Page 67 of Crescendo

The bitch planned her strategy on a children’s game. It’s as impressive a thought as it is terrifying.

“Now what?” I demand, though the question isn’t directed at her or at the cell phone I toss to the ground and quickly stomp beneath my boot.What fucking now?

Stacatto’s woman watches me, unwilling to put forth an answer. She’s shivering in nothing but my shirt and bare feet. Wearing only jeans and my boots, I’m not dressed any warmer. Arno set a rendezvous point, but even I’m not stupid to head there now without knowing just who the fuck might be on my trail.

Tucking the pistol into my waistband, I look over at the girl. “Come on.”

It’s a bad decision to travel the main street. We draw eyes wherever we go, her most of all. Even cutting through alleys doesn’t seem to soothe the paranoid itch that we’re being followed gnawing through my skull. We cover nearly a mile before I finally scope out a familiar block of territory—far from both Stacatto’s and Arno’s playpens. It’s still clear—for now—but we won’t last long without catching the notice of someone.

I find a bus station and make a calculated risk. The fewsecurity cameras face away from the terminals, and I don’t see any near the bathrooms where I shove the girl inside the one markedwomen’s. A quick scan reveals that there’s no one else inside.

“Give me my shirt,” I tell her, pushing her toward the nearest open stall.

She staggers inside, clutching at the toilet seat.

“Now.”

She does so without question, curling up naked against the wall of the stall while I slip it on. She flinches when I hand her the gun, and I have to press it against her palm when she doesn’t take it for herself.

“Stay here,” I tell her while slamming the stall door shut to hide her from sight. “If anyone who isn’t me tries to get in, shoot them.”

I head for the door without giving her the chance to answer, but when I glance back over my shoulder, I see her dirty feet slowly lift one by one to disappear into the stall as if she’s climbed onto the toilet and tucked her heels on the rim and her knees beneath her chin.

When I exit the station, I head south and go down another block before coming to a boutique already opening its doors. One quick glance around reveals that there are no other options within the block, and I don’t have the time to seek one out. With a sigh, I reach into my pocket, withdrawing the money I got from that punk Andre.

When I step through the doors, the saleswoman behind the counter freezes, a charming grin stuck on her face. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” I shove the money in her direction and her entire body language shifts at the sight of nearly a grand in cash. “I need an outfit for a woman. Shoes too.” I glance around at the sequin dresses on display, frowning. “Somethingpractical.”

“Practical.” The sales girl licks her lips and gives her earnest smile another go. With her eyes on the cash, she prances over to asection of hangers and runs her fingers along the collection of colored clothes. “I can work with that. Leather or lace?”

Daniela

Three people enter the bathroom after he leaves. I jump every time, holding my breath as they march into an empty stall, imagining Vinny all the while. I tell myself that I could use the gun, even as my fingers hesitate to find the trigger.

I know instantly when Lucifer returns, however. The floors tremble with his presence. I’m already scrambling to my feet before he even knocks on the door to the stall, though when I try to push it open, it won’t budge as if he’s braced one hand against it.

“Gun.”

My hand shakes as I bend down to hold the pistol out underneath the stall. He takes it and then shoves something else into my grip. The handle of a shopping bag, I see when I carefully pull it into the stall. It’s black with the name of a boutique written in silver script.Cassandra’s.Inside, I find a black sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans. While simple, they’re both high quality. There’s a pair of boots too: black leather with a low heel. And a matching jacket.

Reeking faintly of perfume, they remind me too much of the carefully chosen outfits I left behind. I almost prefer wearing his clothes. “W-why—”

“Put them on,” Lucifer commands.

I do so cautiously. The bastard guessed my size. Vinny’s personal tailor couldn’t have done much better. The shoes, however, are a little big. They clatter against the floor when I finally ease the stall door open and join Lucifer at the sink.

He found a coat as well: a black one that hangs down over his waist, hiding the shape of the gun tucked into his pocket. My clothes don’t do much to dispel the hollow creaturestaring back at me. I’m the demon to Lucifer’s imposing devil.

“Wash up,” he snarls, wrenching the faucet on and cupping his hands beneath the spray.

I watch as he splashes a handful onto his face, scrubbing at the grit hidden within his stubble. Stepping up to the next sink over, I turn the water to the hottest setting and just let it run, watching my section of the mirror fog beneath the heat. My hands sting and burn when I finally wet them, marred with a million tiny scrapes and cuts. There’s one on my forehead, dripping blood down my jawline. My bruised eye looks worse in the fluorescent lighting. Splotches of green and yellow mingle with the darker purple. My split lip is scabbed over, and my ear...

I grimace when I peel the duct tape off and toss it into the trash. The wound is no longer bleeding, but the surrounding skin is red and hot to the touch. It hurts, I realize when I prod the flesh an inch away and still wince. For all I know, the wound could be infected. I dab at it anyway with clean water and cover the worst of the injury with my hair—which is a disaster I simply don’t have the time to manage. I do what I can with my fingers, smoothing the strands down around my shoulders.

Satisfied, Lucifer meets my gaze over the mirror’s surface. “Come on.”

I follow him out into the hallway and then out of the station itself. It’s raining. My jacket doesn’t have a hood, but Lucifer draws his low over his face and then steers me along by my forearm. We walk for what feels like blocks before he finally stops and pulls me toward a small café.

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