“Be quick about grabbing him,” Nilsson said to the other men, gesturing down at the perp, who I’d decided must own the Quicksilver Coffeehouse. “Detective Walker is fuckin’ strong and it’s probably going to take all of us to move him.”
The street cops laughed as if they didn’t believe my partner, but when I moved aside and Nilsson grabbed one of the man’s shoulders, it was like a rodeo. I rolled to my left instead of getting to my feet, then crawled on my hands and knees the few feet to the vic and went behind him. Once I thought I was out of his line of sight, I got to my feet, probably faster than I should’ve, if his little gasp was any indication. The vic had switched to watching my reflection in the dark glass of the closed café, and I hadn’t noticed.Fuck, oh well.I put my hands under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. He glanced upward and over his shoulder, those glass-blue eyes of his knocking the breath clean out of me.Fucking stunning.
“You’re going to get hurt again if you don’t move,” I grumbled. “You never answered me.” I let go of him to walk around and investigate the collateral damage. He tilted his head up when I bent. The finger marks around his throat were red and already bruising to a dusky purple. They’d be livid reminders of a near-death experience tomorrow.
A morbid excitement skittered and twisted in my gut. My host beat on the bars of the metaphorical cage he slithered around in most of the time in our shared mental space, and I flinched like it was a real hit. My brain rattled.
“Are you hurt?” I found myself murmuring, far too intimately. “You’re gonna want to keep track of the swelling.”
The man blushed a pretty pink that blossomed on his cheeks first, then flooded to his nose and up to his hairline. “I’ll be okay.” He rubbed at his neck with one hand again. “I was trying to get Mr. Enoch to stop putting out the strips in his doorway.” He hooked a thumb at the coffee shop entrance, and in front of the door some wicked-looking blunt-tipped metal spikes were secured to metal plates by padlocks on both sides, which were anchored into the sidewalk somehow. They’d been painted a bright yellow, probably so the owner wouldn’t forget they were there and hurt himself while opening on sleepy mornings. “He pretends they’re to keep away stray cats and dogs, but the only thing he’s worried about is homeless people. He even pours bleach on his leftovers so no one will scavenge in his dumpster. It’s well known around here.”
I shook my head. “What does it matter if he’s not gonna sell it?”
“Exactly.” The man grasped my wrist, and then the cute blush went all the way up to his ears and he took his hand back. “We didn’t get the funding we thought we were going to get at Healing Hearts. We were supposed to have an additional location open this year for the winter season. Vanheim gets cold, and this far north we’re colder than the rest of New York. I had to turn people away this afternoon.” His mouth twisted down and to the side, and while his injuries hadn’t inspired much emotion, the horror-stricken expression that flashed across his features made my heart ache in an unexpected way. “It’s only October and it’s already going down to forty degrees after dark.”
“And he attacked you because you asked him not to put out the spikes?”
The man shrugged a shoulder. “And… I’ve been going around the neighborhood and taking pictures of businesses who use the strips and posting them on Healing Hearts’ social media pages. It’s gotten some attention.” He puffed up as if he was proud of his rabble-rousing, and I wanted to groan. This cute little mouse was going to get himself cut up into pieces and tossed into the river if he pissed off the wrong people in this city.
“You work at the shelter, and you were out poking bears on behalf of the homeless?” I crossed my arms and tried not to glare. Nilsson and the beat cops had wrestled “dear” Mr. Enoch toward a black-and-white squad car at the curb, where our gray Chrysler was also parked. The uniforms probably moved it from the street as a courtesy.
The vic went up on tiptoe before his heels slammed back to the sidewalk, his rage at the injustice written across his handsome face. “Someone has to help those people. No one else is doing it.” He cleared his throat and his raspy voice faltered. Tears dribbled in shiny lines down his cheeks. I wanted to give him a hug or shake him. But I could feel Abe stirring in my head, lured out of his bad behavior—flexing and pushing to escape his mental prison early, which I occasionally allowed—with his memorization of the vic’s pretty face. I let out a long breath and glanced at the coffee shop, trying to stuff Abe back in his box. I didn’t want this kid to end up another fucking vital statistic for the city of Vanheim. Besides, as someone who worked Homicide, I’d only be making more trouble for myself.
“So, the shelter is full. That’s what you were telling me?”
The pretty man nodded. “Yes, and people need the safety of an out-of-the-way place to sleep. Can you sleep when you’re afraid someone might hurt you?”
Mr. Enoch screamed obscenities as he was forced into the back of the squad car, and I caught my brothers in blue out of the corner of my eye, all clearly with their hands full. Suddenly the vic stiffened and spun toward Mr. Enoch.
“You’re cruel! Call me any names you want, but I didn’t hurt you!” He could barely speak when he was done shouting, and he broke down coughing again.
“Calm down, killer.” I chuckled. “One more time. Are you hurt? Why are you babying that arm?” I strode forward and grabbed for the hand he’d had tucked against his side. He let out a sad sound as I turned his limb toward me.
My brain misfired. Abe quieted in my head as I dispassionately catalogued a small, shriveled hand turned in on the side. These days it wasn’t usual to see a club hand, especially as severe as this one missing a thumb, because people normally used the miracle of modern medicine to take care of the problem, as much as they could. Flashes of similar people I’d known throughout the millennia with the same issue surfaced in my mind in a foggy muddle, without the connection of names or times or places. I quickly tried not to think about the memories. I’d end up with a headache.
The unmistakable disappointment that trickled out to color my mood—what the real Abe Walker was feeling inside his cage in my head—pissed me off.You fucker. You only want to wreck what you think of as flawless.I took a second to hate my host because this man was still beautiful.
The vic tugged on his arm until I let him go, and then he tucked his hand back into his jacket pocket.
“It’s rude to stare.”
Shrugging, I was happy my annoying host had simmered down for the time being. We were getting close to the point where he would break out of the cage and be running the show—or in this case the body I borrowed from him.
Abe’s freedom started at nightfall every thirteen days, and it was hell trying to keep him in line.
Glancing around the dark sidewalk, I noted we had several lookie-loos gathering near the squad car, all with their phones out. Some people were snapping photos of us, though my new friend didn’t seem to notice. “I have somewhere to be tonight. My partner will take your statement.”
“It is Friday, most people do have plans,” the man said in a soft, sad tone, although he seemed to be indicating he didn’t have any. He licked his lips and stared after Mr. Enoch, who’d finally been stuffed into the cruiser. Something passed across his face—maybe fear—and I didn’t enjoy that. Despite the man’s bravado, his body appeared to be stuck deep in his fight-or-flight responses. His pupils were too wide, and that clean scent of his rode the air, twisting up my belly and making me want to sniff him all over to find out where it came from.
“Has Mr. Enoch made threats on you before tonight?”
“Yeah.”
The sigh I let out came from all the way in my bone marrow. I didn’t have the time to waste on this, but I also couldn’t let it go and have it bite me on the ass later. I didn’t want to see his face on a morgue slab. “Let me take you to the hospital, or maybe you need a lift home?”
“Sure. I was walking.” He shivered. “And it’s cold.” He eyed the spikes in the doorway with a small frown; however, he allowed me to clasp his shoulder and lead him toward the car I shared with Nilsson during shifts.
“Taking him home,” I called to Nilsson when we were closer. He was glaring at Mr. Enoch through the squad car window, while the perp in question stared straight-ahead as if he thought he might be able to set the seat in front of him on fire with his will alone. “Can you catch a ride? I might need to borrow the car.”
