Hugs were shared. They helped him bring the paints inside and washed the brushes out in the outdoor sink, a nice stainless steel one that had been rescued from when the Big Boy restaurant went out of business a couple of years before. Maceo had traded the junk man, Doc Stephenson, a new sign for the sink.
His mom, Sela, was camped at her drawing desk, ponytail bobbing as she worked on sketches of possible new additions to the Stack, alongside reams of mechanical loading calculations. Her cocoa skin glowed beneath the soft lights, and seeing his mom deep in her work always brought a grin to Zayn's lips.
He moved to give her a hug around the time Keelan roared after his youngest sister, Imani, who was wearing her lion costume. She squealed with delight and escaped into the courtyard, where Izzy and Max were setting up dinner beneath the strung-together holiday lights and a canopy of swooping fabrics.
"Time to put the pen down, Mom. It smells like Neveah almost has dinner ready," said Zayn. "And you need more light in here, this isn't good for your eyes."
Sela pursed her lips and raised an exquisite eyebrow. "Oh, really? I seem to recall giving you that advice from time to time." She stopped and sniffed, eyes widening with delight. "Is that masala?"
"You just noticed?"
Sela pushed Zayn in the arm. "I was busy. Oh, I just remembered." She reached down and dug into a battered olive green shoulder bag with patches sewn into it, pulling out a black metal gear about the size of her palm. "Doc found this in the yard. Is this what you're looking for?"
Zayn snatched it away as if it were a hunk of precious gold, spun it around in his hands, and ran his fingers into the greasy grooves. "I think so."
Before he could scurry away, Sela grabbed his arm. "Not until after dinner. Speaking of, did you...?"
He winced. "Sorry, Mom. She said she wasn't feeling good."
His mom's eyes grew watery as she looked away. "That's okay. She needs time."
Zayn didn't bother saying that it'd been years, and more time probably wasn't going to heal things; his growling stomach reminded him of more immediate concerns, like eating.
He found his younger sister, Neveah, in her element, surrounded by steam and spices, shifting pots and pans, coaxing flame from the stove like a magician. A bright red scarf tamed her tight braids, but the beads at the ends clicked together as she moved.
Zayn snuck a salty Kalamata olive from the tray before she could smack his hand away.
"Back, you scamp!"
"Hey, I was the one that got these olives." He shoved the olive into his mouth. "Oh my, that's delicious. What did you do?"
"Chef's secret," she said, bouncing to the oven to pull out a loaf of sourdough bread. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder. "If you even touch this, I will turn you into sushi."
"Real chefs don't threaten their customers," said Zayn, lurking near the olive tray.
"You're not my customer, you're my brother, and until you can get me a shot at a Michelin star, you're not eating until it's ready," she said. "Can you stir the soup? It's the pot on the left."
"They don't give Michelin stars to home kitchens," said Zayn, lifting the lid to the pot and almost forgetting to stir when the delightful aroma hit his nose. "Or to fifteen-year-old girls in Varna, Alabama."
"Well, they should," said Neveah, sternly. "Now go help the twins, you'll eat soon enough."
Izzy and Max were whirling around the outdoor table, a pair of giant wooden spools, setting plates and silverware. Their hair was currently platinum blond and spiked like an anime character as they nosily chatted about their favorite subject.
"What about the zebra—" asked Izzy.
"Oh, that's an easy one," replied Max. "Equus quagga."
"You didn't let me finish," said Izzy, sliding plates across the table. Each one came perilously close to falling off before stopping at the edge. "What about the different types of plains zebra?"
"That wasn't what you were going to ask," said Max.
"Was too."
"Whatever," said Max, with an epic eye roll. "But the answer is equus quagga burchellii, equus quagga boehmi, equus quagga selousi, equus quagga borensis, and equus quagga chapmani."
"Ha! You forgot the equus quagga crawshayi," countered Izzy.
"I was about to say that, but you didn't give me a chance," said Max.
Zayn cut in, not because he didn't enjoy their bantering, but because it could last for days. Just the year before, they'd gone on about the various types of flying squirrels for three whole weeks until the entire house mutinied.
