Page 66 of Thief of Night
He rose to his feet, cutting her off. “I’m not mad. I love you. But I am not Remy.”
Fiona’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, but it was Charlie who felt as though she couldn’t breathe as Red melted into a shadow that spread out from where he’d stood, a shadow that pitched the entire room into an eerie darkness.
Panicked gasps went up around the room.
The old woman pointed to Charlie. “Explain,” she demanded in a shaking voice.
“He’s your grandson,” Charlie said, standing. “Just as much as Remy ever was.”
Fiona shook her head in horror.
And Charlie, coward that she was, headed straight for the door.
22Not a Pet
She staggered to the Porsche where she saw the keys on the front seat. Sitting down hard on the driver’s side, she saw her face mirrored in the windshield. No makeup, like an actor offstage. Around her eye, the remains of her bruise.
What did you do?she asked Red.
He was nearby, looking like nothing more than the shadow she should have cast. Still, he didn’t answer. She imagined he didn’t want to talk about how he’d blown up his spot and alienated the one person who could have helped him avoid Adeline’s legal traps. Charlie put her hands on the wheel, but couldn’t make herself start the engine. Her emotions were all over the place, her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She’d given up grifting after Mark, afraid of how thoroughly she’d destroyed him, guilty about the man who died by a bullet meant for her. And then she’d gone back to being a con artist after all, because it was what she was good at.
Who would she have become without Rand taking her under his wing? Someone less traumatized? More boring? Rand had the gift of making people feel special, including her. He’d made her believe in the higher calling of their profession.
But sitting in the Porsche, hungover, with Red silent and in shadow, Charlie felt a familiar despair settle over her. She didn’t know how to fix anything. She didn’t know how to be better. She didn’t know how to give Mr. Punch what he wanted or even be a halfway decent Hierophant, for all her bragging.
Well, she’d promised to let Malhar have a look at the Blight in the trunk. And then she’d promised it to Balthazar for services he’d already rendered. She could do that much, at least.
Malhar met Charlie at the door to a house with a scrubby yard, a couch on the porch, and a lot of cars in the driveway. Typical Amherst share house among students who’d outgrown the dorms but couldn’t afford to be on their own.
Skinny, in jeans ripped at the knees and a maroon sweater, dark hair rumpled as though he hadn’t gotten around to brushing it, Malhar blinked at her like a man who hadn’t realized how late it had grown. He appeared surprised by the early winter dark.
“How many roommates do you have?” she asked him as she walked inside his place, squirming backpack over one shoulder.
Malhar shrugged, waving vaguely toward the kitchen. “Half a dozen usually, but they get into relationships or have someone crash with them and then we get an extra one or two. Or sometimes people get into relationships and move out instead—it varies.”
Charlie suspected he couldn’t actually give her a number.
Two more couches rested in the living room, one very close to the television. A young Black man was playing a video game that seemed to involve a guy with a lot of armor fighting something with a squid for a head. He grinned at them as they passed by.
“Deon is getting his MFA in writing,” Malhar said, low-voiced. “He’s spent two semesters avoiding finishing his novel.”
“Endings are elusive,” Deon called after them defensively.
The kitchen held two more roommates, one tossing a bunch of garbanzo beans and zaatar in a plastic bowl, the other drinking coffee from an enormous mug. A big pot of lentils simmered on the stove. Over the sink, someone had strung holiday tinsel, along with a string of colorful fairy lights.
Malhar gestured toward them. “Ibrahim is chemistry. Aron is film.”
“That’s right. Iamfilm. I am gigantic. I am unavoidable,” one of the guys—Aron, she supposed—said. “Your guest want any coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
“I do,” Charlie said, before Malhar could demur on her behalf.
“We’ll come back for it,” he said and ushered her into his bedroom. A desk had been shoved against one wall and two monitors loomed above it, both with screen savers of faraway places sweeping across them.
His bed, shoved against the opposite wall, was tidily made, although the end was covered in what seemed to be freshly washed but unfolded laundry. The floor was mostly clear, with the exception of a water bottle by the bed and a stack of files under the desk. The door to the closet was ajar and thereseemed to be a mess threatening to spill out from there—she thought she spotted a three-piece suit, of all things. By student standards, the place was spotless.
“Do you have it?” he asked, a little breathlessly.
She nodded and shouldered off her backpack.
