City of Souls

by Vicki Pettersson

  His voice was a sweetened drawl, and the “miss” melted me somewhat, so while I removed my hand from his grasp, I was careful not to touch the bar. He smiled his thanks. He was dressed in traditional barman garb, the collar on his white shirt pressed beneath the black vest, his white apron spotless. I didn’t look, but I would have bet that his shit-kickers were polished to a glossy sheen. His hair would have been fashionable in my world if not for the handlebar mustache above his goatee and the generous helping of pomade slicking back the honey-blond strands. Honey blond, I thought grimly, if he hadn’t been living in an achromatic world.

  “My picture?” I demanded, holding out my hand. Meanwhile I sniffed, trying to scent out if he was Light or Shadow, for me or against, but I came up with the mental equivalent of a blank chalkboard, a big void, but even less than both of those things implied, because the molecules I inhaled were empty. I drew back, even warier.

  The bartender shrugged. “All first-timers to the Rest House have their images taken. How ’bout a drink? First one’s on the house.”

  The Rest House? I tilted my head. “And that’s secret agent language for what?”

  “No secret, ma’am.” He jerked his chin, indicating a point over my shoulder, and I turned, ignoring the cluster of people—all men, I now noted—still eavesdropping. One man, dark-skinned even outside the monochromatic room, rose from his seat so slowly it looked like he was floating in space. He pointed to the wall where my image, or eventual one, sat nestled among dozens of others. I took my eyes off it long enough to watch him float back to his seat, wondering exactly how long he’d been drinking.

  I knew from my photography classes that daguerreotype processing took time, and the hot mercury vapor used to develop the images was highly dangerous to the photographer. But there was no photographer, and the image hadn’t been burned beneath a glass plate. It appeared directly onto a molding yellow piece of paper pinned to a giant board.

  One with “Most Wanted” typed in bold across the top.

  “Well,” I said, turning back. “It’s nice to be wanted, right?”

  The bartender smiled amicably. “Everybody has one,” he said consolingly, but I’d already noted that. The entire wall was filled with posters, most with full images and agent names scrawled beneath. Many of the represented agents were at the gaming tables—all wearing, interestingly enough, the same clothing they’d been photographed in—though there were far more posters than players, pinned atop and sideways, some even on the floor. I wondered what had happened to the agents underneath.

  And that’s when I spotted it, pinned to the top left corner of the board, hanging off the side, as if an afterthought. Not an agent, but the faded line drawing of a freckle-faced boy whose image Zane carried around in his wallet. Like many preteen boys, he’d been smiling uncertainly in the photo Zane had shown me. In this one he was screaming.

  Jacks’s missing changeling.

  Not alive. Not healed. And he hadn’t even been given the dignity of his name. All it said beneath the macabre drawing was, Mortal.

  Bill mistook my gasp for one of self-concern.

  “Don’t worry, your full identity isn’t revealed until you enter three times.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, licking my dry lips, pulling my mind away from the changeling. I had to stay focused. New world. New rules. I looked at the musty men scattered around the room like litter. Clearly. “At which point I won’t be able to leave?”

  And kill the rushlight in two tries.

  “You catch on quick.” He smiled, and held out his hand this time. “I’m Bill.”

  “I’m—” I caught myself just in time—caught his calculated look too—but shook his hand anyway. “Pleased to meet you, Bill.”

  Bartenders, no matter how attractive, worked for the house. I shut my mouth and shoved my hands into my pockets, and he shrugged and turned back to his taps. That’s when I caught my reflection in the bar’s foggy back mirror. “Oh my God.”

  It was me. Though reflected in soft focus, there was no mistaking the dark blunt bob ending just below my chin, the athletic rather than amative frame. I glanced back over my shoulder, blinking away unexpected tears, to find my poster also seemed to be taking on my old, my original, my true form. I looked down at the longer, more sinewy muscles in my arms, patted my legs—tighter, my nose—wider…I couldn’t help it, my breasts, smaller. Shoot, it was all I could do to keep from kissing myself.

