Streets of Shadows Read online

  “You don’t have to worry about the fire escape anymore. I locked it up. No one’s getting to you that way.”

  Shit. I hadn’t even thought of that. A few years away from things and even my thoughts have gone soft.

  Once Edge is gone, I double check all the locks and windows. Grab my wine glass and take a deep swallow. Think about the cash in the envelope the Mayor’s man handed to me at the end of the night. I spent four hours hanging on the Mayor’s arm while wearing his wife’s face, said wife’s absence due to spending some…private time in a spa to help overcome a little too much liking for vodka.

  The envelope was a fat one, so I can afford not to work for a while. A little while anyway. I pour more wine into my glass and try to ignore the shake in my hands, try not to think about dead chameleons, try not to think at all.

  I fail. Miserably.

  * * *

  I’m in the shower when the pain hits, a grinding, twisting in the center of my chest. I drop to my knees, breathe through my mouth. I’ve never felt anything like this, not even when I got an accidental dose of Fire from a kid who collapsed on the bus stop.

  The pain starts to bleed out, and I shut the water off and crawl out of the bathtub. Even when the pain is well and truly gone, I feel like I’ve been on the receiving end of a steel-toed boot. The only explanation is magic. It’s the only thing that can cause pain without death attached, but using magic directly on a person requires physical contact. You can’t just zap someone by thought alone. At least not that I’m aware of. If that part of the game has changed, we’re all fucked.

  I sit with my back against the bathroom door, fighting the urge to take Edge’s advice to pack a bag and get out of the city.

  Would that I could. Would that I fucking could.

  But I get dressed and put on an anonymous guy’s face, dress in jeans and a pullover, and tuck the knife Edge gave me in my pocket. I scan the street before I leave the building, check over my shoulders once I do.

  I told him that no one knows where I live and it’s the truth, but if someone is hellbent on wiping out the chameleons, how long will it take for them to find me? I’ve already done my best to lay low. When I left the business, I severed all ties. And I’m careful. I don’t wear my own face on the outside. I don’t hang around with the other chameleons. Hell, I don’t hang out with anyone. I work, I eat, I read, I sleep. Exciting, I know.

  I hop on a transit bus, my head still foggy from last night’s painkiller and wine and today’s surprise pain. Rain starts to fall, the pissy, drizzly kind, the kind that makes the city look a lot prettier than it really is. A messy sort of camouflage.

  I gnaw on a cuticle, think about saying fuck it, making a break for the city line, but I’m not a fool.

  I’m bound to the city. If I cross the city line, I’ll die. No bullshit. I’ll start bleeding from my ears, nose, and eyes and bam, gone girl. Yeah, I tried to get close. Once. It was enough. The bond was a little parting gift from The Storyteller to me on my way out of the business, along with the line, “Don’t worry. If I die before you do, you’ll be free.” Right. Like that was even a remote possibility. She’ll probably live forever.

  But at least she let me live. That’s something, I guess.

  For a while, I was terrified she’d change her mind and send one of her goons to throw me in the trunk of a car and drive me out of the city. Just to tie up the loose ends, you know? Hasn’t happened. Yet.

  See, Baltimore’s run by four bosses: Big Ben, Nostromo, Monty Blake, and The Storyteller. In the city, nearly everyone’s working for one of the four. Some people, like Edge, work for them because they have to. Some do it without even knowing. Doesn’t matter. Never mind the politicians and what have you; the bosses run the city and have for years. Four magic-wielding heavies with blood on their hands and money in the bank.

  I used to work for The Storyteller. Mostly as a decoy, but there were times I played different roles. I was on the payroll so the ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies sort of thing. It wasn’t the sort of life I wanted, but it was the one I had.

