Scott smiled as he looked up from behind the menu. “I bet she won’t make that mistake again. Ariadne tends to watch the dollars and cents.”
“She’s never fought me on anything,” I said, pretty settled on that rib eye. I was trying to figure out how a steak could be worth fifty dollars. And I’d had some pretty good steaks before. “Is this steak really fifty bucks?”
Scott looked back at the menu. “Yes.”
I closed the leather volume in front of me. “And it’s a piece of meat?”
He cocked his head at me, eyes filled with curiosity. “Yes …”
There was a low-hanging light above our table and I leaned across, under it, my shadow darkening the unsullied white tablecloth. “It’s not like … magical meta steak that has powers beyond those of a regular steak? Able to—I don’t know? Cure cancer for the eater? Give them off-the-charts sex appeal that will allow them to sleep with anyone?”
“No,” Scott said, and he seemed amused. “Well, maybe on the sex appeal. It’s just a steak, albeit probably a very good one. Haven’t you ever eaten at a fancy restaurant before?”
“I used to go to Biaggi’s sometimes in Eden Prairie Center,” I said, thinking about the Italian place that Zack and I had gone to. I felt a pang of embarrassment thinking of Zack locked up in my head right now, probably watching this whole scene play out in … well, dismay. Or horror. Something. “I used to love Santorini’s, but I’m pretty sure their steaks topped out at about thirty dollars or so.” I had also gone there with Zack. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I didn’t dare check on him, not now.
“We should go to Manny’s in Minneapolis some time,” Scott said. There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke. “Or Pittsburgh Blue. They’ve both got steaks for fifty dollars.”
“I haven’t even gotten over eating one steak for fifty dollars and you’re already trying to talk me into two more?” I glanced back at the menu and then shut it. The price was not going to fall anytime soon simply by me staring at it in disbelief. “That’s ballsy.”
“Confident,” Scott corrected.
I looked at him as I put the menu down. “I admire your optimism, but it might just be unfounded. I don’t see myself going out for a lot of fancy dinners once we get back to Minneapolis and I—as you put it—pick up my baggage.”
“This problem won’t last forever,” Scott said with a light shrug as he matched my movement and put his menu down as well. The black leather binder stood out on the white tablecloth. “You’re going to figure out how to use your powers, and we’re gonna beat Sovereign and Century like they’re a cheap steak and we’re a tenderizing hammer.” He paused. “See what I did there? What with us being in an expensive steakhouse and all—”
“Subtle.” I cut him off, letting my fingers hold up my face as I leaned on my elbow, staring at him. “Listen … I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but I—” I glanced around. There was no sign of our waiter, for which I was actually grateful, in spite of being hungry enough to order the uncooked, unskinned hindquarters of the cow if it were available now. “I think your faith in me might be unfounded.”
“You’ll get it,” he said and waved a hand at me in utter dismissal. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten it yet, I mean—”
“I don’t know how to do it,” I said, brutally cutting him off. “I’ve tried. I dug deep, talked to my little collection of matryoshkas within, and—it doesn’t work. No chance. Nothing. They’re not even talking to me at this point.” I leaned back in my chair, feeling like I’d achieved some mighty victory by throwing this desperate, horrible information at Scott right in the middle of a restaurant so fancy I wasn’t sure even my most expensive clothes belonged here.
“Hello, my name is Garion, and I’ll be your server tonight,” a shorter man said as he approached us with a little flourish. His uniform was natty-neat and matched with everything else I’d seen in the restaurant thus far. “Sorry for the delay, but I can get you started with anything?”
I didn’t answer at first and neither did Scott, each of us staring at the other across the table. Finally, I did speak. “Just water for me.”
“The same,” Scott said, and his voice scratched in his throat like he’d drunk a bottle of sand straight out of the desert.
