Page 52

He was leaning against a wall between a shuttered pawn shop and a dry cleaner with branding reminiscent of the ‘80s. A baseball cap was pulled low over his head, and his bomber jacket was torn and dirty. He took in our outfits without comment, which I assumed meant we looked the part.

“That place is run by a lady called Bruna Morales,” he said, nodding across the street.

“She’s a low-powered empath that’s been around longer than I have.

She feeds half the underworld—literally.

People drop their guard around her—half because of her empathy—and she’s a listener.

She also hates the direction New Providence is heading, and knows all the old circles.

If anyone can find your contacts, it’s her. ”

“Sounds ideal,” I said.

“How do you know her?” Iyoni asked.

Max grinned. “She does the best spaghetti meatballs in the city.”

We crossed the road and headed into the restaurant.

The booths were vinyl, cracked in places and patched with duct tape in others, but everywhere was clean and a dozen folks were enjoying an early dinner.

I extended my senses, and two of them were supes.

The empath Max had mentioned was in the kitchen, half visible through a serving hatch.

“Hi Kat,” Max said to the girl behind the bar. “Bruna around?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Business or pleasure, Maxy?”

“Business, I’m afraid, but it won’t take long.”

Kat gave the girls and me a quick glance, then looked back at Max. “I’ll see if she’s got time,” she said, and sauntered off toward the kitchen.

“You a regular here?” I asked Max as I leaned on the bar.

“Yeah. Few years now. My parents were Italian, and … well … Bruna’s always been good to me.”

“What happened to your folks?” Kara asked.

“Died in the riots in the ‘90s,” he said, then shrugged. “I was a foster kid growing up, and spent some time washing dishes in here to earn a few dollars.” He gave a small smile. “Not quite your scene, I imagine, Assistant Dir—Xan.”

“You’d be surprised,” I muttered. Max looked barely into his twenties, which, given when his parents died, meant he had some aspect of slow aging. With what I’d seen of his magic—tough gray skin and rapid healing—I figured he was probably half-troll, so that tracked.

“Maxy,” a warm voice called.

The large lady who owned it was dressed in an apron that didn’t quite stretch around her girth, sleeves rolled up like I half expected her to pull out a rolling pin and go to town on us.

Her face was red, and her hair might’ve started the evening tied back tightly, but a few strands had escaped and had frizzled in the heat of the kitchen.

She pulled Max into a hug, squishing his head into her ample cleavage. “You don’t visit for weeks, and when you do, it’s for work?”

“Sorry, Bruna,” Max said as he extricated himself. He glanced at me in embarrassment, and I feigned interest in the liquors behind the bar, giving him a moment. Thus far, the evening hadn’t started as I’d anticipated.

“Who’s your friend?” Bruna asked. “And these two lovely girls? They yours, Maxy?”

“Oh, er … no, Bruna,” he stammered, flushing red. “Listen, can we jump in your back room for a couple of minutes?”

“So urgent you can’t even introduce me?” Bruna huffed. “Oh, very well.” She waddled off toward a door with a ‘Staff’ nameplate.

“Sorry,” Max muttered. “She can be a bit much.”

“I like her,” Iyoni smiled.

“I heard that, young man,” Bruna said, despite being a dozen feet ahead of us.

We crowded into a small room, half filled with crates of canned tomatoes and bags of authentic Italian flour. Bruna’s maternal joviality had been replaced with a scowl, and she crossed her arms over her prodigious chest and glared at me.

“You’re the warlock, aren’t you?”

“You’re very observant,” I said.

She sniffed. “I watch the news.” She nodded to Kara. “Besides, your demon there is even more distinctive than you are.”

“‘Distinctive’?” Kara echoed, raising her eyebrows and crossed her arms, her expression unamused. If she wasn’t glamoured, her tail would be flicking back and forth angrily.

Bruna ignored her. “So why are you here?”

I pulled out the list Reyes had given me of Farron’s sources. Six names on a piece of paper. Bruna reached out a pudgy hand and grabbed it with surprising speed, eyes narrowing as she read.

“I thought you were the Assistant Director of SPAR,” she said as she handed it back.

“I am,” I acknowledged carefully.

