Changeling (25 page)

Sure enough, five feet onto the lot, a man was beelining toward me. His gray hair glinted in the sunlight and sweat patches darkened both armpits of his blue shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and he hastily fixed his tie as he walked. Perspiration rolled down the sides of his face. He made no attempt to hide his open appraisal of me.

I twisted my lips into a teasing smirk. “Hot day, isn’t it?”

“One of the hottest so far.” His voice was high and reedy, mismatched with his bulk. Not overweight, just big without being muscular. “Anything I can show you today?”

“Depends on what you’re offering.” I ran my hand over the hood of the nearest car, no idea of its make or model. Just that it was light green and rusty. “Got anything with good air-conditioning?”

“Working air costs a little more,” he said to my breasts. “We have cars that come with it. Some of the others ran out of freon, and you know how hard it can be to get around here.”

“Oh, yeah, you learn quick to sweat it out.” I toyed with my hair, lifting it up away from my neck and letting it tumble back down in yellow waves. He watched, already squirming on the hook. Too easy.

“You looking to buy today or shopping around?” he asked.

I grinned, pretending to be shy. “I was hoping for a long, cool test drive.”

His eyes glistened. “I see. I’ve got just the car in mind for your test drive, Miss—?”

“Wright,” I said, grabbing a name from the air. Miss Wright? Good grief.

“I’m Bill.” He indicated the cars ahead of us, and I started walking. His hand found its way to the small of my back. I managed not to twist his roaming hand off his wrist like a New Year’s party cracker. “I’ve got just the car for your test drive. Good air, wide backseats.”

My stomach twisted at the very notion of being in a backseat with him. Apparently the sleazy salesmen around here had no problem sharing their precious air-conditioned cars with willing females who needed out of the blazing heat for
just a little while. Not a bad way to go to work and get your whoring done all in the same eight hours.

He stopped in front of a tan station wagon. The paint was decent, the interior clean. I would have preferred something with tinted windows, but this would do.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, shuffling off toward the office to get a key.

I lounged on the hood, playing my part and fanning myself with one hand. Less than a block away, Noah and Kinsey were waiting for me to come back. I prayed no one had noticed the bullet-riddled truck illegally parked down the alley. They had no weapons to protect themselves, except for Noah’s telekinesis.

A door slammed. Laughter followed Bill out of the office. I couldn’t drum up any annoyance at what he’d probably bragged about to his pals. He would pay for it with a nice, fat headache in just a few minutes. He approached, walking fast, obviously excited about his prospects to get a good lay for a free test drive. I tried not to roll my eyes.

He unlocked the driver’s door and held it open like a gentleman. I slid inside. The interior reeked of disinfectant, the heavy air hotter than Hades. I put the key into the ignition and turned the battery on enough to lower every single window. Warm, fresher air blasted inside. Bill climbed into the passenger seat, and the entire car rocked.

“Ever driven one of these babies?” he asked.

I grinned, batting my baby blues. “Never one quite so big.” My gaze flickered to his lap. He twitched.

Hook, line, and sinker.

I cranked the engine while he fiddled with the air-conditioning controls. Sweat rolled down his cheeks in torrents and dampened the front of his shirt. The salty-sweet odor tested my gag reflex. Once satisfied that cool air would blast us soon, he let his hand drift down to my right knee. I managed to not cringe, vomit, or crash the car on the way out of the lot. Pervert.

Tease.

I turned left.

“I haven’t seen you around town before,” he said, hand squeezing a bit.

“I just moved into the area.” The alley was fast approaching. “And I like to make an impression when I can.”

“You’d be hard to miss in a crowd.” Nice compliment coming from a guy trading a car ride for sex. I couldn’t help noticing the gold band on his wedding finger. I hoped she was screwing around on him, since he obviously screwed around on her. “Hey, where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” I said, negotiating the turn into the alley. The truck was still ahead, its back doors closed. The bullet holes and impact dents were more obvious in this light.

“This isn’t very private,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” I parked behind the truck, left the engine idling. “Because you aren’t having sex with me.”

“Huh?” His face shaded scarlet.

