by Tricia Owens
“They said you won’t. That it’s your motive for killing him.”
I swallowed hard. Had Morrison left my meddled gun where someone could find it? My prints would be on it and magiguards would detect the transfiguration it had undergone. But such carelessness seemed unlikely of him. Morrison had needed me to work. It had been in his best interests to get rid of the gun.
“They say you also might have been having an affair with him,” Ginger went on with an arch of one pale brow.
I shuddered as I pictured him. “No way. He was a thug in sheep’s clothing.” I took a steadying breath. “Please, Ginger. I didn’t do it. I’ll tell them myself. I’ll take a truth serum.”
“No,” she said sharply when I made to move toward the door. “They want to take you in for questioning. That will be the last that anyone sees of you. There will be no serum.”
I clutched my backpack to my chest. I hadn’t expected affinity from her—she tended to treat her tenants as adversaries—but I was heartened by it. “What do you suggest I do, then?”
“Keep on the move. If you didn’t do it they’ll eventually find the person who did. You’d better hope so,” she added with a dark look. “If they take you into custody they’ll consider it a closed case. They brag about a high apprehension rate in this city, in case you hadn’t noticed. Especially for magic deaths. Their first suspect is typically their last, if you get my meaning.”
“I get your meaning,” I murmured, feeling dizzy. “I can run for a few days, but my grandmother—I have to take care of her.”
“Then cross your fingers that this man’s killer is found soon. Because right now the police want to hang it on you.” Ginger tilted her head to the side, preoccupied. “They’re coming up here. Take what you need and go!”
“Thank you!” I whispered. I shoved the last of my things in my backpack and slung it over my shoulders.
As Ginger went out into the hallway to stall them, I grabbed a plastic bottle of hand lotion off my nightstand and meddled it. The lotion exploded out of it, spraying the walls, as I directed the molecules in the plastic to reform into a thin, malleable tarp the size of a twin bed sheet. Clutching the corners of it, I climbed up into the window
But I was too late. I heard a shout from the doorway, the thunder of feet. I leaned out of the window to jump and cried out as a hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. I turned my face and sank my teeth into the meat of a man’s palm. It was his turn to shout as I drew blood.
The hand let go. I threw myself out the window. I felt a yank on my backpack, nearly ripping it from my shoulders.
But I was out. My makeshift parachute caught the air, slowing my fall, until one corner of the tarp ripped out of my sweaty grip. I fell the remaining few feet but landed painlessly on my side. Oddly, leaves rained down around me until I realized it was actually money. My money. Whoever had grabbed at me had pulled open my backpack causing the last of my cash to spill out.
I didn’t have time to wait for all the money to fall and collect it. Frustrated, I jumped to my feet and sprinted, clutching my backpack to my chest. More shouting erupted from my opened bedroom window in unwelcome déjà vu. Why was I always running from police? With burning eyes and gritted teeth, I sprinted back across the yards to my waiting scooter.
~~~~~
As I stood on the sidewalk in front of the Sinistera it began to rain. I was alone and it was dark. The rain was further incentive to go inside the hotel. But I needed a moment to collect myself. Anger simmered in my veins like a fever.
Someone had framed me for Morrison’s murder. I didn’t think it had anything to do with my pulling a gun on him because no one could have known that I’d done that. No, it was his visit to me afterward at Ozium that was suspect. He could have been followed there, our conversation overheard by anyone with a meddled sound receiver. Also, he’d told Tower about me, which meant another possible leak of information.
Had Morrison been killed because he’d offered me this job? And to kill two birds with one stone they’d framed me for his murder? I thought it highly likely. Someone out there believed I was a threat. More specifically, they thought me working at the Sinistera Hotel was a threat. I hoped the answers would be found inside the hotel itself. But I had to be careful about it. Anyone inside could be complicit. I needed to play along as though I didn’t harbor any suspicions. Act as though I didn’t intend to ferret out the truth.
