Michael examined the piece of paper in his hand and again considered asking what this man could possibly do to warrant his death. Instead, he folded it reverently and put it in his pocket.
Five
Faced with another night in the open, Brynna was starting to see the value in having a place to stay. She’d spent a couple of hours first as Redmond’s passenger, then again as a translator while he filled out his paperwork, but what she’d been able to offer him was limited. She knew a lot about Cho’s whereabouts that she had decided to leave unsaid, since the information would likely get him and his partner killed.
Later, because she had nowhere in particular to go, she rode along as they took Mr. Kim home, then asked to be let out. Redmond complied without comment, then surprised her. “I know you’re transient,” he said through the open car window. “But if you can come up with some identification, the department can use someone with language skills like yours—especially if you’re as good at other languages as you’ve been so far with the Spanish and Korean.”
Redmond still radiated an air of disbelief, but before he and Detective Sathi drove away, he gave her a business card with the CPD logo and a couple of telephone numbers printed on it. Brynna’s first instinct was to toss the card, but logic intervened. What she held in her hand was more than a two-by-three-inch piece of paper. It was the key to fitting into this human society, to getting off the streets and having food to eat while she figured out how to redeem herself. A roof over her head would go a long way toward making her feel safe—sort of—from Hunters while she worked it all out.
But how was she going to get identification? She’d need a social security number, but she was fairly certain she couldn’t walk into the appropriate government office and just ask for one. They’d want to see documentation so she could get that number, probably a birth certificate. Now that was funny.
Or not.
Brynna spent time walking and wandering, finally ending up in a neighborhood some twenty-five blocks south of where Kim Cho-kyon had disappeared. The mostly Hispanic residents lived in tiny run-down houses that had been subdivided into two or more tinier apartments, all within a stone’s toss of the rumbling Ravenswood train line. The few trees that remained were thin and diseased looking, as if some insect or blight were slowly devouring the helpless plants. Brynna felt oddly sorry about that and wondered if these streets had once looked as lush and green as the street on which the nephilim killer lived.
She ran a hand through the choppy ends of her hair, then wished she hadn’t. Every part of her felt dirty—her hair, her body, her clothes. There wasn’t much she could do about it, and another night spent sleeping beneath a cardboard box wasn’t going to help. The sun had set and it was cooler now, with wide pools of shadow between the streetlights. There was a discernible difference in the atmosphere of this mostly residential neighborhood. Although the daytime climate wasn’t friendly by any stretch, night here held an undercurrent of something else. Not outright danger but tension, a knowing that something was always about to happen. Brynna could tell that it felt like this every evening.
Heading west on Lawrence Avenue, Brynna caught a glow from the window of a small late-night restaurant. The red neon sign said simply TACOS, and she remembered the money still in her pocket at about the same time the scent of spicy meat and refried beans eased past her on the otherwise stagnant night air. Her stomach clamored for food—more persistent human needs—so Brynna pushed through the front door.
If the Nickel and Dime Diner had been scraping the low end of deluxe, this place was bottoming out. It was deep and narrow and dark, with most of the light coming from the kitchen and cash register area at the far end. The battered yellow tables that lined the walls on both sides had red booth-style benches bolted to them, and a few tattered Mexico travel posters, serapes, and dusty sombreros were hung on the aged walls. Faint beneath the odors of fried meat and tortillas was the scent of bleach and cleanser.
Brynna made her way down the space between the tables, heading for the small message-board menus on the end wall. There were three men standing in front of the register and one on the other side of the counter; the hushed, heated conversation they were having ceased abruptly as she got closer.
She wasn’t interested in hearing their talk anyway. She had a little over four bucks in her pocket; if she asked for water, she could get one of the combination plates, maybe the one with cheese and—
“We’re closed,” said one of the men in heavily accented English.
Closed? The sign on the door said the place was open until midnight, and that was still two hours away. Brynna glanced at the speaker, noting the guy was on the customer side of the counter. He was young and slender, wearing a dirty sleeveless T-shirt and a baseball cap turned backward that covered short, curly black hair.
“Yeah,” echoed one of his companions. Brynna sensed his gaze go down her body then move back up to her face. It was calculating and lustful, and it felt almost like sandpaper. “Beat it, lady.”
Brynna turned her attention to the man behind the counter, but he only stared at the beat-up Formica. Although he said nothing, everything about him conveyed anger—he was gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to make the ends of his fingertips white. All four men were drenched in perspiration and something else …
Fear.
Yeah, it was there. The older man’s fright was different from that of the younger trio. His was organic, like that of prey cornered but unwilling to surrender. Theirs was … anticipatory, like hyenas running down the weakening matriarch of their pack, readying her for the kill as the younger female moved in to take over.
She should walk away, leave and let these humans go about their own natural selection process. But no, there had to be a reason she was here, some divine intervention that had made her choose this particular eatery. As always, she knew too much about the way the universe worked to believe in true coincidence. Besides, everywhere she went would always be like this—it was her appearance, her scent, the very fact of her existence on earth that would draw the weak to her like cockroaches to garbage. Sometimes you just had to deal with it.
