In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2 (5 page)

Murderous eyes stare at me, half-lidded, squinting, dark, fingers drawing the string of the bow back with grace and restraint, and I realize—like that old joke says—that this person who has just gotten me out of the deep shit is not even remotely my friend.

It takes about a second for me to realize that past the elegant lines of the bow are equally elegant lines of a woman’s face. The male brain is designed to rapidly search for two things: threats and sex partners. In her I see the potential for both, though the arrow pointed at my eye indicates which one is more likely at the moment.

“Uh, hi,” I say, nearly at a loss for words.

She says something unintelligible, something presumably Italian, and for the umpteenth time that night I realize that when you’re a tourist in Rome, speaking English is okay. When you’re up to your hip waders in dealing with real Italian problems, failure to grasp the language is a real detriment.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say, hoping that in and of itself is not grounds for her to fill me full of arrows. The one I’m staring at looks … pointy.

She twitches, the bow moving just a centimeter. Beyond the death that’s aimed right at me, I can sense hesitation. I can also sense that part of her wants to do it, that she’s remorselessly done this to other men before. My eyes flick past her and the thug with the arrow through his head puts the truth to my thinking. She’s a killer. But she’s not with them.

“Who are you?” I ask, figuring that if she’s going to kill me, she’s going to do it whether I ask her a question or not.

She draws back harder and I almost flinch. I keep from it, though I’m sure my poker face suffers a little. The broad head of her arrow isn’t like the little training pokes that I’ve used when I’ve played with a bow. This thing is sharp, wicked, looks about a mile wide on three sides that come to a point. If it enters my eye socket, I’m brain damaged for sure, best case scenario. Meta healing powers don’t make me invulnerable.

She mutters something else, something I can’t understand even though I hear it. She could be asking for cold water for all I know.

Wait, no, I know that one:
agua freddo.
She doesn’t say that.

I keep my hands in the air until she finally—thank the heavens—lowers the bow and releases the tension on the drawn arrow. I get the feeling she could get it back up and release before I could do much more than draw a breath, though, so I keep my hands in the air in a very clear posture of surrender. All I’m missing is a white flag.

She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she circles toward the entry to Giuseppe’s storefront. She delivers a sharp, lightning-fast kick to the side of the head of one of the thugs I’d knocked out with my opening gambit, and I can hear him die. She doesn’t even blink, just keeps walking. She’s dressed in black and tan, and has what looks like a miniature golf bag on her shoulder. It’s open with a dozen or more arrow shafts sticking out. I focus on it for a second and realize that it could pretty much pass for a backpack or a purse on the street.

She leaves me in the alley as she goes into Giuseppe’s store, and I debate whether to push my luck by following her. Obviously I’m thinking Giuseppe’s dead, because the evil villain has fled the scene without so much as a look back and he’d be a lot less likely to do that if he’d left a trail. Curiosity killed the cat, though, and I’m not so keen on being next.

Still, I follow her, wondering exactly how stupid I am every step of the way.

There are a few groaning guys on the floor of the alley as I walk into the store. I can see a body behind the deli counter; it’s the guy who I’d gotten the grudging nod from earlier. He’s good and dead, neck open, and I don’t feel a need to get any closer to confirm it. I tread slowly and a little loudly toward the back room, half expecting an arrow to come whizzing out at me.

I stick my hands around the corner first. “Hello?” I call out. “
Buongiorno
?” I hear silence, so I peek an eye around.

She’s favoring me with a look that tells me she currently estimates my IQ is in the minus points column. I step out from behind the wall, hands still in the air as she stands before Giuseppe’s desk. He’s dead on the floor—big surprise—in a puddle of blood that I avoid as I step into his office. I cringe a little at the smell, which is equal parts the tang of the blood and the odor of someone soiling themselves.

This woman—this avatar of death itself—stands there, rifling through the papers on his desk. She’s playing it cool, but I can see her keeping an eye on me in case I’m not actually an idiot. I feel like an idiot, though, no doubt about it. You can’t stand in the middle of a murder scene at someone else’s mercy with your hands in the air and feel competent and in control.

