A World Apart (Shades Below, #1)

by Oliva, L. J. K.

  A lengthy pause. When the other man spoke again, his voice sounded strained. "Look, forget what you saw. Just for a moment. I don't know what she's told you, but we don't need her help. Please just trust me on that."

  In a flash, she understood. Lena shoved the door open, ignored the crash as it hit the wall and the stunned expressions of MacMillian and his partner. "You." She jammed a finger at the man. "You're the reason all those noncorporeals were here. You're a medium, aren't you?"

  MacMillian's jaw dropped. He turned to the other man. "Darius?"

  Darius shifted, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

  MacMillian threw up his free hand. "Well, this is just fucking-is there anything else you haven't told me?"

  Darius rubbed a hand over the smooth dome of his head. "Look, I don't... it's not like I use it, okay? I don't mess around with any of that hokey bullshit. I'm just a normal guy."

  MacMillian snorted. "Sure. A normal guy who sees dead people."

  Lena stared. "What do you mean, you don't 'use' it? You mean you can see NCPs, you can hear them asking for your help, and you just ignore them?"

  Darius wouldn't meet her gaze. "It's not that simple." Something flickered over his face--regret? Shame? It was gone again almost as soon as it appeared.

  When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard. "But it doesn't matter. We don't need you on this. You're a civilian. You're untrained, and you're untested. Hell," he looked her up and down, "you don't look like you could take on a flea. What are you going to do when a grown-ass man comes at you?"

  Lena ground her teeth. "You do need me. You just don't realize it yet." She strode past them to the office door, paused next to MacMillian. She plucked a business card from the front pocket of her purse, held it scissored between two fingers and waited. After a long moment, he took it.

  She looked up and caught his eye. "Don't judge me by what you see in front of you. Appearances can be deceptive." She continued towards the door, speaking over her shoulder. "For the record, I'm not untrained. And I'm certainly not untested. Come to that address when you're ready to accept my offer."

  She didn't look to see if he agreed. She opened the door, touched hands with a wraithlike old woman lingering outside, and strode down the empty hallway to the elevator.

  ←↑↓→

  He still couldn't believe he'd actually showed up.

  MacMillian eased the Fury up to a rare parch of open curb alongside the long strip of urban greenspace that made up The Panhandle, and yanked the stick into "park". He'd spent a sleepless night in his cramped apartment, drowning the last effects of the tea in whiskey and considering his options. Now he was here, and he still wasn't sure why.

  A loop of the vanishing boy still played in his mind. MacMillian rubbed his face. Ghosts were real, along with god only knew what else. Darius wasn't the man he'd thought he was. Neither were Daniel Zerubabbel and Aloysius Paul.

  How much of what he thought he knew about his life was a lie?

  Powonia Alan's business card sat propped against the dash. He retrieved it and read it again, glanced skeptically out his window. The address was correct, but there had to be some kind of mistake. The address on the card was for a hotel, and the building across the street didn't look like any hotel he'd ever seen.

  If anything, it looked more like a haunted house.

  The supposed Wayfare Hotel took up an entire corner. At four stories, it loomed over its neighbors, and its gloomy colors stuck out from the other houses' like an ink blot. Asymmetrical wings and bays extended in what seemed like every direction. The steep, ominous roofline was a jumble of gables, rounded parapets, and tall brick chimneys.

  MacMillian groaned, grabbed his cane and pushed open the car door. It was official. He really had lost his mind.

  He waited for a break in the steady line of traffic, and trotted across the street. The building was even more imposing up close. He approached the steep front steps. They were wrapped in shadow, despite the relative light of mid-morning. MacMillian tugged his jacket tighter and took them one at a time, alternating his weight between his good leg and his cane.

  The stairs led up to a wide stone landing. To the left, a massive portico wrapped around the side of the house. Directly ahead, a small, aged brass plaque was mounted next to the front door. MacMillian drew closer and squinted at the raised letters.

  THE WAYFARE HOTEL FOR RESTLESS SPIRITS

  MacMillian groaned out loud. He glanced down the portico and mustered his resolve. Then he faced the door again and knocked.

