Labyrinth g-5

by Kat Richardson

  “I don’t feel sane.”

  “If you thought all of this was normal, then I’d be worried. Why don’t you finish your drink and we’ll get out of here? There are a lot of other places we could cuddle up and defy the darkness, and most of them don’t smell of chow mein.”

  I backed off and frowned at him. “You are a sex fiend.”

  “I’m a pragmatist.”

  “How is that? I’m worried about monsters and gods destroying the world as we know it and you want to shag.”

  “Well, yes. If the world’s going to end, I’d prefer to go out with a bang.” He grinned and winked at me.

  I sputtered. Something about his stupid jokes always disarms me. “All right, Roger Rabbit,” I said, finishing my drink.

  “Roger Rabbit?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember why Jessica said she loved him?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Because he made her laugh.”

  “So this is why statuesque beauties fall for geeks. Hm . . . I’ll take it.” I stuck out my tongue—yeah, very mature of me, I know—but at least I was smiling and I thought I’d forgotten what that felt like.

  Quinton caught my hand and squeezed it gently as we headed for the door. “I love you even when you don’t make me laugh.”

  That made me feel like crying and my smile got a little crooked, because running bloodred tears was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Quinton had barely touched his beer, so he got to drive. I had to talk. Concentrating on something and forcing it into a neat procession of thoughts and words helped keep the noise from overwhelming me.

  “All right. So,” I started, organizing my thoughts as much as I could.

  “There’s a back door into the Grey according to my dad as clarified—sort of—by Carlos. This door leads to Dad, but it also leads into the Grey in a way that keeps me hidden from Wygan. Dad probably knows exactly what Wygan has in mind—after all, there’s no reason to hide that information from my father and every reason to torment him with it and Wygan likes to make people squirm. So, have to get to Dad, have to find the back door.

  “Dad said something about keys, puzzles, and labyrinths. I need to find a labyrinth. But I have a key and a puzzle—a puzzle ball actually, but it’s kind of Grey, so it seems like we ought to start there.”

  “Maybe it’s not a physical labyrinth but a magical one,” Quinton suggested.

  “Possible. Dad said the puzzles were doors. Maybe the puzzle ball and the key make some kind of door into the labyrinth.”

  “Worth a try. Where are the puzzle ball and the key?”

  “The key I have with me. I got it in Los Angeles and I’ve been carrying it ever since. It was my dad’s. It looks like one of those pocket puzzle things—the wire kind—but when I shuffle it around, it sometimes becomes a sort of magical key. I used it on a door in the Grey while I was in London. A prison door. I had a run-in with a ghost there. It . . . stabbed me.”

  “Stabbed you? How?”

  “I don’t quite understand it myself. It was a wraith, really, so kind of a special case, and we had to be in the Grey to get out of the prison—it’s condemned now and the only way out from where we were was blocked in the real world—so . . . a little Greywalking was in order.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Marsden and me. And Michael.”

  “Michael Novak . . . can do that?”

  “No. Not normally. But I guess when you have a critical mass of Greywalkers and enough plain old-fashioned fear behind you, you can drag someone normal into the Grey. Kind of. Enough at least. I wasn’t stopping to analyze it at the time. Maybe it was Marsden’s ability—I don’t know. Apparently I have the gift of persuasion. People and things do what I want—at least more often than usual.”

  “That’s useful. Go on.”

  “So we needed out and the door was locked—”

  “No, about being stabbed. I get the rest. This ghost cut you.”

  “Wraith. Not a ghost of a person, really. A kind of evil remnant of something. A Grey thing. Anyhow, yeah, it cut me with this knife it made out of the Grey, and apparently that’s all it took to start . . . infecting me.”

  “With what?”

  “According to Carlos, I can—or will—bend magic. I don’t do magic; I just might be able to move the conduits of it around. Shape the weft, he says. And that, according to him, is what Wygan is after. It makes sense to me as much as anything since Wygan clearly wants some kind of power and is doing something the Guardian Beast opposes—it attacks him whenever it can—so it has to be something in or affecting the Grey. He’s figured out how to confuse the Beast by using colored light. That’s why I shot out the lightbulbs in the studio—those were the gunshots you heard.”