  “You’re in the Rest House…but also the Tenth House,” Bill explained, careful to stand aside as he slid an opulent glass in front of me. I curled my hand around it, surprised to find myself shaking so much the crystal cut against my smooth fingertips. Bill motioned to a picture pinned next to the bar, like a health inspector’s card, which I recognized as part of a natal chart, the Tenth House and Midheaven centered in its frame. “The house in astrology where deeds reflect your purpose and your true self.”

  That’s why I was seeing myself now. Wiping my brow, I sipped thoughtfully. The room was like a steamless sauna, wicking moisture from my pores, but the drink helped. Its finish was cloying, not the traditional firewater I’d expected, but the aftertaste washed away with the next cooling sip. I took another and studied the rest of the room. “So why is everyone moving so slowly?”

  Bill shot me that affable smile. “Maybe you’re just moving too fast.”

  My movements, natural though they were, did make me stand out. While most of the men had returned to their games, their movements were molasses-slow. Others continued to stare at me, unblinking, and lifting cut crystal glassware to their lips or murmuring to themselves in unending monologues. I could practically track their gazes as they swung my way. Shit, UPS could have tracked them. And one man—black Stetson low, leather vest extended over his giant belly, dark eyes hard on mine—didn’t move at all.

  The piano player might be catatonic, I thought, sipping again, but the rest of the room wasn’t far behind.

  Except for upstairs. I lifted my eyes back to the women lounging against the banister, and as if she’d been anticipating it, the first began making her way down the stairs.

  A world ruled by women.

  And one of those rulers was headed my way.

  10

  Her pace was normal, but calculated. A deeply tanned hand, bejeweled with heavy rings and shimmering red nails, trailed along the carved railing. I’d have described her clothes as old-fashioned, and matching the western decor, except that even to my untrained eye they possessed a modern sensibility.

  Though her jade silk dress had a high neck and button front, it was embellished with a cinched leather sash, to match the black stockings and ankle boots. Her body was liquid beneath the shifting silk skirts, her face heart-shaped below dark hair and curls I’d last seen on Little House on the Prairie. Deep-stained rosebud lips were turned upward in a secret smile, and diamonds as big as my thumbnails sat like flat pancakes at her earlobes. Her gold chain would have been more at home in a rap video than a western flick, with an inverted horseshoe that actually shot sparks of light from its diamond facets, as if tiny disco balls were reeling inside. It seemed she was mocking her own disguise, poking fun at the era while taking part in it.

  She paused at the last stair, a predator’s smile on her budding lips, before jumping to the ground floor, both booted feet landing with a hard thwack. There was a collective inhalation as the room shot to life, suddenly brighter. A black man grinned the biggest, most beautifully blinding smile I’d ever seen, his ashy hue leached away. An Asian guy ran a hand over thick silky hair as he turned his head, thankfully, toward the heavens. The man who’d stared so unblinkingly at me now had his eyes shut in relief, and I didn’t blame him. The air was suddenly alive, like a cooling breeze had swept through the building, and I wasn’t as thirsty as I’d been even a moment earlier.

  The fans directly above us stilled, punctuating the silence, and the woman reached for a gaunt man at the nearest table, her left hand a sinuous ribbon arou
nd his neck as she pulled him from his chair. She pretended not to notice when he shuddered, dragging him along as she advanced upon me. Though I felt color and sensation and life washing off of her in waves, I took advantage of my quicker movements to grasp her left wrist before it fell to my arm.

  I didn’t care how dead sexy and life-affirming she was, nobody touched me without permission.

  The surprised dulcet tones of the women above told me I’d done something unexpected. I decided to keep on doing it.

  “There’s a man,” I said without preamble.

  “There’s always a man.” She smiled. I tightened my hold.

  “This one came from my world.” And killed a child in doing so.

  “I know the lantern.”

  That didn’t make sense to me, but I flagged that information for later too. “I need to find him.”

  Her eyes skirted to the board. “His name?”

  “Jaden Jacks.” I gave it freely. What did I care if they possessed, and used, the name of a Shadow?

