Shade City

by Domino Finn

  Avalon.

  "Soren was just another burnout. A loner without a family. He probably had too many dependencies, but who am I to judge? We know that, somehow, Soren was an accommodating host. Pam said he had been acting differently for three months. That's longer than most."

  Compared to my father, a few months is nothing.

  "Granted. There are some people—Ambrose, the Royals, maybe even Bedros and the strongmen—who are much more powerful. Until now, we'd made it our business to clean up the street level scum. You've told me that shades come in all shapes and sizes. Ambrose said many powers and abilities were unique. We're not working with hard rules here. There's just too much variability to make assumptions. But we do know that the vast majority of shades out there have weak holds on their hosts. But not the fiend inside Soren."

  On the Dead Side, he was a mess. I broke apart his form easily enough.

  "That's the thing. Neros wasn't especially powerful. But we know about the iron ring now. He was able to stay in this world longer than most. Maybe that attracted attention. Maybe he was being watched."

  My father doesn't know about the properties of iron, but we have to assume that Marquis does. His bodyguards are wearing torcs.

  I bit my lip. "So we're left with Soren. As a host. The difference is that he's susceptible. For whatever reason, shades have a strong bond with him. Easy entry. Usually, after someone smokes my cigarettes, their tie is cut for a long time, if not for good. The people I help can usually avoid repossession. Yet Soren is as popular as ever."

  That's assuming they know you banished him.

  "Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. Isn't it curious that, as soon as I do, Sal is escorting him out of the club? Your father passed right by us, and you wanted to follow."

  I didn't know for sure it was him. I just sensed something... familiar.

  "But you suspected. And maybe, after four years on the lonely streets, we were bound to cross paths. That would be especially likely if Ambrose was looking for the same people we were."

  Dispossessed souls.

  "Recruiting for Red Hat is what he said. But he made me following him. He ducked into the bathroom at Mel's. Distracted me with an owl somehow. Neat trick. Obviously, we know he has friends. He shook me. You were so mad about it that you met me on the Dead Side for the first time. I could see you were shaken up. I pushed and you let Livia's name slip. Then I was on Alexander McAllister's trail. I knew it!"

  I stood up quickly, gripping the pocket watch in my hand again and pacing in the living room. "I don't believe in coincidences. I was investigating Sal and I was looking into your past and Red Hat came up both times. What were the odds? But both of those seemingly independent inquiries were started by the same question: why was Sal talking to Soren?"

  But we answered that already. My dad was either working for Red Hat or pretending to. What we know for sure is that he introduced Soren to Marquis. They planned on accepting him into their fold.

  I nodded excitedly. "Yes, but that didn't happen. Unless I'm wrong, the Royals are still looking for Soren. Which means—"

  He's not having dinner with the real Red Hat.

  "Exactly." I yelped the phone number and called Perch. When the hostess picked up the phone, I asked if she could confirm a reservation for me.

  "What name?" she asked.

  "McAllister."

  She mumbled under her breath as she went down the list. "I don't see it, sir. Are you sure it's for tonight?"

  "Yes." It was only a hunch, but it had to be right. This wasn't just about Marquis looking for Soren. Something more was going on. "Actually," I cut in, changing my mind, "I had my lawyer set the reservation. I think it's under his name. Try Glickman."

  Another moment. "Yes. Glickman, party of four. You have a private balcony reserved for eight-thirty."

  * * *

  Pershing Square was my Red Line exit. The metro station was named for the block-long park nearby. The square used to be a Downtown hub, famous for hosting war rallies and political functions, but it never really found its stride and had to be reinvented several times. Originally, it was known as Central Park and would have appeared as a miniature version of the Manhattan icon we know today: a patch of trees in a valley of skyscrapers. It was then renamed for a famous general after the war, fitting its ensuing role as an area for social activism. Eventually, the entire park was demolished and an underground parking structure was built in its place; now most of the green is asphalt and many of the sculptures are modern geometric eyesores. What was once an oasis amid concrete was swallowed up by it.

