She nodded. “I’ve got this. You just rest.”
I found myself tipping sideways onto a pillow.
Chapter 30
When I opened my eyes, I was in the bedroom that Sam and I had shared when we were kids.
On previous visits I’d started out very disoriented, but this time I knew I was in the space my brain had created so I could visit my sister, sort of my psychological safe room. Sure enough, Sam was sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching me quietly. This was the adult Sam, as I’d last seen her.
“Sammy?”
“Hey, babe,” she said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“I hurt.”
Sam just nodded. “I know.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because you called for me.” She wrinkled her nose good-naturedly above her grin. “You screamed at me, actually. It was very annoying.”
I felt a corner of my mouth lift despite myself. Sam’s smile had always been infectious. “Pull you away from anything important?”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “You know I can’t tell you that.” I had no idea where people went when they crossed the line between living and dead, and Sam wasn’t allowed to tell me much about it. The one time she’d tried to talk about her death, she’d been blinked away from me.
“I’m sorry about your memories,” Sam offered.
I shook my head, trying to find words. “It’s not the pain,” I said at last. “The memory of physical pain is always terrible, but it’s never as bad as the experience itself.”
“It was watching them die,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “And being helpless.”
I stared at her. “You could see that inside my head?”
She gave me a wry smile. “I just know you, babe.”
I missed her so much right then; it was like a fresh ache in my stomach. Why did she have to die? Then fresh tears overwhelmed me as I remembered what I’d learned in LA. “You were eaten by a werewolf,” I said abruptly.
Sam didn’t look the least bit ruffled. “Yes.”
“I am so sorry, Sammy. But . . . why did you send me to LA?” I asked, giving voice to the question that had haunted me since I’d found out what really happened to my sister. “Why did you think I needed to know?”
“I thought you had the right to know,” she corrected me, her face softening. “The Old World keeps secrets, Allie. That’s what they do. And I was afraid if you didn’t find out the truth for yourself, someone would use it against you later.” She winced. “Granted, I didn’t realize just how badly the trip would go for you.”
I bit my lip. “Was it . . . were you in terrible pain?”
Sam leaned back, considering her answer for a long moment. “I was,” she said finally. We didn’t lie to each other, which was something I loved about my twin. We told it like it was. “It took me a while to die, and pretty much the whole time I knew that I was going to die. I was so angry . . . and so worried about John and Charlie.”
She leaned forward, her hands lifting from her lap, and I could tell she was struggling not to touch me. That wasn’t allowed. “But—and this is gonna sound like I’m blowing smoke up your ass, I know, but I swear it’s true—as I was fading, and lost the energy for rage or worry, I felt this great sense of peace, because I knew with perfect certainty that you would protect them.” Sunlight shone out of her smile. “And I was so right.”
“I feel like I’m hanging on by my fingernails,” I confessed. “Or like the little Dutch boy, trying to hold back the whole dike with one finger.”
Sam shrugged. “Part of that is just what it feels like to love a child,” she said, not unkindly.
“But I have no idea what I’m doing,” I whispered. “And I don’t know how to keep going.”
“Well, that’s part of loving a child too,” she said with a tiny smile, but then gestured at the tattoos that crawled up my arms and to my hands. “Do you know why Anna always said that griffins were your spirit animal?”
I looked down at the designs. Lily had created them, but it was our cousin Anna who’d first suggested the connection. “She just said they symbolized courage and boldness.” I shrugged. “I assume it was her way of saying she believed in me.”
Sam nodded. “That’s true, but first and foremost, griffins were guardians. Protectors of the divine.”
My eyes met hers. “If we’re going for symbolism, wouldn’t a phoenix be more appropriate? You know, with the whole not being able to die thing?”
Sam shook her head hard, suddenly fierce. “No, babe. Boundary magic is what you can do, not who you are. When we were kids, you protected me, and then you protected our country, and now you’re protecting my daughter.”
