Erlik’s short, almost military cropped hair was jet black like his mustache. They both starkly contrasted with the pale pink of his skin. Over his upturned nose, dark eyes glinted. Though obviously older, his giant frame was still powerfully built. His fringed leather shirt was stretched tight across the chest, the laces at the V-neck barely holding it closed.
“Eat, boy!” Erlik said, his voice booming. It actually hurt Brad’s ears. “Don’t wait for me!”
For once, Brad was happy to do as he was told. For several minutes, they both slurped and gulped as though they were starved. It reminded Brad so much of his time in the Altai. Sometimes he wished he’d stayed.
The crisscross latticework of the walls was all covered in bright weavings of geometric designs, hung next to one another. The floor was identical; the hard-packed dirt covered in small, overlapping throw rugs. Thick canvas draped over the solid wood frame, shielding them from the elements. Four large posts, painted red, supported the tent’s center high above them. Their table sat in the middle. The rafters above them creaked, but Brad did not look up. He’d only done that once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Erlik tore off a hunk of bread and sopped his bowl with it. “How goes your work with Valentin?” he asked between bites.
Brad nodded, his mouth full. “Good,” he managed to get out. “Very good.” He belched loudly and Erlik laughed.
Outside, the raucous cawing of the ravens signaled their return. Brad could imagine them settling into the tall trees and dislodging icicles. The sound of boots approaching in the crusted snow outside intruded. Erlik’s face clouded. His neck seemed to thicken as his shoulders tensed. As he grabbed the cleaver, he shot a feral glare at the hides covering the door. Then his dark eyes landed on Brad. His ears flexed back flat against his skull, and his teeth gleamed a brilliant white.
“You haven’t told anyone about our–”
“No!” Brad blurted out. “No! Of course not. I would never!”
Erlik had made it clear their meetings were private. Brad had never told a soul, not even Valentin.
Erlik relaxed with a loud huff. He flashed a quick smile and planted the tip of the cleaver in the table with a thunk. The worn wood handle vibrated in the air. Though he stood up, his easy manner returned.
“No,” Erlik said. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He backed away from the table and fetched a coil of rope that hung from a peg on one of the posts. “You’re a good boy.”
Brad exhaled. Not for the first time, he wondered if you could lose bladder control in the Multiverse.
The approach of feet stopped just outside.
“Someone made it through the forest,” Erlik grumbled lowly, uncoiling an arm’s length of rope. “Unusual.” He paused and glanced at Brad. “I have work to do,” he said.
Brad jumped up from the table, bumping it, making the bowls wobble. It was a good thing they were empty.
“You delay, you stay,” Brad said.
“That’s right,” Erlik said, all his attention on the entry. He licked his lips. “Time for you to run along.”
CHAPTER THREE
AS SK ENTERED the small apartment, Mayet tugged him to the side. He stuck his head into the hallway, checked left and right, and then slammed the door. Then he locked the knob, two deadbolts, a chain, and a metal latch. For the last lock, he had to stretch up on his toes. Mayet was a little on the short side, even for a dwarf.
“Did anyone see you?” Mayet asked, going to the curtained window on the other side of the shabby room. He stood to one side and barely moved the thin material, peering down to the street below. “Merde. You should have called.”
Mayet’s normally haughty demeanor had vanished, and his French accent was less thick than usual. SK also wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Mayet swear before.
“No one saw me,” SK said, glancing around.
The place must have come furnished–dirty and worn, but furnished. It was barely a studio apartment, with the twin bed not six feet from the scuffed refrigerator, which was making a ticking sound. Instead of a stove, there was a hot plate next to a small sink that was piled high with dirty pans. Empty soup cans overflowed a brown, paper grocery bag on the floor.
Mayet blew out air through pursed lips and stopped checking the street. He fetched a soft pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter from the nightstand.
“Cigarette?” he said, holding out the pack and jostling it so that the unfiltered end of one popped up.
“No. Thanks. I gave it up.”
Mayet took the end in his mouth, lit up, and pulled in a deep drag. Then he went back to the window.
