Eight Million Gods-eARC (27 page)

She unlocked the door, opened it, and gasped slightly in surprise. Belle’s Boudoir was for Disney’s Belle of
Beauty and the Beast
. The gold and cream of the photograph in the lobby were from the Beast’s ballroom. What hadn’t shown up was a painting of Belle and the Beast waltzing. They looked so happy. Nikki gazed at it, filled with envy.

If only her problems were as simple as dealing with a handful of townspeople with pitchforks . . .

Leo had stopped in the doorway, holding the door open. He eyed the picture with open dismay and then hid the look away. “The door will lock automatically. You’ll need to call the front door to get it open.”

She turned from the picture of the happy couple to gaze up into his eyes. She wanted to kiss him good-bye, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to let him go afterwards. “Be safe.”

He nodded as if she had said something deep and profound and left her there, alone.

23

Belle’s Boudoir

There was a packet of condoms on the pillow of the turned down bed instead of a chocolate.

She saw the bright red square as she dropped her backpack onto the king-sized bed. She picked it up, not knowing what it was. The red wrapper had the words Kit Sack inside a big white circle. For a moment she thought it was Kit Kat wafers, as the package styling was nearly identical to the chocolate bar. Then she noticed the much smaller word “condom” at the top of the label and dropped it.

“Oh geez!” She snatched the condom back up to prove she had only dropped it out of surprise. The silly thing even had the words “2 pieces” in English on the side. “Who thinks of these things?”

Having established her superiority to absolutely no one, she dropped it back on the pillow. Then, thinking of the heat of Leo’s body under the thin fabric of his shirt as he leaned over her in the elevator, she picked it back up and shoved it into her backpack.

Of course, the condom would only be useful if Leo came back.

She eyed her backpack. If she tried, she probably could write what was going to happen at the club. But what if it all went horribly wrong? She had bawled uncontrollably over people she thought were totally figments of her imagination. Writing Leo’s death would destroy her.

Just the thought of something happening to him started the need to write. She paced the room restlessly. Her hand crept up to her mouth and she was chewing on her fingernails before she realized what she was doing. She growled in frustration and jerked her fingertip out of her mouth.

If she did write something horrible, could she save Leo? She never could stop characters from dying, but they were always over there, somewhere, in a place she thought only existed in her mind. Her characters ignored the barricades she made up, brushing them aside as if they didn’t exist. The truth was that her obstacles weren’t actually there. The people were real, but her barriers weren’t—because she couldn’t change reality.

Not at a distance. This time she could be a very real barricade from disaster; she could go and do—something. The question was: could she actually change a story? It was just words on paper. Could she keep someone from going off to find out what the weird noise was in the woods, or to check out the local graveyard in the middle of the night, or a hundred and one other really bad ideas?

Of course, she would be the one doing the really stupid thing. What the hell would she do in a gunfight? Last time she had nearly chopped off Leo’s head and gotten shot. And she had been very, very careful not to think too much about what she had done to the men that attacked them at the castle. They had been bad men that were trying to kill her, but she’d been inside the heads of “bad” people enough to know that they usually had people who loved them nonetheless. There could be parents, wives, girlfriends, and even children grieving for those men that she had hacked into pieces. She could only hope and pray that they hadn’t been really human.

She didn’t want to pick up the
katana
and let Atsumori carve his way through a crowded nightclub where there would be dozens of innocent bystanders for every
tanuki.

Besides, there was the whole causality problem. If you went back in time to stop the man you loved from being killed, time would be rewritten so he never died. If your lover never died, though, you wouldn’t need to travel back in time to save him in the first place. The paradox would snap time back into place like a stretched rubber band.

How fixed was her story? Would she be helpless to change things after she’d written them? If she stopped certain events from happening, would she have written them in the first place? Would there be some weird looping logic where the events she wrote were actually the result of her trying to stop something? If she wrote a shoot out at the nightclub and rushed there to stop it, would she actually be the reason it started in the first place? Would she only succeed at putting herself in harm’s way? Maybe something would stop her from reaching the nightclub so she couldn’t change the story—like maybe she got hopelessly lost at the train station or caught by her mother?