Act as though I didn’t intend to make them pay.
In my haste to flee my room I hadn’t packed any clothes or work shoes. The current anti-transfiguration protections made it nearly impossible to meddle cash or credit cards, which left me strapped. I’d been forced to steal clothes from a boutique’s sidewalk display and meddle a handful of usable outfits from them. I wasn’t happy about becoming a thief.
But times had changed. Arrow St. Marx was now a wanted woman and a desperate one. My grandmother, if she knew, would have been ashamed of me. She was the ultimate patriot, giving her life for a side she believed represented goodness and justice. She wouldn’t approve of what I was prepared to do to earn money, even if that money went toward paying for her suppressant and keeping her safe.
But this was no longer the world that she had fought for, and the rules had changed. The truth was made up of lies and the leaders were corrupt. To win this war I needed to be an anti-hero.
I’d begin by finding some revenge.
Chapter 6
My mood remained dark as I approached the front doors. Had the sidewalk dared to question me about being a witch again I would have meddled a jackhammer and destroyed it. Fortunately for the sidewalk, it let me past without a ripple.
The hotel lobby’s chill, herbaceous, and slightly boozy scent filled my lungs. The note of black licorice seemed more potent tonight. As I inhaled deeply, I could chart the gas’s progress through my body. My anger ebbed. The stress keeping my spine straight bled out of me. A part of me rebelled against this artificial, magical altering of my mood. The rest of me welcomed it. I needed to be clear-headed and calm, not off-the-rails intense and ready to attack the first person to raise my suspicion.
The hotel lobby appeared empty again. A double set of frosted glass doors stood beneath an ornate sign advertising the bar, but I didn’t see any shadows moving behind them nor was there movement above in the overlooking mezzanine.
The only person in the place seemed to be the front desk clerk whom I’d met the first time, the woman named Sheridan.
“Hello, again,” I said as I approached. “Don’t you work the day shift?”
She smiled pleasantly and lifted her hands from the keyboard on which she’d been typing. I noted that the keys weren’t marked with the standard QWERTY layout. I didn’t recognize the symbols on the keys, though that might have been my Glyph Eye acting up. In a place like this, it was difficult to know for certain.
“I work all shifts,” Sheridan told me.
I was sure that I’d heard her wrong. “All shifts? As in, all shifts?”
“Twenty-four hours, yes.”
I looked her over more carefully, but she appeared completely ordinary to me. “How is that legal? And don’t you need to sleep?”
“This is the Sinistera,” she replied to my first question. To the second, she said, “And no. I don’t require sleep.”
Was she a zombie? Those only existed on TV as far as I was aware. Plus, Sheridan looked nothing like the undead.
“How is it you don’t need sleep?” I asked her, suspicious.
“Mr. Tower provides the employees with energizing inhalants,” she told me. “They’re not a requirement, but many of the staff chooses to partake. I’m one of them.”
So the hotel manager provided his staff with uppers. Drugs could certainly be a reason for killing someone, though how that related to Morrison and me I couldn’t say.
“But my question stands,” I said. “Don’t you need to sleep? You can do psychological damage to yourself if you skip it.”
“During my thirty minute breaks, I use Mr. Tower’s other inhalant, which provides the physiological equivalent of deep REM sleep.” Sheridan smiled widely at my dubiousness. “I know it probably sounds somewhat preposterous, but Mr. Tower is a highly skilled AA specialist. His services are in great demand by our guests.”
I didn’t doubt that. The man was literally selling drugs. Was that what I would end up doing to earn the money that Morrison had hinted at? Smuggling Tower’s inhalants through the city?
I changed the subject. “Have you worked here long, Sheridan?”
“Years,” she said evasively, but with that pleasant smile on her face that made it nearly impossible to view her with suspicion.
“Then you must have met all the other people that Mr. Morrison has referred here.”