I step inside but keep my distance, treating her the way you’d treat a dog that’s growling. No sudden moves, and I use an overabundance of caution. She stops as she reaches a piece of paper, and I recognize it’s from the pad Giuseppe wrote on earlier when he “took my order.” It looks like he’s added to it, though, put some other stuff down.

Her eyes flash as she looks at me, and I see a hint of anger. She grabs the paper and slips it into a jacket pocket. As dangerous as she is, I feel like she should be wearing all black leather, but she’s not. She’s wearing jeans and a blouse. I’m not someone who notices shoes, but hers are running shoes, very sensible.

“Can I ask what that says?” I keep my stance non-confrontational, sensing the current of irritation from her.

She hesitates, and I wonder why. She mumbles something, and I feel like I almost understand it.

“Sorry?” I ask.

She sighs, grudgingly, reluctantly, two thousand pounds of pressure seeping out of a metal container with a hiss. “It says … Father Emmanuel, the Vatican … you stupid American.” She’s got an accent, of course. She takes the paper out and tosses it on the ground between us. It misses the blood by inches and I stoop to pick it up, never taking my eyes off her. There’s a long number written on it, and I suspect it’s an Italian phone number.

“Who are you?” I ask again, but this time it doesn’t make her angrier. Surprisingly.

“I am no one,” she says, and her discomfort is palpable. She’s a caged animal, submitting to my question while she plans her next move. “And you would do well to remember that.” She moves to look at the desk and I catch a perfect profile—sculpted features on a tall woman. She’s not super thin and not over-the-top voluptuous with the curves, either. She’s athletic, and it shows, someone who’s put her running shoes to good use.

“Okay, No One,” I say, and this draws a sour look from her, “did you know Giuseppe?”

“Everyone knew Giuseppe,” she says, her voice tinged with bitterness.

“I was going to meet him tonight,” I say, giving this up as a peace offering. “He was supposed to … help me with something.”

She looks at me, weighing her options. Her body is tense with the fight or flight instinct. I’m not sure if she’s thinking about fighting me or someone else, fleeing from me or from the situation. I see it pass, though, and by the way she starts for the door I know the decision isn’t good. “He won’t be helping you now,” she says, like it’s the end of the conversation.

“I … see that,” I say, clearly Captain Obvious-o (or however they say it in Italian). “Why were you here?”

“Because he asked me to meet you,” she says simply, and I know it’s because she’s made the decision that she’s done. She’s on her way out the door, literally and figuratively. She moves her head and her dark hair whips behind her as she freezes, lit by the lights of the shop. “But I cannot help you.”

“Uh, you did help me, though,” I say. “The arrows through those guys’ heads? That was a big help.”

“I cannot help you any further,” she clarifies and darts out into the shop and around the corner.

“What do you want?” I ask, trailing after her. I clear the corner and she’s waiting, not quite in ambush, but in warning. She’s just lurking there, in fatal distance, and I can see her whole body coiled to strike. She wouldn’t need the bow to kill me, not at this range; she makes it clear to me without words, without motion, with almost nothing but her eyes. I sense old power here, metahuman power that transcends the modern age.

“I want to be left alone,” she says, and I almost believe her. Her eyes flash, a vibrant green, and she turns. I’m left with the impression that I should by no means approach her from behind or do anything but speak to her retreating back.

“I’m not sure that’s an option anymore,” I call after her. “That guy, the one who flung the knives? If he’s dramatic enough to wear a mask and do all this, he’s probably enough of a villain to want revenge.”

She doesn’t even stop, just makes her way out through the bodies of the henchmen, the living still stirring back to wakefulness. In a ballet of death worthy of my own sister, she stomps five of them into corpses in less than three seconds. It’s like something out of a video game, fast-twitch muscles deployed more quickly than my eye can keep up with the motions, unerring death strikes delivered like a pro killer. “Let him come if he wants!” she calls out, and I see her leap up, straight up the wall, and onto the rooftop from whence she came. The voice calls out in the night, “I do not fear him.”

I almost believe her. Almost. But there’s just a hint of doubt, and it’s enough to tell me that whatever I’m up against, it’s a lot bigger than me. It’s enough to make this badass woman—who kills men as easily as some of us eat and drink—scared.

