Page 135 of American Hellhound
Aidan and Tango stepped up, each catching an arm, almost getting scratched in the process. The ghost’s fingers were curled into claws.
“Hey!” Mercy roared again, louder than the thunder, right against the back of the guy’s hood. “Knock it off or I’ll bash your head off the floor!”
Tango finally got a good grip on his left arm, his expression startled, almost repulsed.
Aidan openly recoiled, teeth gritted. “What’s wrong with him?”
Mercy didn’t know yet. When he stopped struggling, the ghost was a panting scrap of rags and bones in his hands. He could have snapped him in two over his knee. He could feel his pulse pounding in his armpits where he gripped him, even through the hoodie.
“This him?” he asked Boomer, who’d gotten his feet under him and was probing at a long scratch on his face.
The kid looked freaked. “Yeah. That’s him.” Then, realizing he should probably step up: “Reese, it’s me, it’s Boomer. Remember?”
Reese breathed in quick, audible gasps. “Yeah.” His voice came out slow and rusty, cracked-up and out of use like everything else in this factory. “I remember.”
“Then why’d you jump him, dipshit?” Aidan asked. He gave the arm in his grip – now limp – a shake.
No response.
Slowly, Mercy lowered him to the floor, giving him plenty of time to put his feet down and stand on his own. He didn’t, though, ankles and then knees folding, so when his ass hit the floor, he was sitting cross-legged, placid as a child.
“Reese?” Boomer asked, edging closer. “These are friends. They’re gonna help Dad.”
Again, no response.
Each strange second that ticked past – lighting flaring in the windows, thunder growling across them, vibrating through the walls – Mercy felt more ill at ease with this situation. Aidan and Tango still held Reese’s arms, and Mercy motioned for them to let go. When they did, his arms flopped down to his sides, a marionet with his strings cut.
Slowly, Mercy pulled the hood back, revealing a disheveled headful of strawberry-blonde hair, cut at some point with a knife, obviously, uneven ends that fell to his shoulders. When he didn’t react to that, Mercy tapped him lightly on top of the head – greasy hair, white scalp peeking through, smell of unwashed human – and said, “Hey.”
Reese tipped his head back, looking up at him, a triangle of pale face, hungry cheekbones, eyes that were distinctly inhuman. It was the gaze of an animal, cornered, caught, and submitting. There was none of the fear or indignation Mercy would have expected in this kind of situation. This was what Aidan and Tango had found so distasteful – the eerie lack of self-awareness in his blue eyes. He didn’t look stupid, or drugged, no, quite the opposite. There was just…anothernessto him.Not a person, his face said.
A trained attack dog.
“Can you hear me?” Mercy asked.
Reese looked up at him with that solemn, defeated animal gaze and said, “Yes, sir.”
Tango sucked in a breath and said, “Oh, shit.”
~*~
As far as Ghost knew, no one went to Gordo’s – but that wasn’t true. Someone kept it open, for reasons that clearly had nothing to do with profit.
They found it much the same as the last time he’d been here, maybe six years ago. Between a porn shop and a tattoo parlor with unreliable neon signage, Gordo’s occupied a narrow storefront, its windows cluttered with ads for local bands, none of which anyone had ever heard of. The interior was mostly bar, a few too-small booths along the opposite wall, and a makeshift stage at the back where the unheard-of bands could play, should they choose. Where Bell Bar’s dim lighting was cozy, Gordo’s was cold, flickering. It had always looked to Ghost like a crime scene waiting to happen.
It was early, not even five yet, but dark as night thanks to the hellraising storm breaking across the city. They dripped water all over the sticky hardwood – probably as close to mopping as it had seen in months – and made their way up to the disinterested bartender stacking glasses next to the register. There was one patron sipping beer and reading the paper, but he didn’t spare them a glance.
“Hey,” Ghost said, rapping his knuckles on the bar to get the bartender’s attention.
Her gaze flicked up and then down again. She cracked her gum. “Hey.” If his cut meant anything to her, she didn’t show it.
“Can I ask you some questions?” He didn’t sound polite, and didn’t care. Tit for tat with this one.
She shrugged. “Sure. But we’re outta PBR. The line’s broke.”
“Not my question.”
Roman shouldered past him and slid onto a stool, leaning toward her across the bar, all big smile and laying it on thick. “I like your earrings.”
