Page 120 of Thief of Night
But back then she’d had time to plan. She’d been prepared. Maybe this was Charlie Hall, finally getting what she deserved. The bullet to the head she’d dodged, taking a year to boomerang around.
“Eat something,” Mark told her.
She took another fry, but she still couldn’t bear to take a bite. “So what happens after you kill Mr. Punch?”
He gave her a considering look. “Then Vicereine. For cutting off my fingers.”
“And then you’ll have to skip town.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, so they were on more prominent display. “If you forgave me, I could come with you.”
His gaze dropped, as she’d hoped. Her heart thundered. If Mark thought she was trying to play him, he’d kill her—and shewastrying to play him. She needed to be left unrestrained if she was going to escape.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“I admire ambition,” said Charlie, hoping he believed her. “And obsession.”
“Not a lot rattles you,” he said. “It’d be good to have someone like that to travel with. Someone they could feed on. I can always kill you later.”
“Where are you planning to go?” She kept her eyes on him, and tried to make them soft with admiration.
He grinned. “Maybe get out of the U.S. Let the rich and powerful come to me for shadows. We could go to Dubai. The Maldives. Egypt.”
“A good place for a god,” she said, heart pounding.
At that, his smile widened. Mark must have been alone for a long time, harvesting for Rooster. And as he got more shadows, he must have struggled more and more to keep it together. He would have unnerved everyone he met. Part of the reason he hadn’t killed her yet was probably because he enjoyed talking with someone. “You got a passport?”
As Mark lit another cigarette and wiped the fried fish grease off his mouth with the back of his sleeve, the depressing thought came to Charlie that she probably had more in common with him than with Remy Vincent Carver. “No, but I know a guy who can get passports from the Solomon Islands.”
“That would work,” he said.
Charlie leaned forward to take one of his cigarettes and light it in shaking fingers. She hated the taste, but had smoked enough weed not to cough.
Still holding the cigarette in one hand, she palmed his lighter. Then she went into the bathroom, washed her hands, and picked up the body spray on her way out, shoving it down her shirt, concealed between her boobs in almost the exact spot the scroll had been.
“When Mr. Punch pulls up, I’ll call from the alley. As soon as he gets out of the car, you’ll be able to handle him, right?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. It had been the wrong thing to say, the misstep that might have doomed her. “Don’t like the sight of blood?” he asked.
“I’m not a gloamist,” Charlie said. “That’s all.”
He glared. “I don’t have to tie you up again, do I?”
Charlie shook her head.
Mark nodded, anger washing out from his expression as quickly as it came. Charlie knew that it would come back before long, though. Anyone who traveled with him—much less someone he had a reason to hate—would wind up saying or doing the thing that triggered his paranoia and rage. He’d kill them, even if he regretted it later. And even if he held out for a while, they’d die some other way. His shadows would get hungry or he would cut too deep. “Good, come on.”
He led her down two flights of stairs to his car, a white Dodge Dart, shadows wavering around him like windblown balloons.
The vehicle, dirty with road salt and stained with mud, was even dirtier inside. Take-out containers, grocery-store-sized soda bottles, and candy bar wrappers littered the back seat.
Mark had talked about his hunger before, and the evidence of that was all around her. He probably needed to eat nearly constantly to stay ahead of the drain. Like an explorer in the arctic eating whole sticks of butter.
She slid in on the passenger side.
“You gave him a warning, didn’t you?” Mark snarled as he turned to her.
“What?” Charlie asked, startled.
“When you were on the phone. You warned him somehow. They know you did. They keep whispering about it.”