  Until she killed my father. Yeah, he was a shit with a penchant for cocaine and strippers, but he was my father and he didn’t deserve what he got. She put a Death Sentence on him, a long one, so it had plenty of time to take shape and weight as it fed off him like maggots on rotting flesh. I was with him at the end, when the final words—The End—showed up on his skin like dark, deadly snakes. Afterward, I told her I was out.

  The Storyteller is a sociopath. Of all the bosses, she’s the most dangerous because she just doesn’t care. About anyone. And the best kept secret in Baltimore?

  The Storyteller is my fucking mother.

  * * *

  I get off the bus and head toward a bland warehouse that looks like any other warehouse in the city: old, soot-stained brick; metal-grated windows; heavy steel doors. I stay far enough away that the security cameras can’t pick me up and crouch down behind a reeking Dumpster. The almost-rain is still falling and it creeps beneath the collar of my jacket and soaks my back. I’m taking a risk being here, but how else will I know if Vivian’s okay?

  After about an hour, I’m soaked, smelly, and miserable, but just as I’m about to give up, a sleek black car pulls up. I hunch down as far as possible. A couple of The Storyteller’s goons get out, look around, then one nods. The Storyteller gets out of the car, all diamonds, high heels, and red lipstick.

  She looks like The Storyteller, but I can see Vivian’s real face below my mother’s, like a strange double exposure effect, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least my sister’s alive.

  Once they disappear into the building, I creep from my hiding place.

  The bosses rely on chameleon decoys and have for years. Contrary to popular belief, the chameleon gene isn’t that rare, but a good chameleon is. Lots of people can flip faces here and there, but to hold it for a considerable length of time, to play someone else, takes skill.

  My mother is the only boss to ever have chameleons in the bloodline. Identical twins, both with the chameleon gene. Lucky for her, right? The bosses, and not just the Baltimore bosses, track them down and pull the old offer too good to refuse card. Also known as do this or die. And once a chameleon is on a bosses’ payroll, they’re on that payroll until they die.

  I’m the only exception to this rule that I’ve ever heard about. My mother put out the story that my father’s death affected me mentally and for safety’s sake, she let me go. With her blessing. I guess I can thank her for that, because it made me untouchable to the other bosses. I know Nostromo’s goons won’t be on my doorstep demanding I come work for him; that’d be tantamount to declaring war on The Storyteller.

  Whoever is killing the chameleons is smart because that means the next time they see Big Ben in public, it’s really him. It might very well be that one of the bosses from DC or Virginia is behind it, wanting to creep in on the Baltimore turf. That shit’s happened before. Comes with the territory.

  Yesterday, I thought I was one of six chameleons in the city. Now there are three. Vivian, me, and another guy who worked freelance, but he retired two years ago. As far as I know, he was never on anyone’s payroll so I imagine he’s safe.

  If the person who’s doing the killing doesn’t know about me, maybe I’m safe, too. If they do know about me, I’m definitely not safe. Doesn’t matter if I’m in the business anymore or not. Best to err on the side of caution; best to act like I have a price on my head.

  Halfway home, I get that creepy crawly someone is watching sensation. I give a few discreet glances and don’t see anyone paying me any attention. Still, the sensation lingers. A bad fucking sign.

  Instead of heading straight down Pratt Street, I turn on Calvert and then onto Baltimore. Three lights down, I hit The Block. Neon lights from the strip clubs reflect in the rain on the asphalt. Once upon a time, this was a stretch of burlesque clubs catering to couples. Now it’s a seedy place with clubs advertising full nudity an
d most of the patrons are either drunken frat boys, lonely middle-agers, or the kind of guys who can only get attention from the opposite sex when they pay for it. Clichéd? Of course. Isn’t fucking everything?

  Not many people out on the sidewalks because of the rain and that suits me fine. I walk aimlessly around the city for another hour, cold and wet and grimacing every time someone rushes by with that funny expression on their face that says I’m a little on the ripe side, and eventually the being watched sensation stops. Then I head home.

