Page 87 of Dead Beat

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A man stood in the porch light, the wet street like a dark river flowing behind him. His black hair was drawn back into a braid, and he wore a heavy denim jacket lined with what looked like sheepskin. Both were completely dry. High above him the owls clicked their beaks and screeched.

Darlington wanted to stand between Alex and this new catastrophe, but he knew he couldn’t. She would have to choose whether or not to greet this stranger who was not quite a stranger. Il Bastone wouldn’t bar him, not if he was human—and despite his sudden and dramatic appearance, Darlington suspected he was. He muted Turner’s voice but kept the line open.

“Alex,” Darlington said softly. She was standing to his right, her black eyes locked on the man on the stoop.

He felt the brush of her knuckles against his, and then to his shock, she took his hand.

Nothing will harm you. He thought the words but didn’t speak them. He wouldn’t make a vow that might prove empty.

They stood in silence until at last the man said, “I’m here for Mira Stern.”

“She’s not here.”

“She must be.”

“Her daughter is here,” Alex said flatly.

The man didn’t seem surprised. How could he be? He and Alex looked like distorted reflections of each other, the same dark eyes, the same angular features, the same sheaf of black hair, parted down the center in a rigid line.

“Who tried to lift the prohibition?” he asked.

A short, angry laugh escaped Alex. “That’s what you want to know?”

The wind picked up again and the owls on the wire released a shrieking chorus that made Darlington want to cover his ears.

Alex’s father glanced over his shoulder. “We should go inside.”

“Up to you,” Darlington said to Alex. “Il Bastone will bar him if you ask it to.”

Her eyes were hard when she said, “But he came all this way.”

She released Darlington’s hand and stepped aside. As her father crossed the threshold, the house trembled and the hall lights flickered. It had always been sensitive to the moods of its occupants, but it was closer to Alex than any of them. She had defended Il Bastone the night demons had tried to burn it down. She had nearly died here. The dried remnants of her blood were still caked between its polished floorboards.

Alex gestured to the parlor.

Dawes stood in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching her laptop like a shield against her chest. The man peered into the room as if he expected to see Mira Stern tucked coyly away in a corner.

“You can sit,” Alex said.

“Is this the witch?” he asked, eyes on Dawes, who startled and took a step back.

“Or you can fucking stand,” Alex said. “She’s none of your business.”

Darlington stepped into the breach.

“Let’s start with names,” he said. “And maybe some tea?”

He didn’t particularly want to offer this man hospitality, but Dawes needed occupation. She shot him a grateful glance and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alex’s father looked around, taking in the shabby beauty of Il Bastone. Darlington had no idea what he might be thinking.

“This house is … wakeful.”

As if Il Bastone knew it had been caught, the lights stopped flickering.

When Dawes entered with the tea tray and a plate full of biscotti, Darlington gestured for Alex’s father to sit in one of the high-backed parlor chairs framed by the window. He closed the curtains. The owls remained on the wire, and whatever was about to happen, he didn’t want them watching.