The Wicked City (8 page)

“I have to figure out a plan,” Sam told her. “You have to be patient.”

“I can’t be patient. My brother might have been alive when your spy saw him in that dude’s head, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stay that way.”

“If you think you could pass the time more easily in a coma, I’ll be glad to put you in one.”

“I'd like to see you try, tough guy.”

Sam planned to leave for the night and once again instructed them not to wander out of the room. They were allowed to call room service, but he told them not to pick up the phone if it rang.

“I won’t contact either of you by phone, ever,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“So you’re just gonna leave us here,” June said.

“You’ll be safe. I keep refugees here all the time. I don’t need to hang out and baby sit; I’ll be back in the morning. Besides, don’t you two want to be alone?”

June scowled. “Good night.”

They made sleeping arrangements after Sam left. Micha inspected the bedroom. “There’s a huge bed. We can both sleep in here.”

June was harboring more than a touch of guilt. “No, that’s all right. You take it. I’ll sleep out here on one of the sofas.”

“That’s silly.” Micha walked out through the French doors. “I’ve been sleeping on a sofa all week. It sucks.”

“I know, it’s just…” She didn’t know what it was “just.”

She searched for some pillows and blankets and located said items in a closet near the door. Micha didn’t argue further. He stood and watched while she made up a bed for herself on one of the sofas.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, avoiding his gaze.

“I guess so.”

She unfurled a blanket. “Glad one of us is.” She hesitated before saying, “I thought for a second earlier you were remembering your wife. Is anything coming back to you?”

“Hm. I…remember coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“I always took a thermos of coffee to seminars. The swill they serve at those things is awful. I think she made it for me. I was always raving about it. I seem to remember telling people she made it.”

June sat down on the sofa. “I guess that’s a start.” She had another knife fight with her guilt and once again, it stabbed her in the eye. “Guess we better try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

June was convinced she would never be able to fall asleep given the turmoil in her head, but her body, exhausted by stress and many previous nights of scant and sketchy sleep, decided otherwise.

Unsurprisingly, a series of frightening and disjointed dreams descended as soon as June fell asleep. She dreamt of being chased through the corridors of the Institute; she found her brother in a room, but couldn’t convince him to leave with her. Then she stood on the pier and something dark and sinister crawled out of the shadows toward her, but she couldn’t run.

She abruptly woke with no clear notion of how long she’d been asleep. A lamp shone in the corner, the only light in the room, yellow and muted. She could faintly hear Micha’s breathing in the other room, a sound she’d gotten familiar with over the past week. The air above the blanket was cold.

Then she caught something from the corner of her eye.

Her body reacted before her mind processed what she saw. She jerked away, flattening herself against the back of the sofa, her first assumption someone from the Institute had gotten into the room. The intruder was indeed from the Institute, though not on their current employee roster.

Rose Bellevue stood next to the sofa. She wore the white blouse, jeans, and powder blue tennis shoes she’d been wearing the night June saw her murdered—no blood on her, or visible wounds. She did look like a corpse though, like someone had propped her dead body up on a stick. Her dark eyes were empty and lifeless. She was horrifyingly eerie, completely still, her chest not rising and falling with breath.

June assumed in blind terror Rose had come back to haunt her for June's role in her death and for kissing her husband.

June tried to push out a scream, but couldn’t get her throat to open or her lungs to expand. “What the hell?” she gasped out.

Rose lifted her hand. The dark lines on her palm contrasted against the paleness of her skin.

“I was a means to their end.” Her voice was as hollow as her eyes, emotionless and strange. “Find the truth,” she whispered. She didn’t move, her hand still lifted—her left one, sporting a gold wedding band.

June tried to speak, to yell, but again found no air in her lungs.

Rose lowered her hand and gazed toward the windows, motionless. How long would she stand there? A terrible notion swept over June. What if she never left?

Then the spell broke. Rose disappeared, and June jerked out of her frozen state.

