I found Jaime curled up, shivering and pale, in a corner of the holding cell. I tried to rouse her, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. When I said I was going to call a guard, she managed to murmur, “No. Don’t … cause more trouble. Just give … minute. Food … poisoning.”
I glanced around. The cell looked like … well, a cell. About eight by eight feet. A typical spot in a small station for holding people awaiting charges or the onset of sobriety. From the looks of it, more cells were needed. This one now had five occupants. Like Jaime, two were lying on the floor. Drunk, I guessed. At least they were quiet.
There was one bed, currently occupied by a chick with the kind of tattoos that scream “I got this once when I was really drunk.” Except that, judging by the quantity, it was more than once. A lot more, which might suggest it was complete lack of taste rather than serial-drunken stupidity. Her blond hair was frizzled at the ends, as if she’d overused her straightening iron. She wore cutoffs with several rolls of pitted cellulite hanging out below. Her upper half hung too, tank top screaming for a bra.
In short, she was not the sort of person I was in the mood to deal with nicely. Still I tried.
“Hey,” I said. “My friend’s really sick. Do you think she could take the bunk?”
“Go to hell, you skinny-assed bitch.”
All the frustration of the last hour flared and when I grabbed her, my hands glowed white.
The woman shrieked. “You’re burning me. You bitch, you’re—”
I pushed her off the bed and she landed on the floor, half on top of an elderly homeless woman. I apologized to the old woman, but she seemed beyond hearing me.
The biker chick scrambled up and charged. I raised my fists. She put out her claws, scratching and spitting and yowling. A blow to the stomach stopped her before I got my hair pulled. When she staggered back, I downed her with a kick.
“You’re going to regret this,” she whined from the floor. “I know people.”
“Men, you mean. Big, ugly men who ride big, ugly bikes.” I loomed above her. “Word of advice? If you’re going to trash-talk, get your ass off the bitch seat and learn to fight for yourself.”
She whined and hissed a little more, then shut up. Beside her, the old woman straightened.
“Did someone call a lawyer?” she asked.
I turned to the bars. No one was there.
“Is that your lawyer?” she said. “Can he help me? I need to get out of here.”
I followed the old woman’s gaze to the middle of the room. Still no one.
Jaime moaned. I hurried over and helped her to the cot. Before she lay down, she glanced at it.
“I’m not sure I want to touch that,” she said.
“You’re washable,” I said. “But on second thought …”
I pulled off my jacket and wadded it up for a pillow, so her hair wouldn’t connect with whatever critters might be living on the mattress.
“Thanks,” she said. “How much trouble are we in?”
I crouched beside her. “We haven’t been charged with the bombing but … something’s fishy. That powder and note weren’t mine, obviously. Neither of us were processed. Neither of us have been charged. But we’re locked up.”
“Medina works for someone,” Jaime said, her words coming slow, as if it hurt to speak. “The movement or a Cabal.”
“I thought so, too. I called her on it, and now she’s convinced I tried to threaten her with a gang called the Cortezes.”
“Maybe, but—”
She stopped and cocked her head. A frown. Then she peered around the cell and at the empty hall beyond.
“Ghost?” I said.
“I’m … not sure. I thought I heard …” She trailed off, shook her head, then paled, as if the movement made her stomach churn. “Oh, God. What did I eat?”
“Just a pastry and a coffee hours ago.”
“A latte. Must have been the milk. I feel like—”
“Did someone call a lawyer?” the old woman warbled again.
I turned to see her staring at an empty spot with a look I recognized from all my years hanging around Jaime. She was seeing a ghost. It happened sometimes with the mentally ill.
“Is it my father?” I said to Jaime. “Is that who you think you heard?”
She nodded, eyes still closed.
“Can you look? See if he’s here?”
A faint, pained smile. “If it was your dad, I’d hear him loud and clear. Kristof Nast does not allow himself to be ignored. He took off to hunt for you after the explosion.” She frowned and opened her eyes. “I didn’t hear back from him—”
She blinked, then stared at the same empty spot as the old woman.
“Oh,” she said.
“He’s there?”
“Yes, but … faint. Something’s wrong.” She pushed up and struggled to listen. Then another, “Oh.”
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“He’s barely coming through. Maybe because I’m sick.”
Jaime tried her best to communicate, with no success. When she started getting frustrated, I stopped her and said, “You rest. I may have a second avenue of contact today.”
I nodded at the old woman, who’d been following our efforts placidly.
“Mmm, not sure that’s such a good idea,” Jaime said. “She’s crazy enough to see ghosts, but that also means she’s not exactly coherent.”
“Well, no offense, but you’re not doing so hot yourself. Rest and I’ll see what I can get.”
The biker chick scuttled away as I sat down beside the old woman.
“Are you going to get me out of here?” the old woman said, staring up at the blank space above us.
“You can see him, right?” I said.
She nodded.
“Good,” I said. “So now he’s going to talk and you’re going to tell me what he says.”
“I want out.”
“Which he’ll do, as soon as you’ve helped me talk to him.” She turned her dark eyes to me. “So you can’t hear him?”
