by Kami Garcia
“Oh, that guy. I see what you’re saying.” But Link didn’t see, since he had never set foot inside a museum in his entire life. Not even the gift shop.
“Dalí,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Salvador Dalí, the guy with the droopy clocks and bizarre faces and skulls that have skulls for eyes. Monster heads walking around on chicken legs and whatever.”
“Last time I checked, you paid about as much attention to museums as I did.” Link grinned. “You’re so full of it.”
“See right there? Where the monster coming out of the creepy egg thing with legs is eating those little guys? That’s what I’m talking about.” Ridley gestured to the wall.
“I think you’re missing the point.” Link looked smug.
“Yeah? What is it, then, Picasso?”
Link reached toward the white monster. “It’s that.”
He touched the wall right behind the white monster, where another creature, one that looked like a cross between a squid and a giraffe—with a strangely round, red nose—was spewing what looked like a bunch of eyeballs out of his enormous mouth.
“He’s throwing up,” Rid said. “Clown Nose is throwing up.” Suddenly, she saw it. Clown Nose. Throwing up. Puking clown!
“Pukin’ like Savannah Snow at Senior Night.” Link seemed more chipper than he’d been since they left Gatlin. “Or Emily Asher at prom. Or that really drunk Summerville kid with food poisoning at Meatstik’s last gig. Or—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.” Rid reached for the mouth. Her hand slid inside, until it disappeared all the way up to her wrist.
“Doorknob?” Link looked hopeful.
In answer, she grabbed his sleeve and yanked, until they both disappeared into the swirls of paint that were the graffiti mural…
… and reappeared on the other side of a door, in what seemed to be the mail room of an average-looking apartment building.
Link doubled over, his hands on his knees. Then he stood upright, shaking his head like a big dog that had just come out of the water. “Whoa. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”
“A basic Occultus Vox Cast? Oh, please, whatever. Illusionist kid stuff. Larkin did the same thing to his clubhouse when he was five.” Ridley wasn’t so impressed with the doorway; anyone could do that. But through the glass of another doorway, she saw stairs zigzagging up into the darkness—apartments above Marilyn’s, hidden from the outside by a Cast. Illusioning away a whole apartment building was pretty cool. Only the diner on the bottom floor was visible, and Ridley realized there was a second way in.
“The diner’s the threshold,” Ridley said. “I think we came in the back door. They were probably trying to throw us off.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
Ridley shrugged. “They’re Dark Casters, not the Stonewall Jackson PTA. They’re not here to meet the neighbors.”
She stared at the mailboxes, where a row of names appeared in pencil next to their corresponding—and very Mortal, very battered-looking—metal boxes. She ran her fingers down the list.
FLOYD: #2D
She tapped her finger on the name. “I met that girl. She’s the Illusionist.”
“Floyd?”
“I guess so.” Ridley shrugged. To be honest, she hadn’t paid much attention to anything that night at Suffer beyond her own predicament. “She was good at Liar’s Trade. But I was better.”
“What else?” Link looked at her like she was forgetting the important stuff.
“Oh, right. Bass guitar, I think.” She tried to remember, then gave up. “Whatever. She’s just some rocker chick.”
“I like rocker chicks.” Link grinned.
Ridley ignored him. She just pointed at a different name on the wall. “She didn’t do it all by herself. Look.”
There it was.
NECRO: #2D
“So they’re friends,” Link said.
Ridley nodded. “One did the tagging and the other hid the door. I met them both, but I don’t think I said two words to them all night.” Another poser rock loser.
“Necro? Probably a Necromancer.” Link looked anxious. He wasn’t interested in talking to the dead any more than he already had in the last few years. Having your best friend go to the Otherworld and back will do that to a guy.
“You think? What gave that away?”
Link raised his hands in surrender.
One name was scratched out. Ridley looked more closely but she couldn’t read it. “That one must have been their blowhole of a drummer. The one you’re replacing.”
“I’m not—”
Careful. Pull back. “The one they think you’re replacing. I know, I know. It’s not up to me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not the boss of you. So we’ll just go inside and clear the whole thing up.”