She shook her head. “A few here and there. But he hasn’t referred anyone for several months. Mr. Tower was pleased that he’s become active again.”
From the way she spoke, it sounded like she had no idea that Morrison was dead. Or else she was an excellent actress.
“Will I have a chance to meet his other referrals? I’d love to know how everything’s turned out for them. So I know what to look forward to.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Her perpetual smile wobbled at the edges.
They’re dead, aren’t they? I wanted to ask. It seemed obvious from her reactions now and from yesterday.
“That’s too bad,” I said. My smile was as phony as hers.
Sheridan was clearly a company woman, but I hoped I wasn’t imagining the hairline fractures in her composure that suggested she might crack further under pressure. If she’d been here for years as she’d claimed, she would be a treasure trove of useful information.
She looked down at something on her desk. “You’ll be working with Elliott tonight. There are four guards on duty during the night shift, but only you and he are mobile. The other two guards are statuary.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Where are they located?”
“One is in Mr. Tower’s office guarding the hotel safe and the guest security boxes. The other stands at the door to the basement.”
“Why the basement? What’s down there?”
Sheridan gave a careless little shrug. “I’m not sure. But the guard statue has always been there.”
I nodded like I accepted such an answer, but I told myself to check out the basement when I could.
“Alright, well—” I held up my backpack and helmet, my only two possessions besides my scooter. “Is there somewhere I can stow these?”
Sheridan showed me through the doorway behind the desk and into a locker room. There were two doors leading away from the room but both were closed. One was marked Office and the other Rest Area.
“There are sofas and a television in there,” Sheridan told me when she saw me looking at the second door. “That’s where we take our doses.”
“And is there a night manager I’m supposed to meet who will explain my duties? I’m completely inexperienced in providing security.”
“But you have weapons,” Sheridan noticed placidly, motioning at my holstered guns.
I’d meddled them an hour ago from a couple of pieces of rebar I’d found in an alley. No way was I traveling anywhere from now on without a weapon.
“Just because I’m armed doesn’t mean I’ve ever used them,” I said. I added a sheepish smile, trying to look harmless.
“I see. Well, the night manager is currently tied up, but you don’t need her anyway. Elliott will show you all you need to know.” Sheridan coughed into her hand. I had the suspicion she’d suppressed a laugh. “He’s on the second floor, dealing with a problem with the vending machine. You’ll see him. Or more likely, you’ll hear him.”
~~~~~
I skipped taking the elevator in favor of walking up the stairs from the lobby. I wanted to look around the place as I ascended.
When I reached the mezzanine, which was labeled as the second floor, I leaned over the railing to look down. From this height, the swirling colors of the carpet were more prominent, giving the lobby the look of a cauldron with the purple and black furniture floating like stewed fruit within it. Where were all the guests? Where was the rest of the staff? Did this place continually operate with a skeleton crew?
Why did I feel like the Sinister Hotel was a giant trap waiting to be sprung on me?
The corridors on this floor were carpeted in beige with geometric, arrowhead-like green shapes that compelled me forward. I followed the arrowheads down one hall and into another. Pearl-colored walls bracketed me on either side and were decorated with rectangular wood panels edged with silver leaf.
I didn’t hear a sound until I turned one more corner. Then it was unmistakable: someone was whistling. They were skilled. They could hit all the high notes and even add a touch of vibrato. I generally wasn’t a fan of whistling but this wasn’t so bad.
A vending machine stood in an alcove up ahead. Bathed in its fluorescent light kneeled a man with mussed, pale blond hair hit with the occasional white highlight.
“Elliott?” I asked.
The whistling immediately stopped as the man twisted around to face me. He wasn’t what I expected of a security guard. He appeared to be a year or two younger than me, maybe nineteen or twenty. His eyes were the uncertain color of rainwater—a misty gray-blue—and set wide apart, which gave him a perpetually startled look. All of his features were slightly uplifted, though he was spared from looking completely elfin thanks to a wide, square jaw.
