The Scent of Shadows

9

Even as a girl Olivia had a way of moving—through a room and through life—without settling very long in any one place, or at least never long enough to allow anything to really touch her. Some people thought her distracted, others called her flighty, but from a young age, watching her, I had named her Magic.

Wasn’t it magic when a woman could maintain her childlike innocence long after her childhood was over? Or believe that tragedy was an anomaly and the world really was a good place? Or that all people, despite past deeds, were essentially good, and could be redeemed? No, no matter what happened—to me, to her, to our family—the hope in her eyes had never dimmed, and the surety in her smile never faltered.

Of course, Olivia knew the effect she had on others. On men, in particular. I think she believed if it made someone happy to look at her, her job was to give them something fabulous to look at. Despite my disagreement, I was proud of her, and proud to be related to her. She was a pure light. A beacon as bright and compelling to others as a flame was to a bunch of flimsy-winged moths.

Only one other person had burned that brightly in my life. But for reasons I never understood, Ben Traina had preferred the dark.

I stumbled through the grid of familiar side streets, my eyes swollen and sandpaper dry, images of Olivia flailing in death caught like debris beneath my lids. My fatigue was so great it felt like a bowling ball was weighted on my shoulders. All the years of sweat and training and preparation had boiled down to this: I’d been useless under pressure. I’d been helpless, ineffective, deficient…and, as a consequence, Olivia was dead. Olivia was dead.

Olivia was dead.

Veering away from the Strip and the garish, flashing lights canvassing the sky, I crossed into the shadows, where apartments could be rented by the week, trash bins overflowed onto the sidewalks, and alleyways were tagged with scrawling obscenities. I noticed a vagrant asleep on some folded boxes and, thinking of Warren, stopped and leaned over him. I knew he was awake by the shallowness of his breath and by the way he shivered with the cold. I could even smell the dirty blade clutched in the fist he used as a pillow. But the man didn’t stir. He had no idea I was there, and the thought made me want to cry. Even here, among the darkest shadows in the city, I couldn’t hide from the person I’d become.

That was when I knew. No matter how long or far I walked, there was no escaping this new reality. The scents of both the living and dead would continue to reach out to me, and meanwhile I would leave nothing of myself behind.

Spotting a cab idling beneath a lamp post on Spencer Street, I crossed to it at an intersection where the night was deep enough to hide the condition of my clothing and the smudges of fatigue stamped beneath my eyes.

“You on duty?” I asked, bending to address the driver through the open window. He jumped like a catfish yanked from the water.

“Shit, lady! You scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Sorry.”

He nodded once, gruffly, swallowed to regain his composure, then stretched to see around me. “You alone?”

I nodded.

“Well, you look harmless enough.” He jerked his head toward the backseat. “Where you goin’?”

I climbed in, read him the address from the back of the card Ben had given me earlier—God, had that only been this evening?—and tried to continue looking harmless. The driver glanced back at me every once in a while, as if to reassure himself I was still there, but he didn’t try to talk, and the silence stretched between us, like the lights that elongated and snapped through the windows as we skimmed along the surface streets.

I wondered how harmless he’d consider me if I told him I knew he’d just finished a cigarette, and that less than an hour before he’d eaten a hot dog, with relish and mustard, along with a Diet Coke. Prior to dressing for work, he’d also had a quick, nonsweaty bout of sex, presumably with the woman whose ring he wore on his left hand. I looked at the dashboard and the license holding his name and photo. Ted Harris had a dog, but no children. He also had a gun tucked beneath his seat.

I could smell all of it on him.

“I think this is it,” I said. He jerked at my voice.

We pulled up to the house and I paid him with bills Warren had pressed on me before I left the motel. A homeless man with a wad of twenties in his pocket, I thought, shaking my head. Only in Vegas.

“Can you wait? Just in case no one’s home?” I asked, handing him the money through the open window. He took it gingerly, careful not to touch my fingers.

“Sure, lady,” he said, but I didn’t need to see the way his eyes flickered to tell it was a lie. I could smell the perspiration trailing down his neck. Sure enough, as soon as I started up the driveway, the wheels of the cab screeched from the curb and I was left in a cloud of burning rubber and exhaust.