SK had known from the address Mamacita had given him that the neighborhood in Hollywood wouldn’t be great, but he hadn’t expected Mayet to be in such dire straits. For a moment, SK wondered about his car. He’d left it with Mayet when he’d left L.A. for Arizona. Customized to be driven without pedals, it was something only another small person would appreciate. There was little chance Mayet could have sold it but–SK glanced at the empty soup cans–he obviously needed the money.
“What’s going on here?” SK asked. And why are you living like this?
Mayet picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue.
“Going on, he says,” Mayet muttered. “I would have thought that was obvious. Merde. A lot of nothing is going on.”
“The Siberian shamans?” SK asked.
Mayet blew out a big puff of smoke and laughed. “So you know, but you ask anyway,” he said. Mayet threw a quick glare at him. “Or is this some game?”
SK shook his head. “No game,” he said. “Just tell me what happened.”
Mayet peered back to the street again and took another long drag. He’d lost some weight.
“Why aren’t you working?” SK asked.
Mayet guffawed. “Oh merde! Working?” He shook his head. “With who?”
“With shamans,” SK said. “Even Siberian shamans are going to need an intercessor.”
“Oh for…” Mayet said. He stared at SK as though he were appraising him, top to bottom. “How long have you been back?”
SK almost took out his phone and checked the time but stopped himself. “We flew in this morning,” he said.
“This morning,” Mayet said. “This– Wait. We? Is she with you?” Without waiting for an answer, he checked the street again. He leaned so close to the curtain that the cigarette nearly touched it.
“No,” SK said, frowning. “Liv isn’t with me.”
Mayet let the curtain fall, hung his head and exhaled with a whoosh. He paced to the coffee table and sat down, rubbing his face as he took a deep breath. Then he took another puff.
“I can’t live like this,” he muttered, almost inaudible.
“When was the last time you worked?” SK asked, trying another tack.
“May,” Mayet said without hesitation. He smirked at SK. “My birthday.”
Four months, SK thought. He hasn’t worked in four months?
“No idea,” Mayet said, watching him. “You really have no idea.” Mayet chuckled and shook his head. “Ignorance is bliss. Isn’t that what you Americans say?” He nodded and took a drag. “Well,” he said, exhaling. “Why should you have all the bliss?” Mayet crushed out the remainder of his cigarette in the black, plastic ashtray. “The Institute,” he said, getting up and heading to the nightstand. He nearly offered another cigarette to SK but then stopped and took it himself. “They don’t use intercessors.” He lit up and took a deep drag. “To say the least.”
“The institute,” SK said. He moved to the low couch next to the front door and took a seat. “What institute?”
“The Russian-American Institute of the Healing Arts,” Mayet said, as though he were imitating a radio jingle. SK realized with a start that was exactly what he was doing. “They make their own appointments, handle their own shamans,” Mayet said. “Take care of their own money.”
SK had never heard of it. “All right,” he said. “The Institute.
They have their own intercessors but–”
“No,” Mayet said curtly. “No. They do not have their own intercessors. They don’t use them. At all.”
SK scowled.
“Clients call the Institute,” Mayet said, pretending to hold a phone to his ear. “The operator gives them an appointment. They go in. They pay. They get healed. They leave.” He took another drag. “No intercessor needed.”
All right, SK thought. Maybe it was bound to happen. Someone’s created a company.
“Fine,” he said. “What about the other shamans in L.A.?”
Mayet laughed, as though he’d heard something truly funny. “Oh, the handful that are left?” Mayet said, still chuckling. “As I said. May. That was the last time I worked with Dominique.”
As though he’d been struck, SK’s head snapped back. Dominique? The dark shaman who had tried to kill Liv?
Mayet must have seen the look on his face. “Not like that,” was all he said and took another puff. “And Min stopped working,” he continued with a shrug. “Of course.”
“What?” SK said. “Why did Min stop working?”
Mayet scowled at him, but then jumped up and dashed to the window. SK hadn’t heard a thing.
“Merde!”
