Holidays Are Hell

by Kim Harrison

  But Zoe had stopped listening. She closed her eyes, and let the images come, fast and furious, as Olivia’s airy voice faded to the background.

  Nurse Nancy shutting the door on a grieving couple who’d just “lost” their adopted daughter. Dennis and Andie.

  The same nurse warding off a handshake, just as Zoe would’ve done.

  A couple anticipating the long-awaited arrival of their daughter, though, strangely, they hadn’t yet agreed on a name.

  Zoe dove for her briefcase, fumbling for the papers inside. Typed neatly at the top of the page: McCormick, Dennis and Andria.

  Signed below: McCormick, Dave and Andie. Zoe was slow—stupidly inattentive—but she was suddenly catching up fast.

  We’re having the child moved…

  “Oh, my God.”

  She lurched forward and grabbed at the door, Olivia’s questioning alarm spiraling out behind her in the wide, deserted lobby. Midnight, Zoe thought, doing a mental head slap. A perfect time to snatch a child. She took the stairs two at a time, her briefcase banging awkwardly against her hip, her breath echoing in the stairwell.

  “Nurse Nancy,” Zoe said, slapping her palm on the counter in front of a tired-eyed nurse she’d never seen before. “Where is she?”

  The nurse blinked up at her. “Who?”

  Zoe cursed, and reached across the Formica counter. It wouldn’t take much to create a distraction in a hospital. Just a false code 99 raising the alarm that some other patient had crashed. She wondered briefly what ploy the Shadows had used.

  “Excuse me! What do you think you’re—”

  No chart. Ignoring the nurse, she raced for the nursery.

  “Ma’am! You need to sign in!”

  Zoe skidded around the corner. God, but they’d had their roles down pat.

  The baby was gone. Zoe squeezed her eyes shut, and lowered her head to the glass window. There was no Nurse Nancy. No couple named Dave and Andie. If she’d been thinking straight, if she hadn’t been so damned close to the situation, she might have noted the small things: the name slip, the way the nurse’s nostrils had flared at Zoe’s slip of emotion, the couple’s forced surface emotions. She’d have seen all of it then as clearly as she saw it now.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  No, Zoe thought, pushing the other woman aside to charge back down the hall. And neither was her granddaughter.

  Chapter 2

  In the car on the way to the address scrawled across the discharge papers, Zoe tried to figure out how the Shadows had found out about the baby. She was certain they couldn’t scent out the power, the Light, on Joanna. If Zoe had withheld even a smidgen of her own personal chi, then maybe, but she hadn’t. She’d given it all up, and the very fact that she hadn’t scented any of them assured her of that. But they’d taken the baby, and that couldn’t be coincidence. So how had they known?

  The only thing Zoe could be absolutely certain of was that the Shadows hadn’t known who she really was. Otherwise she’d be on her knees in front of their leader right now, begging for her life. Paying for her past.

  Zoe shuddered at the thought of the Tulpa, then resolutely pushed his image away. She needed to concentrate on the task at hand, follow the Shadows’ trail one step at a time, and go from there. But when she pulled her car to a stop she didn’t even need to look at the for sale sign on the lawn to know the house was empty. She yanked her cell phone from her jacket pocket, a slim new model she’d bought on the street, and called the number listed at the top of her papers. Out of service. She then had the operator give her the number to the Sheep Mountain facility, where they told her no baby by the name of McCormick had been admitted that evening. Zoe was disappointed but not surprised. Both sides of the Zodiac force—Shadow and Light—had private facilities with their own medical staff. It kept mortal physicians and officials from being suspicious or curious when the body count rose. It also acted as a place of respite for injured agents until the next splitting of dawn or dusk, when the veil between their two parallel worlds lifted, and they could pass easily into a different, safe, and alternate reality.

  So Zoe had no way of finding out where the enemy agents had taken the baby, and even if she had she’d be hard-pressed to take on even one of them in her…condition. Mortals were deplorably weak.