Brynna pulled out her money and put it on the counter, then pushed the four rumpled dollar bills toward the man by the register. All four men stared at the money as if they’d never seen such a thing in their lives. “I’ll have combination plate number three,” she said. “Cheese enchiladas with verde sauce. Make it spicy. Water to drink.”
“Number three?” the oldest man repeated. “I—”
“I said we’re closed!” the one with the baseball cap yelled. Maybe he thought if he ramped up the volume, she would believe him. “Don’t you understand English?”
“I do,” Brynna replied. “And about seven thousand other languages as well.” She glanced at the menu again, then at the man she assumed was the owner. “I think he can make my food and then close. I’ll be the last customer.”
“Oh, you’ll be the last customer all right,” Baseball Cap said nastily. He turned to fully face Brynna and one hand whipped forward; the lousy lighting gave her a flash of dull silver, then there was a stinging across her forearm. When she looked down, a line of red was seeping out of a thin three-inch gash in her flesh. She’d known he had a weapon, of course, but not that he would have the temper and the balls to use it so quickly. If he’d known the consequences, he would never have been so foolish. There was nothing to admire about stupidity.
“Next up is your face,” he hissed. “You got one more chance to get the fuck out of here.”
As Brynna looked down at the cut on her arm, the edges of it parted and spread, revealing a much deeper wound than she’d thought. The older man gasped as blood suddenly spilled out one side of it, a canvas of crimson that was startling even in the poor light. Without warning, the pain from the laceration increased in intensity and Brynna felt her temper stir. Not good.
“Please, señorita,” the older man said. He was almost moaning. “Y
ou go now, sí? So you do not get more hurt.” He held a hand out to the younger men in a pleading gesture. “I just give you the money, sí? And then you go too?”
Brynna covered her wound with one hand and pushed it closed. So that’s what was going on here—a robbery. These boys—they were far too young for Brynna to think of as men—were thieves.
“Way to go, idiot.” One of the other guys, a burlier youth whose hair was shaved close to a scalp gleaming with perspiration, grabbed the owner’s T-shirt in one fist and yanked him halfway across the counter. The tattoos on his heavily muscled arms quivered. “Now the bitch knows what’s going down and things are going to get a lot dirtier.”
“Let him go,” Brynna snapped. Her hand tightened around her forearm and her palm went hot. Before anyone could say something more, there was a muted burst of red light from beneath her palm, then the unpleasant smell of scorched blood. With the wound seared closed and the blood blackened against her flesh, she felt even angrier. Now it hurt twice as much, and she was so damned tired of being burned.
“How the fuck did you do that?” Baseball Cap was staring at her arm, everything else momentarily forgotten.
“Just get the money and go, Pablo,” the third hoodlum whined. “Enough dicking around!”
“Watch your mouth.” The second guy hadn’t let go of the owner’s shirt, and he yanked on it so hard that he slammed the older man against the countertop. A flick of his other wrist opened up his own switchblade. “Don’t be using names. But it don’t matter anyway, does it, Juan? We got a mess here. Time to clean it up.”
Baseball Cap—Juan—nodded. He reached for Brynna.
She backhanded him so hard that he landed on the floor four booths to her right. Her left hand shot forward and closed around Pablo’s wrist where it was bunched around the owner’s shirt. She squeezed viciously and there was an audible crack. Suddenly Pablo was wailing like a four-year-old with a skinned knee. He swiped at her with his switchblade, but Brynna effortlessly plucked it out of his hand. She slammed it against the counter at an angle and the blade snapped in two.
“Shit,” muttered the middle guy as he backed away until he thought he was out of her range. “Something’s fucked up with this puta. We got to get the fuck outta here.”
“Good idea,” Brynna said mildly. She yanked on Pablo’s broken wrist and dragged him forward. The owner scrambled back as the young man’s wail turned into a scream and he clawed at her hand, trying to get free. “Let me help you find the door.” The force she applied to Pablo’s back sent him careening into his friend; both of them stumbled to where Baseball Cap was trying to shake some sense back into himself. He used the edge of a table to drag himself to a standing position, then glared at her. His switchblade had fallen halfway between them and Brynna could see him weighing his chances of getting to it before she could.
She was there and snatching it up before he could make that very bad decision. She held it up, snapped the blade from its base, and let it fall back to the floor. “Are you leaving, or do you want me to teach you some more about ‘Thou shalt not steal’?” She took a step toward them, then watched in amusement as all three practically fell over each other as they tried to back up.
“Fucking freak,” snarled Baseball Cap. “This ain’t over!”
“It is, unless you like pain,” Brynna replied. She started to move down the center aisle, but they’d finally had enough. Another three seconds and they were out the front door and disappearing into the night. The best they could offer on parting was a final, unintelligible threat growled by Juan as the door slammed behind them.
