Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  Grinning, I slid out of the seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “You should let your human side out more often.”

  I spun around. “What did you say?”

  “I never bought into your tough, nothing can hurt me act. There’s a heart buried under all that attitude. You’re not the ‘Barracuda’ you pretend to be.”

  No, I thought, as I closed the door, and he drove away. I’m something much worse.

  Twenty-Seven

  Witches, vampires, and tiny superheroes crowded the sidewalk. A slice of pizza skipped by, chased by a giggling bumble bee. I was far less in the Halloween spirit in the sweatshirt I threw on before locking up, but it kept the fine mist off my skin.

  No one else seemed to mind the weather. The temperature was warmer than it had been in days, but fog obscured the alleyways. Puddles wet the hems of capes and princess gowns. A heavy cloud cover brought the dark early, lending a sense of spookiness to the 5 o’clock hour; fueling imaginations as the youngest of the city’s trick-or-treaters kicked off the night.

  Distracted by the noise and lost in their revelry, it was a full block before I realized I was being followed. My tail came with a faint, lyrriken scent. In the open, with dozens of other bodies, it was hard to identify. If it was Coen, not a problem. If it wasn’t… There were too many families out to risk a confrontation on the street. Neither did I want something to follow me home.

  At the next intersection, I turned away from my apartment and looked for a place to duck inside. I settled on an old gas station mini-mart. The pumps weren’t operational. The parking lot was empty. But there was a light on inside the convenient store. A cashier sat behind the counter with his head buried in his phone. No one else was inside.

  I checked the angle of the surveillance cameras as I walked in, then headed to the coolers at the back. The reflective glass doors were perfect for my needs. I was pretending to peruse the selection of beer when the bell jangled on the front door. Thirty seconds later, a man’s frame, slightly distorted, appeared in the glass. He was dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but the image was too fuzzy to be concrete. I needed a closer look.

  I peeled off to the left and up the next aisle. Quickening my pace, using the large security mirrors near the ceiling to plot my course, I headed down the last aisle and into the hallway. It was a dead end. The office was locked. Taped over the bathroom door was a handwritten Closed for Cleaning sign. Eyeing the bucket outside, I grabbed the mop and snapped the wooden handle over my knee. The shaft broke in half. I kept the free end.

  His soft steps closing in, I spun and whacked the handle across his face. Shoving its length under his throat, I forced the man back into the wall; knocking October’s Employee of the Month picture off its nail. The frame hit the floor with a crash, and the clerk behind the counter hollered from the front of the store. “Hey! What’s going on back there?”

  “Sorry!” I shouted back. “I’ll pay for it!”

  “You better,” he warned, “or I’m calling the cops!”

  I yanked the hood off Ronan’s head. Taken aback by his atypical, military-style haircut, I forced the shock off my face and shoved the mop handle in tighter. “I hope you have some money on you.”

  Pressure straining his voice, he pushed out, “Is this a robbery?”

  “More like an intervention.”

  He grunted, but the smirk Ronan always had for me wasn’t there. Neither was the evocative gleam in his eyes. Everything about him radiated cold indifference, from the severe cut of his hair, to his lack of expression, and the steely set of his jaw. Weight loss had turned Ronan’s sexy dimples into hollows, accentuating his cheekbones and erasing every ounce of the playfulness I’d equally loved and despised.

  He looked empty.

  But he wasn’t. Not entirely. I sensed the ghosts inside him. They’d been thrust deep, buried beneath layers of apathy and disconnect, and smothered by a sense of loyalty so great, it overrode his own desires—even his pain.

  If I can reach his ghosts, if I can free them, maybe he’d see the truth.

  Maybe he’d see me…

  He drove a fist into my side.

  Gasping, as my makeshift weapon eased off his throat, Ronan seized my ponytail. He managed one good yank before I thrust the wood into his jaw. I hit him again. Skin tore. Wood splintered. September’s picture fell. The frame broke; more glass shattered.

  The employee barked on cue. “Hey, assholes! Last warning!”

  “Okay!” I yelled back. “Just a…a family squabble!”

