All Fixed Up (21 page)

James retrieved it, along with its pocket holster, from the coffee table. He hesitated before handing it over. “Sis, have you…?” He cleared his throat, a small blush blooming on his cheeks.

“I'm not worried about my period anymore,” I said before he could ask me about a pregnancy test, forcing a big, relieved smile. Convoluted, maybe, but true. I
wasn't
worried about my period anymore, because I was no longer expecting it to happen. But I didn't want them worrying about a pregnant me. Time enough to deal with that later.

Their smiles were much more genuine than mine.

Devon clapped his hands. “Let's celebrate! We have ice cream … and chocolate … and potato chips … and bourbon!”

In other words, everything a woman on her period could want. I couldn't help but laugh. “Tempting, but I have to go. Next time, okay?”

*   *   *

Back in the car with Mr. HBH (who'd told me his name was Carl), I thought maybe it hadn't been fair to run out on James and Devon, considering how sweet they'd been to me when the emotional time bomb inside me had exploded. But if I'd stayed any longer, I would have wound up telling them the truth about Billy, and I couldn't. Not yet.

Part of me was holding out hope he'd contact me, that he'd apologize for flaking out on me, and tell me everything would work out.

That he still loved me …

Pathetic, Ciel.

A more realistic hope would be that we could discuss the situation rationally, and present our breakup to our families in a way that wouldn't cause anyone to get out a shotgun. Bonus points if we could manage to leave Mark out of it entirely, because, yeah, awkward.

“Where to?” Carl said.

I thought about it. In my current mood, I didn't think a mere walk was going to cut it. I felt the need for speed. (Normally, I'd rather yank my eyelashes out individually with tweezers than quote a Tom Cruise movie, but if a quote fits, it fits.) Running for any length of time wasn't an option, not with the kick-ass boots, no matter how comfortable.

“Do you know how to ice skate?” I said.

His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows rose. I could see him struggle with the question. “I grew up down south. I've never tried,” he finally admitted. “But I'm great at Rollerblading.”

Huh. This could be entertaining
, I thought. I really shouldn't … oh, hell. I needed the distraction. “Close enough,” I said.

 

Chapter 17

The milky sun was low in the sky by the time we got to the Wollman Rink in Central Park. It was crowded—it always was this time of year—but at least there was no wait, thanks to the weather. Freezing drizzle isn't nearly as picturesque as snow, but the hardiest tourists were there in spite of it, determined to check another must-do off their Christmas-in-Manhattan lists.

“So, you sure you want to do this, Carl?” I asked as we laced up rental skates that smelled strongly of antifungal spray. I tried not to think of how many feet had worn them before. “You can always watch from the side, you know.”

He shrugged, and swiped a gloved hand over the reddened tip of his nose. “How different can it be from Rollerblading?”

“The balance is similar, so you should adjust fairly quickly,” I said. Honesty compelled me to add, “Or you would, if those weren't rentals, which are by definition lousy. But at least it looks like they've been sharpened recently—that will help. Good luck.” I grinned.

He stayed upright on wobbly ankles for a good thirty seconds before falling on his ass, whereupon he looked so shocked I had a hard time not laughing. When I circled him and asked if he needed help, his surprise was quickly replaced by a look of profound determination. He waved me off. Spooks. They all think they can do anything.

Then again, it only took three more falls before he was gliding along like he'd been raised on skates, so maybe his confidence wasn't misplaced. Once I was sure he was steady, I took off, increasing my speed as much as I could without triggering a reprimand from the staff. The frigid air stung my cheeks and made me puff out clouds of visible breath, which entertained me as much as an adult as it had when I was a kid. I used to like to pretend I was a dragon, breathing fire as I flew over tiny villages below.

Carl stuck close to me for several circuits. I was hitting the groove—the sweet spot where the combination of physical exertion and sensory input didn't leave room for intrusive thoughts—when a budding wannabe hockey player darted between us and practiced his hip check on my skating partner. The boy, from what I could tell as he whizzed past, looked to be twelve or thirteen, prime age for ice-rink assholery. Carl went down hard. I turned my feet sideways, skidded to a quick stop, and circled back around to help him. Again, he waved me off. Sheesh. Spooks.

