I showered, put on makeup, and sleeked my hair back into a short ponytail. I tugged on black jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater, boots, and a jacket. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed my MacHalo in. I was going to be out late. I holstered my spear in my shoulder harness, tucked in two of Barrons’ short, sheathed knives I’d pilfered from an upstairs display case into my waistband, and loaded myself with diced Rhino-boy, jars in my jacket pockets, plastic Baggies in my boots. I strapped my Velcro bands with the Click-It lights around my ankles and wrists. I even slipped a vial of holy water into the front pocket of my jeans. In this town, you never know what’s coming. As they say back home, I was loaded for bear. All kinds.

I went downstairs, glanced out the window, and did a double take, wondering if I’d lost track of time. It had been clear and light in the cold wintry way of early November, when I’d gone upstairs. Now, at three forty-five, it was nearly dark outside. A storm had blown in while I’d been blow-drying my hair. It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind was kicking up, and it looked like we might get a real ripper any time.

I picked up the car keys and glanced around the bookstore to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. As my gaze swept the four-story room, I shrugged off a sudden, broody fear that I might never see Barrons Books and Baubles again. Like I loved the city, I’d grown to love my store. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath the sconces and cut-amber lamps. The books were all shelved in their proper places. The magazine rack was freshly stocked. The fires were off. The sofas and chairs were invitingly positioned in cozy arrangements. The mural above me was lost in shadows. One day I was going to climb up there and see what it was. The store was tidy and quiet, stuffed with fictional worlds to be explored, business-ready and waiting for the next customer.

I headed for the back door.

It would be waiting for me when I got back tomorrow, when the walls were strong, and I had a whole year to figure things out. I would start keeping regular hours again, and get to work on my plans to set up a Web site and catalog the rare editions upstairs. No more slacking.

But right now, an Italian stallion was waiting for me, stomping and snorting. Out back, a Ferrari was calling my name. There were two hours of road between me and where I was going, and that was one liminal I was going to love every minute of.

Chapter Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

I made it twelve blocks.

My end of town, next to the Dark Zone, had been deserted as a war zone. Now, I knew why.