Page 11 of Book of Night
“What are they using all those shadowsfor?” Posey asked. “They must have a way to wake them.”
Charlie frowned at the screen, unimpressed. She didn’t think much of shadow robbers. They were the sloppy stickup artists of the magical crime world. And she figured shadow dealers were selling to people who’d lost their shadows through excessive alteration, or used them for experiments. If someone really knew how to quicken a shadow, it seemed unlikely to Charlie they’d just sit on that information when the world would be full of money ready to rain down on them.
“You ever heard of shadows ripping?” Charlie asked, partially because she wanted to know, and partially to change the subject.
Posey scowled. “What?”
“I saw one—last night—that was—I don’t know—it looked like it had been through a shredder or something. And there was a man who…”
Posey stared at her so oddly that Charlie let the last sentence trail off. Posey, who believed everything, didn’t appear to believe her. Charlie wished there was a way for her to prove the shadow had come from a tattered plastic bag. That the man had been wearing gray gloves. But Charlie knew what she’d seen.
“Someone must have been trying to cut it off,” Posey said finally. “Theysay it’s like having your soul cut away from your body to lose a shadow.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And you know Vince—”
“Oh, come on, stop,” Charlie said, cutting her off. “He has a fucking soul.”
“There’s something wrong with him,” Posey said. “He couldn’t do that grim shit job of his if there wasn’t.”
Vince cleaned hotel rooms after something happened involving a lot of blood or a body—a stabbing, a shooting, an overdose. His boss handled dispatch, farming out the work to three freelancers who worked off the books: Winnie, an older woman with grown children who had been a professional clown before she started this. Craig, who said he was doing it for a year to learn what gore looked like before he applied to Tom Savini’s school for special effects makeup. And Vince.
“You’re one to talk about shit jobs,” Charlie said.
Posey ignored her. “He’s too quiet. And I think he’s been lying about speakingFrench.”
Charlie gave a weird snort-laugh, surprised by the ridiculousness of the accusation and the seriousness with which Posey spoke. “He’s done what now?”
Posey scowled. “We were watching television and there was an episode where one of the characters said something in French and he grinned before the show explained what any of it meant. It wasn’t justbonjouror whatever, either; he understood an entire French joke.”
“So he took it in high school. So what?”
Posey shook her head. “No one remembers the language they took in high school.”
“I’ve got no idea what bothers you about him,” Charlie said, throwing up her hands. “And I don’t think you do either.”
“I guess he’s good-looking, but youknowthere’s something missing there. You text other guys behind his back.” Posey grabbed Charlie’s cell phone off the table. “See?Oooh, Adam, let’s meet somewhere private.”
“Give me that!” Charlie grabbed it out of her hand.
“Admit it, what you like best about Vince is how much he’s willing to put up with.”
Before Charlie could explain, Vince’s heavy step announced him. His hair was wet, his shirt tight over the thick, muscled part of his upper arms, his gray eyes tinted greenish from the yellow walls.
Posey got up, then pushed past him, laptop tucked under her arm. She wasn’t gentle either, shoving her shoulder against his chest.
Vince raised his eyebrows. “She finally heading to bed?” he asked, and went to pour coffee from the pot.
“Hopefully,” Charlie said, forcing her gaze away. She wondered how much he’d overheard and if he’d confront her. What he might admit, if rage loosened his tongue. Would he tell her that he wished he was somewhere else, with someone else? That he was just marking time? Would he stop being so careful?
Charlie Hall, imp of the perverse. Appreciated a relationship for being simple and still tempted to see if she could make a complicated mess of it.
Impulsively, she picked up her phone and searched for questions in French.
“Voulez-vous plus de café?” she asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.
He stared at her in confused alarm, which was understandable since she’d just spouted gibberish. “What?”
Charlie shook her head, feeling ridiculous. “Nothing.”
“We better go look at your car,” he said, taking a deep swallow from his mug.
