by AJ Larrieu
“What—?” Shane began, picking up on my distress, but when he looked up he went quiet.
For fifty yards around the camp, everything was dead.
We were smack in the middle of a sweltering Louisiana summer. The trees farther from the camp were bright green and lush, thick with leaves and the bright signs of wildlife I could pick up with my powers. Closer to the camp, the trees were gray and brittle. Not only that—the underbrush was nonexistent. The lack of overhead foliage should’ve encouraged a swarm of smaller plants taking advantage of the unfiltered subtropical sun. Some grasses and smaller plants had taken root at the edges of the dead zone, but the center was barren.
I’d scorched the marshy earth when I’d teleported from this spot months ago. I’d pulled from my surroundings to avoid killing Ryan. Here was the cost.
Shane was quiet while he tied the boat off to one of the remaining pylons. We climbed the rickety ladder to the porch without speaking, and I held my breath while I waited to see if the planks would take our weight. A few of them bowed under my feet, but they didn’t break.
“You okay?” Shane asked.
I didn’t answer him. I stared at the wall of the camp, the one that formed the back of the porch. The pattern of peeled paint was odd, as though the destruction had grown from some central point like an organic thing, a starburst pattern with feathery arms. I walked forward and put my hand to the center, remembering. This was the point from which the ice my gift created had crept over the building.
“Cass?”
“I’m fine.”
“Should we go in?” His voice was careful and I hated it.
“Yeah.” I walked past Shane into the camp’s austere bedroom. The door was still open; bills still littered the floor.
“Jesus.” He hit his knees and began gathering them up. “How much is here?”
“Like I said, no clue. I was more worried about getting back to you.” I went to the trap door and opened it.
It was full of cash. Packed. Nestled among the bills was an open metal box I knew once contained Ryan’s gun. A box of ammo was tucked to one side.
“How much do we need?”
I looked up. Shane stood over me, his hands full of cash. There had to be thousands of dollars, here. Tens of thousands. The bills had gotten moldy in the months of damp. We were going to have to literally launder this money.
I looked at the pile and the slivers of muddy water visible through the cracks in the floorboards. “All of it.”
* * *
I shoveled handfuls of bills into our giant, definitely not energy-efficient washing machine.
“Which cycle do we use? Delicate or permanent press?” There was too much for a single batch, so we counted the rest while we waited. It came to over forty thousand dollars in ones, fives and the occasional ten. I only found a dozen twenties. With what was in the washing machine, we had probably had close to a hundred grand in cash. We had plenty of time to bundle it into hundred-dollar stacks while the dryer tumbled. It took longer than I expected, but I figured Annette was used to after-hours clients.
I didn’t call ahead. I didn’t know what number I’d dial, anyway—Annette Perrin and her address didn’t have a phone number listed. I just walked right up to the front door and knocked as if I had every right in the world to pop by on a weekend well after dark.
It didn’t take long for the door to open. They’d probably been watching me walk up the drive. The guard looked me over. It was good to be short and small—it was hard to look threatening when you were barely over five feet tall.
“I’m here to see Annette,” I said, and gave him my most innocent smile.
He didn’t smile back. “You got an appointment?” White guy, tall and thick, not the same one who’d driven the SUV. I could drop him in half a second. Maybe I’d try the nice way first.
“I only need a few minutes of her time.” This had the advantage of being true. I took out the envelope of cash and showed it to him. “I came prepared.”
He frowned. “Name?”
Shit. I hadn’t prepared for this part. “Liz Taylor.” It was the first thing that popped into my head. I mentally cursed, but the guard clearly wasn’t a movie buff. Or a telepath. That, or he was used to people giving made-up names. He stepped aside and waved me in.
I stepped across the threshold and into a huge foyer. The outside of the house might’ve been bland, but the inside was designed to impress. The foyer was three stories tall with a chandelier at the top. The walls were painted dark red, and the light was low and yellow-hued, like candle flame. At the far end of the foyer, the dark wood of a massive, curving staircase gleamed in the low light.
“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot on an intricately patterned brown-and-gold rug and patted me down without so much as a warning. “Wait in the parlor,” he said when he was done. “First door on the left.”
The heels of my sandals clicked and echoed as I walked toward the door. It was dark-stained solid wood with an antique knob, and when I opened it and entered the room, I understood immediately why the guard called it the parlor. It was the only word I had for it too.
The room was huge—easily three times the size of an average living room. It contained at least a dozen old-fashioned chairs and love seats, most of them in the ornate Queen Anne style, oval backs with curling, carved wood armrests. The light was low and red-hued from a half-dozen small lamps with miniature shades. The room looked like some trendy hotel basement bar, complete with a low ceiling and fancy crown molding. After the vast upward reach of the foyer, the closeness of it was suffocating.
I didn’t sit down—it didn’t seem wise. I paced the rug in front of a green-and-yellow couch, my footsteps muffled by the thick fabric. I couldn’t quite make out the woven designs, but they were definitely animals. I thought I could see teeth and claws. The end tables nearest me held stacks of hardcover, clothbound books, delicate glass bowls with cut-out filigree patterns at their edges, and the perfectly reconstructed skeleton of a small animal, a rodent or maybe a cat. I couldn’t tell. It was posed upright, its spindly skeleton arms reaching out as if attacking, its tiny mouth bared.
