Read Online Wild Cards: Death Draws Five by George R.R. Martin, John J. Miller - Free Book Online Page A

the soggy mass of ice cream sliding slowly down the front of his pants, then back up at the Angel.
    His eyes were wild
    “Oh,” the Angel said. She hunkered down and tried to wipe the mess from the front of his pants. A glob of ice cream ran down his right pant leg, leaving a rather noticeable trail. Then she realized what she was doing. All she could say was “Oh,” again.
    The fury disappeared from Ray’s face, to be replaced by an expression of sudden bemusement. “If you keep that up we’ll have to get a room.” He grinned crookedly. “Good thing we’re already in a hotel.”
    The Angel stood up before him. She could feel a blush infuse her features, and that made her blush all the harder.
    “Not that I don’t appreciate the way you introduce yourself,” Ray said, “but who the Hell are you, anyway?”
    The Angel realized she was staring at him from the distance of only a few inches. Their eyes were on the same level. Their bodies were chest to chest, almost touching.
    “The Hand sent me to meet you—”
    “The Hand?” Ray interrupted.
    She reached out and grabbed his arm to forestall, she was sure, another off-color comment. She had always thought it a corny cliché of romance novels, which she knew she shouldn’t read but sometimes couldn’t help herself, but his eyes did burn into hers. For a wild moment she thought he was going to kiss her right there, right in front of all the passers-by who were glancing curiously at the scene being played out before them.
    Then he said, “Let go of my arm. It’s going numb.”
    The Angel released him, flushing again with embarrassment. Once again her cursed body had shamed her. If she had hurt this agent of The Hand. If her clumsiness had damaged him—
    Billy Ray flexed his hand to get the feeling back in his fingers. He smiled at her.
    “That’s quite the grip you’ve got,” he said.
    The Angel backed away, confused by his lightning-quick mood swings. “We must go,” she said. “We have a job to do.”
    “Maybe,” Ray allowed. “If by ‘The Hand,’ you mean Leo Barnett.”
    The Angel started, barely suppressing her urge to clamp a hand over his mouth. She looked wildly about to see if anyone had heard him blurt out his ridiculous indiscretion. “You’re not supposed to say his name,” she informed Ray in a ferocious whisper.
    “What, Barnett’s?” he asked innocently.
    “Shhhhh!”
    “All right, all right,” Ray said, laughing. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk about this job we’re supposed to do together.”
    “Where?” The Angel asked suspiciously.
    “I suppose the coffee shop would do,” Ray said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “Although a room—”
    ”The coffee shop,” the Angel said definitively.
    “All right,” Ray agreed, easily enough. “What’s your name, anyway?”
    “The Midnight Angel,” she told him.
    “Angel,” Ray repeated, nodding. “Cool. It fits you.”
    “Not ‘Angel,’” she corrected. “The Angel.”
    Ray frowned. “Whatever,” he said as they moved off together through the lobby. “I’m not going to call you ‘The.’”
    New York City: The Waldorf-Astoria
    Though it had been decades since he’d last seen it, the Waldorf-Astoria’s lobby was much as John Nighthawk remembered. Intimate lighting caressed dark wainscoting, potted palms, marble accents, and expensive carpets, as well as a huge bronze clock that dominated the room like an art deco behemoth. Nine feet in height and two tons in weight, its marble and mahogany base was topped by a bronze Statue of Liberty that gleamed in the twilight-lit lobby as if it had just been polished. Other statues incorporated into the ornate clock included Queen Victoria, Benjamin Franklin, George Washington, Andrew Jackson, and Ulysses S. Grant. It looked like a bastard to dust.
    As I know well, Nighthawk thought. He had dusted and polished it himself often enough, ages ago in another lifetime before the Takisian virus had