Something touched her shoulder, and she flinched back. Words flowed around her, gentle, barely louder than the sleet rattling against the storefront glass. She shrank back into the deepest corner but felt implacable hands lift her and guide her back out into the storm.
"You need a chance to dry off and something hot inside you. There's an all-night coffee shop a few blocks from here."
Those were her own thoughts, pulled out of her head and spoken. The man knew what she needed. He wanted to help her. He was concerned. And now that he was close, she smelled him again. He was the first man she'd ever gotten close to, who smelled right. He smelled safe.
"Prefer. B-b-b-booze. Need. D-d-d-drink." Her teeth were chattering too fast for coherent speech.
The apparition in the yellow ski cap shook his head. "The only bar close to here is no place for a lady. Let me buy you coffee."
"S-s-strip joint. Next b-b-block. Open. Serve booze. Walk by it every n-n-night. Seen naked women b-b-before. M-m-mirror."
Besides, she was much too cold to be affected by the atmosphere of sex. And she was used to aggressive, wanton women. She lived with one.
Chapter Two
Brian thought he'd just as soon skip any place calling itself "The London Derrière." At least it had a vestibule, and the vestibule was warm. It was dirty, yes, with cracked and peeling wallpaper, water-stained ceiling, and a smell of unwashed bodies, but warm. It was also bright after the stormy streets, as if the management liked to get a good look at its customers before it let them in.
Oh, well. He'd seen worse in his many decades of soldiering for God and King. Bangkok came to mind, a place called Wong's in the Chinese slums where the bouncer carried an Uzi. He shook sleet out of his hair and gave himself a quick once-over for evidence of the brawl.
He couldn't see any blood--only a little dirty slush to show for his night's work. The burning and his own powers had cleaned up the gore.
Call it luck. Skill. Art. Mostly luck. Liam hadn't sensed him coming up behind. The bastard had been too busy concentrating on the woman and her gun.
Speaking of the woman . . . . Brian finally got a good look at this distraction who had wandered into his shark-hunt. Thin. Medium short. Almost skinny, but you couldn't tell any figure under that drenched yellow ski-jacket and wet baggy jeans.
She pulled off a green wool cap and revealed curly wet hair, burgundy red and cut short. Her eyes were green, and a cloud of freckles stood out like they were painted in dried blood across the white skin of a ghost.
Well, she had an excuse to look a little pale. Brian fed more Power to his calming spell, soothing her thoughts while wondering just how much of her memory he was going to have to edit. That was as tricky as playing around with primers, and he’d rather skip the process.
The bouncer at the inner door was also studying her as they dripped Maine winter all over his floor. Brian gave him a professional look-over and decided to behave. The guy was a little fat, but he could probably bench-press Brian with one hand.
The vault door shook his head. "I'm going to have to ask you for some I.D., Miss."
That was understandable. She looked like she was about seventeen, maybe one of those homeless waifs. That would explain why she was out after midnight with a .38 in her pocket. It'd be God's own joke if she'd been trying to mug Liam rather than the other way around. He reminded himself that he was in America, the Wild West where people carried guns all the time.
She fumbled for her wallet and handed over her driver's license. Her fingers were still shaking from the cold or the shock or both. It made her look even younger and more afraid.
The bouncer looked at her, at her license picture, at her again. He took the license over to a light and peered at it carefully, shook his head, and then studied Brian for a moment before handing the bit of laminated Polaroid back to her.
"Kid, I'll give you a C-note if you tell me who did that for you. It's the best job I've ever seen."
"Department of M-m-motor Vehicles," she stuttered between her chattering teeth. "S-s-secretary of S-s-state Office."
"Yeah. And if you're twenty-eight, I'm the mayor of Boston."
The man opened the inner door and waved them through into a tunnel throbbing with canned techno-pop. Strobe flashes lit up the blue glow of a set of stairs leading down. Brian's instincts twitched, and he started looking for exit signs. Life had taught him the old rule of the fox: always have at least three ways out of your den. He followed the girl down, warily.
Girl, he repeated, in his mind.
Sixteen, seventeen, he thought, with an I.D. saying she's twenty-eight. What in hell has Liam been up to? The Old One might have authored a list of sins as long as a hangman's rope, but random rape or mugging weren't on it.
It doesn't really matter, after tonight. Now Mulvaney can sleep, in whatever grave he's found. Brian felt tension drain out of his back, as if he’d dropped a burden he’d been carrying for years.
The stairs spilled them into a gloom of empty tables and stabbing theatrical spotlights. A fog of cigarette and cigar smoke warred with the tang of sweat and lust and spilled booze. It looked like a thin house: either a lousy show or the lousy weather. Probably both. There was one exit sign, floating in its red glow through the haze. And another. Plus the way he came in. Good.
The music pounded at him,