“Sometimes I think protecting the country was easier,” I grumbled, but I couldn’t hold back a smile.
She smiled back. “Regardless. That’s the person you chose to be.” Sitting back, she waved a hand dismissively. “The rest of this is logistics.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Logistics?”
“Okay, maybe it’s a touch more stressful than logistics,” she allowed, “but you know what I mean. You already know what you need to do, babe. You just have to figure out how to do it.” She cocked her head for a second, like she was listening to something, and then she smiled again. “Maybe he’ll help.”
“Who?”
“I need to go, Allie,” she said in reply. “But listen. There’s one more thing you need to know: not all the werewolves are evil.”
“One of them killed you,” I said, anger rising in my voice. “And I saw what it did to your friend Lizzy. How can you say—”
“Babe, you’re gonna have to trust me on this,” she interrupted. “Setting aside what Henry Remus did, werewolves are just sort of tormented by what they are. Stop seeing them as demons, and start thinking about what they bring to the table.”
“Sammy—”
But of course, she was already gone.
When I opened my eyes, I was curled up in a ball in Sashi Brighton’s darkened hotel room.
I could see sunlight peeking through a crack in the curtain, and I was relieved that I hadn’t slept through the whole day. I stretched out my limbs, which were still remarkably ache-free, at least compared to how stiff they’d been in the morning. I decided that Sashi was worth every penny of her consultant fee.
My legs felt shaky, but I needed to get moving. Rising, I went over to collect my keys and cell phone from the top of the TV stand where I’d stashed them while Sashi was working on me. To my relief, the clock said 10:45—I’d only been out for a few minutes, though it had felt longer. I turned back to clean up my blanket fort—and almost bumped into a man.
“Aaaah!” I reared back just in time. He just stood there in a suit and tie, giving me a placid look. He was short—roughly my height—and appeared to be in his late forties, with pale thinning hair and a surprisingly calm expression. “Who the hell are you?” I screeched.
The man smiled politely and gave a little bow. “Hugh Mark, hotel manager, at your service, miss.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. Mark hadn’t been standing there a moment ago, and I was in between him and the door. That was impossible, unless—
I looked at his suit, but I didn’t know anything about men’s fashion through the decades. “When did you start working here?” I said carefully.
“I became assistant manager in 1912, and took over as hotel manager in 1917. I have been here ever since.” He looked fondly around the old-fashioned room.
I went over to the bed and perched on the edge, feeling completely discombobulated. First the memory dump, then talking to Sam for the first time since my trip to LA, and now a ghost? I was talking to a ghost, in broad daylight. In the middle of someone else’s hotel room.
In broad daylight.
Maven and Sashi had both mentioned that remnants could only be seen at night. But if magic was all stirred up in the area, maybe it was affecting the remnants themselves?
�
��And what year is it now, Mr. Mark?” I asked.
His face clouded over with confusion. “Why, it’s 1934, of course, but . . .” He trailed off as his eyes landed on the television, my clothes, and Sashi’s modern luggage. “I’m sorry, miss, I seem to be a bit muddled at the moment.”
Whoops, I’d pushed him too far. Quinn had said most of them were only an echo of themselves, like a little bit of a recording. It seemed as if he could only answer a few simple questions before deferring back to his “can I help you” default. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Mark,” I said quickly. “I’ve been very pleased with the service here.”
He brightened. “Is there anything else I can do to help you, miss?”
I thought it over. Was there a way this guy could help me? “Can you tell me anything about how I look to you? Do I have the same appearance as the other hotel guests?”
The uncertainty on his face cleared up a little, but doubt lingered around the edges of his features. “Not entirely, miss. If you don’t mind me saying, I’d wager that compared to the rest of our guests, you have a sort of veil about you.” He frowned. “Only, veils usually conceal something. Yours makes you more vibrant.”
I considered that for a moment. So, to the remnants, I looked different from other living people. Interesting.
You know what you need to do . . . you just have to figure out how to do it.
“Mr. Mark,” I said, “would you mind if I shook your hand?”
