A woman was meandering up the hill towards him. MacMillian paused to watch her progress. She looked like she had just stepped out of a Wild West saloon, with long hair piled atop her head, a tightly laced corset, dirty white petticoat, Victorian-looking boots. The upper edges of her nipples crested over the top of the corset with each step.
MacMillian cleared his throat and glanced around. "Pardon me, ma'am, but you're-"
Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were wide. "You can see me?"
MacMillian shifted against his cane. "More than you realize." He kept his eyes resolutely above her neck. "Are you aware that your..." He trailed off.
She cocked her head. "What's wrong?" She winced. "And why does my head hurt?"
"I, ah..." MacMillian cleared his throat again. From the moment the woman started speaking to him, the side of her face had begun steadily flecking away. He stared at what was now a mess of bone, cartilage, blood. Ribbons of skin clung to the shattered remnants of her skull.
What little of her expression he could still make out turned quizzical. She reached for her cheek.
MacMillian stepped forward, hand outstretched. "No! Don't do-"
The woman's fingertips grazed her ruined face. They shimmered on contact. Something that looked like memory flickered in her eyes. She swore. "That bastard! He shot me!"
MacMillian leaned hard against the hood of the Fury. His head felt light. "Who shot you? Maybe you should..." He stopped. Maybe she should what? See a doctor? What could a doctor do for a woman with half a face? He shook himself. First the boy, now this? What the hell was wrong with him?
The woman was losing it. "Damn you, Texas Jack! I knew I should have turned you over to the law when I had the chance. Bet you wasn't even decent enough to bury me proper..."
MacMillian opened his mouth, then shut it again. What was there to say? The woman no longer seemed to be paying attention to him, so he yanked open his wallet and hastily fed the meter. Then he grabbed his cane and headed up the hill as fast as he could, leaving her to rail behind him.
He reached the main street and looked both ways. It was definitely more crowded than usual, but his vision was growing clearer. Transposed over the tourists, shoppers, and restaurant patrons were what appeared to be layers of people. He couldn't quite put a finger on what made them different. For the most part, they were doing the same things as everyone else: crossing the street, hailing cabs that never came, sitting down at cafe tables that didn't exist.
Occasionally, one of them would start shouting, sometimes at the physical people walking by, sometimes at nothing in particular. No one ever seemed to see them, however, and after a few minutes of being ignored, they would lapse back into silence.
MacMillian took off towards The Procyon at as close to a run as he could manage. His leg wasn't built for the frantic pace, and his stump pistoned painfully in the socket. He ignored it.
Finally, the familiar brick building came into view. MacMillian waited anxiously to cross the street. The light turned, and he found himself walking next to a woman in a long white dress. She was carrying a silk parasol, and pushing a tram that looked at least a hundred years old. Inside it, a glassy-eyed baby blinked up at him.
MacMillian tightened his grip on his cane and jerked his gaze forward.
He parted ways with them at the door of The Procyon. Hesitantly, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. The lobby was empty, both of people and... whatever the hell it was he was seeing.
He stepped in and released the breath he'd been holding. Briefly, he considered stepping out again, going around the side of the building to Babylon's entrance. If ever an occasion excused drinking in the middle of the day, this was it. He glanced out the glass doors.
A young man in World War II olive drab fatigues peered back at him. His helmet had what looked like a bullet hole in the front. A trickle of blood ran down the center of his face.
MacMillian turned to face the lobby again and took a deep breath. Then another. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, one that didn't involve him losing his mind. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it might be.
A door opened at the end of the marble foyer, and a man wearing slacks and a pale blue polo stepped out. He paused to smooth a hand over his disheveled brown hair, turned, and caught sight of MacMillian. He tossed his chin and started over. "Hey, man! Thought you were going to stop by the club last night. I told you I'd hook you up with a VIP booth."
MacMillian forced a smile. Thank god for a familiar face. Some of the tension released from his shoulders. "I know, I know. I meant to, but I..." His smile froze.
The man drew closer. "Something wrong?"
Hell yes, something was wrong. MacMillian swallowed hard and stepped back. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just-did you have something done to your teeth?"
"My teeth? No, why?" The man reached up and fingered a canine.
MacMillian stared. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was a wolf's fang he was seeing. He shook himself. Ridiculous.
The man's brow furrowed. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."
MacMillian blew out a breath. "You have no idea." He shook his head. "Probably just stayed up too late last night."
"I keep telling you, come around the club and let us spoil you a little. Seriously, you know what they say about all work and no play." The man winked and grinned, revealing a mouthful of enormous, razor-sharp teeth.
MacMillian leaped back. "Jesus!"
The man's grin morphed into a worried look. "Are you sure you're okay? Why don't you come into the office and let me fix you a drink."
"No! I mean, I'm fine." Grandmother, what big teeth you have. MacMillian edged backwards towards the elevator. "I still have some work to do. I'll just lie down in my office."
The elevator dinged. He turned, squeezed his eyes shut briefly against the headache raging in his temples. He heard the doors slide open, and opened his eyes again.
"Jesus Christ! What the hell?"