“Miss Taylor?”
I jumped. It was lucky—if I hadn’t been surprised, I might not have responded to my fake name. Annette was standing in the doorway.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her smile said otherwise. Predatory and amused.
“That’s all right.” I faced her as she walked across the room with the kind of subtle, hip-swaying gait women learned young or not at all. She stopped in front of me and held out her hand. She was wearing all black again, long sleeves and slacks, high-heeled leather boots. No hat, though, and no sunglasses. Her eyes were so pale I could barely make out the color.
“Welcome to Shadow House.” She didn’t introduce herself. She seemed like the type who didn’t have to.
I took her hand. “Thank you.” Her grip was firm. Even her skin felt expensive. Smooth, cool and flawless.
“Please.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”
Her accent was as soft and rich as I remembered. Butter and honey. If wealthy Southern families were still sending their daughters to finishing school, Annette would’ve been the valedictorian. She looked to be mid-forties, so maybe she’d been to whatever the modern equivalent was. She sat down in the center of a two-person sofa and crossed one ankle over the other, angling her legs. She watched me with her mouth curved up ever so slightly while I tried to figure out where to sit. I ended up on the edge of a red velvet chair opposite her, right next to the skeleton. I didn’t let myself shift away from it.
“So.” She steepled her fingers. “You’ve found us.” She pitched her voice low, and I had to lean forward to make sure I’d heard. Her pale hair seemed to glow in the lamplight.
I wasn’t entirely comfortable with that statement. “My—uh—friend assured me you could deliver results.”
“That depends entirely on the problem. What is it you need, Miss Taylor?”
“Your fortune-teller,” I said, and had to clear my throat.
Her eyes went cold. It didn’t seem possible for them to grow paler, but the irises looked almost white. “My ‘fortune-teller’ is not for sale.”
“I only want to rent her.” Jesus, what was I saying? “I mean, use her services.” Shit. “I mean, I just need her to figure something out for me.” My heart pounded. “It’ll only take, like, fifteen minutes.”
Annette seemed to relax. I hadn’t realized she’d leaned forward until she leaned back again and settled her hands on the armrests. “What is it you wish to know?”
This part, I’d prepared for. “I want to know who’s going to win the World Series.”
She laughed. It was rich and smooth, like her voice, and it almost sounded genuine. Almost. My palms went sweaty and I wiped them on my slacks. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely amused, or if she was five seconds away from blowing my brains out with a concealed handgun. She stopped laughing. I held my breath.
“Eleven thousand dollars. No refunds if she’s wrong.”
“How could she be wrong?” I was genuinely curious. I also needed to stall while I came up with a plan. I only had five thousand in cash in my purse.
“Your question is more complicated than you know. Many things could change the course of the future.”
“Six thousand,” I said. “Three now, and three when she turns out to be right.”
Annette tipped her head to the side. “Ten thousand, upfront.”
“Five thousand upfront and five after the game.”
“Five thousand now and five after the reading.”
It would have to do. I wasn’t planning on being around after the reading. I took out the envelope and separated a chunk of the bills, hoping she couldn’t tell they were mostly ones. I tucked what remained in my pocket and set the envelope on the table between us, right next to a bell jar covering an ornate pocket watch on a brass stand.
Annette scooped up the envelope and tucked it away, her movement too fast for me to see where. So much for three grand, or whatever it turned out to be.
She stood and walked to a chest-high side table against the wall closest to the door. There was an old-fashioned rotary telephone there, the kind with a speaking bell hanging separately. She lifted it but didn’t dial, and after a moment she spoke in a low voice I couldn’t make out. She hung up and returned to her seat.
We stared at each other. She didn’t speak. I started to sweat even more, my back and underarms going damp. She barely moved. I wasn’t convinced she was breathing. I’d never wanted to make small talk about the weather so much in my life.
Thankfully, a moment later Diana walked in. She looked much better than when I’d seen her at the abandoned gas station. The bruise beneath her eye had faded to yellow-green, and she was wearing clothes that fit—jeans and a cotton blouse. Her skin was a rosy tan, as though she’d slept well after days of insomnia, but the color fled from her cheeks when she saw me.
“It’s all right, Dia. Come have a seat.”
Diana looked at me warily. I gave her the smallest nod I could manage, and she sat down next to Annette, angling toward her. She looked from Annette to me and back again, questioning. Annette put her hand over Diana’s and squeezed, gently. My brow furrowed.
Annette turned her body toward Diana, clearly addressing her alone. “Miss Taylor here would like to know who’s going to win the World Series this year.” She’d lowered her voice, as though she was speaking to a crying child. Diana seemed absorbed by her utterly.
This was not what I’d expected.
Damn the consequences; damn the invasion of privacy. I dove into Diana’s head.
That wasn’t what I expected, either.