  Today, the biggest reasons to visit are probably the concert stage and the seasonal ice rink, although both had failed to ever draw me. I'd never had more than a passing association with the park. Instead I was downtown for one of the lumbering stone giants across the way.

  As I ascended the escalator to the street, I zipped up my gray leather jacket to fend off the breeze and took in the city. In my dreams, I'd often walked between these old behemoths. Every single time, I'd felt tiny and disconnected in the darkness of the world. Somehow, this evening was different. I had the confidence of purpose. Of justice.

  In the night sky, amidst the lights of the traffic and buildings, stood a stately fossil. The Pershing Square Building is a masthead of the old Los Angeles style. The exterior stonework features ornate details and reliefs of griffins and cherubs. Bold framing and cornerstones command a presence that isn't imitated today. The impressiveness continues inside. Sculptured brass and Italian marble is a mainstay. As I walked within the high halls with curved ceilings and crisscrossed stone tiling, I thought it an apt place to catch Alexander Ambrose. He was a man of tradition, and he was a Downtown lifer all the way.

  I stepped into the elevator and faced the bronze plate that framed the call buttons. The top button had a metalwork bird welded next to it. It was the thirteenth floor. Like many buildings in Downtown Los Angeles that were built before the nineteen-fifties, this was a limit-height building—only zoned to stretch one hundred and fifty feet into the air. Where I was headed was near the roof, but thirteen, unlucky as it was, wasn't the destination.

  I was dropped off into a hallway. A quick walk brought me to an unassuming room with old frames on the wall. A man in a suit stood at attention and opened another elevator door. So much for height limiting.

  "I'm going to the dining room," I told him. He nodded as I entered, pushed a button for me, and resumed his post outside.

  Perch is an upscale French restaurant, a slice of Parisian wonder precariously resting on a Los Angeles rooftop. The door slid open to reveal a bustling crowd of drinkers and I was deposited immediately next to the hostess stand. I nodded as I slipped past into the large room of antique-styled chairs, tables, and sofas. The expensive tiles created an intricate pattern the color of cream and sky. Large, arched windows framed patio doors and allowed a night view of the Downtown skyline. There was a building with the words "ONE WILSHIRE" emblazoned across the top, lit the same color as the moon that floated quietly above it. Again I stepped into the chill air. Below me, a trail of lighting caught my eye and I saw the ice rink of Pershing Square.

  It was 9:30 p.m. I was late because I'd stopped at an army-navy store on the way. It was no matter. There were only a couple of places Soren could be and they would just be finishing dinner. I walked along the balcony edge, sliding my fingers on the clear glass railing, until I reached a private corner area. It was offset from the other tables, with its own fireplace and a lovely view of the city. Not a long view, as you might see from a mountainside or on a postcard, but the real thing: a sight of the city from within its bustling confines, above the activity but somehow still a part of it, still drawn to it.

  Soren, Pam, Mr. Glickman, and Alexander McAllister sat sharing a wine bottle. They did not notice my approach.

  "Don't I count as a family friend?" I asked, interjecting myself in the middle of whatever they were talking about. Pam was startled. Mr. Glickman and S
oren looked confused. Alexander, however, flushed red with anger. He was still in a wheelchair but seemed to be in much better health. He chose not to make an outburst. While they remained seated, I leaned against the glass balcony railing next to the heating lamp. "I notice Bedros isn't here either. Maybe you thought he'd scare off your marks."

  I put my hand in my pocket and fingered Soren's ring. I figured I would return it to him. Tell him I had found it in the bathroom or something. Maybe it could stop Ambrose from taking him.

  "Dante," said Pam, the first to break the stupor. "What are you doing here?"

  "Sorry Pam, Soren. I hope you at least enjoyed your dinner. I don't think Alexander McAllister has been fully honest with you."

  "Dante, dude," protested Soren, "this isn't cool."

  "He's not who you think he is, Soren."

  Alexander's complexion returned to normal. He finally spoke up. "And you, sir, have you come clean on your end?" His voice was strong and confident. A far cry from the feeble man in the loft.

