Page 23 of There Are No Saints

His upper lip curls in disgust, both at the promiscuity of women and the loss of the challenge when hunting becomes too easy.

“Please don’t tell me you’re intovirgins,” I scoff.

He really is so fucking cliché.

“Nah,” Shaw laughs. “I just don’t want to get crabs.”

I set the license back on the counter with a soft clicking sound.

I’m not interested in this confrontation with Shaw anymore. A much more pressing concern demands my attention.

I head toward the door, planning to leave without further comment.

But I can feel Alastor’s smug satisfaction radiating at my back. His happiness displeases me.

I pause by the doorway, turning once more.

“You know, Alastor,” I say. “The way you talk about these women . . . that’s exactly the way I feel about you. Your taste is horrendous. Just standing in this apartment makes me feel like I’ll catch herpes of the aesthetic.”

The smile drops off his face, leaving a vacant absence in its place.

It’s not quite enough.

Looking him dead in the eye, I make a promise:

“If we’re ever alone in a room again, only one of us will walk out breathing.”

* * *

The next morningI watch the front door of Erin Wahlstrom’s house. So much paint has peeled off the sagging row house that it’s difficult to tell if it was originally blue or gray. An obscene number of people seem to live inside, as evidenced by the lights that flick on as one by one the residents haul themselves out of bed. Half the windows are covered by sheets instead of proper blinds or, in one case, by a square of aluminum foil.

After a short interval, these residents begin exiting down the steep front steps, some wearing backpacks or shoulder bags, one trundling an oversized portfolio under his arm.

I see the voluptuous redhead, owner of the missing driver’s license. She shouts something back inside the house before hurrying down the steps, heading in the direction of the bus stop.

And then, when I think that must be all of them, the door opens once more.

Mara Eldritch steps onto the landing.

I’m seeing a ghost.

She was dying, almost dead. Bleeding out on the ground.

But there’s no mistaking the willowy frame, the long dark hair, the wide-set eyes. She’s wearing a heavy knit sweater that hangs down over her hands, covering any bandages that might remain on her arms. Beneath the sweater, a ragged pair of jeans and filthy, battered sneakers.

Did someone help her?

It seems impossible, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere.

How did she do it, then?

It was three miles to the nearest road. She couldn’t take three steps.

I don’t like mysteries, and I definitely don’t like surprises. I watch her descend the stairs with a deep sense of unease.

I follow her down Frederick Street, keeping plenty of space between us.

The wind blows in her face, making her hair dance around her shoulders, sending dry leaves tumbling against her legs. When the same air reaches me, I can smell her perfume, the low, warm scent mixing with the dusty sweetness of the decaying leaves.

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