  “All right. So you’re getting more powerful in the Grey, and you have some ability to shape things, even if you don’t actually cast spells or anything. And this is useful to Wygan in whatever his plan is. So you want to know the plan before you get stuck in it and that means talking to your dad . . . who is in some kind of magic prison Wygan made?”

  “Basically. Not precisely, but close enough. If I can find this back door, I can get to Dad. But I need the puzzle ball. Which is in the condo.”

  “Well, that’s going to be fun.”

  “We’ll have to break in.”

  “You have keys: You don’t have to break in.”

  “I’m sure there are still asetem watching the place.”

  “For you, yes. Not for other people.”

  “But they will be watching for you, so no go on that idea.”

  “What about your neighbors?”

  “Rick’s probably still staying at his sister’s.”

  “Other neighbors?”

  “Not really friendly with them.”

  “Friends you could ask?”

  “Not many. The Danzigers are on the watch list, too, so that’s them out of the picture. And there aren’t a lot of other people I trust in my home . . . except Phoebe.” My shoulders slumped a little and I sighed. “She’s not going to like this.”

  Phoebe was my oldest friend in Seattle. I’d met her on a rainy afternoon when I’d hidden in the back of her used bookshop to look through the rental listings. Short and round and fierce as a mother wolverine where her friends and family were concerned, she’d kind of adopted me on first sight. I still had no idea why. We’d had a rough time of our friendship when I’d ended up investigating the death-by-poltergeist of one of her employees, but she was still the closest nonmagical female friend I had.

  “She’ll do it, though,” Quinton said.

  “Yeah, and if she has any trouble, I’ll hear all about it.”

  “Yes. But she’ll still let you come to dinner because that’s how she is. You should call her.”

  I was doubtful and frowned. “It’s pretty late.” And I was both tired and afraid I’d babble something inappropriate.

  Quinton shot me a disbelieving glance. “It’s Friday and the shop stays open all night. If anyone’s up keeping the drunks from sleeping in the Sociology corner, it’ll be Phoebe.”

  I know when to stop fighting and, well, he was right. Unless she was sick or mourning a dead friend, Phoebe never missed Friday Happy Hour at her bookstore, Old Possum’s Books and Beans. I hunted my phone out of my bag and poked the speed-dial button for the shop.

  Of course it wasn’t Phoebe who answered the phone but one of the minions; Phoebe was busy stalking the stacks. I waited on hold for a minute or so, trying not to listen to the whispering chorus in my head.

  Phoebe’s words danced out of the phone on an island rhythm. “Hey, girl! Where you been? Poppy told me t’have you come t’dinner last week and you weren’t home.”

  “I was in London on business.”

  “So, you back now. When you comin’ up here?”

  “Uh, well . . .”

  “Don’t be sayin’ you’re not comin’—and you bringin’ dat man of yours, too. Or Poppy’s gonna s
kin us both.”

  “I would love to accommodate your father, but I am currently in a bit of a jam.”

  “Oh? So you’re callin’ me to get you unjammed?”

  “Yes, I am. See—”

  She cut me off. “No, no. No, you don’t. You come up here and ask my face. I’m not lettin’ you sweet-talk me over the phone. ’Sides, I got some things to show you anyhow.”

  “All right. We’ll be there in . . .” I glanced at Quinton, not sure where we were.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  I told her.

  “All right then. See you both,” Phoebe answered before hanging up.

  “She’s in a mood,” I warned.

  “I guessed. What’s up?”

  “I have no idea. So long as it’s not vampires, I think we’ll be OK.”

  “I haven’t heard of much weirdness in Fremont—beyond the usual kind.”

  I hoped that was true.

  We looped around and got back to Fremont in a reasonable time, but finding a parking space on a Friday night was a bit trickier and we were a little late. Phoebe wasn’t in a condition to notice, though: She was glaring at a guy in a trench coat and blocking the door when we arrived—she’s not very tall, but Phoebe’s evil eye can stop rampaging elephants in their tracks.

