But living in a world of possessing spirits, magic, wizards and werewolves, and vampires didn’t make me a superstitious nut. I booked the flight to Chicago through Denver, leaving Missoula just after noon, and put it on my nifty American Express black card just as Aubrey and Chogyi Jake came down the stairs, packed bags in hand. We loaded into the rented minivan, said our last good-byes to Trevor, and started back to civilization.
I rode shotgun, Chogyi Jake and Ex in the backseat, Aubrey driving. The same configuration as always. Behind us, Trevor’s private boot camp turned into just another swath of trees preparing themselves for an autumn that wasn’t quite here yet. The winding gravel road that led out to state highway 83 shuddered under our wheels and left a low cloud of white dust behind us.
“Well,” Chogyi Jake said, not looking up from his laptop and our still-in-progress wiki. “According to the lawyer’s documents, you have a condominium in Chicago.”
“You’re sounding tentative,” I said.
“It has two of Eric’s annotations.”
“What kind?” Ex asked.
“It was listed in the Lisbon papers with YNTH and DC1,” Chogyi Jake said.
“And do we know what he meant by those?” Aubrey asked.
“No, we don’t. Except that the only other DC1 entry was the place in Los Angeles.”
I groaned. The Los Angeles property with the DC1 annotation had been a royal pain. A converted warehouse in a bad section of the city, it had undocumented locks on every gate, extra dead bolts on the steel doors, and a system of wards and countermeasures that would have made the place impossible to get into at all if they’d been at full strength. But since Eric’s death, no one had been around to do the upkeep, and so working together, Chogyi Jake, Ex, and Aubrey had been able to untangle that knot in six twelve-hour days. And I’d spent a small fortune on locksmiths.
“There are four other YNTH entries,” Chogyi Jake said, “but we haven’t been to any of them yet.”
Since I’d put the three guys on my payroll a year ago, most of our time had gone into trying to make sense of Eric’s world. The list of properties he owned—that I owned—was pages long even if you single-spaced it. After we’d left Denver, we’d gone to Santa Fe; New Haven; New York; London; Athens (the one in Greece, not the one in Georgia); New Orleans; Savannah (but only briefly); Eugene, Oregon; Los Angeles; Barstow, California; Tulsa; Lisbon, Portugal; Gdansk, Poland (for a day and a half); Shiprock, New Mexico; and Bangor, Maine. We’d also taken a two-week vacation in Portland, Oregon, specifically because my uncle hadn’t had anything there that we needed to explore, catalog, or decipher. All in all, it made for seventeen locations in thirteen months, with the contents of each place cataloged—books, objects, the contents of storage facilities, the names of people we found who had known or worked with him. We’d made a good dent, I thought, but even once we got the whole list of things, there would be years of work after that making sense of it all.
Half the time it felt like a permanent occult Christmas with new surprises every day. The other half, I was just overwhelmed.
“I’ll call my lawyer as soon as we get to Missoula,” I said. “She’ll probably have keys and information.”
“Not that they helped in Los Angeles,” Ex said.
“If it’s another high-security site, that’ll be a good thing, right?” Aubrey said. “I mean, then we’ll know what DC1 means.”
“By small steps, we achieve wisdom,” Ex said in a voice that made me think he was quoting someone. Probably ironically.
AS IF the universe knew that Denver made me uncomfortable, the layover took two hours longer than it was supposed to, the second leg of the flight delayed by bad weather in Missouri. The four of us ate a long lunch of pizza and salads at the Wolfgang Puck Express, then scattered to kill time in the shops. Retail therapy—usually one of my first resorts—wasn’t working; I felt like a cat that smelled pit bull. After fifteen minutes, I gave up, headed back to our gate, and fidgeted there instead. I tried meditating, focusing the vital energy called qi in my belly and slowly pulling it up my body. But as I did, my mind kept wandering back to the reasons Chogyi Jake and Ex had taught me this kind of little magic. Like being hunted by cults of evil wizards who could disguise themselves with cantrips or fighting spiritual parasites hidden inside apparently normal people. My focus was for crap.
