The driver was closer, staring straight ahead, but the passenger was leaning forward, studying Jack. Without changing speed, it glided past and cruised on down the street.
Just two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers.
So how come they left him with a case of the creeps?
IN THE WEE HOURS
Roma…
Salvatore Roma paced the narrow, ill-lit space between the antique boilers in the hotel basement.
It's beginning, he thought.
He could feel it, but it was building so slowly.
Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. You've waited so long already, you can wait a little longer now.
Mauricio had made room for himself on a low shelf. He rummaged in the white plastic shopping bag he'd brought along and removed a human finger. He held up the severed digit for Roma to see.
"Look at that fingernail," he said in the Old Tongue, his tone dripping contempt. The nail was very long, perfectly shaped, and painted a bright fuchsia with a diagonal turquoise stripe. "Where do they get the idea that this is attractive?" He bit into the nail with his sharp teeth and wrenched it free, exposing the raw nail bed. He spat it back into the bag. "I'm glad their time is up. I hate them."
Roma watched with amusement as Mauricio began to gnaw on the bloody stump of the finger, tearing off bits of flesh with quick, jerky movements. He could tell that his old companion was in a foul mood. Roma said nothing. He knew more was coming.
"As I am sure you can tell," Mauricio said finally, "I'm very upset with this recent turn of events."
"Really?" Roma hid a smile. He was fond of Mauricio but wished he had a sense of humor. "You hide it so well."
"I'll thank you not to mock me. You should not have admitted that stranger. The instant I laid eyes on him I knew he was trouble."
"And how, pray tell, did you know that?"
"I felt it. He is a wild card, an unexpected, unquantified element who spoke not a word of truth. You should have ejected him and not allowed him to set foot through the door for the rest of the weekend."
"That was my first impulse as well, but I had a change of heart."
"The hotel was supposed to be filled with sensitives—at least one in every room. He now has one of those rooms."
"True, and I believe he may be a sensitive himself."
Mauricio had gnawed the finger's proximal phalanx clean. He cracked the bone in half and began sucking out the marrow.
"Oh? And on what did you base that decision?"
"The fact that he is marked. You noticed that, I assume."
"Of course. Immediately. But he is not merely 'marked,' he is scarred, and that means he has fought the Otherness—fought and survived."
"'Fought' is a loaded term, Mauricio. He was most likely just an innocent bystander, a wounded civilian."
"Perhaps, but the very fact that he survived bothers me—bothers me very much. He could be working for the enemy."
Roma laughed. "Do not be such an old woman, Mauricio. We know the enemy's agents and he is not one of them."
"We know only of the Twins. How do we know there are not more? I say we should call this off."
Roma felt his amusement fade, replaced by irritation. "I wish to hear none of that. You have been against this plan from the start and you will latch onto any excuse to abort it."
Mauricio had finished with the first phalanx. He tossed the bone fragments back into the sack, then went to work on the rest of the finger.
"I've tried to discourage you for good reason. I was put here to advise you, remember?"
"To serve me, Mauricio."
The monkey glared at him. "I serve the Otherness, as do you."
"But I am The One. I decide, you facilitate. Do not forget that."
They'd had this argument before—many times. Mauricio had been sent to aid him, but over the years he had come to see himself as a mentor. Roma resented that. No one on this plane had worked longer in service of the Otherness than he. He had learned the hard way, through pain, imprisonment, even death, and the last thing he needed was someone offering half-baked advice, especially at this late date.
Mauricio said, "Why won't you listen to me when I tell you this whole plan is premature? You are too impatient."
"Impatient? I have waited ages—literally ages—for this. Do not dare call me impatient!"
"Very well then: You are not impatient. But you have not dealt with The Lady, and the signs are not quite right yet."
They are right, Roma thought, because I say they are right.
"The Lady does not matter."
"And why here?" Mauricio went on. "New York is too crowded. Too many variables, too many ways for something to go wrong. Why not somewhere in the desert? A hotel in, say, Nevada, or New Mexico?"
"No. I want it here."
"Why?"
"I have my reasons."
Mauricio hurled the partially eaten finger across the room and leaped to the floor. He shot upright to stand on his hind legs. His usually high-pitched voice dropped two octaves as he abandoned his capuchin monkey guise and expanded to his true self—a powerful, bull-chested, midnight-furred creature with blood-red eyes, standing four feet tall,
"You're not allowed reasons! You are The One. You are here to open the way. It is your duty and your destiny. Personal vendettas have no place in your life!"
"Then someone else should have been chosen," Roma said calmly, coldly. "Not someone with a past—a long past. Not someone with scores to settle. But there is no one else on this plane with the capacity to make the choice. So if I say it begins here, then here is where it will begin."
"I see I have no say in the matter," Mauricio said sullenly. He shrank into the capuchin guise again. "But mark my words welclass="underline" I still think this is premature—the wrong time as well as the wrong place—and that it will end badly. I also think allowing that stranger in was a mistake. He's an enemy. And a terrible dresser."
Roma laughed, glad to ease the tension between them. Mauricio needed to be put in his place every so often, but he was too valuable an ally to alienate. "Admit it, Mauricio. That is what really bothers you about him, isn't it."
"Well, after all, did you see that hideous warm-up he wore? Absolutely dreadful." He looked Roma up and down. "How about your new suit? Any compliments on it?"
"Many." Not that he cared in the least.
"See? I told you—"
Roma held up his hand. "Wait!" A tingle began running over his skin. "Feel it? It's happening…the power is growing, building. Any moment now."
A portal would be opening soon. And as it did, he could only imagine what was going on with the sleeping sensitives racked on the floors above him. The last place he'd want to be right now was in their dreams. He almost felt sorry for them.
Almost.
Olive…
…awakens to the sound of chanting. She forces her eyes open and gasps.
Hooded forms, thirteen of them, crowd around her bed, each holding a thick black candle. She screams but only a muffled squeak struggles past the cloth gag bunched in her mouth. She tries to move but her hands are tied behind her and she's bound to the bed.
Panic detonates within as she realizes her rings are gone, and the crucifix has been taken from around her neck.
"Did you think you could be saved, Olive?" says a voice.
It echoes from one of the forms but she can't tell which because their faces are lost in the inky shadows within their cowls. It sounds like her father's voice, but that can't be…he's dead—he died ten years ago.
She begins to pray. Our Father, Who art in Heaven …