Midnight Reign

by Chris Marie Green

  “Exactly,” Dawn said so only Breisi could hear.

  Mrs. Tomlinson was the only person who agreed to pose, but the rest of the family had obviously followed her to make sure she kept her mouth shut. As the matron put on a suitably sad expression—one tailor-made for the grieving mother of a man wrongly accused—Marg sauntered over to Dawn.

  “You have enough for a good story?” she asked, not seeming to mind the stench of garlic on Dawn’s skin.

  “Well, we’d like more. But we can do a decent human-interest piece.” She hoped she sounded like a real reporter.

  “You might wanna take Mom’s comments with a pinch of salt. She ain’t altogether here. Know what I mean?”

  “I understand. These are hard times.”

  This acting crap was totally easy. If Dawn wasn’t morally opposed to actually being an “actress,” she might even be dumb enough to fall into the sparkling lure of it.

  If she hadn’t grown up in L.A. knowing better.

  Marg put the dead cigarette between her lips again. “It’d be real nice if you respected Lee’s private love life and stuck to a story about how much his family supports him. That’s why we invited you here. That’s all we came here for—to buck up little Lee.”

  At the mention of the lover, Cassie had wandered over. Her face was mottled. Boy, was Mama going to get an earful from this daughter later.

  Dawn thought how she’d react in the same situation, chiding a mother who’d done wrong. But she couldn’t dredge up a connecting emotion. It sent a split of pain through her chest, reminding her of why she’d never wanted to need a mom anyway.

  Swallowing away the ache, Dawn joined the daughters in watching Coral adjust her blouse, then run a finger around her mouth to absently clear away stray lipstick.

  “So, now that we’re done here…” Marg said, changing the subject. “You know any hot spots?”

  Hot spots? Was she kidding? She was asking about places to party? Wow, Marg was definitely in mourning.

  “What kind of action are you looking for?” Dawn asked.

  “Like places the celebrities hang out.”

  Star screwing. God. Dawn wanted to tell Marg the reality of Tinseltown: it was all fake. From the limos driving bankrupt stars around, to the glossy magazines that crowed about family-oriented producers who held orgies in their second, off-limits mansions, Hollywood was a lie. Not even Marg would be able to find the fantasy of it if she knew everything.

  “Marg,” Cassie said.

  The woman held up her ciggie as she spread her hands. “You don’t wanna know, too?”

  Her sister presented her back and left. Marg didn’t seem to care much as she turned to Dawn again.

  “The thing is,” Dawn began, “once the public knows where the celebrities hang out, they kind of never go there again. Most of the really big stars enjoy their privacy, unless they’re in the mood for PR.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Where do they show up?”

  Before Dawn could answer, she was saved by what looked to be a boy in a back brace dressed in a striped shirt and jeans. He’d pulled a baseball cap down so low his face was barely visible. Just above the bill, the sign of the cross blazed in full glory. He was carrying a bucket and handing out candy bars attached to small Bibles.

  “Peace and love,” Kiko was saying in a modulated, higher kid voice as he gave each Tomlinson a gift, holding their hands in the process. He was so anxious to get readings this time out that he’d sacrificed the patch of hair beneath his lower lip, shaving it off so he would look years younger.

  Lingering over every touch, especially Coral’s, Kiko made his rounds, then disappeared behind the motel. He’d meet the team at the SUV.

  “They let their kids Bible-thump out here without parents around?” Marg asked, staring at the tiny book in her hand.

  Dawn shrugged. “L.A. kids get geriatric when they’re, like, five.”

  The other woman shook her head. “Poor little cripple boy. He doesn’t even have a good mom.”

  Minutes later, the photo session was completed, but Breisi attempted to wheedle a few more rounds of question-and-answer from the Tomlinsons. Lane just gave her a knowing grin, then personally escorted his mother back to the room. The rest of the family trailed behind.

  Ultimately, Lane was the last one in and, as he closed the door behind them all, Dawn caught a sincere glint of sadness in his gaze. It struck her that his emotion seemed much less dramatic than his own mother’s.

