by C. E. Murphy
"I do." Pop sounded unusually reserved. Rosie looked up to find him studying her. "You know you're not held to any promises you made, Ro. Rich left a long time ago, and you've grown up strong and independent in the years he's been gone."
An incredulous laugh escaped Rosie. She got up to join her father on the couch, hugging him. "You're the only person who's said anything like that, Poppy. Everybody else is asking when we're getting married. But Pop, I didn't tell you and Mom. I didn't tell anybody. I've been applying for colleges."
"Ro!" Delight filled Pop's voice. "Ro, have you? That's my girl. Take on the world, sweetheart. Do what your heart tells you to. Rich is a fine young man, and if you make it work with him, I'll be pleased, but don't put him before an education, if that's what you want. What will you study?"
"Gosh, I don't even know yet." Rosie pressed her hands over her nose and mouth, trying to hold back tears. "Really, Pop? Mom started telling me all over again I needed to move straight home when I got fired, and I can't even imagine what she'll think when I tell her things are rocky with me and Rich, or that I want to go to school."
"Your mother had a split lip and a votes for women sign the first time I saw her," Pop said with a smile. "She might want to keep you safe, Rosie, but in the end, she'll be proud of you. Have you been accepted anywhere yet?"
"One of the community colleges, but I'm hoping I'll get in to one of the four-year colleges. A co-ed one," Rosie said fiercely. "I'll take Marygrove if I have to, but I want to be in classes with the men, Pop. I want them to know I can do everything they're doing."
"Rich will know."
Rosie made a face. "He already does. He has to decide whether he likes it, though. And I have to …" Her eyes filled with tears and she rose to get her lemonade again, drinking it to calm herself. "Boy, I sure loved him, Pop. I was so scared when he went away. And now he's back and he grew up so tall and handsome, and part of me still loves him like crazy. But … love isn't always enough, is it, Pop? Sometimes it's not enough."
"And sometimes it is. Sometimes people love each other enough to work it out. You stay true to yourself, Rosie, and you see what comes of that."
"I'll try." Rosie sat again, looking into her lemonade. "How have things here been? With, you know. Me."
"We've been unusually popular," Pop said dryly. "Visits from people your mother hasn't seen since high school. Your mother has a real knack for turning them all upside-down. They come in looking for gossip, and before they've been here five minutes, they're promising Beth that they were only coming by to check on her. Five minutes after that, they're out the door not a word the wiser. I learned to keep my mouth shut and let her do the work."
Rosie glanced at the yard, then at Pop, suspiciously. "Did you really take the week off to tidy things up around here?"
Pop pulled his mouth long. "My boss might have encouraged me to take some time until the fuss died down. Paid leave, though, and it's not coming out of my vacation time, so I thought I might as well keep your mother company while she fielded the mobs. Turns out I didn't need to, but I'm enjoying it while I can."
"Good thing, too, or there wouldn't have been anybody home when I came by." Rosie finished her lemonade and stood with a sigh. "I guess I better get going, Pop. I'm going to try to get into one of those typing courses so I can maybe work around school. I hate to spend all my savings on school and leave myself with nothing when I come out."
Pop rose. "Your mother and I might be able to offer you a loan, sweetheart. Interest-free while you're in school, so you're left with something of your own at the end."
Escaped laughter rushed from Rosie's lips. "That's really nice of you, Pop. I'll think about that, okay?"
"All right. I'll tell your mother you came by. Try to visit again later in the week, Rosie. I know she'll want to see you."
"I want to see her too." Rosie gave him a hug and left, breathless with the morning heat as soon as she stepped out the door. A couple neighbors stopped and stared, so she gave them her best smile and kept her chin high as she headed for the tram.
TWENTY-TWO
There was a typing school downtown, with the next classes starting Monday. Rosie, marching up the stairs in a sweltering building, told herself the whole demon mess would be cleared up by then, and if it wasn't, she'd just have to find a way to work around it. The demon mess and the appointment with the lawyer, she reminded herself, making a face. Missing the first few days of typing class wouldn't go over well. Maybe she could find one starting in August.