  But, she thought, biting her lip, there was one place she could go…one person she could turn to for help. She’d sworn never to see or call upon him again, but if she could catch him before sunup, she might be able to convince him to help her. Because if he ever really knew her—if he had ever truly loved her—he’d recognize her even beneath her mortal disguise and without the power that had made her his equal.

  And if he refused? asked an unwelcomed voice inside of her, a bitter reminder of what she’d done. Then her lineage, and the legacy of the Archer ended with her, and she’d sacrificed it all for nothing. Including her children. Including, she thought, pulling from the curb, his love.

  When Warren Clarke wasn’t fighting crime and leading the agents of Light in a century-long battle against supernatural crime, he spent his downtime kneeling in a pew at the Guardian Angel Cathedral. It wasn’t that he was particularly religious; like all the star signs in the Zodiac he believed in astrology, preordained fate, and that every life and death was written in the sky. So his regular attendance at the cathedral had nothing to do with penance, forgiveness, or an overabundance of piety. In truth, whenever he lit a candle or knelt before the altar, all he was really praying for was a fight.

  Zoe wasn’t going to be the one to give it to him. So she lit a cigarette and propped a foot up against the towering white obelisk in front of the cathedral, directly beneath the neon cross flaring at its apex. Staring south down the length of flash and glitter of Las Vegas Boulevard through faux horn-runned glasses, she thought, as she always had, that it was an odd place for a cathedral. But it’d been here since ’63, outliving most of the casinos, the mobsters, the Howard Hugheses and Wynns…remaining a solid and memorable fixture even though it was unremarkable compared to that long stretch of neon just outside its doors.

  A statue of the holy family blessing the cathedral’s visitors was cradled in the center of the hollowed-out obelisk, and Zoe glanced at it now. The promise of welcome was a strong lure for both the humans buffeted by the surrounding chaos, and especially for the recent influx of immigrant agents from south of the border. After NAFTA’s implementation and the subsequent devaluation of the peso, not only had Mexico experienced martial strife, but the paranormal war between good and evil in that country had taken a decidedly ominous turn. One had only to watch the soaring crime rate, the corruption of government officials, and staggering poverty to realize the balance between the two opposing sides had been toppled, and that any agents of Light still alive in the larger cities would have to flee.

  So watch was exactly what Warren did. Because something about Vegas drew the transient and displaced.

  Mass would be an unnecessary ritual to those fleeing agents, but it’d also be familiar, comforting. And if one of them were looking for an ally—someone to perhaps rebuild a troop in this gambler’s paradise—then the most visible cathedral in the city was an obvious place to meet.

  But troop 175 was already staked out in this glittering valley, and Warren was their leader, so in his eyes, once these displaced agents left their city of origin they became independents…or rogues, as he called them. How they got that way, and the fact that they’d once been agents of Light, was of no interest to him. He’d eradicate the valley of the rogues, and the threat they posed to his troop, even if he had to do it one by one.

  Zoe glanced at the steel and concrete sign to the right of the holy family. The Guardian Angel had mass scheduled for midnight, which meant it had just ended. There were a few stragglers around the pyramid-shaped building, mostly couples, but they were all exiting. Of the two men she saw entering, one was clergy and the other was with a woman who obviously had the place confused with th
e all-night wedding chapel. Zoe waited.

  Finally her gaze locked on a lone man, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans, the open shirttails of his embroidered Guayabera flapping in the wind. He was young, with smooth olive skin, his heritage decidedly Latin. Zoe straightened and called out to him, smiling brightly, waving him closer. He hesitated, but redirected after a moment.

  “Hey, buddy. Got a light?”

  He tilted his head, and if he was an agent he’d have scented her out by now—a human, a lone female, no threat. “No in-glés,” he said, turning his pockets inside out. “No money.”

  Zoe sighed and rolled her eyes. Damned newcomers. They all thought hooking was legal in Vegas. “Dame fuego,” she said to him, and mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips.

