Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (5 page)

Chiara clinked through the bottles, lifting one up and peering into its questionable contents. "You're a travelling show, like the vaudeville folk I remember growing up."

"I'll have you know it's all quite authentic, thank you." He grabbed a cordless razor and began to shave. "One hundred percent snake oil free."

"Mmm." She closed the lid and pushed the box back enough so she could sit in the bay. "So this is where you live."

"I don't live anywhere." Dropping his razor into the bag, he located a hair brush and a stick of deodorant. "My home is the open road. Sometimes, quite literally."

She turned her back, giving him a little privacy.

He eyed her. Manners, after all. Don't often see that in an exorcist. They tended to be a bossy lot, especially the well-funded, natural kind.

She swung her feet. "Home is where you hang your hat."

"Don't like hats." He reached behind her and flipped open a small metal box. Another thing he didn't care if she saw. Just his piggy bank. Rolls, wads, rubber-banded stacks. He shuffled through the loose bills and took a few, flipping the box shut again. "But I do like all-day breakfast. Come on."

She hopped down so he could shut the doors. "Aren't you going to lock it?"

"I'll do one better." Raising his hands, he chanted a few lines. It was a dead language, but it still held power. He pulled a thin stick from his pocket.

"What's that?"

"Chicory. Grows like weeds around here." He pointed behind him, where the blue flowers straggled along the fence line of the parking lot. He'd harvested enough to last a long time. One of the reasons why he parked the van here. "In addition to being a very manly type of flower, it's a magical aid."

Flicking his lighter, he set the tip aflame. The stick sizzled and incinerated into a puff of smoke.

Chiara watched him, wearing an amused expression. She pointed to the boot. "What are you going to do about that?"

"What I always do. Fast talk my way out of it." He jerked his head toward the diner. "Come on."

Perhaps three feet from the van, they passed through a shimmery border. Chills raced down between his shoulders as he crossed through the ward. Something he never got used to—a prickly kind of shiver that both thrilled and terrified him. Just a little. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone.

He shook it off. Once on the other side, the van vanished from their sight.

"See? Invisibility from a weed. Will magical wonders never cease?" He smoothed his hair once more. "We've fed the meter, love. Time to feed us."

Chiara wasn't hungry.

She never really was. One of the perks of being part divinity.

Or maybe not. Simon was working his way through a pot of coffee and his second plate of waffles, seeming to enjoy every crowded mouthful, yet devouring the food like it was his last meal. Such urgency, such hurry, such relish.

All she did was push pieces of cantaloupe around a plate with her fork. Maybe not a perk at all. She scowled. Better not to think that way.

She glanced around the diner. Simon had said it was a favorite spot of his. Suited him—casual, loud, a little rumpled around the edges. Very human. Very temporary, and not seeming to mind in the least.

It was strange, sitting in a place like this, as if she were just an ordinary person having an everyday meal. Strange but…nice.

And "nice" was a welcomed change.

"How you doing with coffee, Murph?" The waitress stopped at their table and lifted the pot. "I'll bring you a fresh one. You okay with your juice, hon?"

Chiara just nodded. The glass was almost full.

"Okay, you need anything, just holler." The waitress winked at Simon before walking away.

"Strange to hear them call you Murphy." Chiara took a shy glance at his face and tilted her head. "You don't look like a Murphy."

"How many Murphys you know?"

"In Baltimore or in general?" She blinked innocently at him. "I did spend some time in County Wexford before the Great Migration. Murphys all over the place."

He shook his head. "Great Migration. I have a feeling you're trying to date yourself. Quit it. I'm trying to act like hot young chicks hang out with me all the time. Don't wreck the illusion."

She chuckled and took a tentative bite of cantaloupe. Such a bright, summery taste. And mortals ate like this every day. How did they possibly stand the pleasure?

The television blared behind her on the counter. Local news. She tilted her head, trying to capture another part of this moment, this everyday world.

"Local authorities have been asking residents to notify police if they have seen this man."

Simon had looked up, his eyes turning to stone. She craned her head to look at what caught his attention.

