25. The Vagabond's Warning

Lunch break.

Cafeteria.

To the lively beat of “You Should Be Dancing,” more than a hundred students enjoyed lunch in the hall, chatting about last night’s soap operas and the latest movies.

From time to time, a few wary glances swept toward the duo in the corner: Rust, known as the “Sardine Master and Necromancer,” and Dean, the notorious brawler. Although the FBI had already publicly cleared everyone at the school of suspicion, most still regarded Rust—who had cursed Bob so bitterly at the party—as a dangerous figure.

Dean, too, was not someone to be trifled with, having gained a fierce reputation after beating up a privileged rich kid.

“Do you think Holden has figured anything out?” Rust speared a piece of mushroom, chewing it anxiously.

“As long as you stuck to the answers we rehearsed, there’s no way you could’ve messed up.” Dean calmly took a bite of Buffalo wings. As for Holden’s suspicions about his uncle, Dean wasn’t concerned—after all, his uncle was truly innocent and had an alibi outside Las Vegas.

Dean only planned to give him a call after school to let him know.

“Would it be all right if I crashed at your place for the next few days?”

“Grace is working the night shift, so it’ll just be me at home. It gets a bit lonely. How about we head back together after school? You can give me some pointers on fighting techniques.”

Dean nodded, glancing at Rust’s lanky frame. “Give me a semester to train you, and I promise you’ll be the most popular muscle guy around.”

Just as Dean spoke, he suddenly looked up over Rust’s shoulder. A girl in a yellow turtleneck sweater approached, carrying a tray.

Her hair flowed over her shoulders, skin pale as snow, features delicately rounded—she looked every bit the model student.

“Um, may I sit here?” she asked softly, a timid smile lighting her sweet, fair face.

“Brittany?” Rust caught the faint scent of jasmine shampoo and stared in surprise, a hint of panic flashing across his handsome face. He seemed unable to get a word out, as if something lodged in his throat.

Dean sighed inwardly at the sight. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us, miss.”

Brittany sat beside Rust, shyly tucking a strand of long black hair behind her ear before lowering her gaze to her tray.

No one spoke.

For a moment, the atmosphere at the table was tense and awkward.

Dean blinked rapidly, prompting Rust to look at the girl’s tray and remark, “You like apple pie too? It’s the best thing in the cafeteria today.”

Brittany’s eyes sparkled, her long lashes fluttering. “The cinnamon syrup on top gives it a unique flavor. Want to try some?”

“Just a little… um, would you like to taste my cream of mushroom soup?”

Seeing the two hit their stride, Dean nodded approvingly. “You two talk. I’m stuffed—I’ll go take a walk on the lawn.”

...

After school.

“You idiot, why are you still riding your bike? Why not take Brittany home?”

Dean frowned as he looked at his companion, who seemed to radiate the very essence of spring.

“Brittany takes the school bus home.” Rust grinned, waving to the pretty girl by the bus window.

“Tomorrow, bring your Ford F-150 and drive her home yourself. She won’t say no. And from now on, invite her to lunch every day.” Dean’s advice was emphatic.

Rust scratched his head sheepishly. “Isn’t that moving a bit too fast? I want to talk with her more, get to know her.”

“What’s there to think about? Dating isn’t marriage. If you’re interested and she seems to like you, seize the moment and go for it. Light a fire in her heart—make her burn for you. Next year, she’ll be your date for the graduation dance.”

“Set her heart on fire? That’s a weird way to put it. But you shouldn’t just be encouraging me—you should get a girlfriend too.” Rust rubbed his chin, looking Dean up and down with admiration. Here was a guy who’d singlehandedly taken down a deranged killer, knew a thing or two about romance, and had great grades—a real jack-of-all-trades.

“No.”

“Is it because of Mona? That’s over—you’ve already avenged her. Don’t let the past hold you back.”

Dean shook his head. He was no longer haunted by the powerful emotions left behind by his predecessor; his feelings for Mona had faded. He wasn’t averse to the idea of dating and experiencing youth.

But in this era, racism was almost out in the open. His heritage wasn’t exactly popular.

