Kicking It

—‘Madmen know nothing’—is from ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”

“The Poe short story?”

“The same. It was also the password for our favorite speakeasy.”

Luc nodded. “The Sapphire. That was you and the flower girls, right?” He’d taken to calling them that, the vampires I ran with. Violet, Daisy, Iris, and me, Rose.

“This has something to do with them?”

“They died,” I quietly said after a moment. “They got caught in the cross fire of a gangland feud.”

“Bullets don’t kill vampires,” Luc said.

“A couple of bullets? No. That’s not what this was. It was excessive. It was the first real violence I’d seen, and there was so much of it.”

“That’s when you came to Chicago,” he said.

I nodded. “Took a train and started over. And with your gentle and modest instruction, I learned discipline. I learned self-respect. I tried to put the past behind me. I guess that was naive.”

“Thank you for telling me that,” he said. “For letting me know.”

He sounded sincere, and he felt sincere. He hadn’t given me any reason to doubt him. But trust was a funny thing, and not something I knew much about. Not something I was ready for.

The question was, Would I ever be ready?

* * *

The girls’ house looked like most of the others on the block. Two short stories and a front porch held up by thick square columns. It had probably been built during World War II, when families lived here. Now it was home to three college-aged girls and, on one side of the porch, a well-used gingham couch.

We got out of the car and followed Rachel up the steps and into the living room, which had wooden floors, mismatched furniture, and plants that looked like they received as little sunlight as I did. The house smelled of age and fruity perfume.

“My room’s back here,” she said, leading us through a narrow hallway.

Rachel’s room, unlike the rest of the house, was spotless. Small bed. Nightstand. Bookshelf. Large chest of drawers with a mirror on top in a style that matched the rest of the furniture. Wicker baskets held well-organized odds and ends, and the bed was neatly made.

“Where did you find the magazine?” I asked.

“It was on the bed. I grabbed it, saw what it said, and got in the car.”

“Good head on your shoulders,” Luc said. He walked to the bureau, perused a few frames. “And what do we have here?” he asked contemplatively, then turned the photograph so we all could see.

There, in a faded black-and-white print that had seen better days, stood the four of us. I walked to him to get a closer look.

“You are a constant surprise,” he whispered, his eyes wide as he looked over the image.

I wore a sleeveless dress that hit my knees, covered in fringe that shimmied and shook whenever I sauntered in it, which I did with aplomb. The string of pearls, long enough to graze my abdomen, had been a gift from a particularly generous gangster. My hair was short and carefully curled into perfect finger waves that framed my face.

A trio of women stood with me. These were the flower girls: Daisy, Iris, and Violet. Our arms were around one another’s waists, our gartered right legs canted for the camera, Mary Jane heels on our feet.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, glancing back at her.

She flushed, just a little. “It was in a box of stuff I got from Mom—old family photos.”

“It’s definitely old,” I said. “It was a long time ago. And we should hurry.”

She nodded, then picked up a duffel bag and began filling it with clothes from the bureau. I watched her dutifully, but could feel Luc’s eyes on me. He was curious—about my past, and what I hadn’t yet told him.

But there was nearly too much to tell.

Rachel closed the bureau drawers and walked to a door I assumed was a closet. “Couple pairs of shoes,” she said, “and I think I’m ready.”

She turned the knob, and I heard the click.

My heart stopped.

“Rachel!” I yelled, leaping toward her and pushing her to the floor, covering her body with mine just as she pulled the door open—and the trigger snapped.

She screamed as a shot rang through the room, the bullet whizzing over our heads and ripping through a framed poster on the opposite wall.

Their sudden fear clawed at me, and I worked to keep my breathing under control. I am a professional, I reminded myself. But that didn’t stop the painful thudding of my heart. I looked up, saw the mechanism in the closet. It was a spring gun, an old-fashioned booby trap designed to injure—or kill—an intruder.

“Jesus!” Luc exclaimed, looking up from his crouch. “What the hell was that?”

“Spring gun,” I said, and his gaze flashed to mine, his question obvious: How did Lindsey know what it was, and that it would go off?

I stood up and glimpsed a hint of gold on the closet floor. Carefully, I moved closer. Beneath the spring gun, in front of a tidy collection of shoes, was a gold coin. I picked it up and smoothed my finger over the embossed image I knew would be there—the outline of a shamrock and the logo of the Green Clare.

I slipped it into my pocket.

“What did you find?”

“A calling card,” I said, standing up and helping Rachel to her feet.

Luc walked toward the closet to inspect the mechanism. “It triggered when she opened the door.” He looked back at me. “You heard it?”

I nodded. “I got lucky,” I said, but we both knew I was lying.

Rachel looked back at me, her eyes wide. Tears were gathering at the corners of her lashes, and her fear and shock permeated the room.

She was in danger because of me—had nearly been killed because of me. She shouldn’t have been part of this. Wouldn’t have been part of this, if the culprits had any sense of honor. You didn’t take your grudges out on innocents.

“Aunt Linds?”

“You’re okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.

“They tried to kill me,” she said. “They tried to kill me.” I could hear the shock seeping in.

“And the magazine would have been here for you to find,” Luc said, meeting my gaze over Rachel’s head. “Calling you back to New York.”

I pulled back, just enough to see Rachel’s face. My heart ached, and I pushed the ache down, focusing instead on the task ahead and the journey I was going to have to make. They were calling me back to New York, and I was going to answer.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I assured her, “and everything is going to be fine.”

One way or the other, everything would be fine.

* * *

We drove back in silence, Rachel in the backseat. I checked her constantly in the rearview mirror, as if she could be snatched away. But she stared blankly out the window, the duffel clutched in her hands as if it were her last possession on earth.

Luc decided to call Chuck, Merit’s grandfather and the city’s former head of supernatural affairs. He agreed to talk to his Chicago Police Department contacts, have them clear out the house and find a safe location for the rest of the girls until we addressed the matter.

We parked and entered the House, and Helen met us in the lobby. She had the look of a futuristic military leader. Smart suit. Silver bob, not a single hair out of place. Her hands were crossed in front of her, her heels perfectly shined. I found her creepy.

“You must be Rachel,” she said with an efficient smile. “We’ve prepared the guest suite on the third floor. You must be tired. I can take you upstairs if you’d like to get settled in.”

“Sure,” Rachel said, but cast a glance back at me.