I tried crowd watching. And then giving my attention to the constant babble of news on the televisions in the concourse. And then going to the bathroom and washing my hands and face. When I got back out, Chogyi Jake was sitting in the plastic chair with one of those Mylar bags of Cracker Jacks. I plopped down at his side, and he tipped the bag toward me. I took a handful. The popcorn’s okay, but I’ve always been a sucker for the caramel peanuts. Something about the salty and the sweet together. The white noise of voices and rattling roll-away suitcases and incomprehensible, garbled PA announcements gave us a kind of privacy.
“All well?” I said.
“Well enough,” Chogyi Jake said. “You?”
“Got a little too much extraneous stuff on my plate,” I said. “But I’ll pull it together. I’m fine.”
The slightest of all possible frowns touched his brow as he popped another cluster of popcorn and sugar into his mouth.
“I’m sorry that the training didn’t go better,” he said.
“Yeah, well. It was worth a shot,” I said. “We can go back later, maybe. For you guys, at least.”
“I’m not particularly concerned with us,” he said.
“You’re worried about me? I’m the one who flipped Trevor the Ninja King into his own wall. I appear to be fine.”
“That’s what concerns me,” he said. “After all we’ve done, there’s still nothing that tells us what protections Eric placed on you. What the parameters were.”
“How to change the oil. When to rotate the tires,” I said.
This was a conversation we’d had before. Magic fades. If we didn’t figure out what exactly Uncle Eric had done, sooner or later it would go away. Probably when it was under stress. Like in the middle of a fight when something was trying to kill me.
“I don’t know what else to do,” I said. “We’re looking, right? We’ve found a lot of stuff. We’ll find more. Maybe we’ll get the part that tells us what’s the right kind of juju. Maybe we won’t. But—”
“But you took us to Trevor so that you could build defenses of your own,” Chogyi Jake said. “Something you understood and controlled. Only the attempt failed.”
From anyone else, it would have stung. If Chogyi Jake had a superpower, it was that he could say things that should have hurt and make them seem like they were just more information. He would have made someone an excellent mother.
“It did,” I said. “I don’t know that it was a bad idea, though.”
“It wasn’t. It seems absolutely the right impulse.”
“And yet,” I said, rooting through his bag for another peanut, “here I am going into fieldwork without actually following through on it.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I have an option,” I said. “Even if it wasn’t Kim, I don’t see how I can wait until I’m ready for everything before I try doing anything.”
“I understand that.”
“Then what are you telling me?”
“Be aware of what you are. Of what your limitations are. Respect them.”
“You know, that’s really vague.”
Chogyi Jake took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his teeth. He let his head fall back until he was staring at the ceiling. Behind us, an older woman was scolding a little boy in a loud, grating voice. A pack of five Japanese kids in matching black outfits hurried past, staring at the gate numbers. I took another handful of popcorn and sugar, and I waited.
“I do know,” he said.
“I can try not to count on things I don’t understand, but it isn’t like I’ve been swaggering around looking for trouble. I don’t think of myself as the bada
ss warrior princess whatever.”
He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t quite mean it.
“When I was eighteen,” he said, “I was living in a two-bedroom apartment in South Carolina with five other people. We were taking a lot of drugs, so we were very hesitant to call the landlord if something was wrong. For instance, there was a raised patio outside with a split in the railing. We all knew about it. We respected it. But we were junkies. It wasn’t something we cared about. And it was solid enough. Strong enough. Reliable enough. I knew it was untrustworthy, but every time I leaned against it, it supported me. Every time I put something heavy on the rail—just for a moment, of course, because I knew it was broken—it held.”
“Until it didn’t, right?”
“But by then, I trusted it. Yes, I knew better, but all my experience had trained me to believe otherwise. It was classical conditioning,” he said. “You have won every fight you’ve been in. Even when it ended with you in the hospital, you’ve won. Those successes have an effect. They teach you that you can succeed, and that Eric’s protections are reliable. And you’ll be right. Until you aren’t.”