  He wasn't prepared when it immediately flung inward. Powonia Alan's bright blue eyes sparkled up at him. "Excellent! You're just in time." She motioned him in, at the same time called over her shoulder, "See? I told you he'd be here."

  MacMillian stepped cautiously over the threshold, and looked around. The inside of the house was just as intimidating as the outside. The front door opened into a massive reception hall. A multi-tiered chandelier hung from the soaring ceiling. Closed doors lined the walls, and at the far end, a formidable staircase wound upward.

  A man was coming down it, a faded backpack in each hand. He gave MacMillian an appraising look. His eyebrows drew together. "This is him?"

  MacMillian stiffened, and turned to the woman. "Look, Ms. Alan, I—"

  "Call me Lena." All traces of the previous day's ill humor were gone. "'Ms. Alan' makes me sound like a substitute teacher, and 'Powonia' makes me sound like I belong in hospice."

  Lena held up a hand, and the man on the staircase tossed her a backpack. She slung it over one shoulder. "Right, introductions. Mr. MacMillian, this is my brother, Cyrus. Cyrus, this is—" she paused. "I don't know your first name."

  "Jesper. Would you mind telling me just what—"

  "I'm afraid we don't have a kit for you yet. Wasn't time to put one together on such short notice. But you can share mine." Lena motioned him back towards the door.

  "Great. Thanks. But I still don't—"

  "Where are we headed?"

  It took MacMillian a moment to realize Cyrus was addressing the question to him. "What are you talking about? I just got here."

  Cyrus spoke slowly. "I'm guessing you didn't come for a social call. Are you going to help us with Jimmy, or not?"

  "Help you with..." That was another question answered. Insanity definitely ran in the Alan family. "I was already on this case. Seems like you should be helping me."

  Cyrus's jaw flexed. Lena raised both her hands. "Boys. Last I checked, we were all after the same thing here. We all want to find out what happened to Jimmy. Can we set aside semantics and just agree to help each other?"

  Cyrus pursed his lips. MacMillian scowled. "Fine."

  Lena beamed. "Good. Now, Mr. MacMillian, if you would be so kind...?"

  MacMillian sighed. "So kind as to what, exactly? I still don't know what you're expecting me to--"

  "The address, Philip Marlowe." Cyrus hefted his pack onto his shoulder. "You do have Jimmy's address, don't you?"

  MacMillian blinked. "Yeah."

  Cyrus rolled his eyes. "Then let's go. I'm driving. You can give me directions on the way." He rounded the base of the bannister and headed through one of the partially-hidden doors behind it.

  Lena started to follow him. MacMillian reached out and caught her arm. "I must be a little slow. You two were saddled up and ready to go when I got here. How did you know I would even come? How did you know I'd have Jimmy's address?"

  Lena flashed him her second real grin. "Please. Didn't I tell you I know what I'm doing?"

  Soon they were all packed in Cyrus's fog gray '89 Caprice, rocketing towards downtown at speeds even MacMillian considered excessive. He held his cane across his knees and braced an arm against the door. When had this become his life? Jammed in the back seat of someone else's car, off to search for—what?

  A ghost?

  He sneaked a glance at Lena. She had her red trench coat on again, this time over a striped nautical shirt and dark jeans.
MacMillian fought the urge to laugh. Of all the women who had crossed his path, Lena Alan was the last he'd have expected to partner with. She was too young. Too sweet. Too…

  She was looking at him, her clear eyes narrowed, lips turned down at the corners. "You're still doubting me."

  No point denying it. He jerked his head in a nod. "Yes."

  She faced forward again. "Don't."

  A few turns later, they were in the heart of the Tenderloin. Cyrus glanced at Lena in the rearview mirror. "You two okay heading in on your own? I'm going to circle."

  Lena nodded. "Sure. Hand me the packs. Come on up if you find a parking space."

  MacMillian snorted. "Better just keep circling. This part of town, any longer than twenty minutes and your car might not be there when we get back."

  Cyrus nodded. "He's right. Just give me a call when you're done."

