It's almost a cliché, but I've found that time really does seem to slow down to a syrupy crawl during shit like this, so everything went nice and slow mo just for me. Someone screamed. Flying through the air, I heard glass breaking, and I heard the crash, which is weird, since both had to have preceded my takeoff. I heard other cars squeal to a stop. Then I heard the dull thud as I plowed into the sidewalk. I rolled through dirty snow and ended up in the shrubbery out front of the restaurant.
Yeah, a mortal human probably would have been so much potted meat after that. Me, I got some pretty bad scrapes and bruises, a few cracked ribs, all of which would heal in a few hours. I lay there a moment, waiting for my head to clear, and then I staggered to my feet. The hood of the van was literally wrapped around the silver post. Steam hissed from the ruptured radiator and a blue-green stream of antifreeze was draining out into the gutter.
A woman asked if I was okay. She sounded incredulous. Because how had anyone been able to get up after that, right? I ignored her, shook my head, because it was still foggy with pain and the shock of the impact. I heard a siren, which might have been the strangest part of all. Since when are the police that goddamn on the ball? Just my luck there must have been a squad car very close by.
So I started running. Well, more like limping. But it was a fast limp. There were enough pedestrians to be inconvenient, what with lunchtime and all. I shoved the ones who got in my way aside and paid their curses and shouts no mind. The deli wasn't far. I ducked north into an alley, found a dumpster, broke the lock, lifted the heavy lid, and slipped inside. The lid clanged down, and I sat in the darkness for the better part of an hour. Until I figured the police had decided they weren't going to find the driver of the dead Econoline, until anyone they might have bothered to question had moved on. I was lucky, and there wasn't much in the dumpster but flattened cardboard boxes, so I didn't crawl out stinking of garbage.
Maybe Harpootlian had meant to kill me, flinging me back the way she did. And maybe she hadn't. Right then, it hardly mattered.
I was about an hour and a half late for my meeting with the Maidstones, and that was mostly because of the time I'd spent tailing the seagull that had been tailing me and then lying low until the ruckus over the crash came and went. The whole infernal abduction thing, that had taken hardly more than a blink of the eye.
I went around back of the deli, like I'd been instructed to do. There was a buzzer, and I rang it. I'd expected one of the shuffling zombies to answer the door, but, instead, I got the goth kid who called herself Lenore. She looked me up and down, then scrunched up her face in a look of disgust.
"What the fuck happened to you?" she asked.
"Objects in motion remain in motion," I said, pushing her aside and stepping into the shadows at the base of a steep flight of narrow stairs. "That is, until they hit concrete. That's what happened to me."
Shocked I know about Newton's First Law, what with me dropping out of school at the age of twelve? Well, don't be. It's been a while since the Bride made me what I am, most of that while boring as hell, and when I'm bored I read. Yes, even books on physics. Also, screw your narrow-minded stereotypes. Lots of smart-hell, brilliant-kids leave school for one reason or another. Same with runaways. And . . .
Never mind.
Like I said, I pushed my way past Lenore. Then I pulled the door shut behind me, and, before she had a chance to ask any more stupid questions, I took the stairs two and three at a time. She followed me, one step at a time. The stairs ended in a short hallway, and she told me it was the second door on the left. She didn't have to tell me it would be locked. She caught up and used her knuckles to tap out some sort of code on the wood.
Berenice Maidstone opened it. Unlike last time, her mousy hair wasn't braided, but hung loose about her face and shoulders. There was impatience in her brown eyes.
"You're late," she said. "And you look like hell."
"Jesus, nothing gets past you people."
The dingy room behind her was washed with winter sunlight coming in through tattered blinds.
"Doesn't it hurt?" she asked.
"Only when I breathe. Now, are you going to let me inside or what?"
"Your boss called," she said, like that was any sort of an answer. "He sounded concerned."
"Don't let that fool you," I replied, then pushed her aside, same as I'd done with Lenore. The room smelled of mildew, salami, and sauerkraut. Pink floral wallpaper was peeling off the walls in long strips. There were a couple of chairs and a sofa, all of which looked as if they suffered years at the claws of cats. Also, there was another girl inside, her back to me, facing one of the windows.
