The Family Cross

by Gabrielle Ash

  How did that happen?

  Samson wasn’t bothered by any of it, or at least he didn’t appear to be. His attention remained on the television hanging precariously above my head.

  Gemma came back over, this time with two mugs of beer. She slid one in front of each of us.

  “Cliff’s coming,” she said, and then she walked off. I eyeballed the beer mug before I pushed it to the edge of the table. No thanks.

  Samson took a long swig from his mug. He had his beer. He could answer my questions now.

  “So you’re a telepath?”

  He stared at me for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Can’t wait five seconds, can you?” A little beer still lingered on his chin. “Were you this annoying in school?”

  “Yes.” It was true. My hand spent a vast majority of the time hanging in the air from primary school until graduate school. “Have you always been this evasive?”

  “About this? Yes.”

  I leaned back in the seat and pursed my lips. It made sense, I guess. Telepathic powers wouldn’t exactly be something I’d advertise either.

  His gaze settled on the television. He might not want to talk about it, but I needed some answers.

  “So?”

  Samson groaned. One of those loud ones I’d never been allowed to do. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, but never pulled his eyes from the television.

  “I’m a telepath.”

  A breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding left my mouth in a loud puff. Finally. “So you can hear my thoughts?”

  “It’s not that neat, and it’s more complicated than you think.” He looked at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Most of the time, I can only hear your thoughts if I’m touching you.”

  Most of the time.

  Samson’s eyes were glued to mine now. The fingers on his right hand beat along the table, dancing around as he stared at me.

  He watched. Waited.

  The reason for his silence sank in slowly as I observed his moving fingers. He could use his ability if he touched someone. I was knee-deep in questions and he knew it, and the natural progression of my interrogation would eventually land on eliciting proof.

  He wanted to know how far I would take it.

  There was something both frightening and delightful in the unknown. While the prospect of validating the stranger parts of my evening made my heart flutter, apprehension still bit on my brain. I’d witnessed a man crawl out of a shadow in my floor. How much did I really want to know about this world?

  Did I really, truly, want to venture into a world where such things were possible?

  I bit the inside of my cheek and decided living in the dark would be both unhelpful and stupid. I reached over the table and set my hand on top of his moving fingers. They stilled immediately, still arched and standing on their tips.

  “Okay,” I said, voice more even that I’d thought it would be. Samson still stared at me. He probably thought I was an idiot. “So…what am I thinking about?”

  My thoughts moved to something specific. Something he couldn’t easily guess.

  “A pair of shoes,” he said, unblinking.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Specifically?”

  He flattened his hand against the table, but I didn’t let go of him. “I don’t know. They’re white shoes.”

  Ugh. Men. They were Jimmy Choos. Specifically, the Jimmy Choos I’d worn that evening.

  “So you see my thoughts in pictures?” I asked instead of mentioning his lack of knowledge regarding designer footwear.

  “I hear them, and I see them. Like now I know they’re…Jimmy Choos.” His gaze moved down to my hand. “If given enough time, there’s nothing anyone can hide from me.”

  While clearly not in my usual area of expertise, this whole thing had shaped up to be like a business meeting. Except instead of contract and account negotiation, we were trying to figure each other out.

  He thought he could rattle me. He was wrong.

  “I’m not.”

  It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

  “All right. Then tell me exactly how my mom died.” I curled my fingers around the top of his hand. “I want proof that you can do everything you say you can.”

  Samson looked back up at me, the corner of his mouth quirked up. My determination had amused him. Of course, if he were truly telepathic, he would know I wouldn’t roll over easily. His supernatural world might be weird and scary, but it’d be moronic to stick my head in the sand. My life mattered more to me than anyone else. If I didn’t care about staying alive enough to get information, then I might as well pull the trigger for the next hit man myself.

  “She killed herself. Overdosed.” He lifted his beer mug with his other hand, but he didn’t take a drink. “Your brother found her in the bathroom surrounded by empty bottles of Paxil and hydrocodone. The cause of death in the news was a heart attack because your dad wanted to cover it up.”

  My heart stopped beating. He’d found it. The memory.

  I pulled my hand away and put it in my lap, my palm cold the second it left his warm skin.

  “Were you born with it?” I swallowed or tried to anyway. My throat was too dry.

  “Unfortunately.” Samson took a drink of beer, gaze back on the television.

  My heart felt heavy, but it always did after mentions of my mom. As much as I hated recounting her suicide, the circumstances of my mother’s death was one of the only things I could be sure Samson hadn’t read in a magazine or newspaper. Being wealthy meant your life belonged to the masses unless you paid otherwise. My father’s determination to keep that information buried had actually been useful.

  “And Officer Farrell? Popped Collar?” I twisted my fingers together in my lap. “Were they born like that?”

  “Born or made…does it really matter?” He took another drink.

  My gaze drifted around the room, flitting from person to person until I found the brunette waitress and her missing ear. Had she been born with some sort of ability too? Had all these people been burdened with powers the world would never understand? I’d almost been murdered by two of them, and I still struggled to get a grip on it.