MacMillian stumbled back a few steps before he had the presence of mind to plant his cane down. Standing in the elevator was a man. MacMillian knew him well; Aloysius Paul had been his landlord for nearly four years. He looked the same as he always did: longish dark hair smoothed back from his temples, impeccable suit, fashionably mismatched silk tie and pocket square, glossy black wingtips.
There was just one glaring difference.
Black flames leaped and swirled around him, filling the elevator car. MacMillian started to raise his arm over his face, paused, and lowered it again. There was no smoke, no heat to shield against. And Aloysius didn't even seem to realize he was on fire.
He glanced up from the paper he was reading like he hadn't noticed MacMillian's outburst, and inclined his head. "MacMillian." He stepped out into the lobby, still engulfed in flame. MacMillian turned with him. Aloysius nodded to the other man. "Daniel. I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a moment to go over some numbers?"
Daniel nodded, his eyes still glued to MacMillian. "Sure thing."
Aloysius started for the office. Daniel hesitated. The look he shot MacMillian was heavy with concern. "You know, you can still take me up on that drink."
"Ah..." MacMillian worked a finger between his shirt collar and his throat. "Thanks. I think I'll just, you know, go lie down."
Daniel shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned on his heel and headed the same direction Aloysius had gone.
MacMillian took a moment to collect himself, then edged towards the open elevator. He peered inside. No sign of any charring. The walls, the ceiling, the floor all looked normal. He exhaled heavily, held his cane across one of the doors before it could close, and stepped in.
He was hallucinating. That was all. Probably something he'd eaten. It might take a few hours -or a few days-but eventually, whatever it was would work its way out of his system. MacMillian jammed a knuckle to the "three" button. The doors dinged, and started to slide shut.
A
small figure in a bright red coat slipped inside a split second before they closed. Her face was mostly hidden behind a pair of oversized red-frame sunglasses. She looked up at him expectantly.
MacMillian shifted closer to the wall. "Can I help you?"
She sighed loudly and pulled the glasses off. It was the woman from Cross Your Teas-what was her name again? MacMillian gaped. "You."
Something suddenly occurred to him. He took two large steps forward and corralled her in the corner of the elevator. Her eyes bugged. He leaned down until his face was millimeters from hers. "What the fuck did you put in that tea?"
She wriggled. "If you'll back off, I promise I can explain."
"Explain? You drugged me. That seems pretty straightforward."
She sighed again, even louder than before. "White Rabbit is not a drug. It's a clarifier."
"Isn't that what they used to call LSD?" The elevator came to a stop. The doors started to open. MacMillian backed away and shook his head. "Do me a favor. Leave now. Don't come here again."
He stepped into the hallway, then froze. Clustered outside the door to the office was a horde of people, the widest slice of humanity he'd ever seen crammed into one place. There were cowboys, businessmen, soldiers. Native Americans, what looked to be early Chinese, and more than a few women resembling the one from the side street.
The woman stepped out of the elevator behind him. She hissed. "Jesus. Is it always like this here?"
MacMillian stared down at her. "What are you-you can see them?"
She rolled her eyes. "Well, obviously. I'm a medium, remember?" She started down the hallway, paused, and glanced over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"
MacMillian hung back. She shrugged. "Suit yourself."
She walked up to the edge of the crowd and cleared her throat. "Okay, someone want to tell me what you're all doing here?"
Multiple heads swung towards her. An elderly man in a suit that would have been the height of fashion in the late eighteen-hundreds stepped forward. MacMillian strained his ears, but he couldn't hear what the man said. The woman listened closely, made a curious sound in the back of her throat and turned back to him. "He says there's a medium here. Are you sure you're not sensitive?"
He was feeling rather sensitive, but he shook his head. "I don't even know what that means."
The woman humphed. "That's what I thought." She turned back to the man. "So you're all here to be moved on?"
The man nodded.
Her shoulders relaxed. She reached out and took the man's hand in hers. His eyes widened, then a peaceful look came over his face. His lips turned up. White light appeared in the center of his chest, expanded outward until his entire body glowed. With what looked like a sigh of relief, he evaporated.
MacMillian's jaw dropped.
The woman moved slowly through the crowd. Hand after hand reached out for her. She took each one, held on until its owner flashed white and disappeared. By the time she reached the office door, the hallway was empty. She leaned back hard against the wall and closed her eyes.
MacMillian didn't remember moving, but somehow he was standing in front of her. He closed his free hand around her arm and towed her inside, not stopping until they reached his office.
He slammed the door. "What the... what was..." He dragged a sleeve across his brow. It was drenched in sweat, but his skin felt freezing.
The woman watched him, her eyes sympathetic. "Rough day, Magnum?"
He glared.
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "That, my dear detective, was the other San Francisco. You've probably seen it before, just out of the corner of your eye. You've probably dismissed it all your life. Maybe you always told yourself you'd just had too much to drink." She paused, her gaze heavy on his face. MacMillian squirmed. "But I'm guessing you always knew better."
His head was throbbing. He shook it once, twice, but it didn't clear. "I don't get it, Miss..."
"Alan," she supplied.
He nodded. "Ms. Alan. Why are you here?"
