Bound by Flame (8 page)

His gaze drifted from cabs to buses and back to Cynda.

She was so beautiful with her wild red hair and burned-up tunic and jeans. She didn’t give a damn about all the burn holes. Just took them in stride. Being a fire Sibyl probably made her accept more than a lot of people.

Like me?

Crazy-assed thought.

He needed to take her to bed. Yesterday. But screwing was screwing. Sex didn’t have to mean relationships and futures and weddings. Besides, women who stayed too close to him for too long tended to end up dead. He didn’t need that kind of entanglement, and he didn’t think Cynda wanted it, either.

Except, he
did
want to kiss her again. Now. He wanted to pull the Jeep over, grab her, and look into those green eyes. He’d had his share of women, but no question Cynda put them all to shame.

All that spark. All that
fire.

“Max Moses lives here?” Cynda asked as Nick pulled into a parking space near the Jacob Riis Houses and flipped his police placard onto the dashboard. “They’ve been fixing these places up, haven’t they?”

“Much as they can. Max’s mother lives in that building.” He pointed.

Cynda shot Nick an uncomfortable frown. “We’re leaning on the guy’s mother? That’s pretty low.”

“You haven’t met Delilah.” Nick turned off the Jeep. “Leave your sword in the car.”

He pocketed the keys and got out as she glared at him, but she unbelted the sword and placed it on the floorboard. As she opened her door and let in a spit of white flakes, Nick kept a sharp eye on her. She’d kept her word about not running out the back of the brownstone, but the whole bodyguard issue pissed her off. Sooner or later, she’d do
something
stupid. He was sure of it.

As soon as Cynda was clear of the Jeep, Nick flanked her, keeping his body between her and the street. Trouble could hit from any side, but he figured the tenement’s grounds were a safer bet than the road.

He and Cynda didn’t speak as he guided her toward one of the thirteen multiangled brick high-rises that made up the main section of the Jacob Riis Houses. The building he needed had about twelve floors, dingy brown brick but washed and clean, and with a rehabilitated children’s park directly in front. The reds and yellows of the park rides and toys stood in contrast to the older, tired building behind it.

“Sixth floor,” he told Cynda as they walked inside.

The elevators, of course, were out of order, so they took the six flights of stairs. Even with all the polishing, painting, and fixing up, graffiti made a comeback here in a hurry. So did the stink of bleach and piss.

Nick glanced at Cynda. She didn’t so much as wrinkle her pretty nose. Most people would have been gagging, unless they wore a badge. As they left the stairwell, she seemed almost relaxed, laid-back, or disinterested. A casual observer would take her for an easy mark.

Big mistake.

Cynda noticed everything.

Nick watched as she scanned in front of her, beside her, behind her, like the most seasoned cop, aware of every little piece and part of the environment. No doubt she’d remember facial details of the few people they had passed on the grounds, in the entry, and the one or two who brushed by in the stairwells.

Impressive.

Once they reached the door to Delilah Moses’s apartment, Nick gestured for Cynda to stand to one side, and he did the same. Better safe than sorry with this pistol of a woman.

He knocked. “Delilah?” He waited a few seconds, knocked again. “It’s Nick Lowell.”

From inside the apartment came a distinctive, predictable grunt, followed by, “What’s the useless streak of piss done
now,
cop?”

“She’s Irish,” Cynda muttered. “Old school.”

Nick put his finger to his lips, then said, “Just need to find him. Give us a hand?”

The sound of locks and chains being removed echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway, along with some swearing, and, “May the devil take that boy sideways, all the trouble he brings to my door.”

Cynda’s brows came together. She relaxed her arms at her sides, keeping both hands free, loose and ready to fight off a potential threat.

Again, Nick was impressed. Cynda would have made a good cop.

The door opened with a squeak and a scrape.

Delilah looked a lot older than the last time Nick saw her, what, two or three months ago? Stark white hair now, trapped in a frizzy bun. She’d lost weight and added wrinkles, too.

Why the big change?

Her cloudy brown eyes cut toward Cynda.

“She’s with me.” Nick said. “Name’s Cynda.”

“Her shirt’s got holes in it,” Delilah grumbled as she admitted them to her small one-bedroom unit. “Pants, too.”

