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  Chapter 4

  “Somebody’s grouchy today. Need a Band-Aid? Or do you want me to kiss it—”

  “Enough, girl. Let’s get this over with.” We stepped out of the church to stare up at the full moon through a haze of light rain misting down on us. We were already soaked, so I didn’t really care at this point. “You’re driving this time. I’ll have one of the sisters clean my vehicle.” Because he had bled all over it, and now he wanted to bleed all over mine. But I very wisely didn’t say that part. Still, I did let my mouth run a little. I had a little more leeway than others when it came to speaking my mind to Roland. And I wanted to avenge his unfair treatment of Father David. And because it was fun pestering the old hawk.

  “Of course,” I said. His steely gaze locked onto mine, and I put on my best mask of innocence and obedience, something all daughters learn from manipulating their fathers. “It’s just that old men can’t see well at night. You said you wanted to get there quickly, and you don’t have your glasses with you,” I added in a syrupy tone, patting him on the shoulder before I quickly slipped away, sure to stay on his bad side so he couldn’t pummel me with a Bible or something.

  “One of these days, girl…” he muttered, but he was smiling to himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t argue with me, because I had slipped in a little rationality. Arguing that would only make him look ignorant. He knew my moves, though. I would pay for it later. But that was our relationship.

  I winked at him, climbing into my Chevy S10 pickup truck.

  He collapsed into the passenger side, much less gracefully than usual, and I saw that his bandage featured a large crimson stain. “We should probably get you checked out before—”

  “Drive, girl.” Before I could ask, he spouted off the address — which was in a questionable section of town — and then stared out the window with a stubborn grimace on his face. Likely of pain. Rather than argue, I drove. Because the faster we got this over with, the faster we got him taken care of. And I was still shaken up about the night. The fighting. The death. The fear. They were coming back to me now that we were heading back out into danger.

  I turned up the music, dipping my head to the bass as we drove. I could listen to anything with a good beat. Except Country music. For whatever reason, it made my skin crawl. I could acknowledge the skill of the singer, but would still forever hate the music itself. Even though I lived in Missouri, where everyone seemed to love it, I couldn’t stand it. At all.

  Roland slammed a hand down on the volume knob, shutting it off as he shot an incredulous stare at me. I frowned, but turned my attention back to the road. “What?”

  “Do you even listen to the words?” he managed, grinding his teeth.

  I frowned, replaying the song in my head. A slow smile crept onto my face. “It’s called rap, Roland. It’s not 1940 anymore. Rittz is one of my favorites. I like the beat. Keeps me focused.”

  “Not when I’m in the vehicle. We’ll listen to good, wholesome, quality music.” He began fiddling with the dial. I rolled my eyes as I navigated a left turn, mentally tracing the address in my head. I was pretty good with driving in the city. Only rarely did I need to use my phone or GPS. Because I had been Roland’s driver for quite some time, now. And sometimes that entailed fast escapes from surviving monsters.

  Everything was going well until he stopped fidgeting with the radio, and leaned back with a contented sigh. I jerked the wheel to the right, carelessly bumping up over the curb on the side of the street as I shoved the truck into park. I ignored his gasp of pain. “No,” I said flatly.

  His gaze darted around the truck, searching for threats. Seeing none, he turned back to me. I met his eyes and slowly reached down to the volume knob. I pressed it all the way in, shutting down the stereo like he had. I let out a slow sigh, overly dramatic, and then turned back to him. “That will never happen again,” I whispered.

  “Country music?” he asked, voice incredulous.

  “Never again, Roland. Or I’ll buy you a walker right now. With tennis balls on the legs for safety. And you can shuffle your handicapped ass down to the storage units by yourself.”

  “Language…” he warned.

  I pressed the unlock button on the doors, folding my arms over my breasts. He shook his head at me in disbelief for a few seconds, and then began to bark out a deep laugh. He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. But no gangster music either. We’re not drug-dealing hoodlums.”

