I fell and twisted onto my stomach, dropping my sword and staff. They tumbled off behind me as though reality had rotated on a ninety-degree axis. My fingers scrabbled over the floor for purchase. When coldness enveloped my lower half, I realized I had entered the mirror.
I gripped the mirror’s metal frame and struggled to kick my way back out. The numbness climbed like water to my chest, my chin. In the next moment, my head went under.
Stunned, I stared around a luminescent darkness of shifting shapes and roaring energies. I was in the realm between life and death. The In Between.
Fingers slipping, I peeked between my legs. The gatekeeper’s face stared back from the shadows like a grim reaper’s.
I peered at the backside of the mirror, the image of my apartment beyond undulating into dimness. I could make out my hologram of the city, my lab table, my collection of esoteric books. A deep loneliness yawned inside me as I considered what I was holding onto: a life spent chasing nether creatures for an organization that barely tolerated, much less acknowledged, me—not even to tell me what had happened to my mother. Fallen to illness, as my grandmother had claimed? Or murdered, as insinuated by the vampire Arnaud?
At least in the afterlife I would know.
Yeah, but you’ll be powerless to do anything with that knowledge, I countered, a defiant anger growing inside me.
I gathered my strength to shout a Word, but the strange ether that constituted the In Between gushed into my mouth like sea water, and no sound would emerge. The fingers of my right hand lost their grip on the mirror, and my arm fell into the cold. I could feel nothing below my chest now.
Just need to hold on for a few more…
The shield around my coin pendant fractured. For an instant, all the light drew inward, as though toward a collapsing star, before the coin’s energy blew out in a detonating flash. The gatekeeper released my leg in a fading moan, and I vaulted up into my library/lab.
I landed back first into a bookcase. My head banged against the floor as tomes spilled around me. Dazed, I sat up and peered at the smoking ruins of the casting circle and fragments of shattered mirror.
“Nice timing,” I mumbled, tucking the coin back into my shirt.
My mother’s hair was gone, though, taken by the gatekeeper. Meaning only one strand remained to cast from.
Maybe it was time to consult an expert.
2
Lady Bastet held the strand of hair on either end, her deep green eyes seeming to stare inside it. She hadn’t moved for the last minute, the flatness of her dark face speaking to mild entrancement.
I gazed around the room in the back of her basement-level rug business. Beyond the tendrils of incense, a dozen or so cats stared back from shelves that held assortments of Egyptian charms and spell items. Lady Bastet had helped Detective Vega and me with a case in the spring in which her powers of divination had played a critical role. I was counting on her being able to duplicate that success.
“Yes,” the mystic said suddenly. “The potential for magic once moved through these cells.”
“What do you mean potential?”
“You did not tell me your mother’s hair was from when she was a girl,” she replied, setting it flat on the stone table in front of her. “She inherited magic from at least one of her parents, yes, but whether or not she ever developed that magic, I cannot tell you from a simple reading.”
I noted her emphasis on the word simple. “You need to go deeper?”
She pushed up the band holding her thick hair from her kohl-lined eyes. “Yes, far deeper.”
“Your price?”
“Your blood,” she replied.
I had given her a vial’s worth the last time, about which I’d been none too comfortable. Wizard’s blood could be used in powerful magic, and if that magic turned black, well … I would be in just as much trouble as the practitioner. “Can I ask what you did with the last sample?”
“I put it to good use,” she replied enigmatically.
That the Order hadn’t been in touch told me the blood had probably been used for benign purposes. Lady Bastet specialized in potion mixing, from anti-aging elixirs to male enhancement brews.
Better not to think about it, I decided, rolling up my left shirt sleeve to my elbow. Even though I had undergone the procedure before, the sensation of her wooden needle sucking the blood from my bulging vessel was no less skin-crawling.
Lady Bastet returned the wooden needle to her hair, healed the puncture, and set the clay tube with my blood into her wooden box. When she returned to the table and drew away the veil that covered her scrying globe, I leaned forward, my stomach twisting into anxious knots.
