Page 53 of King Among the Dead

She turned and slid her arms through the sleeves; let him settle it on her shoulders – and then place his hands there, heavy and grounding save for the way she could feel the fine tremors of anticipation moving through him.

“Are you ready for your first hunt?” he asked, warm breath tickling her ear.

She shivered. “Yes.”

They set out on foot, in the alley beyond the garage, hoods pulled up against what was, thankfully, a light mist and not a downpour. Beck set an unhurried pace – “The trick is not to look like you’re running toward or from anything” – and Rose walked a half-step back, trying to mimic the way he surreptitiously scanned their surroundings without moving his head much.

Because this was a nice neighborhood – or, nice for post-Rift without being ostentatiously rich in the way of the elites – security lights burned at intervals along the garages and housebacks of the alley. They pressed the dark back in blurry coronas, the wet pavement gleaming below. Rose wondered, briefly, if a curtain in a lighted window would twitch, and if someone would see them, and call the police, but they reached the mouth of the alley unscathed, and headed down the sidewalk, along a low wall tagged with layers and layers of graffiti. Cars trundled past, tires hissing, headlights skimming across them. But no one slowed, or gawked. No onecared.

That was the thing about the Rift, a truth she’d lived with her whole life: people minded their own business, now. A blanket of fear that allowed dark things to creep through shadows and wreak havoc.

Dark things like them, she supposed.

Rose expected them to head toward the Bends: some flophouse or crack den or a place like the one Beck had taken her from, down in Tabitha’s mildewed basement apartment.

Instead, they ended up only a few streets away, in a neighborhood of townhouses nearly as nice as their own. These were modern structures: two and three story, but flat-faced, stucco, and painted brick, without ornamentation. Wide, sleek windows, most of them barred with black iron.

Beck turned and motioned for her to follow, then ducked down a narrow walkway between two homes. Halfway down, in the shadows of the buildings, they reached a section of wrought iron fence, spiked with blunt finials.

“Get over,” he whispered, “lower yourself slowly, and then drop. It isn’t far.” He laced his fingers together to provide a step, and boosted her up effortlessly.

They’d not practiced this particular scenario, but she was so much stronger than she’d been before. Though the finials were rain-slick, she gripped them, pushed up from his hand, and swung her other leg up. Got the toe of her boot on the top rail and pulled herself up, up. Over, a graceful swing, her core muscles burning pleasantly. Lowered herself, until she was hanging, and then dropped. He was right: it wasn’t far. A satisfying impact of her boot soles on pavement.

Beck, of course, didn’t need a boost. He levered himself up and over with the grace of a gymnast, made it look easy, and landed lightly beside her.

“Show off,” she whispered, and felt a smile tug at her lips.

She caught a fast gleam of white in the dark as he smiled back. “Only for you.”

Behind the house was a row of trash cans, big, sturdy, wheeled plastic bins. And above them a window – whose bars hung crooked, already loose.

Beck climbed up onto the can, used a small tool from his coat pocket to unfasten the rest of the screws, and then handed the grate down to her. It was a small window, just big enough for a person to slide through, but the bars were solid and heavy. For one awful moment, she thought she’d drop them, dreading the clatter they’d make; but she managed to set them off to the side in a patch of fake turf.

The window wasn’t locked, because whoever lived here was both confident in the bars’ security, and careless about maintaining them. Beck worked it open with the tip of a knife, pushed it open, and then slipped inside, into darkness, head-first.

Rose climbed up onto the trash cans as quietly as she could, and followed.

He caught her around the waist when she was halfway through, and lifted her up, set her on her feet. Raised a gloved finger to his lips for silence.

She nodded, and glanced around the room they’d entered. A kitchen, sleek, and open, and modern, its chrome surfaces gleaming faintly in the diffuse glow of a light turned on in some neighboring room. It looked like a showpiece: unlived in, sterile.

Beck led her forward, walking softly on the balls of his feet, making no sound. The floors at home were old, full of charming creaks. But these wide, glossy tiles held them silently.

They went down a short hallway, where a lamp burned on a side table: a waste of electricity; a comfort to someone, she thought, should they wake and go wandering in the middle of the night. A photo sat beneath it: a couple sitting pressed together on a sofa beneath an elaborate art installation. Both middle aged, though the woman was trying to look younger, breasts about to spill from the tight bodice of her dress. Bot held champagne flutes and wore wide smiles – that didn’t touch their eyes.

Rose wondered who they were, even as she followed Beck up a flight of modern glass steps, across a landing, and to a closed door.

He paused there a moment, rolling his shoulders. Produced a knife from one of the holsters inside his jacket.

When Rose saw the wink of its edge, she drew her own. Was ready when he met her gaze, and nodded.

He nodded back, took a breath that flared his nostrils – then turned the handle and swept into the room.

It was pitch black. Rose was aware of furniture, could tell the shape of the room based on the startled gasp and the rustle of sheets. The hallway had been dim, but offered enough light to lay a panel down on the floor, on the foot of the bed. Enough to see kicking feet, and flying blankets.

Beck was ahead of her.

“What the hell?” a man’s voice roared. “What do you think you’re–” The words morphed into a choked-off sound of pain.

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