The night was cool, and I was stiff and sore from staying in the same cramped position for so long. So I spent a few minutes bending and stretching to get the blood flowing back to every part of my body. Then I had to take care of the pressing matter of my lady business.

Once that was done, I dug a couple of tins of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment out of my duffel bag and smeared the soothing concoction all over the injuries I hadn’t been able to reach before now. I sighed as the soft pins-and-needles of her healing magic traveled up and down my body. I’d never liked the feel of Jo-Jo’s power, as her Air magic was the opposite of my Ice and Stone power, but those small stabs reminded me that I was still alive and that this wasn’t all some crazy dream.

When I felt like I could actually move without groaning in pain, I dropped to a knee, opened up my bag even wider, and surveyed the items inside. I’d used up all of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment, and I only had a bottle of water and one granola bar left. Several of my extra knives glinted in the bag, nestled inside the piles of clothes and money.

I stared at my supplies, thinking about my next move. I didn’t have a phone, and it wasn’t like I could walk into one of the nearby businesses and ask to use one. Not when I’d been sitting in a Dumpster all day. The owners would think that I was a homeless bum, trying to scrounge around for some free airtime. They wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Besides, someone might recognize me, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen. Madeline thought that I was dead, and I had to take advantage of her ignorance for as long as and as best I could. If I squandered this opportunity, I’d be right back where I started—waiting for Madeline to strike out at me and mine.

But I desperately needed to let Owen, Bria, Finn, and the others know that I was okay. Since I didn’t have a phone and couldn’t risk trying to find one, that meant a hike up into Northtown to locate my friends. But where would they be? Jo-Jo’s salon, most likely, or maybe Owen’s mansion. Someplace where they could all gather and plan what to do next.

Owen would be coldly furious, Bria would want to try to arrest Madeline, and Finn would be demanding that they all load up and let him put a bullet in the acid elemental’s head. As tempting as that last thought was, it still wouldn’t solve my problems with the underworld bosses, although I thought there was something that would get them and Madeline off my back at the same time. Either way, I had to get to my friends before they went off the rails and declared war on Madeline.

But how to get from here to there without being seen? Oh, I had enough money to take a cab, and I could always steal a car, but I wanted to keep my exposure to a minimum. That meant no cabs, no breaking and entering, no stealing, and no drawing any attention to myself whatsoever. But I couldn’t exactly stroll down the streets covered in garbage . . .

Or could I?

I looked at the Dumpster in front of me, then down at my clothes, which were soaked, soiled, and slathered with all sorts of things better left to the imagination. Burning would be too good for the filthy garments, but maybe I could get one more use out of them.

I stripped off all of my dirty clothes, shivering in the cool dark of the alley as I shimmied into clean underwear, jeans, socks, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. But I didn’t stop there. I kept pulling and pulling on clothes, until I was wearing every single item in the bag—all the socks, all the T-shirts, even a silverstone vest—and resembled some sort of marshmallow person. Then, as a final touch, I put my soiled T-shirt back on top of all the clean layers that I was wearing. I hated to do it, and it almost made me vomit up the granola bars I’d eaten earlier, but no one was going to look too closely at me when I was reeking of so much garbage.

I didn’t bother wiping any of the soot and grime off my face, since I wanted my features to be as dirty and hard to recognize as possible. I also had a black knit toboggan in my bag. As a final touch, I stuffed my nasty brown hair up under the toboggan, then pulled the edge down low over my forehead, hiding even more of my face from sight.

When I was satisfied with my grimy disguise, I threw what was left of my dirty clothes into the Dumpster and hefted my duffel bag onto my shoulder. I could have left it behind, but no homeless bum worth his salt went anywhere without what little possessions he’d managed to scrounge up for himself. The bag would add to my cover.

When I was properly attired, the only thing left to do was step out from behind the Dumpster and see if I could escape from the Pork Pit once and for all.

18

The alley might have been deserted, but the streets around the restaurant still hummed with activity.

My supposed murder of Captain Dobson, then fiery death in my own gin joint, had caught the attention of all the various news outlets in Ashland. Lights were strung up on the sidewalks in front of the Pork Pit, and I saw more than one reporter clutching a microphone and talking into a camera, with the burned-out remains of the restaurant creating a dramatic backdrop behind them.

The only part of the storefront that seemed to have escaped the fire was the neon sign above the front door, the one of a pig holding a platter of food. But it was as dark and dead as the rest of the restaurant was, with no electricity and light to fill it tonight.

But the reporters didn’t bother me as much as the crowd did. In addition to the news crews, people were gathered two and three deep on the sidewalk across the street from the restaurant, their phones held out and up as they snapped photos and shot video. And at least a dozen cops were still on the scene, if not more, each one peering into the crowd, as if they were expecting someone to bust through the yellow crime-scene tape and make a break for the front door in an attempt to loot the restaurant. I snorted. There was nothing left inside to steal, unless someone had a hankering for piles of ash, rubble, and ruin.

But a few folks had gotten close to the restaurant, at least long enough to leave something behind—flowers.

Red roses, white lilies, and other flowers had been placed on the sidewalk outside the Pork Pit, along with stuffed animals—pigs mostly—and even some small, lit candles. Tears stung my eyes at the sight of the makeshift shrine. Apparently, some people were going to miss me after all. It was nice to know that a few folks had come to pay their respects, instead of just gawk.

I put my head down, clutched my bag with both hands, and ambled along. I’d hoped to disappear into the first dark alley that I came to, but the cops had the streets blocked off in such a way that I was forced to shuffle along through the crowd, right under the watchful eyes of the po-po.