I tried not to take it personally.

The house was not one of the newer tract homes, with their pastel stuccoed exteriors and five feet of space between one neighbor and the next. Ben couldn’t have lived that close to another family, I don’t think. He wasn’t even that close to his own family.

No, this was one of the boxy wood-paneled homes that’d gone up in the seventies, before land was so valuable the builders halved it, then halved it again, and Ben’s sprawling lawn and towering pines were a testament to that more generous era. Though paint could be seen peeling from the faux wood shutters, the window boxes were full of perennials, bright despite the winter chill, and the smell of fresh mulch—clean and damp and musky—reached out to me as I passed colorful pots of bronze and orange mums, dual sentries standing guard at the bottom of the concrete porch.

I paused when I got to the front door, wondering what I was really doing here. Sex was the last thing on my mind. What I truly wanted was sleep; to drift away on a tide of dreams, and wake to find that this night had been a nightmare. One that could be chalked up to something simple, like eating too close to bedtime. Reality, however, was that I had five hours left to decide whether I wanted to be some sort of twenty-first-century heroine—fighting crime on a paranormal plane against other superhuman beings, for God’s sake—or if I could somehow prevent being convicted of killing my own sister.

Tough fucking choice.

So, I raised my hand to knock, paused again, and tried the handle instead. It gave easily, with a soft snitch of the latch, and I was admitted into the womb of Ben’s home. Come, he had said. And then he’d left the door open so I could. Once inside, I was careful to lock the door behind me.

If I’d found Ben intoxicating before—the scent of him, the taste and the touch—my new enhanced senses sent my mind to whirling as soon as I entered his house. He was everywhere, and for a moment I grew so dizzy I had to lean against a wall to catch my breath. God, but he spoke to me. Ben Traina was so wound up in my soul, so intertwined with my past and the young girl I’d started out as—full of hope and innocence—that I think a part of me was expecting to find her here, as well as him. As I looked around his house, at his things, I knew that’s why I’d come. Ben was the only person left who knew me as I was really meant to be.

I did nothing to disturb the silence of the house, moving quietly through the dining room and kitchen, knowing Ben was here, somewhere, sleeping. I couldn’t help but try to scent out another woman’s presence, even if it were just a whiff of perfume long gone stale as weeks, and hopefully months, had rolled by. There was none. Just Ben, and the verdant scent from the small jungle of houseplants shooting leafy shadows at me in the dim half-light. A relieved sigh escaped me as I slipped into the living room. Halfway through, however, I stopped.

Ben, it seemed, had been doing a little reminiscing. By the gray light filtering in through a large picture window, I saw an empty bottle of Corona sitting on the coffee table, and an empty glass beside it, which still smelled of yeast and—if I inhaled deeply enough—Ben’s mouth. Next to these lay an open photo album, and I skirted the table to the other side and tilted my head, leaning in for a closer look.

There were twelve pictures in all, both sides of the open album filled. They’d been taken at different times and places, with different cameras, including the one Ben had given me for my fourteenth birthday, the one that had begun my passion for photography. The first photo taken with that camera lay on the page in front of me, a frozen moment that captured the girl I had once been.

“I knew you’d be here,” I whispered to her.

Of the others, only one drew my full attention, and I slipped it from its sleeve, hands trembling slightly, and made my way over to the window for better light. This had been taken with the same camera, though the subject was three women instead of one. Three Archers.

Olivia was barely a teen, captured with a blinding smile, the baby fat still high on her smooth cheeks, though the woman she would soon become could already be seen peering out from behind shining eyes. I was next to Olivia, and my image was such a stark contrast to the mirrored one I’d faced earlier that night that I immediately turned my attention to the third woman, staring up at me through the glow of the streetlight.

Zoe Archer was an amalgamation of Olivia and I. Dimples that flashed, Olivia’s; a watchful expression, mine. A wide and easy smile. Olivia’s. An attentiveness bordering on paranoia. Mine. Her red hair was all her own, though, and sunlight flashed golden in the strands, while the freckles dotting her nose made her look impish. Despite, I thought, the flint in her eyes.