As Mayet dashed to the closet, SK stood up and carefully approached the window. A black Mustang with tinted windows had parked below. Two men who wore black polo shirts and mirrored aviator sunglasses got out. Big guys, both of them, they looked up to the window. SK stepped back.
“Screw it,” Mayet said. He slung a duffle bag over his shoulder and was jamming what looked like a passport in his back pocket. “Six month lease,” he muttered. “Screw it.” He tossed a set of keys to SK, his own keys. “You drive. We can use the stairway that goes to the alley.”
“Drive where?” SK asked.
“The airport,” Mayet said as he hurriedly undid each of the door locks. “It’s all merde.”
CHAPTER FOUR
VALENTIN SET THE glass syringe down carefully at the edge of the sink. A droplet of blood from the needle tip dripped into the sink. It lengthened on the damp, curving surface and disappeared into a pale, pink sheen that joined the others. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined his upper cheek in the mirror, leaning as close as he could get. His own blood, injected in his skin, smoothed it out nicely. Using a cotton ball, he dabbed gently at the puncture wound.
Effective but short-lived.
He picked up the needle, carefully sighted a wrinkle just outside his right eye, and gave himself another injection. As he leaned back, the two pendants he wore clicked together–his own and the one from Brad. His was a deeply orange teardrop of Baltic amber, an inch long. Inside were two tiny creatures. Though the resin encapsulating them had flowed slowly, the spider must have been intent, forever frozen in the act of preying on its insect victim. The other pendant was a flat piece of charoite from the only place the rare stone could be found: the Chara river in Siberia. Also an inch long, the pearly purple stone had been cut and polished in the shape of an eight-pointed star.
Satisfied for the moment, Valentin stored the hypodermic in the worn leather case. He placed it in the medicine cabinet next to the bee venom and placenta extract.
There was a knock at the door in the living room. That would be Brad, early as usual. Valentin had been about to close the mirrored door but remembered the cologne. He took the glass, pump spray cylinder from the bottom shelf and spritzed the pendants liberally, smirking at the sweet, earthy scent.
Wouldn’t want to disappoint the boy.
CHAPTER FIVE
“SHE KNOWS ME,” Livvy said. “Just ask her.”
The security guard didn’t move.
“No appointment, no entry,” he said, his bass voice rumbling.
Livvy had come to the back of Ursula’s building the way she and SK had always done. Once upon a time, Bruno had barred the way, but vigilantes had killed Bruno. This guy could have been Bruno’s big brother: the same dark skin, the same precise and close-cropped hair, even the same gold chain and dark glasses. But this man had to be twice as wide. It was warm in Watts, but he wore a black leather jacket that looked like it would fit two of Livvy, maybe three.
“Just tell her that Livvy is here,” she said. “Olivia Lawson. The Lightning Shaman?”
The man simply clasped his hands in front of his belt and looked over the top of her head.
Oh, come on. He has to know who I am. The dull ache of her hip made her shift her feet and reposition the cane. As she did, she saw her own reflection in his dark lenses and a new thought occurred to her.
Maybe that’s it. He does know who I am.
Up above, there was a light rapping on glass. Just as Livvy glanced up to the window, a dark curtain fell back into place. Without a word, the man swung one leg back, as though he was a door, and stood aside. Even so, Livvy still had to step around his girth. She went into the short hallway at the back of the restaurant, passed a couple of empty lettuce boxes, then took an immediate right up the small staircase. There was no line of clients. Though Livvy had held out hope that Ursula’s business was doing better, it was obviously not. The flood of Haitian refugees and the shamans that had been among them had put a serious squeeze on work.
At the top of the stairs, Livvy moved down the hall and came to a stop outside the closed door. She took a deep breath and knocked.
“Enter,” came Ursula’s voice.
Despite the circumstances, Livvy had to smile. It was good to hear her. Livvy opened the door and was met with the purple, velvet curtain that she’d expected. At least that hadn’t changed. In keeping with Ursula’s loa or vodun spirit, Livvy turned around, closed the door, and backed through the entryway. In the reversed world of that loa, up was down, right was left, and backward was forward. The fabric parted. As expected, Livvy saw the flickering glow of the fire on the shiny fabric. Even in late summer, the fire was lit and the air conditioning was turned up high. But when Livvy turned around, she gasped and came to a stop.
