by S. W. Clarke
I peered through the windshield, taking in the odd combination of old warehouse buildings and the fresh, gleaming facades of local businesses. “Which borough is this?”
“Bushwick,” Frank said. “It’s one of ‘those’ neighborhoods.”
I glanced at him. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “You know, trendy. Gritty. Young people like you flock to these kinds of places.”
I straightened. “Like me, huh?”
He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “You know what I mean. Your age.”
“Yeah.” Because I definitely didn’t feel like a young person anymore, and I had the hand tremor to go with it. In fact, I had a new, painfully pretentious pickup line at my disposal: “Hey baby, ever dated a gal with a seven-hundred-year-old soul?”
Nikolaj appeared behind us. “Grunt will take you to the restaurant.”
I turned. The ex-vamp looked beat up to hell. One of his eyes was dilated more than the other. “You’re not coming.”
“I said I’d come with you this far. Now I’m going my own way.”
Fair enough. I extended my good hand toward him; I did my best to keep it steady. “Thanks for everything you did back there, Nick. It was brave of you, and you saved my skin. No hard feelings?”
We both knew I was referencing the whole seven hundred years of indentured servitude thing. But frankly, that had everything to do with Mariana and nothing to do with me.
He took a second to consider my hand. Then he shook it. “You’re different from her, you know.”
My mouth quirked on its own. “You don’t think she’s me?”
“No. Not by a long shot. Take it from someone who knew you both.”
I hadn’t heard a peep from Mariana since the fight with the angel. But just now I thought of her, and when I did, I sensed her feelings inside me.
She was in deep grief, and had been ever since Valdis died. That was why she’d been so quiet.
And me? Well, I guess I was different from her. I processed grief in my own way.
But the tremor told me she was still coming for me, grief or no.
As Nikolaj started to get off the bus, I watched after him. He was truly free for the first time in centuries. “What are you going to do now?”
He paused on the steps down. “See a doctor about my concussion. Then maybe I’ll find a Scarred therapist who specializes in ex-vampires.”
“The Scarred have therapists?”
He glanced back at me. “As much as you would like to believe otherwise, Tara Drake, the Scarred are just a big assortment of people and Others. We’re just like you.”
Six months ago, I would have argued with that statement until my throat rawed. Now I only stared as he opened the door and disappeared onto the street. I never thought I’d be regretful to see him go.
Grunt’s massive footsteps came down the aisle of the bus; he had eyes only for me. “We will go to the restaurant now.”
Frank stood up from the driver’s seat. “If you don’t need me, Tara, I was thinking about going back to the old apartment and sorting things out, see what I can salvage.”
I had forgotten all about Frank’s apartment burning down. I set a hand on his shoulder. “Of course.”
“I’ll sort us out a place to stay that isn’t the bus,” he said. “We’ve got friends all over. Seleema’s, you know …”
“A social butterfly?” I finished.
“Basically.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll call you when we’re done here.”
His lips folded. He knew his best use wasn’t in a place like this, and yet I could tell he was hesitant to leave me.
“Don’t worry, Frank.” I pointed at the grenade on the counter, the ogre beside me, then at the whips on my belt. “I’ve got firepower.”
Frank gave a final nod. He hugged me, and then he got off the bus, too.
“Actually,” Grunt said once Frank had gone, “you won’t have any of those but me. They don’t allow weapons.”
I raised a brow. “Now Grunt, I haven’t been without Thelma and Louise in five years. Surely the restaurant staff won’t mind some theatrical whips?”
Grunt snorted. “Your whips have names?”
“Sure do. A weapon without a name is just a piece of metal, a bit of leather. Think of Excalibur. Mjolnir. Those weapons have gravitas.”
“But they’re also magical weapons. Yours aren’t.”
I pointed to the side of my head. “It’s the pluck in here that makes my gals magical.”
Grunt waved me off. “Fine. But you still can’t bring them.”
I pointed at my boot. “What about the crystal? That’s the whole point of coming here, after all.”