  “And we aren’t inbred, drunk rednecks.”

  “Just because someone listens to Country music does not make them inbred, drunk, or a redneck,” he shook his head, eyes full of judgment.

  I smiled at him, batting my eyelashes as I flashed my teeth victoriously. “By that logic, listening to Rap does not suddenly make one become a drug-dealing hoodlum…”

  His scowl hardened, seeing his argument turned back on him. He grunted, neither in agreement nor disagreement. “Fine. No music.”

  “Damn right,” I said, pulling the truck back out into the street.

  “Language,” he repeated, “and I’m telling your father about this. Terry will not be pleased to hear his daughter is a drug-dealing hoodlum.” He was smiling.

  “The Vatican wouldn’t like to hear that you’re a drunk, inbred redneck, either.” His light laughter changed to a hiss as the truck bounced off the curb, pressing his injured leg into the door. “Sorry,” I murmured, actually feeling guilty as I glanced down at the growing crimson stain. It was my fault he had been injured in the first place, and my fault I hurt him further with my careless driving. The familiar teasing was helping me avoid my own fears. And other worries bothered me as well.

  Why had he made his threat to Father David sound like the injury was only the fault of the church? Sure, their information had been faulty, but he had been hurt because of my distractions, yet he hadn’t said a word about that. Was that because he was protecting me from them for some reason? But then he had told Father David that I worked for him, in a way. Which was contradictory if he was trying to keep me away from them.

  Or did he genuinely believe that the entire blame lay on the church for handing him incorrect information? I wasn’t even sure what the hell was so important about this key, but I had long ago learned that the only way to get all the information was to tell him I wanted to fully join his cause, which I didn’t. So, I sat in silence, thinking, analyzing as I drove.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a pair of worn-down storage unit buildings. One of those that didn’t even have a fence around the property, despite sitting dead center in the middle of a shady warren of crime-infested streets.

  Which meant one of three things: no one used these buildings for anything important, the important units were marked — tagged with spray-paint — to let any would-be thieves know which ones were owned by which gangs, or this sorry collection of buildings had one hell of a security system.

  My eyes tracked to several lampposts overlooking the buildings, only to find broken messes of wires and plastic where the once-functional security cameras had stood. Well, option three was out.

  “At least no one will see we were here,” I said.

  Roland wasn’t listening to me, instead, scanning the streets, the dark shadows, and the area behind us — as if we had just landed in the middle of a war zone, or as if we had been walking through the woods when suddenly every single biological creature went dead silent after a veritable symphony of sound.

  What had he not told me?

  Chapter 5

  Roland grumbled under his breath as he climbed out of the truck. “Stay alert, Miss Penrose.”

  “It’s Girl to you. Only my friends call me Miss Penrose,” I said, slamming the door as I climbed out.

  “Must not hear it very often, then.” He smiled absently.

  If he didn’t look so pathetic I would have thrown a rock at him. “Watch it, old one—”

  He flinched as if struck, rounding on me. “What did you just say?”

&n
bsp; I took an instinctive step back at the fierceness in his eyes. “I just… called you old… It’s not the first time, and definitely won’t be the last,” I added defensively. Maybe the pain was really getting to him. But in that moment, I finally understood what others saw in him. His enemies. Before he killed them. Or read them scripture. I thought I had known the look he gave them, assuming it was a slightly stronger version of the withering glare I got during training.

  But I was wrong.

  Those looks from training were a loving smile compared to this. “Have a care with your words, and stay alert,” he finally said, turning back to the storage units, scanning the tall grass on either side of the two buildings, searching for a crowd of devil ninja nuns or something.

  What had earned that look? Calling him old? I did that all the time. In response to him always calling me girl. Petty, but when someone kicked your ass all day every day, you delivered what punches you could, when you could, however you could. So, I teased him relentlessly about his age.

