A World Apart (Shades Below, #1)

by Oliva, L. J. K.

  Whatever the reason, she was answering before she could stop herself. "You're a little late. He's dead."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The man blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  Lena shifted. Heat bloomed in her cheeks and spread down her neck. She glanced around, not knowing where to look, but not wanting to see the man's expression. Her gaze drifted to the table in the corner. Georgia had set the calculator down and was staring at her. Lena gave her a subtle shrug. Georgia started to shake her head.

  Lena turned back to the man. "That's right. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. Jimmy passed on."

  The man leaned forward again, and even though the counter was between them, Lena could feel him invading her space. "And how exactly would you know that? His parents don't even know where he is."

  The blood started to pound in her forehead. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

  He shook his head. "No. Not a cop. Answer the question."

  Not a cop, but he'd been in contact with Jimmy's parents and knew where Jimmy worked. None of it sounded good, no matter how she sliced it.

  She planted her feet and squared her jaw. "So you're not a cop. If you think you can just come in here and start pushing me around, think again. I don't know you. I don't even know if you're a friend of Jimmy's. For all I know, you're the reason he's dead."

  God, she hoped not. She could see the headlines now: "Mass Murder Occurs In SOMA-Area Tea Shop. Witnesses Say Shop Owner Provoked Killer."

  Not the kind of publicity she needed.

  The man's face darkened. "Trust me, I haven't even begun to push." His eyes locked with hers. Lena held his gaze, and pressed her lips together.

  Finally, he sighed and took a step back. "Fine. Consider this a show of good faith. Jimmy's parents came to me after they hadn't heard from him for a couple days. I agreed to look into the situation."

  Lena narrowed her eyes. "You agreed to look into it, why? Just out of the goodness of your heart?"

  The man started to scowl, visibly reigned himself back. "I'm a private investigator. They hired me."

  A laugh escaped her before she could muffle it. "You're a PI?" The insulted look on his face almost made her dissolve completely. She fought to regain her composure. "Sorry. You just, that is, you don't really seem like the type."

  He must have heard that a lot, because with a barely discernible flick of his wrist, a business card appeared in his hand. He passed it to her over the counter. "See for yourself."

  "Anyone can print up fake business cards," she muttered, but took it anyway. The cardstock was smooth and basic. She studied the words printed on it.

  MacMillian & deCompostela, LLC.

  Missing Persons, Document Recovery, and Discreet Inquiries

  The Procyon Building, San Francisco, Ste. 333

  Her eyebrows went up. "You work at The Procyon?"

  "I take it you've heard of it."

  "You might say that." She didn't know anyone in the subversive community who hadn't heard of The Procyon Building. Peculiar, however, the PI's lack of a reaction to the name. Either he possessed a remarkable poker face—possible—or he had no idea the significance of where he was working.

  She opted for the latter, which left her with a bigger problem.

  "Maybe we should sit down." Lena forced herself to walk calmly out from behind the counter. The man's eyebrows went up, but he followed as she led the way to a table near the window. His presence behind her made the back of her neck prickle. Was this what a mouse felt like when it was being stalked by a cat?

  She locked her shoulders against the urge to shiver and sat down at the table, gestured to the chair opposite her. The man pulled it out, planted his cane, eased himself down. The movements were so smooth they almost looked natural. If she hadn't already been watching him, she wouldn't have noticed his face tense with concentration.

  Several questions about his injury sprang to mind. She let them all slide, and folded her hands in front of her. "So, which one are you?"

  The man's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

  "On your card, it says 'MacMillian and deCompostela.'" Lena forced herself not to fidget. "So are you MacMillian, or deCompostela?"

  The man's lips twitched. "MacMillian."

  "Right." Lena leaned back. "What's your plan then, Mr. MacMillian? You obviously don't have any leads. Were you just going to cross your fingers and hope you got lucky?"

  MacMillian's lips thinned. "Who said I don't have any leads?"

  "Oh, please." Lena rolled her eyes. "You're still here, aren't you? Clearly you don't have anything better to run down. So?"

