Song for the Dead: An Ada Palomino Novel, стр. 41

It feels normal.

I eye his hand, wondering if I should hold it. I know that it does something good for him, recharges him, and he does seem tired and almost melancholy. But, let’s face it, I ain’t no holy roller—it also does something for me.

Without even looking at me, he reaches out and grabs my hand, hot energy channeling from his palm to mine, shivers traveling up my arm and down my spine, setting off all the happy fireworks in my head.

And that’s how we walk through San Francisco, holding hands, not needing to explain it or analyze what it means (I mean, would he be holding my hand if he didn’t get some kind of boost from me? Probably not. Also, what am I, eight? Since when did holding hands become a big deal?).

Okay, so maybe I am overanalyzing this.

Just a little.

By the time we get to the ferry, Max seems to have brightened up a bit, back to his easy going, jokey self.

“First time to Alcatraz?” I ask him as we board the small ferry, crammed full of people. “I mean as a tourist. I’m guessing you weren’t imprisoned here, though who knows with you.”

He smiles. “Yep. Having a lot of firsts with you.”

I grin, feeling pleased as punch. “That means that you’ve got a lot of world you haven’t seen yet, lot of things you haven’t done. Nice to have things to look forward to.”

Darkness washes across his eyes for a moment and he looks away. “That I do.”

I try not to ponder his mood swings as the ferry leaves the dock, swaying with the waves.

Alcatraz is pretty cool. We follow the group, guided audiobooks in our ears as we wander around the cells. We don’t get to go everywhere, but what we do see is spooky as hell. I mean, both Max and I saw a ghost standing in the corner of one of the cells, so yeah, there’s a lot of history in this place.

But I’m not Perry and ghosts don’t bother me or Max much. We’re the demon hunters here.

Anyway, we got to see a lot of behind-the-film scenes too, like blood splatters still left on the ceiling in the medical room, courtesy of them filming The Rock with Nic Cage and Sean Connery here, which then meant I got to do both my Cage and Connery impressions for Max until he told me to stop.

“Where do you want to eat tonight?” I ask Max as we’re crammed in the seats at the back of the boat, riding the ferry back to the city.

“Don’t matter much to me,” he says. “Though I think I need a nap when I get back.”

I grab his hand and pick it up, energy charging. “This doesn’t help?”

He gives me a steady look. “You don’t have to do that, Ada.”

“Well what if I want to?”

He swallows thickly. “Then I won’t stop you.” His eyes drift over my face, as if searching for something.

It’s enough to make me look away, though I keep a hold of his hand to make a point. That is, until I have to go to the bathroom.

I let go and get up. Make my way through the crowd to the woman’s restroom, pushing open the heavy door to find myself in a tiny two-stall room that smells like diesel. One stall is occupied, so I go in the other.

The woman in the other stall leaves and I hear the tap running and then turn off, but I don’t hear the door open. She’s probably just doing her makeup in the mirror or something. Meanwhile, I’m having a hell of a time peeing with the boat moving the way it is.

Finally, I flush and step out, expecting the woman to be gone but she’s still here, staring at herself in the mirror. She’s pretty, in her thirties, pale with a dark brown bob, wearing all white, eyes so pale blue they’re almost milky.

But despite how normal she looks, there’s something about her that puts me on edge, makes me clench my jaw. I try to shake the feeling, forcing myself to walk to the sink beside her and wash my hands. I don’t dare look at her, though now I feel her looking at me.

I concentrate on my breathing, wondering if I’m having a panic attack, and try to focus on washing my hands with the soap, over and over, almost methodical, until I turn on the tap.

For a moment the water doesn’t come, then it gurgles and comes out in a splash of blood before running clear.

I gasp, pulling my hands away and look up at the woman to see if she saw that stream of red.

But the woman is walking to the door to the restroom.

And locking it.

So no one else can come in.

She turns around to face me, a close-mouthed smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You should rinse your hands,” she says to me, her voice smooth and metallic at the same time, like it’s not really coming from her but from a radio somewhere.

Oh no. Oh no.

My veins begin to buzz, picking up on the fact that something is very, very wrong here.

And yet I’m moving back to the sink, running my hands under the water that’s running clear but burning hot then hotter until steam begins to rise and my skin begins to burn and I can’t stop.

I have no control.

Then the water turns off by itself and my hands are pink and throbbing.

The woman shakes her head in disappointment. “Useless, aren’t you? Can’t even handle a bit of heat.”

“Excuse me?” I manage to say, ignoring the pain in my hands. “Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t,” she says. “But your friend does. Pity you had to come along with him, it’s making things a little more complicated. But you like complicated, don’t you, Ada?”

“Who are you?” I ask, trying to find my resolve. “Don’t use my fucking name if you don’t