A World Apart (Shades Below, #1)

by Oliva, L. J. K.

  Finally, King Papa turned to the shelf. "I may have something like that." His fingers danced over the myriad strangely labeled jars and decanters. He finally stopped at a small plastic bottle, plucked it up and turned back to MacMillian. "Van Van oil. Ever heard of it?"

  MacMillian shook his head.

  "It's an old conjure recipe, good against just about everything but demons." King Papa paused. "You don't got a demon problem, do you?"

  MacMillian stared at him.

  The other man shrugged. "Always pays to check. Here." He passed MacMillian the bottle. "You find yourself jammed up, anoint yourself and anyone with you on the forehead. Just a drop'll do. There's more to it, but I think the starter version's about all you're ready for. You decide you want to level up, just ask Darius."

  MacMillian took the bottle and studied the pale golden fluid inside. "And this will really work?"

  King Papa frowned. "Course it will, though you keep harboring that seed of doubt in your mind, it won't work as well. Conjure's just like any other magic, draws its strength from the spirit and conviction of the worker."

  MacMillian sighed. "Great."

  "Didn't say you have to like it. Just that you need to have faith." King Papa's eyes were fixed on Darius. "Funny thing about faith. It's not about quantity. Even faith the size of a mustard seed is enough to work miracles."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was early when MacMillian left for The Wayfare the next morning.

  The street out front was already clogged with traffic. It was a good ten minutes before he finally found parking on the opposite side of The Panhandle. MacMillian cut through the narrow park on foot as quickly as he could, avoiding eye contact with both dogwalkers and the indigenous homeless alike.

  He put more weight on his cane than usual. His stump had been red when he woke up, and already he could feel his gait skewing more and more towards a limp. He kept his other hand in his pocket, a meager defense against the chill of the morning fog.

  With each step, his fingers brushed the tiny bottle of Van Van oil. He still wasn't sure how he felt about it. He had always assumed hoodoo was something for people with strange accents and missing teeth. Even so, he'd almost dabbed a drop of the oil on his forehead before leaving his apartment. At the last minute, he'd lost his nerve.

  He jog-hopped across the street and mounted The Wayfare's foreboding front steps. Before he could lose his nerve about that, too, he strode up to the door and knocked.

  Cyrus opened it. His hair was slightly tousled, and he held a dark blue mug in his hand. Seeing MacMillian, his eyebrows went up. "You're here early. Wasn't sure we'd be seeing you again."

  MacMillian shifted his weight off his prosthetic and shrugged. "Neither was I."

  When he didn't say anything else, Cyrus stepped back and jerked his head in a come-on-in gesture. "Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. How do you take it?"

  MacMillian paused halfway over the threshold, swung through and stepped into the front hall. "Tan. Thanks."

  Cyrus was already heading for the door at the base of the stairs. He called over his shoulder, "Go ahead into the library. Lena's already in there."

  MacMillian stared at his retreating back. Wasn't it just the other day the man had been treating him like a liability? The sudden shift in attitude threw him off balance. He shook himself, then headed for the library door.

  Lena was curled up under the bay window on the far side of the room, on a bench he hadn't noticed before. Both her hands were wrapped around a steaming blue mug identical to the one Cyrus had been holding. Her loose hair formed an auburn curtain around her face.

  MacMillian cleared his throat and rapped his cane against the doorframe. Lena's head jerked in his direction. Her welcoming smile lacked its usual vibrant energy. "Hey."

  MacMillian stepped the rest of the way into the room. "Hey. How do you feel?"

  The noise she made was half-chuckle, half-growl. "Cyrus asked me the same thing. I'm fine. Really."

  MacMillian continued towards her. She didn't look fine. Deep shadows ringed her eyes, and her skin had the sallow tinge a lack of sleep bestowed. He took in her slumped posture, and furrowed his brow. "Maybe you should take it easy for a couple days."

  "I told you, I'm fine."

  "You're exhausted." He stopped a few feet from her and planted his cane. "You need to rest."

  "So now you're my mother all of a sudden?"