I left him to get himself up, and went after the kid instead, intending to give the little shit a piece of my mind about rink manners. Judging by how swiftly and gracefully he was maneuvering around the other skaters, it hadn't been an accident.

I caught him three-quarters of the way around, hooking elbows with him and slowing him down to a crawl. “Hey, brat, what you did wasn't funny. It was rude, and downright dangerous. How about we skate over to my friend so you can apologize.”

He gave me a coolly appraising once-over. “You give me five bucks and I'll say ‘sorry' as nice as can be.”

“What? Why the he—um, heck, would I do that?”

The delinquent shrugged. “Same reason the guy gave me ten to trip him to begin with?”

Shit
. I whipped my head around. “What guy? Where?”

“Dunno, lady. Give me twenty bucks and maybe I can find him for you.”

I let the juvie go and skated toward where Carl had fallen. He wasn't there. I spun slowly in space, scanning the crowd on the ice. Three guesses how many guys there were with dark jackets and black knit hats exactly like Carl's.

But only one was being half-led, half-carried out of the rink by two staffers on the far side of the rink. Why was Carl's head listing to one side when he'd been fine a minute ago, right after he'd fallen? Head injuries were funny things—you could seem okay one minute, and be dead the next.

Shit
. I took off after them, cutting straight across the ice, trying my best to avoid the other skaters. I sent one middle-aged woman spinning, hollering a hasty “Sorry!” It was answered with a snarled “Up yours!” (Civility is not every New Yorker's strong suit.) I was about ten yards from the exit when I was hooked through my elbow in much the same manner as I'd latched onto the juvie.

My trajectory was altered. A large man eased me back into the clockwise circle of skaters. I tried to yank myself free, but gave up when I felt something hard poking me low in the ribs. I kept skating. My first thought, stupidly enough, was,
If this asshole puts a hole my new jacket I'm going to kill him.

My second thought: he was holding me too close for me to get to the gun in my pocket.
Damn it!

I looked up. The bottom half of his face was covered with a black felted-wool scarf, and his eyes were partially obscured by the thick black frames of his glasses. Even with his face obscured, I could tell I didn't know him. I'd never before seen eyes so flat black you couldn't even discern a pupil. Against the pasty backdrop of his complexion, they were creepy as all get-out.

The sinking sensation in my stomach made me fairly certain it hadn't been staffers leading Carl off the ice after all. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done to my friend?” I said, anger keeping my fear temporarily at bay.

The first sound I heard out of him was an ugly laugh. “You can scratch him off your list of worries,” he said, with a voice so low-pitched it wouldn't surprise me if elephants at the zoo could detect it.

I stifled my immediate urge to ask him if he'd ever sung “Ol' Man River” from
Show Boat
, because, yeah, it was an absurd question under the circumstances. One of my brain's crazy defense mechanisms to keep me from being overwhelmed with worry about Carl. If he was hurt, or worse, because of me—

Stop. Stay focused or you'll be in the same boat. Fat lot of good you'll do Carl then.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to come with me quietly,” he said.

Yeah, right
. My position might be precarious—assuming it
was
a weapon poking my ribs—but I was at least smart enough to know it was better to remain in public, with a lot of witnesses, than to let him get me alone somewhere.

“Not gonna happen, asshole.” I tried again to pull away, but he was gripping my upper arm too tightly. His other hand shoved the weapon harder into me.

“Hey, watch the coat, you shit-eating dickwad.”

Yeah, I know. The stress-language thing. I was probably going to have to learn to control my mouth after—

Argh! Ciel, not now!

If anything, he jabbed harder. I definitely felt a point now.

“Look, I don't know who you think I am, but you're obviously mistaken,” I said, toning my voice back down to “reasonable.” It was worth a try.

“I know who you're
not
,” he said with another blast of ugly laughter. “You're
not
an astronaut.”

