The woman headed away from the main lobby, racing the gauntlet of people and machines, moving like a dancer as she dodged fights that spilled out in front of her. The gaming tables were a mess; chips had been looted during the blackout, and hotel security was playing cops and robbers—too busy protecting money to notice that a woman had been shot and another kidnapped.
Iris’s mother, Blue thought, watching blood fleck to the dark carpet as she sprinted across the casino. Iris’s mother, the shape-shifter. Who had been hired to spy on and infiltrate Santoso Rahardjo’s business. Who had blown Blue up in an Indonesian slum. Who had stuck a gun in his face and kissed him.
Shit.
He sent his mind ahead, looking for watches, phones—any self-contained group traveling in a tight pack. Nothing notable. There were too many people packed into a very small space, and his luck did not change as he followed the buzz of currents beyond the confines of the casino, out into the street.
Police raced past. Sirens wailed. Iris’s mother ran to the very edge of the sidewalk, looking as if she were going to throw herself under the wheels of a car. Daniel reached out to pull her back, but Iris’s mother stopped before he could touch her. Blue heard his brother bite back a gasp as she turned and fixed him with a cold, inhuman stare.
“You lost my daughter,” she whispered. “You left her.”
Blue stepped in front of Daniel. “He couldn’t have known. If anyone deserves the blame, it’s me.”
The woman’s lips pulled back in snarl, but she whipped away from them and yanked off her wig, dropping it to the ground. Her short blond hair was sweat-soaked, plastered to her head, and she ran her fingers through it as she crouched low to the sidewalk, taking a few steps and then coming back.
“The scent ends here,” she said, and there was a break in her voice, a cut, as though something other than her body were bleeding out, and though Blue saw nothing of that emotion in her face he could see her body quiver, the fight go out, and he knew that she was dying on the inside.
“You need a hospital,” Daniel said to her, unable to stop staring at her eyes.
“No hospital.” Her fingers fluttered over her wound, which was drawing considerable attention from passersby. “My blood.”
Daniel frowned, but Blue understood. Shape-shifter blood could not possibly be the same as human, and if anyone examined her, even looked into her eyes, which seemed unable to shift to human …
Blue hailed a cab. As the car pulled up, Iris’s mother moved back from the road and shook her head.
“I have no time for this,” she said, and began walking down the sidewalk, moving quickly though not very steadily.
“Daniel,” Blue said. “We need her with us. Now.”
“I wish I knew why,” he muttered, but a moment later Iris’s mother stopped and turned. Her movements were jerky—like a robot or a zombie—and it was clear she was doing her best to fight, because when she finally took a step her entire body leaned backward at an impossible angle: a limbo queen on the streets of Las Vegas, lurch, lurch, lurching her way right back to them. Her face screwed up into a snarl. She looked crazy, dangerous, and the blood covering her did nothing to help. People shied away. Some of them reached for their cell phones. Blue shut those off.
“You and I need to talk about this,” Daniel said, voice strained.
“Now isn’t the time.”
“It sure as hell is. What is going on?”
“I have a better question. Why aren’t you surprised that I know you’re a telekinetic?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered darkly.
“Funny. I suppose you’re going to tell me you aren’t forcing a woman to walk to us against her will, using nothing but your fucking mind. Or maybe you would care to explain why you didn’t hesitate to use that mind—with me, with her, with those thugs out on Fremont Street, or in front of hundreds of people on a goddamn stage. Those are some balls you’ve got there, Daniel. Or trust.”
“It’s not trust,” Daniel said, glancing at him. “I just don’t give a shit.”
The cab was still waiting. Iris’s mother finally rejoined them, mouth curled in a snarl. Blue leaned close, savoring for one moment her helplessness, her immobility—because yes, whatever her reasons or relations, payback was a bitch—and said, “I am going to find your daughter or die trying, and if I have to play dirty to get you to help me, then by God, I will. So don’t you fucking mess with me, Ms. McGillis, or I will pull a bomb out of my ass and take you apart, just like you did to me. You got that?”
