The Family Cross

by Gabrielle Ash

  Getting changed into something more appropriate for a nighttime run from the law took less than sixty seconds. Jeans, T-shirt, socks, shoes. Since I could count the number of T-shirts and pairs of jeans I possessed on one hand, it took minimal thought to get dressed. The hair that hadn’t been torn out of my scalp had been ripped from the twist, so I tied it in a knot on top of my head.

  Dressed and resigned in moments, I met Samson in the foyer.

  He gave me a once-over, foot tapping against the floor. “You said you avoided driving if you could help it. Does that mean you have a car?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to settle my heart rate. There were more sirens now. Definitely police. Perhaps an ambulance too.

  “Um.” I pulled at the collar of my shirt, chills rolling along my arms. “What?”

  “At the café this morning, you told me you were scared of driving, so you avoided it”—he spoke slower this time—“which tells me you’ve driven a car before. Since you’re rich, I assume you probably have one.”

  The shouting outside was louder now. If I went out to the balcony, I’m sure the police would be parked below—

  “Fancy Pants.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself again and dug my fingernails into my skin. If I wanted to get out, I had to focus!

  “I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I have a car. There’s a table in the foyer. The keys are in the drawer.”

  Normally, I’d feel hesitant to leave the comfortable, safe walls of my home, but reality had taken away the luxury. As it stood, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The second Samson opened the front door with my keys in hand, I bolted into the hallway.

  The parking garage required a trip to the second floor. It was the only floor with no units, and it existed exclusively to service the parking garage and the people using it. There was an attendant at the desk on the other side of the elevator ready to take luggage or park cars, but thankfully he didn’t say anything to us as we walked through. He watched the security cameras focused on the front door instead.

  A swarm of police officers darted around on the screen.

  My car was where I’d left it a month ago. Driving in the city was anxiety-inducing enough to warrant a prescription, and since I had the means, I decided I’d rather use taxis or walk. I only drove my Mercedes on the first Saturday of the month to maintain the battery, and even then, I only drove around the garage.

  Samson looked at the sleek, white exterior of my car and arched an eyebrow.

  “This is your car?” he asked as the chirp of the alarm being disarmed ricocheted off the concrete pillars. “This is your car, and you use taxis?”

  “I told you I don’t like to drive.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  My companion’s lips thinned, and he looked the Mercedes over again. Gerard had a sporty convertible. Mine was one of those luxury sedans with the tray tables in the back seat. It was a nice car and all. I just didn’t like to drive.

  “My father got it for me for my birthday a few months ago,” I said as the silence stretched on.

  “You wanna know what I got for my birthday one year? An exorcism.” He motioned to the car with an open hand. “You’re gifted this thing, and you let it sit here?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what was so difficult to grasp about my fear of the open road, but there was something about his tone that made my face hot.

  “An exorcism?” I opened the passenger-side door, hoping that my question would change the topic.

  “Yeah. My foster family,” he said, “they thought I was possessed.”

  For a lack of anything to say, I chose to sit down and keep my thoughts to myself.

  After Samson got in and adjusted the seat, muttering something about my “short legs” all the while, I looked out past the interior of the parking garage and into the night sky. The moon was almost full. I didn’t know why that mattered to me right then, but as we pulled out of the garage and tumbled down into the street, the moon was all I saw. The city lights tended to mask the beautiful radiance of the night sky, yet I couldn’t find anything else to see.

  The moon was real. The moon was the same moon I’d seen since childhood. There was nothing nefarious or supernatural about it.

  At least, that I knew of.

  For the sake of my own sanity, I kept my mouth shut until we rolled onto Madison Avenue and away from the police officers that scraped Farrell off the pavement.

  “So…” I looked at my savior. “Where are we going?”

  The turn signal chirped a few times before the car merged into the left lane.

  “Hunts Point,” Samson said, as he drifted along in the maze of cars. His right hand was on the steering wheel, fingers relaxed along the leather. “Got a place we can go to talk. Plan.”

  Plan. Plan for the people trying to kill me.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on.” My gaze drifted up to the rearview mirror, halfway expecting to see a pack of patrol cars chasing us down. Samson turned by a bus stop and drove east.

  “Someone put a hit out on you,” he said, tone even and not at all the frantic mess such a statement deserved. “My old employer is the one fulfilling it.”

  My breath got stuck in my throat. I couldn’t decide which part of his revelation was more pressing: the fact someone paid to have me killed, or the fact I was having a ride-along with a man who formerly worked with my attackers. What if he was lying? What if this was all an elaborate ruse to get me somewhere alive?

  “Your old employer?” I repeated, trying to give Samson the benefit of the doubt. The cool air from the vents did little to keep from sweating. “Did you know them?”

  He looked over at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Them?”

  “Officer Farrell and the man with the popped collar.” This would hopefully answer one of my questions.

  “Personally? No.” Samson turned the car again, but I had bigger things to worry about than monitoring his driving. “This morning I noticed Super Douche was tailing you while I tailed him. Decided to keep following him and see why.”