Nick automatically catalogued his surroundings. Like everything else at the Jacob Riis Houses, her unit had a newish coat of off-white paint, already dingy from city air. Her small living area boasted only a three-seater sofa, a chair, a television, and a couple of end tables. Off the living area on one side was a kitchen, and on the opposite side were the closed doors to the bedroom and bathroom, which Nick had searched several times before. His enhanced senses told him nobody lurked behind those doors. It was just him and Cynda and Delilah.

His eyes watered at the stink clinging to everything. Mild skunk with a lot of garlic, coupled with spicy meat and yeast. He coughed even though he was trying not to.

Cynda took a deep breath, like the stench was heaven itself. “Corned beef and cabbage. Brown bread.” She smiled. “Those were my favorites growing up. That and Dublin coddle.”

“I go a little heavy on the parsley, and my bacon’s smoked when I make coddle,” Delilah said as she seated herself in the single chair, sounding like a happy girl instead of the mean viper Nick knew her to be. Ignoring him, she asked Cynda, “
Fíor-Ghaeltacht?
”

Cynda nodded. “I was raised in a valley near Connemara.” She settled on the end of the couch nearest Delilah, where the woman had beckoned for her to sit.

Delilah glanced from Cynda’s red hair to her burned shirt and jeans. “Connemara, you say. Well.” She sucked in air, let it out, then gazed into Cynda’s eyes. “I think I understand.”

Nick sat on the other end of the couch and watched as the two women seemed to speak a language all their own. He felt a step behind, and definitely to the side. Left out completely.

“Do you, now?” Cynda asked in a gentle yet challenging voice. “Do you really understand?”

Nick winced. He tensed and waited for one of Delilah’s tirades, but the old woman just averted her gaze from Cynda’s.

Modest, almost, studying her knees.

Nick leaned back on the couch, too surprised to say a word.

Delilah Moses raised her eyes to his and said, “Hear me, cop. Take your lady far away. Things aren’t safe for her kind here.”

Nick’s mouth came open, but he clamped it shut.

Cynda’s expression never changed. She looked unnaturally calm and peaceful. If it weren’t for the holes in her tunic and jeans, she might as well have been one of those beatific statues in a church.

This is totally fucked up.
Nick managed to yank out his notebook and pen. “Why should I take her away, Delilah?”

“Rats eat yer meat, man.” The old woman’s expression turned sour, more normal. “Just do as I say.”

Nick held back a grin. Now
this
was Delilah. “What’s Max gotten himself into?”

Delilah waved a thickly veined hand. “Like I know. The cocknose ratbark.” She made a noise as if she was thinking about spitting, but didn’t. “If it’s not one set of hoodlums, it’s another. God gives the boy a gift, a prescience, and he pisses it away on Guinness and the ponies. This time, though…” She touched her head, chest, and both shoulders, crossing herself as if to ward off evil. “This time it’s him who’ll answer to Saint Peter, not me. I taught him right and true, you understand?”

This last question was directed at Cynda, who granted Delilah a dignified nod, which seemed to make the old woman feel better.

What am I missing?
Nick didn’t like being out of the know, but in his gut, he trusted Cynda. Any idiot could see her presence had mellowed Delilah, and they’d already gotten more out of the old crone than Nick expected.

Once more, Delilah looked at Nick, and jerked a thumb toward Cynda. “Take her away from here. Tonight. Don’t wait.”

“What’s the threat?” Nick asked.

Delilah shook her head. “Wish I knew. I’d be spillin’ it in a second—for her.” She smiled at Cynda in a way that made Nick wonder what the old woman was seeing.

“Is Max part of the threat?” Nick kept his pen ready.

“That piss artist is mixed up with everything shady, may the cat eat him.” Delilah settled against her chair arm, easing closer to Cynda as she spoke. “Especially this bunch of beggars callin’ themselves the Legion.”

Cynda’s spine straightened. She leaned forward and gave Delilah an earnest, searching look. “Do you know the name of the person he’s working for in the Legion?”

Nick took a breath and held it.

Delilah crossed herself again, and Cynda didn’t push her.

Well, if she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—he would. “How about the man’s name?”

Delilah looked at Cynda and sighed. “Men. Always assumin’ they’re in power, yes?”

Cynda smiled, but her green eyes gave a wicked flash as she glanced at Nick and said, “Absolutely.”

Delilah glared at Nick. “It’s no man, ya whiskey-dick. It takes a woman to get this devious. This…evil.” She crossed herself twice this time.

