Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

None of his possessions had been molested, not even the Webley. Dressed, he took a moment to quickly open the doors of the two other rooms on the upper floor. One was a study, the other a bedroom with a double bed covered with a patchwork quilt and redolent with the smell of perfume. And he found what he’d sought. Not the actual opening between the dimensions, but proof that an Old One had been resident in this house. The mirror on the dresser was gray and occluded, the result of contact with an Old One.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and considered. One of his kind had entered the world here. Which meant that there was a hole in reality. He couldn’t deal with the tear; only a paladin using the weapon could close it. He needed to inform his boss and warn him it had moved on, probably to Chicago. He should head for Chicago too. Fight the Old One and maybe win. Even considering the coming battle had him shaking. On the other hand, Conoscenza had only told him to locate the source. Cross had done that. He could use the money in his belt, buy a ticket on the first train heading east, and make his report in person.

Cross went to the top of the stairs and heard the rumble of male voices from the mess hall. This evening, the Blood of the Lamb Mission had customers. Entering the converted living room, he studied the situation. Stubble adorned all the faces because razors and soap were expensive. Most of the men wore coveralls. A few, like Cross, sported suits, the material worn down to a poverty shine. The room smelled of hash, scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and coffee cut heavily with chicory. Beneath the good smells was the stink of body odor, halitosis, and stale cigarette smoke.

Sharon moved through the crowd doling out plates. The mongoloid staggered along behind her, carrying the plate-stacked tray. Usually the people afflicted with the condition were happy, loving people. This one was working his mouth and kept casting nervous glances at Sharon. And he’d nearly run the night before when Sharon had approached him. Maybe he sensed the dark presence lurking in the heart of her ring. Something clearly had him spooked. The strutting buffoon was at her shoulder. Cross wondered, why did such a beautiful woman keep such men on a string?

Cross settled onto the end of a bench. The man next to him grunted a greeting. “Big crowd,” Cross remarked.

“Yeah, we were camped down by the grain elevator. The twist came over and rounded us up.” The man gave Cross a grin that revealed too much gum and too few teeth. “Guess she was lonely.”

Sharon reached his table. She gave him her flashing smile and deposited a plate in front of him. “How are you feeling? Better?” she asked.

“Yeah. How do you afford a spread like this?”

She gave him a pouting smile and placed a finger against her lips. “The Lord doth provide.”

“Not in my experience.”

She patted him on the shoulder. She then plucked a strand of her long brown hair off his shoulder and wrapped it around her finger. “Well, perhaps I’ll make a believer of you yet.”

“Oh, I believe,” Cross said. “Never doubt that I believe.”

She moved on, and he ate. The texture and flavors of food was one human experience he really enjoyed. He mopped up the dregs of the hash with a piece of bread, slurped down the last of the coffee, gusted a sigh, and pulled out a package of Lucky Strikes. The men at the table with him gazed at the green box with the name in its red bul

l’s-eye with avaricious eyes. Cross had barely gotten the fag between his lips when the self-important little man rushed over, wagging a forefinger.

“Sister Sharon don’t hold with smoking. Take it outside.”

It wasn’t worth a fight; Cross shrugged and headed out onto the screened porch. Wood bees, as big as the end of his thumb, droned around the eaves, and the breathless heat of the dying day had his shirt clinging wetly to his back. That was a human experience he didn’t enjoy. He adjusted the body and the sweat vanished. As he watched, the sun, bloated and red, sank beneath the horizon.

Behind him, the screen door slammed shut. Cross glanced around. A group of men, led by a hard-faced man with a knife scar across the back of his hand, had joined him. One man took a battered, partially smoked cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a match, and passed it from hand to hand.

“Harry says you had a pack of cigs.” There was an angry buzz on the edge of the words.

The man with the knife scar was right behind him. Cross studied him; the light in the man’s eyes screamed out his desire for a fight. Cross decided to try appeasement. He took out the pack of Lucky Strikes and offered it around. The scarred man put his cigarette in his shirt pocket. Cross pulled out his Unique lighter and lit his smoke. The men stared at the silver Dunhill lighter in amazement.

“So, who the hell are you? Daddy Warbucks?” Knife Scar asked. “And what else you got, friend, that you might be willing to share?” His eyes held all the warmth of a chip of flint.

Cross leaned his shoulders against a support post. Around him mosquitoes whined like an angry wife. He took a slow drag, blew smoke, and said softly, “You don’t want to be going there, friend. It’ll turn out badly for you.”

The other men, sensing a fight, formed a circle. Their excitement and barely suppressed violence licked at the edges of Cross’s consciousness. He pushed away the intoxicating brew, studied his opponent, and considered how best to handle the situation. He was still weak from being shattered and what had happened on the bridge last night. There had also been an Old One in this locale very recently. Cross didn’t want to be playing with his powers, lest it draw the attention of one of his brethren.

His opponent shifted his weight from foot to foot and brought up his fists. Cross continued to lean while he finished his cigarette. He then dropped it and ground it out under his toe. The man rightly read Cross’s casualness as contempt, and his anger flared. It showed as jagged lines of red and sickening yellow erupting from his body. The watchers’ excitement flared in answer.

The man telegraphed the coming swing. Cross had lived a long time, much of it in human form, and he’d acquired a wide variety of fighting skills. He opted for one he’d learned in China fifty years before. He stepped into the roundhouse, blocked the punch with his forearm, then spun and delivered a kick to the side of the man’s knee. The man went down screaming.

Cross bent down and twitched the cigarette out of the man’s pocket. “And that’s the problem with going for more, friend. You can end up with nothing.” He straightened and scanned the crowd. The circle of spectators dissolved like ink floating away on a current.

The screen door flew open, crashing against the wall, and Sharon rushed out with her factotum right behind her. Planting her hands on her hips she said, “There is no fighting in this place of peace.” She pointed at Cross. “You! Just get out! Go on, get!”

Cross shrugged and headed down the porch steps while the other men filed back into the mission. Sharon got her shoulder under Knife Scar’s shoulder and supported him through the door.

“I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room,” he heard her say to the limping man. “You’ll be right as rain by morning.” The screen door fell shut, and then the heavy wooden front door was firmly closed.

Cross stood in the deepening twilight looking at that closed door and reflecting on what he had seen as the fight started. Sharon, shielded by the screen, watching with hunger in her eyes.

HE NEEDED A PHONE. NEEDED TO CALL CONOSCENZA. THIS COULDN’T WAIT for Cross to return to New York. Once his boss heard his report, Conoscenza would head for Chicago. Which meant that Cross had to go there too. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. The power in that ring had him spooked.