"What do you two need help with? And love the hair."
The twins stopped and glared.
"We did this five days ago," said Izzy, pouting.
"Where have you been?" asked Max.
Zayn paused, reviewing his memory. He'd been working on his art project and doing work around Castlewood for the last week.
"Sorry, you two. I guess my mind is on other things."
They nodded and focused their attention back on folding napkins. Keelan showed up a moment later with a giggling Imani draped over his shoulder.
"The lion tamer has returned!" Keelan set Imani on the ground. "Hey, Izzy. Hey, Max. Or...is it the other way around?"
"Keelan!" said the twins at the same time, rolling their eyes.
Keelan winked at Zayn. Izzy and Max were fraternal twins, not identical, though most people couldn't tell that upon first glance.
"Should we make them wear name tags? Isaac and Maxine. I've got a magic marker around here somewhere," said Keelan, patting his jeans as if he were actually looking.
An ear-busting whistle from the kitchen announced that dinner was ready. Everyone poured into Neveah's space, grabbing plates and bowls that were steaming with food, even Imani in her lion costume, carrying the bread bowl on her head and marching at the front of the procession.
The dinner was a noisy affair, a symphony of conversations and laughter that carried into the night air. They were halfway through the meal when Neveah asked, "Who's in charge of the question tonight?"
"I had last night," said Max with a chicken bone in his fingers, "and Izzy was the night before."
"It's not me," said Neveah, looking up from her carrot soup.
Everyone was quiet for a moment, until Imani shouted, "Keelan's turn!"
His cousin didn't always eat with them, but when he did, he participated as normal.
"Nah, someone else can have it. I wouldn't know what to ask," he said.
As soon as Zayn caught his mother's eyebrow raise, he knew Keelan was in trouble. That arching was like a predator crouching low, getting ready for the pounce.
"Nice try, Keelan," said Sela. "I don't remember whose turn it is, but you haven't gone in a while. Why don't you indulge us with a question."
"Aunt Sela..."
The arched eyebrow went further up, defying gravity and all sorts of rules of physics on the way. "Keelan..."
Keelan set down his fork. "Alright fine. I know I'm not going to get out of it now. Question time. Damn, I wish I knew it was going to be my turn. The question is...what would you do if you didn't have to stay in Varna for the rest of your life?"
It grew quiet until only the insects in the woods could be heard. Zayn had caught the darkness in his cousin's eyes as he'd asked the question.
The quiet went on far too long, until Neveah spoke up. "Well, duh. I'd go to Paris and be a world-famous chef."
Her response lifted their collective shoulders. Sela reached out to squeeze Maceo's hand. "I'd really love to see the pyramids. Then open up an architectural firm in Tokyo—together, of course."
Imani screamed a little too loud, "I'd be a lion!" bringing laughter.
Max spoke for the twins. "We're only eleven, so we don't have to know yet...but, we'd like to go on a road trip, for like a summer. Grand Canyon and all."
Everyone looked to Zayn. He hesitated, not because he didn't know, but because he avoided thinking about it because it would never happen.
&
nbsp; "There's an art school in Toronto, and then after that, wherever the wind took me." He looked to his cousin before he could get misty-eyed. "Your turn."
Zayn thought he knew what Keelan was going to say, something about joining the military, or building race cars, or maybe just "anywhere but here." But it wasn't any of those things.
"I'd want to be with my dad."
Chapter Sixteen
Ninth Ward, January 2014
Don't move or I fireball you
A snowstorm had buried the city of Invictus, turning the bodega into the center of the universe for the locals. Zayn could barely look up, as he rang up the never-ending line of customers with their red noses sticking out of their parkas.
His body had mostly healed from the fall, but a lingering ache stayed with him. The runed bandage remained on his arm, so he couldn't use faez.
"You take care of your wife, Mrs. Kettle," said Zayn, handing cold medicine to an elegant black woman in a designer winter coat. "Rest and a shot of Appleton rum."
