• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Opening the steel door, he stepped onto the long rolling lawn that stretched out around the drained swimming pool and eased down to the forest edge and the retaining wall. He knew that Qhuinn was right on his ass because the scent of disapproval contaminated the fresh air sure as mold in a basement. And Blay was with them as well, going by the cologne.

Just as he was about to dematerialize, his arm was grabbed hard. As he wheeled around to tell Qhuinn to fuck himself, he stopped.

Blay was the one doing the holding and the redhead’s blue eyes were burning.

The guy signed as opposed to spoke, probably because it forced John to pay attention.

You want to get yourself killed, fine. At this point, I’m resigning myself to that possibility. But you don’t endanger others. I won’t stand for that. Don’t leave without telling Qhuinn again.

John glanced over the guy’s shoulder at Qhuinn, who was looking as if he wanted to hit something he was so frustrated. Ah, so that was why Blay was doing the signing thing. Didn’t want the third wheel in this dysfunctional triumvirate to see what was being said.

We clear? Blay signed.

It was a rarity that Blay ever punched a hole in the wall of opinion. And that made John explain himself.

I can’t promise I won’t need to bolt, John signed. Just can’t do it. But I will swear that I will tell him. At least that way he can get out of the house.

John—

He shook his head and squeezed Blay’s arm. I just can’t promise anyone that. Not with where my head’s at. But I won’t leave without telling him where I’m going or when I’ll be back.

Blay’s jaw worked, clenching and releasing. He wasn’t stupid, however. He knew when there was a nonnegotiable on the table. Okay. I can live with that.

“You two want to share some love?” Qhuinn demanded.

John stepped back and signed, We’re going to the Xtreme Park until ten. Then we go to St. Francis Avenue. Trez texted me.

He dematerialized, traveling south and west, taking form behind the shed they’d hung around the night before. As his crew appeared behind him, he ignored the tension that clouded and weighted down the air.

Staring across the concrete, he traced the various players. That young gun with the busy pockets was still smack in the center of it all, leaning against one of the ramps, flicking a lighter so that it sparked but didn’t catch. There were about a half dozen skaters riding the hard stone and another dozen talking and spinning the wheels on their boards. Seven cars of various meh description were parked in the lot, and as the police rolled by slowly and kept going, John was feeling like this was a colossal waste of time.

Maybe if they headed deeper into downtown and trolled the alleys they’d have more—

The Lexus that wheeled up into the lot didn’t park in one of the spaces. It stopped perpendicular to those seven rear bumpers . . . and what got out from behind the wheel looked like a high school kid, what with the baggy jeans and the cowboy hat.

But the breeze that floated over smelled like a morgue with no central AC.

And also of . . . Old Spice?

John straightened, his heart going all hi-how’re-ya. His first thought was to lunge out and tackle the bastard, but Qhuinn caught him with an arm bar.

“Wait for it,” the guy said. “Better to find out the whys.”

John knew his buddy was right, so he pulled the parking brake on his body and got busy memorizing the license plate on the chromed-out LS 600h.

The sedan’s other doors opened and three guys got out. They were not as pale as really old lessers got, but they were a fair shade of white boy, for sure, and they stank to high heaven.

Man, that baby-powder shit was straight-up nasty in the nose.

With one slayer staying behind to watch the ride, the other two fell into formation with the little cowboy in front. As they walked onto the concrete, all the eyes in the park went to them.

The kid by the middle ramp straightened and put his lighter in his pocket.

“Shit, I wish we had my fucking ride,” Qhuinn whispered.