Finally, she stopped, her hand resting on a single hanger. She pulled it out of the rack. It was a tomato-red satin thing with muted gold embroidery and some sort of complicated lacing situation going on down the back. I never would have picked it up in a million years, not if it was the last dress on the rack. Bridget handed it to me.
“Does it come with an instruction manual?”
“I’ll help you. Come on.”
Bridget pulled me to the dressing rooms, which turned out to be dim, curtained cubbyholes with tiny mirrors. I took the dress inside and tried to figure it out. I had to wriggle my shoulders to get into it, and I was terrified I’d rip it. After I got it on, I found a zipper running along the side and felt like an idiot. I tugged it into place and tried to re-tie the ribbons at the back, then looked at myself in the narrow mirror. I looked like the world’s fanciest flour sack. I craned around in the mirror, trying to figure out the lacing before giving up and walking out to the three-way.
Bridget was waiting for me. She frowned, then made a turning motion with her finger. I put my back to her and felt tugs around my waist as she pulled the ties into place. She clucked to herself while she did it.
“Here,” she said finally, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me to face the mirror. “See?”
She looked so innocently pleased with herself, I couldn’t help smiling back at her before I even looked at the dress. But when I did, I stopped smiling entirely. My jaw dropped a little and I snapped it back up. I hadn’t looked at the price tag, but this thing had better be less than seventy bucks, because I had to have it.
It wasn’t that it was low-cut or too tight, but it was sexy. The ties cinched the fabric at my waist, and the simple scoop neck was sewn with little tucks that made me look bigger in all the right places. There was just enough fabric in the skirt to balance out my hips, and the embroidery ran down in delicate lines, accentuating my waist. I ran my hands over the fabric, feeling the slick satin and the rough texture of the embroidery.
“How did you know?” I’d never in my life found an outfit on the first try like this.
“It’s a dowser thing. Pretty cool, right?”
All I could do was nod.
* * *
We didn’t have practice the day before the gig, but I went to the speakeasy straight from the clothing store anyway, thinking I could make some progress on Simon’s books. I took the old wooden staircase into the storage room and hung my purse on a hook along with the dress. The girl at the register had covered it in a black plastic hanging bag with the name of the shop written on it in huge gold letters. Bridget had oh-so-casually let it drop that I was buying the dress for my first gig in the city, and the girl had given me a ten percent discount if I promised to snap a picture and bring it back. That had knocked the price down to just under a hundred bucks. I wasn’t feeling even slightly guilty.
The speakeasy was empty, so I went up front and started on my side work, slicing garnishes and restocking the chest fridge. It was nice to be alone for a little while, and I took my time with the lemons, cutting little notches in each wedge so they’d sit nicely on people’s water glasses. I’d moved on to the kiwi slices for Malik’s signature Green Eyed Monster Margarita when there was a crash from somewhere in the back.
I froze. Had a crate of stock fallen over? No—I heard voices. Raised voices.
“I can tell you’re lying, motherfucker.” Not a voice I recognized. Another crash, bottles breaking. My hand tightened around the paring knife.
Simon’s voice came then. I couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded panicked. I turned and made my way slowly into the warren of storage rooms in the back.
The front of the speakeasy was only the beginning of the space below Featherweight’s. There were at least half a dozen storage rooms and offices, plus a makeshift conference room where Malik said the local shadowminds held council meetings. From the sound of things, the voices were coming from one of the seldom-used storage rooms at the far end of the hall. I’d rarely been inside, but I knew the way. I walked down the dark, narrow concrete hallway, following the sound of raised voices to a room just past the curve.
The door was ajar. Through the crack, I saw Simon backed up against the far wall. Another man was facing him, his back to me.
Simon said something I didn’t understand, but his voice was high and frantic. He was scared. The guy grabbed Simon by the shirt.
I had to do something. By the time anyone could get here, this guy would be long gone with my boss. I made up my mind.
It was good thing the storage room was such a mess. I picked up a bottle of top-shelf bourbon from a half-empty crate on the floor. The glass felt cool and heavy in my hand. I held the bottle like a club and walked slowly, softly, toward the pair of them. They guy was getting in Simon’s face, yelling, saying there would be trouble if he tried anything. I couldn’t hear one word in ten above the rush of my own blood and breath. In the last instant, Simon saw me. His eyes widened; his attacker turned.
“What the—”
I smashed the bottle over his head.
He staggered, but he didn’t fall. Blood, bourbon and broken glass rained down around him. He looked right at me.
I acted on instinct and went for his hands. He was too shocked—or maybe too dazed—to respond at first when I grabbed them, pressing my thumbs into his palms. After spending weeks wishing my new gift would disappear, for once, I was grateful for it. All my practice sessions with Paulie paid off when it kicked into high gear.
The heat was so intense, I nearly jerked away. It took less than ten seconds before it faded, and I knew, somehow, that I’d neutralized him. He took another staggering step, cocked his head at me, and went down like a tree in a hurricane.