Opening the door onto the office nearly made her change her mind about the whole thing anyways. All the windows were open, with fans blowing and every piece of paper weighted down with anything from pens to typewriters. Six rows of five typewriters each had listless young women banging away at keys. The whole room smelled sharp and sweet, like old sweat and perfume. An older woman, trying hard to be perky, rose and approached Rosie. "Good morning, miss. Are you interested in taking classes?"
Rosie put on her best smile and her brightest voice. "I sure am, ma'am. Where do I sign up?" Five minutes later and ten dollars poorer, she had a spot reserved in the upcoming class and had been penciled in for the one starting in August in case she couldn't make the July class.
Ten dollars equaled a whole month's rent. Whether in July or August, the class had better be worth it. She stopped at a pay phone and gave Pearl Daly a ring, but no one answered. Well, hopefully Rosie had told Harrison Vaughn the truth yesterday, and Pearl really had found a typing class. If not, Rosie would let her know about this one and, she thought with a wince, spot her the cash to pay for it. Still, at least it would help Pearl get her feet under herself, and Rosie figured she'd get paid back eventually.
She stood in the shade near the pay phone a few minutes to drink a soda and decide what to do next. Visit her folks, try to find a job, sign up for typing classes. Those were the things she'd told Irene she would do. That only left what she hadn't said she'd do for the day: try to find the demon king. Rosie made her way to the Ex Libris library on foot, sticking to the shade everywhere she could. Hank had police work to do, so the place sat abandoned. It had been fine coming in yesterday with a mission to fix the window, but now Rosie felt like a little kid sneaking somewhere she'd been told not to. She tiptoed around, poking at things for a few minutes before making herself shake the sensation off. Redeemers belonged in Ex Libris libraries. Redeemers belonged anywhere they wanted to be, she told herself firmly, and furthermore, so did girls like Jean, who might not have magic but wanted to help.
Too many of the books weren't in English. Rosie stopped prodding at them and went to balance on the beams, then practice on the vault, before moving through other exercises and practice fights that Hank had been teaching her. They seemed easier than before, like just one training session had settled them into her bones. It felt good, moving her body, even sweating in the increasing heat. Focusing on the physical workout cleared her mind the same way riveting did: repeating actions so smoothly and regularly that everything felt especially focused, like her whole purpose came down to each punch of steel or thump of leather, as she moved on to the punching bag. If only that clarity would offer an idea about how to find the demon king, she'd be in great shape.
"You're dropping your left." Hank came up behind her to correct her stance. Rosie exhaled, less surprised by his presence than she thought she should be, though she hadn't heard him come in. His hands were cool against her forearms, at least in comparison to the heat she'd generated by working out. "Feel that?" he murmured by her ear. "Feel where your shoulder is? Now extend your arm, not at speed. I want you to feel the right angle, so you know how it feels to not drop your shoulder. Speed will come." He kept his hand under her forearm, making sure her form stayed true as she threw a slow punch. A muscle on the outside of her shoulder moved differently when she did it right. Rosie nodded to say she felt the difference, and they went through the hit several more times with Hank guiding her. Then she threw one punch at full
speed, knocking the bag several inches with the strength of the impact.
"There you go." Hank, pleased, dropped his hands, though he didn't move back. "Was it you who came in and fixed the window? Thanks."
"You're welcome." Rosie turned her head toward him, a smile pulling at her lips. "You snuck up on me, library man. Either you're not much of a demon, or I'm not much at sensing them. Is it lunchtime?"
Hank nodded. "I've got an hour. And I don't know which possibility makes me feel better, but I'm going to go with me not being much of a demon. I didn't surprise you, though. You didn't flinch."
"No." Rosie looked up at him, still smiling and without stepping back, so they stood intimately close. "I knew I didn't have anything to be afraid of."
"Don't you?"
Rosie's pulse leaped and a breath of laughter escaped her. Hank Vaughn couldn't have been more different from Rich Thompson if he'd tried. Blond and blue-eyed instead of black and green, slender build instead of broad, tinged with British reserve instead of American openness. And Hank only knew Rosie now, instead of having lingering memories of how she'd been to confuse with who she'd become. Hank didn't expect her to be the kind of girl happy to stay at home, because he'd met her as a working woman and a Redeemer.