  His expression cleared, and he colored even under the kiss of his golden complexion, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he dug into his shirt pocket and withdrew a lighter. It was one of the millions sold on the Boulevard, the infamous WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS sign stamped on one side. She flicked him a mildly flirtatious glance from beneath her glasses and bent forward as he flicked the lighter’s wheel. It flared on the second try and Zoe caught the smooth gleam of his fingertips, unmarred in the wavering light. Like hers. Like all agents.

  Her voice was a throaty purr as she blew smoke up and out. “Gracias, señor…?”

  “Solamente Carlos,” he said almost shyly, and Zoe felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing what awaited him on the other side of those doors.

  “Gracias, Carlos,” she said, and let him go anyway, watching him disappear beneath the giant blue mosaic depicting a guardian angel, and God’s eye. She had her own problems. And after two full minutes she stubbed her cigarette out beneath her heel and followed Carlos inside to face one of them.

  The Mexican agent was nowhere in sight when Zoe entered the Cathedral. She glanced at the spot Warren generally favored, closest to the bishop’s chair at the front of the sanctuary, but the pews were empty so he either wasn’t in the building, or he was already trailing the rogue agent. Tiptoeing across the white marble floor, she ducked into the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. While there, she lit a prayer candle. It couldn’t hurt.

  Thirty seconds later she grinned grimly as a yell ricocheted through the cavernous building, followed by a startled yelp. She stopped grinning at the report of running footfalls down the sanctuary’s center aisle…four pair, she determined, not two. A Spanish curse spiraled to the building’s apex, and if this had been a Baptist church the agent would probably already be burning in hell. But that wasn’t what bothered Zoe. Getting to Warren had just gotten twice as tough.

  Mortals often witnessed paranormal conflict, though the victorious agents made sure none ever remembered it. Sometimes the humans would wake the next morning swearing it’d all been a dream, or that their dinner the night before hadn’t quite agreed with them. Problem was, the memory of the entire twenty-four-hour period prior to the conflict was often erased along with the incident, and Zoe needed to remember. Her family’s lineage depended on it.

  Yet as she stood holding her breath next to the outstretched arms of the blessed mother, all she remembered was what it was like to be super. How she could sneak up behind any man or woman and have them unconscious before they took their next breath. How she’d laugh about it afterwards. Now that she’d been stripped of the ability, and was on the receiving end of the body blows, she didn’t find it quite as amusing.

  Taking a deep breath, she edged around the white marble wall.

  The fight was centered in the middle of the Cathedral, though to say that Zoe was watching it would be deceiving. She ripped the faux glasses from her face and shoved them in her pocket. No prescription would allow her to follow these events…what she needed to do was cease seeing. Let her vision blur as if she was trying to look at one of those puzzles where images were hidden within a picture.

  Even still, she only caught brief flashes of action; a limb flying outward before disappearing again, a fist clenching before plowing from sight. The man who wrote the manuals of Shadow and Light had once tried to explain to Zoe how the agents’ actions came to him. His inspiration, he said, came in blurred images and it was up to his imagination to supply the rest. Only now did Zoe understand what he meant. It was like flipping through one of those children’s books where the cartoon figure became animated the faster the pages turned, only in the life-sized version a few of the panels were missing.

  Forcing her gaze to sharpen again, she turned away from the action. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to remain hidden, but she had to trust what she knew of Warren and hope it still held true. He’d be at the center of the melee, and his two companions would be too focused on him to spy Zoe creeping in from the perimeter. Once again, she stilled her breath and began inching forward along the triangular walls. Unlike those involved in the paranormal fight, she moved achingly slow. When in fight mode, agents locked in on quick-moving objects, like eagles soaring over a desert canyon. Of course, Zoe had no delusions about not being caught. Her goal was only to be as close to Warren as possible when that happened.

  She probably would have made it if not for the fluted candelabra and its tottery stand. What was it with these Catholics and their gold-plated tchotchkes? The room went still as they all whirled her way. The rogue agent’s wild eyes widened in recognition while Warren’s narrowed. Zoe didn’t bother looking at the other two, she just burst into a full sprint, hoping the unexpected movement would give her time to reach Warren’s side.