Brynna turned and walked back to the register, where the owner was standing. “How do you do that?” he asked. “Those men, three of them, and only you—”
“I know their kind from way back,” Brynna answered. Her money was on the floor and she picked it up and offered it to him. “So,” she said hopefully, “combination plate number three?”
He stared at her with his mouth open, then he laughed. “Sí, coming right up!”
HIS NAME, BRYNNA LEARNED as she ate her cheese enchiladas, was Ramiro Cocinero, and he had owned this restaurant for nearly twenty years. He paid the rent and got by, never quite getting ahead. Business had slowed recently, so he was staying open later—clearly not a good idea in the declining neighborhood. He would now go back to his old hours of closing at nine o’clock in the summertime, eight in the winter.
Cocinero didn’t sit with her, preferring to lean against the apex of the seats across from her. He felt the usual attraction toward her—Brynna could sense it—but he fought it. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, even fiddled with the thin gold band on his left hand. He was a good, God-fearing and faithful man. Brynna was impressed at his steadfastness. She wished she could somehow help him more than she had already.
“So, you have job? You live close?”
She shook her head. It would be easy to lapse into Spanish and make it easier on him, but she had always been a staunch believer of when in Rome … “Neither.”
He looked surprised, then thoughtful. He’d made the meal Brynna wanted, but she had insisted on paying him for the food despite his pleas that she accept it as payment for stopping the robbery. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in charity. She just didn’t think she should be the recipient.
“You work here,” he said. He sounded utterly convinced.
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Sorry. I don’t cook or wash dishes. And I suck at cleaning.”
“But you could do seguridad—security, sí?” He beamed at Brynna. “I cannot pay much, but free food and a little cash, no taxes.”
Brynna sat back and pushed her now-empty plate away from the edge of the table. “No, I can’t. I have … other things I need to do during the day.”
His expression melted into disappointment, then brightened again. “At night, then, sí?” He gave her a knowing glance that encompassed her disheveled hair, dirty hands, and grubby clothes. “Unless you go home.”
Brynna thought about this. She had no doubt that Cocinero knew instinctively that she had no place to go, but did she need a place to sleep that badly? Maybe not … but it sure was convenient.
“Throw in dinner every night and I’ll be here from eight until six in the morning,” she offered.
“Excelente!” His smile was even wider. Cocinero disappeared into the back while she finished her water, then he ushered her back there and showed her an old army cot covered with a worn but clean serape. Resting at one end was a pile of clean kitchen towels. “No shower,” he explained as he pressed a key into her palm. “But clean baño and many towels. Agua caliente and you eat anything you want.” He pointed at something behind her and Brynna turned to look. “Even a television.”
Brynna’s gaze returned to the cot and the towels. The front door and windows would secure with a metal fire gate, and the back door had a heavy metal bar across its center. It was damned near as safe as the jail at 26th and California, and she could even clean herself up.
She smiled. Yeah, this would definitely do.
Six
A good night’s rest, clean skin, food in her belly, and the start of a new day. On a human level, Brynna thought there wasn’t much more to be desired, at least from where she was standing.
Cocinero had been there to open the restaurant at ten to six, and had insisted on fixing her breakfast. Brynna had relented and a few minutes later her reward had been warm corn tortillas filled with scrambled eggs and cowboy-style beans with sliced jalapeños. She’d finished it all, then left him to his work and stepped out to greet the early Tuesday morning.
She had things to do today. Still wavering on her list was the nephilim killer, but if he was, indeed, the killer of all those other people, his victims were all still dead and there was nothing she could do to change the past. Yes, there would be more—she was now certain of that—but she had no way of knowing who.
Kim Cho-kyon—or Cho Kim, as she would be known to h
er American friends—was a lot closer to Brynna’s heart. Brynna had talked to Cho’s father, learned about her, seen her picture. More than that, she had felt the girl—the simple act of touching the silk scarf had made Brynna feel Cho’s shock and disbelief as everything in her relatively uneventful existence went from summer sunshine to inexplicable terror and pain. Yes, Cho was still alive, but what her father and the two police detectives didn’t know was that she would stay alive. Her abductor didn’t plan to kill her … now or ever.
There was nothing quiet about Clark Street by the time Brynna made her way to the alley’s entrance. Traffic was heavy and there were more than enough pedestrians to make Brynna wonder if she shouldn’t have faced this problem in the night hours. She would have had the darkness to hide in, yes, but so would a lot of other creatures. Daylight sliced away her hiding places, but it put more humans on the street and made her less of a target—those who would hunt her did not want to be seen by the average Mr. and Mrs. Normal. But she didn’t want to be noticed by those same humans if she had to do something decidedly unhuman.
Brynna slipped around the corner and moved down the alley. The smell of garbage was sharp and strong this morning, and judging from the overflowing containers, it was pickup day. Now and then Brynna’s sensitive hearing detected the chittering of rats as they snuffled amid the leavings, but nothing else worked on her nerves. In no time at all she was past the back door of the laundromat, already open to customers and spilling the scents of cheap detergent and wet fabric into the air. A few more moments put her outside the door behind which she knew she would find Kim Cho-kyon.
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