Free This Case Is Gonna Kill Me by Phillipa Bornikova Page B

Seventy-sixth street. Are we in the right place?”
    “Yes, this train is going uptown. I’m going past there, so I’ll signal you when to get off.”
    “Oh, thank you.” She motioned vigorously to her husband to join us. As he lumbered over, I reflected that he looked like a high school or college football player now gone to middle-aged seed. “This nice young lady says we’re in the right place, honey.”
    He gave me a big, warm smile. “Thanks. This place is a little overwhelming.”
    “Where are you from?” I asked, resigned to conversation during the ride.
    “Muscle Shoals, Alabama. I know, I know, funny name, but we’ve got some real history. W. C. Handy, Father of the Blues”—the pride in his voice provided the capital letters—“and Helen Keller were all from Muscle Shoals. I own a chain of family restaurants, Yummy’s. Debbie, here, wanted to celebrate her birthday in New York City, so here we are.” He thrust out a hand. “Todd Bingham.”
    “Pleased to meet you, and welcome.”
    “Are you from here?” Debbie asked. “I thought you must be, a little thing like you, riding the subway all by yourself at night.”
    “Actually, I’m originally from Rhode Island. I moved down here a month ago from Connecticut, where I went to school.”
    “And you’re not scared?” Debbie asked.
    “Uh-uh.” I gave her a smile. “The city isn’t that dangerous.” The husband gave me a look that suggested I was on crack. “Of course, there are places I don’t go, but they’re few and far between. Basically you just have to avoid looking like a victim, and you’ll be fine.”
    In a world where werewolves, vampires, and Álfar had stepped out of the shadows and taken power, that really was the trick for an ordinary human. It was like Debbie read my mind, because she leaned in close and whispered, “I think I’ve seen three vampires while we’ve been here.”
    “You probably have.”
    She shivered, and I couldn’t tell if it was due to delight or alarm. She said, “We don’t have them down our way. It just kind of adds to the excitement of New York.”
    “Well, they better leave my girl alone,” Todd said, and gave his wife a quick hug. “And I gotta say, the werewolves bother me more. To think somebody who looks human can just turn like that. Creepy.”
    And that, I thought, was why the Powers tended to congregate in major metropolitan areas—New York, Los Angeles, Washington, DC, London, Paris. People in urban areas were generally more accepting of different lifestyles. But until the Powers started living in places like Muscle Shoals, they were never going to be fully accepted. They were going to continue to be a source of titillation and dread, as evidenced by the Binghams.
    The train’s arrival was heralded by a gust of warm air. The subway rumbled into the station, brakes squeaking as it slowed and came to a stop. The doors opened with a sucking sound, and we stepped aboard.
    I got the Binghams off at their stop, and was surprised and touched when Todd gave me his business card and promised me a free meal at Yummy’s if I ever got to Muscle Shoals.
    I then half-closed my eyes and scanned my fellow riders. Rocking with the swaying of the car, lulled by the clatter of the wheels, I watched a young Hispanic couple cuddling across from me. He was trying valiantly to grow a mustache, but right now he just looked like he had a dirty upper lip. The girl was gorgeous, with a tumbled mane of black hair and gold jewelry that glowed against her amber-colored skin.
    In the front of the car, a bearded Hasidic man in his black suit, hat, and payot sat reading. Not Proust, but the summer’s latest potboiler. Its lurid cover seemed to pulse under the flickering lights. It was a perfect antidote to cliché.
    Best of all, none of them looked like werewolves.
    At 181st Street, I got off and headed up to the sidewalk. My phone chimed. I had a message. It was my dad. And he had sent a car for