I raised the photo across from me, trying to study it objectively. By the following spring the same picture would capture entirely different women. There would be Olivia’s determined innocence, a force so strong it would even outshine her brazen beauty. My physical power would be burgeoning, a strength born of total weakness.

And my mother? Zoe Archer wouldn’t be in the picture at all, I thought wryly. She had left before winter even swept its chill fingers over the valley.

“I have so many questions for you,” I murmured, running my finger along Zoe’s jawline. “Wherever you are.”

I considered that for a moment. My mother was alive, well, and someone knew her whereabouts. Yet she’d never bothered contacting Olivia or me, and that sat in my stomach like a ball of acid. I let the photo drop, let the memories drop away as well, and went into the bedroom to find Ben.

One object stood out more than any other in Ben’s bedroom: the bed itself, a king-sized monster with a padded leather headboard in deep mahogany, and a chocolate-colored duvet that made the whole thing appear layered in inky clouds. In it, during this, the deepest hour of night, was the man I loved. I stole up to his bedside and peered down at his face, wondering how best to wake him. After all, he was a cop, and by all evidence, used to sleeping alone. The last thing either one of us needed was for me to be looming over him when he awoke.

So I knelt by Ben’s side, breathing in the thick scent of a deeply sleeping man, and reached out to touch him. But I stopped as I caught sight of my fingers, pale in the thin light cast from the bedroom window, and I couldn’t help remembering what else they’d touched that night. A scimitar. A dead man’s body. Olivia.

I gasped at the last thought, jerked my hand away and stood in one swift motion. Ben didn’t even stir.

Like you don’t even exist.

I couldn’t wake him, not the way I was now. The last thing I wanted was to soil anything or anyone else with my touch, with what I’d become, and as I backed away, I wondered if I’d ever be clean again. My skin itched with the question. If I could have removed it, taken it from my body and bones in that moment, I would have. Instead, I settled for a shower.

For the longest time I stood under the spray, eyes closed, just letting the water scald and sting my skin. It pounded the thoughts from my head, drummed the echoes of Olivia’s screams from my ears, and washed away the filth that couldn’t be seen or scented but was seeping into my soul even now. I shook my head and refused to think about it. My muscles relaxed, my skin grew red, almost raw, and still I remained beneath the steady stream of wet heat, not wanting to move. Not ever again.

I thought I’d be too wired to relax completely, too aware of Ben’s presence in the next room, and of dawn’s steady approach, but I’d underestimated how exhausted I truly was. Somehow I managed to doze off still standing, leaning against the tiles like a beached bass waiting for another tide to come in.

I awoke to arms snaking carefully around my naked waist and a soft sigh catching in my ear. Goose bumps prickled down my neck and breasts and back, and I didn’t have to inhale to know it was Ben.

“Jo-Jo,” he said, feathering kisses along my earlobe, hands rising to cup my breasts as he moved in closer behind me. I tensed, realizing in some ultra-alert corner of my brain that I shouldn’t be doing this. I couldn’t. Not tonight, of all nights.

“Wait,” I said, half turning to him, hardly daring to meet his eyes. “We can’t.”

Ben smiled kindly, mistaking my reaction for plain-vanilla reticence, and why not? He had no idea what kind of night I’d had. He knew only that a handful of hours ago we were climbing into each other’s skin, and that now I had accepted the invitation into his home and then climbed into his shower.

“‘If we could decide who we loved, it would be much simpler, but much less magical.’”

That hit me. Not only had he just admitted he still loved me, but because he did it in the way we had when we were young, hiding behind the mask of a quotation, using someone else’s words to bolster our own softly blooming emotions.

“Who said that?” I asked, slicking my hair back with one hand as I looked up at him.

“The dudes who created South Park.”

A laugh burst out of me, strangled but strong, and I bent my head to his chest, shaking as my smile slipped into tears. For a long time Ben just held me, letting the water sluice along my shoulders and back, his hands still, chin resting on my head. He was giving me time, letting me know it’d kill him to back off now but he’d do it if that’s what I wanted.