  It wasn’t that he looked old. But he looked… hard. Like a gnarled piece of ancient driftwood. Still solid, not rotting or decaying, but tough as shit.

  Old one was what I had said. How was that any different from any other way I had called him old? But before I could press that thought, I realized he was already shambling into the center of the storage unit buildings. The grouchy bastard was going to bleed out, and in this part of town, I wouldn’t be finding help any time soon.

  “Why don’t you have a shield, yet?” he spoke softly, not sounding pleased as his eyes continued to track our surroundings.

  I shrugged, then realized he obviously wasn’t watching me. “I don’t know. Haven’t really needed one before tonight. And I can always throw one up when I need it—”

  “Unless you’re too scared to act or are out of magic. That’s why you need a construct bound to your flesh. That needs only a subconscious thought to activate. For those other times.”

  I kicked a rock with my boot. He didn’t say it out loud, but he meant times like tonight, when I had frozen up. “I’m not fond of getting a tattoo…” I finally admitted.

  He growled under his breath. “You are getting one whether you like it or not.”

  “Unless I choose not to become like you.”

  He stopped in his tracks, slowly turning back to face me.

  I averted my eyes, surprised that his look of shock threatened to overwhelm me with guilt. This wasn’t an old argument, but I had never said it so bluntly. “It’s just… I don’t think this is really my thing. Tonight was proof. I was terrified. The whole time. I felt like I had never trained before. I couldn’t think. I got you injured. I started training with you to learn how to protect myself, not to work for the fucking Vatican.” I threw my hands up, frustrated.

  “We will talk about this. Later. But you’re getting that tattoo, Shepherd or not. It protects.”

  And he was walking again. Well, shuffling awkwardly. I nodded stubbornly, following him. He knew I didn’t want to be like him, a Shepherd, but it seemed some deeply hidden part of him hadn’t believed my repeated statements to this fact. I kicked another rock. That was his problem. Nothing I could do about it if he wanted to pretend otherwise.

  Gang signs were tagged on almost every storage unit, all different symbols, but a few were marked out and replaced with another. Those looked to have been recently vandalized. Likely a message to the original gang, hey, we took your stuff. Polite, really.

  Roland finally approached a locker that was devoid of both spray paint and damage. Which was odd to see. It was so bare that by comparison with the others, it looked like it had never been used. Or that it was a brand-new door. Roland wasted no time, shoving the key we had taken into the lock. He met my eyes, nodded once, and then flung open the door. On instinct, I had my energy sticks out. Roland studied the storage unit, and seeing no threat, turned back to me. His eyes locked onto my hands and he chuckled.

  “I like those better, but you shouldn’t default to short-range weapons first,” he said, and then turned back to the storage unit.

  I frowned, glancing down at my hands. Instead of two escrimas like I had used earlier, I now held two kamas — the same size as the escrimas, but with a long, arced blade on the ends, like small one-handed scythes. They had originally been created to cut weeds in ancient Japan, but like most things, man had found a way to turn them into weapons. But they were easy to use. Fast, light, fluid, adaptable, and lethal. A more… final version of the sticks I typically defaulted to, although I knew how to use these just as well. The reason I liked these was that I could incorporate them into my weapons-free training with only minor adaptations, altering my simple punches and blocks into lethal counterattacks. Bleed the enemy with a thousand cuts, every move a slice, Roland’s words drifted from my memory, having heard it a hundred times.

  Roland had made sure I was well-versed in the art of self-defense, and after several years, had finally told me — begrudgingly — that despite my small size, I stood a decent chance of not being helplessly beaten and molested in a dark alley one day. Like the day he had found me as a young teen, barely saving me from an attack exactly like that.

  That comment had lit me on fire. And it had been two years ago.

  But old Roland knew how to press my buttons, light my fuse, and motivate me where few others had succeeded.

  Because that idle comment had killed my momentary pride, and I had decided to stick with him, hungering to learn more. Not just with weapons, but with my magic.

