“I want to kill something!” I shout, palms raking my face and fingers combing long hair back over Gracie’s scalp.
“Good,” Gaire chokes out between laughter. “Hold that thought for the hotel. Right now, we need to deal with the two berserkers at the door with Jane. The real Jane.”
He pulls the door open in front of me, and I pfft fine hair from my face.
“Wha’s-a-matta with you sons-a-bitches? Eh? Eh? Were the hell am I? I could’a been nice. I would’a been more helpful, but no, youse bastards gotta get rough. Well, youse guys are fuckin’ dyin’ tonight, goddamnit!”
Jane stumbles in, blindfolded. Her short leather skirt keeps flashing red silk and so does her low-cut halter top. Her blond, over-processed hair is sticking out above and below a blindfold. They should have gagged her.
“Get your fuckin’ greasy mutts off my goddamned arms, or I’m going to start biting again.”
Jane turns and, like a pup searching for a teat, finds the berserker on her left, latches onto his shirt sleeve, and shakes.
The berserker, red hair flying, jerks his body around and pulls his clothes out of Jane’s mouth. She stumbles and one of her barely street legal pumps slips off. As she hobbles to stand, one of the idiots makes the mistake of trying to right her. She gets in two very impressive side-kicks, sending him to his knees.
“Damn her all to Hell,” the berserker on his knees says. “I wouldn’t get in a cage with her—bitch got a chunk of his ear and bit my damn crotch at the hotel.” His hand rubbed the offended area.
“No shit! Bitch says she’s all up for a threesome, but she was packin’,” the other guy adds. “Blew your mother’s host to cinder.”
“Yeah,” says the one who got his balls bit. “I was never happier than to see your Mom suck a double out of her.”
Both berserkers laugh.
“Your Mom jumped her like a stalking demon-cat,” the other one says. “Then it was blessedly quiet until ten minutes ago when the bitch woke up.”
As one berserker grabs Jane’s kicking feet, and the other her upper body, I say, “Take her to the cellar, first door in the hall at the end of the kitchen.” I point at the door on the other side of the dining room.
The two berserkers and a shitload of ghosts head that way.
A breath of relief catches in my throat when a crash and the tinkle of broken glass comes from the kitchen.
“There goes the daisies,” I say.
Gaire’s phone trills.
“And, here’s Mommy!” Gaire says, poking the cell screen. “She’s still wearing Jane, and will be leaving the Ambassador hotel to head back to her favorite street corner in thirty minutes. If she’s not on the corner when we get there, she’ll be waiting with Vuur in room two-oh-seven, because she said she’s not picking up any more tricks tonight.”
I don’t even want to go where that sentence can take me.
Chapter 23
Gracie
An hour after the call from Mom, we’re parked behind a sage-green Jeep, two cars from the corner across the street from Jane’s.
“She’s not there, damn it! She’s not on her corner,” I tell Gaire, grabbing the door handle.
Gaire snags me by Gracie’s hair, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“That hurt.” I let Gracie’s lower lip tremble.
“Well, then don’t go crazy and have me making impulsive moves to save our mission.” He looks at the corner in question. “Are you sure that’s her corner? Who’s the redhead?”
“I don’t know the redhead.” I rub my scalp and snort anger. “And hell no, I’m not sure it’s her corner,” I say, laced with Jane. “It’s not like I followed her right here for several days. Not like I copped a ride with her to the Ambassador from that corner. Not like I walked back here afterward to—”
“Okay, sweetie, I get it,” Gaire says real snippy like.
“Man, you’re as bad as Vuur to work with,” I toss back. Do I know how to strike a nerve or what?
Gaire hits the gas and turns the corner at neck-breaking speed. “Where does she park her car?”
“Right in there.” I point at an alley and immediately regret it.
White knuckling the dash, the street people and tall buildings blend together in blur of gray and black.
Gaire comes to a screeching stop inches from Jane’s car, “That it?” he asks curtly.
“Yes,” I answer just as curtly and peel myself off the dash.
Gracie’s eyes well-up, but not mine, as we sit there staring at Jane’s car. I’m thinking about the Smith & Wesson she keeps under the dash. I turn and glare at Gaire.
“You want to take Jane’s car to the Ambassador hotel?” I ask, and then drive my insane thoughts home by adding, “This one has a Lake County tag.”
Gaire fills his lungs, and his eyes, with the best Orange County has to offer at the moment. A homeless guy staggers up to Jane’s vehicle. The car holds him up as he alternately swigs from a brown paper bag and peeks inside windows. He smells like rotgut wine, grease, unmentionable body odors, urine, and a bouquet of dumpster treasures.