She fought the need to write as it grew stronger. She didn’t want to see the future in full gory detail if she couldn’t change it. Truly harrowing death experiences flashed through her mind—unbidden and unwanted. Gregory’s disemboweling with the blender. Misa’s rape and murder.

Fingers wanted either a pen or to be chewed on. She tucked her hands under her arms.

“Oh, you’re being a big chicken.” She flapped her arms and clucked. She strutted around the room, making chicken noises.

Fine, she’d see if Leo would come out of this safely and if he didn’t, she’d do whatever it took to make sure he did.

Shiva knew about Nikki.

Leo had driven away from Izushi feeling like he’d made the worst mistake of his life. At the restaurant he had debated trying to kill Chevalier and Sato before they could report to Shiva. To do so would betray everything his father taught him. Chevalier would have been easy to take. Sato’s ability, though, made him nearly impervious to most weapons. If he failed, it would leave Nikki alone with so many against her, possibly considered guilty of the attack just by association with him.

In the end, he decided to distract Shiva with a pack of
tanuki
working with
yakuza
and a goddess on the rampage. He’d flooded Chevalier with the details, hoping he’d forget to report Nikki’s ability. The polar opposite of Nikki, it was possible that the Frenchman wouldn’t realize the implication of her being able to cooperate with Atsumori.

Sato was the wild card. He’d sensed Nikki’s possession. He’d instantly put distance between him and the possible danger that Atsumori posed. It was questionable, though, that the
kami
could actually harm Sato; the man was godlike.

Sato had the experience to realize that Nikki had an invaluable ability without even knowing about her writing. Would Sato explain it to Chevalier? Remind the Frenchman to report her? It was impossible to say. The man was Shiva’s most dangerous Talent. He had no reason to betray her—and no reason to protect her.

To wait and see how things landed had been the reasonable, logical decision. Yet it felt like he’d made a horrible mistake leaving the two Shiva agents alive in Izushi. When Nikki leaned so trustingly against him in the tight confines of the Love Now’s elevator, the knowledge that he’d failed her felt like a white-hot iron bar shoved through his chest. She had to know that he’d failed her, and yet she continued to trust him. He had to find some way to keep her safe from Shiva.

Simon would know how to fix this. More than ever, he needed his father.

He found parking nearthe host club and started walking to where he was meeting Chevalier and Sato. They
 
were going to wade into Kiss Kiss and pin that little whore Kenichi to a wall and make him tell them where . . .

He had only a second of warning—headlights sweeping over him—and then a dark car mounted the sidewalk’s curb and struck him at full speed.

Nikki huddled in the giant empty bathtub for two, which was the farthest away from the open notebook on the bed as she could get.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

She really, really hoped she could change the story, since there was an epic fail in store for Leo in the near future.

“Are you sure this will happen?” Atsumori asked.

She screamed and was halfway up the wall, defying gravity as she skittered backwards until she remembered that she wasn’t truly alone in the hotel room. “Shit! Atsumori!”

“Can you stop it?” Atsumori’s voice was tense with his emotion.

“I don’t know.” She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Just her. No one else. Oh, she never thought it might be comforting to fall back to thinking she was just crazy.

“When was this?”

“I don’t know.” She shuddered. She could still feel the solid impact of car hood meeting flesh. The confusing tumble of Leo’s body. He’d been conscious while he was flung through the air by the impact, but then he landed hard enough to knock him out. The story camera pulled back to follow his car keys flying from his pocket and jangling across the sidewalk. She’d already dropped the pen in horror and fled the notebook. She’d written more graphic accidents, but this was the first time she knew that a real living body was involved. “I was trying to write what was going to happen at the nightclub with Leo.”

