by Leah Cutter
I nodded. That made sense, actually. “How long have you been teaching them?”
Hunter screwed his face up to think. His sense of time had gotten worse since his encounter with Loki. “Two weeks? Maybe three?” he finally said.
Relief flooded over me, like a good blast of AC. That is, if Hunter knew what he was talking about, and it hadn’t been months instead. “So not long enough for any of them to have picked up your tricks.”
‘They’re not tricks,” Hunter said frostily.
“I know. They’re real techniques. Just that no one else has them. Or can use them,” I said.
“They can!” Hunter said, quickly defending himself. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Kind of. They’re still having a hard time figuring it out,” he added honestly.
“So how did this other guy, the original bomber, learn how to move like you?” I asked Hunter.
“I didn’t teach him. Must have been the ghosts,” Hunter said reasonably.
Though I saw other, alternate worlds like Hunter did, I’d never met any of his ghosts. Not the kind who could cross timelines and interact with me. They all stuck to their own timeline, while I stuck to mine.
I had to wonder if it had been the drugs that had messed with Hunter’s sense of the timelines so badly, if they were why he thought he could see and interact with his ghosts.
Which meant this bomber was probably also one of the blessed, as well as a junkie. Great.
Sirens started off in the distance.
Hunter stayed seated beside me. I looked at him, surprised.
“You just going to wait for the cops? Let them take you in?” I asked. That wasn’t like the Hunter I knew at all.
“They aren’t coming for me,” Hunter said. His pale eyes, which normally looked scared, particularly when he was tripping, looked sad.
I couldn’t remember a time when he’d looked sad like that.
“Then who are they coming for?” I asked. “Not—Jeremiah inside, are they?”
“Who?” Hunter asked. Then he laughed. “Jalal? No. They’re coming for you.”
“Me?” I asked. I didn’t squeak. Much. I did stand up.
Hunter’s hand was suddenly around my wrist. Not squeezing, but I knew his grip would be as hard as steel to break.
“Would you mind?” I asked him sharply.
Hunter looked into my face, nodded, then let go.
I wasn’t about to run away—running away from shit had never worked for me. Plus, there was no way in hell that I could move faster than Hunter. And he seemed determined to just let me be picked up. “Goddamn it, Sam,” I said.
Hunter looked shocked. “She’s the one who turned you in?”
I nodded. “She told them about the ID of the other bomber. So they want to talk with me.” I looked sharply at Hunter. “Right? That’s the only reason they’re coming for me. You didn’t call them, too, did you?”
“I didn’t turn you in,” Hunter said. “But I’ll help the cops. You need to go with them. To keep you safe.”
“Bullshit,” I said, steamed. Though it was completely in character for Hunter. He’d knocked me out once, and kidnapped me twice. All to keep me safe.
“Cassie—” Hunter started.
“Don’t even bother,” I told him angrily. I sucked down the last of my smoke and started a new one.
Lord knew I’d need it. It might be the last one I had for a while.
Ξ
The cops at least tried to be nice about the whole thing. “Ms. Lewis?” they asked, identifying me. “Can you please come with us?”
I stood there with my arms crossed over my chest, not budging an inch. Though the cops had driven up with just the cherries flashing and no sirens, heads popped out of every window in the building behind me. At least three porch lights had gone on, then quickly off. I knew the neighbors would be sitting there on their darkened front porches with the popcorn, probably taking bets about who was going to shoot first.
“Why,” I asked flatly. I wanted to have a clear idea of what the fuck they were charging me with.
“For obstruction of justice,” the tall skinny cop told me. “And spoliation of evidence.”
“Excuse me?” I asked. I wanted to get out another cigarette. However, my hands were shaking too hard. All these emotions chased over me—anger, frustration, and yeah, fear—and I didn’t want the cops or any of these other bystanders to see.
Particularly not Hunter, though honestly, who the fuck knew what Hunter saw?
Why would he do this to me? Didn’t he know that if I got arrested it would be absolutely impossible for me to get a good job, anywhere?
Or was that what he wanted for me? So that we could form some kind of half–assed vigilante blood–brother crew?
God, I was so done with Hunter. I never turned my back on my friends, was always loyal, whether they returned the favor or not.
Right now, I would have fed Hunter to a pack of wild dogs. Maybe even sicced Loki on his ass. Gladly.
Why hadn’t he at least given me enough warning about the cops to have gotten away? At least for a little while?
Oh. That’s right. He wanted to keep me safe. Like I’d be safer in a jail cell with murderers and rapists and shit.
I didn’t need an arrest record. Even when I’d been on the street I’d managed to avoid that.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked the cops.
“Yes,” said the shorter one.
Crap. I shot Hunter a murderous look. He shrugged his shoulders and continued with that sad–faced act of his.
“I didn’t do it,” I told the cops.
I could see it on their faces—that was what everyone said.
“Turn around, Miss, and come quietly with us,” the tall one said.
“Or what?” I asked. I fucking knew I shouldn’t have. That this was the one time I should shut up and play nice.
“Or we’ll stun you, strip search you out here in front of everyone, then take you into the station,” the short one said.
