Sheryl Nantus - Battle Scars

“Place needs a lot more than that.” I grabbed his arm as a commuter bus pushed toward us, dangerously close to rolling over our toes as it maneuvered through the narrow street at a snail’s pace. “It wasn’t ever meant to have this much traffic.”

We headed toward a security officer standing to one side, watching the organized chaos. One sniff and I knew he was family, despite the overwhelming stink of urine, gasoline and various heavy body odors swirling around us. His uniform shirt was threadbare in spots, showing me he’d been on the job long enough to know what to look for.

He touched his cap as I introduced myself.

“Morning, folks. What can I help you with?”

“These two kits.” I showed him the photographs. “Runaways. Have you seen them come through here?”

He studied Bran standing by my side for a second before answering. “Kits? You mean kids, right?”

I sighed, remembering the first rule. Secrecy. Total secrecy about the Felis. The guard was simply trying to give me a way out of my obvious slip of the lip.

This guy was just following rules.

I hated rules.

I handed him a business card and watched his reaction, his lips moving silently as he read the embossed name and assorted information.

He looked up from the card, the surprise in his eyes weighed with a degree of distaste. Being outcast meant I had to fight for every inch of respect, from being a genetic freak to choosing a human mate.

“Rebecca Desjardin.” He said my name like he was spitting out cigarette ashes. “I’ve heard of you.” He bared his teeth. “Got nothing for you today.”

I wasn’t going to try and justify my existence. Not today.

“I’m working for Jess.” It wasn’t a total lie. “You can call her if you’d like. I’m sure she’d love to hear from one of our own who’s delaying my investigation.”

The security officer stood up a little straighter at mention of the Board member. Her reputation far outweighed mine and I wasn’t afraid to use it.

He glanced at Bran. I could see the conflict on his face, the fight between helping a fellow Felis and keeping secrets from a human.

I shoved the photos under his nose again, breaking his concentration and forcing an answer. “Have you seen them?”

“I see kids—I mean, kits, come through here every day,” he replied. “I could tell you I saw them but I’d be lying. They could have been here or not. I don’t keep track of all the foot traffic, I just make sure no one gets run over.” His thick eyebrows headed for a collision. “Is there a hunt? I didn’t hear anything about a hunt.”

The curiosity in his voice was tempered with fear. A hunt wasn’t called often but it was the equivalent of an Amber Alert, an all-points bulletin hitting every Felis in the area—potentially thousands of eyes turned toward finding one person. I’d seen it in action and it was full of awesome.

I cursed Middleston silently for not wanting to bring everyone in on this. It would have probably gotten him Lisa back the minute she hit the streets in Toronto, starting with this guard grabbing her right there in the terminal. But I could understand the embarrassment at having to admit losing control of his daughter.

Calling a hunt still would have made things easier.

“No, no hunt.”

The flash of relief over his face dissolved into a stoic stare. “Ah.” He studied the pictures again. “I don’t remember seeing them but there’s so many kids coming through these days.” He waved a hand at the bright sunlight cutting through the streets. “Summer brings them out of the woodwork. No school and they’re all looking for adventure. Come to the big city for a few weeks and see how the wild style works for them.” He shook his head. “Usually don’t.”

“I understand.” I handed him a set of the cheap photocopies I’d made and put the good ones back in the envelope. “If you do see them can you call me?”

“Will do.” He slipped the photos and my business card into a uniform pocket. “You might want to check out the spot.”

“The what?” I asked.

“The spot.” He paused, seeing my confusion. “The Spot. It’s a drop-in place just over on Yonge. Opened up about a year ago—usually there’s a volunteer ’round here handing out flyers to whoever needs one.”

“Government-run?” Bran broke in.

The officer shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Place gives out free food and referrals to shelters and safety tips if they want to stay on the street. As long as someone’s looking out for those kids it’s all good.” He glanced over to where a crowd of waiting commuters edged out into a bus lane. “I gotta go corral the animals. Good luck.”

He paused for a second. “Name’s Bramswell. Tell Jess I helped you out, ’kay?” Without waiting for our response he headed for the mob, waving his hands in the air to get their attention.

“This place, that’s new,” Bran mused as we edged our way around another long lineup and headed down the sidewalk. “Not too many new outreach programs opening up with the government looking to cut corners. Probably privately-funded, give some of the rich folk some place to drop their tax deductions.” The sadness under his words tugged at my heart.

I didn’t say anything. Bran’s parents had accepted his decision to break off all ties, effectively orphaning him. The single bright light in the dark family cloud hovering over his head was that he’d gotten a chance to spend some time with Liam, his half-brother. The Callendars had invited him over for an evening and he’d been giddy when he got home, babbling his own version of baby talk until I tucked him into bed.

He missed his family’s money, of that I had no doubt. Having easy access to obscene amounts of money was addictive and he’d quit cold-turkey, sliding into my lifestyle of tuna casserole and reheated soup without complaint. Bran hadn’t said anything but I’d seen him glancing at the meat aisle with envy in the supermarket, checking out the steaks we couldn’t afford anymore.

Freedom always came with a price.

It wasn’t hard to find the Spot—the huge black period hanging over a small storefront gave it away. We picked our way through the masses of tourists and commuters filling the sidewalk, zigging and zagging as we approached the center.

We passed a set of fast-food restaurants, the doors swinging back and forth as customers flew in and out, getting their sodium fix for the day. I glanced at the middle-aged man sitting almost at the entrance to the restaurant, just close enough to get your attention but far enough away for management not to call the cops on him. He held up a coffee cup in one hand and a small sign with a crayon-lettered plea for help in the other.

Inside I shuddered. This was no way to live.

“Not too far from Second Chance Second Life,” Bran said, his voice tinged with sadness. The soup kitchen had stayed open despite the scandal of having one of their employees, a thug on probation, responsible for the death of Bran’s father’s mistress and the kidnapping of his half-brother. The gossip had died down as of late but it lay there like an open scab on your heel, waiting to be ripped open again at any moment if you turned the wrong way.

I dropped a handful of coins in the man’s cup. Karma and all that. He gave me a nod and a toothless smile before turning his attention to the next passersby.

“There they are.” Bran pointed just ahead of us. A cluster of ten teenagers huddled at the entrance to a huge stone building. The fat black period hung over their heads like a Sword of Damocles, swinging back and forth on thick heavy chains.

“I remember this building,” Bran said. “Used to be a storefront church. Free sermon with every sandwich. Good food, good times.” He chuckled. “As long as you didn’t mind hearing you would go to hell on an hourly basis.”