She fell off the sofa and emitted a rather pathetic yelp when she hit the floor. She immediately scrambled up and went for a weapon. She snatched a Tiffany lamp from the table closest to the sofa and brandished it in front of her, turning in a swift circle.

“The
hell
was that?” she yelled.

Micha stumbled out of the bedroom a moment later, bleary-eyed, in a white T-shirt and dark blue boxer-briefs.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I saw your wife.”

“What?”

“I saw your fucking wife!”

“She’s…dead?”

“I know she’s dead.” June quickly set the lamp down. Trying to smack a ghost with an expensive piece of art was stupid. “I thought I was dreaming. She was standing over me. She lifted her hand and I saw her wedding ring. She spoke to me. She said ‘I was a means to their end.’”

“A means to their end?”

“Then she just disappeared. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans and blue tennis shoes. That’s what she was wearing the night she died. Gah.” She clawed at herself, trying to get the crawling feeling off her skin. “I hate ghosts.”

“Maybe it was just a dream.”

“She was standing right there.” She pointed at the sofa. “Right next to me. And I was
awake
. It wasn’t a dream. Don’t you feel how cold it is?”

“Are you sensitive to spirits?” Micha asked. “Have you ever communicated with the dead before?”

“No. I hate the dead.”

“Well, you don’t necessarily have to be sensitive to see a ghost. Or it could be some late-stage abilities kicking in.” This seemed to interest him more than the prospect of his wife’s ghost.

June stared at the spot where she’d seen her, almost expecting her to reappear, this time with a letter opener to stick in her jugular.

“If you really saw her,” Micha said, “and even if you only dreamt her, she’s clearly trying to give you a message. What do you think ‘a means to their end’ means?”

“At this point it could mean a lot of things. Who knows?”

Micha helped her check the entire room, but they found no sign of anyone, ethereal or otherwise. After their search, June went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette to calm her nerves. When she stepped back in, she peeked through the French doors while taking off her jacket. The bedroom was as big as the outer room, and Micha sat on the enormous bed with the covers pooled around his waist.

“Come here.” He beckoned.

June stepped into the room. A huge vanity spanned one wall, the mirror reflecting the bed and cream-colored walls. Another flat screen TV hung on the wall across from the bed.

“You all right?” Micha asked.

“Yeah.” She padded over to the bed, arms crossed.

“You still seem spooked.”

“Yeah, well, we might be safe from the Institute here, but you can’t exactly keep the wandering dead out, can you? Kinda unnerving.”

Micha gazed at her. She wasn’t fazed by people staring, as her ink drew a lot of attention. Micha was probably looking at her nipple piercings, though. They were rather prominent against her tank top at the moment.

“Do you think it was really a ghost?” he asked.

“I don’t want to think about it.” She uncrossed her arms and smoothed her hands over her hips. She prayed Rose wouldn’t pop out of a wall.

“You want me to order something from room service, since Sam said we could?” Micha turned toward the phone on the stand next to the bed. “Something to calm your nerves? Hot tea, or some of that fancy wine Sam was pissed about? What was that?”

“I don’t drink
tea
, and it was Cabernet Sauvignon. But I’m not exactly in the mood for wine.”

Micha picked up the handset. “How about some decaf coffee with a shot of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”

She rocked on her heels. “Yeah, I could go for that.”

The clock next to the bed said 1:52, yet their request was taken; that meant either room service went on all night in fancy hotels, or they kept a light on for Sam’s guests. June sat on the bed. Micha went to the door when their order arrived, not bothering to put pants on.

A heavy hand had poured the whiskey and the liquid burned her throat and chest, which she’d been hoping for.

“I don’t think I can handle much more of this shit,” she said.

Micha, back in bed under the covers, had a cup of tea. He took a sip. “I don’t think you have to worry about a ghost. She may have a message, but she can’t do anything. The dead are just that, dead.”

She glanced down at her cup, at her reflection in the dark liquid. She looked tired. “Do you think I’ll get him out? Jason?”

“Yes.”

She looked up.

