“What are those about anyway?”
He used the keyboard to wake up the system. “They’re just portraits that the boss collects.”
Portraits. “They must be worth a lot. Some look old.”
“Some of them are.”
“And…?”
“And what? They’re pictures.”
Whatever. They were more than that. And she’d find out what, even if she had to take one apart.
As she sat down, Kiko gave her a push to her bare arm, just for kicks. Unfortunately, it was exactly where her burns were still healing. She gave a tiny grunt, but only because she was remembering how much the wounds used to hurt. Really.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he said. “I have impulse control issues, I think. I need to talk to my therapist about it.”
“That won’t be a short conversation.”
Giving a fake laugh, he motored to the door. “Just click on Firefox. No passwords needed for the Net around here.”
“Thanks.”
He took off to do his thing, and Dawn followed directions, navigating to Google for a search. Meanwhile, snippets of Lonigan’s story pinched her.
They’d been coming out of a theater…attacked by a man…Matt had seen his parents dying…
While she tried to figure out why it was so familiar, she ran a search on his name. Typical stuff that The Voice and Breisi had already ferreted out: a PI employed by a firm called Janus and Patrick. She skipped over most of the information because it seemed redundant and, besides, it wasn’t what she really wanted to know.
She searched for any clue to his parents’ names, found nothing. Tried some newspaper databases to check for murders that might match what Matt had told her tonight.
Theater…left through the back door…my dad tried to hand over his wallet…
She was striking out all over the place here. But she continued, never giving up, even as the clock struck three.
Theater…
The long day had mushed her brain, reducing rational thoughts to goop and forcing her to blink to stay awake. The scenario for the Lonigans’ murder kept replaying in her mind as she tried to reconstruct it. She even cast it with actors, slightly familiar faces…Oh, God.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Their murder. She’d seen it before. Not tonight, not in her head…
…but on a freakin’ cineplex screen.
Not even bothering to shut down the computer, she sprinted out of the room, down the hall, calling for Kiko.
Unbelievable, she kept telling herself. Does Lonigan think I’m some kind of idiot? What kind of mental chess is this guy playing with me?
“Kiko?” Clumsy with fatigue, she came to a slide on the carpet, her leg bumping against the stair railing, right where the vamp-tail injury was healing. Pained, she almost tumbled down the steps, her calf bubbling with a slight throb.
“Kiko!”
Downstairs, the only thing she saw was Breisi’s precious door. She flew to it, banging on the thick oak with her fists.
Theater…alley…handed over his wallet…
The door whooshed open to reveal the aproned mad scientist herself, her eyes red with either a lack of sleep or the frustration of being interrupted. Dawn went with the last one.
“What is it?” the older woman ground out.
“Is Kiko down there? You need to hear this, too. I found out something about Lonigan—”
Kiko, somehow still looking as fresh as dew, brought up Breisi’s back. It seemed like both of them were blocking the door now, barring Dawn from seeing anything but stone walls bathed in blue light. Behind them, there was the sound of that hum, a metallic heartbeat.
“What’re you talking about?” he asked.
“Batman,” Dawn blurted. “Matt Lonigan’s parents died almost like Bruce Wayne’s, just without the vampire crap. I remembered it from the movies. He—”
“Breisi, we’re gonna go.” Kiko bent under Breisi’s arm to step upward, past the door. As Breisi shut it behind him, the slam chopped through the house, hatcheting against the high ceilings.
“Come here,” he said, guiding her to a plush loveseat in the foyer. The portrait of the fire woman—the one who’d frayed Dawn’s nerves that first night—reigned over them, keeping her eyes on Dawn once again.
“Kiko, why would Lonigan do it? Why would he give me such bullshit, I mean, aside from the fact that this is Hollywood and just about everyone here has a manufactured biography, but—”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a true story that happens to be similar to Bruce Wayne’s. I’ve heard—and experienced—crazier things. So have you.”
Dawn didn’t have the umph to argue. She’d run out of gas. Her reasoning had shut down. Complete overload.