“What about this one?” Link stooped over to read the name. “It looks like Sam. Sam something.”
SAMPSON: #2D
Ridley felt seriously ill seeing the name of the strange Darkborn who had beaten her in the final hand of Liar’s Trade. The one who was playing for the house. “Sampson, he’s… something different.”
“Dark? Light? Incubus?”
If only she knew.
“Just different.” Her tone said leave it, and he did.
Ridley took a breath.
Now or never. I got us into this mess. This is how I’ll get us out.
So she did the opposite of every single thing she felt like doing. She found apartment 2D—up one flight of stairs, with nothing obviously Caster about them—and pushed the buzzer.
The door opened.
It was the pretty-boyish girl with the blue faux-hawk. Ridley recognized the close-cropped blue hair from the club. She couldn’t remember her name. They were all a blur now.
“Hey, Duane.” She attempted a smile. “Knock, knock. It’s us.” Ridley had taken a step closer toward the door when the blue faux-hawk tried to slam it shut, in her face. “Not expecting us, were you? Thanks for the great directions. You really made things easy.”
Link pushed the door open, and they stared at two very different girls. Ridley remembered them both from Suffer.
One was tall and gangly, sporting ratty jeans, a ripped Pink Floyd T-shirt, and more stringy blond hair than she seemed to know what to do with. Right now it was spilling out of two knots on the top of her head. “Hi, Floyd,” Ridley said.
Next to her, the one with the faux-hawk was short and slight. Where there wasn’t blue hair or black leather there were so many piercings it looked like she had a stapler fetish. “Necro.” Ridley nodded. It occurred to her that she had never realized Necro was actually a girl before, when they’d met at Suffer.
Neither girl answered.
“Hey, Floyd.” Link pointed at her shirt. “I get it. Awesome.” He made a small, worshipful bow. Floyd swallowed a smile.
He looked at Necro. “What’s up, Gaga?”
Ridley snorted. “Link. Don’t be rude. It’s not Gaga. I’m not even sure it’s a Lady.”
“It? Are you talking about me?” Necro examined her fist like she was considering her options. “Ouch, Barbie. Where’d you learn your manners?”
“On the streets of Brooklyn,” Ridley shot back. “Thanks to your excellent directions.” She looked at Link. “This is my boyfriend, Link.” She nodded at the girls. “This is Devil’s Hairspray.”
“Hangmen,” Floyd corrected.
“As if that’s any better.” Ridley rolled her eyes.
Necro looked annoyed. “Aren’t Sirens supposed to keep their killer talons hidden under soft, sweet exteriors?”
Ridley waved a hand of talon-like nails.
Necro smiled. “Oh, I see the talons. I’m just having a hard time finding the sweet exterior.”
“Bite me,” Ridley said. “See how sweet I taste then.”
Necro raised an eyebrow. “Funny, I’m going to pass.”
Ridley smiled back. “Funny, I’m not going anywhere.”
They stood eye to eye, talon to talon. Necromancer to Siren, at an unspoken impasse.
In the end, the Necromancer blinked.
Don’t they always?
Necro shoved the door open with a sweeping gesture. “Fine. Lennox warned us you were coming. You can hang at the Devil’s Hangout until you find a place of your own.” Ridley took a step toward the door, but Necro stopped her. “I hope your boyfriend’s better at the drums than you are at cards, Siren.”
Ridley pushed past her. She didn’t laugh.
There was nothing funny about Lennox Gates.
CHAPTER 9
Use Your Illusion
Apartment 2D was even stranger on the inside than the outside. The moment the door shut behind Link and Ridley, Rid realized she was standing in an inch of clear water.
“What the—”
Beneath her feet she could see golden sand.
Rid looked up to see a beach, and not just the depressing kind you found on a poster in a travel agency.
It was real. The sun was hot. The water was wet. She could tell by the way it was seeping between her toes.
“Is that an illusion?”
Necro shrugged. “Floyd missed the waves.”
