Lover Mine (Book 8) by Ward J. R

Author:Ward, J. R. [Ward, J. R.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780451231550
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2010-11-29T08:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-EIGHT

John took form next to a streetlight that probably didn’t have a lot of job satisfaction. The illumination pooling beneath its giraffe neck bathed the front of an apartment building that would have looked a hell of a lot better in total darkness: The bricks and mortar were not red and white, but brown and browner, and the cracks in various windows were fixed with zigzagged duct tape and cheap blankets. Even the shallow steps going up to the lobby were a pockmarked mess like they’d been hit with a jackhammer.

The place was just as it had been when he’d spent his last night inside except for one thing: the yellow Condemned notice that had been nailed to the front door.

File that under Well, duh.

As Xhex came out of the shadows and joined him, he did his best to project nothing but a calm dissociation . . . and knew he was failing. This grand tour of the shitscape of his earlier life was harder to go through than he’d thought, but it was like an amusement park ride. Once you got on and the cart got rolling, there was no reaching for the off/stop button.

Who knew that his existence should have come with a warning for pregnant ladies and epileptics.

Yeah, there was no stopping this; she’d totally tweak to him not finishing it. She seemed to know everything he was feeling—and that would include the sense of failure that would rip through him if he pulled out early.

“You ended up here?” she whispered.

Nodding, he led her past the front of the building and around the corner to the alley. As he came up to the emergency exit, he wondered if the latch would still be broken—

The punch bar let go with just a little force and they stepped in.

The carpet in the hallway was more like the raw dirt floor in some kind of cabin, all packed down and sealed with stains that had leached into the fibers and dried up hard. Empty booze bottles and twisted Twinkie wrappers and stunted cigarette butts littered the corridor, and the breeze in the air smelled like a bum’s armpit.

Man . . . even a tanker of Febreze couldn’t make a dent in this nose-mare.

Just as Qhuinn came in through the emergency exit, John hung a louie into the stairwell and started an ascent that made him want to scream. As they went up, rats squeaked and scampered out of the way and the eau de tenement got thicker and more pungent, like it was fermenting in the higher altitudes.

When they got to the second floor, he led the way down the hall and stopped in front of a starburst pattern on the wall. Jesus Christ . . . that wine stain was still there—although why the hell was he surprised? Like Merry Maids was going to show up here and bleach it out?

Going one more door down, he pushed into what had once been his studio apartment and walked . . .

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