  Wasting no time, Breisi and Dawn rushed down the street to the SUV, where Kiko had already crawled into the backseat. Wasn’t he even going to call shotgun?

  The women climbed in, too, locking the doors. Breisi flicked on a dashboard switch that allowed The Voice to listen in from wherever he might be.

  Even though he wasn’t here, his presence felt real and solid, a perpetual thrum in Dawn’s body.

  “What did you get?” Breisi asked Kiko.

  The psychic didn’t answer, not verbally anyway. Instead, he reached out to Dawn. She was wearing one of Frank’s sleeveless T’s under her blouse, and she knew exactly what he wanted to do.

  Slipping the white blouse off of her shoulder, she allowed him to touch the undershirt, allowed him to close his eyes and summon whatever nightmares Frank might be having today.

  But when Kiko’s mouth twitched, she knew it was out of frustration. He wasn’t getting anything, and that meant…

  “No readings from the Tomlinsons,” she said.

  Almost out of desperation, he darted his hand out to touch the shirt again, but Dawn grabbed his wrist.

  “I just need to concentrate more,” he said, voice strangled. “Please.”

  “Kiko,” Breisi said, taking his arm from Dawn. “Don’t worry. It’ll all come back.”

  “When? My talents are as useless as—”

  He stopped, grabbed his arm from Breisi, and fell back to the seat, where he stared out the window.

  Dawn could’ve finished his sentence for him. His talents were as useless as his body.

  Pressure gathered behind her eyes. Shit.

  Without another word about Kiko’s difficulties—because what could they say?—Breisi started the engine and the briefing. They talked about how at least they knew that the Tomlinsons weren’t low-level vampires since they hadn’t reacted to Kiko’s cross on the hat or the blessed Bibles. The team touched on their impressions of the family, too. Breisi’s instincts matched each one of Dawn’s, and Dawn wondered what the hell was going on that she all of a sudden wasn’t arguing with the lab rat every second of the day.

  “Back at the house, I’ll contact these old roommates of Lee’s,” Breisi said. “I would especially like to get in touch with the one who knew about the lover.”

  Dawn was watching out the window as they drove back up to the Hills. Palm trees swished by, mocking the clouds. In the side mirror, she saw a hint of movement, and her gaze fixed there.

  Kiko. His hand had arched up to his mouth to pop something into it.

  Dawn’s gaze went red. “You really need one of those?”

  He hesitated, like he was mortified to have been caught.

  She waited, not letting him off the hook.

  Finally, he chuffed. “My painkillers are safer than yours any day. So back off, okay?”

  She should’ve been pissed about his reference to her habit of using sex for a cure-all. It was a weapon in her personal war against Eva, a way to make Dawn feel like she was just as attractive, even if it was only temporary.

  With all her effort, she did back off, knowing he wasn’t in a receptive mood. She kept her eye on him though, and he damned well knew it.

  After they parked, then walked up the path leading to the Black Dahlia dollhouse, UV lights flooded the Gothic entrance, emphasizing the iron cross hanging over the doorway. Once inside, none of them talked, just went their separate ways. Kiko headed for a bed, where he could get the rest he was required to take each day, whether he wan
ted it or not. Tomorrow, he had a therapy appointment, but before then, Dawn was going to talk to his counselor about those pills.

  In the meantime, Breisi veered toward the huge wooden door off the parlor. She unlocked it, making Dawn wonder, once again, just what was behind the barrier. Previously, she’d seen blue lights, heard a metallic buzzing. Breisi guarded the sanctuary like her life depended on it, and every time she got all secretive, Dawn got even more curious.

  With a squirrelly look, Breisi disappeared into the dungeon, leaving Dawn alone.

  Hell. What to do?

  She decided to head up to the computer room to see if she could research any info about Lee’s roomies and then dial up Kiko’s keepers to ask about his meds.

  With a sigh, she climbed the stairs, gradually consumed by the dimness of the upper story. The eerie silence was like perpetual twilight, an unexplained place between all the worlds crashing in on her daily.