Floyd nodded. “I’m a California girl. Totally.”
Link kicked at the water with his Doc Martens. “Killer surf.”
Whatever.
“Can you tone down the water? I can barely hear myself think.” Rid glared at Floyd, and instantly a wave the size of the Beater crashed over Rid’s head. Floyd even made Rid’s hair and clothes look—and feel, to Ridley’s horror—sopping wet.
“Funny.” She tried not to sound impressed.
When Ridley turned her back on the beach, she was dry again—irritated, but dry.
And on the other three sides of the beach, the loft was practically empty. The space was constructed with high, whitewashed ceilings and plaster walls—at least where you could see them behind the hundreds of Pink Floyd and heavy metal posters.
Like Link’s bedroom in Gatlin, Rid thought. Maybe that’s a good sign.
“What’s that?” She pointed. At one end of the massive room was a sort of stage, with microphone stands and amps stacked to one side, and speakers mounted on the ceiling. A drum kit and three guitars sat on the stage.
“Practice room,” said Floyd, banging the cymbal on the drum kit as she walked by. Necro moved next to her. These were going to be Ridley’s new roommates. At least two of them. She sighed. Thankfully, Sampson, the Darkborn, was nowhere in sight.
“Unbelievable.” Link’s face lit up when he saw the stage, and he stood staring at it as if he could imagine himself hanging out there already. He took a step toward the stage, and a stadium-sized crowd appeared behind it, as if they were looking out from backstage.
Link took a step back, and the crowd disappeared.
Forward, back. Forward, back.
Crowd, no crowd. Crowd, no crowd.
He laughed. “I am so down with this.” He took another step forward. Then another. The crowd started to scream, until their chanting drowned out the noise of the water.
“Dev-il’s H. Dev-il’s H. Dev-il’s H.”
Link grinned over his shoulder. “Could we get them to chant my name?”
Rid yanked him back and the stage fell silent. “Can we not?”
“Aw, come on. Look at this.” Link gestured to the posters on the walls, nodding his approval. “Metallica. Guns N’ Roses. Black Sabbath. Iron Maiden. AC/DC.” As he looked at them, each one played a riff of their most famous songs. You had to love Caster fandoms. “Someone’s got good taste.” Link nodded.
“That would be me.” The blond girl smiled, mostly at Link.
“Figured it was you, Floyd.” He grinned. “Your name says it all.”
Wonderful, thought Ridley. A She-Link.
Floyd held up both hands. “No, no. I’m not named for the band. It’s a family name. Frances Floyd the Third.”
Link looked disappointed. “Aw, man. Well, your loss. It’s all good.”
Floyd broke into a grin and pointed at his face, laughing at him. “I’m messing with you. Pink Floyd is the greatest band of all time.” Her arm morphed into an electric guitar, and she played a few bars of “The Wall” with one hand.
“We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion,” she sang.
Ridley had to admit Floyd sounded pretty good, which made her even more annoying. Especially when Link started playing bad drums against the coffee table with his hands. Her last hope that they’d get along evaporated as Floyd zeroed in on her boyfriend.
“We don’t need no thought con-trol,” he sang back. She wondered if he knew how bad he sounded. If Floyd thought so, she didn’t let on.
Ridley raised her voice. “Okay, okay. You’re a two-man band. Link Floyd. I feel we’ve established that.”
“Link Floyd,” Floyd said. “Look at that name. It was meant to be.”
Meant to be?
“You know it.” Link held out his fist to Floyd. “Pound it.”
“Did I say Link Floyd?” Ridley shook her head. “I meant Supertramp.” She glared meaningfully at the blond chick staring at her boyfriend.
Back off.
Floyd bumped fists with Link and added, “Or superhot.”
Excuse me?
Ridley frowned. This wasn’t what she was expecting. “Did I say Supertramp? I meant Bitch.”
Link’s eyes flickered over to her, surprised. Even Floyd looked at her like she was psycho.
Rid shrugged. “What? It’s a band. Look it up.” She stifled the urge to kick the coffee table to pieces. It would be bad for her boots.