My decision, at last, came out in a single smooth watery movement. I lifted my lips to Ben’s and released the weight of my own pain, just let it wash down the drain along with every other thought in my mind.

The soap had cleansed me, the water warmed me, but it was only with Ben’s touch that the nerve endings beneath my skin began to skirt back to life. He ran his hands down my arms, gripped my waist, then skimmed them gently along my hips. All the while he kissed me, a soft exploring pressure against my mouth that tasted like musky sunshine and was the most solid thing I’d ever known. Passion rolled through me, quaking through my core at first, then causing my limbs to curl tightly around him. The selfish and greedy part of me that still wanted to live, to thrive, even after all I’d seen and done that night, reached out to Ben, opening to him, and overrode the numbness threatening to encase my soul.

We switched places, nearly slipped, and used each other’s flesh to right ourselves again. Ben was as voracious as I was, and we laughed when we met with teeth instead of tongues, bit instead of kissed, and when we bruised instead of brushed the flesh we’d waited a decade to touch again.

He shifted, leaning back beneath the spray, and pulled me along with him. Water pounded our skin, filled our ears and our open mouths, creating trails for us to track, liquid maps laid out over our bodies. Ben followed one over my neck and down to the slope of my breast, where it paused, cresting at my nipple. There, his tongue turned lazy, lingering and teasing until I dipped my head back, moaning, and arched into his mouth and arms.

The water snapped off suddenly, Ben muttered some dark demand against my skin, and I lifted my head in time to see him blindly pushing open the shower curtain before I was lifted from the tub, wrapped in a towel, and dried in short order. He never stopped kissing me. I never stopped kissing back.

“Now you,” I finally said, pulling back to offer him the towel.

His eyes lit on my face, as dark as a banked coal. “I’m not cold.”

I dropped my gaze, inspecting his body. No, he wasn’t.

He picked up a bottle and moved toward me. I let the towel drop.

He started from the top, kissing every place he touched both before and after slicking it with lotion. He grew distracted again when he reached my breasts and, I confess, so did I. His palms were wide and warm over the sensitive skin, his thumbs and tongue earnest in their circuitous exploration. I reached for him, but he moved away, poured more lotion, then lifted one of my legs as he leaned against the counter.

“How you doing over there, Jo-Jo?” he asked as his fingers worked my instep. I dropped back against the opposite wall of the tiny bathroom and stretched my leg toward him in reply. He chuckled, his hands moving higher.

“You going to slick my whole body?” I asked as he massaged my calf in broad strokes.

“That’s the plan.” His fingers slid past my knee. Our eyes locked, and I ran my instep along his hip, then his inner thigh, opening wider to him. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking down my body, narrowing when they returned to my face. Then my leg was thrown over his shoulder so fast I was gasping before his knees hit the ground. His hands moved over the inside of my thighs, flared over my stomach, and dropped to cup me from behind. I strained toward him, and he moaned, the echo sliding through my body, humming in my thighs. I bowed back, reaching for new sensations, and this time earned twin moans from us both. The silence in the room was punctuated only by our breaths, catching and quickening, the breathy music of lovers improvising a duet.

He was feasting. More, he was watching me as he did it, eyes so dark and filled with such desperation, it was almost fierce. He licked slowly, savoring, and touched me deeper with his tongue. I moved my body into his, offering myself to him, and came a moment later with a cry that sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else entirely.

Ben dropped his head to my belly, weight pinning me while his heart thudded between my thighs. “I didn’t expect it,” he finally said, the words whispering against my stomach.

“Expect what?”

He lifted his gaze up to mine. “The sight of you. In my arms again.” He looked confused for a moment. “It’s devastating.”

I could only swallow hard at that. That, and watch him rise, our stare never breaking as he picked me up and carried me to his bed.

“I knew it,” Ben said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “I knew you’d come to me.”

He was propped up on one elbow beside me, his other hand exploring, taking his time. I nestled my head deeper into his pillow. “How? I didn’t even know.”