She smiled apologetically. “I should have told you, Everson. For the kind of reading you’re asking, I am going to need time.”
“How much?”
“Until dusk,” she said. “This hair belongs to a young girl. It represents her life to that point, beyond which lies a tangle of possible futures. I will need to comb them out, to align myself with the path she ultimately traveled—up to and including her death.”
“Also, anything you can learn about my father…”
I knew even less about him than about my mother. According to Nana, my mother and father had met at a hippie commune upstate. Their relationship lasted just long enough for me to form a bump in my mother’s belly before my father—whose name Nana couldn’t remember—decided it was time to move on. Heartbroken, my mother returned home.
That had been the official story, anyway. But like with my mother’s death, it now lacked a certain ring of truth.
Lady Bastet nodded. “I will tell you all I come to see.”
I glanced down at the strand of hair, the final cellular link to my mother, the final link to the truth, maybe.
“I really need you to get this right,” I said, raising my eyes to Lady Bastet’s, but she gave no sign she’d heard. She leaned nearer, as though trying to read something beyond my face. I felt movement through my mind like fingers over a stringed instrument. Minor notes played fast, speeding my pulse. When Lady Bastet spoke, her voice was husky and distant.
“Trust in the one your heart trusts least.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, the words catching in my short breaths.
She sat back, eyes returning to the here and now. She gazed at my mother’s hair again. “With enough time, the reading will be the right one,” she said in response to my earlier question, as though she hadn’t just spaced out or spoken. “But are you certain this is what you want?”
My heart and breaths wound down again. Why do you need to know? she seemed to be asking. Out of simple curiosity or from that age-old lust that has twisted many a man’s heart into darkness: revenge?
“Yes,” I said. “It’s what I want.”
Lady Bastet nodded once. “Then it will be done.”
I squinted into a liquid heat that rose from the West Village sidewalks and wobbled the buildings up and down the block. The mercury was forecast to climb over one hundred again today.
I checked my watch. The time, which had slowed way down in Lady Bastet’s, seemed to have sped back up to the present and then some. If I didn’t hurry, I was going to be late for my summer term class. Cane pinned under an arm, I hustled toward the nearest bus stop.
Within a block, sweat was streaming from my armpits and soaking through the back of my shirt. But I was more bothered by the knowledge someone was keeping pace with me. I peeked over a shoulder to find a young man in a tailored suit gliding around newsstands and oncoming pedestrians. His effortless speed, coupled with his bone-dry face, told me he was an undead.
One of Arnaud’s, no doubt, I thought with a groan.
Up ahead, the city bus slowed toward the stop. I broke into a full run, arriving behind a small knot of people. When I looked back, I could no longer see the blood slave. I’d lucked out. He must’ve been on a different errand. When I straightened, the son of a bitch was in front of me.
�
��Go ahead,” he was telling the driver of the crowded bus. “We’ll catch the next one.”
“Wait!” I cried, trying to cut past him. The blood slave moved deftly, blocking my attempts until the driver closed the door. With a loud chuff, the bus pulled from the stop and motored away.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said.
Like all of Arnaud’s blood slaves, this one was young, his face smooth and handsome. Chilly blue eyes regarded me from beneath waxy eyebrows and a professional cut of brown hair.
“Arnaud Thorne would like you to see something,” he answered.
“Well, tell him too fucking bad. I have a class to teach.”
I hadn’t heard from the vampire Arnaud since he’d held Detective Vega’s son hostage in a game whose ultimate intent was to pit me against City Hall. He had cost me my friendship with Vega not to mention my contract with the NYPD. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted me to see, or more likely get involved in, and I didn’t care. I was done with Arnaud.
I spotted an on-duty taxi coming up Sixth Avenue and waved.
The blood slave gripped my arm and forced it down. “My CEO insists,” he said.
The cab zoomed past.
Okay, that’s it.