  MacMillian tapped a finger against the crooked head of his cane. "First, back to the question you've been avoiding. How do you know Vaspurkan is dead?"

  Lena stared at him. He stared back. She was tempted to lean across the table, grab him by the lapels, and beg him to leave while he still could. Jimmy's tortured expression was still seared on her brain. Whoever had the power to do that to a spirit was more than capable of taking out a disabled private detective.

  Especially when that detective was completely oblivious to the forces he was messing with.

  That settled it. She couldn't let him leave without warning him somehow. A new set of problems presented themselves. She could hardly just come out and tell him everything. She'd tried that before, and while she doubted he'd want to see her again after what she had planned, she at least didn't need him thinking she was crazy.

  She forced a too-bright smile to her face, and stood. "I'll tell you, but only if you'll join me for some tea. I haven't had my afternoon cup yet."

  She retreated to the kitchen without waiting for his answer. His eyes burned into her back the entire way. She burst through the double doors, and heaved a sigh of relief. "Tiburcio! Pop a kettle on for me, would you?"

  She skirted the gleaming metal prep counters, passed between the overflowing racks and stacks of boxes, and headed for the far corner where she kept her private blends. Her fingers danced over the various jars, traced the names scribbled on strips of masking tape: Dream, Métier, Aphrodisia, Bombshell...

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Lena jumped and whirled. She let out a breath. "Jesus. Don't do that, I mean it."

  Georgia crossed her arms and cocked her hip. "Answer the question."

  "I wish people would stop saying that." Lena resumed her task. "I'm giving him White Rabbit."

  "What?" Georgia grabbed her arm and spun her back around. "Are you out of your goddamn mind? He's mundane!"

  "He's going to get himself killed." Lena found the jar she was looking for, and opened the lid. The bitter scent of mugwort wafted out, sweetened by afternotes of cinnamon, bay, and marigold.

  "We are talking about the same big, strong he-man out there, right? Pretty sure he can take care of himself."

  Lena cringed. Of course Georgia probably hadn't noticed the slightly off-kilter way the man moved, and she hadn't told anyone about what happened with Jimmy. "Just trust me. He's up to his eyeballs in subversive batshit. He has no idea what he's dealing with."

  "And you do." Georgia's eyes clouded. "You'd tell me if you were in some kind of trouble, right?"

  Lena leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. "Obviously. Now do me a favor and go distract him. This has to steep a while."

  ←↑↓→

  MacMillian sighed and discreetly checked the clock above the cash register. The woman across from him had been chattering nonstop for the past ten minutes. He'd stopped paying attention after the first five, sneaking periodic glances at the doors the owner had disappeared through.

  If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was hiding from him.

  She hadn't struck him as the type to hide, though. Not from him, not from anybody. The way she'd managed to stare down her nose at him despite the six inches he had on her was a feat even his mother had yet to accomplish.

  So what the hell was she doing?

  He was about t
o get up and investigate when the doors swung open, and she reappeared. A tray was balanced on one hand, in the other she held a flowery china teapot. She made her way back to their table.

  For the first time, MacMillian took stock of his surroundings. He swallowed a grimace. Though not as frill-infested as he'd expected, he was clearly in a place dominated by women. Fresh flowers, white tablecloths, candles, artsy prints on the walls. Thank god Darius wasn't here, or he'd never hear the end of it.

  The second he left, he was going for a beer.

  The owner set the tray down in the middle of the table. "Sorry about the wait. You have to let it steep for a while to get the best flavor."

  MacMillian shrugged. "You're the professional."

  Pink tinged her cheeks, but she only inclined her head and turned to the woman across from him. "Thanks, Georgia. I'll take it from here."

  Just as he'd suspected: she'd sent her friend over to distract him. Georgia stood with a badly disguised sigh of relief. "I'll just, uh, get back to those receipts, then." She cast a quick glance at him, and retreated to a paper-strewn table in the far corner.

  The woman started unloading the tray. "Thank you for this. Tea helps me relax."