  “Don’t know him,” she said, too quickly, snatching her hand away. She held it out. The man rubbed it for her. “Why don’t you ask Mackie?”

  I glanced over at the comatose piano player. Yeah. He looked like he was going to be a big help.

  “And what’s your name again, honey? I didn’t quite catch it the first time.” She leaned toward me, dragging the man with her, though he only blew errant tendrils from his comb-over in a grateful sigh. Her breath was light, like sugar wafers. “Whisper it in my ear and I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Diana,” Bill warned, gaze darting between us as he continued polishing glasses. They were all as elaborate as the one I held, shot through with refracted color now that Diana had gifted us with her presence. Mine was golden with a hint of emerald. As for Bill, Diana’s arrival on the bottom floor had neither enhanced nor diminished him in any way.

  “Shut up, Bill,” the gaunt man said, languishing beneath Diana’s arm. She laughed brightly, the sound accompanied by a fresh wave of breathable sugar.

  “Yes, Bill. Do shut up,” she said, batting lacquered lashes. “I just want to know her name.”

  The rest of the bar was quiet, their interest a tight pressure against my back. Diana’s mouth twitched. I gave her a perfunctory smile. “It’s Olivia.”

  She pushed from the bar so quickly the room seemed to tilt with her. The man stumbled, and I stepped away. Diana studied my poster, my face, and the poster again. No name, I realized. Not even the beginnings of one. I was telling the truth, though not the true truth, so the information wasn’t being recorded on the wall. She took another step backward, and because the vitality in my own breast seemed to recede with her, I had no idea whether I preferred that she stay or go.

  Or what I preferred less, I mused.

  She did go, finally, turning her back amid the groans and pleas of those in the room, the man she’d left next to me looking close to tears. Diana ignored them all. And as soon as one booted heel hit the staircase, the color in the room snapped off like a light. Heat flooded back in. Breathing was instantly laborious. The fans above us started their slow spin once again, and the women giggled behind palms and fringed fans. A heat haze rolled off the red door in invisible waves. What the hell was behind that thing?

  “You could have played along. Bought us time.” I glanced over my shoulder. The giant man wearing the black Stetson had resumed his original position, arms folded over his great belly, eyes indistinguishable beneath the low hat brim. He was sweating profusely, beads rolling down his neck to disappear beneath the vest.

  “Why don’t you offer up your name, then?”

  “I have. Freely. It’s Harlan Tripp.”

  I frowned, and because the name was vaguely familiar, asked, “Do you know Jacks?”

  Tripp scoffed. “Honey, you want information in the Rest House, you gotta play for it.”

  “No,” called a woman from above. She was black, wiry, and tough, and her scent was as heavy and cloying on the air as the drink in my glass. “Don’t waste time with the boys. Come on up here. I promise we won’t bite.”

  “I make no promises,” said a blonde with brows plucked so severely she looked permanently surprised. Spicy this time, with a bitter aftertaste.

  “Leave her alone, girls. She’ll come when she’s ready.”

  This voice was liquid, thick and smooth. A shaft of light split the wall opposite the other women, a door opening enough to allow a single silhouette passage. And this scent, minty rose with a creamy heart, had me nearly lifting to my toes. I tried to inhale more, and glanced around to find every man in the room trying to do the same. Yearning blanketed every face, and most eyes had fallen half shut. The women, though not that far gone, were silent and nodding at one another. The first, smoky-skinned and dark eyes, turned away with a smile. “Yes, she’ll come.”

  Don’t be lulled…don’t be intimidated.

  Easy for Vanessa to say, I thought, swallowing hard. All she had was a thin myth, and a matriarchal legacy and culture, to guide her. I was suddenly face-to-face with that myth…face-to-face with Bill.

  “Can I get a credit limit?” I asked him, pleased when his brows winged in surprise. He’d expected me to follow the voice upstairs. But I needed to find out about Jacks, and the women only seemed interested in playing mental games. At least with poker I knew the rules.

  “Boyd?” Bill glanced at Tripp’s dealer, who inclined his head. I picked up my glass and headed to the table.

