City Of Souls (14 page)

She paused at the last stair, a predator’s smile on her budding lips, before jumping to the ground floor, both booted feet landing with a hard thwack. There was a collective inhalation as the room shot to life, suddenly brighter. A black man grinned the biggest, most beautifully blinding smile I’d ever seen, his ashy hue leached away. An Asian guy ran a hand over thick silky hair as he turned his head, thankfully, toward the heavens. The man who’d stared so unblinkingly at me now had his eyes shut in relief, and I didn’t blame him. The air was suddenly alive, like a cooling breeze had swept through the building, and I wasn’t as thirsty as I’d been even a moment earlier.

The fans directly above us stilled, punctuating the silence, and the woman reached for a gaunt man at the nearest table, her left hand a sinuous ribbon around his neck as she pulled him from his chair. She pretended not to notice when he shuddered, dragging him along as she advanced upon me. Though I felt color and sensation and
life
washing off of her in waves, I took advantage of my quicker movements to grasp her left wrist before it fell to my arm.

I didn’t care how dead sexy and life-affirming she was, nobody touched me without permission.

The surprised dulcet tones of the women above told me I’d done something unexpected. I decided to keep on doing it.

“There’s a man,” I said without preamble.

“There’s always a man.” She smiled. I tightened my hold.

“This one came from my world.”
And killed a child in doing so.

“I know the lantern.”

That didn’t make sense to me, but I flagged that information for later too. “I need to find him.”

Her eyes skirted to the board. “His name?”

“Jaden Jacks.” I gave it freely. What did I care if they possessed, and used, the name of a Shadow?

“Don’t know him,” she said, too quickly, snatching her hand away. She held it out. The man rubbed it for her. “Why don’t you ask Mackie?”

I glanced over at the comatose piano player. Yeah. He looked like he was going to be a big help.

“And what’s your name again, honey? I didn’t quite catch it the first time.” She leaned toward me, dragging the man with her, though he only blew errant tendrils from his comb-over in a grateful sigh. Her breath was light, like sugar wafers. “Whisper it in my ear and I promise I won’t tell a
soul
.”

“Diana,” Bill warned, gaze darting between us as he continued polishing glasses. They were all as elaborate as the one I held, shot through with refracted color now that Diana had gifted us with her presence. Mine was golden with a hint of emerald. As for Bill, Diana’s arrival on the bottom floor had neither enhanced nor diminished him in any way.

“Shut up, Bill,” the gaunt man said, languishing beneath Diana’s arm. She laughed brightly, the sound accompanied by a fresh wave of breathable sugar.

“Yes, Bill. Do shut up,” she said, batting lacquered lashes. “I just want to know her name.”

The rest of the bar was quiet, their interest a tight pressure against my back. Diana’s mouth twitched. I gave her a perfunctory smile. “It’s Olivia.”

She pushed from the bar so quickly the room seemed to tilt with her. The man stumbled, and I stepped away. Diana studied my poster, my face, and the poster again. No name, I realized. Not even the beginnings of one. I was telling the truth, though not the
true
truth, so the information wasn’t being recorded on the wall. She took another step backward, and because the vitality in my own breast seemed to recede with her, I had no idea whether I preferred that she stay or go.

Or what I preferred less, I mused.

She did go, finally, turning her back amid the groans and pleas of those in the room, the man she’d left next to me looking close to tears. Diana ignored them all. And as soon as one booted heel hit the staircase, the color in the room snapped off like a light. Heat flooded back in. Breathing was instantly laborious. The fans above us started their slow spin once again, and the women giggled behind palms and fringed fans. A heat haze rolled off the red door in invisible waves. What the hell was behind that thing?

“You could have played along. Bought us time.” I glanced over my shoulder. The giant man wearing the black Stetson had resumed his original position, arms folded over his great belly, eyes indistinguishable beneath the low hat brim. He was sweating profusely, beads rolling down his neck to disappear beneath the vest.

“Why don’t you offer up your name, then?”

“I have. Freely. It’s Harlan Tripp.”

I frowned, and because the name was vaguely familiar, asked, “Do you know Jacks?”

