasional weekend bender.
“Tomi Nowlan.”
A girl who looked like she was twelve going on twenty-one leaned hip and shoulder against the wall, and chewed gum. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears but a lot of bangs hung in a heavy curtain to edge her eyes. She had on a hoodie and low-waisted jeans that showed a thin glimpse of hipbone where three thin razor scars shone white against her white skin. Her belt was wide and black, anchored by a heavy silver buckle shaped like a doggy bone. She gave me a flat stare, blew a big pink bubble, and bit it with her back molars. A cutter.
“Beatrice Lufkin.”
Beatrice was also standing, wearing jeans and a nice beige sweater. Walnut colored hair stuck out in wild curls barely kept in check by her wide flower-pattern headband. Her eyes were too large in her round, freckled face, but she smiled, revealing dimples, and surprise, surprise, she seemed genuinely happy to see me. “I’ve hoped to meet you for some time now,” she said. “You’ve done some really great jobs in the city.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling like I might have a chance at making friends with her. I guessed her drug of choice was probably weed, mushrooms, and wine coolers.
“Jamar Legare.”
Jamar was at least three inches taller than me and wore his mustache and beard in a circle around his mouth, his dark curls shaved close to his scalp, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide his deep brown eyes. He had on a jean jacket with a hoodie under it and seemed comfortable surveying the room, one thumb tucked in his front pocket.
“Afternoon,” he said.
I nodded to him. Tough call, but I’d guess alcohol.
“Jack Quinn.”
Whiskey Guy, the closest person on my left, was in the middle of lighting a cigarette. He gave me a brief nod.
The prospects of me having my own bit of wall to lean against were pretty low, since the room wasn’t very large, something made worse by the low ceiling. Everyone was scattered to maximize the distance from each other. So I just stood to one side of the door, nearest Whiskey Guy-I mean Jack-and blond Sid on the other side of the door to my right.
“Davy,” Pike said, “is this it?”
Davy, the Hangover Kid, opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Yep. Everyone who said they’d come.”
I was right. He was the one who answered the phone.
Okay, so my theory that Hounds didn’t know one another had been seriously thrown out the window in the last minute or so. It looked like all these people knew one another and knew other Hounds working in the city. Maybe I was the only one disinclined to hang out. Maybe in my push to be free of my father and his expectations, I’d taken the concept of solitary into every other aspect of my life. Maybe Hounds hung out all the time at special Hound bars, had Hound parties, and, hells, did Hound job-share and babysat one another’s Hound kids.
“Anyone have any news?” Pike asked.
No one spoke. Not even me. I had no idea what they considered news. Did ghosts count? Being hunted by a blood and drug lord? Magic assassins?
“Anyone have any complaints about an employer?”
Silence.
“How about leads on jobs?” he asked.
Nothing.
At this rate, the meeting was going to be over in about thirty seconds.
Pike pulled a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “Who’s working where?”
Sid cleared his throat. “Gotta job with the cops. Don’t know where yet.”
Pike noted that in his book and then looked expectantly at motherly Dahlia next to Sid.
“Nothing that I know of,” she said.
“Davy?” Pike asked.
Davy didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “The college wants me to run the halls for a couple days. Probably do it this week.”
“Do it sober,” Pike said.
Davy shook his head like he’d heard that before and hadn’t listened last time either.
Anthony spoke up. “I’ll be wherever you are, old man.”
Pike noted something in his book. From the motion of the top of his pen, I was pretty sure he’d just written “ass.”
Theresa the elephant wrestler said, “I’m still on retainer with Nike.” She shrugged. “It’s been quiet.”
“Good,” Pike grunted. “Tomi?”
“Jesus, Pike,” the cutter girl said, “do we have to do this every week?”
“Every week you show up. Every week you want someone to know where the hell you are and who the hell you’re putting your life on the line for.”
She chewed, blew, popped. I noticed Davy’s body language changed, and Tomi glanced from beneath her heavy bangs over at him, at his still-closed eyes, at his just-a-little-too-shallow-to-be-relaxed breathing, at his hands that had clenched, probably unconsciously, into fists.
She bit her bottom lip and looked away.
“I have a private client,” she said in a dull tone. “In the West Hills. That’s all I’ll say.”
