A wave of relief washed from his neck down to his toes, muscles unclenching.
“You’re a lifesaver. Where were they headed?”
“Up to Chicago. They asked the fastest way to the on-ramp, and if I knew what the traffic was like.”
There was an art to a good bribe. Too little, you could offend the person you were trying to win over. Too much, they’d start thinking they had a gold mine on their hands and they might try squeezing for more. Daniel weighed his options. Then he curled a pair of twenties around his finger, held them up for the clerk’s approval, and laid them down on the counter.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Anyone else comes around asking, you didn’t see anything. You didn’t see them, and you didn’t see me either.”
The way she looked at the money, for a second he thought she might refuse. Then she scooped the bills up and shoved them into her hip pocket.
“Are they in some kind of trouble?” she asked.
“Not if I find them before anybody else does,” he said.
* * *
By the time Nessa and Marie finally left the coffeehouse, seven women had pressed their palms to the mirror bag. Seven women had let out their isolation, their loneliness, their feelings of being invisible, feeding Nessa’s enchantment in payment for her counsel.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” said an Asian woman who kept giving nervous glances to the door.
“I do,” Nessa replied. “Drink your tea.”
Between visitations, Nessa dabbed blots of hot glue onto the canvas of the tote bag and carefully placed the tiny craft mirrors. Slivers of glass took on a spiraling shape on one side, then the other, a pattern blooming like a fractal rose.
The next woman had been waiting, silent and small, hovering at a nearby table with her hands pressed to her knees. Her glasses concealed the faintest ghost of a bruise.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” she said.
“Let’s find out,” Nessa said. “And if you aren’t, let’s find out how you can be. Drink your tea.”
Nessa offered no platitudes, no words of empty kindness. Her answers were truth jacketed in a winter frost. Some of the women left in tears, others with grim, determined looks in their eyes. All of them left changed.
She pressed the final mirrored tile against the canvas and held it firmly in place.
“There. It’s done.”
Marie stared at the bag. Or tried to, but it kept slipping off her eyes. The tiny mirrors, radiating outward in curling tendrils from the heart of the elaborate design, seemed to take her gaze and slide it away along their silvered faces like a conveyor belt.
“Do you think it’ll work?” she asked. She pushed her chair back. As Nessa rose at her side, she handed Marie the bag. Then she pressed her hands to the table, steadying herself as her face pinched and her eyes squeezed shut.
“Nessa?”
Nessa took slow, deep breaths. Her eyelashes fluttered and she lifted her chin.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Marie said. “Is it the nausea again? Maybe you need to stop doing magic until we—”
“I’m fine. As to your question about the bag, whether it works or not, we will find out very quickly. Now then. That’s enough building up for one day. I’m in the mood to tear something down. Choose your weapon.”
Marie had three options between the mismatched guns they’d taken off their hunters’ corpses back in Ohio. That said, two of them were half-empty or worse. Back at the car, Marie quickly unzipped their luggage. She picked up the matte-black automatic, heavy and balanced in her grip, and popped the magazine. It was full to the brim with nine-millimeter rounds—jacketed hollow-points, designed to mushroom and expand inside a human body, chewing a path and leaving a big messy hole on the way out.
She reloaded the pistol and slipped it into the mirror bag. Nessa’s book of spells and her quill knife went in alongside it.
She drove while Nessa tried to navigate using the printed map they’d taken from Carolyn’s conspiracy wall. Nessa’s fingernail followed the mess of highlighter trails, a jagged star of intersections marked in a half dozen colors.
“These aren’t directions so much as suggestions,” she said. “Contradictory ones, at that. No wonder it took her three tries to find the place.”
Marie tilted her head low, staring up at the facades of banks and office plazas, tailors and delis, reading signs as they drifted through the sluggish city traffic. The sun had gone down, leaving the streets drenched in white sodium lamplight.
“I don’t even know what we’re looking for,” Marie said. “I mean, it’s an exclusive club, they’re probably not going to have a big neon sign and a welcome mat out front.”
