Holding Miranda’s photograph in my palm, I went through the motions yet again, the knife slipping through the invisible fabric, the narrow trickle of tendril energy sucking into my blade, feeding into my closed hand. I focused on Tremont Street specifically, seeking out that ghostly after image— and— I saw it.
Were I more powerful, the location spell could cast a far wider net, but with my limited ability and limited access to veil energy, I could only reinforce what we already suspected. Typically I was able to search within a several block radius, perhaps a half mile at the most, and so far, that plan had worked. It had helped narrow down the Berklee Campus specifically to the burger place. After leaving there, I’d focused on the section of Tremont Street, the area of the city where the hostess claimed she’d sent Miranda for refuge after her confrontation with Gary. That plan had also worked, revealing the spectral after image of the woman who had touched the photograph in my palm.
“She was here— at least at one point recently.”
“Okay. Good. That’s— that’s good.”
I turned, catching a glow out of the corner of my eye. A strobe of headlights streaked through the darkened night, forcing Indigo and I to hustle for cover behind a rusted, green dumpster. The black van screamed past, a shrill chirp of sirens sounding, though the taillights swiftly drew into the darkness and vanished around the corner of a building ahead.
“That’s the third one we’ve seen,” Indigo said. “Fenric’s people?”
I nodded. “Looked like one of her government-issue wagons, for sure. She wasn’t lying when she said she got a budget and personnel bump.”
“What exactly are they doing out on the streets? Hunting vamps?”
“She’s been a little closed lipped recently. Seems like she got what she wanted— a treasure trove of artifacts and evidence, then kicked me to the curb. Hell, she’s got a bona fide base of operations over at Fort Warren. Unbelievable.”
“Does that make your job harder or easier?”
“I guess that depends on what I consider my job to be. That gets a little muddy sometimes. My job is supposed to be running a newspaper— to inform and educate. But sometimes it feels more like I play the role of humanity’s protector. In truth I think she’ll make the newspaper business more difficult— but maybe the protection business a little easier. I haven’t fully decided how I feel quite yet.”
Tremont Street was considerably less busy than Boylston had been, though there were still scattered clumps of pedestrians here and there. We were a few blocks from the women’s shelter, at least according to the address on the pad of paper. As we walked further down Tremont Street, I could sense a feeling of foreboding coming from Indigo as she matched me, stride for stride. She kept glancing down at her hands, curling her fingers, studying the contours of her own skin.
“Do you remember any of it?”
“Any of what?”
“What happened? With Gary?”
She nodded, still looking at her hands. “In vivid detail. Like— too vivid. Somehow it felt— richer. Sharper. Everything was in high definition, then written directly to the disk drive of my brain. I can—” she exhaled and blinked rapidly. “I can feel his bones compressing in my fist. I can hear the snapping of his arm— just— like that, you know?” She jerked her hand in a twisting motion. “Like it was a pencil.”
“He was coming after you.”
“Maybe.”
“And if that hostess was right— he was a dirtbag.”
“I suppose.”
“What else is bothering you?” Darkened apartment buildings loomed over us, shadowed silhouettes, with only the occasional illuminated window projecting a square of pale yellow against the static blackness of brick.
“This doesn’t feel right. Miranda— she had a bad experience with a women’s shelter in Seattle. Said she would much rather just fend for herself.”
“My spell confirmed it,” I replied, “or it at least confirmed that she was in this general vicinity.”
Indigo still looked uncertain, but she and I continued onward. I could see the sign for the women’s shelter up ahead, extended out from the side of the building, a plain rectangle identifying it. Someone stood on the stoop, clearly locking the door, even as we approached.
“Excuse me,” Indigo said, speeding up her stride as she lifted a hand. The young woman froze at the bottom of the small section of stairs and turned, a hand moving to her hip, purely by instinct. “I’m looking for someone, I was hoping you could help?”
I decided to remain back, giving the two women room to speak and not feel potentially intimidated by my presence.
“I’m not sure when and if she came here or not, but— she worked as a dishwasher at Boston Beef and the hostess at the restaurant said she sent her here.”
“We get a lot of women through these doors,” she replied with a shrug, “and we try not to pry into their backgrounds.”
“I have a picture.”
The woman cleared her throat softly. “I’m sure you can appreciate why I can’t give you any information.” I could feel the woman’s eyes dart toward me. “The whole reason people come here is so they can— not be found.”
I saw Indigo’s shoulders slump as she realized the folly of our attempted action, and how much sense it made. Boyfriends and husbands could easily solicit the aid of women to try and knock on doors and beat the bushes at the local women’s shelters.
“She’s a good friend of mine— we were both— we were taken from Seattle and brought here. Both of us escaped together, but we got separated, and—” Indigo’s voice trailed off and I could see sympathy tugging at the corners of the woman’s eyes. However, she remained steadfast.
“I’m sorry, I truly am. You’ll have to forgive me, but for the safety of anyone who comes here, I simply cannot reveal that information.”
“I— I get it. I understand.”
As I stood near the edge of Tremont Street, giving the women space, I spotted a lurking shadow in an alley, only about six feet away from the entrance to the shelter. The shadow shifted and moved, and I realized it was a silhouette, not a shadow. It was someone peering out from behind a building, who watched and listened to whatever Indigo and the other woman were saying. Was it mere curiosity or something else entirely?
I took a subtle step toward the alley, keeping my gaze fixed on the person, who drew back slightly, trying to conceal themselves in the surrounding darkness. I moved my hand to the knife at my hip and edged a bit closer.
“Do you have any suggestions? Anyone else I can check with?”
“I— I wish I did, dear. I truly— I wish I could help.”
