The Underground City (22 page)
His
brows drew together. “What does it look like?”
“It
isn’t like anyone’s I’ve ever seen before. It’s bright blue, and it flares out of you … almost like electricity.”
His
smile disappeared, and he leaned forward. “Can you see everyone’s auras?”
The
incense dared to assault my eyes again, so I put it out and dumped it in the trashcan.
“Yes.
Most people have much fainter glows to them—more often than not in the pink or orange family. I’ve never seen blue.”
He
chewed on that for a moment. “What do you suppose it is you’re looking at—someone’s soul?”
I
shook my head. “I don’t know. I do know, though, if someone’s ailing, I can see it. Their aura goes a bit yellow.” He nodded, and I added, “You’re healthy.”
He
laughed, and I felt silly for saying it. He stood up, his imposing height making me feel all of three inches tall. Not enjoying the feel of him staring down at me, I stood and watched him pull out his wallet. I guess he’d heard enough and thought I was full of it. He set a one hundred dollar bill on the table in front of me. My hourly rate was fifty dollars, and we’d been maybe twenty minutes.
“I’d
like to come see you for the next three Tuesdays at 4:00 p.m. Please don’t schedule anyone after me. I’ll compensate you for the entire afternoon.”
I
was shocked—what in the world would he want to come back for?
“Jolie,
it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to our next session.” He turned to walk out of the room when I remembered myself.
“Wait,
what name should I put in the appointment book?”
He
turned and faced me. “Rand.”
Then
he walked out of the shop.
~
By the time Tuesday rolled around, I hadn’t had much of a busy week. No more visits from ghosts, spirits, or whatever the PC term is for them. I’d had a few walk-ins, but that was about it. It was strange. October in Los Angeles was normally a busy time.
“Ten
minutes to four,” Christa said with a smile, leaning against the front desk and looking up from a stack of photos—her latest bout into photography.
“I
wonder if he’ll come,” I mumbled.
Taking
the top four photos off the stack, she arranged them against the desk as if they were puzzle pieces. I walked up behind her, only too pleased to find an outlet for my anxiety, my nerves skittish with the pending arrival of one very handsome man.
The
photo in the middle caught my attention first. It was a landscape of the Malibu coastline, the intense blue of the ocean mirrored by the sky and interrupted only by the green of the hillside.
“Wow,
that’s a great one, Chris.” I picked the photo up. “Can you frame it? I’d love to hang it in the store.”
“Sure.”
She nodded and continued inspecting her photos, as if trying to find a fault in the angle or maybe the subject. Christa had aspirations of being a photographer and she had the eye for it. I admired her artistic ability—I, myself, hadn’t been in line when God was handing out creativity.
She
glanced at the clock again. “Five minutes to four.”
I
shrugged, feigning an indifference I didn’t feel. “I’m just glad you’re here. Rand strikes me as weird. Something’s off …”
She
laughed. “Oh, Jules, you don’t trust your own mother.”
I
snorted at the comment and collapsed into the chair behind her, propping my feet on the corner of our mesh waste bin. So I didn’t trust people—I think I had a better understanding of the human condition than most people did. That reminded me, I hadn’t called my mom in at least a week. Note to self: be a better daughter.
The
cuckoo clock on the wall announced it was 4:00 p.m. with a tinny rendition of Edelweiss while the two resident wooden figures did a polka. I’d never much liked the clock, but Christa wouldn’t let me get rid of it.
The
door opened, and I jumped to my feet, my heart jack hammering. I wasn’t sure why I was so flustered, but as soon as I met the heat of Rand’s dark eyes, it all made sense. He was here again even though I couldn’t tell him anything important last time, and did I fail to mention he was gorgeous? His looks were enough to play with any girl’s heartstrings.
“Good
afternoon,” he said, giving me a brisk nod.
He
was dressed in black—black slacks, black collared shirt, and a black suit jacket. He looked like he’d just come from a funeral, but somehow I didn’t think such was the case.
“Hi,
Rand,” Christa said, her gaze raking his statuesque body.