“Let me tell you about our specials for the night,” Gar said, but I was already tuning him out. My eyes were fixed on Scott. His face was red, eyes downcast, hands folded in front of him. I watched him as the waiter talked on, without a reaction from either of us, and knew that I’d thrown the entire weight of my baggage on him.
And just as it had done to me, it completely crushed him under its weight.
Chapter 11
When I awoke, it took me a minute to get my bearings. I was wrapped in soft cloth sheets pressing against my exposed shoulders and arms. I could feel the lines of my tank top and sweatpants because sleeping in anything was so foreign to me. I adjusted my body as I sat up, the sunlight flooding in from the massive windows that took up an entire wall.
The city of Las Vegas was spread out before me, hotels on the other side of the road obstructing my view only a little. There were mountains in the distance, dust-covered and plain, so unlike the green, verdant and snow-capped ones I had seen on TV. I stared out at the vista, all that wide-open space, and took a long breath.
Between the window and the bed was a sitting area filled with ugly green-tinted couches that had a dark pattern embroidered on the cloth. The scent of Scott’s cologne was the only thing in the air, and fortunately it was faint. I could see the top of his head over the small wall separating the bed from the sitting area. His gaze was tilted down, focused on the glass-top coffee table in front of him.
I yawned and clapped a hand over my mouth. I had dragon breath, no doubt, and suspected that his meta senses would allow him to detect it even from ten feet away. That was one of the drawbacks to the enhanced senses of a meta; I’d learned to ignore it somewhat after months of kissing Zack and tasting the hints of whatever he’d most recently eaten. I’d also bugged him about breath mints and brushing his teeth more often, the poor guy.
“You’re awake,” Scott said without turning to face me.
“Naw,” I replied, “I’m just sleepwalking, that’s all. Ignore me, and eventually I’ll pitch over and start snoring again.” He laughed nervously, but still did not turn to face me. “Oh, God, I don’t snore, do I?”
“What?” He finally turned his head around, and I saw him from the cheeks up, the rest of him blocked by the short partition wall between me and the sitting area. “No, I didn’t hear any snoring. I think you laughed at one point, kind of softly.”
I put my back against the wooden headboard and pulled my knees to my chest, letting my hands slide down the soft fabric of my sweatpants. “I find it hard to believe I’d have anything to laugh about in my dreams.”
“Maybe I was dreaming, then,” Scott said with a shrug. “I contacted the local PD about the surveillance cameras on the strip when your aunt was killed. They have nothing.”
“How is that possible?” I climbed out of bed, felt my face burn with the heat of shock as the blankets fell away from me.
“They don’t know,” Scott said. “The recordings are just missing, like someone came in and stole them. You’re talking about multiple casinos, multiple security rooms. Not one of them has a recording, not on either side of the street during that time. That also includes the local PD’s cameras. It’s a professional job of some sort, though it’s totally baffling them how anyone could just erase every recording without anyone seeing them do it.”
“Weissman,” I said, jumping to the conclusion before I even knew I was doing it. “It has to be Weissman.”
“That guy you ran into in England?” Scott was frowning now. “How do you know?”
“He probably froze time and just went in to each of the security rooms,” I said and started to stretch. I made a noise with my mouth as I vented air. “Think about it:
unless someone could magically—or meta-poweredly—go invisible and sneak in there to delete the recordings—because I presume they’re digital?” I waited for his nod to go on. “So, yeah, someone went in and deleted them without making a fuss. Ergo, Weissman.”
“He can do that?” Scott scratched his face, and I noticed a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, upper lip and chin.
“Yeah, he’s a real Barry Allen-type,” I said.
Scott’s face creased in a frown. “He sings ‘Copacabana’?”
I rolled my eyes. “Barry Allen is the Flash. Barry Manilow sings ‘Copacabana.’”
“Ahh,” Scott said, his face relaxing. “I was wondering what Lola being a showgirl had to do with deleting recordings.”
I ignored him. “This doesn’t do us any good, though. Assuming it was Weissman behind the killing doesn’t tell us much, except that I guess it relates to the extermination.”
