Whatever happened after she got snatched, it sure as fuck did a number on her. Granted, she still was pretty fine in the looks department, but she wasn't twenty-five anymore. She couldn't even pass for thirty.
Plus, it was clear there was no way in hell Esher was going to be able to scrub that kid out of her mind. If she responded that strongly tonight, after a steady diet of dust, then she was never going to give that part of herself up. If it was his call to make, he'd walk into that bedroom of hers and pop a cap in her fuckin'
skull and get it over with. But that would be a fool thing to do. After all, he'd signed a contract with the vampire-wizard in his own blood. And he knew what happened to those who reneged on their contracts.
Fear for his life aside, Obeah prided himself on his loyalty. And despite the pain and humiliation he'd suffered at Esher's hands, he still held the man in awe. Besides, he had come too far to abandon his liege-lord now. He was too old to be anything except what he'd always been—a killer. A taste for brutality and an inborn obedience to the biggest dog with the strongest teeth had been part of him all his life. His soul was the devil's, part and parcel, just as his mama said, and it was too late to try and backpedal on the deal he'd made. He was in until the end—be it his or Esher's.
He glanced over to where Webb normally sat and shifted uneasily. There was something bothering him about the kidnapping, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Still, it nagged at the back of his brain like a popcorn shell wedged between his teeth. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. The last he saw of Webb was the soles of his boots as he was yanked from the moving car's window. But there was something else, wasn't there? Something he saw but did not see.
He'd always been in awe of and worried by the Kindred ability to ghostwalk. That was why Decima usually rode with them to and from the safe-house. Although humans normally couldn't see a vampire while it was ghostwalking, another vampire could. That was why the only time they were really bodyguards was during the drive in the Batmobile.
But Obeah had personally spoken with the guede, the spirits of the dead, and been ridden by the loa, the god-forces of ancient Africa. A man does not undergo such experiences and remain the same as other men. The gods leave something of themselves behind—a heightened awareness, a touch of second sight, that the bokor could call upon in times of need. He knew now that he had seen something in the moments just before and after the crash, but what?
Obeah reached down and caressed the handle of his machete. The weapon leaned against the right side of the chair, balanced on its edge so it was within easy reach. The handle was of finest mahogany and had been presented to him in a special ceremony by Papa Doc himself. It was Obeah's most prized possession.
There was a knock on the door. Obeah grimaced and glanced at his watch again. It was nearly sunrise, so whatever was on the other side probably was human. Grimacing in pain, he pulled himself out of the chair, doing his best to keep from losing his balance or blacking out. The makeshift splint did little to help his mobility. He hobbled toward the door as the pounding grew louder, his machete clutched in one hand, a 9mm semiautomatic complete with a clip of phosphorus bullets tucked into his waistband.
"I'm coming! Keep your shirt on!" he grumbled. Obeah put his eye to the spyhole set in the door and
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) grunted in surprise. The visitor was Kindred—the new one with the sunglasses. Esher rarely sent vampires to the safe-house. It was kind of like posting bears to guard the honeycomb.
Scowling suspiciously, Obeah threw back the five deadbolts and opened the door, although he left on the two-inch-thick security chain.
"Whatchoo want?" he growled.
"Esher sent me. It's an emergency!" She held up a gym bag at eye level. "I'm supposed to give her some elixir he whipped up that'll reverse the aging. She has to receive it before the dawn."
"How come he didn't call first to tell me you were coming?"
"Your cellular phone got trashed in the crash—remember?"
"Sorry. I forgot." Satisfied, Obeah removed the chain and let the stranger in. She glanced around the front parlor and kitchen as Obeah relocked the door.
"Where's Nikola?"
"Asleep in her bedroom," Obeah grunted, pointing at the door at the other end of the parlor.
"They find a replacement for Webb yet?" she asked as she moved ahead of him into the apartment.
"No. Not yet."
