Free Strange Angels by Lili Saintcrow Page B

going to quiz me about sage smudging, hex-breaking, or poltergeist-clearing ever again. Or even leave me a note reminding me to do my katas.
    I came back to myself with a jolt and looked down at my watch. It was buckled on my

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    wrist now, my clever little fingers doing the work for me. Thirty minutes had passed while I stood staring at the note on the door. My back ached, every single muscle glued to its neighbors and protesting. I needed some aspirin in the worst way. I had money. I could make it up to the food court—but what if someone saw me behind the mall’s scenes? Would I get in trouble I couldn’t lie my way out of, or would someone start watching the halls and catch Graves on his way back?
    Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve got plenty of problems without worrying about him. But you don’t blow someone else’s bolt-hole. It’s like a law among hunters. And if Dad was gone, I was the only one left to do the hunting. Thatwas a scary thought, and one I pushed away as soon as I could. I stamped back to the bed and dug in my bag. It was deathly quiet down here, but even if I made any noise someone outside wouldn’t be able to tell where it was coming from, would they? How often did people scurry down to the dumpsters during the day, anyway?
    Who used the cardboard crusher?
    My artist’s pad was a bit worn around the edges from being smashed into my bag all the time. I flipped through it, looking for a clean sheet so I could leave a note for Graves. The strength went out of my legs, and I sat down hard on the concrete floor, my teeth clicking together as my ass hit.
    There was the drawing of the iris I’d been working on, shaded lovingly. Then the doodles of shapes, the closet door, and my nightstand. The pile of laundry. On the next page the pencil had dug into the paper, rasping harshly and shading giant blocks of shadow. I didn’t remember drawing this, but I knew I had. Who else could’ve?
    It was the back of a warehouse or another large building butted up against an even larger one, broken windows suggested with slices of pencil shading. There was a busted-down chain-link fence, and in front of the fence was something familiar—a truck crouched like a big cat.
    Ourtruck. I’d know that camper anywhere. My mouth went dry and copper-tasting. My heartbeat thudded in my throat and ears.
    I don’t remember drawing this. I fell asleep after drawing the laundry—I know I did!
    But I’d dreamed , hadn’t I? A bad dream, about . . . what? Dad, and a door. And something behind the door. The more I looked at the building crouching behind our truck, the more certain I was that something horrible had happened in there, something that ended up with Dad getting turned into a flesh-eating, shambling horror. The pencil had been broken in my hand, digging in with sharp edges when I woke up. The drawing had obviously been done quickly, using shortcuts I knew about from years of scribbling sketches. It was ridiculous, impossible. Gran would have been proud of me for displaying a new talent, but I wasn’t so happy about it at all. I was still staring at the drawing’s heavy, thick strokes when a scratching sound from the wall brought my head up. I dove off the bed and rolled, grabbing the jacket and ending up full-length on the floor, my hand squirming for the gun just like Dad taught me. Get down first, then return fire. Making yourself a target while you fire back is bad business, sweetheart.
    Sanity caught up with me just as the door swung inward. Who else knew I was down here?
    Graves hopped through the door and shook his head sharply. He was soaking wet and

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    shivering, water dripping from his curly hair and the hem of his long black coat. His lips were almost blue, his nose bright red and dripping, and his cheeks looked