Free Omens by Kelley Armstrong

remembering that look in their eyes, I wouldn’t be eager to meet them wandering around my apartment building.
    And I wouldn’t be eager to meet them down a dark walkway. Especially if I was a frail old man.
    I glanced toward the landlord’s door. Just a day ago, if I’d seen two street girls go into the alley behind an old man, I’d have investigated. Made sure he was safe.
    So why wasn’t I already out that door?
    I went out onto the stoop and listened.
    Was I hoping not to hear anything, so I had an excuse to go back inside. Focus on my own problems?
    I shook my head and jogged down the front steps.
    The walkway stretched between two apartments and was little more than an alley, but it had been fancied up with an ivy-covered iron arch, a cobblestone path, and a few flowering bushes.
    Pleasant enough. Safe enough. And empty enough, with no sign of—
    “You aren’t supposed to be here.” The old man’s words drifted from behind a thick lilac. “You know the rules.”
    “There are no rules,” a girl hissed. “You old-timers need to understand that. We go where we want. We take what we want. And what we want is the money you were gonna use to fill that grocery bag.”
    “I don’t have any money. I was heading to the library—”
    “Oh, good,” I called as I walked down the path. “You’re still here. This is your apartment building, right, sir? I’m looking for the landlord and—”
    I feigned surprise, stopping short as I saw him backed against the wall, the two girls standing like gunslingers, thumbs hooked in their belts. Matching snakeskin. The height of fashion.
    “Oh,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”
    The girl nearest me wheeled, snarling, “Mind your own—”
    The other one caught her arm. Squeezed. They eyed me, the first still curling her lip, like she wanted to throw down then and there. I’ll admit to a prickle of disappointment when the other girl whispered in her ear and talked her out of it. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, but that roiling ball of pent-up frustration in my gut felt this would have been a fine time to start.
    “We were just talking,” the second girl said. “Being neighborly.”
    “That’s good to hear,” I said. “We don’t see enough of that these days.” I turned to the old man. He was leaning against the wall looking … amused? “About the landlord…”
    “Here, let me take you.” He nodded to the duo. “Happy hunting, girls.”
    The first bared her teeth, but her friend nudged her and they headed off down the walkway, in the opposite direction.
    “You handled that very well,” the old man said once the girls were out of earshot.
    “I’ve dealt with their kind before.”
    “Oh?” He looked surprised.
    “Volunteer work with street youth.”
    “Ah.”
    “You may want to avoid that walkway this time of evening.”
    He sighed. “We never used to have to worry about such things.” He let me hold open the door as we went inside. “You said you wanted to speak to the super. You aren’t looking at that vacant apartment, are you? This isn’t the place for you.”
    “I don’t have a lot of choice,” I said as I fell in step beside him.
    “You always have choices.”
    I shrugged. “This doesn’t seem so bad.”
    “Well, I’d disagree, but I see you’ve made up your mind.” He waved down the hall. “Last door.”
    “Thanks.”
    As I headed down the hall, my footsteps echoed on the old wood floor. The place smelled of pine cleaner, which should have been a good sign, but it somehow added to the air of sterile desolation. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried, faintly, almost resigned, as if it didn’t really expect a response.
    As I approached the super’s door, strains of salsa music and the smell of chilies warmed the air. The music had been kept at a respectful volume, so I didn’t need to knock hard. Or so I thought. After three increasingly louder rounds of rapping, with no reply, I leaned against the door and