“That’s enough,” he said, flinging his hand at me like he had with Karim. Nothing happened. He glared at his hand like it was a dysfunctional appliance.
Karim, now sitting upright, started laughing wheezily. “You two look ridiculous. She’s over here shadow-boxing, and you’re putting on a light show.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to chuck me at a wall, though. Dick.”
“Why didn’t we move? And how are you immune to my power?” Darrel demanded, ignoring Karim altogether.
I shrugged. “I could ask ye the same t’ing. How come I can’t hit ye?”
“I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” Karim said, struggling to his feet.
Darrel whirled. “Where?”
“Back home, a long time ago. It happens sometimes when different pantheons run into each other.”
“What do ye mean, ‘different pantheons’?” I asked.
Karim rolled his shoulders loose. “Let’s just say there ain’t no point in you two going at it. Ever seen oil and water? How they separate? It’s kinda like that.” He grinned. “Here, watch.”
If I thought Karim had looked scary before, he appeared doubly so, now. His skin, already a burnished brown, darkened to a smooth, stony obsidian, and his hair burst fully into flame, flickering in a mane around his face like a corona. His teeth and nails grew long and sharp. His body lengthened and twitched until he stood a full three feet taller than me—his baggy clothes accommodated the transformation, shirt stretched wide to display a reproduction of Johnson Beaver’s latest album cover: a teenage heartthrob tonguing a lollipop.
I shuddered.
When Karim finally made his move, it was with a speed and ferocity that I’d witnessed only once before—when I’d watched a god battle a demon in an alternate dimension. Before I knew it, Karim had Darrel pressed up against a stone column in the middle of the spacious alcove by his suit jacket, though the angel seemed remarkably unfazed.
“This suit’s expensive, you know,” Darrel said, nonplussed.
“Hush,” Karim said, his voice reverberating, laced with grit. “Pay attention.” He set the angel down. Darrel rolled his eyes and brushed flecks of ash off his lapel, but didn’t seem interested in retaliating.
Karim launched himself at me before I could ask what was going on. I flinched and took a step back, but found Karim’s massive claw inches from my chest, stopped as surely as my fist had been from striking Darrel. “See,” Karim said, the flames around his face sputtering as he reverted back to his usual self, “no dice.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Darrel said, clearly put-out.
“It’s not how t’ings usually work for me, either,” I confirmed, eyeing Karim, wondering where he’d seen this sort of interaction before. While my anti-magic field kept me safe from various types of magic, it had never shielded me from physical violence. Granted, if I grappled with a werewolf or a vampire—beings whose physical strength far outclassed my own—their magically augmented strength disappeared, but a fight with a grown ass man or woman was still a fight. This was something else altogether. It reminded me, somewhat, of my first altercation with Hemingway; my field had expanded and physically pushed him back several feet, repelling him.
At this point, I decided that I really needed to have that chat with Othello’s boyfriend; I couldn’t afford for my field to go haywire any more than it already had. I mean, not getting teleported against my will or Force Pushed into a wall was all well and good, but what happened if my field hyper-extended itself at the wrong time, or took me and someone else out like it had with Chapman, or—worst of all—stopped working altogether. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on it to protect me, to even the playing field when the monsters came calling.
A fair fight, that’s all I ever asked for.
Now I couldn’t rely on that, all thanks to Hemingway and his wandering hand.
You know what I mean.
Karim pretended he hadn’t heard me and sidled back over to his dog, Jasmine, who hadn’t moved once during the whole altercation. “I’ll bet there are some of your kind upstairs who might know what I’m talking about,” Karim said to Darrel, retrieving Jasmine’s leash. “Ask around.”
“What are ye not tellin’ me, Karim?” I asked, taking a step forward.
Karim glanced back at me. There was the mischievous gleam I was used to, but also a tinge of pity. Which made no sense. “I always knew there was something different about you, zeebaa. Be cool.” He led Jasmine and together they walked directly towards the mural, then disappeared, the edges of their bodies catching fire—like the lit corners of a street magician’s flash paper, curling inward—until all that remained were sparks fluttering to the ground.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I shouted at the empty air he left behind, my hands clenched into fists. I was really getting tired of all the people out there who seemed to know more than I did about who, or what, I really was. First Hemingway, then Dobby, and now Karim. It pissed me off. I whirled to face Darrel. “Do ye know what he was talkin’ about?”
Darrel opened his mouth, but a bell chimed overhead and interrupted whatever he’d been about to say. He sighed and picked his coat up off the ground; he must have dropped it when Karim struck. Darrel patted it down, then put it on.
“Hey, I asked ye a question!” I shouted.
“Sorry, I can’t stay and chat. Staff meeting.”
“What?”
“Bureaucracies,” Darrel said, waving a hand. “You’ll find them everywhere. I won’t bore you with the details.” He checked his watch. “Listen, if anyone asks, I gave you a firm talking to and warned you to walk away from all this, alright?” He glanced up at me. “It really is in your best interest to stop reaching out to Mr. Chapman. We may not be able to deter you directly, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be safe if my superiors deem you—or whoever you represent—a threat.”
