The Enchanter Heir

Page 17

It was Boy Blue. He stood next to Emma, so close she could breathe in the scent of leather. So close she could have reached out and touched the rivets on his jeans. She resisted the temptation to do just that.
The wizards stared at him, at first too hazy with drink to conjure a response.
“Who’re you?” Graham said finally. “Her labrat boyfriend?”
“You think he’s a labrat?” Brooke said, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. “But he’s really hot.”
“Eww,” Graham said. “Now you’re being disgusting.” They all laughed, but some of the confidence had leaked out of them. They resembled a herd of sheep with a wolf in their midst.
“I can take care of myself,” Emma said to Boy Blue. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Boy Blue said. “I’m worried about them.”
Graham cleared his throat. “We’re not talking to you,” he said. “We’re talking to her.” He jabbed Emma with his pool cue.
Boy Blue struck like a snake, faster than Emma’s eye could follow. He ripped Graham’s weapon away from him, broke it like a matchstick, and dropped the pieces onto the floor.
Graham stared at him, openmouthed. “What the—that cue cost five hundred dollars!” he shouted.
“Really?” Boy Blue said. “Then you ought to be more careful about where you stick it.”
Emma was thinking, Five hundred dollars? For a pool cue? That can’t be right.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” Graham snarled. His friends muttered agreement. A crowd was gathering, spoiling for a fight. And Boy Blue seemed more than willing to give them one.
Emma didn’t mean to let that happen. Not on her account. She shoved back her chair and stood, facing Graham, hands on hips. “You want to play pool?” she said. “You’re on.”
Chapter Twelve
Sharks
Everyone turned and stared at her. The band played on, the bass thudding through the floorboards like a pulse.
Graham looked from Boy Blue to Emma. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, smirking. “All right, let’s do it.”
Boy Blue put his gloved hand on Emma’s shoulder, sending a thrill of electricity through her. “You don’t have to do this. I picked this fight. Let me finish it.”
Emma glared up at him. “What—you can pick a fight, but I can’t?”
For a moment, he was at a loss for words. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
Emma turned back toward Graham. “What’s the action?” she said, rubbing her fingers together. “You really want to play for the tab?”
“’Xactly,” Graham said, taking in his mainliner posse with a sweep of his arm. “The tab. For all of us.” His eyes flicked to Boy Blue, then back to her. “And the cost of the cue.” Emma frowned, pretending to think it over. Which she really should have been doing, considering she had $15.97 in her pocket.
Boy Blue leaned in toward her, his warm breath stirring her hair, raising gooseflesh on her neck. “Listen,” he said. “Their tab’ll run into big money. They’ve been drinking all night. And we’re not paying for the cue.”
We? Emma thought.
“What’s the matter?” Graham said. “No confidence in your girlfriend here?”
Someone began a soft chant. “Tails and SCALES! Tails and SCALES!”
Emma frowned. “You know what? He’s right. That doesn’t seem fair. I don’t really have a tab.” She thought a moment. “How about this? If I win, you forget about the cue and buy a round for the room.”
“A round for the room?” Graham scanned the crowd, as if taking a count. “I don’t know. I mean, now I’ll be playing with an unfamiliar cue.” He pretended reluctance when she could tell he was hot for the match.
“What’s the matter?” she said, shoving her hands into her back pockets, looking up at the ceiling. “You scared?”
Graham stiffened and looked back at Emma, appraising her. He must not have been impressed with what he saw, because a cocky smile broke across his face. “You’re on, labrat.”
“Did you all hear that?” Emma said in a carrying voice. “If I win, this fine young man buys a round for the room. If you want to lay any side bets, do it now.”
All of a sudden everyone in the room was interested in the play, though nobody seemed eager to bet on Emma.
While money changed hands Emma strode to the cue rack and looked over the selection. Mostly Sterlings, handful of Furys. Pulling one down, she sighted along the length and swore under her breath. Warped. As were the next two. In the end, she chose a Sterling maple-shafted stick that wasn’t quite as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
She crossed to Graham’s chosen table, leaned her cue against it, and tied her hair back. “What’s your game?” she said.
Graham blinked at her. “Huh?”
“You know—eight ball, nine ball, straight pool, one pocket, or snooker?”
