An odd-looking girl stood grinning down at her from the patch of light that spilled out from the hall beyond the doorway. She was small in height and slight in build, a skinny childlike figure with coffee-colored skin and sharp features set in a triangular-shaped face. Her eyes were large, bird-bright and dark, her hair an unruly lawn of blue-black spikes. Though the evening was cooling, she was barefoot, dressed only in black leggings and an oversized flannel shirt with the arms cut off.
"Are you Kerry?" she asked.
Her voice held laughter, an amusement that Kerry didn't feel was so much directed at her as simply bubbling over.
"Well, are you?" the girl repeated.
Kerry nodded. "Sorry. You caught me by surprise. I—" She started over again. "You must be Chloë."
Because who else would know her name?
The girl called back over her shoulder. "Did you hear that? She thinks I'm Chloë."
Again the laughter, bright and innocent. A child's laughter. But when she came bouncing down the stairs to join Kerry on the bottom step, Kerry realized she was much older than she'd first thought. Tiny, not even Kerry's five-one, truly child-sized, but the eyes looking up into her own were ageless.
"I'm not nearly solemn enough to be Chloë," she said.
"I'm sorry. I've never met—"
A slender hand reached out to touch Kerry's hair. "It's so red. Is it on fire? It doesn't feel hot at all."
"No, it's just—"
"I like you," she told Kerry. "You're funny and you're almost my size. We'll have such fun, you wait and see."
"I—"
A man's voice came from inside the house. "Maida. Don't be rude."
"I'm not, I don't, I never would!"
With that, the girl went cartwheeling across the lawn and sprang up into the lower branches of the oak, startling the birds there so that they erupted from their perches in a cloud of black wings and hoarse croaks.
The man came out onto the porch, a creaking board announcing his step. Maida hadn't made a sound on that board, she realized, but then the girl must have next to no weight at all from the size of her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Maida can be so … impetuous. But she's really quite harmless."
What an odd way to describe someone, Kerry thought. Impetuous. She tried the word on, wondering how it would feel to have someone describe her that way.
"My name's Rory," the man continued. "Chloë asked me to show you in to your apartment and give you the keys. I guess I'm sort of the super here," he added with a smile. "Helps with the rent."
He didn't look at all like Kerry's image of a building superintendent. The casual jeans and white T-shirt, maybe, but not the bright red high-tops or the earrings, one for each ear. His hair was light brown, cut very short. A head taller than Kerry, he had the look of a runner or a dancer—in shape, but not pumped up. Not so much handsome as striking; clean-shaven and somehow … safe.
He offered his hand when he reached Kerry's step. She hesitated a moment, then shook.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes. I'm just trying to catch my breath."
"Maida has that effect on people."
"Does she live here? In the building, I mean."
"You'd almost think so, she's over so often. But, no. She must live in one of the houses on the street, but I've never been able to figure out which. She says she lives in a tree."
Kerry turned to look up into the oak. For a moment she thought she saw not one, but two spike-haired girls looking down at her, but then she blinked, or they scrambled higher, out of sight, and were gone.
"Does Maida have a sister?" she asked.
Rory nodded. "Sort of. Her name's Zia. The other people in the house call them the crow girls—since they're always in those trees, I guess."
Kerry remembered the blackbirds that had startled her earlier. Had there been a crow girl among them?
"Mind you," Rory went on, "while the pair of them look like identical twins, they say they're not even sisters. I'm not sure I believe them."
Kerry looked at him. Why not? she wanted to ask, but let the question lay unspoken on her tongue. There seemed to be hidden currents eddying here and she wasn't ready for them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. All she wanted was for things to be normal and you didn't find normal by stirring up secrets. Even she knew that much.
She settled on offering up, "Well, they certainly seem at home in a tree."
Rory smiled. "Come on," he said, taking her valise. "Your apartment's up here on the second floor. 2A."
Kerry gave the tree a last look, then followed Rory into the building. She immediately liked the way it smelled. Clean and woody. There was an open door in the hallway through which she could see a fairly messy living room. Rory's apartment, she supposed.
"Is that your place?" she asked.
He looked at her over his shoulder and nodded. "Any time you need something looked after you can call down—when you get your phone installed, that is. I'll give you my number. Or just knock. I'm usually around."
"'Superintendenting.''
Rory laughed. "Not really. I work out of the apartment—writing and making jewelry."
He continued up the stairs and she followed, thinking he didn't look like a writer, or a jeweler, either. She liked to guess at people's occupations, but she was never much good at it.
Rory unlocked one of the two doors on the second floor and handed her the key.
"Here you go," he said, switching on the overhead and stepping aside. "I hope you like it."
"Oh, I'm sure I'll …"
Her voice trailed off as she stepped through the door. Except for an upright piano set against one wall, the apartment was empty. Bare plaster walls and a polished wooden floor. Not even curtains on the windows.
"What's wrong?" Rory asked.
"There's …" She turned to look at him, that feeling of panic rising up in her chest again. "Where's the furniture?"
