Chapters (42)
- TITLE PAGE
- COPYRIGHT PAGE
- DEDICATION PAGE
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Even though frost glazed the windows and coated the grass outside, inside the shelter it was hot as hell and reeked of tomato soup, sweat, minestrone, rum, burnt toast, cigarettes, and unwashed bodies. When a garbage can next to me began to overflow with paper plates and plastic bowls, I seized the opportunity to get some air.
“I’ll be right back,” I hollered to Tegan as I gathered the giant plastic bag and lugged it toward the back exit. She waved absently in my direction.
A blast of frigid air greeted me as I swung open the door, and I inhaled it greedily.
And immediately dropped my garbage bag.
Was I imagining it? Was it some sort of weird hallucination after the crazy scent overload of the soup kitchen?
No. As I stood in place and breathed, it was definitely real. The cloying, sick smell of incense. A scent I associated with only one thing: Mazikin.
I took a few steps into the back lot, my breath fogging in front of my face. The scent was carried on the wind, beckoning me forward. I walked around to the front of the shelter, wondering if there might be Mazikin right here, trying to get a bowl of soup or lure new recruits. The line of hungry people was out the door, but the smell was definitely fainter, so I returned to the lot, which backed up to a row of houses. I skirted the Dumpster and followed a narrow lane between the houses that was littered with old tires, discarded ride-on toys, and garbage bins. The smell was getting stronger, and my heart beat faster each time I inhaled. I turned left and walked a block up the street before I realized the smell was fading, so I jogged back the way I had come.
I was passing the lane that would take me back to the shelter when a guy with greasy, dark hair and a gaunt, stubbly face loped out from between two houses up ahead, not even twenty feet from me. He was wearing a padded flannel shirt and gloves with the fingers cut off, and I caught a glimpse of grimy, jagged fingernails just before he turned his back. Carrying an oil-spotted paper bag in his arms, he made his way briskly up the road away from me. I followed, sniffing at the air, probably looking a little crazy. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem aware of me as I trailed him.