Call me crazy, but I had the sneaking suspicion that my concerns over my recently acquired superheroine status weren’t going to score very high in comparison with these eclectic topics.
Or would they?
“I was just wondering,” I started conversationally, as Yulyia tagged my left pit, “if you could be a superhero, what kind would you be?”
“You mean to have save me?”
“Not X-Man and no He-Man,” Yulyia said before I could answer. She motioned expansively with her spray gun. “I want G-Man.”
“G-Man?” We both looked at her.
“To help me find G-spot. That’s my kind of hero.”
“Good point!” Cher exclaimed.
Too much information. I grimaced and tried again. “I meant what kind of superhero would you be?”
“A cute one, definitely!”
“With fur-trimmed cape trailing behind as I fly through the night!”
“Fox fur!” yelled Cher, getting in the spirit.
“Marten,” Yulyia purred, shuddering delightedly.
Did this spray kill brain cells?
“Okay, but other than—you know—cute, what kind of powers would you have? You know, how would you use them to fight evil and save mankind?”
They both looked at me in a moment of profound silence.
“The power to make any man fall in love with me!” Yulyia exclaimed.
“I already have that,” scoffed Cher. “How about the power to have spontaneous orgasms, and never grow old!”
Yulyia squealed and Cher giggled. I sighed and tried not to breathe in too deeply.
Fifteen minutes later we were in the day spa’s lounge area; tanned, dried, and wrapped in short terry-cloth robes. I was reclining in a vibrating massage chair, while Cher poured us fizzy water from a pitcher filled with lemons, ice, and cucumbers. About a half a dozen other women were scattered about the room, like a bunch of seals sunning on a rock. But the melodious chatter of dulcet female tones gradually melted into a sea of serenity. I hadn’t been in this environment before. I’d either shunned it in favor of a sports massage, or all chitchat had ceased when I entered any ultrafeminine domain. I was surprised to find the smell of peppermint, cucumber, and estrogen to be a heady and profoundly relaxing mix.
“Do you want to get French pedicures?” Cher asked, handing me a glass.
I sipped, and considered making up an excuse to leave, something I’d have readily done only one week earlier. I’d never had another woman look to me for companionship. I knew Cher believed I was really Olivia, but it felt good to be the recipient of her open smiles and concerned attentions. I remembered how fondly my sister spoke of Cher on the video diaries, and for that alone I would have said yes. Besides, I reasoned, what would Olivia do?
“Why not?” I said, smiling.
Cher seemed pleased to lead the conversation, and I was content to let her. She started off talking about a new pill that was supposed to shrink the waist, lift the breasts, and put color into your cheeks—being tested on mice as we spoke—then moved on to a story about a lingerie saleswoman who’d copied her phone number from her check and was making threatening phone calls about how many times Cher had sent her back for a different size chemise in magenta rolled silk. At some point, through the rhythm of Cher’s narrative, I began to understand the rhythm of my sister’s life in a way I previously hadn’t. I also began to wonder why I’d never gotten a spa pedicure before. The foot massage alone would have done wonders after a training session with Asaf.
Of course, thinking about Asaf led me to think about all the things I’d loved about my old life. My coach and his family, the training that had started as an outlet for my youthful anger and turned into a daily comfort, not unlike prayer. I thought of my home, my darkroom, and the camera that had been as much a part of me as another limb. Why couldn’t there have been, or still be, a merging of the two lives? And that thought led me back to Ben—
“…I mean, can you believe she said I was high-maintenance?”
Uh-oh. It was the first time Cher had stopped to ask me a question. Quickly, I thought, what would Olivia say? “That bitch.”
Cher drew back, looking at me blankly. Her pedicurist did the same. Mine stopped massaging the balls of my feet.
“What?”
“Did you just call my mother a bitch?”
“No! No.” Shit, I thought, and cleared my throat. “I thought you were still talking about the lingerie girl.”
“No, darlin’, my mother. But I told her that she was the one who was demanding. I mean, at least I can make my own appointments.”
I looked at her. “Do you really tell your mother everything?”
She raised a perfectly waxed brow. “You know I do.”
“It’s just I can’t imagine that,” I said, and leaned my head back in the cushioned chair. I thought about everything I’d learned of my mother lately. The truths that had been lies, the greatest lie being our lives together.
Cher placed a hand on my arm and, surprisingly, I didn’t shake it away. “Mama’s been asking about you, you know,” she said softly. “She has this idea of fixing you up with a—how did she put it?—‘a very well-to-do southern gentleman.’ She wants to know when you’re going to come by again.”
I fought off a full-body shudder and thought, Never.
“Of course you could avoid her blatant matchmaking attempts if you’d bring your own date,” she said, pausing. “That guy you were talking to looked like he might clean up well.”
“Ben? Not my type, and I’m definitely not his.”
“Olivia, honey, you are every man’s type.”
“Not Ben Traina’s. He was always into Joanna.”
To my surprise, Cher said, “Oh, that Ben! Well, I have to say, he didn’t look half as unhinged as people say. A little dangerous perhaps, but who doesn’t like a strong little chaser to wash things down. An ex-cop might fill that bill nicely.”