“Unless it was someone else with Weissman’s powers,” Scott said. “Is there anyone else with his powers?”
“Someone named Akiyama,” I said, with a frown of my own. “I think. Weissman talked about some guy who had his powers but with more ability. Wolfe gave me the name.” I racked my brain, calling out into the darkened rooms at the back, but no answer came from Wolfe to confirm it.
“Listen,” Scott said, and I could hear a cool urgency in his tone, “I’ve been thinking about this whole situation. I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re assuming it is.”
“So … our entire species isn’t being wiped out systematically by the most powerful meta in the world and his hundred sidekicks?” I stretched while I said it, like it was totally minor, a distraction in my otherwise aimless day.
“Oh, no, it totally is,” Scott said, with a little more enthusiasm than I would have had in his shoes, “I just think you’re over-worrying.”
I sat there in dumb silence for a moment. “Thousands of people are dying, we’re heading toward the twilight of metakind, humanity is probably going to be under an uber-powerful maniac’s boot afterward … and you think I’m OVER-worrying?” I stood there and pursed my lips. “I’m sitting in Las Vegas investigating the murder of an aunt who tried to kill me when last we met instead of protecting the people I vowed to guard. I’m not sure your analysis is …” I let my voice trail off rather than say something flagrantly insulting to him, “… entirely rational.”
“I’m just saying that I think you can overcome this,” Scott said. He gave me a smile that was probably supposed to be heartening, but wasn’t.
“They hate me, Scott,” I said, not flinching away from him. “Hate me.”
His face crumpled into a puzzled frown. “You mean … the people at Agency?”
I suspect my face turned slightly scathing but then loosened. “Them too, for all I know. But I was talking about the voices in my head. You know, the source of these superpowers I’m supposed to be able to call upon? They hate me.”
“Well, you can fix that—”
“I can’t fix that, Scott,” I made a sound that was semi-amused, a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you get it? I’ve never been sweet, just mean. I’m the mean girl. My personality is razor wire drenched in lemon juice. I was raised with a sword in my hand and nary a kind thought in my head. I’m cut off from humanity—mine and everyone else’s. My first instinct is to be snarky and shitty to people, and most of the time I suck at reining in that instinct. The voices in my head are confined in metal boxes in my mind because I didn’t like hearing them. I couldn’t deal with having their thoughts and conversations blotting out my ability to function, so I shut them up by throwing them into captivity. And they hate me for it. Whatever Sovereign’s got going on with his soul captives, it’s not like the relationship I have with mine. I’m their jailer, not their friend, and they won’t help me even if we’re about to die, because what I’m doing to them on a daily basis is worse than death.”
Scott’s face was blank, ashen. “You could … try letting them out?”
I wanted to snap at him, but I couldn’t. “I tried. Sort of. I don’t know. It’s not looking good.”
He took a deep breath. “Well … okay.”
“Okay?” I looked at him in disbelief. “I don’t think any of this is okay, but …”
“I mean it’s not good, obviously,” Scott said, holding up his hands in a gesture of utter surrender that told me he didn’t want to argue with me. “But, uh … you know, we have a little more time.”
“We have some time,” I said. “But I don’t know how much.”
“Seems like we’re pretty much at a dead end with this Charlie investigation,” he said. “What do you want to do?”
I sagged back onto the bed, felt my rump hit it and sink into the soft mattress. “I don’t know. I don’t know what else to do.” I fell back and let myself lie there, staring up at the ceiling. “But I don’t want to go home yet.” That much I was certain of. It was like home was an opposite-pole magnet to me, the very thought of getting on a plane to go back repelling me.
Scott was quiet for a moment, and then I heard him dial his cell phone, the odd, atonal notes causing me to crane my neck to look over at him. He held the phone up to his ear, and I watched him turn toward the window. The sun shone through, the sky a light azure. I wondered how long I’d slept; it’d felt like forever.
