Gaslight (Crossbreed #4)(78)
Worry filled her eyes. “Okay,” she whispered. “What’s the message?”
I scooted closer and lowered my voice. “Go to a club called Nine Circles of Hell. There’s a bartender named Hooper. You can’t miss him. He’s got patterns shaved on the sides of his head and a bunch of lip rings. He’s the only one there that knows my friends, so make sure he’s the one who gets the message. If he’s not there, go back and try again. Write down the message so he doesn’t forget.”
“But it won’t be your handwriting.”
I chuckled. “My friends have never seen my handwriting. Tell them… Tell them to stop searching. It had a surprisingly good outcome, and I’m happy now. And tell them to give my Mercedes to my father. Please don’t forget that part. He’s old, and it’s the last good thing I can do for him. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Stop searching because you’re happy. And give your Mercedes to your father.”
“That’s all.” I hoped the innocuous message would make up her mind.
Rachel collected my plate and glass. “I have to go. He might be awake, and he’ll get suspicious that I’ve been down here this long.”
I reached out and seized her wrist. “Thank you. For everything. The lamb was superb.”
A fragile smile touched her lips. “He likes that dish a lot, so it’s my specialty.” Her eyes flicked to the wounds on my arms, and they were numerous. “Do you want any healing light?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. I don’t know you very well, but you seem like a nice person.” I let go of her wrist and scooted back against the wall, the blanket tucked around me.
She rose to her feet, breaking eye contact. “You shouldn’t fight him. Just let him take your light. It’s easier that way.”
Now that I had energy in me from a hot meal, I planned to defend myself. I’d managed to fight off Fletcher a number of times, and even though his physical abuse brought a different kind of assault, my light was the only power I had left.
Rachel made her way out, and when the door closed behind her, the last remaining candle snuffed out.
Christian lifted the newspaper and pretended to read as the next customer hustled into the butcher shop from the door on his left. Dead carcasses hung from the ceiling, and a revolting display of chopped flesh drew everyone’s eyes to the counter. He’d charmed the butcher and his assistant to pay no attention to him. That way he could sit there as long as he wanted.
It wasn’t a place people came to eat, but there were two tables pushed up against the long red bench. No chairs, so you had to sit facing the counter. Sometimes people ordered a ready-made sandwich to eat while they waited for their orders.
He glared at his plate of half-eaten pastrami. The other half had gone into the trash.
The black-haired young man behind the counter sang along to the Italian music on the radio. He and the butcher must have been a father-and-son team since they looked alike and cussed at their customers. Their red aprons over black shirts smartly masked blood and other stains. They were situated in the Breed district, and Christian quickly deduced that the workers were Shifters. During the long stretches of boredom, he studied their mannerisms and tried to guess what their animal might be. At first he thought wolves and then mountain lions, but today he guessed bears.
Each day Christian came into the shop, he wore something completely different and sat in a new spot so regulars wouldn’t notice. Sometimes he’d obscure his face completely with a magazine or newspaper.
The balding butcher wrapped a woman’s order in paper and secured it with twine. She tightened her maroon scarf around her neck before heading out with her meat.
Christian set the newspaper down, fantasies consuming his thoughts of what he would do to Fletcher if that malignant little numpty showed his face. Perhaps a shotgun up his arse. Men like him were a dime a dozen in the Breed world. Some were criminals, and others lived normal lives, but they all shared a dark secret. For most it was light addiction. For others it was a sick and perverted desire to own a slave. What Christian knew of Fletcher was that he was British, shaved his head, and had a long beard like a rejected member of ZZ Top.
A long-haired man entered the shop, and when his black hood fell away from his face, Christian recognized Niko. Beneath his black coat was the distinct bulge of a katana. Any seasoned immortal could spot it. Shepherd had given him a nice selection of sheaths and harnesses, making it easier to carry, conceal, and draw his weapon from all angles. If it weren’t for the Pink Panther shirt, he’d look like a ninja.
Niko stood still as soon as he entered the shop.
“What can I get for you?” the butcher said in greeting.
Christian cleared his throat. “He’s with me, so you don’t see him.”
Just in case Fletcher came in and they got into a fight, Christian made sure to plant the suggestion for the butchers to ignore people on his command.
“Straight ahead to my voice, Niko. It’s all clear.”
Niko’s quizzical look faded as he made his way over, his hand outstretched and his pace slow. Blue made an excellent partner for him, always making sure he knew his surroundings. Without her, he struggled in unfamiliar places. But Christian had to give credit to the man for learning his way without the use of a cane. Those tools made you stand out in the Breed world—they made you a target.