A second later the door shoves open and a bald, angry face leers out.
“Give it a rest, I’m—oh, hey, Lex.” Georgie’s face clears as he recognizes me. “You working tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say, and he opens the door wide enough for me to sneak past without getting too close. I’ve been here long enough that security knows I don’t like to be touched.
“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Georgie says as he lets the door slam shut behind us.
“Been busy.” I walk quickly, knowing my way around; the service elevators are to the left, much plainer and emptier than the glitzy ones in the main lobby.
“Phillip is around,” Georgie says, far too casually. “He’s been asking about you. Want me to send him up?”
I stomp into the elevator and punch the number four.
“No,” I say firmly, and the door closes on Georgie’s face.
I lean back against the wall and shut my eyes while the elevator starts to move. I certainly didn’t intend to get involved with Urie’s son. Well, at least not the first time.
Maybe I should have told Phillip I was working tonight. And maybe I should have answered one of the dozens of messages he sent me. I owed him a proper breakup, but I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell someone it’s hard to kiss him when you keep picturing him dead?
Phillip wouldn’t understand; he’s not like me. He has a healing gift he inherited from his mother, something small and helpful. He still has to hide what he can do from outsiders—we all have to—but it’s not the same. He can be around people, go to school, live in the light. He gets to have a life.
The elevator dings and I pad down the hallway, my boots quiet on the carpeted floor. On the other side of the wall music blares, the bass reverberating in my chest. I brace myself, then pull open the door that leads to the club, and the noise is inside my head.
It’s early enough that the crowd is sparse. It’ll fill up in a manner of hours, but nowhere near as packed as the first two levels. It’s why I stick to the top; people are usually distracted by strobe lights or DJs before they make it all the way up here.
I weave across the slick wooden floor, avoiding the people occupying the leather couches along the walls. The bar is long and backlit, and I wave at the girl with golden skin and fire-engine red hair behind it.
“Lexi!” she says, giving me a relieved smile. “There you are.”
I slip behind the bar and take off my hoodie, shoving it beneath the counter.
“Thanks for covering for me, Nic,” I tell her. “I really appreciate it.”
Nicole is kind to me; she’s the closest thing I have to a friend, if I allowed myself to have living friends. She has a touch of psychic ability herself, enough to know which people to kick out when the mood in the club turns sour. Everyone who works here has at least one foot in the unknown. That’s why we’re here, because Urie found us and gave a place. He protects most of us magic types, the charmers and the forgers, the psychics and the witches, and whatever it is that I am. You need a healer, you see Urie. You need a loan, you see Urie. Without him, half of us would be living on the street, more missing kids on the news. He keeps us working, keeps us hidden, keeps us out of jail or someplace worse.
“No problem,” she tells me. “I needed the money. Urie was looking for you, though.”
I run a hand over my peach-fuzz hair. “Aw, shit. What did he say?”
So far I’ve avoided Urie needing me when I’m gone, but it was bound to happen eventually; ghosts have been popping up all over the place, the undercurrent of unrest in the city stretching to the undead. The money’s nice, and I owe him, but the more jobs he sends me on, the more I want to run to the hospital.
“He was worried,” Nicole says. “Didn’t you hear about Marcus?”
I shake my head. “No. Who’s Marcus?”
Nicole’s mouth goes flat. “Fifteen-year-old with a talent for locks. He’s a good kid, really outgoing, never stops talking. He went missing from around the warehouse.”
Shit. Urie keeps good track of his people; we don’t just go missing.
“How long?” I ask.
“A few days. Everyone’s a little rattled.”
“Maybe he’ll turn up,” I say, but even I don’t believe that.
“Yeah,” Nicole says. “Maybe.”
Someone shouts at us from across the bar, and our conversation ends as we start pouring drinks. I try to remember what Marcus looks like and come up with an impression of a scrawny kid with messy hair. I don’t socialize with the others if I can help it. Now I feel doubly guilty about not answering any of Phillip’s messages.
I focus on the shouted drink orders, try to put it all out of my mind. I’m a crap bartender. I can’t make Manhattans properly, I always mess up martinis, and half the time I don’t know what I’m putting in an old-fashioned. It doesn’t matter; people don’t come here for the taste of the drinks; they come for the feeling inside them. It’s a simple spell, really, that bonds to any type of alcohol.
I pour three shots of whiskey for a group of button-downed bros, not entirely sure it’s the kind they ordered.
“Aren’t you a little young to be behind the bar?” one of them yells over the music.
“No,” I lie, pushing the drinks across. Urie doesn’t care regardless, but I do have a flawless fake license a forger made me. Even the feds wouldn’t be able to spot it, though each of them would see something different.
The man shrugs and takes the drinks with a wink at Nicole. She smiles brightly at him, which is why she gets tips and I don’t, but also why she gets hit on and I don’t.
“He’s gonna ask for your number,” I tell her, leaning against the bar. “Don’t you dare give out mine again.”
Nicole laughs, an open, delighted sound that almost tempts me into a smile. Then the laugh cuts off as she spots something over my shoulder.
“Uh-oh,” she says, “playtime’s over.”