She spotted a row of crows, nestled along a dirty yellow awning over a laundromat. They watched the Eldorado pass, their eyes glittering like black opals in the dark. Glossy feathers rippled as one on the end burst into flight. It winged ahead of the car, landing on a corner lamppost up ahead. The crow stared at Marie, locking eyes with her. Then it took flight again, gliding left down an unmarked alleyway.
Marie flicked her signal and turned left.
“I think that crow wants us to follow it,” she said. “That…sounded less weird in my head.”
Nessa shrugged. “Do as the crow says.”
The Eldorado squeezed through a narrow backstreet canyon, garages on one side and a long wooden fence on the other. Marie had to slow down, tires rumbling on broken asphalt as she muscled past overstuffed garbage cans. The alley ended in a side street. The crow wheeled once in the open air, spinning in a graceful pirouette, then flew left again.
Marie followed the crow until she wasn’t entirely sure where they were. Neither was Nessa. The street names didn’t line up with the map anymore, they were both certain they’d doubled back but crossed completely different roads in the process, and the only landmarks left were shuttered, barred storefronts and graffiti-jacketed walls.
Up ahead, the crow circled over a parking lot. Then it soared upward in a surge of oil-black feathers, glided over the rooftops, and slipped out of sight.
The lot wasn’t fancy, just a patch of pavement big enough for maybe thirty cars, overseen by a couple of broken street lamps and an empty security booth. The lack of visible security wasn’t scaring anyone off: a chaotic mix of vehicles stood shoulder to shoulder along the faded yellow lines, a battered pickup with a smashed rear window sitting snug beside a lipstick-red Ferrari. The adjoining building didn’t have a sign, and the back wall showed faint, crumbling ridges where old windows had been bricked over long ago. The only way in was through a single anonymous door, covered in hammered sheet metal.
“I think this is the place,” Marie said. She eased into a parking spot and killed the engine. “Ready for this? Could be anything on the other side of that door.”
Nessa gave her a lopsided smile and handed her the mirror bag.
“Like I said, I’m in the mood to tear something down tonight. Let’s go get some answers.”
Twenty-Two
Marie wore the mirror bag. The gun and the book swayed against her side with every step, offering a little reassurance as she rapped her knuckles against the sheet-metal door. Then they waited.
The door swung wide, carrying a gust of cool air and the faint scent of cinnamon. The man on the threshold was dressed like a casino croupier, in a scarlet shirt and a tailored vest. He greeted them with a smile while his eyes went wandering up and down their bodies. Nothing lascivious in it, though; Marie caught the visual pat down, as his gaze darted to all the usual places a suspect might be hiding a weapon.
He didn’t glance twice at the mirrored bag slung over her shoulder.
“Ladies, good evening. I…don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“We’re new in town,” Marie said. She thought back to Carolyn’s notes and how the author claimed she’d gotten inside. “Daniel sent us. He’s said good things about this place.”
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The doorman squinted. “I’m sorry, Daniel who?”
Carolyn hadn’t written that part down. Marie and Nessa shared an uncertain glance.
“Well…you know,” Marie said. “Daniel. Everybody knows who he is.”
Nessa let out an awkward laugh. “Can you believe this? ‘Daniel who?’ he says. As if there could be any other Daniel.”
“None that make that kind of impression.” Marie fanned herself. “Whoa. You know. That Daniel.”
The doorman shook his head. The creases on his forehead deepened by the second.
“Ladies, honestly, I don’t—”
“When you’re that good at what you do, and he is exceptional at doing that thing he does, you don’t even need a last name,” Nessa said.
“Honestly,” Marie said. “We’re talking about Daniel. He’s the man.”
The doorman’s eyes widened. His face broke into a toothy grin as he nodded, suddenly in on the joke. He pointed finger guns at Marie.
“Ooh. You mean, the guy.”
“Exactly,” Marie said. She hoped that was what she meant, anyway.
He beckoned them across the threshold.