Which didn't mean he knew her any better than Rich did. Just differently. Rosie wet her lips. Maybe she had something to be afraid of after all, but not Hank Vaughn's demon blood. Hank lowered his head a fraction of an inch. Rosie, flushed, stepped away with her heart beating wildly, and for some reason—a pretty obvious one, but she didn't want to think about it—remembered what she'd forgotten to tell Hank the evening before. "Oh my gosh, I didn't tell you. Irene says Helen Montgomery was having an affair with Superintendent Doherty at the factory. The one who fired me."
Hank lifted his head, all thought of flirtation clearly vanished. "Mrs Montgomery was having an affair with your supe?" Rosie remembered Jean's conviction that Harrison Vaughn had also had an affair with Helen Montgomery, and thought Hank's astonishment was at least as much from how far Mrs Montgomery had come down in the world as from anything else.
"That's what Irene said. I don't know what's at the middle of all this, Hank, me or the factory. Your dad doesn't own it, does he?"
"The Highfield factory? No. Dad's property is Birch Walk. Mother is friends with the family who owns the Highfield factory. They were at the party Monday night."
"But you didn't get any demon-sense off them." Rosie put both hands on the punching bag, leaning her forehead against its old leather. "Are you sure your empathy still works on demons? Maybe it was … I don't know. Being in Europe, with all the pressure of the war and all the fear and everything, maybe that heightened it? We know it still works on humans, but …"
"I hadn't thought of that." Hank's voice dropped to almost nothing. "I just never thought of that. Hah." Rosie had never heard a laugh that sounded less like one, but he made the sound again, just as sharp and bitter. "That could be. It makes more sense than some kind of conspiracy in Ex Libris, doesn't it? But man, I like the conspiracy idea better. Then it's them who're failing, not me. It's them who are broken, not …" He thumped a fist against his right thigh, and Rosie winced, looking away. "You tested me with humans," he said in a low voice. "I guess we need to find a demon to test me against."
"Well, the supe might know where to find one. Let's go talk to him."
"Yesterday you didn't think they'd let you on the premises."
Rosie gave him a bleak smile. "Then I guess we're going to have to remove him from them. Do you have to go back to work right now?"
✪ ✪ ✪
"Are you sure about this?" Hank leaned over the Coupe's steering wheel, trying to make himself unnoticeable as they sat in a highway diner's parking lot. The big silver trailer's door stood open, people filtering in and occasionally leaving, sometimes with a bag of food but more often with a satisfied expression. A driver with a belly as big as his truck came out and climbed into the Victory Oil semi-trailer that Hank had parked beside. Hank swore as the truck pulled away, leaving them with no highway-side cover, and muttered, "Are you sure about this?" again.
"You've asked five times and the answer keeps being yes. Are you sure it's okay if you don't get back to the station this afternoon?" Rosie'd asked that about five times, too, and Hank's answer kept being yes too. She slumped in her seat, barely peeking over the dashboard. "The supe drives over here for lunch every day. It's only half a mile from the factory. Vera's always saying that if he would walk then at least he'd get some exercise to make up for all the lunch he eats, but he always drives."
Hank breathed, "Who's Vera," but obviously didn't expect an answer. "I'm not sure about this."
"Well, it's too late now, because that's his car." Rosie pointed at a Standard Six pulling off the highway into the parking lot. "I think you should be the one who, um. Waylays him."
"You mean kidnaps?"
Rosie nodded. "I've killed three people. If I get caught I'm in enough trouble without adding kidnapping to my crimes."
"Demons don't count," Hank muttered, "but if you're using that argument, I haven't killed anybody, so if you get caught, how much more trouble can you be in than what you already are, whereas I'll have kidnapping charges laid against an otherwise spotless record."
Rosie stared at him, then set her mouth. "Okay, true, but he's not going to get in a car with me."
"He knows you."
"Which is exactly why he won't get in a car with me! He knows I'm furious at him!"