  He put his flashers on and double-parked in front of Jimmy's SRO. Lena hopped out. Cyrus handed her the packs through the front passenger's window.

  MacMillian shoved open his door, yanked it back shut as a delivery truck raced past, horn blaring. He could feel Cyrus watching him in the rearview mirror, gritted his teeth and opened the door again. This time he ignored the cars honking, and pushed himself to his feet in the middle of the street.

  He slammed the door with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and walked around to the sidewalk. Lena was waiting, a backpack in each hand. She hesitated as Cyrus drove away. "Do you want me to carry your—"

  MacMillian snatched the second pack from her hand and looped it over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Damascus Hotel sat sandwiched between a smoke shop and a Turkish restaurant. Car exhaust and the rich aroma of cooked meat permeated the surrounding street. People of every race and stripe milled along the sidewalks, going nowhere in particular. All wore the same blank, hardened expressions.

  Lena shifted closer to MacMillian as they approached the narrow doors. Art deco-style bars swirled over the glass. A rag-tag group of young men stood clustered around them. They took one look at MacMillian, and shuffled aside.

  Lena glanced up at him. "Everyone's avoiding you," she murmured.

  Grim satisfaction flashed over his face. "They should. I'm the big bad wolf."

  "So what does that make me?"

  MacMillian looked down at her. His lips twitched. "From where I'm standing, you look an awful lot like Little Red Riding Hood."

  He hauled open one door and waved her inside. Lena pursed her lips against the sudden jump in her heart rate, and stepped into the lobby.

  Inside, The Damascus looked more like a hospital ward than a hotel. The too-harsh scent of industrial cleaning fluid made her eyes water. The lobby was unnervingly bright, the florescent overhead lights accusatory and unflattering. The front desk sat up a bank of carpeted stairs, behind an enclosure of shatter-proof glass. A handwritten sign was fixed to it with tape:

  BY ORDER OF MANAGEMENT, WE ARE UNABLE TO LEND MONEY.

  Another sign was posted just below:

  NO PETS. NO HOT PLATES. NO PERSONAL HEATERS.

  Lena looked back at MacMillian. "Did Jimmy's parents give you a room number?"

  "Yes." He motioned her towards the box elevator in the corner. She gripped the strap of her backpack a little tighter, and started forward.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Lena froze guiltily, then turned in the direction of the voice. A man she hadn't seen before peered out at them from behind the desk. She cleared her throat. "Sorry. We're, ah..."

  "We're visiting a friend." MacMillian stepped around her. "He's been staying here the past few months. We have his room number." A slip of paper materialized from his pocket. He held it up for the desk clerk to see.

  The man squinted at it, then gave a short, sharp nod. "Fine. So long as you're not dealing. Just don't disturb the other residents. Most of them need their quiet. They're... not well. And the elevator is broken." He jerked his chin towards a narrow staircase in the opposite corner of the lobby. "You'll have to take the stairs."

  MacMillian's lips thinned, but all he said was, "That's fine. Thank you."

  The clerk went back to the magazine he'd been reading. MacMillian started towards the staircase. Lena followed, forced herself not to look at his cane. "Which floor is Jimmy on?"

  "The fifth."

  She winced. "Look, if you want to wait here, I can just--"

  He glanced over his shoulder, and the stony expression on his face cut her short. She swallowed hard. "Never mind."

  He stopped, turned and looked her square in the eye. "If we're going to do this, let's get something straight. I'm not a cripple." His lips twisted around the word. "I don't need to be babied, or catered to, or have my hand held, and I sure as hell don't need someone feeling sorry for me. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself."

  Lena's face burned. "I didn't mean—"

  "No one ever does." MacMillian swept a hand towards the staircase. "Now, could we please...?"

  "Of course." Every muscle in her neck had gone rigid, but somehow she managed a nod. She made her way stiffly to the foot of the stairs, and started up. Behind her, MacMillian's footsteps alternated with the clack of his cane in an undulating, three-step rhythm.

  She refused to look back.

  The climb to the fifth floor was steep and unnerving. Lena kept up a quick pace, ignoring MacMillian's labored ascent behind her. She'd never had a problem with enclosed spaces, but in the narrow staircase, she couldn't help but dwell on how they were easy prey for any tripped-out tenant with a bend towards violence.