“Oh my God.” I hadn’t meant to hurt him—just ground his powers. I dropped to my knees and felt the back of his head. There was a lump, and blood. I moved my hands to his neck, looking for a pulse.
“He’s all right,” Simon said, pulling me away. “It was me. I knocked him out.”
“Oh, thank God.” Relief washed through me like cool water. I sat down hard on the floor. My pulse was still pounding from the energy I’d stolen, and my hands were shaking. I wasn’t used to taking on power with this speed—and this intensity. Whoever this guy was, he had more power than Paulie.
“Dissipate it,” Simon said. “Hurry—before you lose control.”
The thought only made me panic more. I looked around for something to touch—the wall, the shelving, something.
“Breathe, breathe.” Simon knelt in front of me. “You can do this. Remember? Look at me.”
I did as he said. He took my hands and placed them flat against the floor, then covered them with his own.
“Let it go. On three. Just let it all go. One, two, three.”
He lifted his hands from mine on three, and I exhaled as I willed every mote of alien energy out of my body. The concrete heated, and a tiny fissure opened up where the hot spot ended.
“Oh no!”
“This place has seen worse. Earthquake country, remember?” He stood, pulling me with him. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” His attacker was still motionless on the floor. “Who is he?”
“A junkie after our cash.” Simon gave the guy a poisonous look. “Doesn’t happen often, but this isn’t the first time. One of the hazards of a cash-only operation.”
“A shadowmind junkie.” Probably a lot more dangerous than the garden variety. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
He laughed. “Well, I could use some of that bourbon. Did you have to use the top-shelf stuff?”
* * *
Jackson was not pleased.
“What were you thinking, attacking him bare-handed like that?”
“Look, I didn’t know what to do, okay? Ther
e was no time.”
“You should have called me. You could have been killed.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
He’d shown up with his father within minutes of my call. They’d brought specially designed converter-proof handcuffs—no lock, just soldered closed—and a syringe full of sedatives. I was pretty sure I’d absorbed most of the guy’s power, but Jackson wasn’t taking any chances. The guy was so deeply asleep, he didn’t even wake when James and Simon hoisted him up with telekinesis and floated him through the back door.
Jackson watched them go, gave a frustrated sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “Any idea who he is? Name, anything?”
I shook my head. “Simon said he’s just some junkie.”
“Do you think he knows what you can do?”
“Probably not. I think Simon knocked him out before he had the chance to put it together.”
“Well, that’s something to be grateful for. I can drive you home, if you want.”
“My shift starts in a few minutes.”
He looked as though he was going to protest, but before he could speak, Simon came in from the back.
“He’s secured. I called Sebastian—he said he’ll question him in the morning.”
“Sounds fine.” Jackson was still looking at me.
“Well.” Simon turned to me. “You still up for working a shift? Malik has the night off, something about exams. I can manage on my own if you need to take off—I get it.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Totally fine.”
Simon nodded and flipped the light for the neon sparrow. He lit the candles himself in a surge of flame that made the whole place seem as if it was bathed in sunlight for half a second.
A few people came down right away, and Simon greeted them by name, pouring drinks without even taking their orders. Regulars. I hung back and did some leftover side work, replenishing cocktail napkins and coasters. To my surprise, Jackson hung around. He ordered a pint of stout, but he barely touched it, just stayed at the bar nursing it and fiddling with a coaster. His expression was stony.
“Did you want something?” I asked him. “You don’t need to hang around and be my bodyguard. I can take care of myself.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear. I’m here to meet Bridget.”
I flushed, and his phone buzzed. He left without a word and came back a moment later with Bridget. Jackson grabbed his beer and they claimed a two-top in the far corner of the bar, heads bent close. Business started to pick up, and soon I was too busy making change and picking up dirty glasses to really watch them. Not that I wanted to watch them, obviously. But every time I looked over, Jackson was holding her hand or rubbing her shoulder, and she was gazing into his eyes like a teenager stares at a poster of a boy band.
She hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting him here while we’d been shopping. I frowned, wondering if she hadn’t wanted me to know. Did she think I was...interested in him? She couldn’t. It was ridiculous, and anyway, why should I care. Around ten I went into the back for a new bottle of vodka, and when I came back out, he was gone.
Things had slowed down, and I’d been on my feet for hours, so I took the chance to collapse on the ratty chair in the back and shovel down a granola bar. I could tell by the sound that things were still quiet out front, so I stretched and walked around the small space, enjoying the feeling of being alone for a few minutes. I couldn’t help thinking Simon could’ve spruced the place up a little. Even a poster on the concrete walls would’ve been an improvement. There were cracks running the full height of the wall, reminding me we were in earthquake country.
“Hey, Mina.” I turned around. It was Bridget.
I hastily swallowed my mouthful of granola. “Thought you guys left.”
“Jackson did. I was hoping to talk to you. Malik said you were looking for an apartment.”
“Yeah, I am. You know of something?”