Calling on a move Teresa taught me, I hit his throat with the tendon between my thumb and forefinger, right below the Adam’s apple. He croaked and clutched at his throat, eyes
bugging out. I punched him in the temple. His forehead hit the dash. He didn’t move. Fist aching, I threw open my door and bolted to the front of the food truck.

Something by the trash cans caught my eye. Moved. Stood. A man in grimy clothes, hair so greasy I couldn’t decipher the color, inched out from behind the haphazard stack of cans. Brown fingers betrayed years of street life. Pockmarks on his face and nose painted a life of poverty. He watched me with rheumy eyes, no sign of hostile intent.

Considering the wallet hastily stuffed into my back pocket that morning, I asked, “You want to make fifty bucks?” He nodded. “There’s a guy in the car back there. Can you get him out and put him in the back of this truck?”

Another nod. I left him to his task—hoping he actually did what I asked, because moving the hefty car salesman on my own was a near-impossible task—and yanked open the driver’s door. Noah blinked over the edge of the seat, sweating. Shit. The interior blazed like a furnace.

“I have a car.” I climbed up, the faux leather seat hot through the knees of my jeans. “Can you wake him? We have to move.”

Gentle prodding roused Kinsey to semiwakefulness. Enough to get him up and across the seat. He groaned, trying to fold his long body over and tuck his legs beneath the steering wheel. I got an arm under his shoulder, earning a sharp yelp from him. I pulled. He stumbled on the landing, and we crashed to the slick pavement. My bare elbow smeared something damp and yellow, scraping skin across rough stone.

Noah jumped out of the cab with a startling preternatural ease, hitting the pavement without making a sound. A Changeling ability, perhaps? The truck rattled. Noah sprinted to the rear.

“Hey!” he said.

“It’s okay, he’s helping.” At least, I hoped so. Witnesses weren’t ideal, but we didn’t have much choice.

Noah hesitated, then came back to assist me. Kinsey couldn’t stand on his own (pain delirium or blood loss, take your pick) so we supported him, one of us on either side. I got the wounded side and did my best to hold both Kinsey and the wound. The blood flow had slowed, but not completely stopped. At the back of the wagon, I grunted. The keys were in the ignition.

Noah raised his free hand, palm out toward the wagon. The back hatch popped open. Telekinesis. Duh. Noah pulled down the tailgate and climbed in first. He sat down facing me. We gently turned Kinsey around and helped him sit. With arms hooked around Kinsey’s chest, Noah crawled backward inch by inch, pulling the weight. Once their feet were in the car, I pushed it shut. I turned around and yelped.

Hired Helper stood directly behind me. The food truck doors shut, hopefully with the car salesman inside. I fished into my pocket and retrieved a wad of bills. My sweaty, trembling hands couldn’t count properly, so I shoved most of the money at the stranger.

“Help yourself to what’s inside the truck,” I said, hoping he’d find more food than just spilled condiment packets.

He nodded, pocketed the money without counting, and
shambled to the truck. I got in the station wagon, shifted into reverse, and then started backing up. Out of the hot, stinking alley.

“What did you do?” Noah asked.

Assault and grand theft auto.
“Taught a guy a lesson in why it’s bad business to assume a pretty girl wants more than a literal test drive.”

Checking traffic in both directions, I backed out into the main avenue, and off we went. I fiddled with the dials and then rolled the windows up. Chilly air blasted through the vents, cooling my sweaty skin. I directed the passenger vents toward the back, hoping the air reached them quickly.

“Now what, Noah?” I asked. “You don’t want to go to Hill House, so I hope you have a place.”

“We do. Can you get back to I-5 from here?”

Still pretty familiar with the area, I nodded, only to realize he was facing backward and couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I can.”

“Good, do that.”

“Fine.” I slowed for a traffic light, applying pressure to the overly sensitive brakes. We were sitting targets, even in our borrowed—stolen!—car. Every passing moment seemed like a blessing, and also an opportunity for a random cop to get suspicious. Or decide we were part of his daily quota and pull us over for no good reason.

Stop being so paranoid.

Easier said than done. My attention divided itself between the road in front of me and the rearview-mirror angle I had of Noah’s head. I started to speak several times, to ask random questions just to kill the utter silence in the car.
Radio seemed like bad form, almost rude given our dire situation, but I needed a distraction.