Tripp scoffed. “Honey, you want information in the Rest House, you gotta play for it.”

“No,” called a woman from above. She was black, wiry, and tough, and her scent was as heavy and cloying on the air as the drink in my glass. “Don’t waste time with the boys. Come on up here. I promise we won’t bite.”

“
I
make no promises,” said a blonde with brows plucked so severely she looked permanently surprised. Spicy this time, with a bitter aftertaste.

“Leave her alone, girls. She’ll come when she’s ready.”

This voice was liquid, thick and smooth. A shaft of light split the wall opposite the other women, a door opening enough to allow a single silhouette passage. And this scent, minty rose with a creamy heart, had me nearly lifting to my toes. I tried to inhale more, and glanced around to find every man in the room trying to do the same. Yearning blanketed every face, and most eyes had fallen half shut. The women, though not that far gone, were silent and nodding at one another. The first, smoky-skinned and dark eyes, turned away with a smile. “Yes, she’ll come.”

Don’t be lulled…don’t be intimidated.

Easy for Vanessa to say, I thought, swallowing hard. All she had was a thin myth, and a matriarchal legacy and culture, to guide her. I was suddenly face-to-face with that myth…face-to-face with Bill.

“Can I get a credit limit?” I asked him, pleased when his brows winged in surprise. He’d expected me to follow the voice upstairs. But I needed to find out about Jacks, and the women only seemed interested in playing mental games. At least with poker I knew the rules.

“Boyd?” Bill glanced at Tripp’s dealer, who inclined his head. I picked up my glass and headed to the table.

“Do I need to sign for it?” I asked Boyd, taking the seat across from him. He motioned to the wall with my picture on it. So that was how they kept track of their debtors. “Fine. Deal ’em.”

There were five men at the table, including Boyd, who shuffled cards so worn they’d never have seen a table at Valhalla. An albino with startling black eyes was to his left, while an Asian man, who had yet to look at me, sat between the two of us. To my right was a black man with sideburns that would have made John Shaft, the movie character, proud. Guess I didn’t have to ask how long he’d been there. Tripp sat next to him.

“So what’ll it be? Three-card monte, brag, faro?” I smiled, referring to the games that were popular way back when the West was originally won.

Boyd slipped his clay pipe from his lips, though oddly, his answer still flowed from the left side of his mouth. “A simple game of hold’em.”

“More like strip poker,” the albino said, and the other men chuckled. For a moment I thought they were messing with me, but their looks weren’t lascivious, and everyone was fully clothed. The Asian next to me was the only one who remained unsmiling and serious. His arms were knotted, wiry with muscle as he gripped the edge of the table. “And you only get to ask questions when you win the hand.”

At my surprised expression, Tripp nodded. “You gotta win to get what you want.”

“We all want something…or we did,” the albino said. “Once.”

Boyd began picking at the different chips from his stacked racks, poring over each, which I could see were marked by symbols or words, as he puffed consideringly. The others seemed content to wait, and why not? It didn’t seem they had any place to go. Besides, it was too hot to expend energy in pointless conversation. Like them, I sat back and decided to save it for the game. In fact, everyone other than Tripp was moving so slowly I could probably take a nap between hands.

“Interesting,” the dealer said, still poring over his chips. “Never seen this one before…though this other’s fairly common…now, I don’t know what to think of that…”

A dozen chips filled his hands, and everyone watched as he racked and passed them to me. “That should get you started. And might I add,” he said, with the courtesy shown to a player with loads to lose, “welcome to the Rest House.”

I palmed a chip, wondering what he was so anxious to gain. It didn’t take long to figure it out. As I stilled, gazing at the chips, a chuckle rimmed the table. Now I knew why the albino had said it was like strip poker. But instead of removing clothing when you lost a hand, you gave up something far more valuable.

“My powers?” I couldn’t keep my horror from seeping into the question.

“Only if you lose,” Tripp said, smile widening.

I swallowed hard and glanced back down at my chips. Everything I’d only begun to get used to having and controlling was represented there. Everything that made me special. Including what made me the Kairos.