The remnant seemed surprised, but he gallantly offered his arm. I reached out and tried to take his hand. It took me a couple of tries, because at first my fingers passed right through him. Then I realized I could rest my fingertips on the back of his hand very lightly, sort of like touching the surface tension of water without sticking your hand all the way in. When my fingertips connected, a startled look bloomed on Mark’s face.
“Miss . . .” he said shakily. “What’s happening?” He lifted his head and looked around the room again. “I don’t . . . this is wrong. This is all wrong.”
“Take it easy,” I said gently. “Keep your hand still, please. You died, Mr. Mark. Do you remember that?”
A pause, followed by a reluctant nod. “It was at the breakfast table, here at the hotel,” he whispered. “I’m a specter, aren’t I?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He nodded, anguished. “There are a number of us here in the hotel. We see each other sometimes, but we’re generally so unaware. What has changed?” He looked down at my fingers. “Are you doing this, miss?”
“I think so. Why didn’t you cross over?”
“I . . . I was afraid for the hotel, and for my family. They lived here with me, and I worried about what would happen to them when I was no longer manager. I lingered too long . . . and then it was too late.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mark,” I said, meaning it. “That must be awful.”
“Thank you, miss.” He looked at me hopefully. “Is there—pardon me, miss, but is there anything you can do? Can you send me across?”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. I hadn’t even considered the possibility. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Hold still a minute.”
I closed my eyes, took a breath, and dropped into the mindspace where I could sense life. Humans and witches tended to glow sort of bluish in my mind, and vampires were a dark, rich red. I didn’t know if I’d be able to sense Mark at all, but sure enough, he was there: a silver-gray outline, faded, yet undeniably there.
Using the same techniques I’d experimented on with mice, I tried to pull at his spirit. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and looked into Mark’s eager gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know how to help you.” His face fell. I added, “But I’ll try to find out.”
I pulled my hand back, and instantly Mark gave me a confused look. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Boulderado, miss,” he said pleasantly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Chapter 31
I went back down through the hotel with my eyes trained on the floor, avoiding looking at any of the people in my path. I didn’t want to stop and think about who might be real and who might be a “specter,” as Mark had called himself. I couldn’t help them, at least not yet, and I needed to find Nellie Evans. I could only hope that whatever was stirring up Boulder’s magic would extend to Denver as well, because that meant I wouldn’t have to wait until nightfall to talk to her.
My hands were shaking as I put the keys in the ignition. The memories from the war washed over me again, and I had to spend a few minutes with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, as cars whooshed past me on their way to the Pearl Street district. I felt like my brain was fracturing into different people. I’d gone into the army as Allie Luther, but by halfway through my first deployment I had become a different person: harder, more cynical. I’d been that version of myself for the whole deployment. When I finally returned home from the hospital in Germany, it was obvious that Allie was dead, but less obvious who I was supposed to become next. The old Allie was gone, but the soldier Lex felt betrayed by the army. They’d discharged me—honorably—as soon as it became clear that there was something fishy about my medical situation.
Switching identities between soldier and civilian was never an easy thing. The first few weeks home had been rough: I remembered going into stores and being overwhelmed by the crowds of people and the variety of options for every product. I would go to the park or for a bike ride and find myself terrified of the garbage barrels, the trash on the ground.
It was Sam who’d gone to Target to buy toilet paper for me, Sam who’d held my hand at the mall when I absolutely could not go any longer without buying new clothes. My sister had helped me forge another new identity: still Lex, but tempered with enough Allie to keep me securely connected to the people who loved me.
But Sam was dead. And now I felt split in two again, and there was no one to help me with that. There was nothing to do but sit in my car and wait for the wave of anxiety and panic to recede again. It took a while, but it helped that I was more determined than ever to go see Nellie Evans. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go through all of this for nothing.