  As always, she came to the first portrait hanging on the wall. A desert spanned the canvas: sandy, desolate, warm in its emptiness.

  Barely glancing at it, she began to pass by on her way to the computers.

  But when the picture suddenly filled with the image of a beautiful woman, Dawn froze.

  NINE

  THE FRIENDS

  GAZE locked on the portrait, Dawn held her breath while the woman formed into a vision. It was like an invisible paintbrush was swiping over the canvas, breathing jasmine-scented life into the vivid texture: a golden turban against sand, darkly slanted eyes against brown skin, bare shoulders against the falling collar of a silken robe.

  One of the Friends had just returned home.

  Pressing her fingertips against the rough oils of the woman’s neck, Dawn found a pulse, as if she could actually absorb energy from the paint itself. Then…something else.

  The sibilant vibration of a laugh, a sigh.

  She yanked her fingers back. What the hell?

  All the while, the woman in the painting stared at her, watching in silent assessment, unmoving in her dreamy-eyed rest.

  From the end of the hall, the door to The Voice’s office gasped open. It wasn’t really the sound of it that attracted Dawn—it was the gape of its movement, the shift in balance and temperature. She glanced sidelong at the door, thinking in the back of her mind that it resembled the vertical slit of a reptile’s gaze, one that fixed on her with night-prowling intention.

  A soft giggle floated from that room, or maybe from over Dawn’s head, or…

  She glanced at the portrait again.

  From there?

  She ran her palms down the intricate wooden frame, not knowing what she was searching for. Sound devices planted just to screw with her? Doubtful. But she couldn’t stand here, listening as another laugh danced around her.

  Dawn, giggled a female’s melodious, foreign-accented voice.

  Wracked by a chill, Dawn eased away from the painting. The light voice was more inside her head than anywhere else. Still, that didn’t mean it hadn’t come from the picture.

  Dawn Mad-ee-son…

  Ignoring the mind games, she tried to slip her fingers to the back of the portrait, expecting it to move away from the wall. But it didn’t. The frame was bolted permanently, like a flat fortress that could never be breached.

  Then it happened, right in front of her.

  In slow—or was it fast?—motion, the woman’s eyes closed, as if in sleep.

  Dawn’s breath chopped past her lips.

  Why was she still what-the-helling all this? She knew the pictures contained spirits. She’d at least been told that much. Or maybe she’d just inferred it…. Anyway, seeing one of them in the flesh, or whatever, made this all too real—much harder to deny, because even with all she’d been through, all she’d learned, that’s what she still wanted to do.

  Keep denying everything.

  “Dawn,” said a much lower, much more immediate voice.

  She gazed toward the office again, toward the slightly open door. Had it been the boss this time? His tone seemed different, maybe because it was unfiltered by the constraints of those high-quality speakers. She’d heard him sound that way only once before but there was a less ominous quality this time….

  “Jonah?” she asked. It seemed okay to call him that right now, with him sounding so human…so here.

  The door scraped open a few more inches, an invitation.

  Her body went Pavlovian, a throb working between her legs like the stiff ticks of circular seconds. Heat primed her in anticipation, in the hope that she would get a sexual fix to tide her over again.

  Just until she could get back to normal.

  Her heartbeat banged in her ears, through her belly, as she made her way there. She pushed open the door, greeted by cool air and a faint, unidentifiable scent that did more to stir her up than calm her. She felt like she was listening to a crack of thunder split the sky, like she was waiting for a bad storm to hit.

  But fear didn’t stop her. She was lured beyond endurance, and it wasn’t for the first—or probably last—time, either.

  Stepping inside his dim office, she saw the lone flicker of a candle ensconced in its iron-and-glass casing behind the massive desk. A tongue of reflection teased the surface, where a scar marked the wood, hinting at a ripple of violence in The Voice’s past. It looked like an ax blade had made itself at home there, not that he’d ever told her the story.

  Or ever would.

  The candle flame imitated the waver of her heartbeat. “Jonah?”

