Touch The Dark cp-1

by Karen Chance

  As strange as it sounds, a lot of people in the supernatural community don't believe in ghosts. Oh, some will agree that there is the occasional troubled spirit who hangs around its grave for awhile before accepting the inevitable, but few would accept it if I told them just how many spirits stick around after death, how many different types there are, and how active some of them can be. Spirits like Portia and Billy Joe are, for the supernatural community, like vamps are to the human—old stories and legends that are dismissed without proof. What can I tell you? It's a weird world.

  I arrived at the club a few minutes later, out of breath and with aching arches, but intact. Showing up was, of course, a really bad idea. Even if nobody had followed me, a dozen people at the agency and my apartment building knew I worked there part-time. It was also only a block from Peachtree, which was not a coincidence I liked. If it ended up getting me killed, I planned to come back and haunt Tony. But I couldn't leave without warning my roommate and making some kind of arrangement for him. I had enough guilt without adding another messed-up life to my total.

  The club, with its high ceiling of exposed steel joints, graffiti-covered concrete walls and massive dance floor, was larger than most, but that night, there were enough gyrating figures under the hanging disco lights to make it almost claustrophobic. I was grateful for the crush, since it made it less likely that anyone would notice me. I slipped in the back way and didn't encounter any problems—at least, not of the gun-waving, homicidal variety.

  One of the bartenders had called in sick, so they were shorthanded, and Mike tried to talk me into subbing as soon' as he saw me. Normally I wouldn't have minded, since my usual job as one of his novelty acts didn't provide much in tips. I read tarot three nights a week, although I've never liked the cards. I used them because it's expected, but I don't need to squint at archaic images to know what's about to happen. My visions come in Technicolor and surround sound, and are a lot more complete. But most people would have preferred a standard reading to what I gave out. Like I said, I'm better at Seeing the bad stuff. Tonight, though, I declined the chance to make a few bucks. I didn't think bartending was the way I wanted to spend my last hour.

  "What's the word?" Mike yelled at me cheerfully, doing a Tom Cruise with the liquor bottles to the rowdy appreciation of the crowd.

  I sighed and dug in my purse. My fingers clenched around the greasy tarot deck that had been a tenth-birthday gift from my old governess, Eugenie. She'd had a charm put on the cards by some witch with a sense of humor, and I kept it with me because it was good for entertaining customers. But the predictions—which acted like a kind of karmic mood ring—had an eerie habit of being right on the money. I held it up and a card popped out. It wasn't one I wanted to see. "The Tower," a booming voice began, before I shoved it back in the pack and deep into my purse.

  "Is that good?" Mike asked, before getting distracted by a pretty blonde's cleavage. I merely nodded and hurried off, losing myself in the crowd before he could hear anything else. The voice was only a muffled croak from my overcrowded bag, but I didn't need to hear it to know what it said. The Tower signifies a huge, cataclysmic change, the kind that leaves a life completely altered. I tried to tell myself that it could have been worse—it could have been Death—but it wasn't much comfort. The Tower is probably the most feared card in the deck. Death can have many meanings, most not the literal one, but the Tower always indicates trouble for anyone who wants a quiet life. I sighed—what else was new?

  I finally located Tomas in the Dungeon—Mike's nick-name for the basement room—wading through a sea of black-clad bodies with a tray of used glasses. He looked edible, as usual, if your thing is slender muscles, skin like honey over cream and sable hair that brushes his waist when he doesn't keep it pulled back. His face should look too rugged to be handsome, all high cheekbones and strong angles, but the delicacy of some of the features make up for it. His hair was off his face in a thick braid, a sure sign he was working, since he prefers it loose, but a few pieces had worked free and billowed about his head in fine strands. Mike had picked out the outfit: a black silk shirt knitted in a cobweb design that revealed more than it covered, sleek black jeans that fit him like a second skin and black leather boots that climbed halfway up his thighs. He looked like he ought to be headlining at a strip club instead of waiting tables, but the exotic, melt-in-your-mouth sex appeal pushed a lot of buttons for the Goths. I didn't exactly find it hard on the eyes, either.

