Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  I went inside.

  SIX

  Romeo sat at the end of the half-empty bar, cradling a glass of bourbon with his manicured fingernails. Roguish stubble, ruffled hair, and an orange sport coat slung carelessly over a shirt that looked like a kaleidoscope whorl. His peacock grace was so practiced it looked effortless: the loudest man in the room, without saying a word. He flashed a perfect smile as I walked his way.

  “You must be Marilyn,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “A beautiful name. Makes me think of Marilyn Monroe.” He gestured to the empty stool on his left. “Why don’t you have a seat? We don’t need to be in a hurry.”

  I sat beside him.

  “You didn’t mention where you heard about me,” he said. Gently probing as he looked into my eyes.

  “A friend of mine . . . met with you once,” I told him. “I don’t think she’d want me to say her name.”

  He waved a hand. “I understand. I don’t name names, either, in case you’re worried. What’s between us is between us, and that’s where it stays. Nobody has to know. I do have to ask you one question, and I apologize for it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marilyn,” he said, “are you a cop?”

  I almost laughed. Never, in the history of law enforcement, has that question saved anyone from getting busted. I would have thought a demon-blooded hustler would know better. Then again, considering where I was sitting, I wasn’t in a position to lecture anyone.

  “No,” I told him, “I’m not a cop.”

  “You seem nervous. It’s okay, you know. I see clients who are in perfectly happy relationships; they just can’t get what they need from their husband”—his gaze flicked to my hand, checking for a ring—“their boyfriend, but it doesn’t mean they love them any less. I want you to think of me as your . . . fantasy facilitator. No judgment, just pleasure.”

  I forced myself to smile. The nervous edge in my voice—that was real.

  “This is my first time doing something like this.”

  Romeo’s gentle smile grew wider. “And you chose the best. Clearly you’re a lady of impeccable taste. You won’t be disappointed. All of my clients are repeat clients—once you get a taste of what I have to offer, I guarantee you’ll be hungry for more.”

  I felt my veins squirming under my skin, empty and starving, moving in time to the jackhammer of my heartbeat.

  “Would you like to continue this discussion someplace more private?” he asked. “Someplace we can get comfortable?”

  “We can’t use my room. It’s . . . he’s up there right now.”

  “Of course.” That reassuring smile again. Knowing. “I have a room at the Starlite, just next door.”

  Romeo rose from the bar stool and held out his hand.

  “Would you walk with me, Marilyn? Do me the honor?”

  His palm tingled against mine. His fingers twined like the teeth of a warm steel trap, closing shut. He walked me through the lobby, out the door, down to the Starlite. His room was on the second floor, overlooking the boardwalk, and it smelled faintly of some musky cologne that made me think of the sea. He clicked on a lamp, spilling light across striped ’70s-era wallpaper, and drew the heavy curtains shut.

  I set the three hundred dollars on the nightstand. He gave the cash an appraising glance, nodded, didn’t bother to count.

  He slithered into the gap between us, stealing the air from my personal space. His voice dropped to a purr. “This is all for you. It’s all about you. And don’t worry—I’ll be gentle. Unless . . . that’s not what you want.”

  “What do you think I want?”

  His brow furrowed, just a little bit.

  “I’m usually good at reading people’s desires,” he said. “I’ve got a knack for knowing what they need, what they’re hungry for. You . . . you’re a tricky one. Tell me something, Marilyn: Do you know what you want?”

  That was easy. I wanted this all to go away. I wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to stop remembering how Nadine had humiliated me, violated me, every single time I looked inside myself.

  This was different. Because I’m choosing this, I thought. Even if it’s the wrong choice, at least it belongs to me.

  “I want you to kiss me,” I told him.

  And he did. And my world caught fire.

  I felt the room burning around us, and I drank the smoke like some sweet summer wine. Then the room was gone, the hotel was gone, the universe was gone, torn away by a surge of pleasure so powerful that nothing else could exist in its presence. The pain and the hunger boiled away, and I fell backward into the wellspring of my own magic, splashing into the purest of rivers, letting it carry me to the heart of the universe.