“And I’m not just saying that.” Micha smiled.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

They were silent for a few minutes. June took a big drink of her coffee and winced. The burn focused her thoughts.

“So,” she said. “What do you think is gonna happen to you? I guess you can’t hide forever.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters.”

“I guess only time will tell.”

She took another drink. The whiskey trickled down her spine and a tingling heat spread outward, over her limbs. Optimism crept in, just a little. “Yeah, I guess it will.”

“You wanna sleep in here with me now?” Micha set his cup aside.

“Like a little kid hiding from monsters in her parents’ room?”

“I’m a little freaked out, too.”

“You just want me in bed with you.”

Micha arched an eyebrow. “That bother you?”

“I feel guilty about what I did earlier. Especially now with your wife showing up.”

Micha scooted down and lay back against the pillows. He stretched out and folded his arms above his head. His T-shirt rode up, giving her a glimpse of tight, smooth skin.

“I’m just asking if you want to sleep in here so neither of us will be spooked,” he said. “What’s on your dirty mind?”

“Oh, that’s not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“That.” She gestured at his body.

Micha pulled the covers down next to him. “I promise I won’t touch you, if you feel that bad about it.”

She slid off the bed. “Screw it then. I’ll go back to the sofa.”

“You’re the one who just got all pious!”

She plunked her cup down on the bedside stand next to Micha’s. She picked his up and sniffed. The smell of whiskey filled her nostrils. Bourbon, actually. Fruitier.

“Lush.” She put the cup down. “I knew you weren’t just sipping tea.”

Micha stretched out, one arm behind his head, the other still holding the covers back. “Get in bed.”

* * * *

June awoke to sunlight and the sound of a television. She shifted and found her body both warm and comfortable, which almost made up for the light and noise. For a moment the shit-storm her life had become remained silent, her mind blissfully blank. Then she opened her eyes and all the bad stuff rushed in. Ghosts. The Institute. Jason. Bullshit.

She lifted her head and winced at the light. Apparently, fancy hotels couldn’t afford curtains after they got done making the gold toilets. But they had curtains, her bedmate apparently didn’t believe in them.

Her bedmate.

Micha lay beside her, several pillows elevating his head, covers pulled up to his chest. He held the TV remote. “Morning. I didn’t wake you with the TV, did I?”

June smacked her lips. The taste of whiskey lingered in her mouth. “What time is it?”

Micha rolled his head on the pillows and looked at the clock on the other side of him. “Eight thirty-six.”

She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her usual morning processes kicked in: the craving for nicotine, firing up like a jet engine; a few coughs to clear her lungs and remind her that if the Institute didn’t kill her, her habit would; the nagging need to empty her bladder.

“What are you watching?” She squinted at the TV. A silver-haired man was talking about reforming something while a stock ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen, next to a box showing the weather forecast. Today would be cold.

“The news,” Micha said. “It’s pretty biased here, but you take what you can get.”

June shifted and winced. She didn’t like sleeping in jeans. “Don’t worry. It’s like that everywhere.”

“The news in this city, especially when it comes to the paranormal, is incredibly biased. One way or another. It’s either long on sanctimony and short on facts, or long on criticism and short on sympathy.” He thrust the remote at the TV. “All they do is argue.”

“Those bastards.” She sat up fully.

“Aaron Jenkins will be on this morning. He wants to talk about Rose’s death, too.”

June shuffled through the layers of confusion and drama in her head to recall the name. Aaron Jenkins. Current leader of the SNC. “I don’t wanna miss that. So I’m gonna go piss and smoke.”

Micha smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

Micha chuckled. “Your bed head is cute. You look frightening and charming at the same time.”

She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair. Disgusting. Definitely shower day. If she wanted to punish Micha for being a tease, she had probably done it by marinating the bed in her funk all night. She threw the covers back and got up.

“Did you see anything last night?” Micha asked. “After you came in here?”

“Is there a puddle of piss in the bed?”

She looked around for her smokes. They were in her jacket, by the balcony door. She made a quick attempt to tug her jeans out of her crotch.