  Mike had decided about a year ago that Atlanta had enough country-and-western bars, so he turned the family drinking hole into a progressive haven upstairs and a Goth dream in the basement. Some locals had grumbled, but the younger crowd loved it. Tomas looked like he'd been designed for the place right along with the decor, and he brought in a lot of business, but it worried me that he spent half of every night fending off propositions. At least, I assumed he fended them off, since he never brought anyone back to the apartment. But I sometimes wondered, given his background, if getting him that particular job hadn't been one of my dumber moves.

  Tomas looked a lot better than when I first saw him, hanging out at the local shelter with the kind of dead eyes that I was familiar with from my own street days. Lisa Porter, the manager and self-designated mother hen of the place, introduced us when I stopped by for one of my erratic volunteer sessions. We got to talking while sorting the newest donated clothes into piles of the usable, the need-repair and the good-only-for-cleaning-rags. It says something about Tomas' personality that I mentioned him to Mike that very night, and that he was hired after a brief interview the next day. Mike said he was the smartest hire he'd ever made—never sick, never complained and looked like a dream. I wasn't so sure about that last part: the look was striking all right, but I personally thought he needed a pimple or a scar, some mark on all that pale gold skin to make him seem more real. He resembled the undead more than most vampires I knew, and had their unconscious poise and quiet assurance to boot. But he was alive, and as long as I got my seriously jinxed self away from him, he'd probably stay that way.

  "Tomas, got a minute?"

  I didn't think he heard me over the music, which the DJ kept painfully loud, but he nodded. I wasn't supposed to be there yet, so he knew something was up. We carved a path through the crowd, which earned me a dirty look from a woman with purple dreads and black lipstick for stealing off with the main attraction. Or maybe it was my happy-face T-shirt and earrings she didn't like. I usually did the Goth thing, or as close as I could get without looking truly awful—strawberry blondes don't wear black well—but that was when I was working. I found out pretty early that no one takes a fortune-teller seriously if she shows up in pastels. But on my days off I reserved the right not to look like I was going to a funeral. My life is depressing enough without help.

  We ducked behind the bar to the back room. It was quieter there, which meant we could hear each other if we stood close and shouted, but the noise was less of a problem than looking into Tomas' face and figuring out what to say. Like me, he'd been on the street early. Unlike me, he'd had nothing to trade but himself. I didn't like the look that came into his eyes whenever I asked about his past, so I normally avoided it, but it was probably a variation on the usual theme. Most street kids have the same story to tell, revolving around being used, abused and thrown out with the trash. I'd thought I was doing him a favor, letting him stay in my spare room and getting him a real job for a change, but a share in Tony's wrath was a high price to pay for six months of stability.

  Our relationship was not close enough to help me figure out how to keep Tomas safe without looking like I was bailing on him. Part of the problem was that neither of us liked opening up, and it didn't help that we'd gotten off to a rough start. I came out of the bathroom the night he moved in to find him lounging nude on my bed, his hair spread out like an ink blot against my white sheets. I'd stood there, clutching my Winnie the Pooh towel and gaping at him, while he stretched like a big cat on my feather comfo
rter, all sleek muscles and boneless grace. He was completely unself-conscious and I could see why; he sure didn't look like a starved street kid. I'd never asked his age, but assumed he was younger than me. Which made him way too young to have that particular look in his eye.

  I hadn't been able to keep from following the path of one long-fingered hand as he traced a line down the side of his body from nipples to groin. It was a blatant invitation, and it took me a second to stop drooling and realize what was going on. I finally figured out that he thought he was supposed to pay for his room in what he considered the usual way. On the streets, there's no such thing as free, so when I refused to take money, he assumed I wanted payment of another kind. I should have tried to explain, to tell him that my whole life had been about being used and that I sure as hell wasn't going to do it to someone else. Maybe if I had, we'd have started to talk and cleared up a few things. Unfortunately, what I did instead was to freak and toss him out of the bedroom, along with the blanket that I'd quickly thrown over him. I don't know what he thought about it all, since we never discussed that night. We eventually fell into a more or less relaxed routine, splitting the housework, cooking and shopping like any two roommates, but both of us guarded our secrets. I'd catch him watching me with a strange expression sometimes, and I figured he was waiting for me to abandon him like everyone else. I really hated it that I was about to do exactly that.