“Keep that one hidden. Well hidden.”
I unholstered my whips. “Why, are they going to frisk me?”
“Frisk you? No.” He leaned forward, eyes enormous. “They’ll do much more than that.”
I leaned away. “All right, creepy. We going, then?”
He gestured me out. “When you’re ready.”
I took my throwing knife out of my left boot, the crystal out of the other. I tucked it into my bra, the pointy end digging into the padding of one cup. It was surprisingly small, suited for my hand, and not even visible beneath my shirt.
Together, Grunt and I came off the bus into the cold afternoon. I wrapped my good arm around me, pulling my jacket tight; the other arm was still in its sling.
I had never felt so vulnerable. This was the first time in five years I hadn’t had anyone around I fully trusted. Sure, Grunt was helping me, and we’d had some good moments together—some real good ones—but he wasn’t Percy. He wasn’t even Seleema and Frank.
A week ago, he’d been my enemy. And now he was leading me into a place I had to walk inside on trust, weaponless and with one injured arm.
But this was important. Typhon was our only lead right now on the crystal’s purpose and on Lust.
So suck it up, buttercup.
Grunt leaned toward me as we walked. “You’re my date.”
“I sure as hell am not.”
“It’s just a cover until we get into the real restaurant.”
“The real restaurant?”
He set his hand softly around my shoulders as we came to a pair of double doors with a cloth overhang out front. “You’ll see.”
He pulled the door open for me, and I walked through first.
I’d expected maybe a sleazy New York pizza joint, a real hole in the wall. What I walked into was a five-star Michelin Greek restaurant.
And it was entirely populated by Others.
↔
A popobawa flew out from behind the podium as I stepped into the semi-darkened interior. He looked for all the world like an oversized bat in a tuxedo. His little wings flapped hard as his single eye surveyed us. “A human. Do you have a reservation?”
I cleared my throat. “We uh …”
Grunt stepped up behind me. “Two for Valdis.”
The popobawa fluttered higher in the air, eyes wide. Then he nodded with such vigor his whole body moved with it. “Two for Valdis. Of course. Two for Valdis.”
I shot Grunt a questioning look as the popobawa urged us deeper into the restaurant.
“Humans aren’t disallowed here,” he explained. “But they don’t come here.”
“It’s … an Other restaurant?”
Had I just been discriminated against for being human? I was shocked. I was appalled. I was … finally understanding a little bit of what it meant to be an Other in the world.
But all those thoughts were tamped down as soon as I’d taken two steps. The smell of pita bread was immediate and mind-melting. GoneGodDamn, when was the last time I ate? I was going to demolish the whole city of Athens.
Except the popobawa didn’t lead us to a table. He weaved us past tables in the mostly-full restaurant (a real achievement for four in the afternoon), and I could have sworn I got eyed up and down by a pixie with a shimmering
pink dress on, drinking from a tiny glass of wine.
Then there was the table of four beautiful, dark-haired women laughing with each other, looking for all the world like they were on an episode of Sex and the City.
I nudged Grunt. “They’re human.”
He practically salivated as we walked past, his steps lagging. Particularly when one of the women glanced his way. “Those aren’t humans.”
“Sure they are.”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving them. “They’re encantado.”
“Encan-what?”
“Shapeshifting seductresses from Brazil.”
I chuckled, slipping my arm through Grunt’s to keep him walking. “Clearly the proof is in the pudding.”
The popobawa led us down a side hallway, at the end of which were the bathrooms. He opened the door and gestured us into the men’s room.
I paused. “Now I don’t know about this one.”
“It’s fine,” Grunt said.
“Yes, yes. Fine,” the popobawa said. He leaned into the bathroom and called out. When his head popped back, he said, “No one is urinating. Or defecating.”
I made a face. “All right, but why the bathroom?”
Grunt ignored me; he just followed the popobawa inside.
I groaned and walked after the two of them. For the show I’d put on, you’d think I had never walked into a men’s bathroom. But that was just me being ladylike; this wasn’t my first rodeo.