Anselmo hears the phone ring as he is about to lie down for the night. His mistress is with him, her young skin so enticing, so enthralling. He is tired, he has eaten well and had much to drink, but he is still considering whether to take his liberties with her when he hears the ringing. He has left strict instructions not to be disturbed, for just this reason; at his age, the mood strikes only half as often—or less—than it used to, and he is most cognizant and jealous of this fact.

He somehow knows, instinctively, that it is Lorenzo. The boy frets, so of course he would want to communicate—even over-communicate—these worries that are on his mind. Anselmo knows, knows and is prepared to instruct the servant who will knock on his door to hold the call, to warn Lorenzo away.

But when the knock comes, it has more urgency than a simple report. It thumps quickly against the wood, and Anselmo feels himself sigh against those Egyptian cotton sheets, feels his interest wane as his annoyance rises in its place. He considers shouting his disapproval, but to what end? “Come in,” he says instead, and the door opens as his mistress rustles the covers to hide her nakedness. Anselmo does not bother.

“Sir,” the servant says. She is young, plump. Something Anselmo will taste at some point, perhaps, if he feels the urge. “It is Lorenzo.”

“Yes, I know,” Anselmo says. He rolls to give the servant girl a look. “Can it not wait?”

She avoids his gaze, turning her attention to the wall behind him. This brings a smile to Anselmo’s face. “He says it cannot wait until tomorrow.”

Anselmo sighs and feels his body heave to sit upright. He is still in fine condition, really, far younger looking than his years would seem to indicate. He doesn’t have a belly that juts outward like so many older men, and though his chest hair is grey, not all his hair has turned, as the servant can now see. He takes the phone from her outstretched hand, staring at her face even as she tries to hide from his gaze. It is a game to him, a pleasant one. Yes, he wants to taste her now. Some afternoon perhaps, when his mistress is out shopping … “Lorenzo?”

“Capo,” Lorenzo says, and it is urgent. “I ran into … a problem.”

Anselmo remains unimpressed. “What sort of problem?”

“Two of our kind,” Lorenzo says. “Reed Treston, formerly of Alpha. He was the one who hired Giuseppe.”

Anselmo lets another sigh, failing to see the problem. “And?”

“He works for the government of the United States,” Lorenzo says. “You remember his sister? She was on the news, Sienna—”

“Ahhh,” Anselmo says. This is interesting. The servant girl lingers, eyes averted, making a study of the painting above his bed. “Yes, I recall her. You ran across her brother?”

“And another woman,” Lorenzo says, “with a bow and arrow. It could be her, perhaps—”

Anselmo frowns at the mere mention. “A woman with a bow? And arrows?”

“Si, Capo,”
Lorenzo says, and he sounds like a man two steps from panic, “if she is in town with him, this brother and sister—”

“This is not your Sienna,” Anselmo says, frowning. The thought of sex has left him in an instant, cold annoyance replacing what had been rising desire. “This is someone else. Someone slightly troublesome.”

“But if the brother is here—”

“Does this succubus use a bow and arrow that you have heard of?” Anselmo asks. “No? It is not her. I know who this is. She is a pain in my ass, but it is not your American girl.”

“But her brother is here,” Lorenzo says. “He is asking questions. If you say this woman with the bow is not her, I trust your judgment. But she could still come—”

“Mmm,” Anselmo says, deep in thought. “This is a vexation. You had a run-in with this Reed?”

“Yes,” Lorenzo says. “I almost killed him but for the woman—”

“Remember yourself,” Anselmo says, almost impatiently; to say such a thing on an open line is foolishness, and that Lorenzo would risk it is a measure of how rattled he is. “Whatever problems you are having can be dealt with.” He clears his throat, thinking about it, measuring the situation. “Come back home. We need to … consult … in order to find the best way to deal with this situation you have created.” He waits, and hearing no argument, knows that Lorenzo does not dare argue, that he has caught hold of himself. “We will discuss it and find something mutually agreeable.”

With that, Anselmo hangs up the phone, not another word said. The meaning is clear enough, after all. He glances at the servant girl and smiles, tightly. Not tonight, he knows. Now the tension is upon him, his mind is in motion. He watches her retreat with a lack of interest and leans against the padded headboard of his bed. His mistress is already asleep, or feigning it, but he does not care.