“I should dance on your grave,” I said, a tear from the allergens falling down my cheek. But there was no snapped comeback, no sense of being heard, now or ever. Xavier’s soul was finally, utterly depleted, and now the hollow shell his wealth had created could finally be put to rest.
I wiped my eyes and left the room.
There were twenty-eight messages of condolence waiting for me by the time I left Xavier’s home—now mine, I supposed—and twelve of them were from Cher alone. I cursed silently, but knew I’d have to visit her before I did anything else. That’s what Olivia would do, and people were certainly watching now.
By the time I reached the sprawling ranch house where Cher lived with her mother, the sun was once again blocked in by barren clouds, and a chilled wind whipped over the ground, causing me to think of Northern Lights instead of neon ones. What was going on with the weather? I gazed heavenward, but didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The door flew open almost as soon as I knocked, and I was swept up into an all-encompassing hug.
“Hey, Suz,” I said, sounding strangled. She loosened her hold. She was wearing thin fleece sweats, her gray zip-top making it clear she wore nothing underneath, and her hair was piled atop her head, dark roots visible at the base of her neck. It was still early morning, so her face was barer than I’d ever seen it, but it was creamy and smooth, still silky perfection at forty-something. She never spoke of her age. She considered it bad juju.
“Oh, darlin’,” she began, and it was all I could do not to sigh. She tilted her head, soft errant strands falling around her face as I turned to her. “We only just heard. It’s terrible. I’m so sorry for your loss. Are you okay?”
Pulling me through the threshold, she simultaneously answered her own question. “Silly. Of course you’re not. If anyone should know that, it’s me.” From all appearances, she was the typical Vegas trophy wife. She’d married someone far older than she, yet by all accounts she’d truly loved Cher’s father, something that’d been questioned in the recent spate of articles and gossip surrounding her new engagement…and that meant we really didn’t share the same loss. I did not love the man who had died in the night. Still, I appreciated her effort and knew Olivia would be grateful for it.
“Thank you.” Wanting to distract her, I said, “Where’s Cher?”
“She went to Xavier’s to find you, of course. You two probably drove right by each other on the way over. We should call.” As she picked up the cordless phone, I tossed my bag down on the cream sofa, immediately relaxing. It was nice to be in a safe, estrogen-filled environment that wouldn’t actually kill me. Thick white candles dotted nearly every surface, their sheer numbers and smooth melted shapes making them art all on their own. Their scent lingered among the silk and brocades of the pillows and throws, and softened the stark collage of photos blanketing an entire wall. My sister was a significant part of that collage, and in the past year I’d been incorporated as well…though, of course, in Olivia’s softly smiling, beautiful form.
Suzanne turned to me after she’d hung up with Cher, who promised to be right home, and gave me a watery smile. “Is there anything at all I can do to help?”
“You’re doing it,” I told her, and blew out a long sigh. And I did feel better. Lighter, though I had no reason to be down. “But what are you doing here? I thought Arun moved you into Asgard?”
Apparently the roomy but modest home wasn’t good enough for a future princess, and Arun had chosen the palatial suites at Valhalla as his bride’s new residence until he could have his own compound built. He knew she liked living in Vegas, and was indulging her desire to have a fourth home here. Or was it fifth?
At any rate, Cher would have the sprawling, if slightly aged, home to herself from now on, and for some reason that brought on my melancholy again. A home without the two of them in it, I realized with some surprise, wouldn’t feel like much of a home at all.
“I think I’m doing the same thing here that you are,” she said quietly, looking up at me as she lowered her head. “Escaping.”
I winced. “That bad, huh?”
She shook her head, too quickly. “Not bad at all, actually. But…different.”
“Well, why don’t you talk to Arun about it? He seems like he’d move the world for you.”
Her smile brightened and she actually blushed at that. “Maybe I will when he gets back.”
“Back?”
“He went to Scottsdale for meetings. He’s a bit superstitious. Says the weather here is unlucky, and that it looks like the sky is falling.”
I eyed the bulging nest of power through the decorative glass of the front door. It did look like it was falling. “So he left you under it?”
“I told him I didn’t want to go. It’s my home.” She leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed her bare feet at the ankles. “Besides, Thanksgiving is coming up soon. You’re still spending it with us, right?”
“Of course.”
“Are you injured?”
“Wha…?” I glanced down in the direction of her gaze and saw the dried blood from where I’d run into the footstool. Damn it. I was going to have to get used to moving around differently again. “It’s just a scratch,” I said sadly.
“Sit here,” Suzanne said, pointing at an overstuffed ottoman. “I’ll get the Bactine.”
I sighed as I sat. Bactine today…a full body cast tomorrow.
She returned with the medicine and a whole bag of cotton balls. “What happened?” she asked, dabbing lightly.
“Dark club,” I lied. “Too much to drink. Late night. I fell down some stairs.”
“Ouch,” she said, and I watched the cool liquid bubble on my skin. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to get used to this again. How the hell was I going to tell Warren?
“Well, that which doesn’t kill you, right?” I said, quoting him now.
Suzanne grimaced. “I’ve always hated that saying.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“There, that should do it.” She sat back on her heels and blew hair from her eyes. “Want pancakes while we wait?” she asked, looking up at me.