"All right, all right." Hank climbed out of the car, glancing toward Doherty's Chevrolet. "You can drive, right?"
"Would I have suggested this if I couldn't?" Rosie got out the passenger side and stomped to Doherty's car as Hank went into the diner. Doherty's door was unlocked, but there were no keys in the ignition. Rosie pulled down the sun visor, found nothing, and checked under the front seat: voila. An extra key. Smug at having found it, Rosie drove Doherty's car back to the factory, figuring if he turned out to be helpful, there was no point inconveniencing him, and if he turned out to be a demon, well, there'd be no explanation for anything, anyways. Besides, the factory was close enough that she could park Doherty's car and hurry back to the diner on foot before his lunch hour ended. She rolled down the back windows of Hank's car and threw herself on the floor there, panting like a well-dressed dog.
She'd barely caught her breath when a hand-cramping thrill of discomfort swept her. A moment or two later, the front doors opened and Doherty's obvious weight tilted the vehicle to the right. Rosie resisted the urge to sit up and gape at him, instead rubbing her hands to ease the cramps. Helen Montgomery's presence had been more of a tingle, not a sharp pain, but Rosie would bet anything that her ability to sense demons was improving. Even if it seemed impossible that flabby, grumpy Supervisor Doherty could be one. He had no panache. Rosie thought demons ought to have panache.
"I don't know what this city is coming to," Doherty snarled. "Stealing cars in broad daylight, women shooting men at work. I'm obliged for the lift, Mr Vaughn. Your family are fine people."
Hank tilted the car a little the other direction as he got in. "I'm sure you'd have just walked back, Mr Doherty, but with the heat as it is, I'm glad to offer you a ride. Would it have been better if it had been a man?"
"What? What nonsense are you talking?"
"You said women shooting men at work. Would John Goode's death have been better if a man had shot him?" Hank sounded deliberately placid, dull enough to make Rosie smile instead of sitting up to give Doherty a piece of her mind. The car pulled out, turning toward the factory, so as not to alarm Doherty where he could shout for help and perhaps still be heard.
"Of course not! Still a terrible shame. But it would make more sense, wouldn't you say? Nasty thought, women being killers. What's the world coming to?"
"I understand she was defending herself. That Goode had killed several women already."
"Then they should have had men around
to protect them!"
Hank's voice went dry. "In the middle of a factory full of women who are working for the specific reason that the men have all gone off to war? If I'm not mistaken, Mr Doherty, you're probably the man they should have gone to for protection. Where were you Saturday morning?"
"At home, sleeping, like any God-fearing man should be!" The car turned left again and Doherty's bluster rose another notch. "Where are you going? This isn't the way to the factory. It's just straight down the highway."
"We're not going to the factory, Supe." Rosie finally sat up, shaking herself as she climbed onto the back seat. Doherty gave a startlingly shrill yelp, twisted to see Rosie, then threw a look of outraged accusation at Hank.
"What the hell is going on here? What are you doing with this criminal?"
"I'm not a criminal, Supe." Rosie turned her hands up, thinking of pain that had cramped them, and looked at Doherty. "I'm a Redeemer, and I'm betting you know what that means."
The fleshy superintendent paled, and the corner of Rosie's mouth turned up. "Hank, do you think we can find somewhere quiet to have a nice talk with Mr Doherty here? A long way away from other people? I think he's going to have some interesting things to tell us."
"I think I can find somewhere, sure, Miss Rosie," Hank said blandly. Rosie's smile widened as the car accelerated and Doherty looked wildly between them, and out the window, like he might be judging his odds if he threw himself out of the moving vehicle.
It seemed he didn't like what he came up with, because he blurted, "You can't do this! This is kidnapping! It's extortion! Blackmail! It's—"
"A friendly drive and a nice conversation," Hank said, still blandly.
"I'm in fear for my life!"
"Which one of you?" Rosie asked, honestly curious. "Jacob Doherty or the demon inside you? Or does Mr Doherty even exist anymore? I guess it doesn't matter. If he doesn't, then the thing inside him should fear for its life. How about up there, Hank? Down that power-line road?"