The stink of thick cologne wafts over me before I turn and scowl.
“Hey, sexy Lexi,” Ilia drawls.
“What do you want, Ilia?”
He just grins and reaches across the bar to grab a cherry from the container. Urie’s nephew is twenty-two, his second-in-command, sometimes my partner and sort of friend. At least when he’s not being a pain in my ass.
“Nice of you to finally show up,” he says, tossing the cherry into his mouth. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I was off,” I tell him, crossing my arms. “I don’t have to answer my phone if I’m off.”
“Yeah, well, Urie’s been climbing up the walls trying to account for everybody, so next time a heads-up would be nice.”
“Yeah,” I say grudgingly. “I got it.”
“Good. He wants to see you.”
“Now? I just got here.”
“So tell it to him.” Ilia shrugs.
I sigh and look over my shoulder at Nicole.
“Sorry,” I say, tugging my hoodie back on.
“It’s fine,” she says, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll see you later.”
“Is he pissed at me?” I ask, following Ilia out from the bar.
Ilia glances at me. He’s annoying as hell, but he’s always straight with me.
“More worried than pissed,” he says. “I wouldn’t disappear again anytime soon, though.”
“Noted,” I say. “Any news on Marcus?”
Ilia shakes his head curtly. “Nothing. Where were you, anyway?”
I chew on my lip. People like us don’t go to doctors; if we’re sick, we see healers. If we’re lost, we see palm readers. We don’t confide in outsiders, and we definitely don’t check ourselves into clinics.
“Nowhere,” I say. “Just turned my phone off. The last job—”
“Yeah,” Ilia says, running a hand over his face. “I remember.”
It wasn’t easy for him, either. I had to deal with the ghost, but he had to deal with the mom who lost her kid.
We walk in silence down the hallway, both of us plagued by bad memories. We turn the corner and find a lanky young man slouched in front of a closed door.
“Hey, Jordan,” Ilia says. “He’s expecting us.”
I nod and Jordan nods back; when he’s not playing guard dog, he’s a skilled witch, specializing in repelling spells.
“One sec,” Jordan says, pushing off the wall, and turns and taps lightly on the door. A muffled voice says something, and Jordan twists the handle and pops his head inside.
“. . . here to see Mr. Porch . . .”
I only catch snippets of his low voice before he straightens back out.
“Go on in,” he says, opening the door wider with a teasing flourish.
I take my hands out of my pockets and run a nervous hand over my hair before I step into the office.
2
URIE PORCHOWSKY HAS ALWAYS MADE ME anxious. I guess in some ways he’s like Deda, one of those serious, hardworking immigrant types. But while Deda can be sharp and demanding, Urie is polite and distant, the kind of man who keeps you reaching for reassurance. I’ve known him since I was a kid, and I still live in fear of disappointing him. Not that it matters; once Urie takes you in, you’re under his care for life. The only way to break faith is to endanger the community, and god help you if you do that. Never piss off people with magical powers.
The office is dark and chilly, with CCTV footage of the club playing across screens on one wall. Urie’s other businesses are under surveillance, too; the supply warehouse, the apartment office, even the grocery store we all shop at. Two men with earpieces sit and watch the screens carefully, Urie standing behind them with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s not as tall as me, but stocky, his blond hair just starting to go white at the edges.
“Alexandra,” he says, his blue eyes bright. “I was beginning to become concerned.”
I swallow some moisture back into my mouth. “I’m sorry I was gone,” I say.
“People are going missing,” Urie says. “And you decide it’s a good time to run off?”
“I had some personal business I had to take care of.”
He frowns. “Your grandfather?”
I don’t know if Deda would call Urie a friend, exactly, but when you work for someone your whole life, I suppose there’s some sort of relationship. Urie hasn’t visited him, but he pays for the home and asks about him.
“He’s fine,” I tell him, but my hand curls into a fist, the fig sign to ward off evil.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “I trust your personal business is now taken care of?”
I nod curtly. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I have a job for you.”
I knew it was coming, but my shoulders still slump. Bartending isn’t my real job, just something to keep me occupied while I wait for this work. Urie picks up a sheet of paper from his desk, but instead of giving it to me, he hands it to Ilia. In the two years I’ve worked for him, Urie has never once made the mistake of touching me. At first I thought it was because of his own gift, but Urie’s control over his pyrokinesis is legendary. It’s for my benefit, not his; he doesn’t want me to have to carry the knowledge of his death. I don’t know if he gave Deda the same courtesy, and I’m afraid to ask.
“I’ll get the car,” Ilia tells me, folding the paper away. “Meet me out back.”
He leaves, and then I’m left facing Urie alone.
“Is this about Marcus?” I ask.
“Someone betrayed our confidence,” Urie says, eyes flashing. “And now Marcus is missing.”
“His marker?” I absentmindedly rub the tattoo at the back of my neck. Theo tattoos everyone who works at the club with Urie’s symbol, a Slavic thunder mark at the base of the neck. It proves we’re under Urie’s protection, tells us who we can trust, and, in worst-case scenarios, we can use it to track someone.
Urie shakes his head. “Unresponsive.”