  Night fell over Atlantic City. The casinos and resorts lit up white-hot along the boardwalk, artificial suns and beacons glowing in the dark. I wound through the crowded lobby of the Diamondback, chin high, speed in my step. I had just left Romeo behind, returning alone, but I still felt the tingle of his lips. I tapped my earpiece.

  “Full house down here. We gonna do this? Are you ready? I’m ready.”

  “Damn, girl.” Jessie laughed. “Somebody’s raring to go. Yeah, sounds about right. Come up and meet me on twelve. April, Kevin, clear the room and get down to the parking garage. I want you two in the SUV with the engine running. If we do this right, it should go quick and quiet. We’ll be halfway to Philly by the time anybody notices their pet psychic is missing.”

  I was alone in the elevator. Bouncing from foot to foot as I punched the button for twelve, and feeling a tingle in my blood. I cupped my open hands, palms up.

  The elevator took on a Halloween glow as swirls of orange flame ignited in my palms. I didn’t even need the ritual words, my traditional call to the elements. The power came to me unbidden. I laughed—giddy—and snuffed the fires with a sudden clench of my fingers.

  Jessie paced just outside the elevator door in a vestibule lined with tall mirrors. She greeted me with a curious tilt of her head. “What’d you do, chug a whole pot of espresso?”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re vibrating.” She flashed a grin. “Let’s go pick a fight with the Mafia. Our boy’s in 1208—it’s the only door with a couple of Jersey goombahs standing watch outside. I’ve been hanging out around the corner, listening to these idiots talk—it’s like we walked into a Sopranos episode.”

  We eased up the hall, where the corridor broke into a three-way split. She held up a hand to stop me.

  “Let’s play it casual, get close, and take them down fast and quiet. I’ll get the one on the left.” She paused. Then she leaned in, and sniffed at me. “Harmony, were you . . . ?”

  “What?”

  Jessie shook her head, frowning, and tapped the side of her nose. “Never mind. This place is filled with weird smells. Downside of having hyperactive senses: with this much stimuli, not to mention the cigarette smoke, the sniffer gets a little confused. C’mon, let’s do this.”

  We rounded the corner and strolled along, just another couple of tourists headed back to their room. Our targets stood dead ahead: two guys sporting gold chains and conspicuous bulges under their track jackets, looking bored and antsy. One stared us up and down as we got close. He gave me a reptile smile.

  “Lookin’ good, ladies.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. Then I grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and shoved him off balance, sending him cheek-first against the wall. The barrel of my gun jabbed into the small of his back, and he turned into a statue. Jessie’s dance partner hit the carpet. He let out a little yelp as she straddled him, twisting one arm hard behind his back, not breaking it but proving she could.

  “Don’t even think about yelling for help.” I reached under his jacket, plucked the stubby pistol from his waistband, and tossed it to the floor behind me. “We’re not here for you; we don’t want you. Stay out of our way and you get to go home to your family tonight. Capisce?”

  I slapped t
he cuffs on and sat him down next to his buddy, both of them glowering at us.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” he said. “You know who owns this place? You got any idea who you’re messing with?”

  “Trust me,” Jessie said, “considering the kind of people we usually go up against, you guys are minor-league at best. Still, you get an A for effort.”

  I waved the key card at the black box beside the door. It clicked, flashing a green light. On the other side, Houston was already walking up to greet us.

  “Come on, we’re getting you—”

  “Out of here, I know, you said that already.” Houston winced, fluttering a hand at his face. “I’m sorry. When I’m stressed, the visions get hard to handle. I forget which timeline I’m in.”

  We hustled him up the hall, back to the elevator banks.

  “Your note,” he said. “You used my real name. Who sent you?”

  I hit the “Down” button and stepped back from the doors. “Douglas Bredford—well, sort of.”

  “Doug?” Houston’s eyes widened. “He’s still alive? No. Dead now, isn’t he? I just asked you that.”