“I have it,” she said in hard voice. “Just as you have the knowledge that if we fail, I will take your life.”
Blue clenched his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would explode through his nose. “Fine, I agree. Now get in the cab.”
“Make me,” she said.
So he did—with Daniel’s help—unceremoniously dumping her stiff body into the backseat of the taxi. The driver ignored them, staring resolutely at his battered wheel. No trouble here, no sirree.
“Ms. McGillis?” Daniel hissed, but Blue pointed and his brother shut his mouth, dodging traffic to climb in on the other side of the car. Blue jumped in on the woman’s right. “Where would Santuso take her?”
She bared her teeth. “We are not equipped to fight them.”
“We can get equipped.” Blue reached for his cell phone. “Tell me where.”
“No. You want my help, we do this my way.”
“Now who’s wasting time?”
“Do you want to live or die?” She stared hard into his eyes. “The question is easy, Mr. Perrineau. What do you value more? Your life, or death by pride?”
“Blue,” Daniel said. “How does she know—”
“You are a fool,” she snapped at Daniel. “Both of you brothers, and fools.” She slid down the seat and stared at the cabdriver. Her body smelled like blood; her T-shirt glistened with it, clinging to her lean body. She pressed her palm over the wound.
“Tell him to take us to the airport,” she breathed. “I have a car there, waiting.”
“And then?” Blue asked, sinking into the dark place, old memories resurrecting like zombies to kiss his soul.
She bared her teeth. “We kill.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Iris lost herself in blood, inside a dream of darkness where her mother lay dead and decayed, a river pouring from her chest into a wood where leopards ran. Blue was there, running beside her in the darkness, his heartbeat making thunder without sound, and there was fire all around, burning, bound, holding her tight—
Iris opened her eyes. It took a moment to remember herself; the world was hazy, full of shadows cut by candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of beeswax, marijuana, cigarette smoke. Beneath her, silk. She tried to move, but her body refused. Not weariness, but tight bands around her ankles and wrists. She smelled iron. Listened to the clink of metal.
Chains. She was wearing chains. Large chains, shining, heavy as sin. But for a moment it did not matter. All Iris could think about was her mother, and the memory was a nightmare, an endless roll of sight and sound, the tactile impression of her mother’s hand on her wrist, her voice saying, Baby, and the crack of that gun. The smell of blood.
Not dead. She can’t be dead.
Iris refused to believe it. Her mother was a fighter—strong, fast—and a bullet, one bullet, would not be enough to stop her.
But if that’s the case, then she might be nearby. Santoso might have taken her, too.
Iris raised her head, wiping her eyes. Movement flickered on her right; she turned her head and saw a diaphanous curtain, sheer fabric billowing as it was pushed aside.
A woman appeared. Iris thought she might be young, but it was hard to tell. Twenty going on forty, perhaps. Her eyebrows were nothing but lines, her skin heavy with a thick foundation that only made black eyeliner and bright red lipstick look cheap, tired, and old. The girl had stringy brown hair, a lazy gaze, and a lazy smile. She
held a joint in one hand.
She was also naked. Glitter dusted her entire body.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Hey, you finally woke up.”
Iris yanked on the chains. “What the hell is this? Where am I?”
“King’s palace.” The girl started laughing. “God, yeah. Hail to the fucking king.”
Iris looked past her and saw other women through a haze of shadow and smoke. Black women, Asian women, Caucasian women—all lounging on the floor, curling against embroidered pillows and soft blankets. No one seemed even vaguely conscious, but Iris saw syringes and smelled something bitter beneath the marijuana. Heroin, maybe.
Iris was also the only one still wearing clothes. Everyone else was adorned in only jewelry; diamonds glittered against throats and wrists.
She pushed herself up on her knees and tried to see more. Mosaics decorated the walls in intricate gleaming patterns, lit by thick candles impaled upon golden sconces. Carved pillars broke up the room in chunks, along with curtains like the one surrounding Iris’s small space. Large bowls of fruit had been left on the floor between the drugged women. Most looked untouched.
