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?"
"It's as good a place as any. Better than some, I guess. Not much traffic. The earth's not going to be soft, but I have a shovel in the trunk."
"What are you going to do to me?" Doherty's voice shot high.
Rosie sighed as they pulled down the power line road and bumped along.
"I guess that depends on how cooperative you are. Hank makes deals sometimes, but I've had a really bad week and you're the son of a bitch who fired me." Rosie frowned at Hank in the rear-view mirror. "Wouldn't a demon of any rank, one who could do anything useful, have tried it by now? I mean, Goode tried to eat me and that ochim thing just about took me apar—"
"You got Hannah? No, of course you did, of course, I haven't seen her since the Sunday shift, since I fired—what did you do to her?"
"I Redeemed her," Rosie said bluntly. "She's dead. What are you?" Hank killed the engine as she asked, and the question echoed loudly in the silence.
"I'm nothing, I'm nobody, just a cog in the wheel. I was an artist once." Doherty's voice thinned, like he'd lost something. Like it wasn't him talking anymore, although Rosie guessed it never had been Doherty, not while she'd known him. "I was never good enough, even though I tried so hard," he whined. "It ate at me, like a black spot on my soul, until it finally got out and took everything that was left of me. I barely made it into my wife's body, and she tried to kill herself. Weak vessels, all I've ever been able to find are weak vessels, with no talent, no passion, no fire. So I looked for protection. That's all I do. What I'm told. I keep the wheels greased, that's all. Maybe sometime I'll please my protector well enough to be granted a chance at a stronger vessel, someone with ability. That hope has kept me going for seventy years."
Revulsion mixed with sympathy in Rosie's breast as Doherty spoke, but his last words wiped away any compassion she might have had for him. "You've been moving through people for seventy years? Taking over their lives? Killing them slowly? And that doesn't bother you?"
Doherty turned a flat expression on her. "Why should it? They're only human. I'm the embodiment of art."
"You're an embodiment of madness. You're not what people aspire to. You're what they struggle against. Jeez, you should have gone to art school or something, mister, and tried learning something instead of just whining about being a failure."
Doherty's eyes popped and Rosie rolled hers with exasperation. "I guess you're not real bright, are you? He obviously doesn't know anything, Hank. I'm going to just Redeem him. At least we'll have one less demon to worry about."
"No no no no no! I can tell you things! I can tell you what you want to know!" Doherty's gaze went shifty. "I can tell you about the hive."
Rosie glanced at Hank, whose head dropped in one small, sharp nod. Rosie shrugged and jerked her chin at Doherty. "Get out of the car and tell me about the hive."
"Don't let her touch me," Doherty begged Hank, but the blond man shrugged.
"She's the Redeemer, mate. I do what she says. Get out." He prodded Doherty, who all but fell from the car, already babbling.
"Goode was a punk, all right? He was trouble, and the hive doesn't tolerate that kind of nonsense, not usually, but the Enforcer, he wasn't in town, and it doesn't matter how much trouble somebody is, you want to stay in the hive, you toe the line, you don't go after each other, at least not in this town. You don't break ranks." His gaze flitted to Hank as Rosie got out of the car and Hank came around its front end. "You understand about not breaking ranks, right, kid? You were a soldier. You know how it is." His attention returned to Rosie. "Truth is, you did us all a favor, killing that kid, and I'm real sorry I had to fire you, but orders came from on hi— I mean, what could I do, the whole situation made the factory look bad, I couldn't just let it slide."
"Orders came from where," Rosie asked softly. Goode had been dangerous. The ochim—Hannah—had been maybe even more dangerous than that, if less of a wild card. Helen Montgomery had come at Rosie full-force, full of killing rage, but Doherty just seemed pathetic. To think she'd been afraid of him just a handful of days earlier, only to see his true blubbering colors now.
"It came down from the boss, I swear it did. I don't know if they cared, not really, but somebody did. I don't know who runs this city, Miss Ransom. I just do my job and keep my head down, like everybody else."
"He's lying." Hank finally spoke again, his voice soft. Rosie lifted her eyebrows and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Look at him. Sweating, making fists, trying to distract us. He's lying." He met Rosie's eyes and dropped his chin in another almost-invisible nod, and realization caught her.
He couldn't admit to his power, not in front of a demon, especially one they hadn't decided what to do with yet. If they cut a deal, Hank was as good as dead the minute word got out he could read emotions, and Rosie didn't believe for a minute that Doherty wouldn't sell Hank out if he got the chance. She stepped away from the supe, dropping her voice, but not quite enough, to speak to Hank. "Look, I think you're wrong. I think I should just Redeem him—"
Doherty's theatrical howl of fear almost derailed her, but Hank picked up the thread, shaking his head as he spoke. "We could Artifice him. He might turn out useful later, and we could always bring him back out."
"Do that," Doherty whimpered. "Do that, that's a good idea. Just don't Redeem me, I don't want to die—"
"No, if he doesn't know anything useful now, he's not going to learn anything trapped inside a drawing. I'm just going to—" Rosie lifted a hand toward Doherty, having no real idea of how to awaken the Redeeming magic when fear didn't have her in its grasp. She certainly didn't want to repeat the terrible scene with Pearl, but as she lifted her hand, Doherty gave an awful wailing scream and fell to his knees.
"The hive is holed up on the abandoned Pennicott factory." Hank went white, but Doherty kept babbling. "They've been there for years, keeping quiet, but there's more and more of us now, refugees from Europe, and pretty soon Detroit's going to be a demon town! We're going to take it over, the whole city, and once we're established here, the whole lake system will be ours! We're—"
Rosie whispered, "Oh my gosh, shut up," and spun around to knee Doherty in the head as hard as she could. His eyes crossed and he hit the ground almost before he stopped talking. Rosie stood above him, breathing hard, then looked up at Hank's stricken expression. It changed briefly as he focused on Doherty. When he met Rosie's eyes, he looked almost impressed. "I didn't teach you that."
"No, but you said hit hard parts with other hard parts and I figured my knee was tougher than my fist. What did he say, Hank? What scared you?"
"The Pennicott property." Hank swallowed. "My dad owns that."