  “You callin’ me a liar, Mr. Thief?” she demanded. “You sayin’ you ain’t smugglin’ some pussy in your coat?”

  The patrons of the shop giggled and the miscreant blushed in shame. He wasn’t very old and I guessed he was a college student doing something foolish on a dare or a drunk.

  Phoebe softened her scowl and put out her hands, beckoning with her fingers, palm up. “Hand it over, before the poor thing suffocates.”

  Slump-shouldered, the guy pulled a black-and-white kitten out of his pocket and gave it to her. Phoebe snuggled the kitten, who was purring nonstop, and stood aside to let the cat-napper make his escape. “Next time, try da pound!” she shouted after him.

  She saw us standing outside and waved us in. “Come on in da back,” she said, handing off the kitten to the minion behind the counter. The kitten was shelved in “returns” and went back to purring mindlessly between the books as we followed Phoebe into the back of the shop, toward the espresso machine.

  Phoebe’s accent was thicker than usual from her annoyance. “I swear, dem boys steal anyt’ing and Beenie’s too stupid not t’go along. He been in dat boy’s pocket twice now. Usually dem snatchy-hands jus’ take da books—now dey takin’ da cats, too!”

  She stopped at the espresso machine and grabbed three cups of coffee off the back counter, muttering to herself. She shoved two of the cups at us. “You’re late, so it’s cold.”

  It wasn’t very cold, and I decided I didn’t care so long as it was coffee and took the closest chair in the nook. Phoebe plopped down into another beside the fake fireplace that hid the door to the office. Quinton seemed to think standing was safer and kept on his feet. None of us doctored the coffee.

  I waited for Phoebe to settle in and calm down before I said anything, but she beat me to it. I suppose she wasn’t quite so angry about Beenie’s near kidnapping as she seemed. It only took her two long sips before she asked, “So, what sort of trouble you want me to get you out of?”

  I had to swallow quickly to reply. “I need someone I can trust to go fetch a puzzle ball from my place.”

  “And you can’t go . . . why?”

  “Because some guys I really don’t want to tangle with are staking the place out, waiting for me. You they don’t know, so they won’t give you any hassle if you show up.”

  “You think they aren’t gonna notice some black woman ain’t you sneakin’ into your place and not think that’s kinda strange?”

  “They aren’t watching the inside of the building, just the outside.” I hoped. “They won’t know which condo you go into.”

  “Uh-huh. They any kind of observant, they will notice I wasn’t in there very long.”

  “They won’t care. You could be any one of my neighbors or one of their friends dropping something off. Take a box of books with you and leave it if you think that’ll fool them better.”

  Phoebe looked thoughtful. “Hm . . . I could do that. I could take the safes.”

  “The whats?” I asked.

  “Safes. That’s what I wanted to show you. I got a bunch of these ‘book safes’—they’re those hollowed out books that people hide stuff in—in a box of books I bought at a big sale on Capitol Hill. Some of the book safes have things inside and I thought you might help me find out who they belong to. No one from the sale knew. So. I help you out and you help me.”

  That was a no-brainer. “OK. I’ll give you my keys and if you can go tomorrow, I’ll meet you here when you’re done.”

  “Fine. I’ll leave the safes at your place, say . . . tenish. Where’s this puzzle ball?”

  “On a bookshelf by the TV. It’s wood, about eight inches across. You can’t miss it: There’s only one.” I handed over the condo keys, showing her which one was for the exterior door and which the interior.

  Phoebe took them and nodded like the deal was done. “Dinner next Sunday. And you’re both comin’ or Poppy’s sendin’ da braas for you—don’t think he wouldn’t.”

  Intimidating as they look, Phoebe’s brothers don’t scare me except in terms of sheer bulk. Phoebe is the oldest but she’s also the smallest, and you could lift three of her for one of her brothers. But the oldest brother, Hugh, would do anything for her, so I like to stay on his good side. And Poppy’s, because I sometimes suspect he sees a lot more than he lets on.