“Are you Miss St. Marx?” he asked me.
I grimaced. “Just call me Arrow. It’s easier.”
He gave me a small, uncertain smile. “I’m Elliott May. It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” When he remained kneeling, I tucked my hands into my pockets, feeling awkward. “So…what’re you doing?”
He blinked rapidly, as if just realizing that he was still kneeling on the floor. “Oh! Um, there’s something wrong with this.” He waved haphazardly at the vending machine. Color stained his cheeks. “A couple of creatures have decided to live inside it.”
I’d expected to hear that the coin acceptor was jammed or that snacks weren’t falling on demand. “Creatures?”
“Yeah.” He looked embarrassed, as though it were his fault. “They have different bite radiuses which is why I know there are two of them.”
I squatted down to his level, still peering in at the vending machine’s contents. “Are you afraid they’ll attack you? Is that why you haven’t opened the door yet?”
“Sort of.” He sent me a sheepish look. “I’m an Animalia Medium, so I was hoping to coax them out without having to force them.”
“Why in the world are you working as a security guard?” I asked him. Animalia Mediums, while not in deep demand, commanded well-paying jobs in sanctuaries and as private pet trainers. There were a handful of celebrity Animalia Mediums that I was aware of who were earning more money than I would see in my lifetime.
“It’s complicated,” Elliott hedged as he looked back at the vending machine.
It was the kind of answer I’d expect of someone working illegally on the side. Was Elliott like me, struggling to make ends meet and willing to break the law?
“So how are you going to coax out whatever’s in there?” I asked him.
“I’ll do it now, but I warn you: it’s not all that exciting.”
“Yeah, okay. Enough with the modesty. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He smiled shyly before focusing on the vending machine again. His whistling started up again and I realized that it was how he communicated with whatever was inside the vending machine. I didn’t recognize the tune. Maybe it was something he made custom for the animal he wanted to influence.
Something rattled within the machine. I tensed as one of the snack bags fell out of its coil and tumbled into the delivery bin. Nothing else moved within that coil, but I kept watchin
g the row. Elliott changed up his tune, making it more spritely so that some notes fluttered like bird trills. This time the candy bars shook. I gasped as I glimpsed three slitted eyes hiding in the shadow behind a pack of peanuts. The eyes blinked in sequence.
A fuzzy form suddenly leaped down from the top row of coils and into the delivery bin. I’d been too focused on the three-eyed creature to get a good look at this fuzzy one. Elliott didn’t seem alarmed. He continued whistling, trying to make a connection with the remaining holdout.
When the three-eyed creature flew out of the shadows and smashed against the glass I yelped and fell back on my butt. Elliott’s whistling faltered at my reaction but quickly resumed as something green and starfish-like with thousands of tiny cilia began to make its way slowly down the glass. It was the size of a dinner plate, with four stubby arms that maneuvered it down the glass. Its three eyes were on the top of it, so I couldn’t see them from this position. Its mouth seemed to be on top, too, for its yellow underside was covered completely with the tiny, hair-like filaments that provided its locomotion.
The three-eyed creature, having reached the bottom of the glass, let go and fell with a heavy thud. Elliott, still whistling, reached to his other side, where a plastic bag with a snap top lay. He picked it up and opened its mouth over the slot for the delivery bin. The slot door opened and I heard something push its way out. The bag that Elliott held bulged with the sudden weight of something. A few moments later, a second weight fell into the bag. As the two creatures shifted around, Elliott hastily snapped the top shut, sealing whatever was inside.
“Not so bad,” he said with relief.
“Something could have gone wrong?” I asked with raised brows. I’d assumed he’d been in complete control of the situation.
“Well, something can always go wrong.” He palmed the back of his neck, cringing. “I’m not the best medium, so, er, things tend to happen.”
Maybe I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion about him. It sounded like he worked here because he was terrible in his chosen field.
