“Ruthie can kiss—”
“Ah-ah-ah.” Jimmy glanced over his shoulder at me, then just as quickly back out the window at the increasingly steamy day. “She knows all and sees all.”
“Not really,” I muttered. In her new incarnation, Ruthie seemed to know a little and only see enough to be a pain in my butt. “Ruthie sent you to help me.” I straightened as if someone had goosed me. “What about Summer? You didn’t just leave her—”
“No,” Jimmy interrupted.
“Tell me you didn’t bring her along.”
“Definitely no.”
“You’re supposed to be watching her.” I stood and began to pace. “She can’t be trusted.”
“Neither can you,” he said.
My hands curled into fists. I so wanted to slug him, but then I usually did. “What’s to keep her from—?”
“What do you think she’s going to do, Lizzy?” Jimmy spun, hands clenched just like mine. “She sold her soul for me. You think she’s going to make that sacrifice worthless by selling us out?”
“I think she’d sell anyone to save you,” I said quietly.
He sighed. “I think she would, too.”
Have I mentioned that Summer’s a little obsessed? “I locked her in a room, put rowan across the exits,” he continued.
Rowan repelled fairy magic. It could also kill them, along with cold steel. I’d started keeping both in my duffel. Never could tell when I might need some.
“I bet she loved that,” I muttered.
“Love isn’t quite the word I’d use.”
I’d seen what lurked behind Summer’s pretty face, and it was frightening. I wondered if Jimmy’d seen it this time, and if he had, would he at last let me kill her like I wanted to?
“Luther wasn’t happy, either,” Sanducci continued. “He thought he could keep an eye on her.”
I snorted. Jimmy’s gaze lowered to my breasts as they jiggled. “You wanna put on some clothes?” he asked.
“If it bothers you.”
Jimmy’s hands clenched tighter. Pretty soon blood was going to run between his fingers.
I found clean underwear, yesterday’s jeans, and one of my new shirts. I purposely left the bras in the bag. It was too damn hot.
Once dressed I faced Jimmy, and my gaze touched on his T-shirt. I shook my head. Red letters on a gray background revealed that: ALL I REALLY NEEDED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM STEPHEN KING.
Someday that might even be funny.
“Let’s walk and talk,” I said. “If I don’t get coffee, I might go for your jugular.”
Jimmy jerked his head toward the door. His dark hair fell over one eye, and he shoved it back impatiently before following me into the hall.
“Luther thinks he’s a big boy now,” I said as we made our way to street level.
“He’s big enough. He’s just not mean enough.”
“You’ve never seen him go lion. Although . . .” I shrugged. “He isn’t exactly a man-eater then, either.”
“He will be. It’s only a matter of time.”
I understood what Jimmy wasn’t saying. The more horror Luther saw, the simpler it would be for him to kill. It happened to us all—I glanced at Sanducci’s stunning profile—some much sooner than others.
As we stepped onto the street, the heat hit us in the face like a blanket that had had been soaked in the river—heavy, damp, musty-mold. When I tried to breathe, the air not only burned my throat but seemed to fill it with cotton balls as well.
“You sure you want coffee?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m sure.” I headed for Decatur at a pace mere mortals dared not go.
Despite being in a hurry to get to a cup of chicory coffee and a plateful of fried dough, I glanced into the windows of the storefronts along the way. I couldn’t help it. A shrunken head shared space with a gloriously bedecked Mardi Gras mask; Catholic religious icons stood right next to a selection of voodoo dolls. All I had to say was—New Orleans.
Suddenly I stopped, and Jimmy slammed into me so hard he threw me forward. I caught myself, palms against the glass, nose brushing the cool, clear pane.
I’d never seen the photograph before, but I knew Jimmy had taken it. I didn’t need to touch it and “see”; I didn’t need to ask; I didn’t need to hear his answer. I just knew.
The portrait wasn’t even his usual fare. Instead a little boy, stark in black and white, stared out. The smudge of dirt on his face matched the shade of his eyes; his filthy shirt might once have been as light as his crew cut. A fly sat on his pale hair and another on his shoulder. The camera had caught him in the act of blowing air upward; his lower lip jutted out; his bangs scattered. The fly stayed put.
Had he been playing in the mud or living on the street? The picture was both the cutest and the saddest thing I’d ever seen.
My eyes met Jimmy’s in the glass, and he reached for me. “Wait, Lizzy—”