“We should probably just go back to my digs, get some sleep,” he said.
Maybe that was the best idea. Maybe she could figure everything out tomorrow, when it would all make more sense.
Yeah, Dawn thought, eyes burning with fatigue. She needed the information to settle in, didn’t she? Nothing would make sense until she allowed it to.
Breisi’s door creaked wide. She emerged, head down, coming toward Dawn and holding a mahogany box. It was open, revealing a set of very small shuriken set against a blue velvet bed.
Throwing stars. Ninja weapons.
“More tools before you leave.” Breisi showcased the silver. “I just put the finishing details on them.”
Dawn reached out to touch one, avoiding all of the eight star-sharp points. There were tiny etchings, words. “What’s written there?”
“Latin incantations from the Catholic Church that banish evil. I know one of your first stunt jobs was on Ninjutsu: The Movie, so I thought you might be comfortable with using the shuriken.”
At that, Breisi shoved the box at Dawn. But she wasn’t being unkind; no, she was actually being awkward, and it was sort of touching. In a Breisi kind of way.
“They’re for me?” Dawn asked.
“Well, yes. Since I knew you were trained in the use of them, I’ve modified the weapons for your needs. There’s some silver, but I managed not to allow that to affect the throwing balance. And each is tipped and blessed with holy water, though you’ll want to keep up on that maintenance yourself. If one of these gets buried in a vamp’s skin…poof. I hope. The holy water might travel through their bloodstream and inflict internal damage.”
Dawn didn’t really know what to say. She wasn’t used to gifts. “Thank you,” was all she managed before she did something dumb like cry. She was just about to, too. The past days had been long, throwing one punch after another at her head and guts.
“De nada,” Breisi said.
Shoulders tight, she speed-walked back to her dungeon before Dawn could even glance up again.
Kiko was oohing and ahhing over the weapons. “These are what stealth is all about. Oh, boy, oh, boy.” He pretended to pick one up and throw it. “Screw close range fighting—that’s for stakes. Screw loud fighting—that’s for guns. This…this is da bomb. Ninjas forever!”
Good old Kiko and his geek-asms. The appreciation of his weirdness got to her also, welling up and making her eyes sting.
She really did need sleep. Just a few hours of it would get her back to normal.
He must’ve noticed her inability to control. “Dawn?”
“Long day,” she said in a strangled whisper.
“Yeah.” He reached out to pat her shoulder.
But when he touched her, he froze.
“Kik?”
His mouth was primed for a scream. A faint gurgle rattled from his throat, his eyes full of cold fear.
She tried to grab him, help him, but he was gripping her shirt with all his strength, holding on to it like it was a branch he’d grabbed during a fall off a cliff.
Shirt. Oh, God. Frank’s shirt.
“Breisi!”
She must’ve heard Dawn’s screeching loud and clear, because it didn’t take long for her to emerg
e from the door way again.
When she saw Kiko’s terrified pose, she kicked the door shut, ran over to him and helped Dawn to pull him off.
With a strenuous yank, Breisi was successful. Kiko tumbled back into her arms, shivering in the aftermath.
“Is he okay?” Dawn asked. Frank’s shirt gaped away from her chest, stretched, revealing her black bra. She was afraid to ask what’d happened, because she knew.
He’d gotten a reading.
Breisi lightly slapped at Kiko’s face, but he just stared straight ahead, jaw slack.
“Frank,” he said. “Alive.”
Breisi cried out, and Dawn clutched at the shirt.
Alive? Was she hearing right? Please, God, please…
In spite of the tense moment, she and Breisi exchanged hopeful glances, chained together in this endless waiting.
Then Kiko jerked, choking out his next words. “Screaming…Hahh-h…h…hurts, hurts too much.”
Dawn dropped to the floor next to him.
He squirmed against Breisi. “Pain…pain!”
Breisi started to weep, rocking Kiko back and forth in her arms, as if he were a substitute for Frank.