  “Sunday. All right,” I agreed, hoping I’d be alive to see it.

  NINETEEN

  I did not sleep well that night in the Danzigers’ basement. I might have been sending Phoebe into danger and I hadn’t been honest about it. I couldn’t get the sound of the Grey out of my head, nor could I push aside my own internal voice that worried at the things Carlos had implied about my own motives. I felt bloody and raw inside and even my dreams were haunted by that voice. My brain was as loud as an asylum without drugs and even Quinton’s attentions didn’t push it back far enough.

  The ferret tried to haul me off the bed in the morning by biting my toes and heaving backward with all her two-pound might; she didn’t quite shake the turmoil from my mind, but she did get me upright.

  “Stop that!” I snapped, flailing the air as I tried to catch the escaping miscreant. She danced backward, chuckling and flashing her teeth until she fell off the bed and had to retrench underneath it.

  “I thought you were going to sleep all day,” Quinton said, watching me from across the room at his makeshift worktable. “Not that what you were doing was really sleeping. . . .”

  “What was I doing?” I asked, shooting him a questioning glance and grabbing the nearest clothes my size.

  “Mostly muttering and thrashing around. Mostly.”

  “And when I wasn’t?”

  “That’s when you scared me. About four a.m., you made this gurgling sound and went rigid. Then you stopped breathing. And when I touched you, you gasped, whipped around, and kneed me about . . . here,” he added, pointing to his navel. “I’m really glad I’m shorter than you. After that, you scrambled over me and when your feet hit the floor, you went limp. It was fun getting you back into bed. But you slept a little better after that.”

  I bit my lip and frowned in confusion. “I don’t remember any of it.”

  “You weren’t exactly awake when it happened.” He looked back at his work and picked up his soldering iron, prodding something with the hot tip. “I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s not really sleepwalking; more like . . . sleep-fighting. I figured you were dreaming and the cold floor shocked you enough to stop but not enough to wake up.”

  I sat back down on the edge of the bed with my clothes half on, trying to remember what I’d been dreaming, what might have made me act like that in my sleep. I studied his half-turned
back, watching him for a moment. His posture was a little odd, as if he were pulling his shoulders in. Defensive. He wasn’t telling me something.

  “Did I say anything?” I asked.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you said: ‘I’m going to kill you.’ ”

  “You don’t think I was really talking to you. Do you?”

  “Well, I admit, I wasn’t sure. It was very clear and your voice was very cold. It’s a little freak-worthy when someone stops breathing, says something like that, and then attacks you. I’m not even sure how you managed to say anything when you weren’t breathing—holding your breath, maybe?”

  I felt something well in my eyes. “Oh, no . . . Quinton. . . .” My chest ached and it was hard to breathe around what felt like a rock in my throat. I got up and rushed toward him but stopped short of the intended embrace. My vision was going blurry and red, and I sank to my knees, wiping my eyes while I bowed my head. I felt an unusual stickiness against my skin and knew it was blood.

  I didn’t want him to see it and tried to turn aside, but I felt his arms come around me as he slid down onto the floor. I kept my face down and pressed it into his shoulder. Oh, gods, I was going to stain his shirt. . . .

  He stroked my hair, shushing me as I hiccuped on the tears I tried to hold back. “Hey, hey . . . it’s all right.”

  I let the awful feeling go, let it roll out and over me and tumble away on a series of shaking breaths. “Y-you know I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it,” I cried.

  “I do. I know.”

  “You’re afraid of me.”

  “I’m not. I’m not.”

  I raised my face. His eyes flashed wide and he jerked back a little before he caught himself. He blinked a few times. “All right . . . that’s disturbing.” He took a deep breath. Then he shrugged and pulled me back into a hug. “You know, in horror movies that’s usually just a picturesque trickle. . . . You kind of look like someone broke your nose.”

  I mumbled against his chest. “Oh, thanks.”

  “Do you remember what you were dreaming?”