to throw her knife through the screen. She’d snapped it off and the silence blasted her from her chair. None of her CDs sounded right, were what she wanted to hear. She finally shoved in Radio Birdman just to fill the apartment with sound. Just so her misery had some company.
Where was he? It was after three. Surely he hadn’t just…forgotten about her? Did he hate her so much he didn’t even care what she’d been doing there?
Maybe he didn’t need to know. Maybe he was just going to kill her. She glanced at the stained-glass window that made up one wall of her apartment. Her building had been a Catholic church once, back before Haunted Week and the rise of the Church of Truth. Most churches had been razed during that week when the dead walked the earth and took millions of souls with them—and in its aftermath—but the Church had decided her building had some historical significance and was aesthetically pleasing, so it had been allowed to stand.
There were buildings across the street. Their windows looked into hers. Was he over there with a gun? Just waiting to—
From the street came the low rumble of a car. Of one particular car. Her heart stopped; she ran to the window, looked down in time to see Terrible walk up the steps.
One last pat of her dyed-black Bettie Page hair; one last slick of lipstick over her too-dry mouth. She couldn’t do anything about the rest of it. She was pale and shaky, her entire body clammy with nerves.
When his heavy knuckles hit her door she was ready, standing beside it. Her hand flew to the knob, but she caught herself before she turned it. Bad enough that she’d made an ass out of herself the last time she’d seen him. He didn’t need to know she’d been hovering here by the door, waiting.
The makeup was a mistake. So was the top, and the high-heeled boots. It was all a mistake. What did she think this was, a fucking date? How much more obvious did she want to make it? Maybe when she opened the door she could fall to her knees and start crying, too, just to complete the pitiful picture.
Another heavy knock. Okay. Deep breath time. She twisted the knob, stepped back, and pulled.
Nobody filled a doorway like Terrible.
Her mouth opened. What should she say here? Hi? How are you? Come to bed with me? Yeah, that would work. Fuck! What was she—
His eyes met hers. For one second she saw something in them. Something like what she used to see, a ghost of what had been.
Then it was gone. He jerked his head to the side in a short “Come on” gesture, turned, and walked back down the hall. No need to say anything; they both knew why he was there, where he was taking her.
Her heart fell into her shoes. It was no more than she expected. No more than she deserved. But it still hurt; fissures inside her she’d thought were starting to heal cracked back open and pumped deep-blue misery through her veins.
Breathing past the lump in her throat, she grabbed her bag and followed him, pausing only to lock and set the wards on her front door. Her arms felt awkward, her hands too big; she shoved them into her pockets, took them back out, folded and unfolded her arms as she tried to keep up with his long stride. Down the stairs, across the wide lobby and through the huge double doors, out into the cold early spring wind.
Out of habit she paused by the passenger door, waiting for him to open it, but he didn’t. Right. She grabbed the icy handle herself, felt it bite her palm as she lifted it and let herself into the dark, smoke-and-leather-scented interior. Other scents lurked there as well: bourbon and beer. He’d been drinking. She didn’t blame him. She could have used a drink herself just then. Would have been smart to grab a beer from the fridge.
The driver’s side sank when he lowered himself onto the seat. Keys jangled.
They didn’t move.
Her water bottle was in her bag. She fumbled for it, concentrating on it so she wouldn’t have to feel him next to her. To smell his skin. To look at his bumpy, craggy profile, black DA haircut swooped up and back and glistening with Murray’s pomade. It didn’t work. She was acutely aware of all those things, and of her sadness spilling over all of it. She…she missed him. He was her friend. No matter how much she wanted him to be more, no matter how much she’d blown her chance at it…all that shit aside, he’d been her friend, and she missed that so much it hurt.
“What’d you do to me?”
The bottle slipped from her fingers; she managed to catch it before it spilled. “What?”
His right hand circled over his chest. Oh, right.
“Oh. It’s a sigil, it…binds your soul to your body.”
Images of that night swirled from her memory, played in front of her again. The way they had so many times since. His body, motionless…the hawk swooping down to claim his soul…her knife handle cold and hard in her hand, carving the sigil into his chest, the blood seeping from the design like it was responding to her summons.
He gave a short nod, barely more than a dip of his chin. Still refused to look at her. “Why?”
“You don’t remember? Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Ain’t nobody gave me the rundown. Nobody there, you recall, ceptin yon boyfriend, he people.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not…I’m not seeing him anymore.”
If she thought that would get a response—and she had—she was wrong. His face didn’t move. Nothing.
She tried again. “The hospital Goodys must have told you, though. That you almost died. You would have died if I hadn’t—”
He turned the key and jumped the Chevelle off the curb. Warm air blasted from the vents; Johnny Thunders blasted from the speakers. Born to lose, no shit. One of her favorite albums, but not the message she needed at that moment.
Words kept coming to her tongue and disappearing before she could give them form. He wouldn’t look at her; she couldn’t look away. Through the windows the streets slid past, hookers and customers, Bump’s people selling little bags of cheer on the corners, their forms black smudges around blazing firecans. Some kids in a ragged group, dancing jerkily; they zipped by too fast for her to figure out what they were doing, and it didn’t matter anyway.
“How’s—” She snapped her mouth shut. Asking about Katie would be a mistake, one that could very possibly cost her her life. He would not want to be reminded that she was one of the few people who knew the child existed, that he had a little girl out there with his smile and another man’s name.
“How are you feeling?” she asked finally. “I mean, are you okay?”
Now he did glance at her, his eyes glittering in the dashboard light. Cold. Dead like a shark’s. Apparently chat time was over.
The words tumbled from her mouth before she had time to think. “Terrible, if you would just let me explain—”
He turned up the volume. All the way. So loud her ears rang and her seat vibrated. So loud she couldn’t hear herself screaming in her head. She considered turning it down, but managed to stop herself. No point making him even angrier. If that were possible. She didn’t think her insides would ever thaw from that last look.
The Market had slowed down, save the lines waiting to get into the pipe room. Chess looked longingly at them as Terrible got out of the car; it took her a minute to realize he was just standing by the hood. Waiting for her to get out. No open-the-door service for her at either end anymore, it seemed.
Which was just what she deserved. But damn if it didn’t hurt, almost more than his silence or his dirty look or the fact that he acted like every word he said to her had to be dragged from his mouth.
But anger was one thing. Anger she expected. The door thing…like she wasn’t even human anymore. Didn’t even deserve to be treated like one. She couldn’t even blame that on the fact that he thought she was a junkie whore. Bump ran a lot of junkie whores, and Terrible dealt with them,