The hate she understood, based on what she'd been told about the man. But why was the Leidolf Rho's crazy son so damned happy?
THIRTY
CYNNA supposed this was one of God's little jokes. How else to explain the way the investigation had brought her here?
The deli was gone, she noted, striding down the cracked sidewalk, her heavy trench coat flapping around her ankles. A Vietnamese take-out joint had replaced it. But the laundry was still there, and the buildings looked the same—old, dingy, gray. Everything on this street was gray. When you spoke of color here you meant skin or gangs.
There were more white faces than there had been in her youth—integration coming to the ghetto at last; she'd really stood out as a kid. But most were some shade of brown.
The street had changed, Cynna decided, but not enough. She hoped the same wasn't true of her.
The weather was bitter as only a Chicago winter could be. Funny, that, because she'd been in colder places, but something about Chicago in December went right to the bone.
Mounds of filthy slush made crossing the street an adventure. Cynna survived that, keeping her gloved hands jammed in her pockets for warmth… and to keep from worrying at the mysterious kilingo Jiri had placed on one of them. It hadn't woken yet, but it would. Jiri hadn't planted it for laughs.
She needed to get it off. For that she could use some help, she admitted. Cullen's vision, to be specific. Removing a spell she knew, one she'd placed on her skin herself, was tricky. She didn't know how to get rid of a mystery spell.
She'd have to let a whisper of power slip into the spell for him to see it. That ought to be safe enough; a spell as complex as this one looked was bound to need more than a whisper to work. He'd be able to see how the magic moved through it, and the two of them could figure out how to undo it.
Once he deigned to show up.
When he first took off she'd been pissed. She admitted that. Rule said that cutting out was a survival skill Culler, acquired when he was a lone wolf. When his temper flared too high, he left—right that second, no discussion. He was out of there until he cooled down. Now that he was Nokolai he probably didn't have to do that anymore—being clan moderated things somehow—but the habit was ingrained. When he got mad, he walked out.
Apparently he'd stayed mad. As for her, she'd gotten over it. She should have known better than to get bent out of shape in the first place. Yeah, they were working up to doing the wild thing, but what did that mean? Sex could happen quick. It hadn't happened for them yet because life kept interfering, but it would. But friendship was a slow build. You started out with some reason to like each other, you got some respect going, then you let it simmer until you'd brewed up some trust.
It might take a lot of simmering for either her or Cullen to hit trust.
She headed across the street. A car shot through the yellow, splashing her with icy slush. Automatically she offered the traditional one-finger salute… Huh. The driver was Chinese. No, probably Vietnamese—a cluster of immigrants from that country were turning a pocket of former slum into a decent area a few blocks east of here.
That made her think of Lily. Wonder what she'd make of Chicago weather? She seemed to think it was cold in D.C.
Cynna snorted, but thinking about Lily while she moved down this street depressed her. The China doll might have patrolled in hoods like this, but she hadn't lived in one. She'd grown up clean. Cullen, now… she had a feeling he knew the bad spots in every city he'd ever lived in. He'd knocked around a lot while he was clanless. But she was pretty sure he hadn't grown up in this kind of place. Lupi didn't let their kids grow up poor and desperate.
Cynna glanced to her left. Three blocks over, she thought. If she walked three blocks west and two north, she could see the place she'd grown up.
Fat chance.
The address Lily had given her belonged to an ancient apartment building that seemed to lean tiredly into its neighbors. She checked the scraps of cardboard that passed for nameplates in the tiny vestibule.
H. Franklin was on the fifth floor. Figured. The building didn't aspire to anything like a security system, so she started up the stairs.
The lights were forty-watt, bare bulb, which was just as well. No one wanted to see what they were stepping on here. Trash collected in corners of the stairwell, and the treads were sticky. And the smell—the smell hit her right in the snake brain. Cabbage, piss, burnt meat, onions. A whiff of pot as she passed the second floor.
You didn't notice the smells so much when you lived here, she reflected, shoving her coat back so she'd have quick access to her weapon. Familiarity deadened the senses. It was nice, in a way, to know her nose wasn't numb to the stink.
People were arguing in shrill Spanish on the third floor. On the fourth, a screaming baby competed with rap on one side, the drone of a television on the other. She was halfway up the last flight when the clatter of footsteps said someone was headed down, fast.
Quick, heavy steps—a man, probably. Definitely not a kid. She readied her stun spell.
He stopped when he saw her—a man about forty with medium brown skin and curly hair. Probably some Latin and Caucasian in the mix, but he'd call himself black. He wore a do-rag, jeans way too big for his skinny butt, and a scarred leather jacket over a dirty T-shirt. Everything was black or gray. No colors, gang-related or otherwise.
His eyes widened. That's what tipped her. He saw her face with its tattoos, and he was afraid. "Hamid Franklin?" she said, coming up a step.
"I'm dead," he said in a thin voice. "Oh, God. I'm a dead man."
"Cynna Weaver." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her shield. "I'm with the FBI."
He didn't bother to look at her ID, shaking his head. "You're
FBI? Yeah, sister, an' I'm with the Pentagon. Listen." He came a step down, his hands held out to show they were empty. "I din't talk. I don't care who say so, I din't say a word, ever. Jus' give me a chance. You can spell me, find out for sure I'm tellin' the truth."
"I'm not with Jiri," she said quietly. "Not anymore. I'm with the FBI, like I said. Listen, man, if Jiri wanted you dead, she wouldn't send a person to do it. You've got to know that."
He was still a moment, then his head bobbed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. It'd be one of her pets, wouldn't it? But you—wait a minute. What you say your name was? Cynna? I heard of you." He looked around, as if someone might be lurking in the narrow stairwell. "You was her favorite, yeah, long time ago. You walked."
"Not her favorite. Her apprentice. But I walked, yeah."
Truculence crept in as fear receded. "What d'you want?"
"We'll talk in your place. You don't want anyone listening in."
It took some persuading, but she got him back upstairs and into his apartment. It was about what she'd expected—a mattress on the floor in one corner, food wrappers scattered around, a couple chairs.
He didn't invite her to sit, which was just as well. No telling what substances had left the stains on those chairs, or what might be living in their sagging cushions. He was jittery as hell. Coming down off something, probably.
His most common drug of choice, however, was tobacco. The place reeked of cigarettes, and he lit one as soon as he got inside. "I don't know nothin,'" he said, inhaling some degree of courage along with the smoke.
"A minute ago you were claiming you hadn't talked. What's to talk about if you don't know anything?"
"So I'm paranoid." He exhaled quick so he could draw in another drag. "I see you, I think Jiri's decided I know somethin', but I don't."