But Dawn didn’t lose it—not now, when she was so close. Not when she couldn’t do anything but sit here and listen to the terrible progress report.
“Pain, pain…Dawn, where is Dawn?”
She finally realized what was happening. Unlike the calm aftermath of his previous empathic visions, Kiko was in an agony-induced trance this time. A trickle of moisture wiggled out of the corner of his mouth and Dawn wiped it away, oddly concerned for his dignity.
“I’m here, Daddy,” she choked out.
“Dawn.” Kiko turned his eyes to her, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing her. Not at all. “Looking for Robby, went to Bava, and…”
Kiko shuddered, then shot out of Breisi’s arms. Dawn caught him, holding him in front of her.
“Bava,” Dawn said, needing him to continue. “And…?”
“Bait,” Kiko said, gaze finally focusing on Dawn.
On her hands and knees, Breisi backed away, looking the same way she had last night, after she’d seen the photo.
The psychic shook his head, his eyes going soft and apologetic as he held his arms out to Dawn in supplication.
“I was the bait to get you here.”
Nineteen
The Mirror
Kiko’s last comment stripped her of comprehension. It was almost like he’d spoken a foreign language and she was taking forever to translate it, the seconds ticking by in a vacuum.
In this slow-motion draw of time, Dawn noticed that Breisi was hiding her face. Had she known about Frank? Had she and The Voice—
Dawn’s attention whipped back to Kiko when he hauled in a sharp breath. He blinked his eyes, his pupils contracting to normal size, as if gradually coming back to consciousness.
Back to Dawn who, in spite of her nature, had naively started to trust him.
You idiot, she thought to herself. See what happens when you let down your guard? See?
Her sense of betrayal must’ve announced itself on her face, her whole body, because as Kiko wiped away the sweat that had popped out over his upper lip, he scrambled to explain.
“Wait, I know everything that just came out of my mouth, Dawn, and it didn’t sound like the way things really went down.” He glanced at Breisi, as if she could explain.
Trembling. Anger. An urge to tear around this house to find the goddamned Voice.
But she couldn’t move, as if iced nails were bolted through her limbs, pinning her to the ground.
“You people used my dad as bait to lure me here? Why?”
She could’ve answered her own question, but Kiko did it for her.
“My prediction,” he said. “You’re the one who’s key. I saw you…” He glanced at her, sheepish. “…covered in the blood of a vampire, victorious. It was the end of our struggles, Dawn. I felt that everything would be fine after that.”
“You felt it.”
Kiko got to his knees and tried to move closer to her, but she pushed him away, her spine pressed to the loveseat.
“Bait.” Breisi barked out a humorless laugh. “Frank decided he was the bait to get Dawn here and he now thinks that’s all he was good for.”
“He’s wrong,” Kiko said. “He’s searching for a reason for what happened to him.”
Dawn had endured enough. She used the seat to lever back to her feet. Her fingers were clawed and ready to strike out. “Where is your boss?”
“Wait, Dawn…”
“Where the fuck is he!”
Breisi looked up, her face scrubbed with red streaks. “Resting, I imagine.”
Dawn sprang into motion, dashing for Breisi’s dungeon door. She heard Kiko behind her, chasing her down.
“It’s locked,” Breisi said lifelessly. “Kiko, just let her go. Let her try to find him.”
Heat covered Dawn’s sight, anger turning her vision into bleeding colors that melded together in unstable waves. She had no control over where she was going now—something deep and wounded had taken her over, forcing her to mercilessly shake the iron handle on Breisi’s door. Unsuccessful, she pushed away from it, went to another door, then another. All locked.
Hardly fazed, she barged up the stairs, down the hall to The Voice’s office.
“Come out!” she yelled at the threshold. “Or do you know how much I want to kill you right now?”
The words rippled down the hall, through the house, against the ceilings, bouncing off the walls and banging back at her. From the two portraits that were still populated, the ladies watched Dawn, their eyes following her as she entered the office.