I could start off small, I saw, biting my lower lip, bartering degrees of speed or strength—there were a number of those chips—though it wouldn’t be too many losing hands before I’d have to wager more costly powers. There were chips for each of the five senses, another for the sixth, which I didn’t even know I had.

What the hell was quintessence, anyway?

And what did the four triangles represent? I wondered. Two were inverted, and two had horizontal lines near the base.

There was the ability to erect shielding walls, and another that made living things erupt from the earth. Here was a surprise: I could regenerate?

Healing, dumbass. That’s what that means.

And transmogrify? I thought of the way the Tulpa could take on entirely different appearances. That had to be a Shadow strength. Then again, what if my ability to so convincingly take on Olivia’s physical form had more to do with
me
than Micah’s surgeon’s steel? Did all agents possess that power? Or had I inherited it from the man who’d been imagined into existence?

I was most surprised to see that emotions were represented on the chips, and that they were considered powers. Simple ones too, like love and hate and passion. The simplest, I realized, and the most valuable.

“Oh my God,” I said, feeling all eyes on me. “All this time…”

I looked up, met Tripp’s questioning gaze.

“I had no idea I was good at math.” I smiled. He scowled, and slumped farther in his seat. Boyd snorted, clay pipe wobbling between his lips.

My sarcasm—also represented on a chip, and an apparent strength—hid my panic. How had they known all this? I wondered, looking around. Was there some sort of hidden camera?

Yeah Jo, I thought, turning the caustic strength on myself. A daguerreotype. One to reveal a person’s internal landscape. It’d captured everything differentiating me from other agents, yet at the same time everything that added up to make anyone a fully functioning, healthy human being. And it was all stacked in front of me, ready to be parceled out in quantifiable bits. My hands began to shake.

Other than the full smile again splitting Tripp’s face, a singular question sat in the gaze of every other player, as well as Boyd’s assessing gaze. It was the same one, I thought, looking down at my chips, that I needed to ask myself.

Which power would I sacrifice first?

Boyd doled out the pocket cards, a face card and a nine, then smiled around his pipe. “Ante up.”

At Boyd’s left, Tripp opened the pot. He had dozens of chips stacked before him, indicating his skill.

Next came the black man, who stacked and restacked his chips before matching Tripp’s bet. A soul chip for a soul chip.

My turn, then. So what essential part of me, what vital aspect that made me
super
, should I wager first? I was sure some people would be happy to see my sarcastic nature gone, but since it was oft-used, I’d rather keep it. What might affect me least? I clinked them in my hand for a good minute, but nobody rushed me.

I chose one of the triangles. I didn’t know what they were, but I had three others left in my stack.

The Asian and the albino—which sounded like a poor title for a spaghetti western—had already chosen their chips and pushed them forward. Boyd presented the flop. Tripp frowned and folded outright, while the black man matched the blind. I didn’t like the ace showing, but one more jack and I could have three of a kind. Not bad for a first hand.

Boyd flipped again. No help. A ten. Again the man to my right raised. The hand could go either way, but I couldn’t win if I didn’t play, right? And that’s why I was there: to heal Jasmine, win freedom for my city, and bring to life the fourth sign of the Zodiac so my troop could get back to their regularly scheduled superhero programming. I threw in a portion of my speed.

The Chinese guy folded, the albino sipped nervously at his drink. I mentally dismissed him and focused on the black man while Boyd flipped the last card. A jack. I began to relax, but caught my opponent smiling as he raised again. Damn. Did he have a jack too?

I curled up the edge of my cards, peeking again at the nine. Fighting the need to swallow hard, I called again, giving another triangle, this one without a line parallel to the base. Boyd snorted as soon as I tossed it in the pot, which had me rethinking the move, but the chip was released. It was too late.

As I’d anticipated, the albino folded. Boyd tapped the table. The black man turned his cards. There was the last jack.

But his other card was a seven.

I had won.

I wiped a hand over the back of my neck, sighing as I raked the chips toward me. I’d won back all that I’d risked, and even had buffer chips for the next round. I took a fortifying sip from my glass, noting thankfully that it seemed to stay cool in the cup. Tripp was watching me hungrily, though whether it was due to my drink or my luck, I didn’t know. I just tilted my cup in his direction before sipping some more.