  Samson killed him. I knew it.

  “When he tried to rip my throat out with his fucked-up teeth, I figured out who he worked for and who was coming to kill you. So I waited.” He looked over at me again, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You need to start locking your door.”

  My mouth fell open. “Would it have mattered? Farrell could melt into my floor!”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered with him, but it’s a good deterrent for most.”

  I slouched against the seat, annoyed with both myself and with him. Under normal circumstances, I did lock my door! I even thought about going back to check it before Farrell appeared in my living room.

  The Harlem River was outside my window now, slowly drifting along beneath the light of the waxing moon. There were so many questions I wanted to ask but couldn’t find the courage to.

  Good God—someone wanted me killed.

  My scalp, still sore and tingling from Farrell’s fingers tearing into it, pulsed as we continued our drive. It was so loud I could hear it, counting as we tumbled down the road. He could’ve killed me quick. He could’ve snapped my neck or used the boning knife. He could’ve strangled me, really. His hands had been right there when he finished crawling up my body from the shadow.

  So why didn’t he?

  “Why’d you throw Farrell off the balcony?”

  Samson’s eyebrows pinched together, and he looked over at me a few times before saying anything. “Because he was a dick.”

  “No. I mean why’d you throw him off the balcony instead of, I don’t know, shooting him?” I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Why throw him off the balcony and get everyone’s attention?”

  “Because blood is messy and makes people ask questions.” Samson sped up to get around an eighteen-wheeler. “I threw him off the balcony because to
witnesses it would look like he jumped. The easiest thing for detectives to assume would be a suicide after finding a body earlier tonight.”

  “You think they’ll jump to that conclusion so quickly?” I asked, drumming my fingers on the tops of my thighs.

  “The easiest answer is the one people go for most of the time,” Samson said, slowing to a stop at a light.

  That’s what I figured. Whoever put the contract out on my life had probably stipulated for the death to look like an accident or a suicide. People didn’t ask many questions about those.

  I took a deep breath and nestled into the seat, trying to keep calm despite my brain telling me otherwise. Samson seemed to be as relaxed as ever. His fingers hung limp around the steering wheel again, and his other arm was lazily braced against the door, left hand tucked into a fist and pressed against his cheek. A shoulder holster peeked out from beneath his coat, as did the grip of the pistol it carried.

  He was dangerous.

  He was a dangerous murderer, and I was riding around with him on purpose. Maybe I deserved to be thrown off my balcony since I made decisions like this so impulsively.

  “Farrell called you a telepath.” His knuckles turned white again at my statement. Given the obvious physical disadvantage, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. “Does that mean you can read my mind?”

  The quiet in the car was heavy, one of those quiets that rang in your ears and shook your faith. It wasn’t the sort of silence that had me worried for my life, at least not more than I already was, but one that made me fear for my own sanity. How much of my memory from the balcony was real? How reliable could a memory influenced by complete and utter panic be?

  I bit my lip and stared at Samson’s profile, tracing along his jaw with my gaze until he decided to respond.

  “I’m going to need a beer before I answer that.”

  Seven

  The rest of the car ride had been in relative silence. It was one of those strained quiets that I’d known after years of dealing with my temperamental father to leave alone for a while. Maybe asking after his telepathy hadn’t been in my best interest.

  At least the mention of a special ability hadn’t ended with a bout of laughter. I’d halfway expected it. Who asked questions like that? What kind of insanity had I stumbled into?

  I’d never been to Hunts Point before, but I knew enough to suspect some areas weren’t a place to leave my car unattended. It was largely an industrial neighborhood filled with corrugated metal and chain-link fences, and while that alone wasn’t a reason to damn a place, I’d also seen police reports. When Samson pulled the Mercedes up to a gated lot, the tight ball of anxiety inside me loosened considerably. Just because I didn’t drive my car often didn’t mean I wanted it stolen.

  A scrawny man wearing a pair of cowboy boots and basketball shorts stood in the center of the entrance, holding up a hand as he maneuvered around the car. We stopped in front of the gate, and Samson rolled down the window.

  “Yo.” The man bent down, leveling his face with the window. He was pale and had a shaved head. One of his front teeth was also missing. “Oh. Haven’t seen you in a while, man.”

  “Cliff in tonight?” Samson asked, ignoring the attempts at small talk.

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s in.” Cowboy Boots leaned back and whistled. “Sick car, man.”

  “So it should go without saying that if I come back to a scratch or otherwise, I’ll break my foot off in your ass.”

  Cowboy Boots chuckled. I couldn’t say that would’ve been my response.

  “Sure, man. Just park it and I’ll lock the gate back up.”

  Samson didn’t speak to him further and pulled away, going for the back corner of the lot once the gate was opened. Most of the other vehicles weren’t anything special. Nice and kept up but cost a fraction of the Mercedes.

  “How confident are you that your friend can protect this lot?”

  Samson snorted. “Plenty.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but given the events of the evening, I wasn’t about to ask questions about Cowboy Boots or any abilities he might have.