As her head closed in on itself, she thought she heard a soft “Shhhh” in her ear.
She brushed the sound away, stalked near his desk, circled, then stood in front of the TV.
“You come out and talk to me, goddamn you. Get out here!”
“Hush…”The request brushed over Dawn’s arms, silk over flesh. She smelled jasmine.
The tinkle of a chandelier—the one that had drawn her into the boudoir the other night—called to her. A lullaby of gentle crystal.
“Stop playing me,” she said.
“Everything will be alright.” Now it sounded like a multitude of souls woven together, whispers in a vortex. “Hu-uu-sh…”
Although she wanted to keep her rage in the open, Dawn could feel it receding into a tiny, destructive ball of packed hatred, small enough to fit into one of those boxes she supposedly had in her soul. As the soft voices tried to soothe her, to douse that ball with cool words, Dawn fought to keep her enflamed emotions on the surface, like living armor.
But she couldn’t. She was too weak, successful only in pushing the quelled wrath to the center of her stomach, where it glowed, revolved. Waited to explode full-force again.
Out of nowhere, gentle, invisible fingers began drifting over her arms, pulling her out of the office, stroking her hair, her neck.
“Shhh,”the voices said again.
Discombobulated, Dawn struggled against going anywhere, but it was as if she was moving at the command of another force, being led out of the door and into the hall.
With one look back at the office, she saw that the painting of the Elizabethan woman was empty.
How…?
“Shhh…”
She was brought to a dusky room at the far end. Candles flickered inside long, gem-cut tubes of glass, the light casting wicked shapes on the beige walls. A writing desk stood open, a pen resting over stationery marked with large, elegant writing. Next to it, a bookcase opened away from the wall at an angle, like a door left ajar; it allowed a slat of darkness, a steady stream of crisp wind that made the candle flames dance. In the opposite corner hung a mirror, sheer black material shrouding everything but a peek of reflection. The invisible hands—more than one pair—continued to explore her shoulders, her neck, her back, their touch like a twilight
breeze.
“No.” Dawn shoved at the air around her, angry that the sensations were making her skin tingle.
She thought she heard a faint giggle.
“Leave us,” said a dredged voice from the dark slat near the bookcase.
It sounded real, unfiltered by a speaker, immediate.
The maddening laughter stopped at the command. A flow of jasmine perfume whooshed past Dawn and out the door. It shut, shaking the walls to a slight vibration.
Dawn took a step toward the slat. “Is that you, asshole?”
“Stay back, Dawn.”
She stopped, fought her way forward, but she couldn’t seem to advance any more.
Yelling, she finally gave up, reduced to a panting wreck. Her buried ire grew, burning through the serenity that the invisible hands had tried so hard to cover her with.
“I won’t blindly obey directions,” she said. “Not anymore, boss. Not since I found out what you set Frank up for.” She faced the darkness, hoping he was right there, feeling every lash of her disappointment. “How could you do this to him?”
“Dawn…”
And it started again. She could feel his presence, the calming entry, The Voice, slipping into her body through the pores of her skin. Part of her welcomed it, craved it because it would make her forget that much easier. But another part of her battled him out with all the force she could muster.
“Stop,” she whispered.
Her resistance built, heaved against him, stronger, stronger…
“Dawn, I need you to listen—”
With a last-ditch explosion, she cried out, clawed at him with her hands, swiping through cold air.
She heard a grunt, felt him pull back.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t…”
Her body finally seized up, tears wrenching out of her in a violent squeeze of terror, helplessness, sorrow. She sank to her knees at the force of them.
I’ve lost it, she told herself. Damnit. I’ve lost, period.
She could feel The Voice hovering near, in his dark opening by the bookcase. She wanted to rip into him, tear him open, make him feel as vulnerable as she did right now.
“Not only did you lie to me,” she said through clenched teeth, “you lied to Frank. Kiko said…”
“I already know what Kiko said.” He sounded beaten. “I wish you had allowed him to explain further.”
Night Rising Page 20
