Our sanctuary was located on the other side of this reality, in the Neon Boneyard, a place where the old signs and lettering left over from imploded hotels were stored, gathering dust and rusting, until enough money could be gathered to turn the place into a historical museum. This being Vegas, any signage older than a decade qualified as historical, but for now the boneyard had a relatively quiet life, much like any boneyard, with only the occasional private tour given by appointment in the daytime.
At night, though, it belonged to us.
Unfortunately, accessing the boneyard’s second reality wasn’t as easy as booking an appointment. Cleaving the curtain between two realities was a messy and sometimes violent business, and not for the faint of heart. I didn’t know what Shadows used to access their alternate reality-none of us even knew where their sanctuary was-but we used fearlessness, impeccable timing, and the city’s Star cabs.
What? If anyone can fight through the most impossible mess, it’s a Vegas cabdriver.
Masquerading as a cabbie was a great way to glean information about the Shadow side, and that’s exactly what Gregor-the Cancerian member of our Zodiac, and our liaison between this reality and the next-did. Between fares he scanned the papers and local magazines for news, obits, and reports that might be supernatural in nature. He had a police scanner, EMS scanner, and traffic cam all crammed into his front seat. It was a great cover for him, and the best way to cross over for the rest of us, and every dawn and dusk, without fail, found Gregor parked in an alley behind the Peppermill.
As for the Peppermill itself, well, it was the original Vegas ultra-lounge. With all the new clubs and bars backed by casinos with millions to invest in a little spot of nightlife, the Peppermill was somewhat dated by comparison. Yet I considered the seventies decor, the old-fashioned cocktails, and the unapologetic kitsch all part of its charm. It was a throwback to an era when all casino bosses were Italian and women dressed up to go out for a night on the town; a great place for nostalgia right in the center of the modern-day Strip.
Sometimes I went there just to sit in the bar where blue flames leaped from a firepit of boiling water, dancing off the mirrored tiles of tables and walls, reflecting myself back at me in tiny quarter-inch squares. Cocktail waitresses in long black gowns served me fruity drinks while I watched darkly from a secluded corner, observing the human jetsam and flotsam that washed in from the Strip, while ignoring couples making out in pockets of obscurity similar to my own. There was something about the Peppermill that brought out the voyeur in me, and if the clientele was any indication, I wasn’t alone.
I grabbed the bag I’d packed that morning from the trunk-containing clothing, toiletries, and the disks from Cher’s-and after a quick check in the alley confirmed Gregor was here, though not in his cab, I hurried through smoked glass doors to join him inside. It’d be good to catch up, just the two of us. He was extremely superstitious-known to knock wood at least once a day; never stepped on cracks or walked under ladders-but he had a sense of humor about it, and so was good company. The one exception to his numerous superstitions was that he owned a black warden…though perhaps it was more accurate to say the jewel-eyed feline owned him. When he was in the sanctuary she was an ubiquitous presence in his one arm.
So I scanned the lounge, eyes skimming over the neon bands lining the mirrored ceiling, the faux foliage sporting bright blossoms eternally in bloom, and the bubbling firepit, looking for a stocky man with a four-leaf clover tattooed at the base of his skull. Instead my gaze found another person I knew.
“The hell you doing here?” Chandra asked, scowling back at me as I plopped myself next to her in a red velvet booth.
“Where’s Gregor?” I asked, holding up a finger to call the waitress over, ignoring her question. Chandra, in turn, ignored mine.
Chandra was my colleague, but not my friend. She was of an age to undergo metamorphosis and become an agent of Light, her one lifelong ambition. She’d been born in the sanctuary, raised expecting to take up a star sign and join the ranks of warriors patrolling Vegas’s streets. But Chandra’s birth sign was already occupied. By me. My mother had been the last to hold the Archer sign, and because you had to inherit your star sign, once I came into the picture Chandra was bumped to the back of the line. Now she was stuck in a sort of limbo. She had the ability, knowledge and desire to become an agent of Light, but not the lineage or the right. That alone would’ve been enough to make her hate me.
My mistaking her for a man the first time we’d met had sealed the deal.
I glanced at her after I’d ordered my drink, and she ignored the countless mirrors reflecting me doing so. Her dark hair was longer than it’d been six months ago, though still layered and choppy and looking a lot like a grunge rocker’s idea of cleaning up. She’d lost weight, though, and was more curvaceous, her waist now slimming slightly before flaring into wide hips, her breasts round and uplifted instead of blending into a boxy T-shirt. It helped that she’d begun wearing tailored clothing instead of sweats and flannels, and I was surprised to note she had pretty eyes, long-lashed and the color of warmed cider…even if they were always as hard as frozen pebbles when trained on me.
My drink arrived, I paid up immediately-not wanting to prolong this tortuous silence-and watched the door for other agents. Chandra, obviously feeling the same, checked her watch and sighed heavily.
“Anyone else coming?” I asked, just to fill the uncomfortable silence.
Chandra shrugged and went back to ignoring me. I didn’t bother asking her anything more, but from the looks of it she was taking Gregor’s place on this trip. My turn to sigh. Saying that Chandra was a shit driver was like saying Schumacher was just so-so. She drove like a teenage boy on crack cocaine, especially when I was in the car. I began downing my drink, thinking mild intoxication might help things a bit, but slowed when Chandra looked over.
“I smell nerves,” she said, a knowing smile twitching her lips.
“It’s my masking agent,” I replied, crossing my legs. “It goes bad after a few hours.”
Her expression hardened. “Bullshit.”
“It does. I could go to The Body Shop and buy a better compound.”
Chandra glared, and it was my turn to smirk. She’d found solace after my unexpected appearance, and a place to contribute, in the sanctuary’s lab, where she and Micah came up with scents designed to mask and alter agents’ natural pheromones. Insulting her scientific abilities was like insulting her existence, but if she was going to sling mud, I had no problem dirtying my hands too.
“If you’re so concerned about your masking agent, you probably shouldn’t be bounding through portals when you don’t know what lies in wait on the other side.”
Damn Hunter. He just couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.
“I was practicing,” I said in my defense. “Warren’s been working with me in the alternate realm.”
“He tests you.” And she said it like I’d failed.
“He trains me.”
“He knows you,” she said, stabbing at her drink with her straw. “We all know any time the scent of danger is in the air, the Archer will follow, no matter where it leads.” She gave my title an ugly twist…and kept twisting. “They know it too.” She meant the Shadows.