Free Touch of Evil by C. T. Adams, Cathy Clamp Page A

pick up his backpack and
    sign. "We can contain Monica for that long. You have no reason to fear, Not Prey. We thank you for your indulgence and—" the man's eyes cleared like magic and the deep, grateful baritone finished the sentence, "thanks for the money, lady. You really made my day! I haven't had a square in almost a week."
    He dashed across the street, leaving me rubbing my arms to get some warmth into my blood again. Could I trust the queens to "contain" Monica? They had managed it for almost six years, but what caused them to lose control earlier? They were right about the others—including Dylan. I wouldn't willingly send them to their death.
    A flash of sad anger rushed through me. Had he taken the extra step yet? Was he now a Host? Is that why he was calling? Lord, I hoped not. I took a deep breath and stepped from the shadow of the bridge into the bright sunlight. I tried to shake off the feeling of dread. I had to, or I'd go insane. It was only a few minutes more before I reached the tastefully low-key grocery store on the ground floor of an apartment high-rise. I kept the backpack strapped to me as I entered, and grabbed one of the hand baskets. Technically, you're supposed to check empty bags at the store, but if it ever came to it, the cameras would show that the pack never left my body and I never reached into it. No hints of shoplifting. I'd already had one pack disappear after I'd checked it with the nice service people, who naturally swore that the person who accepted it had gone home for the day. So I keep the pack with me.
    After a quick visit to the pharmacy, where I asked for one monthly refill and left the illegible prescription from MacDougal, I started through the throng of people. My pace slowed to a walk as I moved down the aisles. I started in the meat department, where a pair of T-bones begged me to take them home. I followed up the steaks with a nearly frozen chicken. It was about time to restock my ready-made meals.
    Every few months, I do a mass shop and a
    factory-style cooking session. I make homemade pasties—meat turnovers like pot pies, but with potatoes. Mom used to make them with turnips and potatoes, but I can't stand turnips. I'd always spit the little cubes into my fist by faking a cough and then sneak them under the table to the dog. He had a strange addiction to turnips that made him the gassiest basset hound on the block.
    I backtracked to the meat section and added a couple pounds of burger to the basket. I suddenly had a craving for burritos with lots of salsa, or maybe some thick meaty lasagna. Heck, I'd
    probably make them all. I freeze everything in individual portions anyway. That way I can have a good meal even when I'm on the run. It makes sense with my crazy schedule.
    Going through the store I remembered I was out of freezer bags, so I moved over a few aisles and grabbed a couple of boxes and tossed them into the heavily loaded basket. There was no way this was all going to fit into the backpack. Screw it. I'd walk home and carry a couple of bags. If any of the Herd tried to stop me, I'd beat them senseless with a frozen chicken.
    I shouldn't have gone down the frozen food aisle. I normally don't. There's nothing behind those glass doors that isn't pure carbs, but I convinced myself it was the quickest way to the check-out. My eyes cheated. They were supposed to stare straight ahead, moving only to avoid shoppers, but they flicked sideways at one of the frozen offerings. I couldn't believe it! My hand reached for the silver handle before I could slap it back, and one more item was added to my pile. Well, there went my walk home. I'd have to run to keep it from melting all over my backpack.
    Fortunately, the check-out line was short.
    Mornings are the best time to shop, if a person can manage it. I waited as the groceries were scanned and wrote out a check for the balance. The clerk glanced at it and looked at me for the first time since I'd emptied the