I’d faced multiple attacks on my life, the most recent at the hands of both the Tulpa and Skamar, but I’d never faced anything as intrinsically frightening as what Solange had just done. And that, I thought with my raised hand shaking, had only been her warning.
Bill began his endless round of polishing pretty crystal glasses again, unconcerned. “You will. Then Mackie will finish his ballad, your other name will be revealed, and we’ll own you.”
“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Olivia,” Boyd said, his strange eyes fixed like lasers on me. “Maybe we’ll just kill you upon your next passage and give your power over to Midheaven in one big bump. Use it to create something interesting for ourselves.”
“You mean the women will create something for themselves.” Harlan Tripp had returned to his seat, his hands empty of all but playing cards. Apparently my words had provided him with the resolve he needed to resist that drink. For now.
Boyd ignored him, and simply raised his bushy black brows above those still spinning eyes. Apparently he was in a hurry to return to his table, to slice away bits of other people’s souls one sliver at a time.
Shen, one of the divided souls, grinned. “And then Mackie will slit your throat.”
My eyes darted to Mackie, but he was motionless and slumped like a sack of bones. I paused at my lantern to take one last look over the Rest House. Why had the First Mother, that dark twin, created this place? What need compelled a person-thing, goddess, monster, whatever she was-to take human energy to fuel a world where men were forced to languish in their vices? Because though none of the men down here could voice their objections, I could feel them, restless as ghosts, in my mind. Like a city of souls, I thought with a shiver, all the emotion bottled up. Inside, though? They were screaming like banshees.
As for me? I might be the Kairos in my world, but over here I was as expendable as a wad of tissue. I felt that in my cells, a knowledge as instinctive as flight or fight. Today I chose flight.
Boyd pulled my chip from his pocket again, holding it up so the etched denomination caught light. I looked at it regretfully, and he smiled. “Not bad. I’ll have your line of credit waiting when you return.”
I shook my head, but said nothing, already mute with dread, anticipating that power being ripped from me. Fortunately, the heat dried the moisture welling in my eyes before it could give me away. At least I was still keeping up the appearance of being tough.
I was just about to blow the wick out, already bracing myself for the pain of the passage home, when I caught the gaze of the one man down there that was from my time. A Shadow agent, yes, but the only one fighting the effects of this place as fully as I. It was enough to make me feel he was a sort of ally.
“Hey, Tripp,” I said, lifting to my toes. He blinked, lifting his eyes from the cards. “Eighteen years.”
There was only his shocked gasp before the smoke from my extinguished lantern billowed and built, solid enough to ferry me back to my world, thick enough to dampen my scream.
21
I arrived back in the pipeline, fists clenched, trying to hang onto the intangible. But by the time I recognized the deep well of curving concrete beneath my booted feet, the chip I’d given Boyd-my ability to create walls from thin air-was gone. Alone, there was only my breathing, shallow and uncertain. And thank God, because the last time this tunnel had been peopled with enemies. As I calmed, I sucked in the silence and cried, just a little, in the dark.
Pushing past that inconveniently timed weakness, I then went in search of my shoulder bag. The depthless black of the pipeline enveloped me as if I were going farther in, rather than out, but after retrieving the bag-and dump-ing my remaining, dwindling chips inside-I continued to inch along in the darkness, unwilling to light the glyph on my chest and turn myself into a walking target. I knew where I was, but not when.
Disoriented, I dug in the bag and turned on my phone. There were another dozen messages from Cher, which I skipped, but what was really important was the date. Three days after I’d left. Not too bad. I’d traveled to a whole new world and still made it back in time for Thanksgiving. I called Hunter, still got his voice mail, and realized he’d probably be “working” at Valhalla, so left a message for him to call me back on his break.
Not trusting that I was steady enough yet to drive, I caught a cab. I didn’t care what Warren said, after dying from thirst, I needed a cool glass of water at my side; after Solange’s separation of my body from my soul, I needed refuge; after days where I’d had nothing but worry, and a heated night of passion, I needed to be in a place where nothing was required of me but to be. In short, I needed the sanctuary.
It was downtown, buried beneath the discarded remains of our city, in the Neon Boneyard. The entrance sat kitty-corner to the restored La Concha Motel lobby, a mid-mod building with a wavy roof I used to point and laugh at as a kid, but was now considered historic. My, how things change. Our lair was surrounded by a brick wall, which also divided two parallel realities.
The exact split between dawn and dusk lasted the scant moments it took the sun to evenly split the sky, and in that time the wall surrounding the Neon Boneyard became a murky, swirling coagulation of liquefied matter. If you knew how to look, you could see parts of it thinning, the discarded signage of Las Vegas’s yesteryear visible through shifting patches on the other side.
Still, you’d think the booming crash of a three thousand pound vehicle regularly hitting concrete would attract the Neighborhood Watch, but despite the explosion of cinder block and debris, and the squealing crunch of metal meeting wall, the dust acted as a sort of buffer. It didn’t absorb the sound as much as it sucked it in.
Even with erratic, supernatural winds buffering this cab, and with four of my powers stripped away-the two odd triangles I’d lost at the tables, the power to heal taken by Shen, and the one I’d just given over to escape a second time-the thought gave me peace. Entering the sanctuary would be like stepping back into the womb, so with every mile gained, Midheaven faded like a nightmare, something I’d endured mentally but not physically. The soul slices and abilities taken from me had yet to show their effects, but I imagined this was what a surprise cancer diagnosis was like; the sudden, dark knowledge that something was wrong inside of you warring with a feeling of familiar, if not perfect, health. The awareness that the worst was soon to come.
As for those beings peopling the twisted magical kingdom, I was happy to have escaped them. Jacks and Solange deserved one another…though her sudden show of jealousy had thrown me. How a woman like that could see me as a threat was boggling. Yet since Jacks himself claimed he’d returned for love, I was sure they had it all straightened out by now.
And still no real way to fix Jasmine. I sighed heavily. Solange’s advice was to put her above myself, something I didn’t really need to be told. I’d gone there, hadn’t I? Risked my soul. Lost my powers. I had no idea what else “put her above yourself” could mean.
“But I’ve heard that somewhere before,” I muttered as we pulled onto Flamingo. We passed Money Plays, the neon green sign reminding me of half-yard beers and games of table shuffleboard. Maybe the advice had come from Hunter, I thought, glancing wistfully at Money’s attached pizzeria. Possibly Warren.
Warren, who’d lied.
Because he’d told me Jacks was already in Midheaven, and Warren didn’t make mistakes that big. So why lie? What would be his true motive in sending me to a place where the cost of entry was a third of my soul, where women ruled ruthlessly, and where my powers were risked in games of chance? I decided to ask him as soon as I entered the sanctuary.