the safety on. Then she moved the muzzle so that it pointed just a bit away from him, letting him breathe a little easier. That muzzle looked like the tunnel of the New York subway.
Her eyes looked almost as dangerous, memorizing him from hair to boots. “Little man, what’s your real name? ‘Albert Johansson’ wouldn’t stand up to a record search, would it? Not if you go deep enough? That guy at Historic Preservation had a photo of your block, 1883. Put a suit and bowler hat and mustache on you and you’d be twin brother to the man standing in front of the storefront bakery. I doubt if that’s coincidence.”
Oh, hell. Photographs. He tried to avoid them, but sometimes he got caught by accident. He wondered what he’d been doing that made him stand still long enough to be frozen in one of those old wet-plate photos. Probably drooling over a pie or pastry in the window display—if he remembered right, that place baked the most amazing cherry strudel, sour and sweet at the same time, flaky layered crust. It would melt in your mouth . . .
She gestured her left hand and the cast at the side of her head. “I wasn’t feeling too good the other night. Head hurt. But I still can’t See the beginning of your lifeline behind you. Who are you, what are you, why are you tied up in this shit?”
He shrugged. She had the gun, she knew too much already, she’d proven that she was very good at finding things and following people. Whatever trouble he could get into, he was already hip deep. Maybe neck deep, but he was short.
“I’ve used dozens of names. Can’t remember all of them. The demon called me ‘Simon Lahti.’ I guess that makes it as permanent as any. I’ve already told you I don’t know what I am. As for why, the demon says I have to stop someone from abusing their companions. Or mortals will suffer the consequences. My demon claimed to be called ‘Legion.’ Is that the same as yours?”
She frowned and narrowed her eyes. “Police ask questions. We don’t answer them. Keep talking.”
And here he’d been thinking she wasn’t a typical cop. Still, putting two and two together and adding them up to five, somebody wasn’t telling the whole truth. Somebody with golden skin, no sex, and no hair.
“I don’t trust demons. They lie, they play tricks, their goals aren’t my goals. I think Legion wanted me here because I’m a smith. I can heal that star. Nothing to do with stopping the fires. You’re the detective—that’s your job. My job is working iron. Let me take the star back to my forge and make it whole. It’s important.”
Her frown turned into full-blown scowl. “Little man, I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived long enough that I don’t believe everything I hear. I’ve come across old broken magic that damn well should stay broken. I want to find out what that star really does before I’m going to let you fix it.”
Her “little man” phrase was starting to annoy him. Which was probably why she used it—he was getting a sense of why she said the police “put up” with her for her special skills. The woman liked to piss off people.
“Look, that thing feels about as old as Solomon.”
“You expect me to believe that Suleiman bin Dauod was a blacksmith? ”
“I didn’t say Solomon made it himself. Just that it was too old for me to tell. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Solomon as a powerful wizard, not just a king—commanding the winds and the djinni and knowing the language of the animals. Aren’t some of those straight from the Qur’an itself, the words of the Prophet?”
She blinked at that. “Peace be upon him . . . Four or five, yes.”
She broke off and shivered. Not the cold, not with the warm spring day, blue sky and sun. “I’ll get a police magician out here to look at it.”
He’d been ignoring the buzz while they talked. It spiked for a moment, another twinge from his teeth up to his temples and pressing on his eyeballs from the inside
Her eyes looked almost as dangerous, memorizing him from hair to boots. “Little man, what’s your real name? ‘Albert Johansson’ wouldn’t stand up to a record search, would it? Not if you go deep enough? That guy at Historic Preservation had a photo of your block, 1883. Put a suit and bowler hat and mustache on you and you’d be twin brother to the man standing in front of the storefront bakery. I doubt if that’s coincidence.”
Oh, hell. Photographs. He tried to avoid them, but sometimes he got caught by accident. He wondered what he’d been doing that made him stand still long enough to be frozen in one of those old wet-plate photos. Probably drooling over a pie or pastry in the window display—if he remembered right, that place baked the most amazing cherry strudel, sour and sweet at the same time, flaky layered crust. It would melt in your mouth . . .
She gestured her left hand and the cast at the side of her head. “I wasn’t feeling too good the other night. Head hurt. But I still can’t See the beginning of your lifeline behind you. Who are you, what are you, why are you tied up in this shit?”
He shrugged. She had the gun, she knew too much already, she’d proven that she was very good at finding things and following people. Whatever trouble he could get into, he was already hip deep. Maybe neck deep, but he was short.
“I’ve used dozens of names. Can’t remember all of them. The demon called me ‘Simon Lahti.’ I guess that makes it as permanent as any. I’ve already told you I don’t know what I am. As for why, the demon says I have to stop someone from abusing their companions. Or mortals will suffer the consequences. My demon claimed to be called ‘Legion.’ Is that the same as yours?”
She frowned and narrowed her eyes. “Police ask questions. We don’t answer them. Keep talking.”
And here he’d been thinking she wasn’t a typical cop. Still, putting two and two together and adding them up to five, somebody wasn’t telling the whole truth. Somebody with golden skin, no sex, and no hair.
“I don’t trust demons. They lie, they play tricks, their goals aren’t my goals. I think Legion wanted me here because I’m a smith. I can heal that star. Nothing to do with stopping the fires. You’re the detective—that’s your job. My job is working iron. Let me take the star back to my forge and make it whole. It’s important.”
Her frown turned into full-blown scowl. “Little man, I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived long enough that I don’t believe everything I hear. I’ve come across old broken magic that damn well should stay broken. I want to find out what that star really does before I’m going to let you fix it.”
Her “little man” phrase was starting to annoy him. Which was probably why she used it—he was getting a sense of why she said the police “put up” with her for her special skills. The woman liked to piss off people.
“Look, that thing feels about as old as Solomon.”
“You expect me to believe that Suleiman bin Dauod was a blacksmith? ”
“I didn’t say Solomon made it himself. Just that it was too old for me to tell. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Solomon as a powerful wizard, not just a king—commanding the winds and the djinni and knowing the language of the animals. Aren’t some of those straight from the Qur’an itself, the words of the Prophet?”
She blinked at that. “Peace be upon him . . . Four or five, yes.”
She broke off and shivered. Not the cold, not with the warm spring day, blue sky and sun. “I’ll get a police magician out here to look at it.”
He’d been ignoring the buzz while they talked. It spiked for a moment, another twinge from his teeth up to his temples and pressing on his eyeballs from the inside
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