“Da-ang,” said Link and Floyd, accidentally and in unison. They looked at each other and laughed.
It was the final straw.
“You two want to get a room?” Ridley rolled her eyes. “Or maybe you can just show me mine. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Sampson needs his own room, and Floyd and I share the other one.” Necro glanced at Floyd, like there was a story there and she was warning her not to tell it.
Which was fine, since if there was, Ridley definitely didn’t want to hear it. “Nice. I see who the boss is around here.”
A shadow flickered across Necro’s face. “You know any Darkborns? They’re unpredictable. Not exactly roommate material.”
“Darkborn?” Link was confused.
“Long story,” Rid said. She looked at Necro and Floyd. “Some kind of mutant Caster. But he’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“What are you gonna do? Charm him?” Necro laughed. “I’d love to see you try, Siren.”
Apparently, Darkborn immunity had advantages beyond Underground card games. Ridley had lost everything back at Suffer, when Sampson had beaten her in spite of her Power of Persuasion. She wasn’t interested in going head to head with him anytime soon.
Not like I’d admit that to these two fashion victims.
“So my mojo doesn’t work on him. That doesn’t mean he’s invincible.” Ridley was irritated. She just wanted this day to be over.
That and my own bedroom.
“Watching you try to Cast something on Sam? That would be like watching a fly try to high-five an elephant. You barely exist to him.” Necro was happy to remind her of what she already knew.
“We’ll see about that,” Rid said. “Just show me my bed, Nympho.”
Floyd looked at Necro, who stood there with a hand on her hip. “Find it yourself. You can’t miss it. It’s the only mattress on the kitchen floor. The dirty one.”
Then Necro smiled—her first smile of the night. “By the way. A friend of yours wanted me to tell you something.”
“I don’t have any friends,” Ridley said.
“Sure you do. I don’t know his name, but I think he gave me some kind of sick message for you. You seem to bring that out in people. It’s been stuck in my head, like a bad dream. Happens sometimes.” Necro extended an arm around Ridley, pulling her clo
se.
“Keep your sick dreams to yourself,” Ridley hissed.
“Vindicabo,” Necro said. “One word. Four syllables. Noun. Vengeance Cast.” Her lip rings clicked against her teeth as she spoke. “I think you have friends in low places, Siren.”
Vindicabo.
The word hung in the air between them like a threat. Ridley stepped back, stumbling against the wall, pulling away from Necro. “What kind of message is that? I will avenge what? What are you talking about?” She’d seen enough Vindicabo Casts to know they were bad news for everyone involved. A Vindicabo was the Casting equivalent of a Vex: It showed no mercy, took no prisoners, and left a vast trail of destruction in its wake.
Ridley swallowed.
“That’s all I got.” Necro shrugged. “This stuff comes to me at night. I don’t control it. And I’m not your secretary.”
“Nice try, Nutbag.” Ridley rolled her eyes. Her heart was pounding, but she could see Link watching her curiously from the doorway, and now she had no choice but to try to play off the whole conversation.
No big deal. Whatever.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. My kind, we hear these things. Watch your back. Something’s coming for you. Or someone.” Necro’s eyes flickered to Link.
“Both of you.”
CHAPTER 10
Dream of Mirrors
Ridley thought it had to be a joke. But Nympho or Nightmare or whoever wasn’t kidding. According to Miss Piercing Pagoda, not only was Ridley’s life in danger, but her bedroom was the kitchen.
The kitchen floor.
The second of the two was the bigger problem, as far as Rid was concerned. She was familiar with death threats, but sleeping on a bare mattress on a dirty linoleum floor was something new. Ridley suspected her new roommates were trying to punish her, and if they were, they were a couple of sadistic geniuses. She had never slept on the floor of anything, anywhere, in her life.
Even when Abraham Ravenwood himself had kept her in a literal gilded cage, she’d had a divan for a bed.
For the record, she wasn’t certain she’d ever been in a kitchen. It wasn’t entirely her own doing. Back at Ravenwood, Kitchen wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing.