“How
has your day been?” he answered as his eyes rested on me.
“Sorta
slow,” Christa responded before I could. He didn’t even turn to notice her, and she frowned, obviously miffed. I smiled to myself and headed for the reading room, Rand on my heels.
I
closed the door, and by the time I turned around, he’d already seated himself at the table. As I took my seat across from him, a heady scent of something unfamiliar hit me. It had notes of mint and cinnamon or maybe cardamom. The foreign scent was so captivating, I fought to refocus my attention.
“You
fixed the light,” he said with a smirk. “Much better.”
I
nodded and focused on my lap. “I didn’t get a chance last time to ask you why you wanted to come back.” I figured it was best to get it out in the open. I didn’t think I’d do any better reading him this time.
“Well,
I’m here for the same reason anyone else is.”
I
lifted my gaze and watched him lean back in the chair. He regarded me with amusement—raised eyebrows and a slight smirk pulling at his full lips.
I
shook my head. “You aren’t interested in a card reading, and I couldn’t tell you anything … substantial in our last meeting …”
His
throaty chuckle interrupted me. “You aren’t much of a businesswoman, Jolie; it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me and my cold, hard cash.”
Enough
was enough. I’m not the type of person to beat around the bush, and he owed me an explanation. “So are you here to get a date with Christa?” I forced my gaze to hold his. He seemed taken aback, cocking his head while his shoulders bounced with surprise.
“Lovely
though you both are, I’m afraid my visit leans more toward business than pleasure.”
“I
don’t understand.” I hoped my cheeks weren’t as red as I imagined them. I guess I deserved it for being so bold.
He
leaned forward, and I pulled back. “All in good time. Now, why don’t you try to read me again?”
I
motioned for his hands—sometimes touching the person in question helps generate my visions. As it had last time, his touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I had to fight not to lose my composure. There was something odd about this man.
I
closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to focus while millions of bees warred with each other in my stomach. After driving my thoughts from all the questions I had regarding Rand, I was more comfortable.
At
first nothing came.
I
opened my eyes to find Rand staring at me. Just as I closed them again, a vision came—one that was piecemeal and none too clear.
“A
man,” I said, and my voice sounded like a foghorn in the quiet room. “He has dark hair and blue eyes, and there’s something different about him. I can’t quite pinpoint it … it seems he’s hired you for something …”
My
voice started to trail as the vision grew blurry. I tried to weave through the images, but they were too inconsistent. Once I got a hold of one, it wafted out of my grasp, and another indistinct one took its place.
“Go
on,” Rand prodded.
The
vision was gone at this point, but I was still receiving emotional feedback. Sometimes I’ll just get a vision and other times a vision with feelings. “The job’s dangerous. I don’t think you should take it.”
And
just like that, the feeling disappeared. I knew it was all I was going to get and I was frustrated, as it hadn’t been my best work. Most of the time my feelings and visions are much clearer, but these were more like fragments—almost like short dream vignettes you can’t interpret.
I
let go of Rand’s hands, and my own felt cold. I put them in my lap, hoping to warm them up again, but somehow my warmth didn’t quite compare to his.
Rand
seemed to be weighing what I’d told him—he strummed his fingers against his chin and chewed on his lip. “Can you tell me more about this man?”
“I
couldn’t see him in comparison to anyone else, so as far as height goes, I don’t know. Dark hair and blue eyes, the hair was a little bit longish, maybe not a stylish haircut. He’s white with no facial hair. That’s about all I could see. He had something otherworldly about him. Maybe he was a psychic? I’m not sure.”
“Dark
hair and blue eyes you say?”
“Yes.
He’s a handsome man. I feel as if he’s very old though he looked young. Maybe in his early thirties.” I shrugged. “Sometimes my visions don’t make much sense.” Hey, I was just the middleman. It was up to him to interpret the message.
“You
like the tall, dark, and handsome types then?”
Taken
aback, I didn’t know how to respond. “He had a nice face.”
“You
aren’t receiving anything else?”