“Please, come in! I believe the guy is playing cards in the gaming room. Would you like me to escort you over to him?”
“Oh,” Nessa said, sharing another sidelong glance with Marie. “No. No, that’s…we’re going to surprise him. Thank you, though.”
“As you wish. Please, enjoy your stay at the Bast Club, and remember our few simple and inviolable rules. One, take nothing that does not belong to you. Two, lay no hand on another, unless they invite it. And three, speak no true names, and tell no secrets, save those which are yours to tell—and even then, exercise discretion. Voices do carry.”
Burgundy wallpaper in Victorian patterns lined the corridor beyond the door. The oak floors, waxed to a mirror sheen, were cut like interlocking puzzle pieces. An endless jigsaw, stretching into the distance. Nessa and Marie walked side by side, silent until the doorman was out of earshot.
“Let’s find out where the gaming room is,” Marie murmured, “and not go there.”
They emerged into a wide parlor lit by globes of green glass, dangling on the ends of elaborate ironwork sconces. One end of the room was given over to conversation nooks, miniature parlors with plush red velvet divans. A stained-glass light fixture cast a cold glow over an antique pool table, while patrons lined a bar festooned in gleaming brass. Emerald velvet curtains draped the walls, concealing the bricked-over windows, and the baroque sounds of a string quartet drifted from concealed speakers.
The air tingled against Marie’s skin. She felt like the energy in the room, or maybe her own nervous anticipation, had transmuted into static electricity. Her flesh prickled and she felt like any move, anything she touched, might give her a heart-stopping shock. Beside her, Nessa’s lips were slightly parted, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Nessa?”
“Look around, Marie. Look and see.”
In one of the alcoves, a petite Asian woman in a black pantsuit sat with an open briefcase on her lap. As onlookers surrounded her, some with wallets in hand, she lifted a wicker marionette from the case. It offered a bow, then a graceful pirouette.
There were no strings attached to her fingers.
A rough-looking crew in biker leathers circled the pool table. One leaned low to take his shot, framed in the stained-glass light, and his eyes were the yellow of infected pus. A hostess made her way through the swirling crowds, dressed in long flowing skirts and a Victorian corset with brass buttons. She glided like her feet didn’t touch the ground—because they didn’t, the heels of her delicate boots hovering a quarter inch above the jigsaw floor.
“Magic,” Nessa breathed. “I can feel it in the air. I can taste it.”
“Okay. This is me, not freaking out. Definitely not freaking out right now.”
“Why is this hidden away?” Nessa’s glasses caught the green glass lights, turning their reflections to alien moons. “Why isn’t the entire world like this?”
“Because those are the rules, darling,” said a voice at her shoulder. “And while nothing is more fun than breaking the rules, some carry too high a cost.”
She was tall, lanky, with a lopsided mop of curls dyed fire-engine red. She cradled a cocktail glass, and the frosted blue concoction inside matched the color of her silk couture gown. The neckline hung asymmetrical, with one sleeve longer than the other and trailing a drape like the ruffle of a peacock’s tail.
“And where have you been? It’s been a dog’s age. Vanessa, right?” The woman snapped her fingers. “Vanessa…wait, don’t tell me, I have this…Fieri.”
Nessa blinked. “I’m sorry, this is embarrassing, but…”
“Last year, darling! The poker tournament. We played at the same table.”
“I…don’t play tournament poker,” Nessa replied.
Her lips curled in a bright red smile. “I’ll say you don’t. Amy Xun cleaned you out. I mean, she did the same to me, but I held my own and besides, I really only show up for the gossip and snacks. Introduce me to your friend!”
“Um, sure.” Nessa made an awkward gesture. “This is Marie—”
“Freddie Vinter.” She took Marie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Her skin felt oily, scaled, like a dead fish, and cold enough to steal Marie’s breath. The aura of frost radiated off the woman’s body, sucking the heat from the room. “Sugar plum, I must ask. Who did this to you?”
“Did…?” Marie repeated.
Freddie waved a hand at her outfit.