  The sharpness in her voice made one of his eyebrows go up. Lena winced. "Sorry. I just... you're right. I'm still a little peaked from yesterday."

  Something on her face made him suspect that was only part of the story, but before he could ask, Cyrus strode into the library, a blue mug in each hand. He gestured towards the table. "Have a seat. We ran out of cream. Hope black's okay."

  "Black's fine." MacMillian aimed one last look at Lena, then backtracked to the table.

  Cyrus slid him a mug. He waited until Lena joined them, then turned to her. "Okay. Tell the detective what you told me."

  MacMillian paused, the mug halfway to his lips. "What is it?"

  "It's about Val." Lena sighed and leaned hard against the table. "She might have been right about those other ghosts."

  MacMillian didn't speak.

  Lena's eyes flicked to his face. "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Aren't you going to tell me sometimes crazy people are just crazy?"

  MacMillian brought the mug the rest of the way to his lips and took a sip of coffee. "She bought herself the benefit of a doubt when she led us to the girlfriend. What makes you think she was right?"

  Lena rubbed her face. "When I got jumped, it wasn't just... one."

  MacMillian thought back to what Georgia had called the spirits: Legion. He tightened his jaw. "How many?"

  Lena sighed. "I couldn't say for sure. It was too chaotic. Twelve? Maybe more?" She looked up. He couldn't tell what she saw on his face, but the tightness around her lips eased. "They didn't hurt me. At least, I don't think they were trying to. And they didn't feel angry. More like scared."

  MacMillian glanced at Cyrus. "What do you make of all this?"

  Cyrus's mouth worked. "I don't like it."

  Lena nodded. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost say they were trying to escape. Once they realized I was a medium, they tried to ride me out." She shuddered. "They disappeared as soon as Georgia banished them. Cyrus looked everywhere. I wonder if they went back to... to..."

  Cyrus set his mug on the table, his eyes hard. "All the incidents we've investigated, I've never seen anything like this. Just what the hell are we dealing with?"

  Lena shook her head.

  MacMillian rubbed the crook of his cane with one finger. "Maybe that's our problem." They both looked at him. He shrugged. "From the beginning, we've been treating this like one of your investigations. Maybe it's time we treated it like one of mine."

  Cyrus picked up his mug again with a growl. "If you're about to make another Occam's Razor reference—"

  Lena silenced him with a glare, then turned back to MacMillian, eyebrows raised. "What did you have in mind?"

  MacMillian drained the rest of his coffee and set down his mug. "Get your coat."

  ←↑↓→

  "Cyrus isn't going to like being stuck on library-duty."

  Lena tried to ignore the wail of sirens as she followed MacMillian up the steps of the Hall of Justice. An odd assortment of people milled around the spartan concrete compound: stringy-haired transients, hard-eyed cholos in white t-shirts and Vans sneakers, average-looking urbanites clutching traffic tickets and jury summonses. The smattering of uniformed officers didn't make her feel much better.

  MacMillian made an indifferent noise in the back of his throat. "We need leads more than we need backup right now. He'll get over it."

  Something else was nagging at her. "Not to be obvious, but shouldn't we head back to the extraction shaft? Whatever was behind that door—"

  "I already tried." His voice w
as hard. "They're not letting anyone down there after what happened to you."

  "What about Durbin? Couldn't you call...?"

  MacMillian pressed his lips together. "Already tried that, too."

  They reached the doors at the top of the stairs, and he paused. Lena waited. She'd noticed his limp the second he walked into the library, and it had only gotten more pronounced during the long trek from their parking spot. She cleared her throat. "How's your, um..." She took in his expression, and shook her head. "Never mind."

  He opened the door and motioned her inside first. "My what? My stump?"

  Lena glued her eyes to one of the art deco-style reliefs on the wall. "Sorry."

  MacMillian didn't answer. She glanced at him again. He was watching her, an inscrutable look in his eyes. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's fine. My stump, I mean. The skin just flares up in the socket sometimes."

  "You're limping." Lena lowered her voice. "Does it... hurt?"

