“Mother ofâ” she groaned, her lids lifting as her face contracted in a wince.
“They're gone now,” he said. Long gone.
She laboriously shifted up onto an elbow, then must have perceived her partial nakedness, because she scuttled back toward the concrete wall pulling her shirt down. Expression tight with shame and anger, she said, “Who are you?”
Simple question, yet he had no answer to give. Kathleen's “Shadowman” would sound absurd to Layla's ear. Instead, he asked, “Can you stand? My place is just there.” He lifted a hand toward the warehouse. “You would be comfortable, and we could call”âthis was a gamble, for he had no modern contrivances to make good on the offerâ“for aid.”
She lifted herself along the wall to standing and held up the palm of a scraped hand. “Just stay back.”
“I will not harm you.” He allowed her a very small distance between them. “We can summon the”âwhat did they call them in this age?â“police.”
“Police.” She nodded agreement, visibly swallowing. “Police would be good. Those guys can't have gone far.”
He gestured to the building.
“Right.” Layla lurched into a walk, glancing once furtively over her shoulder and murmuring, “Had the weirdest nightmares.”
“You hit your head.” He felt her internal denial, then a surge of determination as she attempted to collect her confused impressions into some other order. The gate, her moments in Kathleen's fairy-tale fantasyâyes, with a spark of desire that made him fight a grin. Then her frustration. The only reasonable answer was the one he was giving her, and Layla, he'd discovered, preferred reason whereas Kathleen lived for dreams.
She stopped at the door, gaze dropped on the knob. What had been broken, he'd used Shadow to make whole again, though only in appearance. He had no lasting hold in the mortal world. Now he was using everything he had to hold his body.
She stepped back, shaking her head. Disquiet and confusion infused the air. “I don't want to go in there.”
Of course she didn't. The last time she had, she'd faced a gate to Hell. Touched it and released something evil. But the gate was gone, now in the angels' keeping.
“You need to sit down,” he said, reaching around her and twisting the knob. He pushed the door open to let her view the changed interior.
She startled, swayed, and grabbed for the door frame. He would never let her fall.
“You had better go inside.”
Still she hesitated. This was the moment she would have to decide what was real and what was false. Would she hold to the memory of the bare, dirty space and the hellish gate, or would she take this more reasonable illusion, made from a glossy image in a moldered magazine scrap: “Bachelor Pad Goes Old World.”
“Who did you say you were?”
“I'm an artist,” he answered. That's what Kathleen had been.
“I meant your name.”
He had none to give but Shadowman and variations of Death, neither acceptable. He needed something else, and fortunately he had a great catalogue from which to chooseâthe names of the souls he'd taken into his keeping, however briefly, as they crossed from the mortal world, through faery Twilight, to the Hereafter. One stood out: a fighter, a leader, a gambler, and cunning enough to challenge Death.
“Khan.”
Layla snorted. “As in Genghis?”
Yes.
But instead he lied. The fae were excellent deceivers. “It is common enough where I come from.”
And so he became Khan, artist. It was much better than the alternative, Death. If he could not control his Shadows, that's exactly who he would be.
Layla stepped over the threshold, looking around to take in the trappings of his residence. He had to admit, the style, drenched in the memory of the old world, suited him. The furniture was framed in thick, scrolled wood. The fabrics were rich with deep color: burgundy, royal blues, and burnt golds. A large medieval tapestry hung on the wall, its roaring lions and crest faded with time. Candlesticks littered a nearby table, upon which a map was unfurled, the unknown expanses of sea and land marked by monsters. Holding the corners down were a stack of books and the sculpted head of Buddha, the “awakened one.”
Layla wrapped her arms around herself. “How can you live here? Eventually someone's going to rob you. Aren't you afraid you'll be murdered in your sleep?”
Khan smiled. “I am in no danger. For the most part”â
you being the exception
â“I've been left alone. May I ask why you ventured into such a dangerous area?”
“Insanity.” She fidgeted in place, worrying the frayed neckline of her shirt. “You didn't happen to see my coat or bag outside, did you?”
He had, and he'd put them aside. “No.”
“Well, can I use your phone?” She looked around again, as if searching for it.
She'd chosen reality, and now he had to produce it. Khan reached for Shadow and mentally exhaled, and the object materialized in his palm. He lifted the phone, as if from a pocket, and held it out, saying, “Really, why are you here?” He needed her to acknowledge some small part of their connection, the pull that had drawn her to him.
She took the phone, concentrating on its face. “Wraiths. I'm doing a story on them.”
“I don't understand.” The gate hadn't called her?
“I'm a journalist. I got a lead that the source of the wraiths might be here, so I decided to check it out.” She hit the buttons with growing frustration. “How do you power this thing on?”
Wraiths. The cursed empty husks of used-to-be people. They plagued his daughter and her family but would not venture near Death. They'd given their souls for immortality, but he could still cast them out of the world. This warehouse was likely the safest structure on Earth from wraiths.
“I think it's dead,” she concluded. Of course it was; the phone was a good facsimile, but he could not simulate the energy it required, nor the signals she needed it to send. “Do you have a landline?”
“I'm sorry, I don't.” If indeed she came for information on the wraiths, another great power had to have directed her his way. Because he could not believe, not for a moment, that she was here by chance. Not his Kathleen.
“Well, is there a pay phone nearby? Without my keys, I'll need to call a locksmith or tow truck for my car.”
