The worst part about walking into a possible trap: waiting for it to be sprung.
Frank settled into the Muni seat, trying to study Vladimir without making it obvious; Vladimir paid no attention. Vladimir might be on the up-and-up as far as wanting to protect those kids — the circumstances made it unlikely that he'd been faking that much — but something else was going on, that was certain. This was all too similar to what had happened with Thatcher, but there were also differences, things that didn't match up, and Frank wasn't sure what to believe or think at this point.
Frank had made that mistake with Thatcher. He wasn't going to make it again. Not with three children at stake.
But what was Vladimir?
He didn't match anything Kris had said about vampires. Definitely not a corpse, possessed or otherwise…which left the whole cult thing, someone pretending. Though that magic he'd thrown definitely hadn't been pretending…magic that hadn't been there, according to Kris, and Frank couldn't help but remember Joe's claim about Stavlin not being in the mirror. That was one of the signs of a vampire, according to Hollywood, anyway. So if vampires couldn't be seen in a mirror, would their magic be the same way? Unseen?
Then again, Vladimir hadn't really said he was a vampire.
Okay, obsessing over that point: not relevant, not helping. It only distracted from the matter at hand.
Vladimir had admitted he'd wanted Frank and Joe's help with those kids, but that made no sense. Thinking it over, the assertion that Vladimir hadn't wanted to involve Joe wasn't anything to trust the man on; it meant that Frank would be alone.
That the man wanted either of them to begin with — specifically them — was worrying. Just because the kids in question had seemed to trust Joe? A couple strangers who'd barely been in town two days, when there were others at Wings who were trusted, as well?
But if it was a trap — a trap for what? And why? A serial killer could've had many easier victims. Frank wasn't Gifted, so that ended that reason, right there. Though Frank and Joe had been in New Orleans less than twenty-four hours when Thatcher had latched onto them, there'd still been a reason that he'd targeted the brothers: Joe being Gifted and un-trained. Even then, Thatcher had only struck when the picking was easy. He hadn't made elaborate plans to get his victims — and the one time he did, it fell apart, hard.
Frank scowled. If it was a trap. If. The original meeting point had been a public bar, after all. Vladimir couldn't have anticipated the angry crowds, and Frank had been the one to pick Wings, not Vladimir. It was impossible to set up a trap if one didn't know the destination ahead of time. Vladimir didn't seem to care what Frank thought, one way or another, for that matter.
The Muni jounced, bringing Frank out of his thoughts. Their stop, Third and Palou. He got to his feet, let Vladimir precede him off the Muni. Frank looked around to get his bearings, then headed down Third towards Wings.
"You trust me to walk with you, at least." Vladimir sounded amused.
Frank said nothing. So far, the man had only thrown magic; he hadn't been much in a real fight. Frank could probably handle him, and if magic got involved, it wouldn't matter if they were on the Muni or street.
Uneasy thought.
Well, Vladimir hadn't done anything so far, and he'd had plenty of opportunity. Even at this time of night, there were enough cheap bars that the street was still busy; being in public and in full sight of other people made an attack less likely.
Even now, Frank couldn't help looking around, wary and uncertain, studying landmarks, stores, people. For being the rough part of town, it was still colorful: low two-story buildings of stucco and red roof tile covered in murals and colorful mosaics along with the security bars alternated with somewhat taller brick buildings in the fake-Greco-Roman 1920s style, mixed in with the odd canal-type houses with bayed windows, and all of it in bright hues of yellow, red, green and blue. A heavily-barred bank, a bright-pink bakery advertising cheesecake with folks hanging out on the steps and curb outside. Neon-lit food-joints crammed with people and smelling of fried shrimp, several barbecue places. Run-down bars, a storefront proclaiming "Maranatha Gospel Church", pawn shops next to plumbing and hardware stores. More pawn shops, more bars. The median down the center of Third was stuffed with yucca plants and giant palm trees — the only big trees in the city, as far as Frank had seen to this point.
They'd gone maybe a quarter mile when Vladimir's breath hissed in. Frank turned; the man had stopped, staring across the street. Frank followed the gaze, and halted.
