His sad attempt at parenting me was a stark reminder that the only parent I’d known was gone. The unexpected pain made me lash out like a wounded creature. “Why? I’ve handled myself for this long.”
He concentrated on the road for a few minutes before replying, “Because we’ll be in a new place. And, uh, it’s good that you watch out for strangers and such. Yeah…”
Was I imagining things or had Sunglasses appearance scared Jim as much as it had me? His knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel, and he hadn’t stopped checking the rearview.
“I’ll watch out,” I said slowly. “What’s this place called anyway?”
“Las Vegas,” he replied dryly.
“Hah hah,” I retorted. “You know, the building and stuff.”
“The apartment complex is called The Milton, and it’s in an area of Vegas called Paradise, really close to the strip, apparently.”
“Huh.” That didn’t sound so bad.
If we were actually living with each other, I figured I should learn a little bit about what we were driving toward. Anything to keep me from thinking about what we were leaving.
“What’s this new job? How come we had to leave so fast?”
For a while, Kelly’s raspy lyrics were the only response. Finally, Jim cleared his throat. “I’m going to be a sort of manager for a casino. We had to leave because I took an advance on my wages. I’d have told you earlier, but I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me.”
“Is that how you came up with the rest of the money for the burial?”
“Yeah.”
I thought about that for a long moment. I needed to reconsider my mental label of “Soulless Jim.” It sounded worse than Sunglasses, and that wasn’t right. “Thanks,” I murmured. “It mattered—to her.”
“I’d’ve come sooner, if I’d known, Ashley,” he said quietly.
The monotonous passing of trees, houses, and interchange passes was a safer focus. Was I really going to extend the olive branch? My lips twitched. Maybe. A very small one. “You can call me Ash.” I really didn’t want to spend the rest of our fifteen-hour marathon drive being addressed otherwise.
“Ash.” He slanted me a glance. “Guess that suits you. Want some breakfast?”
At my nod, he pulled into a drive-through and ordered us a round of breakfast sandwiches, potato cakes and coffees. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t drink coffee. We chewed in companionable silence for ten miles, the repetitive pop of top forty tracks oddly soothing.
The best part about our ridiculous drive was how every hour put me farther away from Sunglasses. And closer to something I might actually want…
Mom would have loved this academy shit.
I pulled out the pamphlet, skimmed over the list of classes. Introduction to Economics, Modern Art History, Political Science, Astronomy, Energy Studies—whatever the fuck that was. Apparently, it was a combination prep year and college, so the high school “seniors” would be the youngest in the mix, and everyone shared homerooms for “support.” It sounded exactly like the new-agey, hip school the glossy photos and splashy neon graphics portrayed, with progressive classes and a brand new arts program. Fragile hope blossomed in my chest.
Maybe I’d even like it.
I could make Mom proud and—
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you moved around so much, Ash?” Jim asked, shattering the tranquility of the moment.
I jerked my eyes away from the brochure and glared at his reflection in the window panel, blocked it by fogging it with my breath. If he wanted me to question Mom—to say she’d been wrong—then he needed to be renamed Crazy Jim. That wasn’t so scary, and right this moment seemed pretty damned accurate. So what if we moved around a lot? Mom and I’d had each other, and we’d gotten to explore all sorts of amazing places on the west coast.
“No, I don’t,” I snapped, shoving the brochure into my bag and pulling out my earbuds. I didn’t have to listen to Jim’s shit.
It was time for the only therapy I knew—music.
“Ash, please. I just…” His voice wavered and the lines bracketing his mouth seemed to deepen with worry. Or was that fear? “My job is for one year—only one—after that we can go wherever you want. LA, New York. You name it. Okay?”
In answer, I stuck my earbuds in my ears and let the sound flow over me, soothing my inner burns. I didn’t want to ask why it was only a year, or why he’d nearly whispered the timeline.
Maybe because I’d be eighteen then and I could go anywhere I wanted to anyway.