I
shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
He
stood. “Very good. I’m content with our meeting today. Do you have me scheduled for next week?”
I
nodded and stood. The silence in the room pounded against me, and I fought to find something to say, but Rand beat me to it.
“Jolie,
you need to have more confidence.”
The
closeness of the comment irritated me—who was this man who thought he could waltz into my shop and tell me I needed more confidence? Granted, he had a point, but damn it all if I were to tell him that!
Now,
I was even more embarrassed, and I’m sure my face was the color of a bad sunburn. “I don’t think you’re here to discuss me.”
“As
a matter of fact, that’s precisely the reason I’m …”
Rand
didn’t get a chance to finish when Christa came bounding through the door.
Christa
hasn’t quite grasped the whole customer service thing.
“Sorry
to interrupt, but there was a car accident right outside the shop! This one car totally just plowed into the other one. I think everyone’s alright, but how crazy is that?”
My
attention found Rand’s as Christa continued to describe the accident in minute detail. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been about to say. It had sounded like he was here to discuss me … something that settled in my stomach like a big rock.
When
Christa finished her accident report, Rand made his way to the door. I was on the verge of demanding he finish what he’d been about to say, but I couldn’t summon the nerve.
“Cheers,”
he said and walked out.
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NOW!
ONE
T
here was no way in hell I was looking in the mirror.
I
knew it was bad when I glanced down. My stomach, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was five times its usual size and exploded around me in a mass of jelly-like fat. To make matters worse, it was the color of overcooked peas—that certain jaundiced yellow.
“Wow,
Dulce, you look like crap,” Sam said.
I
tried to give her my best “don’t piss me off” look, but I wasn’t sure my face complied because I had no clue what my face looked like. If it was anything like my stomach, it had to be canned-pea green and covered with raised bumps. The bumps in question weren’t small like what you’d see on a toad—more like the size of dinner plates. Inside each bump, my skin was a darker green. And the texture … it was like running your finger across the tops of your teeth—jagged with valleys and mountains.
“Can
you fix it?” I asked, my voice coming out monster-deep. I shouldn’t have been surprised—I was a good seven feet tall now. And with the substantial body mass, my voice could only be deep.
“Yeah,
I think I can.” Sam’s voice didn’t waver which was a good sign.
I
turned to avoid the sun’s rays as they broke through the window, the sunlight not feeling too great against my boils.
I
glanced at Sam’s perfect sitting room, complete with a sofa, love seat and two armchairs all in a soothing beige, the de facto color for inoffensive furniture. Better Homes and Gardens sat unattended on Sam’s coffee table—opened at an article about how beautiful drought resistant plants can be.
“You
have nine eyes,” Sam said.
At
least they focused as one. I couldn’t imagine having them all space cadetting out. Talk about a headache.
Turning
my attention from her happy sitting room, I forced my nine eyes on her, hoping the extra seven would be all the more penetrating. “Can you focus please?” I snapped.
Sam
held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Sheesh, I guess getting changed into a gigantic booger put you into a crappy mood.”
“Gee,
you think?” My legs ached with the weight of my body. I had no idea if I had two legs or more or maybe a stump—my stomach covered them completely. I groaned and leaned against the wall, waiting for Sam to put on her glasses and figure out how to reverse the spell.
Sam
was a witch and a pretty damned good one at that. I’d give her twenty minutes—then I’d be back to my old self. “Was it Fabian who boogered you?” she asked.
The
mention of the little bastard set my anger ablaze. I had to count to five before the rage simmered out of me like a water balloon with a leak. I peeled myself off the wall and noticed a long spindle of green slime still stuck to the plaster; it reached out as if afraid to part with me.
“Ew!”
Sam said, taking a step back from me. “You are so cleaning that wall.”
“Fine.
Just get me back to normal. I’m going to murder Fabian when I see him again.”