Mrs. Kettle winked. "You know my Angela doesn't drink."
"Then you'll have to drink it for her. Uncle Larice got a new shipment of rum in, straight from the heart of Jamaica. Every sip will remind you of sunshine," said Zayn with a smile.
"Nice try, Zayn," said Mrs. Kettle. "You really are a charming young man, but I'm a red wine girl. I like my merlot."
"Respect," said Zayn.
As Mrs. Kettle was on her way out the door, Katie slipped in with the chill wind. Fat flakes of snow dusted her aquamarine hair that went in all directions. Zayn noticed how rosy her cheeks were, how soft her lips looked.
"Careful, Katie," said Mrs. Kettle. "Zayn could sell stripes to a skunk today."
After she left, Katie threw her elbows on the counter, leaving enough room for other customers to make their purchases. She wore a thin Army jacket and no hat or gloves.
"You crazy, Katie. Gonna get frostbite like that," he said as he rang up another customer.
She knocked the snow from her hair with a brush of her hand.
"You know I'm good. This is the city of sorcery, right?"
"It is, Katie. It is," said Zayn, leaning into his Jamaican accent.
"You feeling better? Your Uncle Larice said you had the flu pretty bad," she said, leaning on the counter.
"They had to take me to the hospital and everything," said Zayn. "Wires and tubes and all that. Doctors said it was dangerous."
She reached out and touched his arm. Her lips had bunched up into a little bow of concern, which warmed his heart.
"I'm glad you're better. I was worried about you," she said.
If there'd ever been a moment when he was certain that he could lean over and kiss a girl and not be rebuked, it was this one. But the counter between them and his sore ribs made the maneuver problematic.
"Did you hear about that guy that combusted on Ninth and Arcane?" he asked.
"I did!" she said, eyes wide. "But he didn't spontaneously combust. I heard some fire creature crawled out of the concrete and swallowed him, leaving a burnt crispy behind."
"That's disgusting," said Zayn. "There's been a rash of these weird deaths going on all over the ward. No one knows why."
"There have?" she asked, a glint of worry in her eyes.
Zayn was about to ask her what she meant by that, when she jumped as if something had bit her.
"Oh! I almost forgot, or really, I guess I didn't forget, if I'm telling you, but anyway, we got another gig at the High Dragon. This time, like, an actual Saturday night. The owner loved our music, though he said we were going to have to up the show experience if we wanted to keep coming back. But I've got that covered."
"That's excellent news, Katie. I'm really happy for you," said Zayn, giving her a fist bump. "I wish I could make it."
"Are you sure?" she asked, her fingers kneading into his arm. "I was really hoping you'd be there. I can get you a fake ID."
Zayn realized she was wearing perfume, which she'd never worn before. It smelled good, really good.
"I'm sorry, Katie. I...I'm leaving the city soon. I'm going back home," he said.
The excitement she'd carried into the bodega crumbled. "What? Does this have to do with being sick?"
"There are...some family problems...back in Jamaica," he said. "I need to go back and help."
"Oh, are you sure you can't stay a little longer? The show is in a month. It could be a last night in the country kind of party," she said, biting her lower lip hopefully.
It took effort to get the words out. "I...wish I could."
"But what about your Uncle Larice? He needs your help," she said, then when he didn't reply, she added, "It always seems like when I meet cool and interesting people that they leave."
Katie pulled her hand back as if she hadn't realized it was there.
"Goodbye, I guess. It was nice meeting you," she said suddenly, casting her gaze downward and rushing out the door.
"Great," he said to the empty store. "I can't even leave without screwing it up."
Part of him wanted to wait and see her band, but he knew that was dangerous. It would only make him want to stay, which would only lead to more problems. It was better if he made a clean break without complications.
Zayn was so deep into his thoughts, he barely noticed a short dude with blotchy pale skin and a beard that looked like it'd been through a shredder was standing before the counter. He had wild, nervous eyes and was sweating.
"Can I help you, man?" asked Zayn.
The nervous man thrust his hand out, fingers splayed. "Give me all your money, or I flame you. I can do magic."
