Price of Angels (4 page)

              It wasn’t hers, per se, but she’d been slick enough to swipe it, the day she left home. Her old home. And she’d had the thoughtfulness to have it repainted. She didn’t like to dwell on that particular transaction, was just glad for the halfway decent coat of new black paint on the old, formerly red Chevelle.

              Her keys made the familiar jangle as she unlocked the door. She scanned the shadows of the lot, the spots of deep dark between the other cars as she opened the door and slid inside. Thump – she locked the door the second it was shut. The engine turned over with a conspicuous growl that was too loud. Nothing to be done for it. The thing was a classic – 1967 – and it was a deep-throated, proud machine.

              It was a short drive to her apartment, and an even shorter walk to the door. She rented a room on the third floor of an old converted Victorian estate, the manse carved up into four units, plus her attic loft. The driveway was a wide circular pass that went all the way around the house, passing in front of the carriage house where she had a storage locker, and out on the other side, leaving plenty of parking room for the five tenants.

              Holly clutched her purse to her chest, keys clenched tight in her fist as she skirted the heavy shade trees and power walked up to the front porch. It was so dark. Shadows everywhere: between the shrubs, under the thick oak limbs, in the corners of the wraparound porch, lurking in the eaves, with their contrasting black trim on the gingerbread. She hated nighttime, hated everything about it. She felt small, vulnerable, and exposed. For all that it hid the demons of her imagination, it seemed to put her on display, her footfalls too loud, her breath pluming like smoke. She waited, every night, for the life she’d fled to catch up to her, to literally spring from the shadows and dig claws into her.

              That didn’t happen tonight, though. Tonight, she made it to the door, unlocked it, slipped inside. The main floor of the house smelled like burnt cookies: old Mrs. Chalmers baking again. She heard the dim thump of music: Eric putting together another demo album for his band.

              The front hall ran straight back to the sun porch, the first floor units branching off to the side, light shining dimly through the glazed glass transoms and door insets. Holly took a moment to breathe in the musty scents of the old mansion, the tang of beeswax, the dry smell of dust, letting her pulse slow. Then she started up the staircase, hand on the smooth waxed bannister, the steps creaking and groaning beneath her work sneakers.

              The second staircase was narrower, tucked away in a corner of the second floor hallway. Formerly used by the servants that lived in the attic, it gave Holly private access to her loft. She let herself in, welcomed by the lamps she’d left on, and set about the business of engaging all her locks.

              She’d gone to Home Depot the day she’d moved in, and bought an assortment of locks and security chains. Eric the bass player downstairs had helped her install them, more than a little curious as to her reasoning.

              “I want to feel safe,” she’d explained, and left it at that.

              She didn’t feel safe, even with them, but it was better than not having them.

              Only once she was all locked in could she release a deep breath and let herself slump back against the door, enjoying the sight of this, her first place that was hers and hers alone. A place that she’d decorated. A place where she slept with the foreign and wonderful knowledge that no one would wake her roughly in the night. A place lived-in and loved. She’d told herself not to fall in love, because she had no idea how long she could stay here, but it had happened anyway. She loved these walls, and this space.

              There were five windows, Gothic dormers that projected out along the roof, creating deep ledges, one of which she’d filled with a tiny fake Christmas tree, draped with colored lights. The ceiling was sloped, angling down in the four corners from a central ridge. It created a cozy, cave-like loft, full of charm.

              Her furniture had come with the place: the iron framed bed under one eave; the sun-faded, but clean peach sofa and loveseat; the patchwork chair and footstool, the rug with its brown and cream swirls and loops. There was a dated, but serviceable TV, hooked up to the satellite that fed the whole house. A shabby-chic wall of corrugated tin provided sliding barn door access to the bathroom in one corner. There was a bookcase loaded with dusty old volumes, left by the various tenants over the years, Mrs. Chalmers had explained. The kitchenette boasted a narrow fridge, sink, oven with cooktop, one small counter and three cabinets. Original knotted pine floors ran the length of the apartment, smooth and scalloped from years’ worth of tread.

              Holly unwound her scarf and gloves, left them on the pegs by the door with her jacket, and went first to the Christmas tree that filled the window and half the apartment with the multicolored glow of the cheery lights. She turned on the TV, found a channel running sitcom reruns. Walked to the bed and sat down on its edge, on the faded peach and mint green quilt.

              Her legs were covered in chill bumps and vaguely blue thanks to the silk boxing shorts she had to wear to work. Some nights she folded up a pair of jeans to take in her purse, but other nights she didn’t bother.

              She chafed her shins with her hands, bringing the circulation back to them, letting the Christmas lights and the happy murmur of the TV soothe her, warm her shaking cold insides. Usually, just those small things were enough to push the shadows back, such small comforts she’d never known before.

              But tonight, her heart was heavy, and it would take more than small comforts to assuage its hurts.

              She clicked on the bedside lamp and then reached for the snaps of the leather cuff on her left wrist. She had vague tan lines, from September, when she’d first found them at a thrift store and started wearing the bracelets. The skin they covered was milky white by contrast, and the old rope scar had been angered by the cold night air, red and raw-looking under the lamp. She massaged it, though it didn’t hurt; willed it away, though she knew it would stay forever. Off came the other cuff and she set them aside, on the nightstand. Her shields against all the questions she never wanted to try and answer.

              Her journal was in the top drawer, and she withdrew it now, the small notebook with the red leather cover. It was the kind with silk ribbon ties, which she always knotted carefully after each use. A symbolic way to keep the words safe, hidden. God help her if anyone ever found this book, but she had to keep it. She had to put her observations
somewhere
, or go completely mad at last.