  "Did you get off early?" He touched my cheek and I stepped back, wanting to be farther from those trusting eyes. There was no escaping what I had to do, but I wasn't looking forward to seeing his face shut down, and watching whatever faith he'd regained in people bleed away because of me.

  "No." I shifted feet and tried to think how not to make this sound like a rejection. It wasn't his fault that my life was spiraling down the toilet. Again. "I have to tell you something important, and you need to listen and do what I ask, okay?"

  "You're going." I don't know how he knew. Maybe I had that look. He'd probably seen it before.

  "I don't have a choice." By mutual consent, we moved out the back door to the paved surface surrounding the stairs to street level. Not much of a view, but at least it was quieter. The air smelled of rain, but the downpour that had been building all afternoon was holding off. If I hurried, maybe I could make the bus station before getting soaked. "You know how I told you that I had some bad things happen a while ago?"

  "Yes, but there is nothing to worry about now. I'm here." He smiled, and I didn't like the look in his eyes. I didn't want him fond of me, didn't want him to miss me. Damn, this wasn't going well. I decided to quit trying for subtlety; it wasn't my strong suit.

  "There's some serious stuff going down soon, and I have to be gone before it hits the fan." It wasn't much of an explanation, but how do you tell someone that the vampire gangster who raised you and who you tried your best to destroy has put a price on your head? There was no way Tomas could understand the world I came from, not if I had all the time in the world to explain. "You can have the stuff in the apartment, but take my clothes to the shelter. Lisa will put them to good use." I had a momentary pang for my carefully assembled wardrobe, but it couldn't be helped.

  "Cass…"

  "I'll talk to Mike before I go. I'm sure he'll let you bunk here for a week or two, in case anyone drops by the apartment looking for me. It probably wouldn't be good for you to go back there for a while." There was a studio apartment at the top of the building left over from the era when owners sometimes lived over their businesses. Mike had used it fairly recently, so it should be in decent shape. And I would definitely feel better knowing Tomas was staying there. I didn't like the idea of a bunch of enraged vamps descending on our place looking for me and finding him instead.

  "Cassie." Tomas took my hand gingerly, as if afraid I might snatch it away. He thought I was uptight about being touched since that initial misunderstanding. I'd never corrected him because I didn't want to give the wrong impression and, frankly, it was easier to behave myself if I kept a little distance between us. He didn't need to be hit on at home as well as at work. "I'm coming with you." He said it calmly, as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

  I didn't want to hurt him, but I could not stand there and argue the point with an assassin after me. "You can't. I'm sorry, but two people are easier to find than one, and besides, if I'm caught…" I stopped because I couldn't think how to tell him how bad it would be and not sound like a raving lunatic. Of course, he'd probably seen enough weird things on the streets to make him more open-minded than the cops, who treated anyone who started talking about vampires as a druggie or a psychotic. But even if I could figure out a way to tell him, there wasn't time.

  "I'm sorry; I have to go." That wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye. There were a lot of things I hadn't told Tomas because I was afraid it would sound like I was coming on to him. And now, when I could say whatever I wanted, I had to leave.

  I started to pull away, but he held on to my hand and his grip was surprisingly strong. Before I could insist that he let me go, I had a very familiar, totally unwelcome feeling creep over me. The muggy night air was suddenly replaced by something colder, darker and far less friendly. I don't know what nonsensitives feel around vampires, but all my life I've been able to tell when they're near. It's like when people say that someone walks over their grave—kind of a shiver down the spine combined with a feeling of something being wrong. I never feel that way around ghosts like norms sometimes do, but it hits me with vamps every time. I looked up to see a dark shape silhouetted against the glare of the streetlights for an instant, before it melted into the night and was gone.