The TV flashed a picture of a shaggy-looking young man, bleached-blond hair with dark roots, scruffy jaw. Chin tipped a little too high to be humble. A name and number in choppy block letters most likely cropped out from beneath his face.

A mugshot. Of him.

He swore under his breath.

"Simon Alliant, formerly of Boston, has been thought to be living in the Eastern US and has been spotted near Baltimore. He is wanted for questioning. Please call—"

The station turned to white snow static.

She whipped her head back in time to see him lower his hand before sullenly stabbing at his breakfast. He solved everything with his magic, didn't he?

The waitress heard the noise and picked up the remote, switching the channels, before retreating to her newspaper at the end of the counter.

Chiara waited until the girl was out of earshot. "That was you."

He didn't look up. "In all my mid-nineties flannel-shirted glory."

"What do the police want?"

"What they always want, I suppose." He topped off his coffee. "Peace, order, a chance to put on the riot gear."

"What do they want with you?"

Simon met her eyes, rubbing his mouth, looking as if he were trying to decide what to say. He could be chatty when he wanted to be, but she had already formed several impressions of him. One of those impressions was mule-headed stubbornness.

"I owe you a truth," he said at long last. "Because you showed me a kindness last night by taking me in. I don't share my truths easily so I—" He choked to a stop and took a hasty gulp of coffee.

She waited, not rushing him. Gone was the cocky swagger. He was so close to talking. She didn't want to spook him.

"I've recently become an orphan. My mom. Ah. She's dead."

It didn't carry a particularly mournful tone. "Did you kill her?"

"What? Christ, you're a dark one." He pushed back against the booth. It creaked under the sudden shift of weight. "No, I didn't kill my mother."

She reached for his hand, her heart heavy with compassion. "Simon, I'm sorry. I had to ask. Why do the police want to question you? Are you in trouble?"

"When am I not in trouble?"

"That was a mug shot."

He slipped his hand out of her grasp. "It was."

"But you were seriously young in that picture."

"Strangely, I'm not flattered."

"Listen. I don't judge. That's not my division, okay? And I already know you've had dark times in your past. What is coming back to haunt you now?"

"Nothing's coming back. It's always been here."

"I'm very sorry you lost your mother. It's not easy, losing a parent. Were you with her?"

"No, no, she…she was back home. Up north. She'd been in a personal care home. No matter, she wouldn't have known me, anyway. She'd parted ways with reality a long time ago."

"That must have been hard, getting a call like that when you're so far away."

"I didn't get a call. Nobody left to call me." He sloshed fresh coffee into his half-full cup. "Nobody knows where I am. I left home and went to college, then dropped out first semester, then fell right off the edge of the planet. Couldn't stand knowing what I'd done to her."

She leaned forward, trying to press the truth out of him. "What did you do?"

"I'm the one who drove her insane. Like everything else, it's my fault. Anyway. The cops prolly just want me to pop in to sign some papers, take care of the house, that sort of thing. Legalities."

"Then why show a mug shot photo?"

"It's the only photo that still exists of me. And those things never go out of style."

Simon stood and dug the wad of bills out of his front pocket, peeling out singles and dropping them on the table. He picked up the check and turned to look for the waitress. She wasn't the one to catch his eye.

Mack stood at the far wall, next to the restrooms. Giving Simon a deliberate look and a slight nod, he disappeared into the men's room. If anyone else had done that, it would have been creepy.

He thought about it a moment. Nah. Angel or no, it was still creepy.

"Why don't you take this?" Simon handed Chiara the bill and the money. "Go settle our tab. I need to heed a call of nature."

"Fine. I'll wait outside for you."

He headed into the lavatory. Leaning, he scanned under the stalls. It was empty except for the angel, standing in front of one of the urinals.

Simon stepped up beside him and unzipped. "I'm dying to look over, you know."

"That would be rude."

"I didn't think angels had those sort of workings."

Mack sighed and raised his chin, closing his eyes. "Part of our ethereal mystery."

"Make it quick. I don't want to stand here all day holding my—"

Mack turned and looked at him. "A Ladder approaches. Two days from now. I anticipate something…substantial."

