Page 65 of Amber Gambler

>>The sisters wouldn’t allow us to have Barbies at St. Mary’s, so I forgive your confusion. Kierce would be a Ken. Dare I say Kierce the Ken Doll?

>>Yeehaw.

>He’s not a toy.

>>Oh, please. Tell me you don’t want to play with him. With a straight face.

>Tell him to get dressed before he burns.

Sun was not his friend. He was as pale as the cream cheese icing on Josie’s famous red velvet cake.

>>No worries on that front. I rubbed him down with sunscreen. I’m not a total heathen.

>>And I do mean rubbed.

>>Mmm. He’s so muscley. And no chest hair.

>>Does he wax?

>>OH. Do you think he would let me wax him?

“Problem?” Carter killed the radio I hadn’t noticed was playing. “You’re growling.”

“Just fantasizing about being an only child.” I blacked out the phone screen of taunts before I attempted to reach through it and strangle my sister. “Are you sure you’re not interested in marrying Josie? I would offer a dowry. A big one. And a moving truck. And movers.”

“You okay back there?” Drawn by my tone, Harrow twisted to face me. “You’re blotchy.”

“I’m good.” I ignored the vibrations that indicated more texts from my sister. “How much farther?”

“We’re here.” She pulled into an empty driveway. “The house is a block down.”

Street kids had honed their senses until they detected cops the way sharks smelled blood in the water. It was unrealistic to believe we could sneak up on them on their home turf. They were too wary and would run patrols twenty-four-seven to guard themselves from rival gangs. But approaching on foot gave them time to take our measure and decide how they wanted to confront us. That would have to do.

We got out and started walking, our hands empty and loose by our sides.

“We’ve got watchers,” Carter said under her breath not three minutes later.

“Let’s see how far they let us go.” Harrow lengthened his stride until he walked next to me. “Stay close.”

The house Maggy sent us to was at the end of a cul-de-sac. The yard was overgrown, full of tires and the guts of cars that had rusted over from exposure. A boy around sixteen sat on the sagging front steps, his breath white plumes from the vape device in his palm. He watched us approach through golden eyes, an air of entitlement in the slant of his head and in his amusement over the three of us calling on him.

“Ian.” I hazarded a guess and was rewarded when his lips thinned. “Maggy told us where to find you.”

“Maggy is dead.” He took another hit. “I don’t imagine she told you shit, lady.”

“I’m a necromancer.” I savored his cough of surprise. “I spoke to her just yesterday.”

A blonde girl around nine or ten burst out the front door onto the steps. “You talk to dead people?”

Her wide blue eyes nailed me to the spot, her fingers twisting and untwisting in her long sleep shirt, and I mentally chantedbe quiet, be still, go back. Boys like Ian didn’t appreciate being upstaged in front of adults, and she had just stolen the spotlight.

“I do.” I risked a simple question to gauge Ian’s reaction. “Maggy was a friend of yours?”

“No.” She bunched her toes on the peeling planks. “My friend was named Farah.”

“Little, go back in.” Ian didn’t spare her a glance, but that calm didn’t fool me. “You know the rules.”

We had to get out of here before we caused this kid lasting harm.

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