  She reached the fifth floor landing, dimly surprised to find MacMillian not far behind her. His breathing was slightly ragged, but besides that looked none the worse for the climb. He caught her eye and arched an eyebrow. "Need a minute?"

  Ass. Lena scowled. "No. Thank you."

  He shrugged and reached around her for the door. A brief whiff of spice and leather tickled her nostrils. She resisted the urge to inhale and swept past him.

  The hallway was an institutional shade of beige, except for the garish, argyle-patterned carpet. Unimpressive, uninviting doors lined the walls. Most of them were closed, with faded Do Not Disturb signs dangling from a few knobs.

  Lena stepped aside and let MacMillian take the lead. His limp was a little more pronounced and he was leaning on his cane a bit more heavily than before, but he made no mention of it, so she didn't either. He squinted at the numbers on the doors as he walked. At last, he came to a stop near the end of the hall.

  "This is it."

  Before she could ask how they were going to get inside, he had a key in his hand. He caught her curious look and shrugged. "The parents gave it to me."

  It stuck in the lock. He jimmied it around, and a tumbler clicked. Lena laid a hand over his before he could open the door. "Give me a moment."

  She closed her eyes and tried to retreat into herself. It was harder than usual. She gave herself a little shake, and retreated further. Finally, she found it: the place inside her that was as calm as a placid lake. It was her center, her refuge from the turbulence of the spectral world.

  She breathed deeply and let peace suffuse her muscles, her mind. I am present. I am grounded. I am in control.

  She opened her eyes again. MacMillian was watching her. He closed his hand around the doorknob. "Ready now?"

  Lena opted to ignore the faint sarcasm in his tone. "Yes."

  MacMillian opened the door with a shake of his head and stepped inside. Lena followed.

  An instant rush of cold made her pause in the doorway. MacMillian glanced back over his shoulder. "Problem?"

  "I'm not sure." She wrapped her arms around herself. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If anything, the opposite appeared true. The room was basic, small. The twin bed was neatly made. A stack of clean dishes sat next to the sink, and a row of cereal boxes lined the top of the minifridge.

&
nbsp; She couldn't even say the place gave off bad vibes, because it didn't. Well, not exactly. It was definitely giving off something, but she couldn't nail down what it was, or why it bothered her so much.

  MacMillian stiffened. "Do you feel that?"

  The energy in the room was building steadily. She definitely felt it, but she hadn't expected him to. Could it be he was sensitive, after all? His jacket whipped to the side, and his hand settled over a holster she hadn't seen before. Lena shook her head as little prickles danced over her skin. "Bullets aren't much good against ghosts, Magnum."

  As if on cue, the energy focused, and a small ball of white light appeared over the bed. Lena sneaked a glance at MacMillian. "Do you see that?"

  He paused from scanning the room. "See what?"

  "Never mind." So he was sensitive, but not a medium. Too bad. "Whatever you see or hear, I have this under control."

  "Great." His face darkened. "You sure know how to make a guy feel safe."

  Lena rolled her eyes, then returned her attention to the spirit. "We're not here to hurt you. Would you like to speak with me?"

  She half-expected MacMillian to say something snide. When he didn't, she allowed herself a quick peek at him. His hand still rested on the holster, but he made no move to take out the gun. Could it be he was actually trusting her?

  She didn't have time to dwell on it. The white light shimmered and lengthened until it was the size and shape of a person. It flashed bright, and Lena ducked her head. When she looked up again, a familiar figure was standing next to the bed.

  Her jaw dropped. "Jimmy?"

  Jimmy blinked and looked around. His gaze settled on her, and his brow furrowed. "Lena? What are you doing in my room?" His eyes shot to MacMillian. "And who's he?"

  Lena took a careful step forward. "We came here looking for you." Something in his tone disturbed her. "What do you remember?"

  Jimmy started to shake his head. Then he froze. "Oh, shit, I was supposed to take a look at your stand mixer! Fuck, Tiburcio's going to kill me."