  MacMillian eyed the antique-looking cup and saucer she placed in front of him. Lavish yellow roses emblazoned the otherwise plain white china. "I take it this means you're willing to talk to me?"

  The color in her cheeks deepened. She picked up the teapot. "I suppose so. I liked Jimmy. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do."

  MacMillian studied her while she filled his cup. She looked younger up close, with her rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes. Her broad face tapered into a delicately pointed chin, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy bun. A retro apron with a sweetheart neckline and a whimsical teapot print covered her dress.

  If she noticed him watching her, she didn't show it, her full concentration directed towards the task at hand. He had to admit, she was good. She didn't spill so much as a drop. Aromatic steam trailed up from the dark liquid in his cup. He peered into it. "What is this?"

  She filled her own cup, and finally reclaimed her seat. "My own blend. I call it White Rabbit."

  "What's in it?"

  She grinned mischievously and took a sip. "You don't want to know."

  It was the first he'd seen her smile. Something about it caught him square in the solar plexus. He picked up his own cup and gulped down a mouthful.

  The woman's brows drew together. "Easy. It's not cheap tequila. You don't shoot it, you sip it."

  MacMillian sipped it. The initial bitterness made his mouth go dry. The aftertaste, however, was surprisingly pleasant. He sipped again. "So, I believe you were about to answer my question."

  The woman nestled her cup back in its saucer. She looked him dead in the eye. "I saw his ghost."

  MacMillian coughed. Searing hot liquid surged down the wrong pipe. He set his cup down, forced himself not to succumb to a hacking fit while he waited for his spasming throat to relax. Finally, he blinked away the water in his eyes and focused back on the woman's face. "I'm sorry. You what?"

  She sighed. "I was afraid this would be your reaction. Look, you gave me a show of faith, it's only fair I do the same." Her fingertips traced the edge of the saucer. "I'm a medium. I see dead people. I talk to them. Sometimes they talk to me, too."

  She must have read the disbelief in his expression, because she sighed again. "I know how this sounds, but I'm telling the truth. Last night, Jimmy's spirit found me. He said someone murdered him, only he didn't know who."

  MacMillian couldn't think of a thing to say. He absently picked up his cup and took another swig of tea, eyes locked on her face. It was a face that, to look at, didn't appear to belong to a crazy person.

  But she was crazy. Either that or she was a liar, and for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to think that of her. He knew plenty of women who claimed a connection with the spirit world. He'd always assumed they were faking it for money, reading love and prosperity in the palms of desperate gaje. The woman facing him didn't come across as a charlatan.

  Of course, she didn't come across as crazy, either.

  MacMillian rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, you must have a lot on your plate, running your own business. I'm sure all that takes a toll. Especially after a long day, it must be easy to see things that aren't really-"

  "I wasn't hallucinating." Her voice turned icy. "Don't patronize me, Mr. Magnum, P.I."

  "Fine." The word came out harsher than he'd intended. "Then I'll be blunt. Maybe you get some people with this whole Ghost Whisperer routine, but it's not going to work with me."

  The woman didn't answer, merely watched him. MacMillian reeled himself back before he could get lost in her hypnotic eyes. "Whether or not Jimmy's dead, it's still my job to find him. Thank you for your time, but if you'll excuse me, I think we're done here."

  He braced his hands against the seat of his chair, tightened the muscles in his stump and pushed to his feet. The crease near his groin throbbed where his leg had dug into it. He bit back a curse. He shouldn't have stayed seated so long. He planted his cane and straightened with a wince.

  The woman was still watching him. She caught his eye. "Take your time."

  MacMillian bristled. "I'm fine." He hesitated, then nodded down at his empty cup. "Thanks for the tea."

  He thought he heard her murmur, "Don't thank me yet," but he was already on his way out the door.

  ←↑↓→

  MacMillian tossed his cane into the passenger's side of his Plymouth Fury. He lowered himself to the driver's seat, maneuvered the hand controls out of the way and slid around to face front. He paused. Then he slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel.