Of course, the other men’s bathrooms I’d been inside weren’t nearly as nice as this one. It didn’t just have a washing area and human-sized stalls—it had a whole series of them, all various sizes, including a Grunt-sized stall. And a couple holes in the floor that I didn’t even want to know about.
The popobawa flew toward a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the back wall and floated in front of it, staring into its depths.
“OK,” I said, “what in sweet Sally’s name is this all about? I did not come here to stand in a men’s bathroom, no matter how clean and nice-smelling.”
The popobawa lifted a finger to silence me with a shushing noise. He raised his other hand and pressed the tiny, clawed fingers against the glass. Then he murmured something I couldn’t make out.
Grunt’s hand fell on my shoulder. “This is the way.”
“The way to what?” I whispered.
“To getting the answers you’re looking for.”
As he spoke, a click sounded on the far wall. The mirror actually split into two halves, separating to reveal … an elevator.
The popobawa flitted to one side, gesturing with both hands. “Two for Valdis.”
I stared at the fluorescent light shining down into the bare elevator, then glanced up at Grunt. “This is the way?”
He nodded.
Don’t lose your nerve now, Tara.
“OK.” I started forward. “We’re going down, then.”
Grunt and I stepped into the elevator. As I turned around, the popobawa floated into view, his large, unblinking eye staring straight at me as the mirror doors closed. Then the elevator’s interior doors shut, too.
Inside, there were no buttons to press. Even more unnerving: there wasn’t even a fire alarm in case we were trapped.
Have I ever mentioned my love of wide-open spaces? I suppose I didn’t need to; I am a dragonrider, after all. It comes with the territory.
Just as I was about to vocalize my discontent, the elevator jerked into motion, sending us on a smooth course down, down, down.
I thought maybe we’d enter a basement one floor down. Wrong.
Then I thought maybe we’d enter a basement two floors down. Wrong again.
Finally, I stopped having expectations. We must have descended for about a minute before we slowed to a stop.
“This part you won’t like,” Grunt said just before the doors opened. “But if you want to see Typhon, hold your tongue.”
“Hold my tongue?” I eyed the ogre like he was insane. “Don’t you know me at all, Grunt?”
He made a noise of displeasure, gaze drifting off me as the doors slid open. In the semidarkness beyond, a pair of minotaurs stood with clubs held crossbody.
And they were both staring at me.
Chapter 33
I squinted at the minotaurs, regarding each with an up-down-up. “You two look familiar.”
Then it hit me: I had kicked these guys asses at the Singing Angel. They were two of the three drunk brothers picking on Frank because he was a human dating a houri.
Probably best not to remind them of who I was. If I was lucky, they’d been too drunk that night to remember me, or my dragon.
“Really?” one asked, staring hard at me. “From where?”
Phew.
I lifted a finger to my chin, did a conspicuous rub. “You know, I can’t recall. You guys must have those kinds of faces, you know?”
He snorted. “Humans. You can never tell minotaurs apart.”
The minotaur on the left waved us out of the elevator. The one on the right directed me off to one side, while Grunt was told to move to the left.
We stood in a half-lit anteroom, most of the light ambient from somewhere deeper in. And right away, a deep thrumming threaded its way into my ears, vibrated with a faint rhythm under my feet.
Was that “We Will Rock You” by Queen?
One of the minotaurs approached me. “Arms out. Legs apart.”
I did as he asked, but I couldn’t help saying, “Can you minotaurs really frisk a lady with those hooves?”
Across the room, I could swear I heard Grunt groan.
My minotaur just stared at me with nostrils growing wide enough to fit planets inside those cavities. Then he snorted, and a blast of hot air hit my face. “Legs wider.”
I widened my stance. And I’ll tell you now: minotaurs really can frisk with hooves. It’s not a pleasant experience, that’s for sure, but I’d spent the past half-decade training with a dragon every day. Nothing gets your hide harder than that.
When he got to my upper half, he touched my jacket. “Take it off.”