I glanced at her, too sharply, and looked away quickly, feigning interest in the color being applied to my toes. “What do you mean ‘ex’? He’s just taking some time off.”
Cher lifted a hand, studying her nails. “That’s not what they said on the tube, honey. And I don’t blame the department. You should’ve seen him at the funeral. He went absolutely apeshit. Attacked some poor, innocent man who was just offering him his condolences. We can’t have a guy like that patrolling our streets.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Poor? Innocent?”
Cher rolled her eyes. “Okay, so they did say the guy cheats at craps. Either way, I know what I heard. Ben Traina has been put on an indefinite leave of absence.”
“But he said—”
“But he lied. It happens with the mentally unstable.”
But he wasn’t mentally unstable. He happened to be right. And I, for one, wasn’t going to give up on him. I knew him. That boy who saw things as black and white, right or wrong, was still there. Besides, I was partly responsible for this…this transformation. Both of them, I decided. Both times.
“Ben’s different,” I muttered. “He’s been through a lot, and he never stopped caring for Joanna.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s precisely why he might go right on over the edge?”
I wanted to shake Cher so hard her teeth rattled.
Something of my thoughts must have shown in my face because her own softened. “Oh, don’t listen to me, honey. I have such bad luck with guys…what do I know?” she said, sighing. “I always look for the one thing that’ll make them run. Then I do everything I can to make sure they do.” She practically deflated on the next sigh, showing a vulnerability that surprised me.
I let the subject of Ben drop, filing it away for later. Like when the smell of bubble gum and acetone wasn’t coloring my every thought. “Maybe it’s because you don’t let them see the real you.”
“Darlin’, all of me is real,” she said in that haughty tone I used to hate.
; This time I only snorted and leaned my head back into the neck rest. “Then maybe that’s the problem. Maybe all they see is boobs and hair and nails…oh, and a really great tan.”
“Thank you. I think.”
I smiled over at her. “I’m just saying. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.” And I was surprised to realize I meant it. “You just need to find someone who will look at your internal beauty first.”
“Really?” she asked softly.
“Of course, really.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re right. That would be my kind of hero, anyway…you know, when you were asking earlier? I’ve been thinkin’ about it, and I’ve decided I wouldn’t need someone from the pages of a comic book. He wouldn’t have to leap over buildings for me, or even surprise me with the latest designs from fashion week. I have a personal shopper for that. But if somebody would just…be there.”
“Girl, that ain’t a hero,” one of the nail techs put in. “That’s a prince.”
Cher tilted her head and thought about that for a moment. “You think Wills or Harry would be interested in a slightly experienced southern woman?”
We all laughed, but a small part of me sighed. Be there? Ben would have done that.
Later, as we lounged in the dressing area, now surrounded by a comfortable silence, Cher said, “Thanks for letting me take you out today, Livvy-girl. I’ve really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. This was…the most normal thing I’ve done in a long time.” I ran the back of my hand over my eyes, mortified to find myself close to tears. All this girly stuff was getting to me. I probably just needed to hit something.
“I’m sorry we argued before.”
“It was my fault,” I said, shaking my head. “You were right. I had shut down. Thank you for being a good enough friend to say something.”
On a sob, Cher opened her arms for a hug. Thrilled—it was an indisputable sign that I’d passed this test—I held open my arms too. I’d no more than taken two steps toward her when she gasped so violently I jumped and whirled to defend myself against…anything.
“What?” I said, whirling back. Then I realized she was pointing at my chest. “What?”
“You’re streaked! The bitch streaked you!”
I turned to the full-length mirror and looked for myself. Sure enough, there was a medium-sized white blotch right in the middle of my chest.
“Shit.” Would this have happened to Olivia?
“Now you don’t have an even, all-over tan!” Clearly more distraught than I was, Cher had tears rolling down her face. “You’re not going to look cute naked! Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said doubtfully. I wasn’t planning on anyone seeing me naked anyway. “How long did you say this stuff lasts?”
Cher wasn’t listening. She was moaning and cursing—delicately, of course—and pulling at her hair extensions. “I wanted this to be perfect!”
“It has been,” I assured her. “Really. I can’t think of the last time I’ve had this much fun.”
“Truly?” She sniffed, and stared at me through tearstained eyes.
I nodded. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had naked with another woman.”
“Except for that time in Cozumel.”
I’d puzzle that one out later.
“But now you have to wear turtlenecks for two whole weeks!”
Facing the mirror, I sighed. That answered that question.
“It’s not right!” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “First you ruin your Louboutins and now you’re marked for life!”
“It’s not for—” I broke off, whirling to face the mirror again and looked closer. Marked.
“I think I’m faint,” Cher continued behind me. “I need a drink with something stronger than cucumbers in it.”
“It looks like…” I found I couldn’t finish. I cleared my throat and tried again. “It’s a…”
Cher gasped as she came up behind me. “I see it!” Her amazement, my horror, and the symbol on my chest were all reflected clearly in the glass across from us. Cher was the first to find her voice, and it was reverent. “It’s shaped like a stiletto!”
Shit. She could be right.
