Страница 11 из 25
"Five or six?" I said, truly surprised. Maybe the Tilsons were Weres and the woman was from a highly dominant pack. But why space them out over five years? "That's a lot."
"Yeah," the kid said, scoffing. "I'm not having any kids. But if I do, I'm going to have them all right away. Get it over with. I don't want to be sixty and changing diapers."
I shrugged. There was eight years between me and Robbie, and I didn't see anything wrong with it. He'd raised me as much as my parents, and I had no complaints. But my mom was a witch, so changing diapers at sixty was about the norm. Gle
The boy's expression became disappointed, and I smiled. "Hey, I could use someone this spring to mow my graveyard." I hesitated. "If you don't think that's too weird. My number is on the card."
He beamed, fingering it. "Yeah, that would be great," he said, then glanced at the house. "I don't think my dad will let me mow their lawn anymore."
"Call me, about April?" I said, and he nodded. "Thanks, Matt. You were a big help."
"No problem," he said, and I gave him a final smile and walked away. When I looked over my shoulder, he had his head bent to his friend's, and they were ogling my phone number. "You okay, Jenks?" I said, hoofing it away from the lights and back to the garage. Damn, wait until Ivy heard what I'd found out.
"Yeah," he said, gripping my hair harder. "But will you slow down? Unless you want pixy barf in your hair."
Immediately I checked my pace, tripping when I took the curb without looking so I wouldn't have to tilt my head. Jenks swore when I stumbled, but my pulse jackhammered when my head swung up. It wasn't the almost-fall that shook me, but who was standing by my car, staring at it. Tom Bansen—it had to be—the same man who had tried to kill me by way of Al.
"Holy crap, it's Tom," I said, then shouted, "Get away from my car!" as I started to jog.
"Son of a fairy whore," Jenks swore. "What's he doing here?"
"I don't know." Caution slowed me down as I approached. "Better be quiet. If he knows you're here, all he has to do is knock my hat off and Matalina is a single parent."
Jenks became quiet. Tom continued to stand with his hands in his pockets, looking at my car as if debating something. Nervousness coated my anger as I halted a careful five feet back, puffing out white clouds in the streetlight and looking at the man like the snake he was. I'd heard he'd gotten fired from the I.S.—probably for the stupidity of being caught summoning demons to murder someone—but since I'd been the one Tom had been trying to off, the I.S. had done nothing more than that.
"What are you doing here?" I said, not anxious to have to defend myself, but not wanting to let him poke around in my car either.
The young man had a new hardness in his blue eyes as he stood on the shoveled sidewalk and looked speculatively at me in the lamplight. He was clearly cold in his parka and hat, the chill almost killing the redwood scent that all witches had. I'd once thought he was attractive in a tidy, almost-scholarly way—I still did, actually—but freeing Al to kill or abduct me had long since shifted the attraction to disgust.
"Trying to make a living," he answered, a tinge of red showing on his cheeks. "I've been shu
My jaw dropped and I backed up. I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't going to take the blame for it either. "I wasn't the one kidnapping girls to pay demons for black curses," I said. "Maybe you should rethink your logic, Sherlock."
He smiled in a not-nice way. Turning as if to leave, he said, "I'll be around if you want to talk." I sputtered in disbelief at the invitation and he added, "Nice car," before he walked away, hands still jammed into his big pockets.
"Hey!" I shouted, almost going after him, but the thought of his shu
Making a living, I thought as I watched him. Tom had probably gone independent, seeing that the I.S. wouldn't touch him now, even under the table. And looking like he was having a hard time of it, I added as he got into a rust-cut '64 Chevy and drove away.
I headed for the Tilsons' house, jerking to a halt at a sudden thought. Fingers fumbling in my bag, I pulled out my key ring and the lethal-magic detection amulet on it. The thing had saved my life a couple of times, and Tom had a vested interest in seeing me gone.
"Rache…," Jenks complained as I started to make a slow circuit around my vehicle.
"You want to be blown up smaller than fairy dust?" I muttered, and he tugged on my hair.
"Tom's a weenie," the pixy protested, but I finished my circuit, breathing easier when the amulet stayed a nice, healthy green. Tom hadn't spelled my car, but a sense of unease lingered, even as I turned to the cordoned-off house and crossed the street. And it wasn't because I might have some competition in the independent-ru
Just that fast, my life can end. Tom hadn't left a charm on my car, but it wouldn't hurt to ask Edden if he'd have one of his dogs sniff around it. Boot heels clacking, I reached the door off the garage and went inside. Jenks sighed heavily, but I didn't care if I did look like a paranoid chicken when I asked Edden for a ride home.
I was done with being stupid about these kinds of things.
Four
The sudden cessation of wind as I passed into the garage was a blessed relief, and I paused, taking in the curious mix of space and clutter, the edges stacked with old boxes from grocery stores and mail-order places. Close to the steps leading inside were several large toys, bright with primary-colored plastic. The toddler sled had been used from the looks of it, but the rest was summer stuff. It had been a good Christmas, apparently.
Tracks of flattened snow showed where a big-assed truck had been on the otherwise swept cement. There wasn't room for two vehicles, and I wondered if Mr. Tilson was overcompensating for something. 'Course, maybe it was Mrs. Tilson who had the truck fetish. I sniffed deeply for the scent of Inderlander, finding only the dry smell of old concrete and dust, and I shivered.
I eyed the storage boxes, remembering what my dad had once told me when I'd tried to get out of cleaning the garage. People put things in garages that they don't want but can't get rid of. Dangerous stuff, sometimes. Too dangerous to keep inside, and too dangerous to throw out and risk someone finding. Mr. and Mrs. Tilson had a very full garage.
"Come on, Rache!" Jenks complained, tugging on my hair. "I'm cold!"
Giving the boxes a last look, I went up the cement steps. The hum of a vacuum was a faint presence as I opened the cheerfully painted door and entered a seventies kitchen, nodding to the officer with a clipboard seated at the table. The window above the sink looked out over the front yard and the news van. A high chair done in pinks and yellows was pulled up beside the square table. A box of throw-away boot covers was on it, and I sighed, taking my gloves off and tucking them in my coat pockets.