Although, that didn’t seem right. He didn’t want to be my father any more than I wanted to be his daughter—we were just two people, carrying out a promise. In a year, he could wash his hands of me.
And me of him—assuming I didn’t do it sooner.
I studied his face for a long while and he let me, keeping his own attention on the road. Fear, I decided. His complexion was a shade paler than it had been this morning, and even though we’d passed Mt. Hood, he hadn’t stopped checking the rearview. For whatever reason, Jim was scared. I didn’t know if it was about the job, or the year, or me—and he wasn’t going to talk about it.
Fine. Because I didn’t want him to.
He was my father. I was supposed to be his kid. I was supposed to be able to depend on him. He shouldn’t be telling me about the monster under his bed, he should be showing me there’s nothing under mine.
Except, there was a monster, and he’d followed me to my mother’s grave.
And I couldn’t help but wonder whether I’d left that monster behind in Portland, or if maybe Jim was right to keep checking the rearview mirror.
Chapter Seven
Stepping through the barred entrance into the shadowy reaches beyond took longer than it should have. Like the air was pushing me away, telling me to turn back.
I ignored the sensation, along with the rapid patter of my heart.
Jim had bargained for this job to pay for Mom’s funeral, and to send me to school, the least I could do was try to tough it out for six months—maybe even a year, if we managed to make peace.
Tired plaster had dropped from ceilings and walls all along the narrow corridor, letting the metal mesh shine through in large patches. A dying tree languished in a corner, and flies buzzed in lazy circles.
The smell hit then. Dead air mixed with old spices and older laundry.
Scrunching up my nose, I sent Jim a look through the corner of my eye, but he seemed focused on the sight ahead. Yellowing sheets and tilting boxes began crowding the already narrow entryway. Claustrophobia had never been a problem of mine, I hoped it wasn’t about to start.
Pulling my hood down, I tried to breathe through black fleece.
If Tim Gunn became an arsonist, this place would be why. And I’d busk for hours to pay his bail.
Light glimmered as we entered a middle patch of cement in what had to be the center of the complex. Calling it a courtyard would have been a gross misuse of the word. It was a washed-out patch of gray accented with a scattering of brown husks that had once been trees. Squatting in the middle of the central square was a rectangular basin lightly filled with small dunes of coppery desert sand. Clearly, this swimming pool hadn’t been used in a long time.
“Guess no one likes water,” I muttered.
Myrtle shot me a superior look, edged in something uncomfortably cruel.
I stepped closer to Jim.
“We conserve water here,” she chuckled as if that were a clever joke. “We’re big on recycling.”
Safe within my hood, I rolled my eyes.
“We keep to strict rules at The Milton. You’ll both learn them—and follow them,” Myrtle added, voice harsh and biting. “Do what you’re told, don’t cause trouble, and you won’t find any trouble. Clear.”
I stared at her incredulously, what did she think this was—Sing Sing?
“Oscar!” she bellowed, the sound so unexpected, so loud, that I clamped hands
over my ears.
Just my luck, we’d ended up with a building manager who put stray cats in heat to shame when she yelled. Footsteps rang above us. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of a thin figure hurrying down from an upper walkway.
There were three floors to the building, each with cement and iron lined walkways facing the middle. Stairs connected them, making me think the building’s designer had intended the pool to be a community gathering place for all residents—guess that designer had lost that dream. On the second floor up, a dark-skinned girl with an impressive afro of curling black hair glared at me overtop the railing.
Many of the doors were cracked open to let the air in—or to spy on the newcomers. Eyes glinted from within those doorways. It was seriously creepy.
Any minute I expected my odd talent to rear its head and inform me Myrtle was a fat reptile masquerading as a human—would that show as an icky green light, or as a scaly shadow? I didn’t need my talent to know the eyes watching Jim and I were unhappy. People who’d given up on life, as Mom used to say.
Soles scuffed above us and a scrawny figure hurried into view.