Fabian
was a warlock, a master of witchcraft. The little cretin hadn’t taken it well when I’d come to his dark arts store to observe his latest truckload delivery. I knew the little rat was importing illegal potions (love potions, revenge potions, lust potions … the list went on) and it was my job to stop it. I’m a Regulator, someone who monitors the creatures of the Netherworld to ensure they’re not breaking any rules. Think law enforcement. And Fabian clearly was breaking some rule. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned me into a walking phlegm pile.
Sam
turned and faced a sheet of chocolate chip cookie mounds. “Hold on a second, I gotta put these in the oven.”
She
sashayed to the kitchen and I couldn’t help but think what an odd picture we made: Sam, looking like the quintessential housewife with her apron, paisley dress and Stepford withe smile, and me, looking like an alien there to abduct her.
She
slid the cookies in, shut the oven door and offered me a cheery grin. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, let me just whip something together.”
Kneeling
down, she opened a cupboard door beneath the kitchen island and grabbed two clay bowls, three glass jars and a metal whisk. One jar was filled with a pink powder, the next with a liquid that looked like molasses, and the third with a sugary-type powder.
“Sam,
I don’t have time to watch you make more cookies.”
“Stop
being so cranky! I’m stirring a potion to figure out how the heck I’m going to help you. I have no idea what spell that little creep put on you.”
I
frowned, or thought I did.
Sam
opened a jar and took a pinch of the pink powder between her fingers. She dropped it in the bowl and whisked. Then she spooned one tablespoon of the molasses-looking stuff into the bowl and whisked again. Dumping half the white powder in with the rest, she paused and then dumped in the remainder.
Then
she studied me, biting her lip. It was a look I knew too well—one that wouldn’t lead to anything good.
“What?”
I demanded.
“I
need some part of your body. But it doesn’t look like you have any hair. Hmm, do you have fingernails?”
I
went to move my arm and four came up. But even with four arms, I didn’t have a single fingernail—just webbed hands that looked like duck feet. I bet I was a good swimmer.
“Sorry,
no fingernails.”
“Well,
this might hurt then.”
She
turned around and pulled a butcher knife from the knife block before approaching me like a stealthy cat. Even with my enormous body, I was up and out of her way instantly.
“Hold
on a second! Keep that thing away from me!”
“I
need something from your body to make the potion work right. I won’t take much, just a tiny piece of flesh.”
I
felt like adding “and not a drop of blood,” but was too pre-occupied with protecting myself. I glanced at the wall and eyed the snotty globule, still attached to the plaster as if it had a right to be there. “What about that stuff?”
Sam
grimaced but stopped advancing. “I’m not touching that.”
“Okay,
fine. How about some spit then?”
“Yeah,
that might do.”
My
entire body breathed a sigh of relief which, given the size of me, was a pretty big breath. She put the knife back, and I made my way over to her slowly—not convinced she wasn’t going to Sweeney Todd on me again.
She
held out the bowl. “Spit.”
I
wasn’t sure if my body was capable of spitting, but I leaned over and gave it a shot. Something slid up my throat, and I watched a blob of yellow land in her bowl.
It
was moving. Gross.
It
continued to vacillate as it interacted with the mixture, sprawling this way and that like it was having a seizure.
“Yuck,”
Sam said, holding the bowl as far away from her as possible. She returned it to the counter as the timer went off. Facing the oven, she grabbed a mitt that said “Kiss me, I’m Wiccan,” pulled open the oven door and grabbed hold of the cookie sheet, placing them on the counter.
My
stomach growled, sounding like an angry wolf, and unable to stop myself, I lumbered toward the cookies. I grabbed the sheet, not feeling the heat of the tin on my webbed hand. Sam watched me, her mouth hanging open as I lifted the sheet of cookies and emptied every last one into my mouth, swallowing them whole.
Sam’s
brows furrowed with anger, giving her normally angelic face a little attitude. “I was saving those to bring to work on Monday, thank you very much!”
Sam
didn’t wear angry well. She was too pretty—dark brown shoulder length hair, perfect skin, perfect teeth, and big brown eyes.
“Come
on, Sam,” I pleaded, my mouth brimming with gooey chocolate. “You know I didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t even like sweets.”