  I wondered — for the millionth time — if his process was the longest conversion to religion he had ever had to endure. Like a test from God.

  Roland was cursing. Well, not cursing like I would curse, but muttering darkly under his breath from inside the storage unit. I had once offered to tutor him on cursing, but his stony scowl had been answer enough. I stepped inside the unit — my blades lighting the space — to find him reading a small, dirty, rumpled slip of paper. It looked to have been forgotten in a corner.

  “What is it?” I asked hesitantly.

  He met my eyes; his own were bloodshot, and distant. “It’s gone.”

  Then he fell down, the paper fluttering in the air to land on a dark stain on the ground. I shifted my kama to see that it was a small pool of blood. Right where Roland had been standing. His wound had soaked through the bandage, and he was losing blood fast.

  I snatched up the piece of paper, reading it with a frown before shoving it into my pocket. I didn’t know what he had been looking for here, but it wasn’t that slip of paper.

  There was no way in hell I could pick him up alone. He outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds.

  Desperately, I plucked out my cell phone and made a call to my best friend, Claire Stone. She was closest to us, even though I would have loved to call my dad. I spoke woodenly, only stating the facts, and then hung up, unable to answer her twenty questions for fear of breaking down.

  The night seemed particularly ominous and threatening as I waited for her to arrive. One of God’s Shepherds was on the ground, unconscious, wounded, in a dangerous section of town. And only I stood between him and the terrors of the night—

  Wolves began to howl. A lot of them. And not far away.

  As I stared out at the night, guarding the open door, praying for all I was worth that Claire hurried — because with those howls, I knew there was no chance of me leaving — my nightmare began to hammer into my mind like a boxer beating a heavy bag.

  Rain. A doorway before me. Night air on my cheeks. I was all alone…

  Again.

  Chapter 6

  I watched Roland sleep as I sat on the couch in my two-bedroom apartment’s living room. We hadn’t wanted to try squeezing him through the narrow hallway leading to the spare bedroom, finding it easier to set him on the fold-out couch in the living room. We had moved a nightstand beside his bed, and it currently held drinks, medicine, iodine, a box of latex gloves, and a metal
bowl full of bloody rags, a few syringes, a used sewing needle, and discarded strands of thread.

  Fearing he would harm himself further if he woke to find himself surrounded by strangers, we had decided to keep him here until he woke up. My apartment building was near the Roaster’s Block Apartments — a revamped Folger’s Coffee plant — on Broadway in downtown Kansas City’s Financial District. The air still smelled of roasting coffee beans, which I loved.

  I crumpled the paper from the storage unit in my fist. I understood none of its relevance, but it was obviously important. A hint on how to retrieve whatever it was that Roland had expected to find in that storage unit. If we hadn’t wasted so much time at the church—

  “I did all that I could,” Claire said in a soft, comforting whisper, sitting beside me on the couch facing his sleeping form. “He isn’t an animal, so my equipment was less than ideal, but I’ll raid the shelves tomorrow morning. I have everything I need for a day or two, but I would like to see about a few other things that may help if he starts showing signs of infection…”

  Claire Stone worked for the Kansas City Zoo as their head veterinarian, despite her young age. She was terrified of almost everything, shy as all hell, but smart as a tack, which was how she’d won her job over the other competitors. She loved animals. And making things feel better. She was a saint in that way, but not too prim that we hadn’t often gotten into trouble together. I had known her as far back as I could remember, having play dates with her as children, and I was lucky to have her as my best friend. We had been through a lot together, and she knew all my secrets.

  She was petite, with long, platinum blonde hair that made me want to kill her, and had a narrow face that always seemed to be professionally touched up with layers of makeup. But I was one of the rare people to have seen her without cosmetics and she’d still been beautiful. Damn her. Her green eyes twinkled with an inner happiness most days, but right now, with her sense of purpose completed for the time being, she looked ready to bolt.