Bruna grunted. “What do you want?”

Max was quiet, leaving it to me, so I figured I’d start with honesty. “I’m trying to track down the men on that list. It’s … urgent. Do you know where I can find any of them?”

“Someone’s playing you, Mr. Assistant Director,” she said. “Either that, or you’ve got nothing better to do than chase ghost stories.”

“Meaning?”

She jerked her chin at the list in my hand, her jowls wobbling. “Two of the people on that list are dead. Two are small-time. Very small-time. The other two I don’t know at all, which means they’re either new in town, nobodies, or, more likely, both.”

“Huh,” I said, buying time while I thought. I couldn’t imagine someone like Bruna calling anyone in Moreau’s organization ‘small time’, so maybe we were way off track. But if two of them had died, perhaps there was a reason for it, something to pursue.

“Do you know everyone, then?” Iyoni asked serenely. “It is quite a big city.”

Bruna fixed her with a stare. “I know everyone that matters —that is, if they’re involved in crime of one type or another.” She cocked her head to one side. “Do you matter?”

“I certainly do,” Iyoni replied, “but in my case, I’ll let you off. I’m not from New Providence.”

Bruna’s lips twitched and her eyes lit up in interest, like she’d found a new curiosity to explore.

“Who’s dead on that list?” I asked, pulling us back to the subject in hand.

“Kevin Cho and Toby Klein,” she said without even glancing at the list again. “Cho was a small-time dealer on probation. Got in a fight with a supe more powerful than him over in East Providence a few months back. No one turned up to his funeral, as far as I know. Klein was a—”

“Wait,” Kara interrupted. “Kevin Cho died how long ago?”

“Maybe … seven, eight month now?” Bruna’s interest piqued, glancing at Kara then back at me. “Said something interesting, did I?”

“What about Klein?” I asked. “How long ago did he die?”

“I heard he fell in the river, about this time last year.”

“Couldn’t he swim?”

She smiled, baring her teeth. “No idea, but he was stabbed several times before the splash.”

I let out a slow breath. “So two of these are dead, two might not even exist, and that leaves two more. All the more reason I need to find them, and fast. Anything you can tell me?”

Bruna gave another loud sniff. “Seems I’ve helped you quite a lot already, Mr. Assistant Director Warlock. A favor from you could be worth something, in the future.”

I had no issue working in that currency, and Bruna was the sort of person I wanted to keep friendly. “I’ll agree to a favor … of a comparable size.”

She smiled at the qualifier. “Something tells me this information is worth quite a lot to you, so we’ll make that favor owed a big one.”

I conceded with a wry nod. I should’ve known better than to try and out-fox an empath. “No doubt our paths will cross again, Mrs. Morales. You’re a useful person to know, and Max tells me I have to try your spaghetti meatballs.”

Her smile was warmer as she answered my question.

“Jason Bennett is a mechanic in East Providence. He talks a lot when he’s nervous.

His brother is a thug for one of the demon factions in College Hill.

” Her lip curled in distaste. “He never knows much, but he wants to stay on the good side and keep his family safe.”

That didn’t sound like the right man either, unless it was his brother who worked for Moreau. “And the last?”

“Eric Dunley is a delivery driver for a liquor distributor. Been known to distribute more than liquor. He got busted for possession with intent to supply a few months back, and did a plea deal—cooperation for a reduced sentence. Like I said, they’re both small-time.”

“Do you know where either of them live?” I asked.

“No, but I know where they both work.” She pulled an order pad out of her apron pocket and scribbled a note with a stubby pencil, then tore the sheet off and handed it to me. “You won’t catch them tonight.”

“Thank you,” I said, carefully folding the note and slipping it into my coat pocket. “I’m looking forward to trying those meatballs.”

“We’re open ‘til late,” Bruna said, then cuffed Max across the shoulders hard enough to make him stagger. “And you. Don’t you dare leave it so long next time.”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

Exhausted from the day and with nothing else we could do, we said goodbye to Max and went for dinner.

The girls did their best to distract me, but it felt wrong to relax and enjoy it. Not with a deadline in only three days, when a bomb would claim the lives of countless innocents.