She did not see a door, but there was a curtain in her way. On the other side, maybe.
Breathe, she told herself. You breathe in and out and keep yourself calm.
Right. Holy fucking shit. She was in a harem.
Iris tugged on the chains. The links were strong, the cuffs pressing hard against her skin. Tight, very tight. If she shifted shape she might be able to slip free—but a quick glance at the ceiling and corners of the room revealed two cameras. Both of them trained on her.
Fuck the consequences. This is about survival now.
Tempting. But if a recording was used against others of her kind? Iris looked at the girl, who swayed on her feet, humming to herself. Her eyes were glazed; one hand rubbed her lower belly in a slow, wide circle. Iris snapped her fingers. “Hey! Hey, you! We need to talk.”
The girl kept swaying and smiled. “Hey, hey. I want to dance. You want to dance with me? Mmm-bop, yeah. Like, oh! J-Lo!”
Iris took another deep breath, the leopard burning inside her chest, growling, growling so loud, and she realized the sound was not in her head, but in her throat. Her skin itched; her fingernails ached. She forced herself again to breathe. If she lost it now she would lose it all, and she thought of her mother—her mother in a disguise, her mother running, her mother at her side—Baby, baby—her mother shot and bleeding and lying so still—no time to say Hello or Good-bye or I love you …
“Hey,” Iris said hoarsely, softer this time, inching forward on her pillows. Her arms ached; the chains did not let her move far. “Hey, kid. Sweetheart. I want to dance. But I’m all tied up, see?”
“All tied up,” sang the girl. “The king turned the key.”
“The king,” Iris repeated. “Santoso? Is that who you’re talking about?”
The girl smiled and dropped on her knees in front of Iris, peering deeply into her face.
“You have pretty eyes,” she said lazily. “That must be why he took you.”
“Did he take anyone else? Was I alone?”
“All alone,” the girl drawled. “Just you and him. Another queen to his crown.”
The girl was this close to lucid, but even closer to batshit crazy. Damn. Iris leaned forward, pulling on the chains. “And you? Are you another of his … queens?”
“A queen,” she murmured. “Oh, yes. I was special.”
“Why?” Iris pressed. “Why were you special?”
The girl laughed again, only this time it was edged with bitterness, something sharp, dangerous. She tucked her chin to her chest, hands playing in front of her with the delicate gestures of a dancer, and Iris almost expected a pirouette, a twirl, some lazy dance, but the girl suddenly stopped fussing, stopped moving, stopped everything at all … and she began to sing. One high trill that was so lovely and sweet, so unexpected, it stole Iris’s breath away. Pure notes skipped from her throat, staccato—and her control, the way she carried herself, screamed training and money and a good, soft life.
This girl has a family somewhere, Iris thought. This girl was taken.
Just like Iris. Probably like those women sleeping off their fixes.
The girl stopped singing. Her eyes were bright. Iris noticed track marks on her pale, slender arms.
“Songbird,” she said, still with the melody in her voice. “The king calls me Songbird.”
Iris brushed her fingertips over the girl’s face. Up close her cheeks looked hollow; shadows stretched wide beneath her eyes. The girl let herself be touched, but after a moment frowned and swayed away.
“What’s your real name?” Iris asked softly.
“Songbird,” the girl muttered, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “Songbird is it.”
Iris sat back, looking past her at the other women. She counted at least fifteen, but had a bad feeling there might be more stashed away, perhaps in other rooms. She thought of her mother and tried to imagine her nearby, in chains. All she could see in her head, though, was the memory of her body on the floor of the casino, the pop of the gun—and more, other moments, just a child curled in her arms, a kit to her cat, running wild and wilder still with the wind and moon in their blood—
Fear cut to her heart, but Iris stuffed it down; there was no room for it. Not here, not now. She had to be strong. She had to fight.
