the next two. In the end, she chose a Sterling maple-shafted stick that wasn’t quite as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
She crossed to Graham’s chosen table, leaned her cue against it, and tied her hair back. “What’s your game?” she said.
Graham blinked at her. “Huh?”
“You know—eight ball, nine ball, straight pool, one pocket, or snooker?”
“Um—eight ball?” he said, doubt creeping into his voice.
“Fair enough,” Emma said, scooping up a triangular rack. “You got any local rules I should know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you got your Alabama eight ball, crazy eight, last pocket, misery, Missouri, one and fifteen in the sides, rotation eight ball, and like that.”
Graham squinted at her, licking his lips. “I just wanna play pool. You gonna talk or play?”
“Fine,” Emma said. “We’ll keep it simple—classic eight ball. One game only. If you scratch on the break, you lose. Your challenge, your game, my break. Rack ’em up.” She thrust the rack at Graham.
While Graham fussed with the rack, Emma walked around the table. The cloth was in bad shape, torn here and there from heavy use. She’d watched the play on that table earlier and noted that it wasn’t exactly level.
By the time Graham stepped back, Emma had found her shot. She hit a soft break, but still put three balls in the pocket. Methodically, she ran out the table while Graham watched with growing horror. When she’d cleared the table except for the money ball, she pointed her cue at the farthest pocket. “All right,” she said, “Eight ball in the upper right corner.” And she nailed it clean.
Cheers erupted all around—from people who hadn’t bet on Graham. Patrons, even mainliners, slapped her on the back. Others bellied up to the bar to place their orders.
Graham swore violently. “You . . . you cheated,” he said. Emma cocked her head. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you to watch yourself in a pool hall? You never know when you’re going to run into a shark.”
Graham extended a trembling hand toward Emma, fingers spread like he was about to hex her or something. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Boy Blue had his arms twisted behind his back so he screamed in pain.
“I don’t think you want to do that here,” Boy Blue murmured. “Anyway, nobody likes a sore loser. I suggest you pay up and leave.” Releasing Graham, he gave him a push toward the bar.
Emma stuck out her hand to Boy Blue. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Thanks for the help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped her hand. “I’m Jonah,” he said. “I guess you didn’t need my help.”
Emma let go of Jonah’s hand, trying to think of something to say. “What was that name they kept calling us? Labrats?”
“Labrats?” He stared at her, as if confused. “I assumed you were from—” He stopped. Then shrugged. And lied . . . Emma knew he did. “I have no idea.”
Emma gestured toward her hard-won table. “Would you like to sit?”
“Sit?”
“Sit. With me.”
For a moment, he balanced on the balls of his feet, trapped between yes and no. Then the door to the club slammed open, and cold air swirled around them. Jonah’s head came up, and he breathed in sharply, like a predator who’s caught the scent of prey. “No,” he said. “I can’t. I have to—” He swiveled toward the door, suddenly in a hurry. “I have to go.”
And, just like that, he was out the door.
Sorry, Tyler, Emma thought, watching him disappear. I guess I’m just not that good at making friends.
Chapter Thirteen
Monster to Monster
Where, exactly, did you think that was going, Kinlock? Jonah thought as he exited the club. Were you hoping to work your way up from a handshake to a chaperoned slow dance?
And yet—it was such a small and simple pleasure—to talk to someone who didn’t know that the thing he was best at was killing. Leaving the pool-shark girl behind was like ripping off a scab and watching himself bleed.
Focus, he thought, breathing in the night air. No, it hadn’t been his imagination. A shade had just passed by, heading toward Superior.
Jonah didn’t like that. He didn’t like it at all. Especially since he was unarmed. You can go into a club with a gun, but just try to get in with a six-foot sword.
It was nearly nine o’clock on a Tuesday, but the bars were jumping in the Warehouse District. Across the river, in Heritage Park and around the aquarium, he could see emergency lights flashing. Maybe an accident of some kind.
He hoped it wasn’t something worse. He ghosted along, following the scent, jogging left on Superior. He lost the trail momentarily, then realized the shade must have cut through the courthouse gardens and down the steps to the river. It might be on the hunt, hoping to find easy prey along the lonely route through the Flats.
He descended through the courthouse grounds, then walked west, along the river, past industrial buildings and high fences topped with barbed wire. Just as he was passing the old B&O terminal, a bell began to clamor. A bridge alarm, signaling street traffic that the bridge was opening for river traffic.
Once past the terminal, Jonah looked downriver, where several rusting lift bridges spanned the crooked river as it snaked its way to the lake.
It was the Carter Road Lift Bridge, just to his left. The barricades were down, lights flashing. As he watched, the bridge deck began to rise into the sky.
Odd. The bridge was closed for repair, and he’d understood that it would be for at least another month. Anyway, why would they be working on the bridge at this time of night?
The wind stirred his hair, and the stench of free magic came to him, stronger than ever, from the direction of the river. Turning off Canal Road, Jonah sprinted up the slight incline toward the bridge.
By the time he reached the foot of the bridge, the deck had stopped high above him. He heard faint cries for help from overhead.
Children?
The door to the access stairs was padlocked. Jonah considered crushing the lock, but disliked the notion of being caged up in the stairwell. Fortunately, the tower seemed made for climbing, a Lego maze of handholds and footrests. Halfway up, he saw the pallid face of a shade peering over the side at him, felt the shade’s fear and hatred boiling down on his head.
The higher he climbed, the stronger the scent of the shade’s host. A corpse, and not particularly fresh, from the smell of it. Jonah was nearly at the top when something came hurtling over the edge, a glowing patch of white in the darkness. At first he thought it was the shade, trying to escape, but it emitted a high-pitched wail as it fell, its arms and legs windmilling. A little girl.
Jonah leaped sideways to intercept her. In a split second, he wrapped both arms around her, shifted her to the crook of one arm, and grabbed back on to the tower with the other hand. She continued to kick and wriggle and screech into his ear, nearly deafening him.
“Shhh,” he said. “Hey. It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
At the sound of his voice, she stopped struggling and buried her face in his sweatshirt as if trying to burrow in. She was sniffling, but no longer screaming, at least. She glowed, like an illuminated painting in a church.
His weary synapses finally fired. She was gifted. A wizardling.
She lifted her head and looked at him. “It’s not polite to stare,” she said.