Her eyes darkened. "Because there are things that go bump in the night, Mr. MacMillian. It's my job to bump back."
He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. The woman started to pace. "I'm sorry I couldn't break this to you more gently, but you needed to understand what you're dealing with. The way you were going about things, you'd have ended up dead without ever knowing what killed you."
MacMillian massaged the sore spot between his eyes. "Don't you mean 'who'?"
She stopped pacing. "Pardon?"
"'Who' killed me?"
She shook her head. "No. A 'who' implies it would be human."
Now he started to pace. None of this was happening. That was the only possible explanation. He'd never gone to Cross Your Teas. He'd never even walked outside that morning. He'd had too much to drink, passed out at the office, and the woman in front of him- "What did you say your name was?"
"Powonia Alan."
Right. Powonia Alan was nothing more than another hallucination.
He looked her up and down. Not bad, as far as hallucinations went. He must have imagined her and the tea shop both. Maybe his subconscious had a thing for small business owners with big blue eyes and a trench coat fetish. His lips twitched.
"Something wrong, Mr. MacMillian?"
MacMillian stopped pacing and studied her. Had it really been so long since he'd been out with a woman? Clearly it had, if his brain was resorting to this. Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe his steady schedule of all work and no play had finally pushed him over the edge.
Powonia Alan was still watching him. MacMillian studied her, closer this time. He'd already noted her impossibly blue eyes, but the rest of her wasn't bad either. Compact, well-proportioned figure. Thick, reddish-brown hair. And her rosy, bow-shaped lips looked more inviting than he remembered.
MacMillian took a step forward, and caught the faintest whiff of her intoxicating scent. She even smelled the same as his earlier hallucination: earth and spice, and something just a little bit sweet. He leaned in and sniffed.
She recoiled. "What the hell are you doing?"
He'd never had a hallucination back-sass him before. It was... stimulating. It occurred to him he shouldn't be enjoying what was likely the symptom of a serious medical condition, but after the way his day had gone -or hadn't gone-he didn't care anymore. He took another step forward and savored her reaction, the way her eyes widened and her nostrils flared.
The hell with it. As long as he was hallucinating, he might as well make the most of it. He reached out and touched one of the auburn curls framing her face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lena couldn't breathe.
The detective was far from the preppy, sweater-and-elbow-patch type she was accustomed to dealing with. She was used to being courted. Flattered. MacMillian didn't flatter her. He planted himself squarely in her space.
A tiny, insolent part of her didn't mind.
She narrowed her eyes at him anyway. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, forget it."
He yanked his hand back with a hiss. His eyes landed on hers, sharp and accusing. "You're real, aren't you?"
Lena choked. "Are you serious?"
MacMillian muttered a curse and jerked his head like he was trying to clear it. "You really did drug me."
Lena ignored the indignation that swelled briefly in her chest, retreated a few steps and crossed her arms. "Let's get something straight. You're on my turf now."
MacMillian raised an eyebrow.
She pretended not to notice. "Jimmy came to me, which makes finding out what happened to him my responsibility. If you keep screwing around in matters you don't understand, you're going to get hurt. So either stick close and play by my rules, or stay the hell out of the way."
His already dark eyes darkened even further. Lena held her breath. Ultimatums weren't normally her style, and she didn't have a backup plan if he refused. Initial shock notwithstanding, he was taking things remarkably
well. He wouldn't actually try to go it alone, would he?
He shook his head slowly. "I don't believe in monsters, Miss Alan."
Lena scowled. "Then you're stupider than I thought."
A cough sounded from the corner of the room. Lena turned, and gulped. In the far corner of the room was a door she hadn't noticed before. It had opened without a sound, and a man was standing in front of it, arms crossed. Lena mentally backtracked. Not a man; a giant. And he wasn't standing in the doorway, he was filling it.
His hard black eyes skated over her, his face devoid of expression. Lena forced herself not to shrink, and studied him back.
Where MacMillian's look was ruggedly functional, this man clearly dressed to make an impression. There was the gray suit, polished and sophisticated against his deep chocolate complexion. There was the pale lilac dress shirt, the silk tie and pocket square in complementary shades of purple. Tiny diamond studs twinkled in his ears. Black tattoos peeked above his collar and below his cuffs.
He caught MacMillian's eye and started across the office, jerked his head for him to follow. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
The two of them retreated back into the reception room. The man flashed Lena one last indecipherable look, and pulled the door closed behind them. Lena rolled her eyes. Didn't he realize the office walls were the caliper of tissue paper? She edged closer to the door. Sure enough, she could hear their conversation clearly.
"Tell me you're not seriously considering bringing this woman onto a job."
A pause, then MacMillian's low voice. "You don't understand. Ever since I left that tea shop-Jesus, the things I've seen today..."
"What the hell kind of number has she done on your head? We've always done fine on our own. This is no different. I think we can handle one measly trace, don't you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." MacMillian blew out an audible breath. "You know what I saw? Dead people. I saw fucking dead people today, Darius. Not to mention in the lobby, Zerubabbel and Paul... well. Let's just say I'm a little out of my element."
A World Apart (Shades Below, #1) Page 4