Nick cleared his throat. “Give me
her
name?”

Delilah’s eyes grew hard and flinty. Like Cynda right before a fire explosion. Nick half expected the couch beneath him to start crackling and smoking.

“And if I hang myself out to dry for you, cop…” She pointed a crooked finger right at Nick’s nose. “Will you be mindin’ what I said and takin’ your lady out of this city?”

Nick stole a glance at Cynda, who nodded imperceptibly. She was sitting so still, so careful and regal, she could have passed for royalty.

“Yes,” he said, wondering if he was lying, and why it mattered.

“You’re lyin’ to an old woman, but I’ll tell ya anyway. I got part of the name. Initials, mostly.” Delilah gestured to Nick’s pad. “Write this down. J. C. Downy. That’s who signed Max’s checks, like it’s all up-and-up and legitimate, though God knows, it’s not.” She rolled her eyes. “Good sums. Trying to make him dress nicer, too, and stay off the weed and drink some.” She shrugged. “It may work a while, but if you go puttin’ silk on a goat, it’s still a goat. He’ll be back to his old ways in no time.”

“Thank you,” Cynda said before Nick could respond. “What can I give you in return for taking this risk with your life and Max’s on my behalf?”

“Wait a minute,” Nick began, but Cynda cut him off with a glare that would have melted Queen Elizabeth’s ass to her throne.

“Two things,” Delilah said, clearly ignoring Nick, and clearly expecting and waiting for the offer Cynda made. “The first is my boy, Max. He’s a whiskey-dick like this’un here, for sure. This cop won’t be takin’ you away, and you’ll pay for that, mark my words. But Max’s my blood. The boy’s all I’ve got. If ever he comes into your sight, don’t kill him unless you’ve no other choice—and make sure whatever’s left of him gets back to me for fixin’.”

Nick sat, disbelieving, as Cynda agreed. “I give you my word I’ll do whatever I can.”

Delilah’s smile looked both shy and frightened. “And the second—that word of yours. Will you seal it in the old way?”

Cynda’s eyebrows came together, but just as quickly, she relaxed.

Before Nick could tell her not to or ask what that was supposed to mean, Cynda offered Delilah her hand.

Delilah looked at Cynda’s palm and waited.

Little flames broke out on Cynda’s skin, small, tightly controlled.

A sound of wonderment escaped Delilah. “Knew I was right. Yes, I did.”

Quickly, she took hold of Cynda’s hand, and the two of them pressed out the flames with the force of their grips.

Nick knew Cynda had managed the fire so the old woman wouldn’t receive any serious burns, but he still didn’t have a clue why the handshake was happening.

Delilah Moses stared at the soft red streaks on her hand like she had just been touched by an angel. She let out a long, satisfied sigh and said, “Max has been keepin’ himself at East River Park, or up in Central Park—and sometimes over in Washington Heights. I don’t think he’s about today, though. I think he’s gone to see
her.
The high-and-mighty Missus Downy. One of her places is somewhere north. The Bronx, maybe up by the Sound. I don’t know the rest of ’em.”

Nick scribbled that down. Surprise on top of surprise. The last time he’d had a chat with Delilah, the old woman had almost shot him in the foot to protect Max. Yet she just handed Cynda information for a bargain and a flaming handshake.

Delilah saw them to the door of her apartment like they were old friends, gabbling on to Cynda in her heavy brogue about something called treacle and the best brown bread she ever ate, and some abbey in Ireland, near where Cynda was raised. When they stepped out into the hall, though, the old woman didn’t shut the door.

Instead, she stood looking expectantly at Cynda.

What now?
Nick gripped his notebook, watching both women.

Cynda raised her right hand, thought for a moment, then said, “Walls for the wind, a roof for the rain, and drinks beside the fire.” She moved her hand, and a tight ring of fire sprouted on the outside of the woman’s door, etching a pattern that looked like three spirals contained in a larger circle, just above the little gold apartment numbers. “Laughter to cheer you, those you love near you, and all that your heart may desire.”

Once more, Delilah reverted to a young child and actually clapped her hands. “Thank you, lady. I never thought to be blessed by one such as you. You’ve brightened an old woman’s life.”

Cynda’s graceful tilt of her head was her only answer.

Delilah made a little curtsy, like European women gave royalty. To Nick, she said, “Long travels to ya, cop.”