“It’s okay. I’d be curious, too. No girlfriend, not really.” He saw the man’s gaze slip toward the open doorway off the kitchen. To Eran’s dismay, Brynna had moved in there rather than share his bed; the door was open and although there wasn’t much in there, there was something about it that still hinted at femininity. “I have a roommate,” he said. “She helps me take care of the dog.”
“You have a dog? What kind?” Charles looked around, and Eran realized that he was wondering where it was, why it hadn’t run out to greet him.
“Great Dane. She’s in the bathroom.” Eran tilted his head at the smudges of black that still climbed up parts of the wall to make a blurred half moon at the top of the cabinets directly above the sink. “We had a kitchen fire about a month ago and Grunt got hurt in it. She’s still on pain meds and moving kind of slow.”
“Oh, too bad. Sorry to hear that.” Neither of them said anything for a long moment. “Maybe we can get together for a couple of drinks before I head back to Ohio,” Charles finally said. “Talk a little more. I know this is a big shock. It was to me, too. But it is what it is, and now that I’ve found a brother—you—I don’t want to lose touch.”
Eran wasn’t sure he wanted to do the family thing, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t. But before he could answer, the sound of the lock turning on the door made them both look over. When it swung open and Brynna walked in, Eran realized just how much time he’d invested first in the wall cleaning, then in this conversation with his newly discovered sibling.
She glanced at Eran, then her gaze cut to Charles before she automatically locked the door behind her. “Hello,” she said.
Charles stood so quickly he almost tipped his chair over. “H-hi,” he managed. “I’m Charlie. Charlie Hogue. I’m . . .” His head jerked toward Eran as he suddenly realized that perhaps this was something Eran didn’t want made public.
Eran stayed where he was, arms folded solidly across his chest. “He’s my brother,” he said. “The one I didn’t know I had until today.”
“Really.” Brynna’s eyes narrowed slightly and Eran could imagine the suspicious thoughts jumping around in her brain.
“Nice to meet you,” Charles said firmly. Eran’s breath caught in his throat when the other man thrust his hand in Brynna’s direction.
Brynna actually took a step backward before she could stop herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. She clasped her fingers together and gave Charles an almost radiant smile. “I just put trash in the cans in the alley. I don’t mean to be rude, but I got something sticky on my hands. Besides, it’s been a long day and I really want to clean up. It was nice to meet you.” She sidestepped him neatly and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and taking herself safely out of touching range.
“Oh, sure. No problem.”
As they exchanged cell numbers—Eran always kept his landline private—before he finally got Charles to leave, Eran watched the way his brother’s gaze kept cutting hungrily toward the closed bathroom door. Not good—Brynna had started her millennia-long history in Hell as Lucifer’s lover, and for some people, just being around her could be a difficult test of resistance against dark attractions they hadn’t even known they possessed.
It looked to Eran like Charles might be one of the weaker ones.
Five
She lived for the ring of the telephone, the ability to answer it, the sound of the voice on the other end.
Was it a man or a woman? She couldn’t tell. The voice was deep but neither masculine nor feminine, a throaty version of the computer voice in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Unidentifiable.
And indescribably evil.
It had to be because of what happened in July. She could find no other explanation because almost no one else knew what she could do, not even her husband.
Vance.
It had been exactly one week since they’d kissed goodbye in the morning—a long, passionate kiss, because that’s what newlyweds did—and headed off to their respective jobs. That was the last time she’d seen him, the last time she’d kissed him.
But not the last time she’d touched him.
She went to the refrigerator and opened the freezer door, stared at the ring box inside. For maybe the hundredth time, she opened it and looked at her husband’s finger. She didn’t do it now, but she had, more than a few times, touched it. It was frozen and morbid, and every time she tentatively pushed the tip of her finger against the cold, unyielding flesh, it told her nothing, staying obstinately silent as a little more of her hope peeled away like the outer layers of a rotting onion.
She’d seen him the instant he came into the store. He was tall and well built, GQ elegant in a light gray Brioni suit that cost more than three months of her pay. His hair was jet black, his skin as smooth and unlined as a young gesha’s. For a man, he was absolutely beautiful.
She stood tactfully to one side and gave the gentleman a few moments to look around before approaching him. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Is there something special I can help you find?”
“A new suit,” he said without hesitating. “Something in tan, I think.”
“Is there a particular designer that interests you?”
And it went on from there, all the minutiae involved in ordering and tailoring and delivery, the orchestration of one of her best sales so far this year and a commission that would nearly cover the entire cost of her honeymoon.
If only that had been the end of it.