  “I’m sorry, as far as we know, the only survivors from your old team are you and Aselia Boulanger, and we’re not sure about her. She’s either dead or—”

  “Underground. I talked to her a couple of years ago. Just once, that’s all we could risk. She was our transportation specialist—if anyone knew how to move under the radar, it’s . . . Damn it, damn it!” Houston pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t fight. Don’t fight.”

  “What?” Jessie asked. “Fight who?”

  “Just surrender. Watched it ten different ways, zero percent survival rate if you don’t.”

  The elevators chimed. Two doors slid open at once, one on our left, one on our right, each one carrying a cargo of armed men. Suddenly the air bristled with guns aimed at point-blank range.

  “That,” Houston said, his face falling.

  One of the gunmen stepped up, shaking his head. “What’s the matter, Houston? You don’t like the accommodations here no more? You got a problem with the room service?”

  Houston suddenly flinched as if he’d been hit. He tucked his chin against his neck, staring meekly at the floor. The gunman snickered and looked my way.

  “I love this guy. I can beat ten shades of crap out of him without bruisin’ a knuckle. I just have to think about throwing a punch, and he feels it anyway. Security was watching him like a hawk on the casino cameras: they caught that move with his room key. We’ve just been waiting all day for you to go for it.”

  A rough hand plucked the Glock from my shoulder holster, then patted me down. The gunman gestured to the open elevator door.

  “Mr. Ammandola requests the pleasure of your company, ladies. Please, right this way.”

  SEVEN

  Being a witch means you’re never unarmed. As they marched us across the casino floor, hissing a warning to stay quiet and keep our hands in plain sight, I ran through a dozen plans on the spur of the moment. I could cause a distraction, start a panic in the crowd, harness elemental fire, and take one of the gunmen down with brute force . . . but every option meant risking Houston’s life. For now, until they put our backs to the wall—literally, I suspected—it felt smarter to go with the flow.

  The Diamondback offered a number of dining options, but Tumicelli’s was the only one that boasted a Michelin star. Also, the only one that wasn’t snake themed. Double doors opened onto polished hardwood floors, ivory tablecloths, and candlelight, an old-world steak house where piped-in chamber music muffled the distant slot-machine chimes. A second-floor balcony ringed the room, hanging over the tables below, and long glass skylights in the ceiling opened up to the starless Jersey sky.

  We didn’t need an introduction to spot “Big Jim” Ammandola at a corner table, digging in to a bowl of Parmesan-crusted macaroni and cheese with a bib tucked into his tailored shirt. He was about as wide as he was tall, with fat lips and a jackal’s eyes. His men ushered us over, pulled out chairs, and sat us down.

  “This guy,” Ammandola said, jabbing his fork at Houston. “Y’know, I’m nothing but fucking nice to this guy. Do I get any appreciation? No. Not one bit. So what’s your story? Couple of hired guns? He get a message out, hire you to spring him?”

  One of the gunmen leaned in, slapping my badge on the tablecloth.

  “This says they’re feds, Mr. Ammandola.”

  “This says, this says.” Ammandola snorted and tossed back a swig of red wine. “My nephew, he’s a computer whiz—give him ten minutes and he can print up creds that say I’m in the FBI.”

  “Afraid it’s true,” I told him. “You just abducted a pair of federal agents at gunpoint.”

  “Ain’t the worst of my sins. Hell, probably ain’t gonna be the worst tonight. But who said anything about abduction? We’re just having a chat, that’s all.” He snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. “Hey, doll, bring another bottle of that merlot and a couple of glasses for my new friends here.”

  “We’re not investigating you, if that’s what you want to know.” Jessie sat back and fixed him with a steely look. “We’re here on a matter of national security. We need Houston’s help, and it’s in your best interests to give him to us.”

  The waitress set out glasses for us, splashing out dollops of burgundy wine that graced the air with a faint peppery scent. Houston, on my left, had retreated somewhere deep inside himself. Arms folded, head down. Crash position.