Indigo nodded and inhaled, then prepared to turn back toward me. As she did, the figure in the darkness peeled back, feet scuffling on pavement, turning before she could see them.
“Hey!” I shouted, louder than I intended and lurched forward, heading toward the alley. Foot falls scraped along the trash-strewn ground as the person who had been spying on them took off at a dead sprint.
“Gus?” Indigo charged forward, but I was already running. Christine had been the knife in the leather sheath at my hip, the blade named for Stephen King’s telekinetic teenage girl. I drew it out, curled my fingers around it, throwing myself into the mouth of the alley, darkened shadows engulfing me and the figure I pursued.
“Stop!” I shouted at the withdrawing silhouette, not wanting to hurt anyone, but wanting to figure out what they were running from. “We just want to talk!” I could hear Indigo charging behind me, both of us running. As I moved, I drew the blade in a horizontal arc, willing its sharpened tip to pierce the veil, raw, vibrant energy crackling at its tip. The normally dark blade glowed with a pulsing, violet hue.
The sprinting figure was already nearing the far end of the alley, where an intersection joined together with a grid work of others, and I knew if we didn’t make a move shortly, it would be too late. I finished my whispered chant, felt the warm surge of power flood my palm and then thrust my opposite hand forward, drawing the power through me and out. A concussive burst of magic energy erupted from my palm and seared through the narrow gap between buildings, filling the entire empty space with a sudden outward thrust of power. Paper scattered, swirling up into makeshift whirlwinds and three large trash cans were propelled outward, colliding with the walls on either side. The whirling cylinder of force even lifted the corner of a dumpster and shoved it askew as it blistered through. Just as the sprinting figure was about to reach the intersection, the invisible force pounded into their lower legs, sweeping them up off their feet and sending them into an awkward backwards somersault.
Tumbling up, back and sideways, they struck the askew dumpster with their hip, grunting in pain before they toppled off and hit the asphalt. I was upon them in a second, skidding to a halt next to their prone form, hoping that I hadn’t just knocked the wind out of an innocent grandmother.
There was nothing innocent or grandmotherly about the man who groaned on the ground, resting on one elbow, pressing the meaty flesh of his palm to his head, his eyes closed into a pained squint.
“Damn, man— the hell you hit me with?”
“Why did you run?” I pressed my hand to his chest, forcing him to the ground and pinned him there, the knife still clutched firmly in my right hand.
“Don’t cut me, bro, don’t cut me!”
“Tell me what I want to hear and I won’t.”
“I don’t know what you wanna hear!”
“You were eavesdropping a few minutes ago— listening to our conversation. Then, when I spotted you, you took off. Why?”
“I dunno, man— I heard your lady talking and I—”
“And you what?” I shifted my weight and pressed down harder on the man’s chest as he sucked in a rasping breath.
“I heard her say Boston Beef, okay? That girl she was asking about— she never went to the shelter, all right? She came by our crib. Wanted a hook up!”
I felt the displacement of air to my left as Indigo approached and heard the low, rattling growl curdle deep in her throat. It was a feral, animal sound, not human in the least.
“What sort of hook up?”
“Oxi, right? Just to take the edge off. Said she’d had a rough few weeks.”
Indigo stepped forward and I glanced sharply left, catching sight of her closed fist, knuckles tensing. Ribbons of muscle coiled along the edge of her forearm. That throaty sound slipped from between her lips, seeming to come from the depths of her chest. She was on the edge, teetering near the precipice, almost tumbled into animal rage.
“Where is she now? The woman?”
“Last time I saw her, she was on the block. Right there, man.” He stabbed a thumb past his wide-eyed expression, gesturing toward a row of dilapidated brick buildings, dripping in evening shadow. “See that building? The end of the alley down there? Place has been hollowed out, but man, it ain’t the normal tweakers or trippers in there. You get me? There’s some wild shit goes on in there.”
“What sort of wild shit?” Indigo’s voice was sandpaper.
“Stand.” I brought myself upright, releasing him, both Indigo and I looking down at his sprawl across the alley. Wordless, he clawed at the brick wall to his left, then used a milk crate to help push himself upright. It looked far more difficult than it should have, but he ended up in a standing posture, back pressed to the wall, hands splayed.
“Lead us there.” I jabbed my knife down the alley.
“Everyone that lives on this block knows better than to go in there. Everyone except your friend, anyway. I seen people go in there and never come out again. Plus we got these cops crawling all up in our business—”
“Cops?”
“Yeah, man. They were speedin’ past here just a few minutes ago. Those black vans, all tinted windows. You don’t want to mess with those brothers, let me tell you. They don’t run the same way the normal police do.”
I knew all too well how Fenric’s crew ran, and the junkie was right, they weren’t required to follow the same letter of the law as the Boston PD. They’d just barely earned their own acronym and were still mostly off the books, which gave them some leeway when it came to the old familiar police brutality complaints.
I stood, shoulder-to-shoulder with Indigo, looking up at the beaten down three story building which bracketed the end of the alley. It looked like a childhood construction project that had been stored in the humid garage a year or so too long, slanted and bogged down, pieces flaking off. A scatter of crumbled brick peppered the sidewalk outside and one half of the double doors rested askew on busted hinges. I scraped my curled fingers against the scruff of beard across my face. Indigo took a step forward.
I clutched at her arm with my free hand, but she yanked it free, striding across the narrow stretch of intersecting pavement.
“If Miranda’s in there, we need to get her out.”
I turned toward the junkie, hopeful to pick his brain about a potential back door. But, as one might expect, he’d taken the opportunity our turned backs had provided and split, post haste. The alley behind us was empty.