City Of Souls

To Susan Agassi-Hughes-because true

friends are family, too.

Hanging out in the perfumed, puke-inducing dressing room of an overpriced boutique was hardly my idea of a good time, but right now it was the only place I could get a moment to myself. Olivia Archer—debutante, casino heiress, and lingerie expert—had been my much beloved sister, and while I still mourned her passing everyday,
being
her was more involved than I’d ever expected. There were benefits to attend, bachelors to date…silk negligees to be purchased. And tonight there was a bachelorette party for one of her BFFs. More than two hundred women flitted around at what had mushroomed into one of the social events of the year. That was why I had to escape behind a pink velvet-covered stall door just to send a text message. Though this wasn’t just any text message.

Where the hell are you?

There. Cryptic enough that if intercepted no one would know it was a text sent from one superhero to another. Imploring enough that Vanessa would find me as soon as possible. She knew these über-feminine social events made me twitchy.

As if on cue, the door to the dressing room was flung open wide, banging against the opposite side to rattle the wall mirrors. “...I mean, she can’t just get married like everyone else, can she?”

“Please. That woman lives for attention.”

I came to attention too, because I knew those voices. Lena Carradine and Madeleine Cross, two of society’s finest.

And they were talking about one of
my
mortals, I thought, narrowing my eyes to peek through a crack in my dressing stall.

“No, first she has to celebrate for an entire week here,” Lena said, flipping back a lock of her auburn hair. Extensions, I sneered, getting a good glimpse of the false locks and mentally patting my own back. Six months ago I never would’ve spotted the bonding glue. “Spend more money than has ever been spent on a Las Vegas wedding—”

“Well, it’s not
her
money, is it?”

My phone vibrated in my hand. I looked down.

where R U

I frowned. Vanessa Valen knew exactly where I was. She was supposed to be with me. And what was with the truncated text? Her work as a reporter might just be a cover, but it’d been chosen precisely because she had the grammar bug. She hated sloppy texts.

Just hurry
. I wrote back.
I can’t do this by myself
.

I tucked the phone back in my Dior and smiled wryly. As an agent of Light, I could have just as easily been talking about our enemy Shadow agents, paranormal beings who fed off negative energy, manipulating the mortal population in order to stir up dissension and chaos. Or I could have been referencing a recent training session with the rest of our troop, a matriarchal corps based on the signs of the Zodiac. But no, I meant enduring a whole evening surrounded by society women whose verbal sniping made supernatural battles look like sandbox swipes. As if on cue, Madeleine joined in.

“And then fly off for another weeklong Indian celebration. I mean, where is Hindu, anyway?”

“It’s where the guy in your iPhone lives.”

I’d only taken over my deceased sister’s identity, life, and lifestyle a year ago, but I’d already met Lena and Madeleine. Saying they were self-absorbed and vain was like saying Madonna craved attention. It was a hunger without end.

And now they were devouring one of their own. “And talk about tacky. I mean, are we in her native Texas with all these gourmet barbecue sauce party favors?”

Okay, so she had a point there. The hot sauce didn’t exactly fit with the boudoir theme.

“Or some third world country with their barbaric beauty customs?”

Lena was referring to the henna that had been painstakingly applied to our hands the day before, intricate whorls, dots, and swoops that had turned our bodies into eastern art. Mine had been a beautiful mandala, often depicted in sand paintings by Buddhist monks. I’d chosen it because it symbolized the cosmos that—as a member of Zodiac troop 175, paranormal division, Las Vegas—had recently become a very important part of my life. Yet the drawing had washed off in the shower without leaving the faintest trace of red dye. The woman of the hour, Suzanne, had been devastated.

“Or just Vegas, with that gawdy neon runway and oversized disco ball?”

Wait, wait. Texas and India were one matter. But pick on my hometown? Now I’d had enough. Besides, what normal person didn’t like disco balls?

Kicking open the door of the dressing room stall, I had the satisfaction of seeing them both gasp and whirl, hands to chests and mouths. Sure, it was an entrance more befitting Joanna Archer than her perfect socialite sister, Olivia, but I was trying to make a point…and, again, I was both.

“You’re forgetting something ladies,” I said, slipping in front of the beveled three-way mirror. I patted the back of my long blond hair. “She’s marrying an Indian prince.”

Madeleine could only respond by lifting her chin. Her face had been long frozen into a permanent expression of surprise. Botulism was so unpredictable. “So what’s next? A friggin’ tepee and a sweat lodge?”

“
Indian
, sweetie,” I emphasized, pointing to the middle of my forehead. “Dot, not feather.”

“Yes, and one of the most esteemed businessmen of our generation.” The words flowed more smoothly than the silk pooling at Suzanne’s feet as she glided in from the festivities. The notes of Chopin were muted by the shutting of the door as she shot a conspiratorial wink my way. “How I snagged him, I’ll never know.”

I smiled at the well-timed entrance.

I
knew how. I’d sent Suzanne and Cher on a trip to Fiji the month before to remove them from the direct line of fire of supernatural enemies who’d see them dead just to get to me. True to form, Suzanne had returned engaged to a high-profile textiles magnate so wealthy he made every casino tycoon in town look like a pauper. Including Olivia’s father—and the man I’d once thought was mine, too—Xavier Archer.

Of course, the big news on the gossip circuit was the question Suzanne had just voiced. How had a forty-something-year-old widow enticed a younger, infamous bachelor with homes in Bombay and London, a chalet in the south of France, and romantic liaisons on every continent, into suddenly becoming the marrying kind? The announcement of their million-dollar wedding hadn’t only made headlines in Vegas, it’d been blazed across the international press, complete with full accounts of past trysts on each side, and close-up shots of the size of the diamond on her left hand.