"Shame. You need a partner on a detail like this." She turned as she said that, and there was something in the way her body moved that triggered a memory deep within Obeah's brain. He was back on the street, sprawled among the busted safety glass. There was blood in his face, blood in his mouth, blood in his eyes. As he lay there, suspended between the boundary of the conscious and unconscious worlds, he looked up through a scrim of red pain—and saw something hovering over him. Something blurred about the edges, like a well-thumbed photograph. The impression he had, before the darkness claimed him, was that the thing had eyes of mirrored glass.
"You! It was you!" he bellowed as he swung the machete.
The stranger raised her left hand to block the blow, growling like an angered panther. She was on him in less than a heartbeat, knocking the machete out of his hand with her gym bag. Obeah screamed in pain as he fell to the floor, his injured leg pinned under him. The stranger quickly stood with one boot planted on the bokor's throat, the heel resting on his larynx. She plucked the 9mm from his waistband and checked the clip, then slapped it back into place.
She glanced down at Obeah, who was struggling to breathe and pray to his gods. She was tempted to drain him—the plasma she'd consumed earlier did little more than whet her appetite—but she didn't want to leave any evidence behind of a Kindred kill. It was better for Esher to think it the handiwork of a Black Spoons hit team.
She removed her boot from Obeah's neck and flipped him over onto his belly with a single kick.
Although the pain must have been immense, all he could manage was a low, despairing moan. Obeah had been on enough death squads to know what would happen next. His last thought before the bullet entered the back of his skull was that he wished he could tell his mother he was sorry for disappointing her.
The stranger walked to the door of Nikola's bedroom. She tried the knob and found it was unlocked.
"Nikola?"
No answer.
She entered cautiously.
The interior of the room was utterly dark, since the windows were painted opaque and all light-fixtures had been removed. Apparently Esher wanted his bride to grow accustomed to her forthcoming exile from the sun. The lack of light meant nothing to the stranger, since she could see as clearly as if it were high noon—even with her shades on. The darkened room was decorated completely in white—white plush rugs, white curtains, white vanity table, white dresser and chiffarobe. And curled in the middle of the circular king-size bed, with the white satin sheets and bedspread pulled around her like a cocoon, was Nikola.
The stranger set her gym bag down on the floor at the foot of the bed and nudged the mound under the sheets. "Nikola—? Wake up."
The lump under the covers made a noise and squirmed slightly, as if trying to crawl away, then went still. The stranger grabbed the edge of the mattress and tilted it, rolling Nikola out of the bed and onto the floor. She lay there, naked except for a pair of white lace panties, her head lolling back and forth like a doll's.
"Time t'dance awreddddy?" she moaned, peering groggily through sleep-swollen eyes.
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) The stranger grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to her feet. "C'mon, Nikola! It's time to go! I'm busting you out of here!" She strode to the chiffarobe, pulling the drugged woman behind her like a toy on a string, and began tossing clothes onto the bed. She let go of Nikola's hand and opened the gym bag, removing the dozen black roses. She tossed the bouquet onto the bed, so that it landed near the headboard.
She stuffed a few pieces of Nikola's wardrobe into the bag, then turned to speak to the dancer— only to find Nikola slumped on the floor, curled in a fetal position. She knelt beside her and shook her shoulders vigorously.
"Nikola—c'mon! You can do better than this! You've got to! Do you want Ryan to see you this way?"
"Ryan?" Her eyelids flickered and she raised her head weakly. "Ryan's here?"
"No, but if you want to see him, you have to do as I say, Nikola. Do you want to be with Ryan?"
"Yesss."
"Then prove it to me. Get up and get dressed."
The dancer struggled to her feet. She was wobbly, but otherwise focused. She pulled a one-piece white satin dress with a plunging neckline over her head, then stepped into a pair of white stiletto heels. Once she was dressed, the stranger took her by the hand and led her into the parlor. Nikola blinked at the sunlight flooding the room and raised a pale hand to her face. The skin around her eyes was puffy and purplish-pink, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she blinked rapidly. It was the first time she'd seen daylight in months.
