He could already feel the strain. He had so little power, but he kept pushing, willing the barrier between the worlds to thicken. The headache started, telling him he was at his limit.
“Fine,” Tanner said. He stepped forward, cautiously, and handed Bill the case.
Adam stood very still, glad Tanner had stepped away from the unseen threat.
“There must be retribution,” Bill said, black veins spreading.
“Give him his forty bucks back,” Adam said.
“That’s not enough,” Bill said.
“Give him the whole roll,” Adam said.
“I won’t,” Tanner said. “I need it for school.”
“You won’t make it back to school if they eat you,” Adam said.
Tanner blinked.
“It’s not a joke.”
Adam eyed the Saurians.
Tanner fished the roll of cash of pocket and passed it to Bill.
Adam glanced at the Saurians arrayed behind them. They did not look mollified. Adam did not trust them not to circle around. They were in a gray space. Tanner wasn’t the warlock, but he had used the charm to make money. The Guardians could see it either way if the lizards extracted retribution.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Adam said, narrowing his eyes at Bill.
“Why?” Tanner asked.
“So he and his friends don’t hurt you,” Adam said.
Adam’s gut sank when Tanner didn’t argue. That they’d shared a kiss was reason enough to be afraid. Adam didn’t have to explain about supernatural dangers as they walked back to bar’s parking lot.
“Was this some kind of a con?” Tanner asked. He looked sad, maybe a little afraid of Adam. “Like, he’ll give you a cut later?”
“No,” Adam said. “I was worried about you. Really.”
“What were they?” Tanner asked. “Those shadows?”
“It’s a long story,” Adam said. “And we both need to get out of here.”
“Could I call you sometime? Text you?” Tanner asked. “You could explain.”
“Sure,” Adam said, handing over his phone.
“So I’ll see you?” Tanner asked, handing it back, his number entered.
“Yeah,” Adam said, not certain he meant it.
Tanner walked away.
Adam’s phone blinked. He had a text.
It read:
Call me. Please.
Area code 303. Colorado. Bobby was his best guess. Adam didn’t know his brother’s number, didn’t have it saved in his phone.
His first instinct was to ignore it, but Bobby had said please. He’d texted instead of calling, putting the ball in Adam’s court, probably scared that Adam wouldn’t respond.
“Jackass.” Adam muttered.
He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had asked him for anything with please attached. Maybe it was Adam’s imagination. Maybe it was the prickle on the back of his neck, the Sight telling him something was up, but Adam got the sense that Bobby was afraid.
2
Robert J. Binder
Robert eased the Audi into his driveway, avoiding the little dip where it met the street.
He stopped well short of the garage door and checked the parking brake before he climbed out, keys in hand. Closing the door with his free hand, he rubbed a thumbprint from the paint.
The sight of the car almost made him smile. He’d bought it two months ago, a gunmetal consolation prize that didn’t quite plaster over the ache of what he’d started calling “their situation.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, kept his face even lest the neighbors see him scowl. He’d done everything right, shed his accent, the stink of small-town poverty, and most of his family. He’d kept his mom, though there were times he thought about letting her go too.
But his best move had been marrying Annie. Strawberry blond, willowy, she hailed from an East Coast family who considered Chicago a backwater and acted like nothing existed between Manhattan and the Napa Valley.
They’d been right on track before it all went wrong.
The first miscarriage had dimmed Annie’s confidence, the thing he’d liked about her right away. She gave up coffee and the little bit of wine she still drank. When the second came, they stopped talking about baby names.
At night, she’d curl around him, press her head to his chest. He’d stroke her hair, squeeze her, and remind her it was only a matter of biology. Science had never failed him. But test after test found no explanation, no reason why they shouldn’t have a baby.
The third miscarriage tore down Annie’s optimism and Robert’s assurances.
Robert studied his two stories of white trim and fake shutters. He read the stenciled letters, The Binders, on the mailbox.
He had the wild notion to pack up his hiking boots and his dad’s gun. He could go, make a break for it. Just walk away. He’d done it before.
Robert took a long breath, let it out in a long stream. No. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t Bobby Jack. He had a mortgage.
A whispered lullaby sounded behind him. The tune tugged at his memory, something he’d heard in his own childhood.
Robert turned to see Annie rounding the corner. His first impulse was to get her inside before the neighbors noticed. She wore an open bathrobe. Panties, no bra. Her red hair streamed behind her, limp and curling in the autumn air. She’d put on lipstick, too large for her mouth, too bright against her indoor skin. It made her smile bloody.
He started for her but froze when he saw the stroller.
They’d bought it online after Annie met him at the door with a grin so broad that he’d known the good news before she’d said it aloud. It came in a box full of parts and screws in numbered plastic bags. They’d put it together, laughing and chattering about silly baby names. He liked her suggestions better than his. Nothing had ever made Robert feel like that, like he could just burst with joy, like he’d escaped.
The stroller had sat in the garage since the first miscarriage, beneath a plastic sheet, and he’d lain awake at night, wondering if something hadn’t ridden his backwoods blood into their lives.
Now, nearly naked, Annie sang to an empty stroller. Across the street, two gray-haired women speed-walked past the Binders, their elbows lifted. Dark matching sunglasses hid their eyes, but Robert read their pinched expressions and withering suburban judgment.
His mother would have tsk ed at them and shook her head. Adam would have flipped them off or made a crack about their matching track suits, but Robert flinched.