The one, I noted, that she lifted now to brush back a tendril of honeyed hair. It was obviously the first time Lena had seen the rock up close since she gaped like an air-deprived guppy, though Madeleine pretended not to notice. Still, the scent of envy wafted from her like fresh-cut grass gone sour.

If there was one thing I had, it was a strong sense of smell.

Suzanne glided to my side and we both turned to the mirror, physically aligned across, and in front of, the other women. I was in the Vegas Girl uniform—designer jeans, expensive heels, and tiny top—appropriate for my socialite cover, though not too ostentatious. I could still move comfortably and hide my blades. Suzanne, on the other hand, wore a traditional Indian wedding lengha, the full-length blue and gold skirt marrying well with the intricate bindi sparking off her forehead. However, hidden beneath it all was a pair of crystal and sequined-encrusted cowboy boots, because she insisted on being comfortable.
Bless her heart
. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she looked like a culturally confused Barbie doll.

“I do so admire your confidence, Suzanne,” Lena finally said, eyes arrowing cruelly on the toes of those sparkling shit-kickers. “I’d be afraid a younger, perkier model would come by and snag him right back.”

“Of course you would,” Suzanne clucked sympathetically. Lena didn’t seem to know how to take that.

“How long does the prenup last?” Madeleine asked, in an overly high voice. “Mine was good for ten years.”

“But those first nine were good ones, weren’t they?” Suzanne shot back, unperturbed. “And you guys did throw the best parties.”

“I still do,” Madeleine huffed.

“Well I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been invited since Harry left.” She tilted her head so that her bindi winked. “That’s very interesting, now that I think about it.”

Realizing the pickle she’d gotten herself into, Madeleine stiffened. I knew that her former husband, like all the former husbands in this social circle, had courted Suzanne for a bit after his divorce, but I didn’t know what Madeleine found more insulting, that or the way Suzanne had quickly, gently, shot him down.

“Well, there’s my fabulous Christmas fete next month. I’ll make sure my assistant has your current address.”

“Great. Tell her it hasn’t changed.”

I put my hand on Suz’s arm, like I’d just realized something. “And next year her assistant can just forward it to the palace.”

Suzanne tilted her face up to mine. “Oh, that does simplify things, doesn’t it?”

I nodded sweetly.

Madeleine swallowed tightly. “Come, Lena. The Martino girls just got back from Europe. I want to hear all about the Milan shows.”

They left in a cloud of burnt sugar—their pique—and marinated violets—their perfume—and Suzanne said nothing for a moment, studying her nails like they were of great interest. I knew she was mentally rebuilding the wall of morale Madeleine’s and Lena’s words had chipped at. I’d done the same enough times as Olivia that I recognized the need, so I fumbled in my bag and began lacquering my lips in the mirror.

“Suz, can I ask you a question?” I finally said, pulling the gloss wand away.

“Sure, honey.”

I rubbed my lips together. “Well, Madeleine and Lena have a point. Women around the world have been trying to attract Arun for years. So why—”

“Why me?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Why
not
you?” I said hurriedly, patting her arm. “But…why do
you
think he chose you?”

She thought for a moment, and then smiled. “Well, I’m attractive enough I suppose. And my pedigree is acceptable to his family, even though I’m widowed, and I’m a westerner.”

“There are other attractive, available, acceptable women out there,” I pointed out.

She inclined her head. “But most of them are afflicted. They’re ill. Like Lena and Maddy. Pretty enough, but…”

She let her words trail off and shrugged like I should know what she meant. I didn’t. “Afflicted with what?”

Suzanne took me by the shoulders. “Here. Look in the mirror.”

I did so reluctantly. I confess, my exterior sometimes overwhelmed me, and it wasn’t just because I looked like the sister I’d lost and loved. She was just so…much. Blond locks, sky blue eyes, breasts that were perkier than a game show host, and a waist that had been so perfectly nipped and tucked I looked like a bendable straw.

I
was so much.

“There’s this mental illness, right? It’s called ‘anhedo-nia.’ It means ‘without pleasure.’ You can look it up, though all you really have to do is look around.” She motioned to the door the other women had disappeared through, and to the world at large. “A good deal of people, mostly women, spend their entire lives in this state. It’s a sort of half-death. But if you recognize this, you can fix it.”

“How?” I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t. I ducked my head, unable to meet either her reflection in the mirror, or mine.

Suzanne smiled, not noticing my discomfort, or pretending not to. “You focus on bliss. Small pleasures. Fill your day with as many as you can fit into twenty-four hours. You devote every possible moment not to fulfilling another person—a man—but yourself.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Sounds hedonistic.”

“But once you can do this, you start attracting everyone to you. You don’t need to compare yourself to some other girl, no matter how young or firm or perky she is.” She smiled at me through the mirror, a better match for Olivia’s sister than I had ever been. The thought didn’t bother me as much as it once had. I was beginning to realize that friends were actually the family you chose.

“Trust me. A woman like this, one at her best? We’re the color of the world. We’re the light and the beauty. So.” Suzanne straightened. “Focus on your pleasure, and the man you want can’t help but realize…”

I waited, but she only sighed, suddenly teary-eyed.

“That he’s incidental?” I finished for her.

“That he may be a prince…but you’re a goddess.”

I smiled at that. “Yes,” I said softly. “You certainly are.”

She grinned, then frowned. “This just isn’t right.”

“What? Oh, those women? Don’t worry about them. They’re just jealous.”

“No, I mean that I’m so happy.” She spread her hands out in front of her, and I noted that her henna designs hadn’t faded. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and you’re going through such a rough time.”

I wracked my brain to figure out what she was referring to, finally settling on the only subject she’d know about. The one the entire city was talking about: Xavier Archer’s health.