  “Why’d you come save me?” The question left my mouth before I could stop it, but I couldn’t find it in myself to regret it. Samson had gone to great pains to save my life and bring me into his part of the world, but it was naïve to think he’d done it out of the goodness of his heart. His face, one that had worn an expression of annoyance for most of our conversation, softened a little.

  “Why do you think, Fancy Pants?” He relaxed into the booth and held up a hand in front of his nose. It wasn’t until he started rubbing his fingers together that I got a clue.

  Money. He wanted money.

  The vague notion of insult left a pit of something nestled in my stomach, but whatever it was I felt didn’t matter. I had irrefutable proof that not only was I in danger of being murdered, but I was in danger of being murdered by people with supernatural abilities far beyond the scope of reason. I didn’t stand a chance against these people on my own, so if hiring a criminal that only cared about my money was the only way to survive, then so be it.

  If Samson wanted money, I had it in spades. I only had one life, and I wasn’t ready to die just yet.

  Eight

  The quiet that fell over the table after Samson’s admission didn’t do much to calm my nerves. The only thing that urged him to keep me alive was money. Money.

  The bitter part of me, the part that I’d never been allowed to acknowledge because it sounded ungrateful, sat somewhere on the spectrum between hurt and angry. After a lifetime of being reduced to dollars and cents, I’d like to think I had more worth than that. But at the same time, I had a privilege not many people did, and to turn my nose up at it when I finally needed it was both stupid and spoiled.

  “Hey, man.” A new voice caused my arms to jerk in surprise. “And…who are you?”

  A Hispanic man
somewhere in his mid-thirties with warm brown skin stood beside our table wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a gray T-shirt with a mustard stain. A cigarette hung from his mouth, and the ash drifted down from the end and settled on the edge of the table. My gag reflex twitched in the back of my throat.

  “Cliff,” Samson said, unbothered by the rude greeting. “I need a favor.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Cliff ran a hand along his scalp. His hair was cut short, and swirls had been shaved along the sides of his head. He dropped his hand from his head and reached over, grabbing my earring. My shoulders tensed. “What’s a woman wearing diamonds doing in a place like this?”

  I pulled my head to the side to make him relinquish my earring. Thankfully, he let go without argument. “I was almost murdered and didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “Murdered?” Cliff’s eyebrows lifted a bit. Then, as if he had some sort of realization, he snapped his gaze back to Samson. “Damn it. Do you know the kind of trouble I could get in for helping you?”

  “Yep,” Samson said, unrepentant. “Call in a favor. Everyone owes you, and no one will ask questions. Not a big deal.”

  “Yeah, no big deal because you can disappear whenever you want.” Cliff’s words, while definitely a protest, lost some of their weight with the way his words ran together in panic. “I’ve got a life here. Someone’s probably reported seeing you here already…that they’ve seen me talking to you. You really think I can get away asking after something you’re involved in?”

  Samson shrugged, still unbothered. “I don’t have to be here for something underhanded. For all they know, I could be on a date.”

  “You? Dating her? Silver Spoon?” Cliff motioned to me with a thumb. The blistering heat underneath my eyes was probably visible from Manhattan. “Yeah, right. No one here is that fucking stupid.”

  Money. Silver Spoon. I was an irritant to these people.

  I dared to look around as the two men continued to argue. Even though the other patrons slurped drinks or shot pool, their gazes kept flickering toward us. Gemma had taken up residence against the bar, openly staring with a frown. Their silent appraisals, while perhaps grounded in that same curiosity as before, meant something different after Cliff’s objections.

  The men by the pool table were less obvious. The only reason I noticed was the way one of them spoke to his friend. Mouth tight, almost closed, words coming out of the corner. That’s how men talked at the negotiation table to each other. Leaned in, slight tilt of the head. Words brushing over ears just so.

  Criminals and executives had more in common than I thought.

  I returned my attention to my savior. Samson had said before that my attackers worked for his former employer. If Cliff’s protests meant anything, Samson was on the outs with whoever they were. What had been the circumstances surrounding his leave?

  “Listen.” Samson leaned toward Cliff. “Do you think I’d save just anyone?”

  “I think you’d do just about anything if you’re paid enough.” Cliff stared at Samson. The whole bar did, really. They weren’t talking loud, hardly above a whisper, but everyone appeared to be interested in their conversation. Listening. Waiting. For what? I had no clue.

  “That’s fair.” Samson looked over at me again even though he was talking to Cliff. “But would I be willing to put myself in the path of an organization that wants me six feet in the ground for someone who didn’t deserve it? I could always find a reason to complete a contract before I took my leave, so that should say something.”

  Maybe I swore off paying it forward prematurely. As it stood, that coffee was the only thing that kept me on the mortal plane.

  “I just need to know if you can find anything about her contract. I’ve intercepted two guys already. Neither of them knew anything beyond the target and the payoff. That doesn’t happen often, and you know that.”

  Cliff pulled the cigarette from his mouth, gaze bouncing between us. A puff of smoke pushed from between his lips, swirling beneath the singular lightbulb that hung over our table.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Matilda Ashby.”