I sneered. “I hope ye know that doesn’t scare me.”
“It should, but I can see that it doesn’t.” Darrel sighed, face looking troubled. “You mortals can be so baffling, sometimes.”
Light pulsed and I raised my arm over my face to block it out. When I dropped it, Darrel was gone, and I was left alone in a subsection of Penn Station. The alcove swiftly filled up with people headed from one subway platform to the next. I huffed, but joined them, planning to make my way uptown to the hotel room. I needed a nap and—despite what I’d said to Darrel about not being afraid—a plan, should he follow through on his end.
Besides, I had a phone call to make.
Othello had some explaining to do.
Chapter 14
Othello didn’t pick up. I left several voicemails, filling her in on my day, the sarcasm escalating with each attempt. Part of me wondered if she was screening my calls. After taking some time to cool down, I decided that was unfair. Sure, she might’ve known more about who would be after the seed than she’d let on, but it wasn’t like angels went around advertising their acquisitions on the web.
I was betting the seed itself was responsible. Why else would angels go through so much trouble? I racked my brain, trying to think about what would make a seed so valuable, but came up with squat. A seed to what? Fortunately, I at least had an inkling of what Chapman—or Johnny Appleseed, assuming Karim had been telling the truth—wanted. I wasn’t sure what Heaven was offering, or how I’d match it, but it was a start.
After my nap, I checked my e-mail and saw that Othello had sent the itinerary of the music producer Terry had been slotted to meet. The time stamp was for that morning, before I’d gone to see Chapman. “Better call me back,” I muttered, perusing the producer’s itinerary to decide where it would be best to intercept her. According to Othello’s info, she would be in a studio for a couple more hours. I sighed. Security there would be tight. Being a Freak had its advantages—but against tasers and a host of muscle-bound bodyguards, I was pretty much powerless.
What I needed was to tra
ck her down in the open, somewhere public, somewhere she wouldn’t feel threatened by a strange woman probing her with questions. Ordinarily, I’d have called, explained my situation, and set up a meeting. But a quick Google search had revealed the producer’s celebrity status; without a badge, getting in to see her would take days, maybe even weeks. The fact that Terry had managed it in her brief time in New York was a little impressive, actually.
In the end, I found what I was looking for in Othello’s notes—a few habit predictors that indicated where the producer liked to spend her free time, including a night club she regularly frequented. I checked my phone for the time. I had several hours to kill before New York City’s nightlife kicked off. I called Serge’s cell.
“Yes, Miss MacKenna?”
“Bring the car around, Serge.”
“Okay. Where do we go?”
“We’re in New York City. I’m going shoppin’.”
The nightclub, The Three-Headed Chimera, was underground, accessed by a stairwell and manned by both a bouncer and a stamper—the person responsible for taking your money and branding you at the door. I forked over a crisp twenty-dollar bill and sauntered in with Serge hot on my heels. He was so close, in fact, that he bumped into me when I froze a few feet into the club.
“Sorry, Miss MacKenna,” he began, but I waved him off. I was too busy admiring the club’s interior to care. Behind the bar and along the booths were staffers wearing togas—like authentic togas, not knotted bedsheets you’d find at a frat party. Mounted on walls and along the bar top sat various taxidermied creatures from legend, including the club’s namesake, a chimera with a lion’s front, a goat’s middle, and a snake’s end. Other highlights included a hydra, a harpy, and a griffin—the hybrid parts attached seamlessly to provide a glimpse into a Greek scholar’s imagination.
Honestly, I was impressed by the concept.
Unfortunately, the music sucked. The DJ, a skinny, ballcap-wearing guy with more tattoos than blank skin, played a track from the 50s, a doo wop song that had never made it to the radio and never would, for good reason. I cringed, but decided to stick it out, making my way to a booth in the back that would offer me a good vantage point.
Frankly, I was surprised; I’d expected to find an acclaimed music producer in a more upscale setting. You know, a place you couldn’t get into unless you were very beautiful, very rich, or both. Instead, we seemed to have stumbled onto one of those quirky bars with tasteless music where you can buy beer in a can.
After midnight came and went, my ears practically bleeding from the series of awful tracks—the DJ had opted for sappy ballads of the slit-my-wrists variety—I was fairly convinced that Othello’s information had been faulty. Why this place, after all? I was about to call it a night when I spotted the music producer crossing the empty dance floor towards the DJ booth.
I jerked up, elbowed Serge, and nodded in her direction.
“That’s her,” I whispered.
Serge nodded, breathing through his mouth to avoid being overwhelmed by the stench of sweaty, unwashed bodies, spilled liquor, and public toilets. “She is pretty,” Serge acknowledged, as if that was why we were here. I frowned at him, but he wasn’t wrong.
The producer, who went by the name Austina, was a few inches over five feet tall, attractive, with smooth olive skin and dark features. She was flanked on either side by long-haired Samoan men, judging from the intricate tribal tattoos racing up their beefy arms. I watched as she curled her finger, drawing the DJ’s attention. He stooped down and she whispered something in his ear. I saw his knees buckle a little and his hand shot out to grasp the railing that surrounded his equipment, almost like he’d been socked in the stomach.
