Her voice was even. In the flat haze of the climbing sun, no hint of the demon’s violet flickered. She sat perfectly still, and yet he felt every muscle in his body tighten. She wasn’t asking permission. She wanted direction; she wanted to be unleashed.
And he’d wanted a weapon, he reminded himself. An uneasy chill followed the line of his reven down his back as his demon roused to the threat of her, the promise.
The most dangerous weapons were seldom safe.
The rattle of a jackhammer on concrete broke the moment. His gaze slid away from hers to focus on the construction crew gathered near the intersection. A flagger guided the single lane of traffic around the orange cones. The orderly progression, so unlike the teshuva’s frenzied energy through his damaged body, made him wonder. . . . “How did the tenebrae leave?”
She shook her head. “No one in the club—not even the bouncer—had a chance of stopping them.”
“I mean afterward. They got out without leaving a streak of ether, and a pack of blood-crazed ferales isn’t easy to move through the streets.”
Nim rubbed her temple. “Chicken Bob’s car was in the lot. He always stops in on his way to work, right before the club closes, so it must have been five thirty or so.”
“Chicken Bob?” Jonah asked. “Never mind. The sun is up before six these days, so that wasn’t much time to get the ferales out of there.”
After a moment, Nim said, “Both doors were locked from inside. Unless this demon wrangler you’re talking about took a key from one of the bodies . . .”
“They never left the club,” Jonah finished. He looked at the detour signs that blocked off an open sewer grate. “What if the building is above the old Chicago Tunnel Company passageways?” He frowned. “The league tries to stay out of there. Just too much opportunity for trouble, and we can find enough of that aboveground.”
“If that’s where the bastard with my anklet went, that’s where we’re going.” She fumbled for the door handle.
He reached across his body to grab her arm. “Not here. The place will be crawling with cops soon, and they’ll want answers we can’t give them.”
“I want answers,” Nim spit out.
“We want a map,” he said. “And backup.”
“Why don’t we—?”
“Because I can’t.” There was no demon in his voice, but she flinched.
He drove away from the scene of the crime. She slumped in her seat while he called Liam from his cell—although she gave him a sidelong glance as he steered with his knees. The league leader answered groggily, and Jonah heard Jilly in the background, complaining. They’d been out all night, subduing the tenebrae riled up for the last week by Nim’s unbound demon. But when he told them of the massacre, they fell silent.
“Wait for us,” Jilly said, her voice muffled.
“Wait for us,” Liam echoed. “We’ll call you with the closest access to the tunnel system and meet you there. Not everyone’s home today, but I’ll call in as many as I can.”
Jonah agreed and hung up.
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Nim asked, obviously having taken advantage of her demon amplified hearing. “Drive around in circles?”
“We’ll get breakfast.”
She stared at him. She’d washed away the dark makeup at her apartment, but that just made the bruises of shock and weariness more visible. “Breakfast?”
“The morning meal. And it is still morning.” Despite all that had happened.
“I can’t eat after . . .”
“After what? Death? Murder? Demonic possession? If you wait for peace and quiet, you’ll starve.”
She averted her red-rimmed eyes to gaze out the window until he pulled up outside the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and reached over to touch her arm. A pang of regret pierced him when she started, as if she’d forgotten where she was.
He wanted the poised, brazen dancer back. The teshuva would erase that external evidence of her distress, but inside she would still hurt. And like the demon, he had no cure for that. “Have some coffee, at least. It’s been a long night, and the teshuva’s first ascension takes more out of you than you might guess.”
She trailed him to the entrance, past a yellowed CLOSING SOON! Sign. Though he held the door open for her, she paused on the threshold, nostrils flaring. The familiar, sweet scent of corn porridge hit him, and then a wafting hint of lanolin pomade.
“Mr. Walker, hello again.” The woman behind the U-shaped counter opened her hands, her smile as white as the oxford that kept its points despite the contrasting shine of exertion on her dark skin. Her gaze shifted to Nim, and her crisp British accent overtook the long, native vowels. “A booth today? And then your usual?”
“We’ll take a menu, Ms. Mbengue, thank you.” He gestured for Nim to go ahead.
She didn’t go to the booth. Instead she chose a table pushed up against the padded bench along the side wall. Her wary gaze made the rounds, taking in the half dozen diners, the worn but clean linoleum counters, the plastic pastry case of sugared peanuts. After her experiences so far, Jonah thought her teshuva must be running close to the surface, amped up on lurking threats with nowhere to strike. When would the meltdown hit?
Ms. Mbengue returned with menus. Nim slouched behind the laminated shield. “Can I get a coffee, please? Extra cream and sugar?”
The woman nodded. “Cardamom chai, Mr. Walker?”
“Please.” When she’d gone, he said to Nim, “I can recommend any of the house specialties.”
“Ooh, she’s a gourmet chef as well as an impeccable laundress? Plus she has amazing skin. Another of your accomplished women.” Nim plucked at her tight T-shirt where a rusty stain streaked the white cotton over her navel. Dried blood.
He gave her a reproving look. “Ms. Mbengue is no chef, just a refugee who pulled herself from the brink after her children were killed in some unreported Congolese massacre and she was left for dead. And for the last year, her landlord has been threatening to condemn this block, which would leave me no place for breakfast.”
Nim slumped lower in her seat. “Life sucks. Where’s a demon slayer when you need one?”
“Demons weren’t responsible. Just men.” When she didn’t look up from contemplating her shirt, he suggested, “Go wash your hands and find your spine so you can sit up straight. I’ll order for us.”
She pushed to her feet, jolting the table a few inches toward him, and headed for the restrooms. Not quite stomping, which was hard to do in sneakers. At least the doldrums had been chased from her sea-change eyes.
He followed a moment later, to make sure she didn’t slip out the back. From the eddies of negative energy, he knew she hadn’t.
He lathered up his hand and hook, and returned to the table just as Ms. Mbengue brought the flowered china on a tray. Without a single rattle of cup on saucer, she transferred the items to the table. “There you are, Mr. Walker. Now, what will you have?”
“Second thoughts?” He rubbed his forehead.
“Ah, but you must have first thoughts first. Which, perhaps, has not been the case here.”
“Probably not. Meanwhile, two bowls of ugali and we’ll share the kikwanga.”
She straightened as if to leave, but hesitated. “If I may suggest . . .”
He looked at the menu, wondering if he had missed something. “Please do.”
“Your young lady.”
His missing hand twitched. “Ah.”
“In her eyes, I see things. The sorts of things that chased me from my home and wake me up in the night when I think I have finally forgotten. I do not know whether to warn her. Or you.”
“Thank you for your concern,” he said gravely. “It is not misplaced.”