  No one answered as she scanned the rest of the room: the lifeless books and heavy, closed curtains, the ever-watchful TV that seemed to have been lulled to a nap.

  The portraits of the other women.

  She stopped near the picture of an empty field of fire, but as her eyes focused on the familiar scene, she did a double take.

  Like the portrait in the hallway, this one wasn’t empty anymore.

  The fiery landscape now showed a person she’d never seen. The subject faced away from the room, a red cape covering any hint of a body, a long sheen of tousled dark hair masking everything else. It reminded Dawn of the woman downstairs above the fireplace mantel—the colors, the tone….

  Entranced, she began to move toward it.

  A gust of jasmine perfume spiked through the room, mixing with a sound that made Dawn think of a torch being brandished in attack. With the accompaniment of a deep, sirenlike laugh, the candle behind the desk guttered.

  Adrenaline burning, Dawn crouched in response to the sudden darkness. The door slammed, and she spun around, darting toward the now-barred exit.

  What was The Voice trying to do? Control her through fear this time?

  “Shhhh,” he whispered from somewhere on the right as she tested the locked doorknob. “Quiet, Dawn.”

  It seemed as if he were actually here in the flesh, standing in the corner near a bookcase. The situation made her think of that other time Jonah had come to her like this, when she’d confronted him about luring her to L.A. with Frank as bait and he’d tried to tell her he hadn’t planned it that way, even though that’s how everything had worked out. Of course, he’d gone invisible when it came down to interacting with her; at least, that’s what she thought he’d done. Even though his touch had felt more real than usual, she hadn’t been able to see him in a mirror across the room, a mirror reflecting her every movement—not his—even as his hands and mouth had remained on her body.

  As she listened to him stir in his corner, she halted, remaining low to the ground near the door, tuning her ears in to his movements.

  This was a guy who usually preferred to enter her during mind play, never physically. So what was he doing now? What did he have planned today?

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Waiting a long time.”

  He sounded so…strange…without the speakers. Not as low-pitched, and the foreign accent…gone? Why? Maybe the speakers just warped his tone whenever he spoke. But wouldn’t she h
ave noticed this the last time he’d come to her without the cover of the audio system?

  “What’s going on?” she said. “Spill it or I’m out of here.”

  “Trust me.”

  She heard clothing rustle as he moved closer.

  A thought clicked into gear: had he gotten braver and finally decided to forgo all the masquerade crap he loved to hide behind?

  Her blood went hot, rushing and stomping until she got lightheaded, light-bodied, a rhythm beating deep and low.

  “I want you to turn from my voice,” he said, only feet away now.

  Games. Their games.

  Her skin awakened, but it was more out of an odd inner alarm than desire. Yet, weren’t fear and lust entwined? Hadn’t she gotten off on other short-lived, rough-and-tumble boning sessions too many times to count?

  So why was she hesitating? She’d already decided that it was okay for The Voice to “anchor” her crazy new existence, right? Wild sex had always stabilized her. Why not now?

  Before she could answer him, frigid heat enveloped her, like someone had wrapped her in a column of numbing flame. She startled, unable to move her arms, her hands, her legs.

  Another of The Voice’s provocative moves?

  Why didn’t it feel as good as it usually did?

  Dawn thought she heard him breathing just inches away now, but when she caught a whiff of jasmine, she realized that Jonah wasn’t touching her at all: it was one of the Friends binding her.

  “Relax,” he whispered. “All I want you to do is relax.”

  Listen to him, let it happen, she told herself. You always feel better afterward, so don’t fight it.

  Her pulse escalated, liquid gusts flooding her veins.

  He came to stand behind her. At the feel of silk against her forehead, then over her eyes, she sucked in a quick breath.

  A blindfold.

  As he tied it, the sensual material whispered, harsh and sleek, into a knot. The pressure vised around her head, cutting into the long black wig she was still wearing from the Tomlinson interview. Her temples thudded in time with the rest of her body, kicking out a coded message that she couldn’t translate.