tipped my head down, trying to keep my face out of the worst of the wet. I tromped up the sidewalk to the bus stop. The good thing about being six feet tall is I can cover some serious ground in a short time. But even though the bus stop was only a few blocks up the hill, I was out of breath by the time I hit the first curb.
Nearly dying had taken a lot out of me. I hated being reminded that I wasn’t as strong as I liked to be, but it was true.
Time. All I needed was a little time to finish getting well and then I’d be healthy and strong. I’d be normal again.
Magic pushed under my skin, stretching and making me itch a little. Reminding me it was there, ready to be used, to be shaped, to be cast. Reminding me it would do anything for me. So long as I was willing to pay the price.
Okay, maybe normal was too much to ask for. Right now, I’d settle for healthy.
I ignored the push of magic and kept a steady pace to the bus stop. I was drenched by the time I arrived. The bus stop itself was a cozy little Plexiglas closet of death beneath the glaring eye of a streetlight. My palms broke out in a sweat inside my gloves.
Oh, no way. No matter how wet and cold I was, there was no force in this world that could make me stand under that tiny roof with the other six people who were already crammed inside. Freeze to death in the driving wind and rain instead? No problem.
Five or six men huddled on the other side of the bus stop, between it and the curb. They faced the street, hands in their pockets, heads bent against the gusty rain.
Typical to Oregon, no one carried an umbrella, though everyone had on a hat or hood. We all waited, silent, a mix of old, young, and odd.
I scanned the faces, wondering if I knew any of them. It was possible they could be my neighbors. But no one made eye contact, and no one looked familiar. What everyone looked was wet, and tired of it.
The bus rumbled up to the curb and screeched to a stop. The curbside men got on first, and then a few of the speedier bus stop huddlers, myself in the mix. I reached the door and flashed my bus pass. The smell of people-lots and lots of wet people-hit me full in the face.
That was one of the disadvantages to being a Hound. Not only was I able to track spells back to their casters, but I also had a pretty sensitive nose, even without magic enhancing it.
I tucked my nose a little deeper into my scarf and beelined to the empty back of the bus. I took a seat near the door and leaned my head against the window behind me. That let me stare across the aisle and out the other window while the rest of the riders got on the bus. Across the street, a man pulled free from the shadows. He stood there, in the open and the rain, a darkness against darkness. He stared at the bus. He stared at me.
I felt his gaze all the way down to my bones.
I knew him. I was sure of it.
Zayvion Jones. The man I had fallen in love with-the man I might still be in love with. The man I hadn’t seen for weeks.
The doors hissed shut and the engine growled as the bus pulled out into traffic, leaving Zayvion lost to the rain and darkness behind me.
Loneliness hollowed out my chest. What had he been doing there on the street? Was he looking for me?
Well, if he was, he’d have to wait. My cell was toast. If he had a phone, I didn’t think he’d given me the number. I’m sure I would have written it in my blank book. Or at least I thought I would have.
I shook my head and tried to push Zayvion out of my mind. He knew where I lived. Obviously. He could leave me a note if he wanted to get ahold of me.
“Mind if I sit?”
That voice sent my stomach down to my shoes and left nothing but fight or flight rising up through me in a hot wave. I suddenly wished I’d brought my baseball bat with me.
I looked up.
Lon Trager, the kingpin of drugs and blood magic, smiled down at me. I’d saved Martin Pike’s granddaughter from his blood-and-drug den a while ago. My testimony had put Trager in jail.
He was supposed to get thirty years. Thirty. It hadn’t even been three.
He wore a nice business coat, expensive French cologne, and a hat straight out of a 1930s film. He didn’t wait for my answer before folding into the seat next to me, his shoulders brushing mine. His face was long, dark, his cheeks hollowed out so the bones cut a hard line under his eyes. He was a predator. He was violence. A dealer, a pusher, a killer.
“Great day to be alive, isn’t it, Ms. Beckstrom?”
If he thought I was going to sit there and make nice talk, he was out of his mind.
I stood.
Six other men in our immediate vicinity rose out of their seats just a little and glanced at Trager. They each had at least one hand in a pocket. I pulled my nose out of my scarf and caught the faintest scent of metal and oil and gunpowder.
“I’m sure you are a very busy woman.” Trager put his hand out, and his thugs sat back down in their seats. “Please sit, Ms. Beckstrom. We wouldn’t want anyone on this bus to have an unpleasant experience.”
I was so screwed. If I yelled for the bus driver to call 911, or even if I silently traced a glyph to cast magic, Trager’s men would pull their guns. Everyone on the bus could be killed.
Magic is fast.
So are bullets.
But the only other thing I could think of was to sit down, listen to his threats, and maybe oh-so-casually trace a glyph that I could use on him before his goons killed me.
Life or death before coffee. Welcome to Monday.
I sat on the edge of the seat and half turned so I could meet him eye to eye.
His eyes were brown enough to be black. Cool, flat, and alien in a way that made me squirm inside.
“Cops know you’re out?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Yes, they do.”
That sent chills over my skin. He had gotten out legally. Or maybe he had bought his way out. Either way, he was free. Really free.
Holy shit.
“Does it worry you?” he said. “You know, this… bad blood between us”-he smiled, and it made him look hungry-“could be wiped away. I’m willing to call it clean, done, over, no harm, no foul, so long as you do one thing for me.”
I had no intention of doing anything for him. But he didn’t have to know that. “Really? Must be my lucky day.”
His smile wasn’t doing anything for his looks. Unless he was going for the crazy psycho-killer thing.
“Ms. Beckstrom,” he chided, “you don’t know how lucky you’ve been. I will kill you.” He shrugged his shoulders as if he were discussing which pizza to buy for lunch. “Today, tomorrow. If not by my hand, then by my voice and the hands of my people. My people are everywhere. Even your rich, dead daddy knew that. Even your rich, dead daddy bowed to me.”
I blinked like I wasn’t the least bit intimidated. And in some ways, I wasn’t. He could insult my father all he wanted-I didn’t care.
“Is this going to take all day?” I asked. “My stop’s coming up.”
A flicker of raw anger flashed in those alien eyes. “Bring me Martin Pike,” he said with such emphasis that his spit peppered my face. “Bring him to me alive. By tomorrow night. Tuesday, no later than midnight. If I don’t see both of you strolling across my floor, you will be dead before the sun rises on Wednesday.”
The bus grumbled and slowed, kneeling toward the stop at the curb. His goons all stood.
I should have seen it, should have sensed the change in his body language. But when six guys with guns stand up at the same time, I am all about keeping an eye on them.
The bite of a needle plunged deep in my thigh hit me like an electric shock. I grunted but didn’t have time to yell, didn’t have time to cast magic or even punch him in the face before Lon Trager was on his feet. In his hand
