SEVEN
THE SOUP KITCHEN WAS just north of that gas station where we’d chased the Mazikin. The streets were lined with duplexes—these enormous, dilapidated houses with big porches and balconies, all sagging wood and peeling paint. Decayed leaves had collected in piles at the bases of spindly trees. Wobbly chain-link fences enclosed tiny, cluttered yards full of children’s toys, the bright colors fading to pastels after a long winter of snow and thaw.
For the umpteenth time since we’d picked her up, Tegan sighed from the passenger seat. I glanced over at her, forcing myself not to comment on her outfit of ripped jeans and an old flannel shirt that screamed trying too hard. From the neck up she looked expensive as always: flawless makeup, perfect highlights, tiny diamond studs in her ears.
“Are you going to tell me what’s up?” I asked.
“Aden’s not coming. He texted me this morning to say he’d been out late and was going to crash. It’s fine. I think I’m done with him.”
I was relieved to hear Ian had gotten him home safely but realized that was probably not what Tegan wanted to hear. “That sucks. Are you all right about it?”
She shrugged, tossing a glance at Malachi, who was sitting silently in the backseat, gazing out the window, searching for threats. “I was up and down with him even before … all this. It’s fine. We can talk about it later.”
“Um. Sure,” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt as I thought about how much I’d rather spend time figuring things out with my boyfriend instead of talking to Tegan about hers. We pulled up outside the shelter. “We better get inside, right?”
Tegan nodded as she stared at one of the more ramshackle houses on the block. She shuddered like a wet cat and got out of the car, clutching her donation envelope to her chest like she thought someone was going to pry it out of her hands.
Rolling my eyes, I opened the trunk and braced myself to lift a big box of canned goods to carry in to the shelter.
“I’ll take it,” Malachi said, stepping close and sliding his hands over the box. Over my hands, lighting me up with hope and a billion other things. Maybe he was over what had happened in the basement. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a hesitant smile. “You can take the dry stuff.”
He lifted the heavy box with ease and followed Tegan toward the shelter, leaving me trailing behind. A red SUV pulled up to the curb as I neared the front door, and Ian got out a second later, a worn baseball cap crammed over his messy hair. He smiled wearily at Tegan, who jumped up and down and clapped her hands when she saw him. “The guilt trip worked!”
“I knew Aden wasn’t going to make it.” He shook his head as he stepped onto the sidewalk next to me. “He was kind of messed up last night.”
Malachi tilted his head as he looked at Ian. After all the crap with Jim, I’d forgotten to tell him that I’d run into the star players of our baseball team while they hunted for the Mazikin with paintball guns.
“But you got him home safely?” I asked.
“Yeah. We actually picked up the asshat a few blocks away from here.” He whipped off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair before jamming it back on his head again. Then he gave me a nervous glance. “And sorry about the, um …” He gestured at the phone-shaped bulge in the pocket of my hoodie.
“Sorry about the what?” Malachi turned sharply toward me, the contents of the box in his arms sloshing and clanking.
Ian obviously sensed his back-the-eff-up vibe. “Aden ran off last night,” he said slowly, considering his words. “And I … um, knew that Lela is familiar with the area, so I texted her a few times. I thought she might have some idea where we could look.” He motioned at the entrance to the soup kitchen. “Anyway, I’m here, Teg. What do you want me to do?”
He didn’t mention that we’d seen each other. And he didn’t mention Jim. He probably thought he was protecting me from Malachi’s jealousy. It wasn’t necessary, but it was kind of … nice. I gave him a quick smile as we entered the shelter, and he returned it with dimples.
The shelter was already buzzing with activity. Waves of heat poured from the kitchen, where the volunteers were readying giant pots of soup and stacks of neatly wrapped sandwiches. A ruddy-faced woman in a hairnet waved a spoon at us. “Volunteers?”
When we nodded, she gestured to a bunch of people standing by a long table. “Go sign up if you want credit for community service. And you,” she said, pointing at me. “Get your hair back or put on a hairnet.”
