While I calculated this and that, the eerie green eyes lunged at exactly where I was standing.
I stepped one giant step away, soundlessly, the carpet muffling my movement.
Green Eyes cursed. It was a growled word, untranslatable, the werewolf equivalent of "fuck" probably.
I so wished for Quicksilver, but this had been a solo expedition. It would have to be a solo escape.
I fumbled behind me and found one of those vintage cigarette stands, the metal equivalent of a birdbath pedestal. I lifted it in both hands and swung it in a wide, blind swath.
It connected with flesh and bone, hard enough that even I winced.
I heard my victim, my stalker, hit the door and slide down it, half-dazed to go by the muffled growls.
I was blocked from the door. My only exit would have to be reflective.
The slab of mirror that reflected the bottles and glasses awaited me, but I needed a door out of darkness and into infinity and a light that would put the mirror into play.
Cigar aficionado Cicereau's office was filled with tabletop lighters. It would be sweet to use the fat-cat werewolf's affectations to escape his security guy.
I fumbled on the bar top until I felt a lighter embedded in a marble miniature of the Gehenna and cocked and depressed the mechanism. Dozens of tiny flames reflected in the glassware, the silver ice bucket, the mirror behind them all.
I saw myself, a crouched pale figure. I saw Green Eyes behind me, the hit man called Sansouci, rising dazed against the solid wood door. I embraced my own reflection and went oozing through the melting mirror-glass, Madrigal's voice in my ears, calling. "Come back."
Chapter Forty-Two
I moved as I always did, because I chose to, beyond the mirror backing of the wet bar. It was still like breaking through a sheet of ice as gossamer as a dragonfly's wing.
Dragonfly like, I darted along silver tunnels. I traversed aluminum air-conditioning ducts, into a chill headwind. I must have been crawling, because the ducts were too square to allow for an upright human to pass, but it felt like swimming, as if I were moving through half-set Jell-O.
I broke through a thin blue skin and was suddenly facing myself.
Neither one of us was wearing a thing, except for the cellophane afterbirth coating of the front-surface mirror.
I was back on stage and not happy.
Then I noticed that my double didn't wear a familiar form…and felt my living silver talisman weaving itself into the hair at the back of my neck, out of sight, but not out of mind. Creepy. Still, I appreciated its loyalty and discretion.
"This is insane," I told Madrigal. "I can't do this."
"No." He embarrassed me further by walking around me and my twin in a figure eight pattern, summing us up fore and aft.
A terrycloth robe dropped on me from above. I looked up. Sylphia was hanging sullenly from a silver thread, playing chaperone.
While I shrugged into the heavy material, Madrigal studied my mirror image.
"It's not Lilith," I said.
"No. And it's not you either. It's your reflection in the mirror."
"Reflections don't peel off into their own personas."
"You already have one double whose existence you never suspected. Maybe this explains Lilith."
"She was real enough to fool a camera and crew and a director."
Madrigal lifted one of my reflection's hands. It was limp, lifeless. "Only a reflection, as I told you. Without my magic, she wouldn’t even stand up."
"Your magic?"
His attention was all on…Del. 2.0. "Um-hmm. I do have some that isn't bound."
"Then maybe you did all of this. It isn't my 'way with mirrors' at all."
I did so not want it to be me. I didn't believe in this shit.
"Maybe." Madrigal turned so fast his dreadlocks whipped his own cheeks. "It's time for you to leave."
"I think so too."
I had a lead to pursue in the real world…a real, weird, solid lead!
Cicereau's daughter was the dead body.
If the Sunset Park deaths went back to the Werewolf-Vampire War in the forties, my romantic Romeo and Juliet idea was much more likely. The thirty pieces of silver in the grave represented betrayal, and what could those young lovers have betrayed but "both their houses?" House Werewolf and House Vampire. If only the vampire swain would appear in my magic mirror at the cottage to confirm my theory! But the girl had seemed to imprint on me. I wondered if the guy had imprinted on Ric somehow. Certainly their passion had affected us both. Me, mostly. Ric, I could tell, was not sexually retarded in the slightest. It's not fair, Irma grumbled, the guy always had the edge!
If I could prove all this, Nightwine would have a terrific supernatural cold case to present on CSI V. I'd have solved my first Las Vegas mystery and would have a real income again, and Ric would…well, he'd have the satisfaction of knowing who his dowsing rod had dug up. And maybe he'd also have some useful incriminating information on one of Vegas's biggest crime bosses.
While I was daydreaming, Sylphia and Phasia spun down to the stage floor on their eerie bodily-fluids-made rope.
Madrigal turned to me. "Get dressed in what you wore here and get the dog."
I nodded to the stage wings. "I don't need to get Quicksilver."
He was waiting just out of the audience sight lines, a happy doggie smile on his face to see me back in this location.
"Here are her clothes." Sylphia threw the jogging shirt, shorts, and shoes at me.
Wow. Everybody wanted me out of the Gehenna but Cesar Cicereau.
I joined Quick in the wings to don the clothes, sitting on the cold stage floor to pull on my socks and shoes. A cold silver circle under one sock told me where the token was now, an almost reassuring normality. What I wouldn’t give to leave this creepy magic show and return to creepy Nightwine Manor and Sunset Park!
I finished tying the shoelaces and then eyed the pallid naked image of myself a bit nervously. She stood beside the prop cabinets, inert as a mannequin. I hated leaving that behind, this shadow of myself. It was like letting a voodoo priestess have a hank of your hair and an envelope full of fingernail clippings and then slip off to Hell with them. Beside me, Quick growled agreement.
Madrigal came over to us, squatted, and addressed us both. "This is the one opportunity for you to escape with no one the wiser. I can animate your reflection enough to fool an audience. This spares you unwanted exposure, Del, gives Cicereau what he thinks he wants, and gives me the time to plan my…our…own escape."
"But…who or what are you?"
The murky green eyes drew close to my own.
"A magician who doesn’t need to waste time answering your questions. The route out of here will be hard. You and the dog must rely on Sylphia and Phasia, as against your natures as that is."
Quicksilver's hackles rose at the news of our partners in flight. "It's the only way," Madrigal said. He slapped his awesome thighs. "I don't want you two cluttering up my stage and agenda any longer."
Why not? I was used to being unwanted.
Our escape hatch was exactly that: a hatch in the stage wall, about the size of an oven door. It was fine for Phasia and Sylphia, and even me, but it was a tight squeeze for Quicksilver, even if he belly-crawled.
I didn't like to see a proud dog like Quicksilver crawl, not to mention the tight corners he'd have to turn in the building's extensive mechanical ducts. We would be doing the equivalent of navigating a great pyramid's narrow alleyways between secret chambers.