“Ariadne?” Scott’s voice jarred me out of a trance. “I need the file on that wildfire meta that killed someone out here in Vegas a few weeks ago.” He paused, and I could hear a faint voice talking on the other end of the line. “We’re waiting for something from the local PD, figured we’d poke around while we’re killing time.” He paused and looked back at me. “It’s going good. We’ll be back soon—just figured we’d …” He smiled at me, “… kill two birds with one stone.”
Chapter 12
I stepped out of the car into the Vegas summer heat and immediately started to sweat. The hot air wrapped me up like a blanket, curling around my body and making me want to hang my tongue out like a dog. And then spray it with water. From a fire hose. On full blast. I don’t know, I think the heat was messing with my mind.
It felt like the soles of my shoes were melting off as I walked over the black asphalt pavement toward the pawnshop. Every step was a dragging misery, the smell of nearby Tropicana Avenue’s smoggy traffic making me want to wave a hand in front of my face to clear my nose. The greasy breakfast buffet we’d hit on the way to the pawnshop where the murder had occurred was lodged in the back of my throat. Should have spent the extra money and eaten at the hotel.
Scott rushed ahead to open the door for me. He already had a bead of sweat running down his temple. I envied him in that regard, though I doubt it made him feel any cooler.
The rush of the air conditioning in the pawnshop was inadequate yet still blissful after the walk from the car. Cool air ran over my body, lifting the blanket of heat that had wrapped itself around me. I adjusted my suit jacket in something that probably looked like the Picard maneuver as I surveyed the green-carpeted, wood-paneled room that held more broken dreams than a Taylor Swift song.
Guitars were everywhere up front. Wooden, acoustic, whatever. Enough musical instruments to equip a band large enough to play behind Sinatra himself were lining the shelves in front of me. I studied them with a kind of distaste. People sold them for various reasons, I’d guess, but I suspected the most frequent one involved lack of money and giving up a dream. Don’t think you’re going to be a professional guitar player anytime soon? Might as well turn that old Fender into cash, right? I wondered disdainfully how much of it ended up in a casino slot machine.
“You’re, uh … kind of scowling,” Scott whispered to me.
“So?” I softened my tone a little.
“It’s not the best image to project when we’re here to get info,” Scott said. “You’re gonna scare people.”
“I’m a nineteen year-old girl—woman—glaring at the musical instruments in a pawnshop with a sour look o
n her face,” I said. “Anyone watching is probably just going to think I dated a musician who was an asshole.”
“Come on,” Scott said, and now he was scowling.
We approached the glass counter that circled the room. A twenty-something guy was standing behind it, medium height, medium build. I waited for him to speak and wondered if I’d find him medium annoying. At this point, I’d take it, honestly. Better than highly annoying.
“Can I help you?” His voice came out way too cheery, way too smarmy, and way too high for his frame. I buried my disappointment in a low sigh that caused Scott to send me a searing glare.
“Scott Byerly, FBI,” he said and flipped his badge open.
“Whoa,” Medium-to-Annoying-Guy said. His name tag helpfully read Samuel, but he was destined to always be Medium-to-Annoying-Guy to me. Wait. Who goes by Samuel instead of Sam? I dropped the Medium from his title. “What … uh … can I help you with?”
“The robbery,” I said, cutting to the chase before Annoying Samuel got too far on my already frayed nerves. “Were you here that day?”
“Yeah,” Samuel said with a quick nod. He was heavily freckled and his hair was stubble only. “It was … it was pretty frightening.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Scott asked.
“Um, well, it went pretty fast,” Samuel said, licking his lips. I wondered how nervous he was, on a scale of one to ten. I would have conservatively estimated he was a twenty-eight.
“What do you remember?” I asked. I’d like to say I did it soothingly, but he flinched as I spoke, so I probably sailed wide of the mark on that one.
“Umm, not much.”
Destiny: The Girl in the Box #9 Page 5