"Chloë told you it was furnished?"
"No, I just …"
Assumed. How could she have been so stupid? You had to fend for yourself in this world, see to your own comforts. It wasn't only cooking and cleaning up after yourself and trying to feel as though you weren't entirely alien. You were expected to have belongings. Furniture. Pots and pans. A phone. All the things that normal people acquired over the years.
Rory hefted her valise. "Is this everything you've got?"
Kerry nodded. That and the clothes packed in her knapsack. She had to work at not crying, but she couldn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. How could she be so useless?
"I thought the rest of it was still in transit," Rory said.
All she could do was shake her head. The puzzled look in his eyes made her feel worse. He must think she was such an idiot.
"Well, look," he told her as he set her valise down on the floor. "It's not the end of the world. We can set you up with some stuff until you get out and buy what you need. There's plenty of stores open on Sunday."
The idea of having to go shopping made her feel literally sick to her stomach.
"I've got an extra futon," Rory was saying, "and I'm sure we can round up a set of dishes and a kettle—whatever you need to get you through the night. Do you drink tea?"
She managed a nod.
"We'll brew up a pot. Have you eaten?"
She nodded again, lying.
"Well, we'll rustle up some breakfast things—for tomorrow morning." He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay."
"I …" She swallowed hard and had to start again. "I've never had my … my own apartment before."
She cringed inwardly, imagining what he had to be thinking. Here she was, all of twenty-four, and so helpless. But all he did was give her that reassuring smile again.
"We've all got to start somewhere," he said. "I think you picked a good place to see what it's like."
Kerry couldn't help it, she had to ask. "Why are you being so nice?"
&nb
sp; "Hey, we're neighbors now. And speaking of neighbors, let me go knock on Annie's door to see if she can give us a hand."
"Please, I don't want to impose on everybody's evening."
It was Saturday night and she was familiar enough with how this world worked to know that normal people were out having fun on a Saturday night. Unless they got stuck having to give someone the keys to their apartment.
"You don't understand," Rory said. "She hasn't got a gig tonight and she'll be bored silly, just looking for something different to do."
"But—"
"And she'd never forgive me if I didn't ask her to help out. She's been dying to meet you ever since she heard there was somebody moving in."
Kerry's heart sank, but she managed to put on a brave face.
"Great," she said.
Just great. Perfect. More opportunities for her to prove what an idiot she was.
But Rory was still smiling and that helped put her at her ease. She found she liked the way he smiled. It wasn't just with his mouth but with his whole face. Nobody she knew ever did that.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Rory said. "Everybody has to be the new kid on the block at some point or other. You'll get the hang of things quickly enough."
"I wish."
"You will. Trust me."
Kerry took another steadying breath and decided she would.
3.
Now this was a swank apartment, Ray thought as the woman from Homefinders let him in to see the place. But then everything was swank on Stanton Street. Not like it had been in the old days, when all these stately houses had been single-family homes that took serious money to live in, but the landlords in this part of town hadn't let the buildings get run down like some of the places in Crowsea or north of Grasso Street. The walls were smooth as fine parchment, the wooden floors gleamed. With the right furnishings, this would be a beautiful apartment. Ray didn't have any furnishings, but that wasn't really a problem. He didn't plan to be living here for that long.
"As you can see," Ms. Teal said, "it's a big, bright room, even with the oaks out front. And in the winter you'll get even more light."
She was an odd-shaped woman. Like her namesake, she had a duck's plump body on short thin legs, long slender neck, a small head with dark, close-set eyes, and a slightly protruding jaw with an overbite to match. He put her in her late forties, but she already had the blue-gray hair of a much older woman, albeit cut fashionably short. He kept waiting for her to quack.
"The kitchen and bathroom are new," she went on, looking down at her clipboard, which held the listing, "and the wiring was completely replaced three years ago."
Ray walked around the room as she spoke, stopping in front of the large window overlooking the street. Was it fate or happy coincidence that had him look outside at just that moment? It didn't matter. Standing on the sidewalk across the street, directly in front of number thirty-seven, was a young, red-haired woman, knapsack on her back, a small suitcase in her hand. He had no doubt that this was who he'd been sent to find—the timing was perfect. He was in the right place. She was obviously arriving for a long stay.
Frowning, he watched her go up the walk to the house. Of course, he hadn't been told what she was. But he should have guessed.
"Shit."
"Mr. Nardene?" Ms. Teal said.
Turning to her, Ray gave her a winning smile which made the tight pucker of her lips relax.
"I said I'll take it," he told her. "Do you have the paperwork with you?"
"Yes, of course. If you'd like—"
"Here's three months' rent," Ray said, pulling the bills from his wallet. "Where do I sign?”
It seemed to take her forever to fill out the paperwork, separate the copies, write out a receipt, and finally leave him with the keys. He closed the door behind her and returned to the window, taking a cell phone from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. There was only one ring before the connection was made.
"You didn't tell me she's family," he said.
"It didn't seem important."
