Keystone (Crossbreed #1)(8)
I blanched at the idea this guy had been following me. Had I left behind clues? Bread crumbs? Evidence?
He slid a white card in my direction. “Keep it.”
Betty set a white dish in front of me with a slice of apple pie and vanilla ice cream. She took my empty plate and went about her business, wiping down tables and refilling the napkin holders.
I flipped the card over.
“All it says is ZERO. Is that your phone number or how many times you’ve been laid?”
“Go to the bakery on the corner of Avenue B and 14th Street tomorrow. Do you know the place of which I speak? It has red lettering on the windows.”
“I know it.”
He pointed at the card. “Give that to the baker and ask for the daily special.”
“Will he give me a loaf of bread with a microchip inside? That’s almost as fun as finding baby Jesus in a king cake.”
“Maybe this was a mistake,” he muttered.
My whole life had been a mistake, so I didn’t see the harm in making another. “Let’s just say that I’m considering your offer. What if I join and then decide it’s not the life for me?”
“Joining is not that easy, but should you decide to leave, you’re free to go.”
“Go where? Over a pier with cement blocks strapped to my feet?” I cut into my pie and ate a large apple slice. “I’m a lot of things, Mr. Kazan, but I’m not a fool. Do you really expect me to believe that you’d let me go, knowing who you are and privy to inside information? Something tells me that I’d wind up tied to the engine of a jumbo jet.”
He smirked as if I’d told a joke.
But I was serious.
Dead serious.
“We’ve never had anyone leave, but should you choose to do so, it will be at your own risk. A Vampire will scrub your memory, and depending on how much you know and how long you’ve been with us, it could be messy. There is a chance you could wind up with a clean slate and new identity. Long-term memories are harder for Vampires to wipe, as you know.”
I really didn’t know much about Vampires. No one had taught me, and most people didn’t sit around in bars talking about all their abilities. Most of what I knew I’d overheard or discovered on my own.
“I’ll think about it,” I said honestly, scooping up my ice cream before it melted.
He tapped his hand on the table. “I can offer you something you’ve never known: purpose. Do you think living on the edge makes you a rebel—a revolutionary who’s fighting for the greater good? If you don’t have ambition, you’ll become just as bitter as the rogues who wander aimlessly, enveloped in their own hatred and jealousy. If you see yourself as a saint, remember this conversation ten years from now when you’ve grown resentful that you have nothing while others live comfortably. The line between good and evil is invisible, and if you cannot sense where it is, it won’t take long to cross it. Aspire to be something greater than just a shadow of yourself.”
He stood up and glanced at my attire, muttering something in Russian. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”
I took another forkful of pie and watched him counting money from his wallet. I didn’t have plans to sleep, but I silently accepted the large sum of money he placed on the table.
After my pie, I enjoyed a third cup of coffee before gathering my things and heading out.
When I crossed the street, I had a perfect view of Betty picking up the biggest tip she’d ever received from my table.
It was a breezy night, and I spent most of it strolling through the city streets. But just after dawn, dark clouds rolled in, and punishing drops of rain drenched people on their way to work. The man selling umbrellas outside the apartment buildings picked a good day to make money. After a few hours of people-watching from my chair in the Laundromat, I headed north on 14th Street with the strap from my duffel bag weighing down my shoulder.
The heavy fragrance of fresh breads and pastries wafted through the open door as I entered the bakery. Water dripped from the plastic bag I’d put over my head as a makeshift hat, and I tossed it into a trash can.
A man who looked my age was sipping his coffee at a table ahead to my right, the chocolate éclair on his napkin half-eaten.
I studied the card Viktor had given me. What did I have to lose? It wasn’t as if I had my life together, and maybe this was a chance to learn something. Our world was thick with criminals, and I didn’t have a shred of guilt for the men I’d killed. Maybe getting paid for it wouldn’t be so bad.
The woman behind the register greeted me with a warm smile. “Morning! Take your time and let me know when you’re ready.”
I eased up to the glass counter and admired all the sweet pastries lined up in neat little rows. The entire wall behind them was nothing but baskets of breads separated by grain and type.
Three workers were dashing back and forth behind the counter, filling orders and emptying breadbaskets. I tapped my fingernail against the glass, uncertain who was the baker. They were all dressed the same, so I looked around the room for an “employee of the month” plaque that might narrow it down.
“Young lady, is there something that I can help you with?” a dark-skinned man asked.
He had gentle eyes, and I took a chance that he was the owner and slipped him Viktor’s card. “Um, the daily special please.”