“What car?” The source that had brought her here had to be a formidable power, the same that had cut her lifeline, even as she was delivered, once again, to him. Moira.
Layla half turned toward the door. “It's just up the block.”
He gave a little shake of his head. The vehicle was there, but his Shadow concealed it.
“Oh no,” she said, whirling to the door and out to the sidewalk, staring down its length. Her hands went into her hair, disbelief and anger radiating out of her. “Stole my piece-of-crap car. My camera was in there. Damn it!”
Fate was meddling in Kathleen's life again. And thus their story would begin anew: Kathleen, no,
Layla,
on the brink of death, and he, powerless to stop it. But this time, Layla had no idea who or what he was.
“I think I can help,” Khan said. This Layla was a resourceful woman. Sooner or later, she would find a way out of her predicament. Probably sooner.
“Not if you don't have a phone, you can't.” Her smile was at odds with the irritation that sparked around her.
“I meant the wraiths,” he clarified. If information would hold her here, so be it. “I know who made them, and why.”
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Layla took a few steps back inside the warehouse. “Excuse me?”
Her gut told her that Khan was just saying what he thought she wanted to hear. He'd have to offer something solid before she'd believe a word he said. Something was off about him, about the room, about her memory. She didn't always trust her senses, which occasionally produced some odd spectacles, especially lately, but her instincts were usually dead-on.
Khan stripped off his slim-fitting black leather jacket and tossed it across a fat chair. The long-sleeve gray shirt beneath was molded to his body, while the cut of his slacks skimmed over his admirable physique. His build was long and tall, thickening just enough for bulk and tone. His features were foreign, almost Asian, uncanny eyes glinting, but with Western dimensions and sculpting. And in this light, his skin had the faint teak of some other nationality.
Again she was aggravated by a sense of displaced familiarity. He was beyond hotâhe was lust-ciousâso if she'd seen this man before, she was sure she'd remember him. She'd sure remember the curl of want in her belly and the finger tingles that urged her to stroke his ridiculously long hair. He wasn't even her type.
“You don't believe me?” He raised a brow. The tilt of his head sent that black hair sliding over his shoulder, and she had to admit it suited him. Some women might like it. Some men, probably, too.
She shrugged. “I'm listening.”
He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “I can't tell you much, as most of what occurred must remain secret, but I will say that the spread of the wraiths halted two years ago because Talia Kathleen Thorne killed their maker.”
Layla's mind briefly flashed blank in shock, then worked furiously to assimilate and judge his statement. The wraith spread did seem to halt about two years ago. But the rest? Talia had killed someone? Could it be true? Was that the reason Adam Thorne kept her hidden from the public?
“You know Talia Thorne?”
“Certainly.” He smiled a bit. Drew out the moment as if to prick her interest.
“How?” Her interest was pricked already.
“I'm her father.”
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Rose Petty dug her nails into a rotting wood post, slipped on the slimy wet mud, and buried splinters in her hands and bare feet as she climbed from the river. She crawled onto a ratty dock on her elbows, her hands too bloody to hold her weight, and collapsed into a fetal position. Her naked body quivered in the chilly air and her teeth chattered
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat.
Stupid, stupid. She never should have made for the river. The burn of her reformation had been excruciating, but no water could possibly douse it. She'd only drown herself and die forever
.
That's what you risked when you came back. Soul dead. Even Hell was better, not that she'd ever belonged there. If she'd screamed it once, she'd screamed it a thousand times: There'd been a mistake. She had to do those things. It was self-defense. She didn't belong in Hell.
Never mind. She was out now. No rivers. Lesson learned.
Her new body shook with the coldâ
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat.
Her muscles cramped in contraction. Gooseflesh swept viciously across her skin.
Warm. She had to get warm.
Trembling, she pulled her feet beneath her, pushed herself up a bit by her wrists, and careened to standing.
Docks. An empty gray expanse lay before her, dotted with orange and blue cargo containers piled up among rotting pallets, decaying in the cold, wet air.
She needed clothes. Shelter. Food.
She wiped her running nose on the back of her damp arm and stumbled forward. Across the lot she could make out a door. An office.
Okay, knock on that door, get help. Get warm,
she told herself.
Sheeeiiiiit, nice little piece of ass.
Rose turned, belly clutching, and put an arm across her breasts and a shaking hand splayed at her crotch as she looked for the voice. Saw no one.
Pretty titties, too. Gots to get me some o'that.
What theâ? She stopped herself before she swore; a lady didn't swear, no matter how pressed. But this was too strange: The voice was in her head, though not hers. Like maybe her mind got wired wrong when her body reformed itself. Or maybe she just came back different.
Her gaze flicked from glinting window to dull doorway, but she found the source sitting in a car, lighting up a cigarette. A paunchy old man, skin going yellow.
Tsk. Tsk.
Probably too much drink. Had to be him, what with the way his beady eyes stared at her. Maybe this mind-reading trick was okay. Might just be useful. It revealed what she already knew. That he was no gentleman. He was sick and low to think of her like that.
Girl's got all the right parts.
How dare he? Anger ran hot through her veins, warming her just enough to loosen her stride. A woman drags herself naked and bleeding out of the river and the man can't get off his lazy behind to help? Maybe lend his coat? She could get sick and die (forever).
His clothes would do. He certainly didn't deserve them. The car meant shelter and transportation, too. Get her out of this awful place. She limped toward him, dropped her covering arm and hand when she got near the car so he could get one last good look.