Stepping back, I yanked my cane into sword and staff. I angled the blade so sunlight glinted off a line of bright metal. “You see that? It’s a little something called silver, a modification I made to better deal with your kind. Touch me again, and you’re going to lose an arm.”
The blood slave’s lips broke upwards as his eyes sharpened. “Oh, come now, Mr. Croft,” he said in a familiar, taunting voice. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or amputate him, as the case may be. I rather prefer him with all limbs intact.” Arnaud had taken possession of his minion.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“Like my associate said, for you to see something. We needn’t go far. Why, that little establishment across the way should do.”
I glanced over at the hole in the wall whose vertical sign read BAR. “Not interested.”
“Oh, but I think you will be, Mr. Croft. I think you’ll be very interested.”
Something in the certainty with which Arnaud spoke made me hesitate. Or was that the vampire’s power insinuating its way into my thoughts. I steeled my mind and cocked my sword arm.
“If you’re not out of my face in the next second, I’ll skip the amputation and go straight to execution.”
“My associate is perfectly within his rights to occupy this public piece of sidewalk, Mr. Croft. And you should know that I will continue to badger you until you acquiesce to my request. Ten minutes of your time is all I ask. I will even pay your cab fare following. You’ll arrive at the college before the bus you’ve just missed.”
I squinted at him. “And you’ll leave me alone?”
“You have my assurances, Mr. Croft.”
Unlike agreements between mortals, a vampire’s word held an innate binding power. Once made, especially by a vampire of Arnaud’s stature, they were hard to break. What in the hell was he up to?
“Leave me alone, as in never seek me out again?” I asked, to be certain we were on the same page.
“Indeed. Should we meet again, it will be because you have come to me.”
I snorted. “Well, that’s not gonna happen.”
“All right.” He clapped once. “It sounds like we have an agreement.”
I sighed and sheathed my sword.
“Let’s get this over with.”
3
The blood slave held the door open for me, and we stepped into the dim bar. An assortment of fans blew around the stink of spilled beer, wet cigarettes, and what smelled like vomit from a back bathroom.
“Charming, isn’t it?” Arnaud said through his slave, then glided toward the long bar. At one end, a trio of barflies sagged on stools, faces transfixed on the glow of a baseball game. The bartender, a hefty man in an undershirt with muddy sweat stains beneath the pits, stared at the game too.
“Ahoy, there!” Arnaud called with false cheer.
The bartender’s head was eggplant shaped, broad at the jaw but smaller and shining around his crown. It rotated slightly as he shifted his smallish eyes toward us, his bulk remaining aligned with the mounted TV.
“My associate and I could use a cold drink on this hot day. A pair of scotch on the rocks, if you will.” Arnaud scanned the top shelf of liquor bottles before stopping and pointing at a dusty bottle with a red label. “That one will do. And make them doubles, my good friend.”
The bartender screwed up his eyes as though trying to decide whether Arnaud was toying with him. When the vampire set a pair of fifty-dollar bills on the scratched bar, the bartender must have decided he didn’t care. Heaving himself from his languid lean, he plodded over to the bottle Arnaud had indicated and began pouring our drinks.
“Not the quickest study,” Arnaud said to me as he climbed onto a stool, not bothering to lower his voice. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You said ten minutes,” I reminded him as I took the neighboring stool.
“Let’s see…” Arnaud checked his slender wristwatch. “Yes, perfect timing.”
As the bartender set our drinks in front of us, Arnaud pushed one of the fifties forward. “This will cover our beverages as well as a generous gratuity—despite that you only poured one shot apiece and then attempted to disguise the deception with common tap water.”
The bartender’s face clenched. “You calling me a cheat?”
“This…” Arnaud tapped the second fifty, ignoring the bartender’s show of aggression. “…will be for additional services provided.”
The bartender’s gaze fell to the bill. “What services?” he asked suspiciously.
Arnaud broke into sudden laughter. “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that, my strapping friend. No, we would just like to procure your television for a short while.”
The bartender’s head twisted to look up at the TV. On the screen, an outfielder fielded a fly ball. When the bartender turned back to us, his brow was a bed of confusion lines. He scratched his stubbly chin.