  Not the best idea, I know, but I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I’m safer in my own place where I know where everything is, where I know every sound the building makes, as opposed to some anonymous hotel, fleabag or not.

  But I shove a chair under the front doorknob, double check all the locks on the windows and shut the curtains tight, and sleep with the knife Edge gave me under my pillow. I don’t have a gun; I never could shoot for shit, no matter how many times my mother made me practice.

  * * *

  My phone rings in the middle of the night, yanking me from half-awake to fully awake. I grab for the phone, knock it on the floor, and finally, after wrangling it free from the bedskirt, lift it to my ear.

  “Maxi?” A slightly breathy voice. Viv’s voice.

  “Viv? Are you okay?”

  I sit up with the sheets pooled around my waist, fumbling for the light on my nightstand.

  “No, I-I’m really not. I take it you’ve heard about James and the other chameleons?”

  “I have. You know our mother will kill you if she knows you’re talking to me.”

  Cutting ties with my sister was the hardest thing to take when my mother let me go, but it was one of her conditions of my termination. I was angry enough to agree to it, but hearing Viv’s voice is a reminder of all the late night conversations we had when we were kids, a painful reminder.

  “I know, but I couldn’t not talk to you. I’m scared. Really scared. James and I were friends. Good friends. We were out together the night before he died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hate this. Everyone is on edge. Mom is driving me up the wall. Days like this, I wish I would’ve followed you out.”

  I nibble on my lower lip, not sure what to say. If I tell her I’ve been miserable, it would be a lie. If I tell her I’ve been happy, it would be a lie, too.

  “I heard you were under guard,” I finally say.

  She laughs. A little. “Yeah. I’m like Fort Knox.”

  “That’s good at least.”

  “Sure, sure it is. You try taking a dump when you’ve got an armed guard waiting outside the door.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Poop jokes are always funny, even when you’re way too old to supposedly find them funny, and soon enough, she’s laughing, too.

  “Look, I have to go. Mom wants me up bright and early, but I-I wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry I waited so long.”

  “Me, too. Hey, how did you get this number?”

  “Shhh. I checked Mom’s laptop.”

  That gives me pause, but it shouldn’t really. I should’ve known she’d keep tabs on me.

  She drops her voice to a whisper. “Okay, gotta go. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  I sit for a long time, staring at the phone in my hands, the taste of regret on my tongue. I think of calling Edge, but it’s too late and he’s probably roughing someone up for Big Ben right now. I found out completely by accident that Edge was undercover about six months before my father died. I kept quiet because…because of love, I guess. Or maybe lust wrapped in a healthy dose of stupidity.

  I’ve never been a friend to Big Ben either and I really don’t care if the cops take him down. My guess is he’s pretty untouchable, but if they want to spend the money and the manpower trying, who am I to say anything against it.

  Honestly, I didn’t even think what would happen between Edge and I when I got out. I guess it was another instance of me not thinking. He called me an idiot, reminded me that my father and I weren’t even that close, and then he told me I risked his undercover work if we were to stay together. Right. I went legit and somehow became a risk? That prompted the vase throwing.

  But it’s all water under the bridge now. I made my choice and honestly, I’d probably make the same choice today. But damn, hearing my sister’s voice…

  Ignoring the time on the clock, I call Edge anyway, but his phone rings a few times and then goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message.

  * * *

  I stay inside for three days, peeking out the windows during the day and tossing and turning at night. I come close to calling the Mayor and asking for a favor, a safe place to stay, but I don’t know if I can trust him. I don’t know if I can trust anybody.

  Edge shows up at my front door on the fourth night with two bottles of wine. It’s cheap shit—he always had terrible taste in the stuff—but I’m out and my nerves are a mess, so I won’t complain.

  “How did you know I’d still be here?” I say, after I pour the wine and sit on the opposite end of the sofa.

  “Lucky guess.”

  I take a few sips of wine. It’s a little on the bitter side, but it isn’t horrible. Okay, so maybe it is, but beggars and choosers and all that.