It was blurred, smudged around the edges, and not entirely drawn in—like a half-finished tattoo—but dammit, Cher just might be right. If I angled myself just so, squinting…
Damn. My glyph, I thought, turning to view it from another angle, was a fucking stiletto. But at least this time I didn’t have to wonder what Olivia would say.
“Well,” I said, and blew out a sigh. “At least it’s cute.”
15
I’d once thought myself a stranger to darkness, but as I drove back to Olivia’s apartment I thought back to my encounter with the construction worker earlier that day—cursing myself for remembering his name, Mark—and of the pain that had bloomed in his face as realization struck. At my words. Words Olivia would never have uttered. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with myself. Darkness, I was finding, came in many forms.
And what about what had happened in the comic store? Carl had seemed not only genuinely surprised that I could pull from both the Light and Shadow series, but I’d recognized that flash of fear as he looked from me to Zane and back at the comics in my hand.
So you’re the one, Zane had said.
The only one. Micah’s words hurtled back at me.
And then Warren’s, you’re the first sign.
I parked in Olivia’s spot in the underground garage, grabbed the comics from the trunk, and decided to read through them all tonight. I needed to fill in the holes Warren and Micah had left in my supernatural education…and in my life.
The phone was ringing as I slid the key in the door, and smelling nothing out of the ordinary, I jogged to the bedroom and grabbed the portable from its hook. Luna wound her silky body between my legs, nearly tripping me up.
“Hello.” I perched on the edge of the bed and leaned to stroke Luna’s head. She arched fluidly under my hand just as Warren’s voice reached my ear.
“Olivia, it’s time. We’ve got to get you out of here, to the sanctuary.” He sounded panicked and out of breath.
My hand froze on Luna’s back. “You said I wasn’t ready.”
“No choice. Every agent is ordered off the streets.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have time to tell you…hold on.” There was a muffled sound, like he’d placed his hand over the receiver or muffled it against his chest. After half a minute he was back. “Remember when I told you the Shadows had found a way to kill off our star signs? One by one?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see it.
“Well, they’re tracking us; I don’t know how, but they have their next target. That’s why we all have to go.”
“Who are they after?”
There was another silence. “Me.”
I stood and paced to the window, where shadows, once again, were soaking into crevices along the valley floor. “But why do I have to go? You said I wasn’t ready. And remember, Olivia is an Archer. They won’t touch her, or me, right?”
“Joanna Archer,” he said, surprising me by using not only my real name, but my full name, “they don’t want me for my sterling personality. They want me because of you.”
Oh.
“Meet me at the Peppermill on the Boulevard. Walk, don’t drive. We don’t want Olivia’s car anywhere near the pickup point. There will be a cab waiting out back. Pack like you’re going to summer camp, and bring only what you need.”
I looked around the room, with no idea where to start. “How long will I be gone?”
“Long enough to learn what you need to, but not long enough for anyone to miss you.”
“That narrows it,” I muttered to myself. “What about Luna?”
“She’ll be taken care of.”
I paused as the image of Mark and his naked pain and disbelief crowbarred its way back into my brain. “I need to tell you something, Wa
rren. Or ask you—”
“Later. There’s a window of opportunity for the crossing, but it’s short. We must hurry.”
“The crossing?”
“From your world into ours,” he explained impatiently. “It can only be executed the exact moment day turns into night, or vice versa.”
I drew back and actually looked at the receiver. “That’s called dusk, Warren. It lasts more than a moment.”
“Not the point at which the light and shadow are divided evenly in the air. Be there, mid-dusk sharp.” He hung up in my ear.
I scowled at the phone, then down at Luna. “Bossy for a homeless man, isn’t he?”
I packed swiftly, only throwing in items I was comfortable with…or relatively so, considering Olivia’s wardrobe. Nothing silk, nothing with heels, and no lace. Sure, the jeans I stuffed into the duffel bag were Sevens rather than Levi’s, and the sweats were velour lined with satin rather than simple cotton, but at least they were items I could move in. I could run. I could fight.
Figuring discretion was the way to go since Warren had been specific about not using Olivia’s car, I donned a turtleneck and loose slacks, both black, though I decided to bring her crystal-studded cell phone along; after all, Olivia couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth, could she? Then I started throwing in the usual toiletries.
Underwear, socks, hairbrush, toothpaste, lotion…camera.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, freezing with the cheap cardboard camera in my hand. I held it in my palm as gingerly as I would a baby bird. On it were the last images I’d taken as myself; the images I’d snapped in those early morning hours before returning to Warren to tell him that yes, I would accept his offer to become a superhero.
The ones of Ben, smiling in his sleep because I was alive.
I looked at the clock. Did I have time? My heart thudded at the prospect of viewing these photos. I’d have liked to develop them myself, to play with the shadow and light in the confines of my own dark space, but I knew that wasn’t an option. My home was being watched, and even if it wasn’t, Warren would never agree.
Still, there was a one-hour photo shop located inside a Quik-Mart only one block east of the Peppermill. If I drove that far and hurried, I might be able to make it.
The Scent of Shadows Free with Bonus Material Page 22