“This. Did you lose a bet? Did someone hurt you? Tell me who hurt you.” She looked to Nessa with mock reproach. “And you. You let her leave the house dressed like that? Wearing those shoes? With that hair? The woman looks like an undercover police officer, for heaven’s sake. What kind of friend are you?”
“We’ve had some cash-flow problems.” Nessa glanced at Marie. “I mean, you aren’t wrong. But…this tournament where we met? Where was it, Manhattan?”
Freddie waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please, as if you’d catch me hanging with the Dashwood Abbey crowd. So pretentious. No, it was here, darling. Honestly, you don’t remember? I usually make a stronger impression than that. I’ll have to work harder.”
“Nessa, have you ever—” Marie started to ask.
“No.” Nessa turned to Freddie. “So…you met me here. In this club. Last year. And I told you my name was Vanessa Fieri.”
“I should be mortally offended right now. Mortally. Offended. I gravitated toward you in the first place because you were wearing a jacket from my fall collection. You told me how amazing I am and you bought me a drink, which are the two most dependable methods of falling into my good graces.”
“You’re a fashion designer?” Marie asked.
Freddie arched one eyebrow and sipped her cocktail.
“You, you can be forgiven. It’s painfully clear you don’t study these things. The name is Fredrika Vinter of the House of Vinter, darling. We’re only the most in town.”
“The most…what, exactly?”
“Simply the most.” Freddie studied her over the rim of her glass. “You know, you do have potential. Good, strong cheekbones. Composed posture with a delicate hint of authoritarianism. Do something with your hair, change your wardrobe, you could be an entirely new woman. You, my dumpling, are a perfect fixer-upper.”
Marie felt herself withering under the spotlight. Two spotlights. Another woman had been watching her, over by the bar, going from casual glances to outright staring in ten seconds flat. She wore her cinnamon hair in an undercut, long and wavy on top but buzzed to the scalp on the sides, and dressed in a brown leather coat festooned with buckles and straps. Too heavy a coat for the springtime weather.
Marie read her body language. She wasn’t trying to be discreet—the woman wanted her attention, like she had something to say. Something she didn’t want to say in front of a crowd.
“S
peaking of drinks,” she said, gently stepping back as if the manic fashion designer was a hungry lion in disguise, “I should go get us some. Nessa, why don’t you catch up with your friend, and I’ll be right back?”
She flicked her eyes toward the woman at the bar. Nessa seemed to grasp her meaning, though she looked less than pleased as Freddie’s attention swiveled in her direction.
“Now, you,” Freddie said, “are far closer to perfection. We do have to address some basics, though—”
Her words tumbled into the din of conversation, fifty voices fading into an incoherent swirl as Marie made her way across the jigsaw floor. She didn’t approach the woman directly. Instead, she found an open spot at the end of the bar and lifted her hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“Could I get a Bobby Burns, a club soda with lime, and…another of whatever the redhead over there is drinking? Thanks.” Marie fished out her wallet. “Hey, I was wondering. Have you seen one of the regulars here, a woman named Carolyn Saunders?”
The bartender, dressed like he had just stepped out of an Old West saloon, let out a snort and shook his head.
“Regular? I wouldn’t use that word. I wouldn’t say her name too loudly, either, if I was you. Nearly got herself tossed out on the pavement headfirst last time she was here.”
That lined up with Carolyn’s notes. And it sounded like she hadn’t made that return trip, either.
“What’d she do?” Marie asked.
“It’s one thing to talk shit about somebody behind closed doors. It’s another to write it into a novel and sell it. Let’s just say some of our clientele took exception to her literary exploits.”
The woman touched her arm. Marie hadn’t even noticed her closing in.
“Marie?” Her eyes widened. “It is you! Oh my God, it’s been forever!”
This felt like an uncanny repeat of the last five minutes. As Marie deliberated her response, something must have shown in her eyes: in the space of a breath, the woman’s face fell.
“You…don’t remember me at all, do you?”
Detonation Boulevard Page 15
