Grimm - The Icy Touch by Shirley John

Author:Shirley, John [Shirley, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781781166550
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2013-09-19T17:39:00+00:00

* * *

“Hey bro,” Monroe said, as the bushy-bearded Blutbad came out of the papered-up storefront. He glanced around, as if to make sure the cops weren’t around, then flashed his Blutbad face at the guy. The bestial visage was there, and gone again, in a second. “You know where I can get any... work?”

“Why?” the Blutbad asked, stopping to look him up and down.

“Why do I need work?” Monroe replied. “I like to eat! I’m not a big eater but I do need to sometimes...”

“No, dumbass. Why you asking me?”

“Just heard... there might be some on this street. For us, I mean. Our people. Noticed a fellow Blutbad. Thought I’d ask.” There was a scraping, rattling sound from overhead. Monroe glanced up. “You got birds up there, or something? Damned pigeons, right?”

“Why you care what we got up there?” Bushy-beard stepped closer to Monroe, squaring his shoulders.

“Me? I don’t care. I just thought... you might know where there’s some work. But... if you don’t... Hey... that’s a big whatever.”

Okay, Monroe figured, the guy wasn’t going to spill anything here on the sidewalk and he wasn’t going to invite him inside. Maybe he could sneak around back...

The Blutbad just glared at him.

Monroe cleared his throat.

“All righty then. I’ll get outta your fur, bro. Good hunting.”

Monroe turned away, whistling “Werewolves of London”—then he heard a high-pitched squawk from above, a truly horrid sound like a seagull being crushed in a vice.

“Sure thing,” he heard the Blutbad say—and suddenly Monroe felt himself grabbed by the back of his neck and belt, and shoved into the darkness around the edge of the storefront. The Blutbad heaved him hard face down, and Monroe slid in what felt like old broken beer bottles and gravel and, judging from the smell, dried up dog mess.

Well, that’s just great.

He was woged and snarling as he rolled over on his back. The Blutbad stood over him, the thug’s right side in silhouette against the partial light from the storefront, left side blending almost seamlessly with the darkness.

“I don’t know if you can see this gun in my hand,” the Blutbad said. “It’s a Beretta .44. We decided you’re going to be screened, pal. If you don’t want a bullet in your head. You’re Blutbad—and you’re either snooping way too much, or you’re just a stupid son of a bitch. If it’s the first one, we’ll kill you. If it’s the second one, and if you’re lucky—then you’ve been drafted.”

“Drafted...” Monroe sat up slowly, leaning forward, getting his feet under him. “...into what?”

“The Icy Touch,” the Blutbad said. “Only personally—I think you’re too damn dumb for it. ‘Specially as I didn’t tell you to move. And you just moved.”

“I did? Oh. So I did. But you know—it’s pretty nasty on the ground here. I think there’s dog poop. How about if I just... walk away.” Monroe adjusted his crouching posture minutely, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. He could see that nickel-plated .44 in the Blutbad’s hand now that he was woged.

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