“I know things about you, Jo-Jo.” He smiled, and touched a finger to his breastbone. “In here. Probably things you don’t even know about yourself.”

I could have laughed at that. I could have said, “You have no clue who I really am,” and told him stories of first signs and conduits, and magic that allowed a person to walk the earth like a ghost. But I didn’t. He was too sincere, and so sure of his quiet belief in me—and in us—that I couldn’t shatter it. I wanted to believe it too.

“Like what?” I said instead. “Tell me something you know about me.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll show you.”

He leaned over, tenting his body above mine, and the hand that had been propping him up climbed into my hair. He pushed my thighs open with one of his, taking up residence in my most personal space…exactly, I thought, where he belonged. The sheets rustled around us, conforming to the new shape of our two bodies forming one, and I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply.

Ben’s scent was everywhere; on the pillowcases, in the air, clean and warm and dizzying as he bent over me. I lifted my head, pressing my lips to his, trying to coax some of that scent into myself. He kissed me back freely, unable to know what I was really seeking, but responding to the way I dug my fingers into his back, letting me set the pace. I sighed into his mouth, lifting one leg up his hip as my palms flattened and pressed over his back, and his skin was so hot it felt like I was raking burned silk.

I squeezed his bare hip with my right hand, then ran my nails along his outer thigh, my knuckles along the inner. As hard as he was, he stiffened further, and ground himself against me with a moan, trapping that hand. He moved his own fingers along my left side, half spanning my rib cage with his palm, dropping farther to my hip before settling beneath me, lifting me to him as he pressed from above.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “I want to go back a decade. I want to go back, and never let you go.”

I stilled, wondering how he could so clearly read the thoughts of my heart.

Go back. God, that sounded good. Back to being that girl who feared nothing, who was on the cusp of becoming the woman she was born to be, before God or fate or whatever personal dogma you hung your hat on intervened. I would do it too, in a nanosecond. I would go all the way back, and this time I’d protect her better. I’d never cross that midnight desert.

And that, I realized, was what I was really searching for night after night, as I snapped photos of the disenfranchised on the litter-strewn concrete streets and urinestained walls. Ben thought I was looking for the monster who’d taken a bite out of my young life. But I was really looking for her. For me.

“Okay,” I finally said, lifting my head, and freeing my hand to caress his flushed cheek as his eyes clouded. “Let’s go back now.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and began to lead me, slowly, kissing me lightly as his chest brushed my nipples, then harder as he opened me with one gliding caress, still cupping me from below. “Yes.”

He entered me smoothly, a key settling in its lock, a corner piece clicking home in a puzzle to make sense out of things not previously understood. I cried out with the rightness of it, and he dropped his forehead against mine, gasped into my mouth. And rocked.

I clasped my thighs around his waist and squeezed, then kissed him hard, and the shock I’d been in for the past few hours snapped so instantaneously that my life came flooding back to me—my life as it was meant to be, before I’d been touched by violence, or fate, or anyone and anything who wasn’t Ben Traina. That was when I knew I could face the dawn. With this to come back to, I thought, I could face anything at all.

Buried in me, Ben murmured against my cheek, infusing me with his scent and life and love…and his hope. Starved, I shifted, rolled and straddled him in one swift motion, lifting our hands so we were linked both above and below. He gazed up at me silently, his eyes twin brands regarding me brightly in the dark. The glow of the streetlight outside sent silver light skittering into the room, and our bodies were bathed with it as we set to a gliding rhythm. I could hear him, whispering to me in the silvery light, telling me things he’d bottled up for years, and in doing so, causing those years to melt into nothingness behind us.

Then, without warning, I began to shudder, the climax overcoming me in long arching waves—claiming us both—and driving us to a place that was neither in the present nor the past, but one reserved for the possible, the inevitable. The new.

“Jo-Jo?” Ben said after a bit.

“Hmm?”

“There’s one more thing I know about you.”

I cracked open one eye. “Already?”

“Not that,” he chuckled, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “No…I know you still love me.”

I looked at him fully, then just watched him watching me before nodding my mute reply.