  Cross Your Teas had been a bust, and its crazy owner was right: he didn't have any other leads. Well, there was the address of the SRO the Vaspurkans had given him, but he doubted he'd find anything there, either. Just more crazy people, and he'd already had his fill of those for the day.

  He folded his prosthesis out of the way, started the car and pulled out into the narrow street. His hand settled into its familiar dance between the hand controls and the stick. He rolled onto Third, and headed up towards Market. His head felt strange, simultaneously light and unbearably heavy.

  His thoughts drifted back to the crazy teashop owner. There had been something weirdly compelling about-what was her name? He wracked his brain. It was something unusual: Pandemonium, Pandora... he'd forgotten almost as soon as she told him. If he was being honest with himself, he'd been distracted.

  It must have been her eyes. They were the bluest blue he'd ever seen.

  Something flashed in the corner of his eye. He jerked his head to look. Nothing. MacMillian shook himself. Probably just a rare patch of sun glinting off someone's side mirror. He returned his attention to the street. The stoplight in front of him turned yellow, then red. He shuffled his hand between the stick and the brake adjustor. The Fury eased to a stop.

  Powonia. That was it. He snorted. Who the hell named their daughter Powonia? Although it would explain a lot if her parents were crazy, too. Maybe it ran in the family.

  Up ahead, the light turned green again. MacMillian started forward.

  Without warning, a boy appeared in front of the car. MacMillian yanked on the brake, and the Fury jerked to a stop. A cacophony of horn blasts sounded behind him. He flipped his middle finger out the window. What the hell did they expect him to do? Didn't they see there was a kid in the middle of the road?

  MacMillian tried to catch his eye. The boy just stared at him, a blank expression on his face. He didn't move. MacMillian sighed as behind him, cars started to peal out into the next lane. "Come on, kid. You're gonna have to move sometime."

  The light turned yellow again, then red. MacMillian groaned. Not that he had anywhere to be, but still...

  The boy took a step back, then another, until he was standing in the middle of the intersection. MacMillian sat
bolt upright. "Wait! Shit, you've got to be kidding me..." He reached for his door handle.

  Before he could get out, a gray Toyota sailed through the light. MacMillian surged forward in his seat. "Look out! There's a kid in the-"

  The Toyota plowed headlong into the boy. But there was no impact. No screams, no blood, no bending metal.

  The boy simply dematerialized in a swirl of white light.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The stoplight turned green again.

  MacMillian didn't move, his eyes frozen on the spot where the boy had... what? What the hell had he just witnessed? A new symphony of honks jolted him back to present. He fumbled with the controls, and started forward again.

  Maybe he'd been seeing things. But even as it crossed his mind, he dismissed the possibility. The boy had been as real as he was, as real as his car, as real as anything he'd ever seen.

  And he'd vanished before his very eyes.

  He almost missed the turn onto Market Street, almost missed the turn onto Kearny too. MacMillian forced himself to breathe normally. He just needed to get back to the office. Regroup. Hell, maybe he'd stop in at Babylon for a drink. There were perks to sharing a building with a nightclub.

  He drove past The Procyon without seeing an available parking space. No great surprise there. He circled the surrounding side streets for another ten minutes before one finally opened up. Of course, it had to be on a hill. MacMillian gritted his teeth and steeled his nerves. Even after five years, parking on a hill using hand controls still gave him heartburn.

  He managed it, though, set the parking brake and curbed his wheels. The tiny, apartment-lined street seemed busy for a weekday afternoon. And what the hell were people wearing? He stared as a man in a top hat and tails cruised up the sidewalk past the Fury. MacMillian shook his head. "Wrong part of town for the opera," he muttered, and snagged his cane from the passenger seat.

  He pushed his door open, narrowly avoiding a man in a cone-shaped bamboo hat and Mandarin-collared tunic. MacMillian shook his head again. Some kind of cultural parade in Chinatown, maybe. He hefted himself out of the car, slammed the door, and went around to the meter, wallet in hand.