“No.”
She smiled. “Then I have him all to myself.” She looked up and said, “Get me out of here.”
I glanced around. The cell looked like … well, a cell. About eight by eight feet. A typical spot in a small station for holding people awaiting charges or the onset of sobriety. From the looks of it, more cells were needed. This one now had five occupants. Like Jaime, two were lying on the floor. Drunk, I guessed. At least they were quiet.
There was one bed, currently occupied by a chick with the kind of tattoos that scream “I got this once when I was really drunk.” Except that, judging by the quantity, it was more than once. A lot more, which might suggest it was complete lack of taste rather than serial-drunken stupidity. Her blond hair was frizzled at the ends, as if she’d overused her straightening iron. She wore cutoffs with several rolls of pitted cellulite hanging out below. Her upper half hung too, tank top screaming for a bra.
In short, she was not the sort of person I was in the mood to deal with nicely. Still I tried.
“Hey,” I said. “My friend’s really sick. Do you think she could take the bunk?”
“Go to hell, you skinny-assed bitch.”
All the frustration of the last hour flared and when I grabbed her, my hands glowed white.
The woman shrieked. “You’re burning me. You bitch, you’re—”
I pushed her off the bed and she landed on the floor, half on top of an elderly homeless woman. I apologized to the old woman, but she seemed beyond hearing me.
The biker chick scrambled up and charged. I raised my fists. She put out her claws, scratching and spitting and yowling. A blow to the stomach stopped her before I got my hair pulled. When she staggered back, I downed her with a kick.
“You’re going to regret this,” she whined from the floor. “I know people.”
“Men, you mean. Big, ugly men who ride big, ugly bikes.” I loomed above her. “Word of advice? If you’re going to trash-talk, get your ass off the bitch seat and learn to fight for yourself.”
She whined and hissed a little more, then shut up. Beside her, the old woman straightened.
“Did someone call a lawyer?” she asked.
I turned to the bars. No one was there.
“Is that your lawyer?” she said. “Can he help me? I need to get out of here.”
I followed the old woman’s gaze to the middle of the room. Still no one.
Jaime moaned. I hurried over and helped her to the cot. Before she lay down, she glanced at it.
“I’m not sure I want to touch that,” she said.
“You’re washable,” I said. “But on second thought …”
I pulled off my jacket and wadded it up for a pillow, so her hair wouldn’t connect with whatever critters might be living on the mattress.
“Thanks,” she said. “How much trouble are we in?”
I crouched beside her. “We haven’t been charged with the bombing but … something’s fishy. That powder and note weren’t mine, obviously. Neither of us were processed. Neither of us have been charged. But we’re locked up.”
“Medina works for someone,” Jaime said, her words coming slow, as if it hurt to speak. “The movement or a Cabal.”
“I thought so, too. I called her on it, and now she’s convinced I tried to threaten her with a gang called the Cortezes.”
“Maybe, but—”
She stopped and cocked her head. A frown. Then she peered around the cell and at the empty hall beyond.
“Ghost?” I said.
“I’m … not sure. I thought I heard …” She trailed off, shook her head, then paled, as if the movement made her stomach churn. “Oh, God. What did I eat?”
“Just a pastry and a coffee hours ago.”
“A latte. Must have been the milk. I feel like—”
“Did someone call a lawyer?” the old woman warbled again.
I turned to see her staring at an empty spot with a look I recognized from all my years hanging around Jaime. She was seeing a ghost. It happened sometimes with the mentally ill.
“Is it my father?” I said to Jaime. “Is that who you think you heard?”
She nodded, eyes still closed.
“Can you look? See if he’s here?”
A faint, pained smile. “If it was your dad, I’d hear him loud and clear. Kristof Nast does not allow himself to be ignored. He took off to hunt for you after the explosion.” She frowned and opened her eyes. “I didn’t hear back from him—”
She blinked, then stared at the same empty spot as the old woman.
“Oh,” she said.
“He’s there?”
“Yes, but … faint. Something’s wrong.” She pushed up and struggled to listen. Then another, “Oh.”
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“He’s barely coming through. Maybe because I’m sick.”
Jaime tried her best to communicate, with no success. When she started getting frustrated, I stopped her and said, “You rest. I may have a second avenue of contact today.”
I nodded at the old woman, who’d been following our efforts placidly.
“Mmm, not sure that’s such a good idea,” Jaime said. “She’s crazy enough to see ghosts, but that also means she’s not exactly coherent.”
“Well, no offense, but you’re not doing so hot yourself. Rest and I’ll see what I can get.”
The biker chick scuttled away as I sat down beside the old woman.
“Are you going to get me out of here?” the old woman said, staring up at the blank space above us.
“You can see him, right?” I said.
She nodded.
“Good,” I said. “So now he’s going to talk and you’re going to tell me what he says.”
“I want out.”
“Which he’ll do, as soon as you’ve helped me talk to him.” She turned her dark eyes to me. “So you can’t hear him?”
“No.”
She smiled. “Then I have him all to myself.” She looked up and said, “Get me out of here.”