Haloed in the blinking red and blue lights of a bar, Edward stood at the corner, watching the passers-by. He looked even thinner, sullen, more ragged, dressed in a black Niners' t-shirt and torn jeans, rubbing at his arms as if they hurt. Even from across the street, Frank could see distinct bruises.
Then a passer-by, an older white man who looked like a bad disco movie, stopped to talk to the boy. Edward shifted, as if uncomfortable; the conversation got heated — and then the older man grabbed Edward's arm, and Edward yelped in pain.
That did it. Frank started across the street.
"Frank, no!"
But the movement caught Edward's attention, and his eyes widened. He yanked free of the man's grasp, took off running.
The disco-man stumbled in front of Frank. "Hey, man, butt out!"
Frank shoved him off the curb, not caring what happened, and ran after Edward. "Edward, wait!"
The kid kept running, through a residential street lined with houses, then cut down two side streets, around corners, across an iron-fenced lot — they were now in some run-down warehouse area, smelling of machines and oil, old wood and rust. For a junkie, the kid was fast.
A hand grabbed Frank's arm, yanked him around and to a halt, slamming him back against a wall. Vladimir.
"For someone so wary, you will run right into a trap," Vladimir snapped.
"Hardly a trap," Frank shook him off, "when he's picking up tricks on the street corner. And if it is, he'll lead us right to the others."
"What, infiltrate the enemy by letting him trap you in his lair?" Vladimir said scornfully. "That only works on TV."
"I didn't say that," Frank said, keeping his temper in check. "I said lead. He's scared. He's not thinking. He'll run to wherever his home base is. You said he's being used as a lure for that cult, right?"
Vladimir scowled, then shoved Frank ahead of him. "Fine. Lead on."
By now, though, Edward had probably lost them. Catching his breath, Frank walked up to the next turn, looked around the corner, halted in surprise.
His eyes closed, arms crossed, panting, shivering, Edward had collapsed against a space of graffitied wall between two open warehouse roll-doors. Across the road, a light flickered outside a door covered in iron grill-work; a Ford pickup truck sat half-in, half-out of another roll-door, its bed packed with similar ironwork.
"Edward?" Frank said, and the kid's head snapped up. "Take it easy. I just want to help. " Frank halted, as Edward pushed away from the wall and backed up. "I just want to talk to you, that's all. I'll stop here, okay?"
Silence. Those weird, all-black dilated eyes…the sullen expression, the stance, the slow backward pace…
…just as Kris had been when Frank and Joe had first met her, a small, trembling, abused runaway backed up against a wall in an abandoned farmhouse, terrified that the brothers would drag her back to her abusers…
"It's okay." Frank kept his voice low and soothing; whatever this kid was on, it couldn't be good. "It's okay, Edward. Really. I want to help you, that's all."
Frank wasn't sure exactly where he was, but they couldn't be too far from the shelter. If he could get the kid there, Ruth could take charge of him; hopefully Kris was still at Wings. If not, Frank could call the Center from there.
Edward's gaze moved up, behind Frank.
"Where are the children?" Vladimir said.
That black gaze flickered to Frank and back, then Edward darted across the street, past the pickup and through the roll-door.
Frank eyed the building, noted the street number above the door and the surroundings. Time to back-track, head to Wings and make that call. He turned, pulled up short; Vladimir was right behind him.
"I believe the phrase is, he went that-a-way," Vladimir said.
"And Wings is that way. I'll be back." Frank brushed past Vladimir, headed back the way they'd come.
"There are two young children whose lives are at stake," Vladimir said. "You just leave them?"
Only two? "It won't do them any good if we get caught."
Silence. Then, "No, it won't." Grudging admiration.
Frank ignored that, turned back. He could hear heavy traffic and the sound of the Muni; they didn't sound that far off. Get back to the main drag, find Wings…
"However," Vladimir's hand gripped his shoulder…
…energy shocked through Frank, ripping consciousness away as Vladimir's voice faded swiftly to dark silence…
"…if just you get caught, it will."