“He’d like to change the channel,” I said, acting as translator.
“The Mets are playing,” the bartender said, as if that settled the question.
“And playing delightedly, I have little doubt.” Arnaud checked his watch again. “However, we are interested in something for which time is of the utmost essence. And what we’re offering in exchange is more than sufficient compensation. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Can’t do it,” he said. “Those guys at the end of the bar? The only reason they come here is for the games. They’d kill me.”
The smile on Arnaud’s face stiffened, and before I could anticipate his next words, he seized the bartender’s throat. “I assume you’re speaking figuratively in regards to your friends,” he said in a fierce whisper. “I, however, am not, so I advise you to listen carefully.”
The bartender gargled, his bald head already turning red.
“You are going to accept our payment,” Arnaud said, “and you are going to change the channel, or I will crush your windpipe and end your pathetic life right here. Do you understand?”
“Hey, c’mon,” I whispered, unlocking the sword inside my cane, ready to step to the man’s defense.
The bartender pawed toward Arnaud’s face, but a crunch of cartilage made him reconsider. He nodded desperately, his bulging eyes beginning to weep. In Arnaud’s eyes, I saw a hunger to kill. But in the next moment, his hand popped open, dropping the bartender on the bar.
“Jesus,” I breathed, notching my sword again. I peeked at the patrons. Their gazes hadn’t moved from the television.
“There, there, my friend,” Arnaud said, patting the bartender’s heaving back. “Take a moment to collect yourself—a glass of water, if you need it—then kindly change the channel to four. Oh, and the shotgun you’re reaching for is no longer beneath the bar. I removed it earlier in the event ne
gotiations failed. I’m pleased we were able to arrive at a mutual understanding.”
Arnaud slid the other fifty forward. The bartender stopped groping under the bar. He pulled a dish towel from his sagging pants to wipe his face, eyeing the fifty as though it might bite him.
“Go on,” Arnaud said, “you’ve earned it.”
The bartender took the bill and shoved it into a pocket. Protests rose from the barflies as he reached up and changed the channel. The ballgame flipped to a young woman making an impassioned plea to a grim-faced man over the custody of their child.
“A soap opera?” I said.
Arnaud held up a finger. “A moment.”
Seconds later, the soap opera switched to a feed of Mayor Budge Lowder standing in front of a podium stacked with microphones.
“We interrupt this program for a special news conference,” an off-camera news anchor said. “The mayor is set to announce what he is calling a ‘brave, new initiative’ that could mean sweeping changes for the city of New York. We go live now to City Hall.”
As Budge wiped a cowlick of hair from his pudgy face and adjusted his round glasses, my thoughts cast back to the showdown at his mansion. Vega and I battling the mayor’s wife and her werewolf brethren; Budge shooting me; me shooting his wife; Vega negotiating our release by blackmailing Budge and Penny with information we discovered during our investigation.
As it turned out, we hadn’t had to worry about Penny. The shot that had ruptured her aorta had plunged her into a coma, where she still remained. All summer long, Budge had been keeping the public abreast of her condition. It seemed to have had an effect, stalling his falling poll numbers despite the multitude of problems besieging his crumbling metropolis.
I guessed sympathy still held sway.
“How’s everyone doing?” Budge asked from the podium. “Good, good. As always, I’ll start with an update on my beloved wife, after whom so many of you have been asking and offering your well wishes. At last count, we’ve been sent enough plants and flowers to turn Central Park into a profitable nursery.” He chuckled with the crowd of reporters, then paused as though to gather himself. “Penny remains in a coma, but her doctors say she’s stable. In fact, they’re telling me I should talk to her because she can probably hear what I’m saying. So I’ve been telling her a few things. First, that what happened to her is my fault.” He raised his hands to the murmured protests. “No, listen, listen. All you’ve been told was that she fell into a coma, but you don’t know how she ended up there. I think it’s time you heard.”
The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Page 54