  "What are you talking about?" I asked.

  "Only that the night my promoter ran into this gentleman, he had just been assaulted in a nightclub."

  Uh-oh.

  "Dante knows about that," said Soren. "I've told him. Besides, I'm not so sure I didn't just fall."

  Alexander scoffed. "Ridiculous. You were attacked. Have you considered that your stalker here may have played a part in that?"

  Pam looked at me with cold eyes. "What?"

  "That's not true," I said. "Soren, that doesn't even make sense, man. We were hanging out. I didn't even see when you left or where you went to."

  Soren started to shake his head, then stopped. He was trying to recall what had happened. I knew he would remember hanging out with me, but the minutes surrounding the brawl and the banishment would be gone forever. "No—I was in the bathroom alone. Dante didn't come in with me."

  I nodded reassuringly, but I had the feeling Soren wasn't the one I needed to convince. "Pam, he went without us. I was sitting with you. Don't you remember?"

  Her face softened. She didn't say anything but I saw a slight nod. Alexander would need to overplay his hand to give them any certainty. It would look too suspicious on his end to know too much about the situation. But I realized with a sigh that I couldn't just hand over Soren's ring now. I had just told him that I didn't know he went to the bathroom.

  I decided to blow the shade's cover before he dug deeper into mine. "Let's talk about you, Alexander. We both know you don't work for Red Hat. You were in a coma until a couple days ago."

  Soren stood up. "That's what this is about?" He looked to Pam and understanding swept over his face. "Dude, I already know that. He has friends at the company and found me through them. He initially told me he worked with them so I wouldn't think some creepy guy in a wheelchair was stalking me. But he came clean. He told me he was friends with my father and wanted to see how I was doing." I must have shown my disbelief. "I know. It sounds like bullshit. That's why I didn't say anything to Pam until I found out more. She thought he was Red Hat management until an hour ago."

  Alexander was a step ahead of me. He had inside information about Red Hat, but it was a flimsy cover that he couldn't link to McAllister's persona. So he used that to get close to Soren. To get him away from the party. It was clever. However, this story about knowing his father couldn't be true. Or maybe it could. Did it matter? I instinctively pulled the pocket watch into my hand.

  "Ah," said Alexander, "so this is all just a misunderstanding. It is good of you, Mr. Butcher, to watch over your friends so."

  Pam pulled her fiancé back into his seat and everybody relaxed. Mr. Glickman was the only one who remained on edge. How was he involved in all of this? Either he was just doing his job or he had more sinister motivations. It was impossible to tell.

  Before the silence grew too uncomfortable, Pam spoke up. "So, the both of you know each other?"

  Alexander smiled and looked to me for an explanation. "Yes," I said. "I knew... his daughter. When she was alive."

  The mood at the table became more solemn. Soren nodded. "He told me about her. It's very sad."

  "Yes," agreed Alexander. "I am thankful for your friendship." I couldn't tell if his words were true or if he was just playing along. I looked at the four of them. They were a disparate group that didn't belong together. And I wasn't an exception. I understood what Alexander wanted. A young body. A strong host to start over with. But what was Soren's stake in all of this?

  The inheritance.

  Violet's words ran through my mind like a cleansing stream. Of course. A sick man. Friends with an orphan's father. If anything could make friends out of strangers, it was money.

  "He's giving you his money, isn't he?"

  Soren was clearly surprised but answered quickly. "Yeah. Alexander cares about family—legacy. He wants to pass his things to somebody before he dies. He said he owes it to my father."

  And it made sense. From the very beginning, from the moment Ambrose had approached Soren in Avalon, he was after the body. Mr. Glickman had said that McAllister woke up several times at Keck and the doctors were expecting an imminent recovery. That was the perfect time for Ambrose to lay the groundwork for a different future.

  And I didn't have any way to warn Soren without sounding like a madman.

  "Why don't we get you a chair so you can sit down," offered Pam. She looked back for a waitress but Alexander put his hand up.