The . . . what would you call it? Problem? Issue? Situation. Yes, that was it. The situation had begun on his very last visit to the store, when everything had been set for him to pay the balance and pick up his impeccably fitting Canali suit. It had been a hot July afternoon, the kind where the humidity made her clothes stick to her skin and itch, and it was all she could do to maintain her perfect-salesperson demeanor. But she was nothing if not professional, and she’d been doing fine until he’d laid that brochure on the counter and her finger had brushed over the list of names on the back as she’d reached for a store information card to give to him.
The vision had slammed into her head so fast and hard that she’d actually grayed out on her surroundings. Not for long, ten seconds perhaps, but he’d picked up on it. Most people would have backed away from her, and who could’ve blamed them? One second she was fine, the next she was a trembling, sweating mess, standing there and gasping for air as she stared into space with her mouth hanging open while her mind reeled around the images that had just played inside her skull.
“Are you all right?” He’d touched her hand and his voice had been rich with concern. “I think you should sit down for a minute.”
She’d had visions for years, regularly and of varying degrees of clarity, but this wasn’t a shrug-it-off incident. She obeyed without arguing, thinking it was a damned good thing she was the only salesperson in the store and the manager was out for the rest of the day.
“What happened?” he pressed after he’d guided her to a leather chair in one of the waiting areas. “It may sound trite, but you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” He tilted his head slightly. “Or . . . worse.” Something in his eyes made her realize suddenly that this man was different. She could lie but he would know the truth; she might be afraid, but he would understand. He would understand.
“A vision,” she whispered.
“Good? Or bad?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know. Open-ended, I guess.”
“What did you see?”
She looked down at her hands, rubbing her knuckles and working the fingers together like she always did when she was nervous. “A woman, in a bathroom. She was washing her hands. There was a girl in there with her, a really tall and pretty teenager. Puerto Rican, maybe.” She squeezed her fingers even more tightly together, until they ached, as if the pain could drive away the pictures that were still flipping through her brain. “The woman at the sink—she’s going to slip, I think, and the teenager is going to
try and stop it or something.” She risked a look at him. “You must think I’m insane, carrying on like this.”
“Not at all.” There was no one else in the store, but he looked around as if making sure. She found the movement oddly reassuring. “My sister could ‘see’ things,” he confided. “It was very hard on her because she would never talk about it. She kept it all in.” The look he gave her was almost stern. “You shouldn’t do that, you know. My sister is gone now. It’s not good for a person, physically or mentally.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “So what happened after that? In your vision?”
“I—I don’t know,” she answered. “It was so clear, like I was watching it on a television screen, but then it just stopped.”
“I see. And you don’t know who these ladies are?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen either of them before. The one woman was older, kind of professional-looking. Well dressed, although not in the same range as what we sell here. The younger one was really tall, probably over six feet, with long hair and dark eyes. She was beautiful.” Abruptly she started to stand. “I shouldn’t be talking about this. I really need to get back to work, wrap up your—”
“No, please.” He put a hand out and she hesitated. She’d opened her mouth and now she felt trapped. She almost never told anyone about her visions, not after how her mother had ultimately ended up, but she didn’t dare be rude. This gentleman seemed nice enough—more than that—but things could backfire. If she refused, he could go to her manager and complain, make up just about anything and whether it was true or not, she would lose her job. Her boss’s policy was zero tolerance, so a single grievance meant welcome to the world of job hunting. “My sister’s visions came to her without any discernible reason,” he told her. “Is it the same with you?”
“They happen when I touch something with a person’s name on it,” she admitted at last. “Not always, but sometimes.”
“Really.” He had an odd, thoughtful look on his face. “And do you always see something good that’s going to happen?”
She shook her head, still not sure why she was telling him all this. Maybe it was just because he believed her, without question, and he was listening. She’d always been so terrified of being discovered, had so few people she’d ever been able to trust to talk to about her visions. But now, in spite of all her nervousness about her job, she wanted to spill it all, get it out of her soul and cleanse herself, like squeezing the infection out of a swollen, putrid wound.
“No,” she heard herself say. “Usually it’s the opposite, just the bad stuff. And most of the time I don’t see anything beyond a certain point anyway, like with the one I just had. What I do know, somehow, is whether the person in my vision is a nice person or bad person. The lady I saw in the bathroom—I knew that she was a really, really good person.” She paused. “I hope that girl is able to save her.”
Crouched in front of her, the man nodded and held up the paper she’d touched. She hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed it off the counter, but now she could see that it was a flyer for a science fair at the Museum of Science and Industry. When he turned it over and studied it, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Those names—who are they?”
“Sponsors,” he answered. He tapped a finger against the top of the advertisement. “People who’ve donated significant amounts of time or money to the science fair.”
She swallowed. “I hope that lady’s okay,” she said again.