  “I got a problem with that,” Ammandola told Jessie. “See, this guy stole my money. Being the forgiving sort of person I am, I’m graciously allowing him the opportunity to repay me.”

  I leaned in. “How much does he owe you? Maybe we could work something out.”

  “It ain’t a specific dollar amount so much as the general principle of the matter. C’mon, ladies, you know what this guy can do, right? When you’ve got a goose that lays golden eggs, you don’t sell him.”

  “Sounds like we’re getting close to an impasse,” Jessie told him.

  Houston rocked back and forth, his head twitching, eyes shut tight. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said, “are you okay?”

  “Flip the table,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  Houston’s eyes shot open. He lifted his head and screamed, “Flip the table!”

  I grabbed hold of the table’s edge and heaved. Jessie followed my lead, shoving the big, round table like it was made of balsa wood. Glasses and plates flew as it crashed onto its side. The kitchen doors blasted open, and two men strode out, draped in long leather coats and motorcycle helmets with opaque visors. The bullpup rifles in their leather-gloved grips, stubby and black and modified for full auto, washed the room in steel fire. Bullets chewed into the table, the mahogany pillars, smashing plates and wine bottles. A waitress went down. She spun before she hit the floor, her white blouse torn and scarlet. One of Ammandola’s men was the next to die, staggering backward and shrieking, with his jaw blown off and hanging by a thread of sinew as the others scrambled for cover. Tourists stampeded for the exit, cramming in at the doorway, one of them going down with a three-round burst to the spine.

  The skylights exploded. I crouched behind the table and threw my arms over my head as shards of glass rained down, smashing in a glittering tide across the floorboards. A pair of black tactical ropes unfurled, and another pair of helmeted shooters rode them down, sliding along the lines with one hand while firing with the other.

  Ammandola yanked a fat little .32 from his waistband. Jessie reached over and plucked it from his grip. Ammandola glared at her, then gave Houston a questioning look.

  “Let her. She shoots better than you.” Houston looked to Jessie. “They’re wearing vests. Two shots to the head, then duck fast.”

  Jessie broke from cover, aiming at the men by the kitchen door. Her first bullet went wide, slamming into the wood and spitting spl
inters. The second crashed through the helmet’s faceplate and straight into the gunman’s face. He dropped hard and fast, finger squeezing his trigger in a death grip, spending the last of his magazine. Jessie hit the floor a split second before a hail of lead ripped through the air.

  I was reaching to my magic, calling for a weapon, when Houston grabbed my forearm. He squeezed, hard.

  “Listen. Aselia Boulanger was hiding in Louisiana. Des Allemands. Go to her. Tell her I said, ‘Paris was nearsighted anyway.’ Remember that, okay?”

  “You’re coming with us—”

  “No,” he said, his face contorted with grief. “I’ve seen forty-seven possible permutations of the next ten seconds.”

  “Houston—”

  “I die in every single one of them. Thank you for trying.”

  For a moment, he seemed almost peaceful. The panic fading away, replaced by a quiet, sad resignation. A heartbeat of silence in the whirlwind of battle.

  Then faint glowing embers danced on his skin. Flitting across his face, his hair, his arms, like tiny fireflies. My gut clenched. I’d seen that before. It could only mean—

  Houston shrieked as his entire body caught fire. He went up like a Roman candle, stumbling away and flailing, leaving charred footprints in his wake. The only thing louder than the screams and the gunfire was the mad, gleeful laughter from the balcony above.

  Mikki grinned down at us and raised her arms high in triumph.

  “Hey, bitches! Did you miss me? I missed you! I thought about you two every single day I was locked in that—”

  I didn’t give her a chance to finish. I shot to my feet and flung out my open hand, calling to my magic. Fueled by rage, a lance of fire streaked from my fingertips like a razor-thin trail of burning gasoline. Mikki dived for cover, ducking behind the banisters, as the fire splashed across the wall behind her.

  “Keep her head down,” I shouted at Ammandola’s men. “If she can’t see you, she can’t burn you!”