  It worked. Closest, Warren had no choice but to give chase, leaving the rogue to his allies. Unfortunately, Zoe blinked—damned mortal eyes!—and the spot he’d been standing in a second earlier was empty.

  Shit. She dropped to the floor, felt arms cushion her fall.

  “My hero.” It was their favorite endearment for one another, and she said it to no one. If she waited until she saw him it’d be too late.

  As it happened, it already was. Warren’s form solidified as he froze, eyes widening in recognition, and then a blur—the blow slowing—but it was too late to stop entirely. Warren’s shocked image shattered as darkness enfolded her in inky arms, numbness shooting through her body. Strangely, though, the disappearance into herself was more peace than she’d known since the last time she’d seen his face.

  Chapter 3

  The lights in the roadside cafe would’ve been bright no matter what the circumstances. But with a knot the size of a walnut on her skull, and said knot throbbing like a teen’s heart on prom night, they were absolutely blinding.

  Zoe pushed away from the ripped vinyl of the red bench, wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth, and faced her three captors. “I can’t believe you guys are still coming to this dive. The cook spits in the soup, you know.”

  “Jesus, it really is her!” The man on Warren’s left gaped, dropping his cheap coffee cup back in its saucer with a clatter.

  Zoe lifted a glass of water and pressed it to her aching forehead. “Hello, Gregor. Walk beneath any ladders lately?”

  He shook his head, his smile almost as wide as his bulky body. Gregor wasn’t very tall, but he had the neck of three men put together, and the shoulder span of an angel’s wings. He was bald, with one small hoop earring that made him look like a modern-day pirate, and had a superstitious nature to match. “Haven’t stepped on any cracks in the sidewalk, either. Damn, Zoe, but it’s good to see you.”

  “And worth losing that rogue agent back at the Cathedral,” agreed the woman to Warren’s right. Zoe smiled at Phaedre. She was the same age as Nurse Nancy, though the similarities stopped there. Actually, thought Zoe, they’d probably ceased in their twenties because that’s how old Phaedre looked. Like a twenty-something party girl with lowlights in her mahogany mane and a smile deadly all on its own. The weapon tucked between her ample cleavage helped, though. “Welcome back.”

  “She’s not back.”

  An uncomfortable silence b
loomed and Zoe’s heart plummeted. She shifted her gaze to Warren’s, meeting head-on the anger she saw living there. His baggy clothing made him look slim, almost slight, but beneath it he was sinewy and tough, though Zoe knew the skin that covered all that compact muscle was as soft as her own. He’d have looked boyish with his short hair springing from his head in straight brown tufts, except that his eyes were hard and knowing, calculating as they rested on Zoe. It was his choice whether to accept her back in the troop or not but that wasn’t what he was talking about. Of anyone, Warren knew Zoe never changed her mind…or went back.

  The waitress’s arrival saved her from answer, and the woman let her disinterested gaze travel over Zoe’s face, lingering where the throbbing was the worst. “Your girlfriend finally come to?” she asked needlessly, snapping gum the same pepto-pink as her uniform. “Get you some coffee, sweetie?”

  Zoe pursed her lips. Why not? Her funds were low, and despite Warren’s current appearance—he seemed to be dressed as some sort of street bum this time—he could afford it. Besides, he owed her for the knock on the head. She nodded. “That’d be good. And a short stack…side of bacon.”

  The waitress pulled her pen from behind her ear, and wrote down the order as she walked away. Zoe assumed everyone else had already eaten.

  She returned her eyes to Warren, still waiting for her to explain herself. So she did. “I need your help.”

  Phaedre looked concerned, Gregor interested. Warren continued to stare warily. If she was hurting him by not apologizing—if she’d hurt him by leaving without saying goodbye—he was hiding it well. But it was a superficial sort of hidden; like an alligator stirring up sediment beneath a brackish surface, and Zoe couldn’t help wondering when it’d strike.