I pulled my all-purpose elastic off my wrist and lashed my hair into a tight ponytail. We joined the group of volunteers, mostly other teenagers and a few parental-looking grown-ups. Henry was there, too, doing an excellent job of pretending he didn’t know us.
We signed in and got a little tutorial on how much food to dish out and how to handle requests and complaints. As soon as the shelter worker was finished talking, a few people filed in from the street, wearing mismatched layers of clothes and wary expressions. Some looked like they’d just stopped in on the way to a day job, but others looked like this was their last chance. There were kids, too, with hollow eyes and solemn faces that reminded me of me, not too long ago. I looked away.
Following the kitchen staff’s orders, Henry, Malachi, and Ian helped bring the pots of soup to the warmers while Tegan and I grabbed bowls and spoons. It didn’t take long for the room to get crowded. The long cafeteria tables that took up half the room were filled to capacity, and several people came in and asked for their food to go. A staff member told us to keep our pace up, that they served over seven hundred meals during every shift. It was barely controlled chaos.
I glanced over at Malachi, who was scanning the mob, frowning. I knew what he was thinking: there were too many people here. And only three Guards when there should have been four. It would be hard to spot suspicious activity … and it would have been nice to have an extra pair of eyes.
Even though frost glazed the windows and coated the grass outside, inside the shelter it was hot as hell and reeked of tomato soup, sweat, minestrone, rum, burnt toast, cigarettes, and unwashed bodies. When a garbage can next to me began to overflow with paper plates and plastic bowls, I seized the opportunity to get some air.
“I’ll be right back,” I hollered to Tegan as I gathered the giant plastic bag and lugged it toward the back exit. She waved absently in my direction.
A blast of frigid air greeted me as I swung open the door, and I inhaled it greedily.
And immediately dropped my garbage bag.
Was I imagining it? Was it some sort of weird hallucination after the crazy scent overload of the soup kitchen?
No. As I stood in place and breathed, it was definitely real. The cloying, sick smell of incense. A scent I associated with only one thing: Mazikin.
I took a few steps into the back lot, my breath fogging in front of my face. The scent was carried on the wind, beckoning me forward. I walked around to the front of the shelter, wondering if there might be Mazikin right here, trying to get a bowl of soup or lure new recruits. The line of hungry people was out the door, but the smell was definitely fainter, so I returned to the lot, which backed up to a row of houses. I skirted the Dumpster and followed a narrow lane between the houses that was littered with old tires, discarded ride-on toys, and garbage bins. The smell was getting stronger, and my heart beat faster each time I inhaled. I turned left and walked a block up the street before I realized the smell was fading, so I jogged back the way I had come.
I was passing the lane that would take me back to the shelter when a guy with greasy, dark hair and a gaunt, stubbly face loped out from between two houses up ahead, not even twenty feet from me. He was wearing a padded flannel shirt and gloves with the fingers cut off, and I caught a glimpse of grimy, jagged fingernails just before he turned his back. Carrying an oil-spotted paper bag in his arms, he made his way briskly up the road away from me. I followed, sniffing at the air, probably looking a little crazy. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem aware of me as I trailed him.
I walked up the street, block after block, scanning every side yard and window for movement, looking for more suspicious characters. The scent only got stronger, so I knew I was heading in the right direction even if the guy I was following was just a regular human with really poor hygiene. The street finally dead-ended with an empty lot bounded by a chain-link fence. On the other side was a cemetery, which separated the neighborhood from a busy state highway. The incense smell was so heavy that it was making my head swim. Just as I was wondering if the guy was about to climb the fence and cut through the cemetery, he scrambled up the front steps of a huge old colonial next to the empty lot and ducked inside, closing the door softly behind him. I paused a few houses away, assessing. Boarded-up windows. Graffiti on the sidewalk. Abandoned? This whole street had that feel, like blight had eaten it away and chased families and normal residents elsewhere. Sure enough, there was an eviction notice taped to the front door.
It could be a crack house. Or a meth lab. Or a hangout for a bunch of homeless people burning whatever they could find to keep warm. Or …
It could be the nest.