He meets my gaze, and we both know what that means. It’s possible the spell is being blocked; more likely it means the boy is dead.
“Find out what you can,” he says.
“Right,” I say softly, and I turn to leave.
“Oh, and Alexandra?” Urie calls after me.
I stop and turn back. He watches me with pale blue eyes, like shallow pool water.
“Next time you will clear your schedule with me, understood?”
I nod.
“Understood?” he asks again, louder.
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “Understood. It won’t happen again.”
“Spasibo,” he says, nodding. “Send Jordan down to the first floor on your way out; tell him to find Ivan.”
I duck out of the room without another word and shut the door behind me.
“Headed out?”
I jump. Jordan is standing next to me. He has a bruise on his jaw, right where someone would swing a fist. I stare at it, and his mouth quirks to one side.
“You should see the other guy,” he says.
“I bet. Boss wants you on the ground,” I say. “Find Ivan.”
“Should’ve guessed,” he says. “He’s been extra cautious since Marcus.”
“Think it’ll help?” I ask.
“Can’t hurt.” Jordan shrugs. “Stay out of trouble, Lex.”
“Too late,” I mutter back.
I tug up my hood and slouch down the hallway back to the elevator. I punch the button inside as I yawn. My peaceful nights of drugged sleep are already wearing off.
The elevator dings at the ground floor and the doors slide open.
“So,” Phillip asks. “Were you just going to leave without saying hello?”
Fucking Georgie.
I shove my hands in my pockets and step out of the elevator. “That was the plan, yeah.”
He looks exactly the same, long blond hair falling around delicate features. He has Urie’s coloring, but he’s slender and long-limbed. “Where have you been? You didn’t answer any of my messages; I thought something might have happened to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I’m getting tired of apologizing. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m fine.”
I slip past him and walk down the hallway, and he falls into step beside me. We’re the exact same height, our strides matching perfectly. I used to like that.
“So, what, you’re never going to talk to me again, is that it?”
“There’s nothing to say, Phillip.”
“Oh, I think there’s plenty to say.”
He stops and grabs the pocket of my hoodie to swing me around to face him.
“What did I do wrong? Was it something I said? If you just tell me—”
“It’s nothing you did; it’s me,” I say. “I can’t do this anymore.”
It’s cruel. I know it’s cruel, but it’s better this way. I try to pull away and he grips my hand instead, and I cringe at the rush of contact. Skin to skin is the worst, nothing dulled by clothing, the images shoving themselves into my brain.
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Lex. I want to know why.”
Because being with you makes me lonelier than being alone. Because I can’t stop picturing your body on a cold metal table.
“Please,” Phillip says softly. “Just talk to me.”
He looks at me like I’m a painting he’s never seen up close before. Like I’m priceless, like I’m something to be admired and pored over.
“Lex,” he says. He threads his fingers through mine and I wince. “I was really worried. All I could think about was that something bad had happened, and how awful it would be that I never got to tell you—”
And I don’t want to hear it; I don’t want him to finish that thought. So I grab his face and kiss him roughly, even though it hurts, even though I shouldn’t. He opens his mouth eagerly, and then his tongue is on my teeth and I’m backed against the wall while he presses into me. The rush of longing pushes back the rush of death, and it’s so close to being normal. My hands circle his ne
ck and run over his shoulders while Phillip slips his fingers up beneath my shirt.
“You want to get out of here?” he whispers into my mouth, and I almost nod because it’s so familiar and easy.
But after this part, after tongues and teeth and sheets, there’s the other part. The part when he tries to hold me, when his death creeps around me, until the feel of his skin against mine makes me sick.
“No,” I say, pulling back.
Phillip blinks heavy-lidded eyes at me. “Don’t you want to?”
“I have to go,” I tell him, stepping away from his arms. I shiver, cold without his heat pressed against me. “Ilia’s waiting.”
“Lexi—” He stares at me, confused and hurt, and I shake my head.
“I can’t give you what you want, Phillip. I’m sorry.”
And because I’m a coward, I run away. His voice calls after me, but I’m already in the alley, weaving through the dumpsters until I see the headlights of Ilia’s sleek car. I slide into the front seat, trying to slow my breathing.
“What happened to you?” he asks, frowning at me.
“Just drive,” I tell him, and shut my eyes.
“Ooooh,” he says as the car starts to roll forward. “Phillip, huh?”
I don’t answer, and he chuckles to himself.
“My cousin has it bad for you. I don’t know what you did to him, but—”
“Shut. Up,” I grind out.
“I told him to let it go. Does he ever listen to me, though? No.”
“I swear to god—” I say, my eyes flashing open.
“Damn, Lex, I’m just messing with you,” Ilia says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Don’t you ever laugh?”
“Maybe I would if something was funny.”
“Ouch. I’ll have to work on my tight five.”
I lean back in the cool leather seat, hug my arms to my body, and watch the club grow smaller and smaller behind us. Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. The mirror’s convexity means we gain a larger field of view but we sacrifice perspective. Isn’t that the way of things? There’s always something lost, always something traded. Always a cost to seeing more.
Missing, Presumed Dead Page 2