Great. I had to get the cops who thought they had a sense of humor. “When do I get my phone call?” I asked as I walked toward them, my arms still wrapped tightly across my chest.
“Stop,” they both said. They didn’t draw their weapons. But they were both close.
“What the fuck?” I asked. I did stop. Mostly.
“Put your hands up in the air where we can see them,” the tall one directed.
I nearly asked again, Or what? But this time I managed to keep my mouth shut.
I stood there like a good girl and let the cops come to me. I got down on my knees with my hands above my head.
And I seethed.
If Hunter had any clue about how angry I was at that point, he would have fucking run for the hills.
Sight or not. Blood brother or not. I was going to get him back for this, if it was the last thing I did.
Ξ
The ride in the cop car was actually better than I thought it would be. At least the backseat didn’t reek of vomit and the cops hadn’t groped me while they’d arrested me.
I was still pissed, though. Hopefully Hunter’s pre–cog abilities would go on the fritz before I came for him.
Because I was going to go after him. He might be a hell of a fighter, but I still fought dirty. And hopefully he’d let me do the honorable thing and drop him to his knees the next time we met.
He owed me.
Processing took for–fucking–ever. A group of drunken frat boys was ahead of me, and they acted as though this was still part of the party.
I almost cheered when one of them took a swing at one of the cops and clotheslined him.
Except that then the frat boy was down on the ground with half a dozen bigger cops beating on him.
Not cool.
“Hey, you might want to lay off,” I shouted at the officers.
A big fat one came over and shouted in my face. “You want to be next, girly?”
I gave him my best cool�
��Minnetonka–girl sneer. “Don’t even go there,” I said in my most obnoxious rich–girl voice. “And I’d like to make my phone call now.”
Not all the cops were bad. They didn’t actually beat on the drunk guy too badly. But I could see the writing on the wall from here.
I wasn’t about to get anything like fair treatment at this time of night.
I didn’t want to use my one ace in the hole. But if there was ever an emergency, this was it. And I sure as shit wasn’t about to call Sam. Hunter was dead to me. I still had other friends who would come and bail me out—Tess, Tom, de’Angelo. Probably. I hadn’t been hanging out with them recently—too involved with Sam—but they’d still come if I called.
However, I wasn’t about to call any of them, either. Didn’t feel as though I could ask a favor of them.
I called my mother’s lawyer instead.
Ξ
Michael John Adams, Esq., looked just about how I thought he would: middle–aged white guy, sporting a lake tan, a white smile that he’d obviously paid good money for, blue eyes paling toward gray, his hairline receding (something he’d be sure to fix in the next few years) and a suit jacket over his jeans and white–collar shirt.
Dockers, of course. No socks.
Did he even own something in stripes? Probably. For those days doing business on the golf course.
I knew I should be grateful. I mean, the guy had gotten up at oh–dark–thirty to get my ass out of jail.
I still couldn’t help but needle him.
“So what’s my mom paying you for this kind of service?” I asked as I slid into his Beamer. Navy blue, with tan leather seats, of course.
Damn thing probably cost more than I’d be able to make even doing legit work.
“Not enough,” Michael John Adams responded dryly.
Wait, had he just said that? To me?
I hadn’t realized my mom even knew someone who had a sense of humor.
“Thanks,” I told him. Kind of lamely, I realized. But what more could I say?
Mom had given me his number. My once–in–a–lifetime get–out–of–jail–free card.
And I’d played that card.
Of course, nothing was actually free.
“What should I put in the report for Mrs. Lewis?” Michael John Adams asked as he smoothly swung into traffic.
Damn I liked this car. It moved like it had a growl to it, but all it did was purr.
“Tell her Sam’s a bitch, and Hunter isn’t any better,” I told him darkly.
“Do you want me there when you go to report to the PA board later this morning?” Michael John Adams asked.
I sighed. It had been the only way to get out of there with my skin intact: I had to swear to go make a full report of my side of things later that morning.
“Naw, I can handle it,” I told him. How bad could it be? Bunch of wannabe PAs drilling me over a table. Probably wouldn’t even break into a sweat with them.
I didn’t have anyone to rescue me, though, if things did turn ugly. Like Hunter had rescued me from the Jacobson Consortium building, that one time.
“But can I call you? Later? You know. If I have to?” I asked.
Michael John Adams chuckled at that. “Here,” he said, fishing out a different business card. “That goes to my office, not the private cell. Use the business number if you need someone to talk the goons down. Only use the other number…” He paused.
“In cases like tonight?” I asked sweetly.
He gave me a good–natured glare. “Yes. Tonight was the right time. Though a call before you’re at the police headquarters would have been better.”
“Duly noted,” I told him. Maybe this lawyer was okay. “Though I’m not planning on having to call you again. Like, ever.”
“I know. No one ever plans on landing in jail until they end up there.” Michael John Adams glanced over at me, assessing. “You remind me of my own daughter, you know.”
Of course he had kids my age. I didn’t know what to say.
“Headstrong. Stubborn,” he filled in for me. “Sharp as a whip.”
“Look, I don’t know what my mom’s told you—”
“Mothers and daughters always fight,” he continued on over me. “I get paid sometimes to help them figure it out. Your mom’s changed a lot. Since your dad died.”