  “Then take it outside! I don’t need no domestic disturbance shit in here!”

  I lowered my voice. “Your balls must be rock hard to come near me after what you did on that bridge.”

  Jerking forward, trying to headbutt me, I dodged and rammed a knee into his groin. Ronan moaned and doubled at the impact, but something was wrong. Not wrong.

  Missing, I thought, my stomach turning.

  The queen had kept her promise.

  Torture and brainwashing were the gold standard for Guild punishments. We’d all been through it, some worse than others. Castration was a new low.

  As he straightened, I caught his eyes. “I’m sorry. When I found out you were alive, I should’ve tried to find you, to get you out. If I knew she would really…”

  His gaze drifted. He wasn’t even hearing me.

  Steeling myself against sympathy, I gave him a shake and demanded, “Why are you following me? I know you buried those bodies at the river. I know it was you in the sewer. You left clues to expose what the Market was doing, to show me what was happening to all those innocent creatures. But why hide behind a mask? Why take all those fucking pictures and pin them up like a goddamn psycho hit man? Did Naalish send you to execute me? Is that what this is?”

  A grimace twisted his face. Hopeless confusion tightened his eyes as he looked away, refusing to answer.

  “Naalish didn’t erase it all, did she? A tiny part of you still knows right from wrong. You can’t betray your programming, but you can’t abide by it either.”

  Spittle came with his clenched-mouthed warning. “Stop.”

  “You’re squealing on Gant, and following me, because regardless of your orders, a part of you still cares. A part of you still loves me. The human part.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Ronan tossed his head in disagreement. His breath was harried, his skin dotted in sweat. He inhaled deeply, taking in my scent with a shudder—and something changed. He opened his eyes, and his gaze held recognition.

  I did it. I reached him. I said his name with hope. “Ronan?”

  “Kill me,” he begged.

  “What?”

  “Kill. Me.”

  And with those two little words, fantasies I didn’t know I was holding onto rose to the surface and withered. My heart, my breath, my strength—time—all came to a screeching halt. The hope I’d clung to for so many years, the wish for things to someday be different; the delusion that he could still change, that he’d want to change for me; vanished with a long, sad exhale.

  “Stop fucking around,” he growled. “Do it. Do it, or I swear,” Ronan’s body shook with the force of his vow, “I will kill you. There’s no other way to get you out.”

  “I don’t understand. Out of where?”

  “My fucking mind!” he screamed. “You’re always there, wanting something. Always tugging and twisting and nagging and clawing. One of us has to die. Or it will never stop.”

  I dropped the mop handle to the floor. “Then do it.”

  “Don’t push me, Dahl. I can’t stop myself. I need this to end.”

  “Killing me won’t erase your memories. I will always be a part of you.”

  “And I hate you for it.”

  Dropping fast, Ronan snatched the handle off the floor and came up swinging. Jagged wood skimmed the front of my sweatshirt, as I bent to retrieve the other half from the bucket. Rising, I slapped the dripping mop across his face. Dirty wate
r splattered us both. Blinking the drops from my eyes, with a twirl of the handle, I jabbed him in the side. Ronan’s responding strike was a powerful, well-placed chop that snapped the wood in my grip as I blocked him.

  “Goddamn it!” I threw the broken pieces at him.

  Ronan dropped his half of the mop. He stepped in close. Conflict wet his stare. I forced myself not to flinch as he touched my face. He studied me a moment. Then with a groan of surrender, and a desperate seize of my shoulders, he kissed me.

  It felt nothing like him. No love flowed from Ronan’s lips, no desire. There was only sorrow, pain, agony, and regret. Their dark embrace was packed tight around his heart, strangling and suffocating, casting shadows; twisting love into hate.

  He pulled back. “I know you can feel what she did to me. Please, Dahl. I can’t live like this.”

  Shoes struck the linoleum floor.

  The cashier. Shit.

  The sound grew louder, the shoes closer.

  “We need to go,” I said. “Now.”

  I grabbed Ronan’s hand and pulled. He didn’t budge.