“Songbird,” Iris said, catching the girl’s eye. “How long have I been here?”
“Awhile,” she murmured.
“And you?”
“Awhile,” she said again, which Iris knew could mean anything from hours to days to weeks. The girl was too stoned. Probably for a good reason.
Iris followed the chains to a ring in the wall. She placed her feet on either side and pulled back hard, straining until she cried out. She felt a budge, a slight give, and stopped. The camera was still watching. Even that much effort might draw too much attention. If Santoso wanted her …
I’ll rip his balls off, Iris thought, feeling the leopard rise within her. I’ll make him bleed to death from his dick.
Good plan. As long as he didn’t drug her again.
She heard a rattling sound. Voices. Men. Songbird did not appear to notice, but then there was click, the ring of a delicate bell, and she flinched. The lazy smile disappeared—no more dancing queen—and in her eyes the haze began to fade.
“Come here,” Iris said, and the girl pushed in close behind her, huddling against the wall.
The curtain was ajar; men entered the room, proving correct Iris’s suspicion that the door was on the other side.
One of the newcomers was blond and tall. He wore a suit. The other two men who followed in his wake also wore suits, but they were older, shorter, and spoke Japanese to each other in soft voices.
“Broker,” Songbird murmured, looking at the blond man. “That’s Broker.”
Broker had good hearing; he glanced over his shoulder at Iris and his eyes were cold, hard. He looked at her for only a moment, right before saying something quick and fluent to the Japanese men. They nodded, smiling, and Broker gestured at the prone women with a wide sweep of his hands. Some of the women had begun to stir—several waved and smiled weakly—but most were still too drugged out to do anything at all.
The men began walking, and it was clear what this was, what they had come to do. Iris wanted to vomit as they stepped over legs and arms and heads, reaching down to pinch breasts, pat hips, finger pubic hair. Meat market, sex market, bodies for sale. Songbird shivered.
One of the men looked up and saw Iris. He pointed and said something to Broker, who merely shook his head.
Off-limits. Iris did not need to understand the language to know what that meant—and she was glad for it. Desperately so.
The men finally chose their women, both of them blond and leggy and utterly stoned. Broker reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed two gold bracelets tha
t chimed like small bells. He handed one to each man, and they squatted beside the women and carefully attached the jewelry to their limp wrists. Symbolic, maybe, a way for those loser perverts to say, I give you this, or I own you. The cuffs around Iris’s own wrists chafed; her chains felt the same as those bracelets.
Broker held a cell phone to his ear and said, “We’re ready for the team.”
Ready and waiting for liftoff. Iris could smell the two men: their arousal, their excitement. One of them had to adjust his trousers, while the other went so far as to touch himself, stroke himself, eyes fluttering closed as if he were ready to get down and dirty right in front of them all.
Broker put away the phone and gestured toward the door, speaking quietly in Japanese. The two men did not look very happy, but they nodded, bowed, and quickly left.
Broker did not follow. He turned in a slow circle and looked at Iris. His cheekbones were high, his mouth firm. A handsome man, maybe. Iris wanted to kill him.
“For your benefit,” he said quietly. “Santoso wanted you to know how it could be.”
“Could be,” Iris repeated, trying not to think of those men touching her, slobbering over her, sticking their dicks into her. “But if I behave?”
Broker’s mouth curved. “You will serve only one man. Like Songbird serves.”
“Well,” Iris said. “I suppose that’s a deal I just can’t pass up.”
Movement. Four men appeared behind Broker; they carried stretchers and quickly, silently, loaded up the women who had been chosen.
“Wake them, but not too much,” Broker instructed. “Our guests want them pliable, not engaging.”
“God forbid a woman who engages,” Iris said loudly. “Might be too much excitement for such limp dicks.”
One of men snorted; Broker shot him a chilling look and then turned back to Iris. He walked to her and she straightened against her restraints, mustering all the stubborn defiance still left inside her battered, frightened heart.
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