This wasn’t Ursula’s private consultation room. It was a store.
Gone were the mood lighting and the neon portraits of the vodun saints. Instead, there was a massive wood and glass case crammed full of dark bottles of various sizes. The walls were lined with deep, white shelves brimming with clear apothecary jars. Even the fireplace mantel was full. And Ursula–she stood behind the case. Though she still wore her hair in a bright pink wrap with lipstick to match. Her lavender outfit was a modified pharmacist’s smock, and she wore purple latex gloves. But it seemed like no matter what Ursula wore, she was stunning. Her dark skin always seemed aglow with the vibrancy of life itself.
Livvy searched for a way around the case so she could give Ursula a hug, but at the right it met the wall, and at the left, a thick board that formed the counter was lowered into place. But more than that, there was something about the way Ursula held herself that told Livvy a hug wouldn’t be happening.
“It’s good to see you, Ursula,” Livvy said. And despite the strange new look, it was. Ursula had been a friend in good times and bad, and it was something Livvy hadn’t forgotten. But the impassive set to Ursula’s eyes and tight mouth said the feeling wasn’t mutual. Ursula glanced at the cane and then removed her latex gloves, tossing them in the trash.
“Were you followed?” Ursula asked.
Livvy blinked. “Well, no,” she said. “Well, I don’t think I was. I took a cab.” Ursula grimaced. “Followed by who?”
Ursula frowned and then shrugged. “Never mind,” she said. “Ursula is far enough away.” She glanced at the window. “Probably.”
Livvy cocked her head at her. “Far enough away from what?”
Ursula shook her head, picked up a mortar and pestle from the marble bench behind her and set it on the wood counter between them. From the back of the case, she selected a glass container that looked like it contained small, dried flowers.
“So, what does the Lightning Shaman need of
Ursula?” Ursula said as she used a pair of tongs to put a few of the dried flowers into the mortar.
“Wait, Ursula,” Livvy said, stepping closer. “Followed by who? Far from what?”
Ursula moved the flowers around in the bottom of the stone bowl for a few moments, then dropped the tongs into the glass jar. Then she moved to the end of the case, opened the sliding glass door on the back, and retrieved a brown glass bottle with what looked like a powder inside. Livvy moved down the case, keeping Ursula in front of her, but Ursula didn’t make eye contact.
“Look,” Livvy said, a feeling of dread starting to grow. “I don’t know what’s going on, other than what Mamacita said. I know there’s–”
Ursula set the glass bottle down with a thud. “Did she send you?” The vehemence in Ursula’s voice was unmistakable. “Or Wan-li?”
“What?” Livvy said, scowling. Gods, what is going on? And what does Wan-li have to do with anything? But then Livvy remembered Mamacita’s empty store. Did Ursula see Mamacita and Wan-li as competition? “Nobody sent me. I got off a plane not three hours ago.”
Ursula studied her for a moment and then seemed to relax, but just a fraction. She put on a new pair of latex gloves, picked up the pestle, and furiously mashed the dried flowers.
Livvy took a deep breath and waited, but Ursula kept her head down. This wasn’t like Ursula, not at all. Straight ahead and direct, just short of blunt, and not one to mince words–that was Ursula. Livvy’s eyes searched the case as though she might find answers there. And to her surprise, she actually recognized some of the bottles. They were Ursula’s own herbal remedies. When the Haitian refugee shamans had started to take away her clients, Ursula had turned to herbal medicines to make up the shortfall in income. In fact, Livvy had even endorsed them, as the Lightning Shaman. But to Livvy’s surprise, there didn’t appear to be anything to that effect on the bottles. Not a single label mentioned anything. Livvy frowned as Ursula continued to pulverize whatever was left in the mortar.
Shaman, Lover, Warrior: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Olivia Lawson Techno-Shaman Book 5) Page 2
