AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of Lila, and Janssen. “I mean, I can change things back to the way they were. Mostly.”
Sam gives me a considering look. “So you could stay young forever?”
“That sounds possible,” I say with a shrug. “But it’s not like the world is full of transformation workers, so it must not work.” The sheer enormity of what I don’t know about my limitations—the stuff I don’t even want to deal with—is suddenly a lot more obvious.
“How about giving yourself a huge you-know-what?” He leans back on the couch and points to his pants with both hands. “Like, unnaturally big.”
I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s what you want to know?”
“I’ve got my priorities straight,” he says. “You’re the one who’s not asking the right questions.”
“Story of my life,” I say.
Sam finds a dusty bottle of Bacardi in the back of his parents’ pantry. We split it.
* * *
Late Sunday afternoon I wake up to someone ringing the doorbell. I don’t remember how I got home; maybe I walked. My mouth still tastes like booze, and I am pretty sure my hair is sticking straight up. I try to smooth it out as I walk down the stairs.
I don’t know what I expect, really. A package that I have to sign for, maybe. Missionaries, kids selling cookies, something like that. Even the Feds. Not Mr. Zacharov, looking as crisp as a fake hundred-dollar bill, at the door of my dingy kitchen.
I flip the locks. “Hey,” I say, and then realize my breath must be awful.
“Are you busy this evening?” he asks, giving every appearance of not noticing that I just rolled out of bed. “I’d like you to come with me.” Behind him is a goon in a long, dark coat. He’s got a tattoo of a skull on his neck, above the keloid scars.
“Sure,” I say. “Okay. Can you give me a minute?”
He nods. “Get dressed. You can have breakfast on the way.”
I walk back upstairs, leaving the kitchen door open so that Zacharov can come in if he wants.
In the shower, as hot water pounds down like needles onto my back, I realize that it’s really, really odd that Zacharov is waiting for me downstairs. The more awake I get, the more surreal it seems.
I come back into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, chewing aspirin, in black jeans and a sweater, with my leather jacket on. Zacharov is sitting at my kitchen table, looking relaxed, fingers tapping on the worn wood.
“So,” I say. “Where are we going?”
He stands and raises both steel gray eyebrows. “To the car.”
I follow him out to a sleek black Cadillac. It’s already running, with Stanley—a bodyguard I met before—in the driver’s seat. The guy with the skull tattoo is sitting beside him. Zacharov waves me in, and I scoot across the backseat.
“Hey, kid,” Stanley says. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in the cup holder and a fast-food bag over on my seat. I open it up and take out the bagel and egg sandwich inside.
“Stanley,” I say, nodding to him. “How’s the family?”
“Never better,” he says.
Zacharov sits beside me as the tinted privacy divider grinds up.
“I understand that you and my daughter spent Friday together,” he says as Stanley backs the Cadillac out of my driveway.
“I hope she had fun,” I say between chews. I wonder suddenly if Zacharov found out about the curse. If so, it was nice for him to let me get cleaned up and fed before he killed me.
But Zacharov has an amused curl to his lip. “And I understand that you spent some time with some federal agents the day before that.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to look too relieved. Questions about the Feds from a mob boss should not relax anyone. “They came to see me at school. About Philip.”
He narrows his eyes. “What about Philip?”
