Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan Page A

“This ring’s a cheap bauble but she’d have given it to me even if it had been worth a king’s ransom.”
    Another indignant waiter arrived to take our order. I’d meant to pick the most expensive dishes on the menu, but Priscilla’s sudden slide into sentiment had softened me. There was a cold edge to Priscilla Perdue—bringing me to the KKK had been a calculated act of provocation—but I had a feeling that she was warmer than she pretended. So I ordered a plain fish dish that wouldn’t leave her penniless.
    We chatted about Nic some more. Priscilla had last seen her four days before the murder. Nic had been acting strangely all week, distant.
    “You think she sensed what was coming?” I asked.
    “Possibly. Or it may just have been one of her moods. She often fell into lengthy periods of sullen silence and went off by herself.”
    “I know you don’t want to discuss her boyfriends,” I said, “but there’s one I was hoping to check on. A tall, bald, black man. Do you know if she was seeing anyone like that?”
    “You mean the guy with the snakes.”
    “Snakes?”
    “I saw them together a couple of times. She never introduced us. Only laughed when I asked his name and said he was her snake-boy.”
    “What’s the deal with the snakes? Did he own one?”
    “He had two. Carried them with him everywhere.” She laughed at my confusion. “Not real snakes,” she explained. “Tattoos. On his cheeks.”
    I froze.
    “Are you all right?” Priscilla asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a rotten egg.”
    I counted to ten inside my head and when I spoke it was with only the vaguest hint of a stutter. “Nic was seeing a bald, black man with snakes tattooed on his face?”
    “Yes.”
    “Down his cheeks, one on either side, multicolored?”
    She smiled uncertainly. “You know him?”
    “I know of him.”
    I placed my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to leave now.”
    She got up as I stepped away from the table. “What’s going on, Al? Did I say something wrong?”
    “No. I just have to go.”
    “But the meal is on its way.”
    “I’ve lost my appetite.”
    “But… Al! ”
    I was gone before she could say any more.
    Outside I walked fast, away from the Ku Klux Klub and its exclusive band of patrons, ignoring the hisses, catcalls and slow handclaps that accompanied my departure. I walked until my lungs pained me, then paused, doubled over, took several deep breaths, and walked some more. Finally I stopped by a deserted bus shelter and perched on one of the folding plastic chairs.
    Black. Tall. Bald. Snakes tattooed on his cheeks. Only one man in the city answered that description— Paucar Wami . The city’s deadliest, most feared assassin. If Paucar Wami was involved, that was it for me. I didn’t care what The Cardinal threatened to do. I’d make an appointment, tell him what I knew, then hand in my resignation. I’d rather face the wrath of The Cardinal than the prospect of a showdown with Paucar Wami. Any day.

7

    B y the time I arrived home I was dying for a drink. Nights are the worst time for a reformed alcoholic, especially one living alone. The long hours of dark loneliness and need, the nocturnal thirst, memories of past, brighter, livelier nights when the bottle was your ally and the world was your friend.
    I usually fought the craving with food. I’d tuck into a burger, Chinese or fried chicken, read a trashy novel and do my best to tune out the real world and its many liquid pitfalls. Tonight it was extra-important to divert my thoughts, and quickly, before fear pushed me over the edge of sobriety.
    Pulling up to the curb outside my apartment, I hurried into the bagel shop. Ali was inside. I don’t think that was his real name but it’s what everyone called him.
    “Hello, my friend,” he greeted me.
    “Hi, Ali,” I smiled back.
    “Dining at home tonight?” he asked.
    “It’s cheap and the company’s good.”
    He laughed. “You will not get fat this way, my