Or, judging from the ecstatic expression on his face, had an orgasm.
The DJ returned to his tables and, within moments, had a brand-new track playing—a catchy tune this time, with a solid baseline. Dancers began filling the stage, gyrating to the music. He fiddled with his equipment and began working in a mash-up, the result twice as good.
I snapped my mouth shut before flies could get in.
The newly-gathered crowd parted for the producer with eerie precision, as if choreographed, and she and her bodyguards took over one of the few empty booths remaining. I frowned. That little move should have drawn all sorts of attention—no one sauntered through a crowd like that without being somebody. And yet, no one seemed to care, or even notice.
No one except me.
I considered how to approach her. Making a good first impression would be key. Maybe I’d wait until she went to the bathroom, get in line behind her, and strike up a conversation? No matter what, the fact that I’d come here specifically to question her would cause friction—but less so if she felt I wasn’t a threat. I was still plotting when Austina scanned the bar and caught me staring in her direction.
She squinted, scowled, and then cocked her head to whisper something into her bodyguard’s ear. The big man rose and strode forward, dodging the pawing of more than a few of the leather-clad women in the process. He materialized beside our table, his shadow blocking out the light from the single disco ball that twirled overhead. “My boss wants to know what you think you’re doing here,” he said.
I scowled back at him. “I t’ink I’m enjoyin’ meself. What’s it to her?”
Confusion and irritation warred across the man’s face. “This club is off-limits to Freaks. Don’t you know that?”
My eyebrows shot up. I leaned sideways until I could see past the big Samoan. Austina, whose animosity hadn’t faded, glared at me. I settled back into my seat and tried to decide what to do next.
“You should go. Now.” The Samoan folded his arms across his chest, and I marveled at his shirt’s ability to withstand the muscles beneath it. Cotton abuse. I shook my head, wondering idly if the Samoan and the Rock were related. Cousins, probably.
But, like, first cousins.
“I didn’t know this place was off-limits,” I said, trying to deescalate the situation. “But I did come here to talk to your boss. I—”
The bodyguard held a hand up and pressed the other to his ear, where a small device was attached. I realized he had an ear piece, the wire dangling behind his thick neck. He listened intently, then nodded. “Understood.” His attention turned back to me. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll be forced to escort you out. The boss isn’t seeing anyone tonight. You made a mistake coming here.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Great. Serge coughed, drawing my attention. He pointed to his neck and the silver collar that encircled it with a questioning expression, grinning. I elbowed him, much harder this time. “Not a chance.”
The bodyguard’s attention shifted to the smaller man beside me, assessing the threat. Had we all been Regulars, the mild-mannered Serbian likely wouldn’t have set off alarm bells. But Freaks were different—our appearance had no bearing on our abilities. For all the bodyguard knew, Serge was a nuclear explosion waiting to happen. Which meant his boss must be one scary lady—why else would he be willing to take us on in public? Unfortunately for him, he was assessing the wrong person.
Remembering the sage advice of the warrior known as Patrick Swayze, I leaned back, cocked my leg under the table, and drove my heel into the bodyguard’s knee, sending him crumpling to the floor—take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee, and he'll drop like a stone…thank you Roadhouse. The bodyguard howled in pain, rolling on the floor, eyes pinched shut.
“Somebody get help,” I yelled over the roar of the music. “I t’ink he’s hurt!”
A panicked crowd moved back as one while a few industrious patrons rushed to the bar to tell the staff that a man had collapsed on the dance floor. I figured that sort of thing happened from time to time, and that they’d have a plan to deal with the poor guy. I stepped over him and approached Austina’s table. Her second bodyguard stood, fully prepared to manhandle me—and not in a good way—but a slender hand on his wrist halted him.
�
�Let me deal with this,” Austina said, looking up at me. As I watched, her eyes flashed with a pale, golden light. “Well, mortal, you’re here. Tell me what you want. Fame, fortune, inspiration? If you were hoping I’d help you, I can assure you that you’ve gone about things the wrong way.”
I blinked a few times. “Actually, I’m here to ask about a girl.”
The light in Austina’s eyes faded to a warm shade of brown. “You what?”
So much for making a good first impression.
Chapter 15
Austina’s bodyguard had rejoined us at the table, an ice pack placed squarely over his swollen knee. I considered apologizing, but I doubted it would make much difference—it’s not like saying sorry would bring down the swelling. Instead, I focused on Austina, who was preoccupied with ordering a drink from a waitress. Up close, she was even prettier than I’d thought; she had a classical beauty to her I couldn’t quite describe except to say that if I could draw worth a damn, I’d be tempted to sketch her like one of my French girls.
“So,” she said, facing me, “you say you came to ask me about a girl. Before we discuss that, though, I want to know how you found out about this place and somehow missed the memo that it’s Freaka non grata.”
“If I said the internet, would ye believe me?” I asked.
Austina grunted. “If Pythagoras had known what his theorems would one day be used for, he’d be rolling over in his grave.”
“The mathematician?” I asked, momentarily thrown by the reference.
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