  “Okay, shitheads. That’s it…” The man’s warning ended with a cock of a shotgun. “You’re gonna wait right here while I call the cops.” He fumbled with his phone.

  “We can still leave,” I whispered. “We can go somewhere and talk.” I shook him. “Ronan! We have to go!”

  But his eyes were cold and empty, again, and fixed on the cashier.

  “Back,” the man said. “Against the wall. Both of you. Come on.” He prodded Ronan with the butt of his gun. “And you’re paying for all this damage. Fucking prick.” He prodded harder. “I said, against the fucking wall!”

  Ronan lunged.

  I reached out to intervene, and he thrust a fast punch back at my face. Pain swept my jaw. Blood spewed from my ruptured lip. With a strike of his open palm, I hit the opposite wall, bringing April, May, and June tumbling down to smash at my feet.

  The cashier let fly a string of curses. Staring down the barrel of the weapon wobbling in his grip, he cried out, “Motherfucker!” and pulled the trigger. Sheetrock flew like confetti, as holes opened in the wall beside Ronan. A few pellets pierced his arm, but the minor wounds only served to irritate.

  With a mad cry, fire (more than was ever needed for a single enemy) roared into Ronan’s hands. My scream of protest was drowned by the cashier’s pain as the twin columns of flame burrowed into his body. As his twitching form—black, orange, and bloody—dropped to the stained tile floor, Ronan’s gaze swung back to mine. “I told you to kill me.”

  Unable to find the words, I shook my head and knelt alongside the man. Fresh-born trauma leaked from his body to curl around mine. The frigid touch of his ghosts overpowered the heat fleeing the smoldering crater in his stomach. His arms and shoulders were charred and crispy. There wasn’t enough of him left to put back together, let alone save.

  Movement caught my eye. Ronan was leaving.

  “No,” I growled. “You don’t get to walk away from this. Not again.”

  I started to rise, and the man made a sound. His wide eyes were stark amid the blackened meat of his face. His fingers opened, trembling, reaching for me. I grabbed his hand and lied to him, as I had Ronnie. “It’s all right.”

  I tried to let go then. There was nothing I could do for him, and Ronan was at the end of the aisle, headed for the door. In seconds, he’d be outside. A few more, and he’d be on the street, walking the sidewalk with children and families. But the man was clinging to me with the last of his strength, making his intentions clear: don’t leave me.

  The bell chimed, and Ronan was gone. Six breaths later, the cashier was, too.

  My second shower of the day required significantly more tequila than the first.

  After locking up the convenience store, I destroyed the security feed and lobbed a ball of fire at the electrical box. I found lighter fluid on one of the shelves and emptied some onto the growing flames. My sweatshirt was singed and bloody. I added it to the pile before fleeing out the back.

  By the time I reached my front stairs, sirens were blaring. I was a cold, wet mess, and I had seventy-three minutes before the mayor’s car arrived. My lip was swollen. A bruise darkened my jaw and one cheek. It would likely be faster to chop off my hair than deal with the tangles. And the box leaning against my front door was large enough to tell me I would hate whatever was inside.

  Now that I was wearing the contents, I was grateful for one thing: the lack of mirrors in my apartment. I could live with the paranoia that prompted me to take them down. The miles of satin and brocade, the puffed sleeves, glittered overlay, perky bows, and hoop skirt—not so much. The elbow-length gloves were nice, though I would have preferred black over white. And I could easily rock the sweetheart neckline. The blonde wig, however, needed burning.

  This Cinderella was a redhead.

  I threw the tiara on the bed and examined the satin cinch purse in the bottom of the box. The space was barely big enough to fit my cell phone, let alone a weapon. Hitching up my skirt, I decided against the bulk of a sidearm, and buckled a double knife sheathe around my right thigh. It wasn’t exactly “easy access” with the amount of fabric I’d have to move aside, but it was better than nothing.

  In one sheathe, I slipped a blade. In the other, a slender, metal lipstick case holding a syringe full of Oliver Gant’s blood. I packed street clothes in a bag to leave with the coat check. It might earn me a strange glance, but if I got word the auction was happening tonight, I had to be ready to bail. Fingers crossed, I thought. I’d take a creepy, skin-walking mob boss and his werewolf army over a society party any day.