Something
slimy and pink escaped my mouth and ran itself over my lips. It took me a second to realize it was my tongue. Rather than curling back into my mouth, it hesitated on my lip as I focused on a stray chocolate chip lounging against the counter. Instantly, my tongue lurched out and grabbed hold of the chip, recoiling into my mouth like a spent cobra.
Sam
quirked a less-than-amused brow and ran her palms down her paisley apron, as though composing herself. I have to count to ten, twenty sometimes. Otherwise, my temper is an ugly son of a bitch.
“Besides,
none of the guys at work deserve them anyway.” I knew because I worked with Sam.
She
appeared to be in the process of forgiving me, a slight smile playing with the ends of her lips. I turned to the potion sitting in the bowl. The yellow ball of spit was still shivering. I nearly gagged when Sam stabbed it with the whisk and continued stirring.
I
peered over her shoulder and watched the potion change colors—going from a pale brown to red then deepening into flame orange. “What’s it doing?”
Sam
nodded as if she were watching a movie, knew the ending, and was just dying to tell someone what happens. “Ah, of course, I should’ve known. The little devil put a
Hemmen
on you.”
“A
what?”
“It’s
a short-term shape-shifting charm. You’ll be back to normal in about five hours or so.”
“Five
hours? Look at me! Can’t you get rid of it sooner?”
Sam
shook her head. “Would take lots of herbs and potions I don’t have. I’d probably have to get them at Fabian’s.” She laughed. “How ironic is that? Just hang tight. It’ll go away, I promise.”
It
figures the little bastard would’ve put a short-term spell on me. Currently, there weren’t any laws against turning someone into a hideous creature if it would wear off after a day. And even if he had turned me into this creature long term, he’d probably only get a slap on the wrists. The Netherworld wasn’t exactly good with doling out punishments.
I
was working on making it better.
“You’re
sure?” I asked.
She
nodded. “One hundred percent. Let’s just watch a couple movies to keep your mind off it.”
She
hurried to her entertainment center and scanned through the numerous titles, using her index finger to guide her. “Dirty Dancing? Bridget Jones?”
“The
first or second Bridget?”
“I
have both,” she said with a triumphant smile.
“I
like the first one better.”
With
a nod of agreement, Sam pulled the DVD out and gingerly placed it into the player.
I
wasn’t really sure what to do with myself. I couldn’t fit on her couch, and with my slime ball still suspended on the wall, sitting was out.
Sam
pointed a finger in my general direction. “How did Fabian catch you unaware enough to change you into … that?”
I
sighed—which came out as a grunt.
“Well?”
she asked while skipping into the kitchen to microwave a packet of popcorn.
I
couldn’t quite meet her eyes and, instead, focused on drawing slimy lines on her counter top with one of my eight index fingers.
This
was the part of the story I was least excited about. Fabian never should’ve caught me with my guard down. I’m a fairy. We’re renowned for being extremely quick, and we’ve got more magic in our little finger … well, you get it.
“My
back was to him,” I mumbled. “I know, I know … super dumb.”
Sam’s
eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “That doesn’t sound like you at all, Dulce. Why was your back to him?”
If
I wasn’t excited about that last part of the story, this part excited me even less. “There was someone in his shop—a guy I’ve never seen before.”
Sam
laughed and quirked a knowing brow. “So let me make sure I’ve got this right.”
She
plopped her hands on her hips and paused for a good three seconds. Maybe she was getting me back for the cookies. “You, one of the strongest fairies around, turned your back on a known dark arts practitioner because he had a hot guy in his store?”
“No,
it wasn’t that at all. I’d never seen him before, and I couldn’t figure out what he was.”
As
a fairy, I have the innate ability to decipher a creature as soon as I see one. I can tell a warlock from a vampire from a gorgon in seconds. I don’t get paid the big bucks for nothing.
Sam’s
face took on a definite look of surprise, her eyes wide, her lips twitching. “You couldn’t tell what he was? Wow, that’s a first.”