“Um—eight ball?” he said, doubt creeping into his voice.
“Fair enough,” Emma said, scooping up a triangular rack. “You got any local rules I should know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you got your Alabama eight ball, crazy eight, last pocket, misery, Missouri, one and fifteen in the sides, rotation eight ball, and like that.”
Graham squinted at her, licking his lips. “I just wanna play pool. You gonna talk or play?”
“Fine,” Emma said. “We’ll keep it simple—classic eight ball. One game only. If you scratch on the break, you lose. Your challenge, your game, my break. Rack ’em up.” She thrust the rack at Graham.
While Graham fussed with the rack, Emma walked around the table. The cloth was in bad shape, torn here and there from heavy use. She’d watched the play on that table earlier and noted that it wasn’t exactly level.
By the time Graham stepped back, Emma had found her shot. She hit a soft break, but still put three balls in the pocket. Methodically, she ran out the table while Graham watched with growing horror. When she’d cleared the table except for the money ball, she pointed her cue at the farthest pocket. “All right,” she said, “Eight ball in the upper right corner.” And she nailed it clean.
Cheers erupted all around—from people who hadn’t bet on Graham. Patrons, even mainliners, slapped her on the back. Others bellied up to the bar to place their orders.
Graham swore violently. “You . . . you cheated,” he said. Emma cocked her head. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you to watch yourself in a pool hall? You never know when you’re going to run into a shark.”
Graham extended a trembling hand toward Emma, fingers spread like he was about to hex her or something. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Boy Blue had his arms twisted behind his back so he screamed in pain.
“I don’t think you want to do that here,” Boy Blue murmured. “Anyway, nobody likes a sore loser. I suggest you pay up and leave.” Releasing Graham, he gave him a push toward the bar.
Emma stuck out her hand to Boy Blue. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Thanks for the help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped her hand. “I’m Jonah,” he said. “I guess you didn’t need my help.”
Emma let go of Jonah’s hand, trying to think of something to say. “What was that name they kept calling us? Labrats?”
“Labrats?” He stared at her, as if confused. “I assumed you were from—” He stopped. Then shrugged. And lied . . . Emma knew he did. “I have no idea.”
Emma gestured toward her hard-won table. “Would you like to sit?”
“Sit?”
“Sit. With me.”
For a moment, he balanced on the balls of his feet, trapped between yes and no. Then the door to the club slammed open, and cold air swirled around them. Jonah’s head came up, and he breathed in sharply, like a predator who’s caught the scent of prey. “No,” he said. “I can’t. I have to—” He swiveled toward the door, suddenly in a hurry. “I have to go.”
And, just like that, he was out the door.
Sorry, Tyler, Emma thought, watching him disappear. I guess I’m just not that good at making friends.
Chapter Thirteen
Monster to Monster
Where, exactly, did you think that was going, Kinlock? Jonah thought as he exited the club. Were you hoping to work your way up from a handshake to a chaperoned slow dance?
And yet—it was such a small and simple pleasure—to talk to someone who didn’t know that the thing he was best at was killing. Leaving the pool-shark girl behind was like ripping off a scab and watching himself bleed.
Focus, he thought, breathing in the night air. No, it hadn’t been his imagination. A shade had just passed by, heading toward Superior.
Jonah didn’t like that. He didn’t like it at all. Especially since he was unarmed. You can go into a club with a gun, but just try to get in with a six-foot sword.
It was nearly nine o’clock on a Tuesday, but the bars were jumping in the Warehouse District. Across the river, in Heritage Park and around the aquarium, he could see emergency lights flashing. Maybe an accident of some kind.
He hoped it wasn’t something worse. He ghosted along, following the scent, jogging left on Superior. He lost the trail momentarily, then realized the shade must have cut through the courthouse gardens and down the steps to the river. It might be on the hunt, hoping to find easy prey along the lonely route through the Flats.
He descended through the courthouse grounds, then walked west, along the river, past industrial buildings and high fences topped with barbed wire. Just as he was passing the old B&O terminal, a bell began to clamor. A bridge alarm, signaling street traffic that the bridge was opening for river traffic.
Once past the terminal, Jonah looked downriver, where several rusting lift bridges spanned the crooked river as it snaked its way to the lake.