He smiled at her, showing teeth so perfect they would’ve made a dentist envious. “Oh, I’m sure she will be.”
By then she’d felt well enough to move on, great in fact—almost unburdened. Just that ten-minute block of time had cleared her head and lightened her mental load of years of secrecy. Another quarter hour and she had sent the man and his suit out of the door of the shop and had never seen him again.
But oh, he had certainly passed his knowledge on to someone else, hadn’t he?
The telephone rang and she nearly screamed. She spun toward it and rammed her shin into the corner of the coffee table. Pain, almost electric in intensity, rocketed up her leg as she staggered across the room. She had to get to the phone quickly—the voice might hang up if she took too long, and she was pretty sure it wouldn’t leave a message on the machine. She made it at the end of the third ring, and when she snatched up the phone, she was crying from pain and terror.
“I’m here,” she gasped. “Hello?”
“I was just about to hang up,” the voice said. “This must be your lucky day.”
Lucky? That word didn’t apply to her life anymore and she shuddered at the sound of the words, that strange inhuman tone the mystery person was able to take. “Where’s my husband?” she finally asked. “I gave you what you wanted. Tell me where he is.”
“Not quite yet. I still need information.”
“No more!” She was practically screaming into the telephone. “Not until I know he’s all right! I’ll go to the police, I swear to God—”
“If you do, I will kill him. Do you want that on your conscience?”
She inhaled, then choked as saliva went down her windpipe. “No—”
“Give me another name.”
“Please,” she whimpered. “I just want to know that he’s all right. That’s all.”
“Another name. Or the next time I will send you his entire hand.”
She sank to her knees in front of the bookcase on which the telephone sat. Her left hand clutched the receiver and she was crying so hard that she couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t matter. Her right hand slapped onto the shelf below it and closed on the edge of the booklet. It was a small thing, a cheap neighborhood project in a five-by-eight format; not much longer than a hundred pages, it was loaded with advertising and coupons for Wicker Park small businesses, fast-food joints and local restaurants, listings of yearly school events, grainy pictures of mom-and-pop stores, even notices by crafty people selling their stupid recipes and handmade paraphernalia. For her it was a mental video store of potential visions, something on which she’d ordinarily never place her fingers beyond the safe, blank borders of each page.
But the safety she was thinking about now wasn’t her own.
“I’m waiting,” rumbled the voice.
She thought of Vance, and his warm, soft hands, and how one of them—his left one—was missing his finger. It was too late to save that now, too late to turn back time and fix it. She could only go forward and hope she was doing the right thing.
“Okay,” sh croaked. “Here goes.”
She flipped the pages of the little book open, letting them fall where they would. God—if He cared or was even around—had put her into this mess; let Him decide where the psychic dice would fall today.
She lowered one trembling finger to the surface of the page and slowly pulled it down the length of first one page, then another, and another.
Because somewhere in this book, her next vision—and no doubt the next victim of the insane person on the other end of the telephone—was waiting.
Six
“Stuck in fucking traffic again,” Jack Gaynor muttered. “I just don’t fucking believe it.” His hands were tight around the steering wheel but he didn’t try to relax his fingers. He did his best thinking when he was tense, always had. Get the old adrenaline pumping, the blood pressure up, and if things were going really right, a good sweat going . . . yeah. That’s when his mind kicked into sixth gear and could work out any problem, no matter how pain-in-the-ass it was.
Like the problem with Rita and her boy, Ken.
His thumb drummed against the steering wheel. Who was he kidding—it wasn’t a problem, a situation that could be dealt with and resolved. It was an ongoing cluster fuck, every day some sort of bullshit that was bigger than the day before, day in, day out. And there was Rita, always yapping—“Kendall said this, Kendall did that, Kendall wants that, Kendall needs those.” Why couldn’t she just call him Ken, like a normal
person? Kendall—what the hell kind of a name was that for a kid, anyway? A stuck-up, weird one, that’s what, and it sure fit. Jack thought the boy must be in some kind of hormone hell. In the morning Ken might sulk around the house like someone had shot his dog, but the same afternoon he’d be bouncing off the walls, happy about some crazy crap going on at school; then he’d talk or text back and forth with someone on that cell phone that was fucking cemented to his hand and his mood would plummet right back to basement level. One of these days Jack was just going to shove that expensive little phone right down his skinny throat.
And Rita—whoa, baby, had he screwed up there. That one fell right into the What the hell was I thinking? filHe’d hooked up with her a year ago last November and gotten hitched at the last minute at the end of December. Why? To get a break on his taxes, two extra deductions on the IRS form. Yeah, it had been a stupid decision, but did he have to pay for it by going home to a house full of trouble every damned day?
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