“Well, maybe. My sister just bought a house in Noe Valley, and it’s got two units. Separate entry. She wants to convert it eventually, but they can’t afford it yet. She’s gone half the time for work, so she doesn’t like leaving it empty. She’d let you have it cheap if you water the plants and pick up the mail and stuff.” Bridget named a price that was well below the going rate for one-bedrooms.
I stared. “Are you serious?” Maybe she was trying to get me out of Jackson’s apartment, but I didn’t care. I was trying to get me out of Jackson’s apartment too.
“Well, yeah. She wants to rent it to a shadowmind so she doesn’t have to worry.”
“I’m not exactly a shadowmind.”
“Of course you are,” Bridget said. “So are you interested?”
“When can I see it?”
* * *
When I got back to Jackson’s condo, it was two o’clock in the morning. I expected him to be sleeping, but he wasn’t. He was sitting on the couch with an architectural model in front of him.
It was made out of tiny pieces of white cardboard, hundreds of perfectly cut strips forming a sprawling structure, some sort of house. I thought they were glued together, but as I watched, one wing broke off and shifted, angling with respect to the rest of the structure. Jackson leaned forward, focusing, his hands on his knees. The moving wing went still, and a section of roof broke off and floated into the air. I watched as the cardboard flexed, changing the pitch of the roof to make it shallower, then went back down to rest on the walls again.
“Whoa,” I said from the doorway.
Jackson jerked his head up, and the whole thing collapsed into a pile of paper cards.
“Oh no!” I ran forward and knelt in front of the table wanting to help, but I stopped when I realized there was nothing I could do. My hands hovered uselessly over the pile. “Shit! I’m so sorry.”
Jackson was chuckling. “It’s no big deal. I’m still working it out.”
“All that work!”
“It’s nothing. Watch.”
He held his hands out with his fingers gently spread. The cards started twitching, and a few of them righted themselves, making corners. More cards rose to meet them, making rooms, then ceilings, decks, fences. I wondered if he knew his fingers were flexing in the air. The house took shape again, and he laid down a narrow cardboard path on the coffee table, starting at the edge where he was sitting and leading to a wide-open front door. The whole thing took maybe five minutes.
“See? Easy.”
“Right.”
He let the pieces fall. “It’s not quite right yet.”
“What is it?” I shifted to sit cross-legged on the carpet, and Jackson leaned back on the couch.
“It’s a house. For Mr. Charles Jones in Katy, Texas.” He took a sip of the beer that was sitting next to him on the coffee table. It had clearly been there a while. Condensation was beaded on the glass and pooled on the table.
“I thought you designed warehouses.” I knew he was an architect at the same firm Cass had worked at when she’d lived out here.
“I do. This is sort of a side project.”
“That’s a lot of work for a side project.”
“Yeah, well, I have to do something else every now and then or I’ll go crazy.”
“So it’s not through your company?”
He shook his head. “I find people on my own. Word of mouth, mostly.” He twisted his lips in a sort of smile. “Don’t tell.”
“You’re secret’s safe with me.” I couldn’t help smiling back for a moment, but then I snapped out of it, looked away and cleared my throat. “So, have you designed anything around here?”
“Not in the city. Up in Walnut Creek, Orinda...the suburbs. Where there’s space.”
“You live in the wrong city.” I picked up one of the cardboard pieces. A wall?
He stare
d at his beer. “You may be right.” He sounded so thoughtful about it—and so sad—that I regretted the offhand comment.
“I’m sure you get to do cool stuff with your regular job, too, though, right?”
He let out a little laugh. “Not as much as you’d think. These days I’m mostly telling everybody else how big to make the warehouse. I don’t even get to design them.”
“One of the hazards of moving up in the world?”
“They didn’t tell me that part in the interview.” He gave a crooked smile, then scruffed his hair and stretched. “But what do I have to complain about, right?”
“I think everybody deserves to like what they do.”
“That’s optimistic of you.”
I shrugged. “Idealistic, maybe. But when I was working at the Center, it was great to see some of the musicians earn a living doing what they love. Maybe they weren’t...I don’t know...indie rock sensations or whatever, but it meant something to them to be able to introduce kids to music.” I was thinking of Avery, how she’d started out as a volunteer at the Center but moved up to full time staff once she’d realized how much she loved it. “I mean, if you hate it...”
“I don’t hate it,” he said quickly. “Not really.” I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I also wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it. His eyes settled on the garment bag I’d draped over the arm of the couch. “What did you get?”
“Oh, right. Uh, Malik roped me into playing a gig with his band. I had to get something decent to wear.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow night at Henry’s. I’ll be on keyboard. Why?”
“I’d like to go.”
“Well, I’m not as good as I used to be, but the rest of them are decent. It shouldn’t be too bad.”
“I’ve seen Malik’s band before. They’re good.”
“You’ve seen Malik’s band?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Jackson seemed more like the type to have tickets to the opera.
“A couple of times. But I like opera too.” He grinned at me.
“Hey!”
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it. You seemed so sure.”
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