  “Do I need to sign for it?” I asked Boyd, taking the seat across from him. He motioned to the wall with my picture on it. So that was how they kept track of their debtors. “Fine. Deal ’em.”

  There were five men at the table, including Boyd, who shuffled cards so worn they’d never have seen a table at Valhalla. An albino with startling black eyes was to his left, while an Asian man, who had yet to look at me, sat between the two of us. To my right was a black man with sideburns that would have made John Shaft, the movie character, proud. Guess I didn’t have to ask how long he’d been there. Tripp sat next to him.

  “So what’ll it be? Three-card monte, brag, faro?” I smiled, referring to the games that were popular way back when the West was originally won.

  Boyd slipped his clay pipe from his lips, though oddly, his answer still flowed from the left side of his mouth. “A simple game of hold’em.”

  “More like strip poker,” the albino said, and the other men chuckled. For a moment I thought they were messing with me, but their looks weren’t lascivious, and everyone was fully clothed. The Asian next to me was the only one who remained unsmiling and serious. His arms were knotted, wiry with muscle as he gripped the edge of the table. “And you only get to ask questions when you win the hand.”

  At my surprised expression, Tripp nodded. “You gotta win to get what you want.”

  “We all want something…or we did,” the albino said. “Once.”

  Boyd began picking at the different chips from his stacked racks, poring over each, which I could see were marked by symbols or words, as he puffed consideringly. The others seemed content to wait, and why not? It didn’t seem they had any place to go. Besides, it was too hot to expend energy in pointless conversation. Like them, I sat back and decided to save it for the game. In fact, everyone other than Tripp was moving so slowly I could probably take a nap between hands.

  “Interesting,” the dealer said, still poring over his chips. “Never seen this one before…though this other’s fairly common…now, I don’t know what to think of that…”

  A dozen chips filled his hands, and everyone watched as he racked and passed them to me. “That should get you started. And might I add,” he said, with the courtesy shown to a player with loads to lose, “welcome to the Rest House.”

  I palmed a chip, wondering what he was so anxious to gain. It didn’t take long to figure it out. As I stilled, gazing at the chips, a chuckle rimmed the table. Now I knew why the albino had said it was
like strip poker. But instead of removing clothing when you lost a hand, you gave up something far more valuable.

  “My powers?” I couldn’t keep my horror from seeping into the question.

  “Only if you lose,” Tripp said, smile widening.

  I swallowed hard and glanced back down at my chips. Everything I’d only begun to get used to having and controlling was represented there. Everything that made me special. Including what made me the Kairos.

  I could start off small, I saw, biting my lower lip, bartering degrees of speed or strength—there were a number of those chips—though it wouldn’t be too many losing hands before I’d have to wager more costly powers. There were chips for each of the five senses, another for the sixth, which I didn’t even know I had.

  What the hell was quintessence, anyway?

  And what did the four triangles represent? I wondered. Two were inverted, and two had horizontal lines near the base.

  There was the ability to erect shielding walls, and another that made living things erupt from the earth. Here was a surprise: I could regenerate?

  Healing, dumbass. That’s what that means.

  And transmogrify? I thought of the way the Tulpa could take on entirely different appearances. That had to be a Shadow strength. Then again, what if my ability to so convincingly take on Olivia’s physical form had more to do with me than Micah’s surgeon’s steel? Did all agents possess that power? Or had I inherited it from the man who’d been imagined into existence?

  I was most surprised to see that emotions were represented on the chips, and that they were considered powers. Simple ones too, like love and hate and passion. The simplest, I realized, and the most valuable.

  “Oh my God,” I said, feeling all eyes on me. “All this time…”

  I looked up, met Tripp’s questioning gaze.

  “I had no idea I was good at math.” I smiled. He scowled, and slumped farther in his seat. Boyd snorted, clay pipe wobbling between his lips.

  My sarcasm—also represented on a chip, and an apparent strength—hid my panic. How had they known all this? I wondered, looking around. Was there some sort of hidden camera?