  He gave a single clipped nod. "Yes."

  He didn't offer any more information, merely took a position in the line for the metal detectors. Lena followed. They didn't speak again until they neared the security check. MacMillian turned to her. "Some advice: just empty your pockets. Cell, keys, loose change. Down to the drier lint."

  Lena nodded.

  She went first, and walked through without a hitch. MacMillian was behind her. The instant he stepped through the machine, a harsh buzzer went off.

  An officer stepped forward. "Sir, I'll need you to come this way."

  MacMillian let out a frustrated growl, but before he could move, a familiar voice echoed through the security area. "It's all right, officer."

  Lena turned to see Durbin striding towards them. His face brightened when he saw her. "Lena. My morning's finally starting to look up." He nodded to the security officer. "This man and I have an appointment. I can vouch for him."

  The officer inclined her head and returned to her position. "All yours, sir."

  MacMillian's lips thinned, but he didn't speak. Lena gathered her belongings. Durbin waited until she had situated herself again, then motioned for them to follow him.

  He led the way deeper into the building, down a long, nondescript hallway. The echo of MacMillian's cane seemed louder than usual in the narrow space. Numbered doors lined both sides, each tagged with a different nameplate: Vice Unit, Gang Task Force, Special Investigations Section.

  Durbin stopped at a door labeled Homicide Detail, and turned to them. "Okay, wait here. I'll just be a minute." He pulled it open and disappeared inside.

  Lena looked up at MacMillian. "You still haven't told me why we're here. What was that all about?"

  MacMillian flexed his hand on the crook of his cane and didn't return her gaze. "Just a hunch. I asked Durbin to pull a few files to see if I'm right."

  "A hunch? About what?"

  MacMillian hesitated before answering. "What you said about Val got me thinking. If she really was right, if more people have disappeared from The Damascus, I want to have solid evidence of it."

  Lena swallowed against the sudden burn in her chest. "Because my word isn't enough for you."

  "Because I want something that will hold up in court." MacMillian finally met her eyes. "When we catch the crazy son of a bitch responsible for all this, I want him spending the rest of his life in a very cold, very dark hole."

  Lena nodded slowly. "And my testimony wouldn't guarantee that."

  MacMillian shrugged. "No one testimony would, even if it didn't involve ghost possession and speaking to the dead." He paused. "Pretty sure that would count as hearsay, anyway."

  Lena stared at him. He didn't blink, but the edges of his lips twitched. She smacked his arm. "You're teasing me!"

  She caught the twinkle in his eye just before he looked away.

  The door opened before she could say anything else. Durbin stepped back into the hallway, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He glanced both ways, then passed it to MacMillian. "This is all of them, at least, all the ones I could get without attracting attention." He glanced at Lena, and lowered his voice. "Are you going to tell me just what this is for?"

  MacMillian opened the folder a crack and thumbed through the papers inside without looking up. "I don't know what you're talking about." He shut the folder again. "One more thing. I need background checks on everyone who's worked on the Downtown Subway project."

  Durbin balked. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

  MacMillian didn't budge. "Something's going on in that tunnel. It's impossible to get onto the job site without clearance. Ergo, find out who has clearance, and check them out."

  Durbin pressed his lips together. A tic started in his jaw. "I'm not your fucking secretary."

  "No. You're just the reason I can't get back into that extraction shaft."

  Durbin glared at him. MacMillian glared back. Lena glanced from one of them to the other, and shifted uncomfortably.

  Finally, Durbin gave a stiff nod. "Fine. Check back with me in a few days. I'll have your background checks."

  MacMillian tucked the folder under his arm. "Great. Now if you'll excuse us, we should get going."

  Durbin scowled, but nodded again. "You'll keep me posted."

  "You know I'll inform you if—"

  "No." Durbin's voice grew hard. "No if's. I'm putting my ass on the line with this one, MacMillian. I might owe you, but I don't owe you my job. You'll keep me posted, or I'll be taking that folder back."