"Amity," I said. "Nice to meet you, too."
"Close the door," the younger girl said, either to her sister or Lenore. "Why are you late, Quinn?"
I stared at the girl's shoulders a moment or two. She had a certain uncanny splendor about her. Nothing a mundane would see, but plain as day to my eyes. Whatever brand of voodoo her sister could lay claim to, Amity possessed that tenfold or more. Here was power enough to be reckoned with, talent that completely eclipsed Berenice. And, of course, she was hungry for more. Because that's how power works. Just another addiction. The powerful are only addicts. Always a little patience with the rich and mighty. Always a little patience with junkies.
"Why are you late?" she asked again.
"Yeksabet Harpootlian," I answered, and Amity crossed her arms and looked at the dusty floorboards. Berenice sat down on the ruins of the sofa. Lenore took a few steps towards me, behind me, just off to my left. I stiffened a bit at the sound of her footsteps.
"Seems," I continued, "this little business venture of yours is attracting a lot of attention from all the wrong sorts. Not the kind of people whose shit lists you wanna end up on. Or maybe that's just me."
"She came to you?" Amity asked, her voice, smooth as cream, cold as dry ice.
"Not exactly. More like she dragged me to her."
"Yes, well . . . we'll see that your employer is well compensated for his troubles, as soon as we have the unicorn."
"Listen, child," I said to her, trying not to lose it, quickly failing. "Fuck my employer. Fuck this wizardy sex toy has you all hot and bothered. I'm the one you need to be thinking about compensating for her troubles."
"Ms. Quinn," cut in Berenice, her voice soft as a bedbug's fart. "Maybe-"
"I don't recall saying a single motherfucking word to you," I snarled back, not taking my eyes off her kid sister.
Which is when Amity finally turned to face me.
And I wished she hadn't.
She had the sort of eyes that . . . well, like they say, if looks could kill. Hers probably had, on more than one occasion. I'd have bet Mean Mr. B's life on it. The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, but those eyes of hers seemed at least a century older. The irises were the muddy green of Spanish olives.
"Do not use that tone with my sister, mongrel. Hold your tongue, or I'll gladly take the liberty myself."
If my heart was still beating, it would have skipped a few beats right then. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, ol' Edgar had spawned a monster. And I like to think if I hadn't been careening through another stellar butt plug of a day, I'd have gotten myself under control then and there. Alas, this was very much not to be.
I scraped up a bitter, amused laugh. Poke the scary girl with a pointy stick, Quinn.
"So you think you're actually the spookiest thing I've seen today? Well, I got news for you."
I heard Lenore's footsteps. She stopped just behind me. Now, once you've had the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head-which, by then, I had-you kinda don't ever forget the sensation. I didn't even think. I spun around and seized Lenore by the throat. The little Sig Sauer pocket pistol slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floor.
"You wanna dance with me, little girl?"
Lenore made an alarmed, strangled sound. Her black-rimmed eyes bulged, and she clawed at my forearm.
"No, no," I whispered. "I'll lead. I insist." And I hurled her across the room into the wall beside the door. There was a sickening meaty thud, then a wet snap and crunch of bone, and then she was just a limp heap below a dented plaster wall. She looked like a broken doll.
Can't say I was sorry.
Berenice jumped up, but she sat right back down when I pointed an index finger at her. And, oh, fuck, but killing that silly bitch Lenore had felt fine, almost sweet as a mouthful of warm blood, sweeter than the cozy fog of smack had felt in the back before.
"Are we quite done with the theatrics?" Amity asked, her voice still smooth and icy. Still impatient. I turned back to face those wicked green eyes. They made me want to find a deep hole to crawl inside. I knew I had to do just the opposite.
"No one puts a fucking gun to my fucking head. I don't care whose lackey they are."
"Yes, and now she knows that," said Amity, and I caught a glimpse of her teeth for the first time. They'd all been filed to points, and, gotta admit, that gave me pause. It also got me wet. Sorry, guys, but it's the truth. In my defense, I hadn't been laid since I'd died and turned loup. And a girl has needs.