In the eyes of most girls, aside from white guys, even Asian men were considered less attractive than Black, Latino, or even other Asian groups like Koreans, Japanese, or Filipinos.

And Dean didn’t have that irresistible “money power” either.

No chance to date right now.

“Come on, go to the supermarket with me.”

...

To help his injured left hand heal quickly, Dean stocked up on eggs, beef and pork, and milk.

Only with proper nutrition could his budding Iron Man talent work at its best, speeding up the healing process.

He was juggling fighting, marksmanship, and supernatural abilities all at once.

Speaking of which, American meat and dairy were surprisingly affordable—cheaper than some vegetables.

He still had over four hundred dollars left from the six hundred his uncle had given him, so Dean could shop to his heart’s content.

The two spent nearly an hour at Walmart, leaving with bags full of groceries.

On the way home, they passed a street where, in a split second, Dean caught sight of the Bacardi Disco sign.

A memory flashed by.

The one-eyed vagrant Taim had crossed half a month’s distance to testify, giving Dean the lead on the convertible and pointing the way to Bob.

Thanks to him, Dean was able to send Bob to hell.

In a way, Taim knew why Dean had killed Bob.

Thinking of this, Dean asked Rust to go with him back to the club.

Guarding the door under the security camera were the same pair of muscle-bound bouncers from Saturday morning.

“Hey, do you guys know where Taim went?” Dean asked.

“Taim? Who’s that?” The two guards looked at each other in confusion.

“The one-eyed homeless guy,” Dean gestured, describing him animatedly. “You got along with him—you let him into the club last Saturday.”

“Kid, are you looking for trouble?” One of the guards folded his arms across his swollen chest, eyes glinting dangerously.

“Who knows any homeless guy? When did you see me let him in?” The two glared, voices booming like loudspeakers—there was no trace of pretense or evasion.

Dean handed them two dollars to smooth things over, but their answer didn’t change.

“You’re in the wrong place. The beggars around here were chased off long ago—bad for business.”

“No memory of a vagrant named Taim.”

“Let him into the club? We’d have been fired by the manager a dozen times if we did.”

...

So was he seeing ghosts last Saturday?

Dean left, deeply puzzled.

“Why are you looking for him anyway? Want to go wild in the club again? He’s probably left Las Vegas and wandered off somewhere else by now.” Rust didn’t have a great impression of Taim—after all, the guy had tricked him into drinking so much whiskey that he woke up the next day with a splitting headache.

Dean didn’t respond. He spent some more time searching the area around the club before quickly spotting a line of blood-red graffiti on the wall near the dumpsters in the back alley.

“That wasn’t there last time, was it?” Dean asked.

Rust shook his head.

Dean ran his fingers over the cold, rough brick, and almost involuntarily read the words aloud:

“The darkness favors the outcast. Hide well. Don’t let it get too close, or you’ll be nothing but bones.”

A simple sentence, yet it seemed to pulse with a sinister, mountainous power.

A jolt like electricity shot through Dean’s fingertips, up his arm, and across his whole body. The sharp, aching throb made goosebumps rise all over his skin.

The narrow alley suddenly felt colder, darker.

“Was this meant for us?” Rust muttered, rubbing his chin. “A poem? Doesn’t even rhyme.”

But Dean sensed something more.

Darkness.

Outcast.

Nothing but bones.

“Did the vagrant see something, and now he’s warning me? What is this darkness?” Dean’s gaze flickered as he tried to recall his brief encounter with Taim at the club. Back then, he’d been focused only on finding Mona and hadn’t paid attention.

Now, looking back, the man’s words and actions seemed distinctly odd.

The two guards’ behavior just now had been strange, too—almost as if they’d lost their memories.

“Could it be that Taim, like me, isn’t an ordinary person?” The light revealed a trace of pallor on Dean’s face.

“Hey, you don’t look so good,” Rust said, shaking his bulging grocery bags. “Don’t worry about some crazy vagrant—he never harmed us.”

“Come on, let’s get these back and have Grace fry us some steaks.”

“Yeah, he didn’t hurt us.”

He’d even left them a warning—probably without malice.

Dean took a deep breath and calmed his anxious heart. After one last glance at the bloody writing on the wall, he turned and walked away.