acting like Caitlin in more ways than one tonight.
Fourteen
A lvarez didn’t argue. His trembling hands needed a drink as badly as his overtaxed brain. I patted his shoulder and gestured to the doors.
“I need to make a quick phone call. Sit tight, drink up. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
I didn’t go too far, just enough to hear my own thoughts over the casino bustle. Then I called Nicky.
“Danny!” he said. “Where you been? I’ve been trying to—”
“In deep shit. They hit my place, Nicky. They burned it. I got out, got the priest out with me. We’re on the run.”
“How the hell did they find out where you live?”
“No idea.”
“They burned it? I mean, burned it for real?”
I thought about my place. It was cramped, stuffy, not much better than a transient hotel, but it was mine. I’d worked hard to make it a home. Worked harder to put together the rainy-day cash I’d sewn into a pocket under the mattress. Banks and people like me didn’t get along very well. That was all gone now. So were my books. Some of them first edition, some you couldn’t buy at any mortal price. All of my magical gear, my journals and notes.
I’d started out as a small-time grifter with twenty bucks and a deck of cards in my hip pocket. Now I was right back there again. Square zero.
At least I still had my cards.
“Yeah,” I said to Nicky. “Burned it. Listen, this priest’s a hot potato. I’ve got to get him off the street. We’re hiding in plain sight at the Monaco, but even the crowds here thin out eventually. Can you…?”
“Say no more. I’m sending a limo. Go outside in about twenty minutes, it’ll be there. I’ve got a safe house. It’s not far, but it’s off the grid. You can both crash there as long as you need to.”
Nicky sounded pleased that I was going to him for help. Maybe he thought I was sliding back under his thumb, right where he liked me. Truth was, the reason I didn’t call Bentley and Corman for shelter, or the rest of my family, was simple: if our hunters found me, they could find my family too. Nicky’s safety, I didn’t mind risking.
I met up with Alvarez at the bar. He was halfway down his first glass of whiskey. I thought it was his first glass, anyway. I took a swig of my own, letting it burn down my throat, cutting the tension like a hot knife.
“Cavalry’s coming,” I said. “We’re getting a ride out of here and a place to hole up.”
“Safer than the last one?” he asked. I didn’t blame him for sounding dubious. I changed the subject.
“I’ve been thinking. You said your hobby’s…translations, right?”
He nodded. “I don’t want to boast, but I’m fluent in several languages. My work’s been published in liturgical digests, here and there.”
“Do you ever, and forgive me for the phrasing, buy your source materials from anybody shady? Like, somebody who might have criminal connections? Smugglers, grave robbers, anybody like that?”
His eyes went wide. “Absolutely not! I mean, I don’t dig into the life stories of the people I buy from, but I’ve never heard anything disreputable about them.”
One more dead end for the pile.
“These translations, it’s all church history? Like, Pastor Zebediah’s Sunday sermon from a thousand years ago?”
“About that dry.” He chuckled, weakly. “Every now and then, though, I find something really entertaining, like the piece I’m working on now. It’s a Coptic Christian manuscript from around AD 1000, not long before a major schism in the church. The author was a bit touched in the head, but it makes for a great read. I’m still trying to find a journal who might want to publish it once I’m done, maybe as an April Fools’ article.”
I cradled my drink. “Yeah? What’s it about?”
“A road map to hell, if you can believe that.”
My fingers clenched around the glass.
“Road map?” I said, trying to sound casual.
“The author claimed there was a literal road to
Fourteen
A lvarez didn’t argue. His trembling hands needed a drink as badly as his overtaxed brain. I patted his shoulder and gestured to the doors.
“I need to make a quick phone call. Sit tight, drink up. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
I didn’t go too far, just enough to hear my own thoughts over the casino bustle. Then I called Nicky.
“Danny!” he said. “Where you been? I’ve been trying to—”
“In deep shit. They hit my place, Nicky. They burned it. I got out, got the priest out with me. We’re on the run.”
“How the hell did they find out where you live?”
“No idea.”
“They burned it? I mean, burned it for real?”
I thought about my place. It was cramped, stuffy, not much better than a transient hotel, but it was mine. I’d worked hard to make it a home. Worked harder to put together the rainy-day cash I’d sewn into a pocket under the mattress. Banks and people like me didn’t get along very well. That was all gone now. So were my books. Some of them first edition, some you couldn’t buy at any mortal price. All of my magical gear, my journals and notes.
I’d started out as a small-time grifter with twenty bucks and a deck of cards in my hip pocket. Now I was right back there again. Square zero.
At least I still had my cards.
“Yeah,” I said to Nicky. “Burned it. Listen, this priest’s a hot potato. I’ve got to get him off the street. We’re hiding in plain sight at the Monaco, but even the crowds here thin out eventually. Can you…?”
“Say no more. I’m sending a limo. Go outside in about twenty minutes, it’ll be there. I’ve got a safe house. It’s not far, but it’s off the grid. You can both crash there as long as you need to.”
Nicky sounded pleased that I was going to him for help. Maybe he thought I was sliding back under his thumb, right where he liked me. Truth was, the reason I didn’t call Bentley and Corman for shelter, or the rest of my family, was simple: if our hunters found me, they could find my family too. Nicky’s safety, I didn’t mind risking.
I met up with Alvarez at the bar. He was halfway down his first glass of whiskey. I thought it was his first glass, anyway. I took a swig of my own, letting it burn down my throat, cutting the tension like a hot knife.
“Cavalry’s coming,” I said. “We’re getting a ride out of here and a place to hole up.”
“Safer than the last one?” he asked. I didn’t blame him for sounding dubious. I changed the subject.
“I’ve been thinking. You said your hobby’s…translations, right?”
He nodded. “I don’t want to boast, but I’m fluent in several languages. My work’s been published in liturgical digests, here and there.”
“Do you ever, and forgive me for the phrasing, buy your source materials from anybody shady? Like, somebody who might have criminal connections? Smugglers, grave robbers, anybody like that?”
His eyes went wide. “Absolutely not! I mean, I don’t dig into the life stories of the people I buy from, but I’ve never heard anything disreputable about them.”
One more dead end for the pile.
“These translations, it’s all church history? Like, Pastor Zebediah’s Sunday sermon from a thousand years ago?”
“About that dry.” He chuckled, weakly. “Every now and then, though, I find something really entertaining, like the piece I’m working on now. It’s a Coptic Christian manuscript from around AD 1000, not long before a major schism in the church. The author was a bit touched in the head, but it makes for a great read. I’m still trying to find a journal who might want to publish it once I’m done, maybe as an April Fools’ article.”
I cradled my drink. “Yeah? What’s it about?”
“A road map to hell, if you can believe that.”
My fingers clenched around the glass.
“Road map?” I said, trying to sound casual.
“The author claimed there was a literal road to
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