  Samson parked the car in between a Jeep with mud all over it and a Jetta. Both were black, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he parked there on purpose, so if there were scratches on my car, they’d be more obvious.

  “Who’s Cliff?” I asked and stepped out of the car. The warm, damp air instantly made me feel more disgusting than I did already. Like I was walking through a cloud of sweat. Hunts Point sat along both the Bronx and East Rivers. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “He owns the bar we’re about to visit. The Den.” Samson locked the Mercedes and led us out of the parking lot. Cowboy Boots gave us a thumbs-up as we passed him.

  “What’s so special about The Den?” My gaze darted along the road as we ran across. The streetlamp nearest to us flickered, and a swarm of moths surrounded the broken glass encasing the bulb. “There are perfectly fine bars in Manhattan.”

  “Cliff knows things. And he’s an old friend. He won’t try to kill us.” Samson nodded toward the brick structure next to us. It was an older building; the curved outline of brick outside the doorway and windows pointed to it being a product of the seventies. A few yards down the broken sidewalk, a man stood beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Fancy Pants,” Samson said, still looking at the brick, “don’t talk to anyone if you can help it.”

  My shoulders tensed. “Why?”

  “The first thing people like me learn is that most others aren’t friends,” he said and started walking again, prompting me to do the same. “You’re already going to get us some attention. I’d rather keep your lack of…usefulness hidden.”

  Samson didn’t elaborate, and he walked toward the lone door. Lack of usefulness? Jerk.

  The man standing outside the entrance to what I presumed to be Cliff’s bar wasn’t happy to see us. He had warm ochre skin and a silver ring in his nose.

  “Been a while,” the man said, looking us over. He spent far less time appraising Samson than me. “Who’s this?”

  “None of your business,” Samson said, voice rough. “I need to see Cliff.”

  “Sure.” He looked at me again right before sticking the tips of his middle and index finger to my forehead. I pushed my shoulders back and tried to hide the fear bubbling beneath the surface of my soul. “I have to ask—are you law enforcement?”

  I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t almost died an hour before. Me? Tackling criminals? Carrying a gun? Please.

  “No.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, and he pulled his hand back. He’d probably had a similar thought to mine.

  “Truth,” he announced. He took a step to the side and stomped on a pile of cigarette butts. “Cliff’s inside.”

  Samson opened the door and held it for me as I stepped inside. I almost told the bouncer thank you as I passed him but thought better of it. Samson had said to keep conversations to a minimum. After everything he’d done for me so far, I could at least listen to him.

  The smell of cigarettes sank into my nostrils the second I broke across the threshold, preparing me for the thick haze of smoke underneath the lights and curled around the air-conditioning vents. My heart beat against my rib cage as I took in the room, almost more overwhelmed by the sight of it than I had been by leaving my car in the lot.

  Germs. Everything was so, so dirty.

  The carpet was a dingy red, frayed along the seams and home to lovely additions such as empty bottles and broken toothpicks. Ashtrays filled with the remnants of both cigarettes and cigars sat on every table, something I hadn’t been expecting since smoking in bars and restaurants was against the law in the state. Coming to terms with the smoking came quicker than I expected, largely in part to the overwhelming feeling that I was an idiot.

  The people in the bar were probably criminals. Of course they didn’t care about laws.

  I took a deep breath and conti
nued to follow Samson into the bar. I might not want to be there, but unless I wanted to potentially bring down the Ashby Empire and go down as a cop-killing heiress, I needed to focus on what mattered.

  Samson led me past a cluster of younger men around a pool table. They all spoke in a language I hadn’t ever heard before, but their glances our way I understood—curiosity.

  “Fancy Pants.”

  I’d been so busy taking the room in that I almost walked past the table Samson picked for us. It was one of three booths on the left wall: the one underneath the television.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever been anywhere like this.” The vinyl was cracked and worn underneath my thighs. Short, straight cuts were all along the seat cushion, and given my current company, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were caused by blades.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said.

  A young brunette girl with a ponytail trotted over afterward, wearing a red apron and carrying a pad of paper. She was probably in her late teens, which made it all the more startling when I noticed half of her left ear was missing, the edges jagged and pink, like it hadn’t healed from trauma yet.

  Her mouth hadn’t even opened all the way when Samson interrupted her. “I need Cliff, Gemma.”

  The girl, Gemma, slammed her mouth shut and walked off without a word. Probably something she heard a lot.

  “That was rude.”

  “We don’t have the luxury of time,” Samson said, gaze affixed somewhere above my head. It wasn’t until I heard a familiar game show tune that I remembered the television hung there. “The sooner we talk to Cliff, the better chance we have of keeping you alive.”

  Keeping me alive. That should definitely be my top priority.

  I sank farther into the booth, both horrified with the layer of germs I likely sat against and the situation in which I found myself. Yesterday, I had been a business heiress to one of the most profitable businesses in the country, and today I was running from supernatural hit men because I had a kill contract to my name.