“Oh, is that what you’re burning?”
She leapt to her feet. “Shit!”
I followed her to the kitchen, where she was, indeed, enthusiastically burning pancakes. While she went to scrape those into the trash and start over, I looked around.
The View played on in the background, some pseudo-Thanksgiving show reminding me that in this world—despite being camped out over another one, despite Xavier’s death—celebration was only days away. I eyed the tiny TV mounted beneath the shiny beech cabinets, the light granite countertops, the collection of ceramic roosters and pigs, and sighed. Sometimes I wished I had Suzanne’s life. And that was without the prince.
I leaned on the counter across from her and watched as she poured more pancakes into the skillet.
All this, I thought with a grimace, and she couldn’t flip a pancake for crap.
“Here,” I said, nudging her aside. “Let me.”
I took the spatula and turned down the heat. Suzanne dropped onto a bar stool and sighed in relief. If only taking over pancake duty was the most tasking of my heroic duties. I added some butter to the pan and poured the batter, glancing at her as she blithely sipped from her tiny espresso cup.
“Let’s talk about something cheery, shall we?” she said. “What about you? How’s your pursuit of pleasure and bliss going?”
It took me a moment to recall our conversation at the lingerie trunk show, right after Madeleine and Lena had turned on her. That seemed a lifetime ago now—before Vanessa, before Midheaven, and before I’d knew real goddesses existed—so I’d forgotten all about it. That was the problem with lying. Remembering what you were lying about was often harder than telling the truth.
“Not great.” I thought about Solange languishing beneath her stars, fashioning precious jewels out of other people’s souls—beautiful and strong…and more deadly than I�
�d ever be. “Um, I met a woman who showed me I have a long way to go.”
“Bitch,” Suzanne said shortly, which caused me to bark out in laughter. “The Olivia Archer I know and love would go head-to-head with her.”
The thought was laughable, and I actually snorted. It would take me weeks alone just to learn how to walk in Diana’s spiked shoes. But what really got me was the women’s amplified power. I’d doubted a lot of things about myself in the past, but I’d never doubted my strength. Yet Solange’s power made me feel like the Karate Kid.
“I’m afraid I’m out of my league there.” I shrugged, a move that betrayed my self-consciousness. “It’s easy most of the time here. Vegas, I mean. Big fish, small pond. But this other woman is…formidable.” I handed Suzanne a plate and slid her the syrup.
She put off answering long enough to cut into her food, groaning with the first bite, taking a second as I poured more batter. She spoke with a full mouth. “You still don’t get it, do you? Want me to spell out for you what a real man finds most attractive?”
I was talking about might, not men, but I nodded for her to continue. She lived, very simply, in another world.
“An authentic woman. Someone who walks through this world following her own whim. He’ll see her, he’ll watch her, and he’ll continue to stare, unblinking, as if mesmerized by the tail of a kite soaring and tossing about on the wind. For the right man, one who’s ready, just watching his woman move around scores new patterns on his retina, creates new pathways in his mind—or, for the first time, lights up the ancient ones—about what a real woman is.”
I tapped my spatula on the side of the pan, sharply, and put a hand on my hip. “Really? So what about all that lingerie and…” Shit. “…stuff?”
“Oh.” She sat up straighter, popped another bite into her mouth. “That’s not for a man. That’s for me.”
I stared.
She stabbed some more cooked batter. “These are really good.”
I glanced down, realized it was time to flip over another. “My sister showed me how to make them,” I said softly, moving another pancake to a plate.
Suzanne reached over the countertop and touched my arm. Her fingertips were cool and light, almost like she could float away. “You look tired, honey. Do you want to lie down in the guest room after breakfast? Just for a bit?”
I was exhausted, flipping the last pancake. But my mind was wired, and I still had too much to figure out about Jasmine and Warren. Solange and Jacks. Hunter and me, I thought, returning to Suzanne’s words. An authentic woman? I frowned, pouring the syrup.
“Suz,” I said hesitantly, not looking at her. “You know when you told me that women were the color of the world? That we were the life and—”
“The beauty.” She nodded, sighing to herself. “It’s so true. It’s our natural state. It’s—”
“I’m not,” I said suddenly, and I didn’t know why, but I wanted to cry at the statement. I swallowed hard. “I’m gray.”
“Has someone been telling you that? Who? That woman?” She was suddenly at my side, soft blue eyes burrowing into my own. I looked down. Solange had shown me. But Warren, I now realized, was the one treating me that way. And it wasn’t in words, but specifically in what he didn’t tell me, in the things he kept close to his chest. He claimed that he wanted me close, but then he’d sent me away. He said he valued me, but he continually put me at risk.
“Nah.” I shook myself, realizing I was frowning and staring into space, and that I hadn’t yet answered Suzanne. “A man, actually.”
“Then you don’t want him in your life. A man like that is poison, do you understand?”
A man, sure. A mortal, and I’d agree. But I wasn’t sure the same held true of a powerful and overbearing superhero. I also wasn’t so sure that “want” had anything to do with it. I took a bite of my own pancakes just to avoid answering, when a movement at the back door window caught my eye. I froze, fork halfway to my mouth, as I was caught in the gaze of a tulpa.