  "That is not necessary. I do confess that I have some business with Mr. Butcher. I must have been so wrapped up in our affairs that I woefully neglected him. Perhaps we should cut the night short. I do apologize. My solicitor can see you home."

  The excitement had been enough for Mr. Glickman. He approved of the plan and expeditiously convinced the other two to go with him. When Soren stood up, I noticed he held a walking stick with a white rose. It was Ambrose's, from the dream.

  Alexander saw my eyes catch it. "I certainly don't need that heirloom anymore," he said. Then he tapped the armrest of the wheelchair. When everyone was standing except him, I wondered if that was a ruse as well. Could Alexander really walk?

  I thought to stop Soren and Pam from leaving, but wondered if they wouldn't be safer away from McAllister. I decided to play along. For now. When I shook Soren's hand and gave Pam a kiss on the cheek, I noted they were both clean. It was as I thought. A few moments later, the audience was gone. I sat across from Alexander McAllister.

  "Have some wine, young friend." He poured a small amount in a new glass that was dropped off at the table and finished the bottle into his own. Given the situation, I normally would have declined the offer—but it was a Zinfandel from Paso Robles.

  Don't drink with him.

  "Don't worry," I said under my breath. I held the wine glass in my right hand. Alexander looked at the pocket watch in my other. Of all the people in the restaurant, only the two of us were aware that we sat at a table for three. Four, if McAllister and Ambrose counted double.

  "How was last night's party?" he asked.

  "A clever diversion on your part."

  Alexander scratched his tan hair and feigned sympathy. "I am sorry it turned out to be a waste of time."

  "I didn't say it was."

  His eyes searched for the meaning of my words. For some reason, he then felt the need to defend himself. "You were on to Red Hat's trail without me."

  "I was on to Red Hat's trail because of you."

  Alexander's face remained firm. "Regardless, I gave you the in that you wanted with the company. Our reasons are vastly different, but they are an enemy to us both. I was not lying about that."

  The wine had a deep oaky flavor that went down briskly. "I won't let you take Soren," I stated plainly. McAllister smiled. "All that talk about repentance and becoming an honest man. That was bullshit. You served your time on the Dead Side when McAllister was in a coma. Just like you did when Finlay was in prison. But your ambitions never wavered. You still in
tended to steal the lives of others."

  Alexander McAllister carried the formality that Ambrose had in the dream world. No longer was he the tired and confused man I had met in that dusky loft. He spoke with more drive and had a boldness that wouldn't bend. "You know so much yet so little, Mr. Butcher. Don't you see that Soren, and all the others, are yearning to house our kind? He is weak and looking for escape. He seeks inner strength, a strength greater than his own."

  I raised my voice. "You can rationalize that bullshit all you want, but it's still crap."

  "Sir, you will address me as a gentleman."

  "Oh come on. That facade of propriety isn't fooling anyone. You can convince the world you're doing it a favor, but I'm never going to buy that."

  "You don't need to, Mr. Butcher. You can live without ever living, if you choose. You can waste away in death like so many other souls. That is your right; just don't impose your narrow will on others."

  My frustration must have been evident. The man was intractable. As I fumed, I realized there was only one eventual conclusion to our conversation. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "I don't know how but I'm going to stop you."

  Alexander smiled confidently. He knew he had set off my temper. He reveled in it. "You have much to learn. You have this power yet do not understand it. It tugs at you. You grow weary."

  I took a breath. It was true. I was losing my cool. But this man, speaking of power in a way that insinuated he knew more about me than myself, was making it difficult to be levelheaded. It wasn't easy to admit that a nemesis had the advantage in knowledge and practice. Maybe even strength. That's why I had to do things the way I was planning. It couldn't be done alone.

  "You often speak of power," I said. "And yours is a great one. You're different. I can understand how it makes you feel invincible." Alexander looked at me intently as I spoke. "Most shades fight hard for their bonds with the flesh. Simply staying in this world is enough of a struggle."

  Alexander was losing patience. "Many of us are above that trifle."