Whisper to a Scream (Alexa O'Brien, Huntress #6.5)

As we passed a small space between two buildings, Christina slowed. “Hang on a sec, I just have to check on a friend.”


I watched from a respectful distance as she crouched down to speak with a homeless woman hidden in the darkened space. They exchanged words in low murmurs. Christina pulled out her wallet and produced a small handful of bills.

“I wish I had more,” she whispered. “I have a big date next weekend. Good money. I’ll be back. I promise.”

She rejoined me, captured my hand in hers and tugged me along as I glanced back at the hidden woman.

“Friend of mine,” she said by way of explanation. “We used to work for the same agency, but she had a pretty bad experience, so I try to help her out when I can.”

“That’s very gracious of you.”

“She was good to me so I do what I can. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have a friend in the world. It fucking sucks.”

We reached a darkened building that was weathered and poorly maintained. A faded sign said Woody’s Pub.

“This dig is full of old men watching sports and smoking cigars. You’ll love it.” Jerking the door open before I could get it for her, Christina ushered me inside.

Several patrons greeted her by name as we entered. The bartender asked if she wanted the usual. Christina seemed right at home in the dank little pub. The football game played on a TV mounted in one corner. Half a dozen old men gathered around the table closest to it, shouting and then jeering.

Christina led the way to a small table, which I suspected was her favorite. I pulled her chair out, but she just rolled her eyes at me. The bartender brought us a tray of small glasses filled with something that smelled vile.

“Alright, so, this is how we do things here,” she said, taking a glass from the tray and shoving it in front of me. “We drink and we talk. Nothing leaves this room.”

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. The liquor smelled toxic. Absolute poison.

“Ladies first,” I offered.

I had no idea what to do with the lime wedges and saltshaker on the table. Enjoying a cup of coffee was one thing, but partaking in the excessive consumption of spirits was another. I kept expecting logic to force me out the door.

“You’re not a big tequila drinker are you?” She was entrancing when she turned on that million-watt smile. “That’s ok. I’m good with virgins.”

She winked, never knowing the truth to her comment. Then, she shook some salt onto her wrist, licked it and swallowed the tequila in one fast, fluid motion. She slammed the glass down and reached for a lime wedge.

“So, start talking,” she said, pointing at my drink. “Tell me what kind of man wants to date a hooker.”

I shook some salt onto my wrist, unsure of what I was about to do. “Is that how you define yourself? I’ve seen so much more of you than that.”

When the tequila burned its way through me, I was filled with surprise. It hurt. I nearly choked. How did she make this look so smooth? It was anything but.

“Nobody that knows how I make my money gives a damn about how I define myself. Honestly, I don’t even know how to answer that.” She blinked at me from beneath lowered lashes.

“I give a damn. Go ahead. Tell me who you are.”

“Just like that, huh?” Her laughter was bitter. “Alright, um, I suppose I’d define myself as just another lost soul who doesn’t always do what’s best but always finds a way to look at tomorrow with hope.” She swallowed down another shot of tequila and swore. “At least, I like to think so.”

I struggled to drink another drop of the horrid swill. I understood her urge to curse. “Hope is the most powerful weapon you can possess in the face of trial and despair. It will move mountains.”

“How very poetic.” Christina’s smile grew wider. Her eyes turned glassy as the liquor’s effects took hold.

After a few more shots, numbness set in, spreading through my extremities. It filled my belly with a soothing warmth. A fog descended over my thoughts, a haze that dulled the guilt lurking in the recesses of my mind. The escape so many sought within a bottle of booze made much more sense to me now.

“So, how do you define yourself, Willow?” She asked, raising a glass in the air before downing its contents. “You have this weird secretive vibe going on.”

I stared into the “shooter” in my hand. My head swam, and the room tilted in my vision. I put the glass back down, shaking my head. Alcohol would have no lasting physical effect on an immortal, but the temporary sensations were growing uncomfortable.