They were Shadow manuals, rows and rows of cubbyholes filled with them, some two and three to a crevice. I spotted a ladder with a rail that slid along the perimeter about fifteen feet up. Joaquin’s own private Shadow library, I thought, as Regan’s words at our initial meeting shifted through my head.
He likes to be the first to read the Zodiac manuals.
“So Joaquin has himself a little hobby,” I muttered, opening a manual. A scream, followed by a harsh, rattling laugh, bounded from the pages. But was it more than that? Because a setup like this seemed excessive for a mere hobbyist. I knew collectors who kept their comic collections in plastic sleeves and behind glass cases…but in underground mountain chambers in a cathedral-type setting? That didn’t just border on strange, it tipped into full-blown obsession. An obsession, I thought, putting the manual back, that Joaquin either didn’t want to share or didn’t want anyone else to know about. Interesting.
I pulled out another manual, and though I immediately recognized there was something off about the cover, it took me a moment to realize this one wasn’t the work of Zane and Carl.
Philly’s Penumbra, set in Pennsylvania. Backdated a week. Joaquin must have them overnighted to his home, but if so-I looked up again at the cavernous height of the ceiling, manual slots soaring all the way to the top-he was doing so with every Shadow troop in the country. Which meant the accounts of the Shadows’ dealings in each major city in the United States were archived in this room. A quick tour around the perimeter confirmed this suspicion, though it didn’t explain why. He couldn’t interact with or influence the balance of troops in other cities as far as I knew. So what was the point of all this? Was he picking up tips from the manuals? Incendiary techniques from Quentin Black? Or just a simple diversion for those nights when he wasn’t out raping, murdering, and otherwise victimizing the women of Las Vegas?
“Except…” I muttered, tapping my fingers against the cool earthen wall. Except there were too many of them, stacked too precisely, protected too well, and collected too obsessively. I crossed to the trestle table and the sole manual lying there, opening it to a page that’d been bent, marked because it was obviously meaningful to Joaquin in some way. I saw only a panel depicting a street fight between agents of Light and Shadow in a city with a river winding through the middle of it.
He was studying it. But for what? “Why?”
As tempting as it was to stop and investigate further, I couldn’t risk it. Today was Thursday. The new manuals came out every Wednesday, and after Joaquin had committed whatever crimes and melee he could happily manage in a twelve-hour period, I’d bet another eyetooth he’d be back here, poring over pages that would bring this shrine to life with sound and color and light.
A plan began to assert itself. If I could find a place to hide, somewhere I could burrow in so deeply that Joaquin would never intuit my presence, I could stalk him from down here. I could take him in this room, which he felt was a safe and hallowed refuge. One moment he’d be leafing through pages of violence, incense burning the air, and the next he’d be sitting, stunned, in the afterlife. I smiled. There was a lot to be said for the element of surprise.
The crowded anteroom would be my best bet, I decided, snuffing the black taper and exiting the room after one final look. There were dozens of niches and crannies where I could bury myself; an old English wardrobe, a sliver of space beneath the giant bed, or a leaning bookcase piled with old tomes, though that might be tricky to wriggle my way out of later. I rejected a large trunk as being too uncomfortable-plus if Joaquin carelessly threw the lock, I’d have sealed myself in my own tomb-and studied the rest of the room, kicking off a scorpion as it scuttled across my boot.
Somewhere on the hillside’s surface the day was being born. Now that I was more than human, I felt the nascence of dawn and dusk the same way consciousness slipped into me at the start of every morning. I’d known coming into this I probably wouldn’t be heading back to the sanctuary at dawn, but I still had to fight back a wave of regret. It disappeared entirely seconds later as a noise sounded from the bug I’d planted in the living room. It was a lock snicking, a door being opened, then keys tossed on some hard surface, probably the coffee table, as the sound thudded jarringly through my earpiece. I looked around with renewed resolve. The evidence of my run-in with the hounds of hell would probably send Joaquin scurrying to his hidey-hole to make sure for himself that nothing had been tampered with.
Which meant I had to hurry.
I yanked the device from my ear as my gaze landed on a space I’d dismissed before as being too narrow. But it was deep and would provide easy access to the other chamber, and I could slip behind Joaquin when he ventured inside. So I slid in sideways, angling to nestle back as far as I could, and cocked my conduit in front of me as I made sure my mask was firmly in place. Then I slowed my breathing until the air around me was as pristine as glacier wind, and waited.
I’d been standing still a full thirty seconds when it occurred to me to wonder: if daylight couldn’t seep underground, why was it growing brighter in here? With a gasp, I looked down to see my glyph alight, then an arm like a crowbar yanked me against a body I knew all too well. My wrists were grabbed, torqued expertly in an unnatural angle, making my dog bite throb anew, and my conduit clattered uselessly to my feet.
“Regan said you might be stopping by,” Joaquin whispered in my ear.
I’d have sighed if I had any air to spare. Instead I choked on fear and adrenaline. As I said, there was a lot to be said for the element of surprise.
17
With no conduit, no leverage against his superior physical position, and having received a few sharp blows from Joaquin against my face and kidney-warning shots; he wasn’t trying to hurt me yet-I was easily subdued. I quickly found myself in the center of the room, trussed up to a sturdy, high-backed chair, which Joaquin happily assured me was an original Louis the Fourteenth. Oh goody. I’d hate to die bound to something from IKEA.
I looked around for something I could use as a weapon, but I was tied up so tightly, I might as well have been wearing a straitjacket. There was nothing I could do but wait for an opening and hope Joaquin released me, or made a great mistake. Like the one I’d made.
For now, he was simply scrutinizing me. He hadn’t removed my mask-I think my identity was yet another treasure to be mulled over later-but gone was the lascivious smirk he usually wore-I’d long ago become more to him than a mere conquest-and in its place was a thoughtful gaze, like I was a puzzle he’d yet to solve. Of course, when he saw me watching, his demeanor shifted, and a cagey gleam returned to his eye.
“Still looking for buried treasure, Archer?”
“You seem to have plenty,” I said, indicating the room with my eyes, as everything else, including my neck, was too tightly fastened to move. The ropes dug in uncomfortably, and the glyph on my chest was beginning to feel like a severe case of heartburn, though I tried to let none of this show. It irked me that his glyph was significantly less pronounced, the smoke rising from his chest in scant tendrils, like incense recently burned out.