She felt better having someone talk to her—ignoring the fact that she couldn’t actually
see
Atsumori. It was chasing out the echoes of the words in her head. She climbed out of the tub and turned on the water in the sink. Her hands shook as she splashed cold water onto her face, rinsed the hot burn of unshed tears out of her eyes. “He was heading to the host club . . . Oh God, how much time do I have?”

She needed to warn Leo. Ditching her phone in Izushi had seemed like a smart idea. Her mother had used her phone to track her twice before she caught on to the trick. Without it, though, she felt trapped in a bubble. She hurried to the room’s phone and took the “OMG culture shock baseball bat” right between the eyes. The phone looked like it should be in the NASA mission control room being used to launch a moon shot. The headset was surrounded with dozens of buttons, all labeled in
kanji
.

“Why does everything have to be so complicated?” She snatched up the headset and punched the first button. The noise of a subway station blared from the speaker next to the button. She jumped and swore. It was the infamous “excuse” phone with sound effects to make lies convincing. Cheating spouses could use it to make it seem like they were somewhere else. “Only the Japanese!”

She reached over, snatched up her pen, and clicked it rapidly. “Calm down or you’re going to be stuck writing again. Calm. Calm.”

She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and focused on palm trees and waves against white sand. It made her think of Leo’s place in Hawaii. She could almost see it; a rustic home with both Japanese and Hawaiian influences and a dazzling view of the ocean. She just needed to get through this mess, and then she could live in paradise with Leo. Okay, so there was a Japanese goddess, and international antisupernatural something or other agency, and her mother to deal with . . .

That did nothing for staying calm.

White sands. Palm trees. Hula girls. Surfer boys. Leo in a swimsuit . . .

Oh, yes, much better.

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Atsumori, I need help with this.”

“Eh?” Atsumori gave a surprised and dismayed cry. “You do realize that I’ve never been to one of these places? People generally don’t take portable shrines to love hotels.”

“Just translate the instructions! I’ll figure out the rest!”

After they worked through dialing Leo’s number, the line clicked and hummed but didn’t connect through. She hung up, feeling like she’d just reached out and touched evil.

Glass glittered on the sidewalk. Skid marks tracked a car as it fishtailed on the cement, smearing all four tires as the driver fought to keep control of a speeding vehicle. Black paint streaked the front of white vending machines. The tire marks continued back onto the street, vanishing as the car fled the scene.

She was too late.

There was an ambulance disappearing down the street, lights flashing, siren echoing off the skyscrapers around her.

The only thing that marked Leo was a splatter of blood on the sidewalk that a tiny wrinkled Japanese man was spraying with a garden hose.

She gasped as grief uncoiled and bloomed hot; pressing against her ribs, it tried to grow larger than the confines of her body. “What happened? Was he killed?”

The old man went wide-eyed with surprise. “You speak Japanese so well!”

“A man was hit by a car?” She pointed at the wet cement. “Was he killed?”

“Eh? No. He wasn’t killed. He kept trying to get up. They had to hold him down. Give him a shot of medicine to make him sleep.”

The grief contracted enough that she could breath out in relief. “Where did they take him? What hospital?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.” The man apparently thought the conversation was over as he started to coil up the hose.

“Atsumori?” Nikki cried. “How do I find him?”

“I don’t know. There are several hospitals in Osaka. I don’t know how it is decided which one he will be taken to.”

She closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm even though her hands were fluttering, looking for a pen. This was her story. She should be able to write what she needed to know. If Leo were unconscious, it would be more difficult. Generally her ability would only follow bodies to the end of a death scene—not a comforting thought—or if another character witnessed what was happening to the person. She would need a witness. An emergency medical technician—if they had those in Japan—or perhaps the ambulance driver. Maybe Chevalier or Sato; they might have come upon the accident on their way to meet up with Leo.

She needed a pen. The scene she’d written earlier had ended with Leo’s keys crashing to the ground. She hadn’t been able to extend the scene. Neither Chevalier nor Sato were viewpoint characters, but she might be able to make them one.