The stranger steered her around Obeah's body and toward the door. If Nikola noticed her former bodyguard's corpse, she didn't respond. Nor did she show any emotion upon spotting the half-dozen Pointers sprawled on the sidewalk and stairs.
"Where's Ryan?" Nikola asked, looking up and down the street.
"He's waiting for you at a friend's house."
***
"Mama!" Ryan squealed. He scampered out from under the sink and literally jumped into his mother's arms. Nikola staggered under the weight, but did not fall. She returned her son's hug, burying her face in his hair.
Cloudy leaned over and whispered, "Are you sure that's the right woman?"
"Sure as I'm standing here."
"What the hell happened to her? I mean—she looks like she's aged ten years!"
The stranger coughed into her fist and looked a little embarrassed. "That's because she has. I made the mistake of taking her with me when I went into overdrive. I knew Celerity was stressful on Kindred systems, but I never dreamed it would—anyway, the upshot was that she literally aged a year or more for every minute I spent ghostwalking. I wish I could undo the damage, but there's nothing that can be done."
"You lost me on that one, lady," Cloudy said shaking his head. "I thought living in Deadtown was strange enough—but since I've met you, you've introduced me to several new flavors of weird!"
"Cloudy! Cloudy! This is my mom!" Ryan held his mother's hand and reached out to his friend with the other.
Cloudy tried to smile and stepped forward, extending his hand to Nikola, who was staring at him like a doe at a watering hole. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Ryan's done nothing but talk about you since I met him. My name's Edward McLeod."
"You—you've been looking after my boy?"
"When he lets me."
Nikola smiled then, and something of the woman she must have been glimmered in her eyes. She took Cloudy's hand and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for taking care of him. How can I repay you for what you've done?"
"You don't have to, ma'am. I did what I felt I had to, nothing more. Karma, y'know?"
"Look, I hate to break up the happy reunion, but there's not much time left," announced the stranger. "If we're going to smuggle you out of Deadtown, it has to be when the Kindred are down for the day and the majority of their human servitors aren't up and about yet. Which means we've only got an hour or two at the most." She turned to Cloudy. "Where's the money I left with you for safekeeping?"
Cloudy disappeared among the haphazard stacks of old books and returned a moment later, lugging an
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) Oxford English Dictionary. He flipped open the cover to reveal the hollow interior and the money stashed inside. "I always figured a thief would never think of looking in a book—much less a dictionary," he grinned.
The stranger unzipped the gym bag and began stuffing the money in along with Nikola's clothes. "I got three hundred thou for the cocaine I ripped off from Esher. I'm giving you a hundred thousand cash. I figure that's enough to get you as far from Deadtown as possible and set you up in a new life. One where you won't have to worry about where your next paycheck's coming from for a long time and you don't have to work at night and leave Ryan by himself. I'm giving Cloudy fifty for his trouble—that okay with you, man?
"You don't hear me complaining!"
"Didn't think I would. The rest I'm keeping for myself. I don't do this crap for free, y'know."
Nikola looked at the contents of the bag and back up at the stranger. She seemed stunned, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the money or the drugs in her system. She blinked and shook her head, as if trying to wake herself. "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"
The stranger's mirrored gaze dropped to Ryan's upturned face, then to her boots. "Maybe it's because—you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who needed help once—and there was no one there to give it."
Nikola looked at the stranger for a long moment, then glanced at her son, smoothing his hair back from his pale, wide brow. "I owe you my life, my soul—and my son. May God bless you for all you've done."
The stranger's smile was thin as a paper cut. "I'm afraid that's out of the question."
"Jumpin' Jesus—! When did you do that?" blurted Cloudy.
The stranger glanced down at her left hand—and noticed for the first time that she was missing her entire left pinkie and ring finger up to the second joint. She splayed her fingers, studying the wound. She had to give Obeah credit—the machete was so sharp and his slice so quick, she never even realized he'd landed a blow.