Crap
. He'd connected me to Dr. Phil?

“How do you
know
that?” I asked in frustration, not expecting him to answer.

But he did. He jerked his head toward the skimpy crowd of people on the sidelines. “
He
told me.”

I glanced to the side. Alec Loughlin stood with the other spectators, watching us. My vertebrae lined up like a stack of ice cubes. Jesus. He really
could
tell an adaptor when he saw one. But
how
?

I might be able to get away if I made a big enough ruckus, but who was to say this guy wouldn't cut off my screams with a stab to my kidney? I happened to be even fonder of my kidney than I was of my coat. And even if I managed to get away from the asshole who'd apparently been sent to grab me for Loughlin, how was I going to avoid someone who could see through my auras?

The exit was approaching too fast. I could
not
let this bass-voiced moron get me to it. If he was going to hurt me—or kill me—he could damn well do it in front of everyone.

I stuck my foot out to the side, tripping him.

The good news was, he let go of me. The bad news: I spun out and hit the ice, landing on my back. Didn't skid far before he came down on top of me, his weapon—a fat-handled ice pick, I now saw all too clearly—still gripped in one hand.

If I could keep him down until a rink monitor got there, maybe I'd stand a chance. Unfortunately, Creepy Eyes recovered from his fall almost at once. Unless I could pull myself out from under him as he tried to stand, I was as trapped as ever.

Hell, he might decide to kill me right on the spot. He was good enough on the ice to stab me and get the hell out before anyone official knew what had happened. If he chose a spot covered by my clothes—basically, everything except my face—it would take a while before someone realized I wasn't just stunned from the fall. I knew from watching way too much television crime drama that lethal wounds from an ice pick didn't tend to bleed much. (I vowed inwardly to stop watching those shows—some shit you didn't need in your head.)

In the two seconds it took for that to go through my mind, he'd brought the pick close to my chest—right about heart level—and bared his teeth in a cheap imitation of a smile his scarf, unfortunately, no longer covered. Evidently the same scenario had occurred to him. He got his feet under him, ready to flee as soon as the deed was done.

It would take significant force to jab an ice pick through the leather of my jacket, no matter how sharp it was. Before he got his weight behind him enough to press down on it, I pulled my knees toward my chest, as I had with Mark during our lesson. I pushed with all my might, thinking to repeat the same maneuver and make a similar, if slipperier, getaway. But he was too heavy. I couldn't get any purchase on the ice with my back. His way-too-long arms still held the ice pick firmly against my chest, his black eyes glinting with his intention.

“So long, bitch,” he said, and bore down on me with all his weight.

The leather wasn't going to hold much longer. I had seconds at best. One thing crystallized for me in that moment: I would do anything to stay alive. Anything.

I gave one last mighty heave with my legs, pushing up his torso instead of back against him. My blades slid on the drizzle-slick Gore-Tex of his coat. I tilted both toes inward, kicking up with as much momentum as I could. I felt a burst of something—relief or satisfaction, maybe both—when one blade caught his cheek and nose and the other sliced a ragged gash on the side of his neck.

The blood spurted over my legs, onto my face, a fountain of red heat blinding me, clogging my nose with a sickly metallic smell. The clinical part of my brain told me I'd severed his carotid artery. I clamped my mouth shut. Too late. I could taste it anyway.

I completed the backward roll I'd inadvertently started. Wound up on my knees, gasping for air, staring at the creepy man bleeding out all over the ice in front of me. As the black-red pool grew, steaming against the ice, it was all I could do not to scream out my primal rush of victory.

*   *   *

I killed a man.

The words tapped at my head like inside-out water torture.

Aside from a few monosyllabic responses to essential questions (like whether or not I was hurt), I didn't say a word to the police until Mark got to the station. The medics had examined me at the scene and released me to the cops with the caveat to keep me warm and watch for signs of shock. One of them had done some sort of rapid-result AIDS test on the man and told me it was negative. He said the risk to me was low, but I could have myself tested in a few months if I was concerned. I'd nodded my understanding, frankly numb to any new worry.