The guy must have been around my age, but he was so skinny his elbows looked like pointed weapons and clothing hung from his body in limp folds. He was also pale—really pale, with pasty skin and hair the color of bleached wheat. A faded scarecrow. Pushing thick, round eyeglasses back into position, he blinked at Jim and me before turning to Myrtle and… bowing?
I blinked in shock. Had this skinny guy just bowed to the Bulldog?
My jaw dropped. “What the fu—”
Jim elbowed me in the side.
“Mistress, you called?” the skinny guy said, panting from his run from the top floor.
This time I elbowed Jim. Who the hell called people Mistress? The only time I’d heard the word used in real life it had been when our straight-laced neighbor had decided to explore BDSM and brought home a hooker by mistake…
Oh. Shit.
I dug a fingernail into Jim’s side. “I won’t be anyone’s prostitute,” I informed him in a tight, controlled whisper.
“What?” Jim didn’t try to whisper, he just kept looking back and forth between the skinny guy and Myrtle. “What are you talking about?”
“Dominatrixes get called mistress by their clients. I don’t care what you owe these people, I’m not selling my body. No burial is worth that,” I told him in the same, quietly biting voice.
“Heh heh.” Turning, I found Myrtle studying me, a wide grin spreading her thick lips into a mockery of a smile. “Worried about your body, girl? Good.”
“I am not selling myself for sex,” I told her.
“No one here is interested in you for sex,” she replied, beady eyes twinkling malevolently. “This ain’t a whore house.”
What are you interested in me for? The question burned my tongue, but as much as I wanted to ask, I didn’t want the answer. Glancing at Jim, I could have sworn his face had paled three shades.
Refusing to be cowed, I pushed my chin up, crossed my arms, and glowered at Myrtle.
“Mistress, shall I help them with their belongings?” The pale scarecrow scraped forward a few inches and dropped his head. His arms were thin enough to resemble straws tied together with string. I didn’t think he should be carrying anything.
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Yes, Oscar. I have to review Mr. Ashcroft’s contract with him. You shall help his daughter settle in two-eleven.”
“Really, I’m fine.” I held out my hand. “Just give me the keys and I’ll deal.”
“Mr. Ashcroft, this way.” Completely ignoring me, Myrtle gestured towards a sickly green door labeled office. “Oscar, fetch.”
“But—but, Jim!” I stepped after him.
“Isn’t it nice that you can have some help, Ash? I’ll meet you soon. I think I need to… sign some things.” He shrugged helplessly. The fake cheer on his face was better suited to a funhouse clown than my father starting his new job.
I watched in disbelief as he and the Bulldog disappeared into the office.
He’d left me alone. Alone with Oscar the Scarecrow, who regarded me with an odd expression.
“Er.” I looked at Oscar’s thin arms again. “Why don’t you just open doors for me? I can get the heavy… Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look like that!” I burst out. “You’re not a puppy and I’m not going to kick you.”
Blue eyes blinked owlishly at me from behind the thick panes of his glasses. Red flushed across his cheeks and he ducked his head, “I’m s-sorry, Mistress, but I’m to help you. Please…”
A puff of frustration escaped me.
Raking fingers through my un-spiked hair, I fought the urge to reach over and tip his chin up. His clothes were worn, t-shirt sporting only half of a cartoon robot. The rest had washed away. His hair stuck up in every direction—I didn’t think the style was intentional. I’d never met anyone who acted like they expected me to snap and beat them any moment. It wasn’t enjoyable.
I bet it was even less so for Scarecrow-boy.
“Okay,” I relented. “We’ve got some smaller boxes and—”
“I can take the heavy ones,” he said quietly, head still lowered like a wilting daisy.
“Sure…” Not a chance.
We made our way outside to the Buick and I clicked the trunk open.
I sent a surreptitious glance across the street, but the hot stranger was nowhere to be seen. Probably for the best. With my tongue between my teeth, I stared in the trunk and pondered my options. What could I give Oscar that would let him salvage his pride, but not break him? After a particularly disastrous chemistry class, Mom had explained how sensitive males were to such things.