Realizing that I hadn’t eaten since a quick drive-thru breakfast hash brown, I stopped at one of Boulder’s many coffee shop/lunch cafés and got a veggie sandwich to go and a coffee. The caffeine probably wasn’t the best idea while I was still a little unsteady, but the cup was warm and comforting in my hand, and having food in my stomach helped the shakes. I stopped at a Target for a few B&E tools, and then followed the navigation app on my phone to Market Street in Denver—specifically the area that used to be the red-light district.
I knew from Quinn’s printouts that a hundred years ago this whole neighborhood had been elaborately divided into sections representing different classes of prostitute: the upscale parlor houses, the more “common” brothels, the specific areas reserved for women of color. Now, however, the entire neighborhood had been taken over by trendy businesses that leeched onto the consumer runoff from nearby Coors Field: pricey taverns, steakhouses, and coffee shops with pretentious fonts on their signs.
Nellie Evans’s old brothel was only two blocks away from the stadium, and it was the very definition of the word “eyesore”—a dingy gray-brick building that seemed to suck the light out of the clubs on either side. The front door was boarded over, and plywood covered both windows in the front. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, I ducked down the narrow alley between the brothel and the club next door. The back alley stank of vomit and urine, which wasn’t surprising given the building’s neighbors. I ignored the club on my right and circled to the back door of Nellie Evans’s building, pulling a hand-sized pry bar out of the Target bag I’d brought from the car. There was a large “Keep Out” sign and several boards nailed unceremoniously across the entrance. Just as unceremoniously, I ripped them off with the pry bar and jimmied the door open.
The back entryway led into a grand foye
r with a long winding staircase that immediately caught the eye, even in the dim light filtering between the boarded windows. This was normally the kind of entrance one saw at the front of a building, but a brothel would emphasize discretion, meaning customers had probably always come in and out the back entrance.
I clicked on the flashlight I’d brought and shone it around the room. In the harsh white beam, I could see how decrepit and worn-down the interior had become. There were spiderwebs everywhere, and the wooden floors and bannister had turned green with mold. The air reeked of decay and dust, and I shuddered as I imagined trying to live in such a place. It wasn’t exactly the Munsters’ house, but it was pretty damn unpleasant.
Suddenly a voice pealed from the balcony, streaming down the grand staircase. “Why, hello!”
Fear sloshing in my stomach, I shifted the light toward the top of the steps, illuminating the figure of a woman. She was in her forties, with a slim waist and an hourglass body, like a 1930s pinup girl. She was dressed like a pinup girl too: I’d expected Victorian clothing, but she wore shorts that barely went past her hips, bright red lipstick, and sky-high heels that strapped around her ankles. Her top was sort of like half a dress shirt, polka-dotted—it tied right under her breasts and ended there. Her stomach was slim but slightly rounded, obviously from a time before women were expected to have abs of steel. Her black hair, just beginning to gray at the temples, was curled in bangs over her forehead and tied up in a high ponytail.
After a moment of posing, she trotted down the stairs, no easy feat in those heels, and rushed down to greet me, pausing a few inches in front of me to look me over. “You’re here,” she exclaimed. “I know what you are. I know you can see me too, so don’t go pretending you can’t.”
“Okay . . .” I said, thrown off by her familiarity. “Um, I’m looking for Nellie Evans.”
She whooped victoriously, displaying rotting teeth in a heart-shaped face that must have been downright pretty before it became so weathered. “Well, that’s me! You found me!” In response to my confused look, she glanced down at her clothes. “Oh, gracious me. You thought I’d look more like a shady lady, didn’t you?” She waved her hand over her body, and her clothes transformed into a Victorian dress with a tight, lower-than-average bodice and an enormous skirt complete with a bustle. It wasn’t like a movie costume or an antique in a museum: There were small stains and fraying at the hems, and a slight darkening under her arms. This outfit wasn’t a fading relic or a prop, it was her everyday clothing, and Nellie looked comfortable in it. Well, as comfortable as anyone could look in a corset.
Boundary Lines (Boundary Magic Book 2) Page 20