city. Move, move now. Or invite yet more pain.
Bad enough that I didn’t know what to do about the prison veil. How to stop it from failing, how to save this world. I had no plan. No answers.
And I needed some. Fast. But not just about that.
I found Byron in the hall when I walked out of the basement stairwell. The door was kept locked from the outside. Mary did not have a key, but changing the locks once a month did little to deter her. Smart crazy woman.
The teen leaned against the wall, his eyes cold and dark, and his mouth tense. I had a feeling he had been waiting for a while.
“There’s a pervert here to see you,” he said.
“Well,” I replied, after a moment. “Introduce me.”
He led me down the winding corridors to the lobby of the homeless shelter, what had once been the corporate entrance of the furniture company. Old-time elegance was in the details: a mosaic in the expansive tile floors, dark wood trim, and stained glass in the windows alongside the oak door. A small office was visible through two archways divided from the lobby by staffed desks screwed into the floor. One desk was to check in folks who wanted to use the shelter—and the other was part of a help center where men and women could make appointments to meet with volunteers about jobs, housing, and educational opportunities.
The check-in line did not open until after three in the afternoon, but there was a good crowd in front of the help desk. I saw one of the zombies from breakfast making an appointment. He did not notice me, but Archie Limbaud’s face flashed before mine, as did his victim’s. Little girl lost. I swallowed hard, tearing my gaze from the zombie. Wondering if he had ever forced his host to murder.
Byron did not need to point out the pervert. I saw him as soon as I entered the lobby. He sat on a wooden bench, alone, eating a hot dog and peanuts. Dressed in a tan suit and wrinkled blue dress shirt that strained over a round stomach. A loosened striped tie hung around his neck, silk, stained with ketchup. He was bald on top, and his glasses were dirty. So was his chin. He ate violently. Each bite looked strong enough to tear a steel pipe in half. Peanuts mashed around his mouth, which I saw clearly because he continued shoving food between his teeth before everything had been swallowed.
“So,” I said to Byron, as we stood on the other side of the lobby. “I can’t imagine you struck up a conversation of your own free will.”
“I was around the office. I heard him talking. He wanted the woman in charge, so I volunteered to find her.”
“You thought of me?”
He shrugged, scrutinizing the stranger with a cold, hard stare that belonged to a war-torn veteran, not a teenage boy. “I used to know men like him.”
“Not anymore,” I murmured grimly, and pushed past the boy to walk across the lobby.
Pervert or not, the man was gross—and not just because of the remnants of a hot dog greasing his lips. An indefinable something was wrong with him, and his pale, bulging body made me imagine cockroaches, millions of them, swarming under his straining skin. He studied my feet as I approached, then the rest of me, small blue eyes wrinkling into slits behind the dirty lenses of his wire-rim glasses.
“Ah,” he said, around a mouthful of hot dog and peanuts. “My Lady.”
His tone was surprisingly elegant. I tilted my head, searching his gaze. “Someone said you were looking for me?”
“Across eternity,” he replied, wiping his mouth with his tie. “And eternity has become now . Lovely how that works, is it not?”
Zee rippled between my breasts, struggling in his dreams. I hesitated. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Mr. King. Mr. Erl King, if you will.” The man heaved himself off the bench, bits of peanut falling to the floor. Ketchup still smudged the side of his mouth, and he held out one hand for me to shake. His palm looked greasy, sticky and red. He smelled like onion and nuts.
I did not
Bad enough that I didn’t know what to do about the prison veil. How to stop it from failing, how to save this world. I had no plan. No answers.
And I needed some. Fast. But not just about that.
I found Byron in the hall when I walked out of the basement stairwell. The door was kept locked from the outside. Mary did not have a key, but changing the locks once a month did little to deter her. Smart crazy woman.
The teen leaned against the wall, his eyes cold and dark, and his mouth tense. I had a feeling he had been waiting for a while.
“There’s a pervert here to see you,” he said.
“Well,” I replied, after a moment. “Introduce me.”
He led me down the winding corridors to the lobby of the homeless shelter, what had once been the corporate entrance of the furniture company. Old-time elegance was in the details: a mosaic in the expansive tile floors, dark wood trim, and stained glass in the windows alongside the oak door. A small office was visible through two archways divided from the lobby by staffed desks screwed into the floor. One desk was to check in folks who wanted to use the shelter—and the other was part of a help center where men and women could make appointments to meet with volunteers about jobs, housing, and educational opportunities.
The check-in line did not open until after three in the afternoon, but there was a good crowd in front of the help desk. I saw one of the zombies from breakfast making an appointment. He did not notice me, but Archie Limbaud’s face flashed before mine, as did his victim’s. Little girl lost. I swallowed hard, tearing my gaze from the zombie. Wondering if he had ever forced his host to murder.
Byron did not need to point out the pervert. I saw him as soon as I entered the lobby. He sat on a wooden bench, alone, eating a hot dog and peanuts. Dressed in a tan suit and wrinkled blue dress shirt that strained over a round stomach. A loosened striped tie hung around his neck, silk, stained with ketchup. He was bald on top, and his glasses were dirty. So was his chin. He ate violently. Each bite looked strong enough to tear a steel pipe in half. Peanuts mashed around his mouth, which I saw clearly because he continued shoving food between his teeth before everything had been swallowed.
“So,” I said to Byron, as we stood on the other side of the lobby. “I can’t imagine you struck up a conversation of your own free will.”
“I was around the office. I heard him talking. He wanted the woman in charge, so I volunteered to find her.”
“You thought of me?”
He shrugged, scrutinizing the stranger with a cold, hard stare that belonged to a war-torn veteran, not a teenage boy. “I used to know men like him.”
“Not anymore,” I murmured grimly, and pushed past the boy to walk across the lobby.
Pervert or not, the man was gross—and not just because of the remnants of a hot dog greasing his lips. An indefinable something was wrong with him, and his pale, bulging body made me imagine cockroaches, millions of them, swarming under his straining skin. He studied my feet as I approached, then the rest of me, small blue eyes wrinkling into slits behind the dirty lenses of his wire-rim glasses.
“Ah,” he said, around a mouthful of hot dog and peanuts. “My Lady.”
His tone was surprisingly elegant. I tilted my head, searching his gaze. “Someone said you were looking for me?”
“Across eternity,” he replied, wiping his mouth with his tie. “And eternity has become now . Lovely how that works, is it not?”
Zee rippled between my breasts, struggling in his dreams. I hesitated. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Mr. King. Mr. Erl King, if you will.” The man heaved himself off the bench, bits of peanut falling to the floor. Ketchup still smudged the side of his mouth, and he held out one hand for me to shake. His palm looked greasy, sticky and red. He smelled like onion and nuts.
I did not
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