Silence came with too much time to think. Time to ponder my current situation and how in blazes I ended up driving a stolen car across town, hoping to avoid police capture. I had climbed into the truck on my own, but the police—and my own people, for that matter—had every reason to think I was being held against my will.

I had done the right thing. Noah and Kinsey had placed their trust in me by setting up the meeting in the parking garage. Someone else had betrayed us and called the police. I hated pondering the implications—would much rather ponder a root canal—but could not avoid them forever.

Sooner or later, I had to call home.

Twenty-one

Hideout

Y
ou should have just said Sun Valley, Noah,” I said, negotiating a right turn onto Farmdale Avenue. “I’d have gotten us here a lot faster than by your directions.”

Noah twisted his head around, and I met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I know my way around the city, I grew up here,” he said.

“Yeah? So did I, in case you forgot.”

He grunted. “It’s the blue house at the end of the block.”

Our destination came into view, nestled behind a thick hedge of holly, an unusual bush to find growing in Southern California. Most of the run-down houses in this neighborhood sported dying orange trees or transplanted cactuses. Some had a tree or two, but most were chopped down, torn down, or ripped apart for the firewood. Peeling blue paint covered the outside of the adobe cottage, while its terra-cotta roof was still its original shade. The mismatch gave the place character.

The front end of my stolen wagon dipped hard in the cracked driveway. I winced. No sounds of protest came
from the rear. Good sign or bad, I didn’t know yet. Dr. Kinsey hadn’t made a peep in the twenty minutes it took us to get to this side of the city.

No other cars occupied the short, narrow driveway. It ended at a dilapidated wooden garage, both doors chained and rotting. I turned off the engine.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Ronald Jarvis’s house,” Noah said.

“Why?”
Something whispered through my mind, like a chilly breeze caressing just below my skull. It lingered only a moment before passing by completely. I shivered.

“It’s just Jimmy, making sure it’s us.”

“He shouldn’t walk through people’s brains like that.” I climbed out and darted around to the back, keys in hand to unlock the hatch. The side door of the house banged open. I yelped and jumped back from the noise.

Jimmy strode toward me in the same rumpled clothes he’d worn yesterday. He barely glanced in my direction. His eyes were fixed on the interior of the car as he came around. “What happened?” he asked.

“The police knew where we were meeting,” I said. “I don’t know how, but they did. Dr. Kinsey tried to get us out of there and the police shot him.”

Noah inched forward. Jimmy and I grabbed Kinsey’s ankles and pulled, our combined strength moving the unconscious man. We kept our places, Noah’s arms remained wrapped around Kinsey’s chest, and we carried him toward the house. I had only a fraction of the weight, but felt the
strain immediately in my shoulders and arms. Jimmy huffed and puffed, his thin body not used to the weight. I almost asked Noah about telekinetically moving Kinsey, but figured he’d be doing it if he was able.

The sagging screen door had stayed wide open, a blessing for our straining band. Up the stairs backward, Jimmy and I struggled not to drop our burden. Only Noah seemed unaffected, his face grim.

In the kitchen, someone shouldered me sideways. Startled, I dropped Kinsey’s foot. A six-foot, medium-build body slipped in and took over. King, I had decided before I got a look at his face. A scream died in my throat, terror choked out by utter fascination.

It was King. Changeling King, not King in possession of anyone else. He wore simple blue jeans and a man’s sleeveless T-shirt, showing off his muscled arms and torso. His face was a blank slate. Pronounced ridges where eyebrows, nose, and mouth would have been, hinted at the man inside. Not a speck of hair anywhere. Only two small holes for nostrils and a larger one for a mouth, without any cartilage or lips, and earholes without lobes. A living mannequin’s head.

The three brothers continued through the kitchen, toward a hallway.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” I asked, trailing after them.

“Dad left a medical bag in the living room,” Jimmy puffed.

They struggled down the hall, while I doubled back. Next to the kitchen was a dim living room. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows, allowing little natural light into
the room. The furniture was old, mismatched, and smelled of mildew. I circled past a worn sofa. Air from a window unit caressed my face.