  Scrunching my wet curls, I left them loose and slapped on enough makeup to (somewhat) cover the discolorations. I followed that up with more paint on my eyes and lips than any fairy godmother would approve of. I was slipping on the see-through heels that came with the costume when my doorbell rang. Taking a last swig from the bottle, I left it on the bed and tried not to look miserable when I opened the door. The struggle became easier as I got a look at Creed.

  In hindsight, based on what the secretary chose for me, I might have realized it was a theme and guessed Creed’s costume. But the surprise was so much better.

  I burst out laughing, eyeing the gold sash across the chest of his white jacket—and the frown embedded on his scruffy face. “Prince Charming? The mayor doesn’t know you at all.”

  He grunted. “You ready? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

  “One second.” I turned and hurried off, through the living room and back into the bedroom, as fast as my giant skirt allowed.

  Creed knew I had Ella’s necklace. I knew he didn’t like it. Flaunting it in front of him was asking for an argument. But I’d left it behind once today. I couldn’t bring myself to do it again. Whether I liked it or not, wearing the pendant brought me a sense of assurance and warmth. Tonight, I needed both.

  I fastened the clasp around my neck and grabbed the bag with my spare clothes. As I reached the living room, Creed was still by the door, checking his phone. Slipping it into his pocket as I approached, his gaze homed in on the “amber” pendant resting comfortably between my cleavage.

  Ready for it, I tried to head him off. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “That you’re accessorizing with evidence from a former crime scene? Evidence you told me disappeared, but instead you’ve been hiding for months?”

  “It’s safer around my neck than the evidence locker downtown.”

  “Safer from who? Or should I say what?”

  “A little of both?”

  Running an irritated hand over his jaw, he gestured at me. “It doesn’t match.”

  “That’s your argument? Nothing matches this dress. It’s big and fluffy and it looks ridiculous.” I picked at one of the bows on my sleeve. “I look ridiculous.”

  “No, you don’t. You look…” Creed’s blue gaze dipped down, then back up, the front of me.
He pushed his glasses into place. “Like a fairy tale.”

  Sarcasm, I was used to. His awkward, leftfield compliment threw me.

  “There’s a bar in the limo,” he said, “in case you…”

  I shoved my cell phone inside my tiny purse and beat him to the door.

  Twenty-Eight

  The decorations were impressive. Ghostly ice sculptures, intricately-carved white and purple pumpkins, standing candelabras, silk drapes and shimmering silver cobwebs gave the museum a gothic mansion vibe. The black-tie orchestra was classy, as was the elaborate champagne fountain ringed with a display of deep red rose petals. Soft, purple lighting hung over the dance floor. Swirls of white pumped from a hidden fog machine, mixing with dark ghosts as the costumed, affluent population of Sentinel City laughed and smiled; projecting a happiness far greater than what lived in their souls.

  I leaned toward Creed with a low voice. “I thought this was an intimate affair.”

  “I told you there were 200 on the guest list.”

  “Sorry. I forgot. Asteroid strike, remember?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s a fundraiser, Nite. It’s hard to raise funds if nobody’s here. And no,” he threw in, “we can’t leave yet. It’s only been ten minutes. So don’t ask.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The orchestra’s soft melody came to an end. The mayor, decked out as a Roman general, ascended one side of the double grand staircase. Stopping halfway, he raised his hands, and the mutters of the crowd died. I’d never seen the man speak in person, but he was even more engaging and boisterous than what I’d heard on the radio. Maybe it’s the costume. Someone in his family had passed down the genes for it. Anderson’s wavy hair, prominent nose, and strong face were perfect for an old Roman coin.

  The mayor went on, drumming up support for the upcoming election year. I pretended to listen. Despite chiding me, Creed was no happier than I. But he should be. He wasn’t wearing twenty pounds of dress. Plus, aside from the career boost, he was young and single. I’d noticed more than one woman’s approving stare peeking through her mask. Maybe, if he relaxed, he’d notice, too. Maybe if I stop being an ass…