  His eyes widened but relaxed almost as quickly. He wasn’t the first to look at me like that. “Do you know the amount of her contract?”

  “A mill,” Samson said.

  “A million bucks? Damn. Big money contract.” Cliff sighed and smiled at me for the first time. “Big money contract for a big money kill, I guess.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No. Just an observation.” Cliff held out his hand to Samson. “Give me a phone.”

  Samson reached inside his jacket, pulled out a cheap, black flip phone, and dropped it in Cliff’s palm. “Gemma get in a fight?”

  Cliff smiled, but it was obvious he fought back a bigger one. “Yep. Moved up in the pack. The little shit she bested bit her ear off, though.”

  All the blood left my face. Excuse me? The pack?

  Cliff pulled another phone out of his pocket and called himself off Samson’s phone, either unaware or uncaring of my stunned stupor.

  “Don’t toss this if you can help it.” He handed Samson his phone when he was done. “I’ll call when I hear something.”

  The Mercedes was still in the lot when we left The Den. I hadn’t had the same faith in Cowboy Boots as Samson, but I was wrong. He’d kept the car safe. He might’ve had some blood on his lips when we walked up, but my car sat in one piece without a scratch.

  “Do I want to know?” I asked as we walked away from the gate, the bloody smear on Cowboy Boots’s mouth still lingering in my mind.

  “No.” Samson shook his head and unlocked the car. The chirp of the alarm shook against the concrete and echoed down the street. “You don’t.”

  A shriek of sirens echoed along the streets, far enough for comfort, but close enough to give me pause. There were no lights bouncing along the metal warehouses or shooting down upon us from the sky. Even though I knew law enforcement hadn’t found us, that they weren’t searching for me, the shake in my hands returned without mercy. It took three swipes at the handle before I could open the door to my car and hop inside.

  I rediscovered my ability to speak when the car rolled back into the street.

  “Where are we going now?” There was a shake in my voice. The relative calm I’d found in The Den was gone, replaced again by fear of what lay in wait for me in the dark. There was an entire world of weird I’d never imagined, and it was utterly terrifying that I didn’t stand a chance against any of it on my own.

  Samson turned his head a bit, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Somewhere to sleep.”

  Sleep. If I ever fell asleep again, I’d be surprised.

  “You’re being weird again.”

  I sent my gaze out the window, halfheartedly focusing on the skyline. Really? I was being weird?

  “I just found out there is an entire population of people that read minds, crawl out of the shadows, or get in fights to move up in—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—a pack.” My voice, sharp and edged in panic, sounded odd coming from my mouth. “I think I’m allowed to feel scared and somewhat bewildered.”

  “You can, sure,” he said with a shrug. He drummed his fingers along the steering wheel again. “But being scared of everything won’t help you stay alive.”

  I slumped against my seat and frowned at the glass. Samson might be right, but I was human, and my feelings were rational. He could think I was ridiculous all he wanted.

  The disbelief hung in my chest as we drove out of Hunts Point and headed west, leaving The Den and its supernatural occupants behind. While I’d allowed myself to believe in God and everything else that came with those beliefs, I’d never imagined that other things unbound by science could possibly exist. But if I allowed myself to believe in a being that created an entire universe from nothing and his celestial intermediaries, it would make sense that other otherworldly things could exist too.

  My p
ulse slowed somewhat, and I let go of my annoyance enough to look over at Samson. He hadn’t asked to be born a telepath, and it certainly wasn’t his fault that someone wanted to kill me.

  “When you said you could always find a reason to complete a contract in the past”—I dug deep for the resolve to finish the question—“what did you mean?”

  He stopped drumming his fingers along the steering wheel. The only thing I could hear aside from the air conditioner was my heartbeat, and I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I’d be completely comfortable with the man in the driver’s seat.

  “People are disgusting.” Samson kept his eyes on the road, but it seemed to be more out of an effort to avoid me than necessity. “Fulfilling contracts was always easy because I just needed a reason to pull the trigger. Just one reason is all I needed to kill the target and not feel bad about it. Given my nature, it was easy to find something.”

  There were several things that immediately came to mind, but I struggled to put any of it into words. What sort of life did one need to have where one instance of darkness completely overwhelmed the value of life?

  Why was I driving around New York with someone who cared so little about people?

  The only thing that stopped that question from flying out of my mouth was the fact he’d decided to save me. Samson was the only thing that stood between my death or incarceration. If I wanted to succeed in both staying alive and keeping my family legacy from being destroyed, my morals would have to take a hiatus.

  “I couldn’t find one in that head of yours.”

  I’d been so deep in my own thoughts, his voice made me jump. “What?”

  “I couldn’t find a reason to let you die when you bought my coffee this morning.” Samson shrugged, like we were talking about something inconsequential like dinner plans or our favorite movies. “That’s never happened before.”

  I wasn’t sure if he thought his admission was supposed to comfort me or not, but it didn’t. “Did you even have enough time to read my mind? Our fingers brushed. Maybe three seconds.”