"That's all? You didn't have to drag me into the men's room to tell me that. There's something else."

"Just walk away from her," Mack said. "She's a straight line to trouble. Go right out the back door and make some distance."

"I don't think I like you telling me what to do."

"I don't tell you what to do very often."

Simon stowed his gear and zipped, bouncing on one leg to settle himself. "You don't tell me even when I ask you to."

"I'm telling you now. Walk away from her."

"I don't walk away from allies. We're on the same side of this fricken war of yours."

"Don't fool yourself into believing that." Mack leveled a stern gaze at him. "She's not one of us. She's definitely not one of you. She is on her own side."

"Doesn't really come across as the selfish sort."

"She's not. She's just not fighting the same war."

"Light versus dark?" Simon crossed his arms. "Everything she's said to me sounds fresh out of your playbook."

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"Look. All I know is it's fricken hard, being on the front lines. Fighting demons. Abusers of magic and forces blacker than pitch. Shamans and necromancers and soul hunters. Everything from the mortal plane down." Simon pointed at the door, out toward the girl-exorcist-whatever who had saved his butt just the day before. Mack hadn't pulled him out of the way of that demon. Chiara had. "For once, it's nice bumping in to a person who isn't trying to bring about the ruin of souls. And, by the way—she's told me more about the darkness rising in one night that you have in three years."

"I didn't realize you were so blind." Suddenly, Mack smiled. It was eerie because Simon knew he didn't have a sense of humor. "You haven't figured out what she is yet."

"You mean who."

"No. I don't."

The door swung open and a burly man hustled in, heading for the lone stall, one hand working his belt, and slamming the door shut behind him. Time to evacuate. The shit was about to hit.

Mack was already gone.

Diesel fumes, hydraulic whines, and annoying loud cell phone conversations. Three cheers for the public transportation system. The bus lifted from the curb and lurched forward in a stomach-shuddering surge.

Simon blew out hard and sat back, swallowing. Nausea. He'd almost forgotten the nausea. Hip, hip, hooray for buses.

Chiara eyed him suspiciously a moment, her gaze lingering even when he tried to wave it off. "I've never had anyone tag along before."

Her voice held a tone of distinct amusement. Simon leaned over to where she sat in the row in front of him. Despite the motion sickness, he preferred the back seat of the bus. No one to sneak up behind him.

Plus, he got extra leg room when sitting in the middle seat. A good stretch was just what he wanted. That, and privacy if he needed to hurl. "Not one to pass up a field trip. I just want to observe, is all. Watch what you do. How you do it."

She shifted sideways to face him, avoiding his sprawled out legs. "I thought you knew it all already."

"You just think I know it all."

She shook her head, laughing. "More like I think you think you know it all."

"Same difference. But, naw. No such thing as a master in this line of work. Never stop learning, never stop discovering. Every corner you turn offers something you never saw before, a way to reach a bit further."

"What's the endgame?"

He sat back. "I really hope there isn't one."

"Why?"

"Because, whatever it is, it can't be good."

He stretched his arms out along the back of the seats. Perfect time to change the topic. Musing about his mortality and eventual horrid demise was a mood killer. "Good choice for a demon hunting trip," he said. "Nothing like public transportation to bring out the worst in someone."

She leaned over the seat and poked him, playfully, before turning back to survey the passenger. Her head tilted, a bird on alert. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed to a young man sitting halfway up the bus on a side seat.

Simon sat forward, elbows on his knees, and looked up at her face before following the line of her finger.

"Him." Eyes trained on the boy, she nodded. "Do you see them?"

"See what?"

"The shadows inside him."

Simon slipped the scrying lens out of his pocket and peered through it. The guy didn't look any different than anyone else. He shook his head. "He's normal."

"He's an open door, an unholy invitation," she said. "Demons use people like him. They're easy to breech. All people have to do is embrace the light, make good choices, and they'd squash the shadows. There'd be no chink in their armor."

He palmed the lens and sat back, with a quick jerk of his head, disagreeing. "I've seen enough child possessions to disagree."