  "Damn!" I drew my gun and pushed Tomas back into the storeroom. Not that it helped much; if Tony had sent vamps after me, we needed more protection than a simple door could give. I'd seen Tony rip a solid oak plank off its hinges in one movement of his delicate, ring-covered hands, just because he couldn't find his key and was in a mood.

  "What is it?"

  "Somebody I don't want to see." I looked at Tomas and got a vision of his face streaked with blood and his serene gaze empty with death. It wasn't a Seeing, just my brain coming up with its usual worst-case scenario, but it was enough to help me prioritize. The vamps wouldn't come in and slaughter half the club looking for me. Tony was too afraid of the Senate to okay mass murder, but he wouldn't think twice about removing some street kid who got in his way. It was the same attitude he'd demonstrated when he orphaned me at the age of four to ensure himself complete control over my abilities. My parents were an obstacle to his ambition, so they were removed. Simple. And the Senate wasn't likely to fuss over something that could be passed off as regular old gang activity. Priority number one, then, was to get Tomas out of the line of fire. "I have to get out of here or I'll endanger everybody. But now they might come after you since they saw us talking. They'll think you know where I'm going."

  I dragged him back through the storeroom, trying to think. I'd been a fool to come here, to let them see Tomas and me together. Despite being told otherwise on a regular basis, half the people at the club assumed he was my lover. If Tony's thugs started asking about him and anyone told them that, they'd torture him to death trying to find me. I should have known better than to get involved, even platonically, with anyone. I was like some kind of poison—get anywhere near me, and you're lucky if you just die. Somehow, I had to get Tomas away as well as myself and, like me, he could never hope to return. Some life I'd helped him build.

  There was also the problem that the vamp had let us go. I'd seen them look like they dissolved into the wind, they could move so quickly. He'd had more than enough time in those few seconds to strike, swift as a snake, or to shoot me from a nice, safe distance. Vamps didn't really need guns against mortals, but the Senate preferred hits to look as natural as possible, so most of Tony's guys carried them. He might have suspected I was armed, too, but I doubted he feared my gun even if he didn't know how bad a shot I was. The best I could hope for
would be to slow him down. No, I was alive because whoever was out there had been ordered to play the game. The obit had said 8:43, and 8:43 it would be. I could hear Tony telling the family that he'd arranged a last little Seeing for his prophet, and this time, she didn't even have to do the work herself. I wondered if they planned to kill me here and carry me over to Peachtree, or if they'd simply overwhelm my mind and have me walk there like the proverbial sheep to slaughter. I wasn't real keen on either plan.

  I licked suddenly dry lips. "Okay, here. Put this on and get your coat. Tuck your hair up." Mike had left one of his many baseball caps on a storage shelf and I grabbed it, but no way was all that hair going underneath it. "We need to find somebody who has a coat with a hood you can borrow. You're too easy to identify." Maybe one of the Goths would loan us a cape. If I could make Tomas look different enough, he might be able to sneak away while the vamps were concentrating on me.

  "Cassie, listen. There is—" I never found out what Tomas had been about to say, because the door we'd just entered slammed open as if the lock wasn't even there, and five huge vampires rushed into the room. They looked like a bunch of linebackers who had joined a grunge band—all bulging muscles and shoulder-length, greasy hair.

  For one frozen moment, we all stared at each other. Size is pretty much irrelevant when you're undead, but Tony likes them big, I guess for the intimidation factor. It worked—I was intimidated. The fact that they weren't bothering to hide their real faces under polite masks didn't help. I knew what a vampire looks like when hunting—I'd seen it enough times—but it was still the stuff of nightmares. I had time to wonder if I'd live long enough to need to worry about bad dreams before they moved in a blur of motion. I got a shot off into one in the general area of his heart, but it didn't stop him. I hadn't thought it would. Not that it mattered: I hadn't expected to rank five vamp assassins, and no way could I deal with those odds. Tony must be even more pissed than I'd thought.