"Not to you."
"Look, it's not like she knows or anything. And the blood goes way back. It's so thin in her I'm surprised she even has your red hair."
"She could get hurt," Ray said.
"That's the cost of being alive."
"You know what I mean. If Raven catches her—"
"Raven wouldn't do anything unless he felt she was acting with intent. And I told you. She doesn't know anything."
"Then how's she supposed to find it?"
"Let me worry about that."
"And even if she does, what makes you think she'll give it up to you?"
"Hello? Are you listening? I said it's my problem. I just want you to watch her. If you get a chance, make friends, not waves."
Ray killed the connection and stowed the phone back in his pocket.
He didn't like it. He never liked getting caught up in Cody's plans. It was always going to work out. It was always going to be different this time. And it never was. Nine times out of ten, Cody sticking his finger in only made things worse. But here Ray was anyway, going along with it because that was Cody's gift. Even when you knew he was going to screw up and probably take you down with him, you couldn't help but want to stand by him, to be part of his action.
Ray stroked a long narrow chin, gaze locked on what he could see of the house across the street through the gaps and holes of the oak canopy in between.
Cody never learned, he thought. But then, neither did he, or he wouldn't be here, would he?
4.
It was a slow Saturday night. Hank had Eddie's usual pickup scheduled, a two A.M. run out to the casino on the Kickaha Reservation north of the city, and that was about it. He could have been busier—Moth had asked him to pick up a shooter at the airport—but because of what had happened the other night when he'd met Lily, he'd let Terry make the run. There was always somebody bringing in outside talent. He'd never really cared when they were only killing each other—so far as he was concerned, there were too many damn crews working this city as it was—but he was having second thoughts about his involvement with them now.
The pros usually didn't let their action bleed over into the lives of citizens. They did their job, in and out, low profile. Some low-life drug dealer went down. A capo didn't live to make retirement. Some pedophile missed a session with his therapist because he was found floating facedown in the lake. Who really cared? But when they started in on an innocent like Lily, just for the sake of meanness, it was time to reconsider where he stood with this kind of thing.
He didn't want to think about it right now. Just as he didn't want to be studying anybody he happened to pass by and find himself trying to figure out if they were human or something out of one of Jack's stories. What he wanted to do was call Lily, but she was out of town for the weekend, taking stills for a video shoot in Arizona. The video was for some country band whose name he'd forgotten as soon as she'd told him, which had irritated Moth to no end.
"Did you at least ask her to get me an autograph?" he'd said.
"What if it's a band you hate?"
"Well, I could've sold it then. There's always an angle, kid."
There always was an angle.
Lily was making an effort to keep in touch, left a message for him with Tony and everything. So what was her angle? Take that a step further, what was his? He knew he was interested in her, and not just because of what they'd experienced together, but the two were getting tangled up in his head and even doubling his tai chi exercises and run this morning hadn't been enough to sort it all out.
Neither was driving around tonight, waiting for something to come up and fill his time.
He stopped for a red light at the corner of Kelly and Flood. Glancing across the intersection and over, he saw a light on in Marty's second-floor office in the old Sovereign Building. Working late again.
Well, there was something he could do, Hank thought.
When the light cha
nged, he made the left onto Flood and parked a half block down in the first available space. He walked back and pressed the buzzer beside the small tag that read, "The Law Offices of Martin Caine."
Marty's tinny voice came almost immediately from the small speaker above the buzzers. "That better be on rye."
"It's Hank."
"I thought you were Mac. Hang on. I'll buzz you up."
Sean MacManus ran an all-night diner around the corner on Kelly Street. Lately, according to Marty, he'd taken to serving what he figured you really wanted instead of what you'd ordered, which could make for interesting, if frustrating, meals.
"So why do you give him your business?" Hank had asked.
"He's close, he's fast, and he delivers off-hours. Who else is open, the times I want to eat?"
Hank pulled the door open when the buzzer went and let himself into the foyer. The floor was still damp in spots and there was a faint trace of ammonia in the air; there was no sign of the cleaners. The elevator door stood open, but he took the stairs, doubling back to the front of the building when he reached the second floor. Marty's door was open.
"Tuesday would have been early enough," he said when Hank came in.
Hank shrugged. "I was in the area and had some time on my hands."
Marty waved him to a chair beside the desk and leaned back, hands behind his head. He was dressed casually—jeans, cotton shirt open at the neck, running shoes. He needed a haircut and a shave, but that wasn't unusual. Neither were the stacks of files that crowded his desk.
Hank had to guess, but he didn't think any of the uptown lawyers had an office like this: battered government-surplus desk, chairs and file cabinets. Linoleum on the floors. Plaster cracking on the walls and ceiling. The only decorative touches were a framed diploma on one wall and a faded Matisse poster advertising a show at the Newford Art Gallery that had closed a good five years ago. But then those same uptown lawyers made on one case what Marty might take home in a year.
"Do you want me to call in an order to Mac?" he asked Hank. "Maybe he hasn't left yet."
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