A man got on the speakers, announcing with mushy consonants that our flight would be boarding in half an hour and thanking us for our patience. Chogyi Jake ate the last of his snack, crumpled the bag, and tossed it neatly into a garbage can four seats down.
“What happened?” I asked.
He shook his head, asking a question with the gesture.
“When the rail broke,” I said. “What happened?”
“I fell over. The patio was only raised by a few inches, and we had a lawn. I didn’t get hurt.”
I laughed. I didn’t know why I’d expected something dark and tragic, but I had. Chogyi Jake’s constant smile took on a rueful cast. Far down the concourse, I caught sight of Ex and Aubrey walking together. Ex was moving his hands in short, sharp gestures while he spoke. Aubrey’s head was canted toward him, listening intently. Despite the fact that Aubrey was my acknowledged lover and Ex his unacknowledged rival, the two of them got along well. Or maybe not despite. Maybe it was because we all recognized the tension but didn’t talk about it that they both made the extra effort. Whatever it was, it worked.
“Look,” I said, “I can try to be careful. Not push my limits. But since I don’t know exactly where my limits are, the only way I can find out for sure is to go too far.”
“That’s what Eric did,” Chogyi Jake said. “He went to the limit of his ability, and past it, and the Invisible College killed him.”
My stomach went a little tighter.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “So I shouldn’t do that.”
“Not if you can help it.”
THE FLIGHT into O’Hare was ugly. The storm front that had delayed our flight in the first place left enough turbulence behind it to shake the airplane like a terrier. The sun set behind us, and the clouds far below glittered and flashed with lightning. Even in the first-class cabin, people were feeling testy and miserable, myself included. Aubrey, beside me, seemed to be asleep, but there was a green cast to his skin and his hands were balled into fists. My own stomach was unsteady, and I turned away the meal the flight attendants offered.
I knew I had a style. A set of habits that I fell into, time after time. I rushed in where angels feared to tread as a matter of course. I’d done it when I burned my bridges at home and gone to a secular university. I’d done it when I’d gotten involved with my first real lover and his friends, and again when I left for Denver after that all fell apart. I hadn’t known what I was doing when I went against the Invisible College. When we’d gotten into the mess that had been New Orleans, it had been me in the lead, charging ahead without knowing what I was charging into.
But this was different. It was Kim, who knew a lot about riders and possession to begin with. Ex and Aubrey and Chogyi Jake were all with me. And if I didn’t have a set plan, it was only because the idea was to go there first, and then see what the situation was. This time, it was different.
The captain’s voice blatted through the airplane. The flight attendants scurried.
We began our descent.
THREE
There had been a time not that long ago when MapQuest printouts had been part of my routine. The GPS was better. Rain was still coming down hard, and traffic on the highway was thicker and faster than I liked. The cheerful little map glowed in the dashboard, encouraging us on, making the city around us seem like a known quantity. The skyscrapers of Chicago glittered and glowed through the storm, towers of gold and darkness. We got off at Division Street, heading east. The low brick buildings seemed to crowd the street, leaning in toward us, and gray-white rain flowed angrily in the gutters. We followed the GPS directions, and the buildings we passed grew taller, the bars more like places college kids went when they wanted to be edgy. Then banks and restaurants. A Starbucks. My head had been filled with the stories I knew about Chicago—Al Capone and Millennium Field, Buddy Guy and deep-dish pizza. I’d never been here before, and looking out at the same corporate coffee joint I’d been to in every city I’d seen, I felt like I’d driven through someplace—some real, genuine Chicago—and wound up at a convention center. I half wanted to turn back.
And then, the city ended. Between rain, darkness, and the four intervening lanes of I-41, I couldn’t see Lake Michigan itself, but the darkness was sudden and extreme. Aubrey turned us north at the GPS’s gentle, vaguely British suggestion, and the world on our right was towering electric light, glass, and concrete and on our left, blackness. I’d never lived on the water, and the contrast made me jumpy. Or maybe I was already jumpy, and it was just something to latch on to.