  “How you holding up?” he asks.

  “I shrug.”

  “I still wish you’d consider leaving.”

  I almost tell him about the bond, but only almost. “Viv’s okay. I talked to her.”

  His eyes narrow. “You sure it was her?”

  “I know my sister’s voice. It was her. Have you found anything else out?”

  “No. Not yet. Big Ben’s practically tearing apart the city, though. Whoever did this won’t be able to hide forever. Not from us.” He smiles, showing his teeth.

  Sometimes I think Edge forgets he’s a cop. Sometimes I do, too. With the next glass of wine, the space between us on the sofa gets a little smaller. By the time we get to the third glass, the space is smaller still. We never make it to the fourth glass.

  He’s gone in the morning and that’s okay with me. It’s better that way. No chance for awkward conversation.

  * * *

  On the sixth night of my house arrest, I’m pacing divots in my living room rug when there’s a crash of glass coming from my bedroom. My heart racing double time, I yank the chair from under the door knob and hightail it out of there, slapping on my outside face as I go.

  I pause at a bus stop, but if someone knows where I live, if they’ve been watching me, then they know I don’t have a car, and it would be way too easy for someone to trap me on a bus.

  So I walk.

  I’m trapped in the city with no real friends and sure, the neighborhood I live in isn’t the greatest, but that would be a pretty fucking convenient coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences that big. I have the clothes on my back, a knife, my cellphone, and a couple of bucks in my pocket. That’s it.

  For one very long and uneasy moment, I think about calling my mother. Then I call Edge. He picks up on the third ring, but I don’t wait for him to say hello.

  “Someone broke into my apartment. Can I come crash at your place until I figure out what to do?”

  A long pause. “Sure.”

  But he doesn’t sound sure and it pisses me off.

  “Look, if it’s an imposition, I can go someplace else. I’m not asking for your help, okay, just a place to crash tonight.”

  “No, it’s fine. Come on over.”

  * * *

  The lights are on in Edge’s place, a rundown townhouse in a neighborhood that makes mine look high class, but he doesn’t answer the front door when I knock. I creep around the back and knock on his kitchen door. No answer there, either.

  I peek through a gap in the curtains and see a body on the floor. Edge’s eyes are wide open and a knife is sticking out of his chest.

  No. Oh, fuck no.

  I cover my mouth, hold in a shout. I feel like I have a noose arou
nd my neck and someone is slowly tightening the rope. I don’t what to do. I don’t know what to think.

  But hanging outside the house of a dead undercover cop is not an option, so I bolt without a look back. Tears burn in my eyes but I blink them away. I think about going back to my apartment, but that would be akin to suicide and I’m not ready to give up yet. I stop just outside the reach of a streetlamp’s arc and the tears start to fall, too many to blink back. I want to close my eyes, I want to rewind the days and go back to when things made sense, to when the tentacles of a life I left behind weren’t reaching out to try and reel me back.

  I hear voices and once again I’m on the move, wiping my tears as I go. I don’t even know where I’m going until I start walking.

  * * *

  My mother’s private residence is near the Inner Harbor. It’s a long walk on foot, but the buses aren’t running this late and I don’t want to risk a cab. I stand across the street for a long time. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t know what else to do.

  I drop my false face and the headache sneaks in. Not a bad one, at least it doesn’t feel like it. My hands are shaking when I knock on the door, and my heart leaps in my chest when Viv opens the door. It’s always like looking in a mirror. She smiles and ushers me in.

  “You look like hell,” she says. “Want a drink?”

  “No, not right now. I need-I need to see our mother.”

  She arches one eyebrow. “That bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  I plop down on a chair and rub my temples. The interior of the house is dimly lit and it’s quiet, like church quiet, and I don’t see a glimpse of a guard anywhere.

  She presses a glass into my hand. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  “Viv, where’s our mother?”