I did as he asked, sliding awkwardly out of the jacket with only one good hand at my disposal.
“And the shirt,” he instructed.
I hadn’t expected that, but now I knew what Grunt meant about hiding the dagger well. The crystal dagger was nicely tucked inside my bra, but it might be visible without my shirt on.
“Now come on.” I pointed at my bad arm. “I’ve got this one in a sling.”
After my comment about his hooves, the minotaur didn’t have an ounce of leniency for me. “I’ll wait.”
I blew air into my cheeks and let it out in a huff as I pulled up my shirt from the bottom with my good hand. I pretended to get stuck in it along the way, and bent over to get it off. As I did, I spent a half-second tucking the dagger deeper into the padding of my bra.
I finished yanking my shirt off, tossed it on the floor. “Go ahead, my bovine friend.”
The minotaur stared at me like he didn’t know whether to be insulted by that. But he was also eyeing me … differently now. What can I say? I’ve been known to get looks from males of all species.
“Be gentle,” I said with big eyes. “I’m injured.”
I don’t know whether it was my request or a sudden shyness, but the minotaur only patted around the edges of my bra. He also had the decency not to look too closely at the girls while we were face to face, thank the GoneGods.
“All right,” he said to the other minotaur when he’d finished. “This one is clear.”
The second minotaur nodded. “The ogre is unarmed, too.” He touched a radio on his shoulder, speaking into it. “Two for Valdis, here to see you and checked for weapons.”
“Send them through,” a voice rasped back.
I pulled my shirt and jacket back on as fast as I could with one arm. As I did, one of the minotaurs gestured Grunt and me down the hallway. We both followed, passing into almost-darkness as we walked.
&
nbsp; We came into a dark room with dimmed, overhead lighting and soft voices all around. A bar and barstools came into view, small tables with groups gathered around. Glasses clinked, liquids flowed and at the far end, a siren leaned against a piano and sang in dulcet tones under a pink spotlight.
I sensed I was being watched on my left, but I couldn’t make out the faces of any of the patrons at the counter in this light. Behind the counter, a washrag swished around a glass as the bartender spoke in a language I didn’t know.
I had never felt so out of place. Even as a street performer, I’d never felt watched in this way—with some curiosity, but also some distrust. Wariness. Disdain.
I was glad when the minotaur led us through the bar and into another hallway. The sounds and smells of the bar faded, and ahead, the minotaur pushed a door open to a different light. It was green and flashing.
And that was definitely Queen playing. Along with what sounded like a gargantuan, rhythmic thudding.
After a minute, we emerged at the nosebleed seats of an enormous stadium. Below us, rings and rings of seats were filled with clapping, foot-stomping Others. Maybe there were some humans, too, or maybe they were just Others who looked like humans.
And at the center of stadium lay an expanse of dirt, which made this whole place quite like the Roman Colosseum.
Well, except for the loudspeakers blasting music and the simply gigantic screen flashing previews of what was to come. Right now, it read in blocky letters: SATYR VS. WENDINGO IN TEN MINUTES.
“So this is like a fight club,” I shouted over the music.
“No,” Grunt said over his shoulder, even as the minotaur directed us along a walkway passing parallel to the stadium. “Fight clubs are voluntary.”
My chest tightened. A satyr and a wendingo would be forced to battle. “But they don’t fight to the death, do they?”
Grunt didn’t answer. He just kept walking ahead of me, and I suppose that was all the answer I needed.
I stared out over the stadium as I walked. That was blood down there—a long, six-foot-wide line of it leading from the center to the edge. Something had been dragged from the arena not long ago.
And the smell of this place … it wasn’t like anything I’d smelled before. A bizarre combination of locker-room sweat—except instead of a bunch of sweaty humans, combine the sweat of hundreds of different species of Others—and meat. Decay. Overlaying it all was a sickeningly sweet afterthought fragrance, as though someone in charge had been made aware of the smelliness and attempted to Febreeze the whole place.