When the guy spoke, Zayn recognized him. He was the asshole who'd taken his money in the park on Zayn's first day in the Hall. He was a part of the Glaucos Gang, or something like that.
"Hey man, you don't have to do this," said Zayn, keeping his hands above the counter. He was afraid the guy might recognize him. The only thing keeping him safe was that the last time they'd met, Zayn had been painted gold.
"Don't you tell me what to do. Just get your ass into that cash register and give me what's there. All of it. Right now. I know it's flush with cash. I've been watching you all morning," he said.
Patchy seemed less put together this time. His clothes had holes in them, and he looked more desperate. Zayn hesitated. It'd been a great day for sales, and he knew Uncle Larice had mounting medical bills for a bad back.
"Hurry up," said Patchy, glancing towards the door. "Like right now!"
Patchy strained, and a few sparks came out of his hand.
"You can't do magic," said Zayn, preparing to leap over the counter, but the robber went fishing into his jacket and pulled out a revolver.
Zayn backed away. "Sorry, man."
The end of the barrel looked like a tunnel ten feet wide. He felt like it was an eye following him.
But also, Zayn felt strangely calm. He glanced towards the door as if someone were about to come in. When the robber turned his head to look, Zayn catapulted over the counter, swiping the gun away as his stomach slid across the glass.
The gun went off, exploding the stacked boxes of Belvita biscuits. Zayn grabbed the robber's wrist and slammed it against his upraised knee, forcing him to release the gun.
In a panic, the robber slipped away, but fumbled at the door, trying desperately to get away.
Zayn retrieved the gun and pointed it at the robber, who backed against the glass.
"Stop. Don't move," said Zayn.
Patchy's frightened expression slowly hardened, until he wore a scowl. "You're not going to shoot me."
The robber opened the door and slipped through it, and all the while Zayn kept the gun trained on him. Only when Patchy ran across the street did Zayn allow himself to relax.
With the danger past, a wave of shaking overwhelmed him, until he had to lean against the counter.
"Dammit," he said, smacking his fist against the crumbled biscuits that had exploded when the bullet hit
them.
Once he regained function of his limbs, Zayn went around to the back, placed the gun on safety, and shoved it into a drawer. Then he cleaned up the ruined boxes of Belvita biscuits and the shattered flaky crumbs on the counter.
While straightening the products on the shelves that got knocked during their brief tussle, Zayn found a small baggie on the floor with a symbol printed on the outside. The symbol was an upside-down "Y" with a big dot on the top. It was strangely familiar though he couldn't place it. Eventually he decided the symbol just looked similar to something he knew.
But he knew the material inside, or at least had encountered it before. It was the same stuff he'd taken from Patchy in the park. He carefully sniffed the bag before shoving it into a pocket.
Back behind the counter, Zayn couldn't believe how lucky he'd been that no customers had been in the bodega when the robber had attacked. He couldn't imagine what might have happened had Uncle Larice been behind the counter. What if he'd tried to stop the guy? Would he have shot him?
Zayn examined the baggie again. The earlier conversation with Katie about the weird deaths came back to him. There was something familiar in the way the robber had acted, just like the guy who'd turned himself crystalline.
"Why am I even worrying about this? I'm going back to Varna," he said.
But saying the words out loud didn't convince himself that it was what he wanted to do. If he stayed, he might get kicked out at the end of the year anyway, and that would put his family at risk. If he left now, under the pretense of his injury, then he'd be safe, and so would his family.
And he really liked the people from the area. Though working at the bodega was a front for the Academy, he enjoyed his interactions with the people. Was this what Instructor Pennywhistle meant when she talked about "necessary things"?
He felt a duty to the people of the ward, to find out what was going on with the drug. But he couldn't do that if he left.
The earlier surety that he should return to Varna faded. The injury had given him an out, but now he didn't want to take it. And if he stayed, it'd mean he'd get to see Katie again, assuming their team could climb out of the bottom to have enough free time that he could see her.
The Reluctant Assassin Boxset Page 10