How long had this guy known my mom? “Yeah, well, a lot of things have.” Dad had died when I was fifteen.
“I’m not about to give you some hackneyed cliché about how your mom’s been trying,” Michael John Adams told me. “You’re the only one who knows if she has been or not.”
That brought me up short. Mom had been trying. Kind of. Sort of. She’d postponed her move to Florida, at least for a few more months.
Was there trouble in paradise with Mr. Right? Or had he only turned out to be Mr. Right Now?
I’d never know with my mom. Wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d driven him off.
She was as much of a handful as I was. Had I learned it from her? Or was it just a natural ability with both of us?
But I didn’t want to deal with her now. “So what was that trumped–up charge they had against me? Obstruction of justice? What the fuck?”
Michael John Adams grimaced. “Did you identify the first bomber?”
“Yes,” I told him. I didn’t see why I should lie to him. He was my attorney, right? Couldn’t narc on me? Something about attorney–client privilege, like what I saw on the TV cop shows?
“Did you report it?” he asked, casually.
“I told my girlfriend. Gave her the image, so she could ID him,” I said, the words tasting bitter. So she could get paid for the job.
“Hmmm,” was his only response.
“What?” I asked. Had I really fucked up?
“Your girlfriend, Samantha Monroe, couldn’t ID the bomber herself,” Michael John Adams replied dryly.
“What? But I shared the ID with her!” I still regretted that.
“Sharing between PA isn’t admissible in court,” he said. “Didn’t she tell you that?”
“Maybe she didn’t know?” I said weakly. It seemed possible.
“Therefore, the cops believed that you knew the identity of the bomber and refused to disclose it,” Michael John Adams explained.
“I would have told them if they’d asked!” I exclaimed. “Hell, would have posted it to 4chan if I thought it would help.” Stupid cops. Stupid Sam.
“We’ll explain it was just a misunderstanding to the judge,” Michael John Adams said. He hesitated, then added, “It’s the spoliation of evidence that’s more troubling.”
“Why? How could I have spoiled their evidence?” I didn’t get that. I hadn’t gone to the crime scene and messed it up. I’d been there just after the bomb had gone off, but I hadn’t returned, not once.
“This is where it gets tricky,” Michael John Adams admitted. “Do you see more than one timeline?”
“Yes,” I admitted slowly. It was well known, hell, even documented at this point.
“So there’s a claim that the other timelines are now bleeding into the first. No one can make an identification. The blessed can’t even follow the extant events.” He paused, then glanced at me and added, “They claim that you were the one to muddle the lines. Since you see alternates.”
“You’re shitting me,” I told him. “No, seriously. It doesn’t work that way.”
How the hell could I mess up the timelines for everyone? Just by being there and viewing the alternate timelines? That just wasn’t possible. I wasn’t that strong. Timelines didn’t work that way, at least not as far as anyone understood them.
Unless…
“Fuck.” I thought I said it quietly, under my breath, but Michael John Adams whipped his head around as if I’d shouted.
“What?”
I sighed. Would Loki fuck with me that way?
Hell yes. Of course he would.
“Look, I’ll look into it,” I told Michael John Ad
ams. “I didn’t do it,” I said earnestly. “I’m not capable of doing it. But I might know someone who is. I’ll check on it.”
That got me a single raised eyebrow. “I’d appreciate any information you have, when you get it.”
“Sure,” I said.
Thick silence filled the rest of the car ride to my apartment. Michael John Adams let me out at the street corner, with one last admonishment not to miss my appointment with the PA board later that morning.
I decided to have one last cigarette before I faced the furnace my apartment was sure to be. I lit up and walked slowly to the door, thinking furiously.
How the hell was I going to contact Odin? And then get him to get Loki to put the timelines back into order?
Odin had said he owed me one…
But that went back to the first question.
How the hell did one contact a Norse god?
Chapter Three
Hunter made himself sit and watch the cops take Cassie away. He couldn’t save her. Couldn’t really help her. Like before. When Loki held him helpless.
Cassie could save herself though. She was stronger, more resourceful, more capable, than she realized.
Hunter forced himself to relax his fists before he started pounding on something. Or someone. Because he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. He must be still. Cautious. Agreeable. His visions had been clear on that, the few that he’d had the last couple of days, the ones that he felt he could trust, that were born of waking dreams instead of sleeping nightmares.
He couldn’t act too soon. All of his visions, both the ones he could trust and the ones he couldn’t, predicted the end of the world.
The worst of the visions showed the end of all worlds, with them collapsing in on one another until there was a single Hell.
Even Hunter knew that it wasn’t as dire as that. The alternate worlds would survive the coming doom.
Probably.
So Hunter stayed where he was, sitting on the stoop, waiting. This was now Hunter’s hour in the garden of Gethsemane, that time before the betrayal.
Jalal came and sat next to Hunter on the concrete step outside of the halfway house. Things had settled down and the night had returned to quiet and stillness. People still watched them from their front porches. The best late–night TV. Right there on their block. Hunter was aware of each set of eyes. Knew how easy it would be to disappear, to no longer be seen, by any of them.