I believed her, but I still thought it was stupid.
“I’ll just take this while Mistress decides on hers.” Arms reached past me, aiming for the large box I’d crammed full of kitchen supplies.
“Not that—” I stopped, mouth hanging open.
He’d hefted the box over one shoulder like it was full of stuffed animals, not tightly packed with cast-iron pots and ceramic dishes. Stunned, I quickly slung a clothing bag across my back and grabbed a smaller box with the few books I’d been able to bring. In silence, I trailed after him, following him through the horrible entranceway, across the depressing courtyard, and up a set of cement steps to the second floor.
My arms were burning by the time we reached the room marked two-eleven.
Unlocking the door with one hand, holding my heavy box casually with the other, the scarecrow turned to me expectantly.
“Uh, I guess stick that in the kitchen, please.”
He headed down the short distance and put the box carefully in the middle of a small square of gray and black linoleum that was the kitchen floor. I went two steps further and gratefully plunked the books down in a tan and beige space that had to be the living room. Wrinkling my nose at the depressingly bland area, I dropped the clothes over the small couch and tried to catch my breath.
“Going to be a few trips, Mistress.” Oscar bobbed his head. He didn’t appear the least bit tired from hauling that giant box all the way up here.
My brows drew together. Head tilted.
No way. No fucking way he’d carried that box up the stairs without breaking a sweat. Walking past him, I tried to pick up the kitchen box. I could barely get one corner off the ground. Which made sense. It’d taken Jim and I working together to load the thing. It weighed a ton and had left us both panting.
Turning slowly, I studied Oscar.
He looked like a stiff wind would blow him away, but he could lift that box on his own—and not be tired.
This wasn’t normal.
He wasn’t normal.
I wasn’t seeing weird colors from him—I hadn’t seen weird colors since Sunglasses in Union Station three days ago. But I didn’t need my weird talent to know there was something seriously wrong with this picture.
I backed away until the counter block
ed any further retreat.
“What are you?” I whispered.
Because I knew one thing for sure: Oscar wasn’t human.
Chapter Eight
Silence hung thick and heavy in the small, shabby apartment. Dust swirled in the bands of sunlight streaming through the barred windows, marking the air between Oscar and me.
An imaginary barrier.
My hands were clenched into tight fists. I wondered how fast I could open that box he’d carried and pull out a kitchen knife—probably not fast enough. Breath rattled in my lungs as I stared at him.
How could something so unassuming be so damn scary?
Wide, pale blue eyes blinked at me, looking for all the world like they belonged to a helpless nerd about to get the shit kicked out of him in the school parking lot. But he wasn’t helpless—and he sure wasn’t weak.
“He’s a Feeder,” a new voice announced from the doorway.
Whipping around, I found the Railing Glarer regarding us from the doorway. My gaze darted between her and Oscar. “What the hell is a Feeder?”
The Railing Glarer laughed, making her dark halo of hair dance around her face. Despite everything, I had to admire her locks—that was a ‘fro worthy of an African Princess.
“Don’t know a thing do you, Fresh One? Gonna have to learn quick,” she said, taking a step into the room. Enough light reached her for me to see she held a small doll in one hand. In her other, I caught the shimmer of something thin and metal. Like a needle.
Whatever drugs they made in this place, I wanted none of them.
My eyebrows climbed toward my hairline. I reconsidered making a dive for that knife. But Oscar was too close, and the glaring African Princess effectively blocked my only other option—running away.
Looked like I was stuck with bluffing my way out.
“Humph,” I scoffed back at her and then targeted Oscar. He might be terrifyingly strong, but so far his actions hadn’t indicated he was secretly a serial killer. “I don’t give a crap about your stupid Vegas gangs or who’s taking what shit.” I forced myself to move away from the counter and stand casually, like I didn’t give a damn about anything. “I’m just here because my stupid dad took a stupid job, so take the freaky witch doctor routine elsewhere.”
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