The building we wanted looked like a hotel. Pale stone rose over twenty stories above us, lights glowing in over half the windows. Black-barked trees rose up the sides, their canopy covering the street and making the bulk of the building behind them seem even larger. The GPS announced that we had arrived. From the backseat, Ex whistled low.
“We’re sure this is the right place?” I asked.
“I think so,” Aubrey said, squinting past a parked FedEx truck as he drove. “Anyone see an address?”
“This thing’s half the block,” Ex said. “Let’s park and find a security guard to ask.”
“Right,” Aubrey said. “Anyone see where we park?”
We circled the block twice, pulling in at a locked loading dock and then back out again before a figure darted out from the sidewalk. A brown-haired man in a suit and tie waved tentatively, and Aubrey paused, rolling down the window. The blast of air smelled of rain and cold.
“Jayné Heller?” the man asked, pronouncing it Jane.
I raised my hand.
“I’m Harlan. Harlan Jeffers. I work for the building management,” he said with a smile, as the rain dripped down his cheek. “Your lawyer wanted me to meet you. Sorry if I’m late.”
“Where do we park?” Aubrey asked. Harlan pointed him to a bush-camouflaged ramp and handed us a radio passkey before stepping back and promising to meet us inside. We turned the car down the ramp and around a sharp corner. A wide steel gate slid open before us, and we went in.
The lobby of the building belonged in an architectural magazine. Gentle archways of butter-colored marble rose and fell all along a wide central court, and a fountain of black basalt in the center had water sheeting down the stone as if spouting up in the air would be too nouveau riche. Classical music played through hidden speakers like Muzak’s grown-up, sophisticated sister. The smell of rain wasn’t completely gone, but it was lessened. I more than half expected the security guard to stop us and ask for our papers. My traveling T-shirt and jeans seemed about as appropriate as an evening gown in a mosh pit. But Harlan appeared again, his hair slicked by the rain and his smile almost painfully eager to please. I wondered how much he knew about us, or if my lawyer had just put the fear of God into him by implication. She had that knack.
“I’m really sorry I left you hanging,�
� Harlan said, holding out a manila envelope. I accepted it with a smile.
“No trouble,” I said. “We weren’t out there long.”
The envelope held a ring with two keys, a magnetic key card, a sheet of paper with what looked like a four-digit PIN, and a restaurant guide. I pulled out the restaurant guide.
“That’s mine,” Harlan said. “I mean, it’s from me. I knew you were new to the Windy City, and I thought it might help. While you got your bearings.”
“Do they really call it the Windy City, or is that just for tourists?” Ex asked, and Harlan’s smile got a little more nervous.
“One thing,” I said, breaking in before the guy could dig himself in any deeper. “I know we’ve got it listed in the database, but could you just remind me what floor and room we’re heading to?”
“Nineteenth floor,” Harlan said. “You’ve got 1904. Just turn right when you get out of the elevators and it’ll be halfway down on the right. Beautiful view of the lake.”
“Have you been in it?” Chogyi Jake asked. “Not the lake, I mean. The apartment?”
Harlan looked nonplussed.
“We have very strict instructions about 1904,” Harlan said. “We don’t go in or out unless the owner or the owner’s listed agent is present. That’s a very solid rule.”
“So you’ve never been in,” I said.
“No, miss,” he said. “Never.”
I looked at Aubrey, who raised his eyebrow a millimeter. For someone accustomed to dealing with the rich and powerful, Harlan was a rotten liar. The man seemed to sense that he was on thin ice. When he spoke again, his voice was louder and more cheerful.
“My card’s in there too. It has the office number and my private line. If there’s anything I can help with, just let me know. Any time.”
He beat a hasty retreat, and the four of us hauled our suitcases across the wide lobby to the bank of wood-paneled elevators. It took me a minute to figure out that the car wouldn’t move until I waved the magnetic key card over a flat black sensor panel, but then we rose up smoothly, almost silently.
Vicious Grace bsd-3 Page 3