Everything was dark except the part she clearly wanted me to hear, which in itself was astonishing. The message itself was even more so. —too dangerous—too dangerous—she’ll kill you—you can hear me—I know you can hear me—she’ll kill you—I’ve seen it—she’ll kill you and she’ll kill him—you shouldn’t have come—too dangerous—leave leave leave leave—
I’d heard enough. I’d leave, all right—but not without Diana.
I waited for her to look at me and held her gaze. I knew she couldn’t mindspeak, so I shook my head a tiny fraction and said what I could with my eyes. I’m getting you out of here.
Diana understood, or at least she seemed to. She licked her lips nervously, and her breath came faster. In her mind was a single word—How?—colored unmistakably with hope.
I had no way of explaining. I could only hold her gaze with what I hoped was reassurance.
“It’s going to take me a few minutes,” she said to the floor. It was the first time I’d heard her speak since she’d walked into the room, and her voice quavered. She was giving me time.
Annette’s face showed nothing but concern. Diana closed her eyes and gripped her knees, her knuckles white. I reached out with my powers for Annette.
There was nothing there.
I had to suppress a sound of surprise. She was like an emptiness in the room, not just inert but absent, as though the space she occupied had been sliced out of existence with a scalpel. I grasped around her, clumsy.
It was clear she couldn’t feel what I was doing. She sat, legs crossed at the ankles, watching me with the same even gaze she’d leveled at me from the start. My searching became frantic. Diana rocked back and forth in her seat. —hurry hurry hurry hurry—
“Dia?” Annette was instantly on her feet. “Are you all right?”
Diana nodded but didn’t speak. Even I didn’t believe her. It had to be now.
The house was air-conditioned. That was unfortunate. I cast my mental hands toward the lawn, the landscaping, the oak tree out back. I breathed in deep and took in power with the air, feeling the azalea bushes turn brittle and the tree shed browning leaves. It wouldn’t be enough.
Annette cocked her head and looked at me the way a large cat looks at a wounded antelope. Diana’s hands started shaking.
This was my only shot. There was no way I’d be able to bluff my way in twice, not once she counted that cash. I needed more power, and the only place to get it was from Diana.
“Take a deep breath,” I told her, and Annette’s eyes narrowed.
Diana nodded, understanding. I pulled slowly, carefully, watching her for signs of distress. Her power was huge. It was a well of organized energy, and if I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought she was funneling it to me actively. Ice formed at my feet, crackling.
Annette looked at the ice, confusion making her pause. A mistake. Power wrapped around me, sank into me, filled me up. Sparks flashed in my eyes. Annette gathered herself, muscles tightening, confusion set aside. She didn’t look like much, but then, neither did I. No time left.
“Shane,” I sent, knowing he could barely hear me, “we’re on our way.”
I lunged for Diana, wrapped her in a bear hug, and jumped. The last thing I heard before we winked out was Annette’s roar.
Chapter Eight
The nothingness of the jump was absolute. No light, no sound, no heat. It was the silence of it that I found most disorienting. It wasn’t so much the absence of sound as the absence of its possibility, as though even if I screamed, I wouldn’t make a noise. I could feel Diana’s body as I wrapped my arms around her, but beyond that, there was nothing. She might have been screaming herself. I couldn’t tell.
We came through gasping and hit asphalt in the middle of a deserted road. I fell over, panting. Jumps didn’t affect me as much as they used to, but when I wiped my nose, I came away with blood.
Diana went down on all fours and retched.
“You’ll be okay.” I crouched beside her. “Just breathe. In and out.”
I wiped my bloody hand on my jeans and slipped into her surface thoughts to pick up her mental state. It was a chaotic tangle at the moment, nothing but fear. She was hyperventilating between heaves. I rubbed her back between her shoulder blades and tried to bring her mental state into a calmer rhythm. Shane came running up.
“What happened? Is she okay?” He got on his knees next to me.
“Just disoriented. She’ll be all right. Diana?”
She wheezed and coughed, spitting blood onto the road. “Have to go—have to keep moving—have to go—where is she—” There were broken blood vessels in her eyes and hands. She looked frantically up and down the road like a squirrel in traffic.
“Diana, calm down, look at me.” I grabbed her arms. I was going to have to intervene in her head more than I’d wanted to. “You’re safe, okay? You’re safe. She can’t follow you. We’re miles away.” I slipped deeper into her mind as I spoke, looking for the place that governed consciousness. She was in overdrive, an engine about to burn out. I applied mental pressure, a strong suggestion of calm, one step shy of total possession. In this deep, I could tell she wasn’t seriously hurt, but her vision was watery, and she was about to pass out from hypoxia.
“You—you teleported—” Her eyes darted around as if she were watching a tennis match gone wrong.
“That’s right. There’s no way for her to follow us.”
She calmed a little and stood, taking in the deserted road, the pines and oaks filtering the moonlight. Then she noticed Shane.
“It’s you,” she said. “It’s you.” Her brain ramped up again. “You have to—no—no—” She bent double and clutched her temples, moaning. She muttered a litany of no and clawed at her face with her fingernails, tearing the skin. Shane looked on in horrified paralysis.
“Diana!” I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Diana, stop!”
But she was past reaching. I did the only thing I hoped would help—I pushed my way into her brain and forced her into sleep.