  MacMillian's face darkened. Lena held her breath. Finally, he gave a single, sharp jerk of his head. "Fine. I'll keep you posted." He started down the hallway, paused and looked back at her. "You coming?"

  She nodded, all too aware of Durbin's eyes on her face. "Yeah, just give me a second. I'll meet you out front."

  MacMillian's lips thinned, but he only turned and headed back the way they'd come. Lena watched him for a moment, then turned back to Durbin.

  He slid his hands in his pockets. "Hi."

  A blush stained her cheeks. "Hi."

  "I'll be honest, I was tempted to turn our good detective down when he called me." A smile tugged at his lips. "Glad I didn't."

  Lena blew out a laugh. "Yeah. Me too." She looked around, searched for something else to say. "You told me my house was on your way back here."

  Durbin shrugged. "I lied."

  "Why?"

  "Because if I hadn't driven you home, I wouldn't have known where to find you." He leaned against the wall and studied her face.

  Lena reminded herself to breathe. "You want to find me?" Her voice came out unusually high-pitched.

  If Durbin noticed, he didn't mention it. "Of course. How else would I pick you up for drinks later?"

  She tried to think of a response. There didn't seem to be a word left in her head.

  "Is that wrong?" The corners of his mouth turned down. "I hope I haven't overstepped. I just thought—"

  "No!" Lena took a deep breath and tried again. "No, not at all. A drink would be nice."

  Durbin arched an eyebrow. "Nice?"

  "Really nice." Lena bit the inside of her cheek. What the hell was wrong with her? "Fun. I'm sorry. It's been a long couple of days." She massaged her forehead.

  Durbin's brows drew together. "Of course. I should have thought..."

  "No, no, it's fine. I'm glad you asked." She managed a smile. "Well, sort of asked."

  "Right." He winced theatrically. "Why don't we make it eight? Maybe that'll give me enough time to have my foot removed from my mouth."

  Lena laughed. Giddy lightness flooded her belly. She ducked her head. "Eight sounds perfect."

  A slow grin spread across his face. He straightened. Lena held her breath as he leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek. He stepped back again. The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips.

  Her stomach flipped.

  A mischievous light danced in his eyes. "Better get going, before MacMillian decides to come looking for you."
r />   MacMillian. The case. Lena shook herself. "Of course. Guess I'll see you at eight, then."

  "Guess so." Durbin winked. "Wear a dress."

  Lena snorted. Somehow, she made it back down the hallway without missing a step.

  ←↑↓→

  The street scene in front of The Damascus was every bit as raw and disturbing as she remembered.

  Lena kept her eyes locked forward and slightly down, on high alert for any foul-smelling waste on the sidewalk. The back of her neck prickled under the weight of multiple stares. She pretended not to hear the myriad grunts and moans and muffled curses that filtered up the alleys, deliberately ignored the used syringes that littered the doorways and gutters.

  MacMillian stuck closer than usual. With each step, his free hand dusted her arm. It was a blatant mark of possession, a message for the countless hard-eyed figures watching from the shade of the surrounding buildings.

  She was agonizingly grateful for it.

  They finally reached the familiar art deco doors. MacMillian pulled one open for her, waited until she was safely inside before stepping in behind her. The lobby was mercifully deserted. A new face was visible behind the glass-enclosed desk, a young Indian man who scarcely looked old enough to drink.

  He looked up the instant the door opened, then looked back down at the paper he'd been reading. "No vacancies."

  MacMillian led the way up the bank of stairs to the desk. "Not here for a room."

  The young man's head shot back up, his eyes wide. "If you're here to rob me, this glass is bulletproof." He started to reach below the counter.

  "Wait!" MacMillian held up both hands. "No silent alarms, please. We're not here to rob you. Actually, we need your help."

  "What kind of help?" The man's eyes narrowed. "I'm not a dealer."

  MacMillian glowered, and the man's hand drifted back under the counter. Lena made her face as friendly and open as she could, and stepped forward.

  "My friend meant to say we're looking into some disappearances that may have occurred here." She turned to MacMillian and held out her hand. He passed over the manila folder with a dark look.