Suzanne, seeing my stricken look, whirled. Of course, there was nothing there but the strangely blotted sky, and a small dust devil blowing up debris behind her pool. She turned back around and I raised my brows.
“Just had a thought. Gotta go.”
She lifted her brows as high as the Botox would allow. “What?”
“Yeah, um…funeral plans. Gotta get it done. But the pancakes fortified me.” I patted my tummy before dropping a hand on her arm. “And so did the chat. Thank you.”
She rolled her eyes and shook off my hand. “Well, sheesh. Just hold on.”
I did, tapping my foot impatiently as she disappeared at the back of the house. Skamar popped up again, and I made a face, waving her away. Suzanne rounded the corner again, and I turned the gesture into a smooth patting of my hair, smiling grimly.
“Here,” she said, holding out her hands.
“What is it?”
“A necklace given to me by my first husband. Actually, it was the first gift he ever gave me. Said it shields you from the evil eye. It’s Asian, so Arun will most certainly know what it is…and he wouldn’t understand if I hung onto it. I want you to have it.”
I frowned, and stared at her, Skamar forgotten. “What about Cher?”
Why me? Though, too late, I remembered Suzanne didn’t differentiate between the two of us. We were both daughters to her.
She rolled her eyes as she circled behind me. I lifted my hair and she slid the necklace over my neck. “She’s the one who thought of it. Actually, she wanted to give it to you herself.”
I looked down. It was a solid pendant of intricate scrollwork and bright gold. There were seven places for precious stones, all different colors, though I noticed there were a couple missing. I attributed that to age, which meant it was all the more valuable. “It’s beautiful. But I can’t possibly accept it. It means so much to you both.”
She nodded, like she’d been expecting that, and folded my fingers over it. “Then just wear it to your father’s funeral.”
“Okay,” I said, deeming it easier not to argue. “Thank you.”
She followed me to the door. “Cher’s going to be upset that she missed you.”
“I’ll see her at Thanksgiving. Tell her I’m doing okay.” I stepped from the patio and into a gust of whipping wind as I headed down the drive.
“Olivia!” Half out the door, Suz shook her head. “You’re not gray. You’re a fuckin’ rainbow. Got it?”
I could only smile and wave…and hope that she was right.
18
“Yo, Rainbow Brite,” Skamar said, meeting me around the corner. I hoped we looked like two neighbors swapping recipes on the street corner. Or, from the way Skamar had her hands fisted on her hips, at least like two women fighting over the same man. That, at least, wasn’t too out of the ordinary. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Don’t criticize her,” I said, ignoring the latter half of her question. I walked a bit farther so we could duck beneath the concealing shade of a giant plum tree. “I’m being Olivia. What the fuck are you doing?”
“Oh, just dodging the Tulpa.”
“You mean he’s here?” I couldn’t keep the panic from bleeding into my voice, and I cleared my throat, remembering that revealed emotion normally caused my troubles.
“Not yet. But he’ll find me. He always does.”
I wanted to tell her that I’d been trying to find her, but the fatigue in her voice had me softening toward her, as did her explanation. It couldn’t be easy. She’d only come into full being a month ago, and had been fighting nonstop ever since. Not exactly the homecoming most newborns were given in this world.
“Look, I’m sorry for showing up here. I had to get you alone.”
My full attention narrowed back on her, along with my hard gaze. “You’re not going to try to eat any of my vital organs again, are you?”
She gave me a tight smile. “It no longer appeals, no.”
Good. Devouring th
e organs, and particularly the heart of the person whose face and life a doppelgänger mirrored—and I mean that in a twisted, funhouse sort of way—was the fastest, most efficient means of becoming a fully realized entity. Fortunately, I’d satisfied her greed for life with something even stronger than my flesh: her name. Skamar meant star in the Tibetan tongue. I’d thought it apropos for someone who’d begun life as a mere thought-form constructed out of the myth and meditation so critical to the eastern culture.
“You look different.”
What I meant was she didn’t look like me.
When we’d first met, Skamar was a doppelgänger, the evolutionary precursor to a full-fledged tulpa. Sporting a body of ripples and waves, one as malleable as tensile foam, she’d shone with a light that made her skin snap with every movement, like a diamond in the sun. Intent upon killing me and taking over my life, that bubble and light had solidified into a body mirroring mine so closely in both physical aspect and mannerism that even I wasn’t able to discern the difference. However, in the weeks since I’d last seen her, Skamar had taken on an identity of her own.
Thin and small and pale, she’d have been plain too, were her features not so sharp. Her short hair was blunt and red, her matching lashes so light she looked bald-eyed, but her lips were defined even without color, and her nose arrowed between cheekbones you could hang laundry from, wide and high. I’d have commented about one of Jane Austen’s characters inadvertently wandering into an action flick, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate it.
Her clothes were dark, but silk and lightweight, obviously chosen for comfort and mobility rather than warmth. Not remotely appropriate for a chilled winter day, I thought, but from the looks of them—tattered and bloodied—she’d been wearing them awhile.
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