Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,58

and I wouldn’t have to talk to the shade of Mean Mr. B. I’d be free to careen into the next brand-new and improved flavor of What the Actual Fuck.

“Sorry,” I said, not meaning it in the least.

“Nah, you’re not, kitten. But that’s your charm, as they say. Fine, let’s cut the pleasantries and auld lang syne, shall we?”

And that’s when I saw the stump where his left hand had been. What remained of his forearm was encased in a plaster cast, but—oddly, I thought—he wasn’t wearing a sling. He saw that I saw, saw that I was, I won’t lie, staring. He held up the stump, as if I needed a better look and he was willing to oblige.

“Jesus, B . . .”

“Yeah, Quinn,” he said. “What about that? Ain’t it just the dog’s bloody bollocks? Always fancied I’d stay two or three steps ahead of my just comeuppances, slippery as an eel in jelly and the devil take the hindmost. But will you just have a gander at that? Bastards didn’t even have the common decency to kill me. See, they’re the sort to take trophies and leave a man alive to contemplate his indiscretions and misdeeds.”

“Who?” I asked, though I already knew full fucking well who.

“Same fucking berks you’ve gone and gotten yourself tangled up with, kitten. Isaac fucking Snow and that minjer sister of his, that’s who.”

I turned away. I reached into the dead girl’s coat, the pilfered peacoat of my last square meal, and took out a cigarette. I didn’t light it, just held it between my fingers and stared at the polished stone floor. I noticed how scuffed and dingy B’s calfskin loafers were. Before, I’d always been able to see my vamp’s reflection in them.

“Small damn world,” I said.

“About as big as a canary’s willy,” he replied. “Just about that big and no more.”

“What’d you do to piss them off?”

“That how it is, then?” he asked. “Guilty until proven otherwise?”

“Yeah, B. That’s how it is. This ain’t no tearful reunion, all is forgiven, and oh, hey, let me kiss your fucking boo-boo.”

I glanced up, and Charlee was glaring daggers at me. I figure, if he’d had a stake right then . . .

“Fine,” said B, “I might have antagonized Mr. Snow a bit more than was strictly sensible. He was looking for something, something he was of the belief was hidden somewhere in Providence.”

“He hired you to find it for him,” I said.

“That he did, love.”

“Some sort of ghoul artifact?”

“Ain’t polite, beating me to the punch like that. How about you tell me what’s in your lap?”

Of course, what was in my lap was the Basalt Madonna, still wrapped in one of Selwyn’s T-shirts.

“I have a hunch you know perfectly goddamn well what it is, B.”

He sighed and nodded his head, brushed some of his oily hair back from his face.

“Unser Mutter von der Nacht,” he whispered. “Das Herz der schmutzigen Lektion, Gegrüßet seist du Maria, voll der Gnade.”

“I don’t speak German, you asshole,” I muttered, and he laughed that raggedy, tired laugh again. “Is this what he had you looking for?”

B didn’t answer right away. He chewed at his chapped lower lip, and I realized then that he was also missing a couple of teeth up front. He kept his eyes on the bundle—and fuck it but I’m tired of using that word, bundle, but what the hell else would I call it?

“No,” he said finally, and went back to watching the dinosaurs. “Not that, precious. I like to think I’d have had the cobbler’s awls to tell them to sod off, if they’d come to me to find that horror. But here you are, just strolling around with it tucked snug under your arm. How’s that work, kitten? Are you of a mind you keep it safe, hand it over to those two, you’ll get your lady friend back?” he asked, then scratched at the stubble on his cheeks.

“Pickman said—”

“Pickman?” B asked, and there was a spark in those gray eyes, half a second when I almost saw the old B. “And you believe that old devil’s porky pies?”

“B, way I see it, I don’t exactly have an overabundance of options, do I?”

He shrugged and glanced up at Charlee. “Will you be a sweetheart?” he asked. “My mouth’s gone dry as a hag’s Morris Minor.”

When we first met, B’s penchant for cockney rhyming slang had yet to manifest. I’m not sure exactly when he’d decided to add it to his repertoire