              She unknotted the ribbon, turned to the most recent page, reached for the pen in the bottom of the drawer.

December 19.

He said no. What am I going to do?

**

The sound of the siren woke Ava. She was dreaming about New Orleans, about the sanctuary in the swamp that was Saints Hollow, the swarming midges and the relentless heat, wanting an escape from this tight grip of winter, perhaps, when the siren cut through the dream fog and brought her slowly awake, as its whining grew stronger and stronger, right outside on the street.

              Mercy was, as usual, taking up most of the bed, and when she opened her eyes, she could see that it was his hair, and not her own, that fell across her eyes. His face was tucked tight against the back of her head, his strong arm tight around her, his hand pressed over her belly. It wasn’t possible for him to hold her any closer than he was doing, and she could hear, and feel, him snoring against her neck.

              She reached to brush the silky black hair out of her face and shifted position, easing from beneath his arm, earning a snort for her efforts.

              He inhaled deeply, chest swelling, pressing at her back. “Wha…?”

              “You could sleep through the apocalypse, couldn’t you?” she asked, managing to sit up, his arm still heavy across her lap.

              He was breathing hard, a little disoriented, coming out of a dream of his own. He cleared his throat and sounded more awake. “What’s wrong?”

              “Sirens.” Her robe was draped over the bed post and she slipped it on over her naked, chilled skin.

              “So? There’s always sirens.”

              “They stopped right outside. Close somewhere.”

              Mercy and the bed both groaned as she got to her feet.

              She smiled to herself in the dark. He was downright clingy these days, wanting to take advantage of every second they had together, wanting to be as close as possible. She woke, sick to her stomach most nights, and found him either tangled with her, arms and legs locked at funny angles, or awake and watching her. He would settle, eventually, once he got used to the idea that they had nothing but time ahead of them, but for now, she thought his overflowing affection was pretty adorable.

              As she left their closet-sized bedroom, she heard him curse and climb out of bed to follow her.

              “You don’t have to get up,” she said, as she rounded the corner into the bathroom, where she would have the best window view of the street below.

              “Neither do you,” he muttered, shuffling loudly after her.

              It was a tiny place, the apartment he’d had as a bachelor years before, and that they’d managed to rent again, by perfect chance. The bathroom was all original fixtures – claw tub, pedestal sink, subway tile – and cold as a tomb in the dead of night. Ava shivered as the tiles bit into her bare feet, and walked to the streetlamp-glazed window, peering out toward the commotion.

              There were revolving blue and red lights: an ambulance, fire rescue truck, and a police cruiser.

              “Damn.”

              Mercy stepped up behind her without regard for personal space, his chest pressing into her shoulders. He didn’t have a robe, like she did, and she didn’t know how he stood the cold, naked like he was. “What?”

              “Someone’s hurt,” she said, judging by the assortment of vehicles. She frowned to herself, at her ghostly reflection in the window glass. “Someone at Bell Bar.”

It was three-thirty by the time Michael ditched Serena’s car and called it a night, a text fired off to Ghost to assure his president that the job was done, as professional and seamless as always. He didn’t count on a response and didn’t get one; he’d just wanted to clock out, so to speak.

              Three-thirty. Tonight’s closing time at Bell Bar.

              Holly was getting off at three-thirty; probably closing.

              He shouldn’t have cared. On some plane, he didn’t.

              But he couldn’t recall a time in his life when a woman had invested any time in him. And Holly sitting across from him every night, asking him about his reading, inquiring after his health, bringing him complimentary pie – that all smacked of investment. She had those big doe eyes, and there was emotion shining in them. She harbored an affection for him. All the groupie girls at the clubhouse, they’d come to him, because they wanted a Dog, and any one would do, but he saw the fear, the caution in their eyes. He didn’t compliment them, flirt with them, play to their insecurities. He wasn’t one to give the full-on outlaw experience. They were always tugging their clothes back in place right after he finished, making excuses, ducking back out into the hall, looking for one of the other boys, the ones who talked shit and fed them meaningless lines.

              Holly wasn’t nervous with him. Holly always came, always sat, always squeezed her breasts together, a move that contrasted sharply with the soft, kindhearted wonder etched across her pretty little face. She was drawn to him. Wanted to be with him. He didn’t understand it, but at three-thirty in the morning, after he’d spent the night disposing of a body, it seemed extremely stupid of him to question her motives. And he regretted telling her no flat-out. He should have worked his stiff mouth into more elegant words. Should have explained things to her.

              That was all – he was thinking about her now because he felt guilty about leaving her hanging on one syllable. No. And because she wanted to spend time with him, she deserved a complete sentence. He owed her that, because she liked him, and he didn’t understand why.

              He’d go by the bar again, he decided. Walk her to her car, make sure she got away safely, and he’d tell her that he appreciated the offer, but that he didn’t sleep with girls who were that scared.

              When he rounded the corner at the bakery, and headed toward Bell Bar, his foot slid off the accelerator a moment. Flashing emergency lights, so many of them, turning the night into a disco.

              He let the truck coast to a halt. Something had happened. Not a drunk customer, too late for that. This was an employee who was hurt. This was…

              He gunned the engine and parked along the empty curb, hitting the pavement at a fast walk, breath coming in thick, smoke-like plumes in the frigid night.

              As he approached the side-alley that ran alongside the bar, he saw that the paramedics were standing back at the sidewalk, hands at their hips, looking grim. There was no helping whoever was hurt, then.