“You always have,” he said, with full confidence. “You always will.”

I stared past him and outside the window, where dawn waited impatiently. “I guess that’s how you knew to leave the door open for me.”

“Oh, Jo-Jo,” he said, sighing sleepily as he gathered me tight to his body. “It was never closed.”

I stayed still for as long as I could. I had no desire to break Ben’s embrace because I knew these final moments for what they were. Stolen. I felt it with every second marked by the bedside clock, I marked it myself with every steady exhale Ben released beside me, and I counted the moments until dawn using the pulse that beat under my fingers at his wrist.

Ben didn’t stir when I swung my legs over the bed. Of course, he wasn’t dreading dawn the way I was. He didn’t have any heavy decisions to make about joining a supernatural underworld. I watched his eyes move beneath his lids as he battled some sort of wafting image, and then they stilled and he fell deeper into his dreams. I envied him his peace, and wished it for us both.

After dressing, I went back into the living room and called for a cab. As I gave directions to the house, my eyes strayed to the photo I’d tossed onto the coffee table. I didn’t think Ben would mind if I borrowed it for a while. I could make a copy, give him back the original, and have at least one photo of my mother, my sister, and me all together. I’d long ago torn up the rest.

I found a pad of yellow Post-its, wrote down my intentions, and pressed the note onto the empty photo sleeve. There was a bookshelf along one wall, and the lowest level was lined with albums identical to the one I held. I longed to look at them all, to savor every picture and wonder at every moment captured while I’d been somewhere else. Perhaps someday. Right now, lacking the time, I simply slipped the album I was holding back into its place and turned to leave.

That’s when I saw the camera. It wasn’t a fancy one, not like the Nikon I used for my professional work; in fact, it wasn’t even what I would consider a real camera. It was one of the throwaway kinds people bought when they forgot to bring their own on vacation with them. But it was all I had, all that was there, and I picked it up, suddenly wanting to capture this moment—the deep silence, the unsure light—everything that would change the moment I walked out of the house.

So I took the camera back to the bedroom, back where Ben had shifted to his side, his hip rising like a wave beneath the dark covers, his long legs running the length of the bed. Not wanting to risk the flash, I used the lightening sky to bring his features into relief, and when I snapped the picture, the click reported like a shot throughout the silent room. I lowered the camera to watch him sleep with my naked eye, and jumped when a horn honked outside. I should leave, I thought, before he could wake. I didn’t, though. Instead, I bit my lip and paused to consider him just a moment longer.

Just one more.

Holding my breath, I moved in closer, careful not to make a sound…not that it was necessary. I still possessed the aureole, and for a while longer, at least, I was still just another shadow layering the night.

When I was in place, Ben’s face framed by the primitive square of the cardboard lens, I stilled. Then softly, almost inaudibly, I whispered, “Ben?”

A pause, another deep inhalation, then the corner of Ben’s lips lifted ever so slightly. It was a lopsided smile, like his thoughts were only half formed, but it made me want to smile too. I clicked. I tucked the camera in my pocket. Then I left.

A sliver of sun peered over the eastern ridge of the valley, illuminating the peaks of the Black Mountains like jagged bruises against the face of the sky. The air lightened, spreading pastel swaths across the wide canvas, and I sucked in the first bright breath of dawn. After a moment’s more hesitation, I turned and strode into Room 8 of the Smoking Gun Inn, slamming the door behind me.

Warren was seated where I’d left him. I’d have wondered if he’d even moved, except there was another man with him, slouched on the edge of the bed. I ignored the newcomer and wordlessly tossed the photo I was carrying on the table in front of Warren. Only his eyes moved.

“I have three questions for you,” I said, my voice low but steady. “If I like the answers, I’ll go with you.”

A smile began to spread across his face, but I stalled it with a shake of my head. If I liked the answers.

“First, there was something Butch said to me right before midnight. Before the metamorphosis. He said I was hidden in plain sight.” I tilted my head. “What did he mean when he said ‘Xavier’s daughter, no less’?”

“Ah.” Warren spread his palms out on the table before him. “Well, he was right. Only someone as canny and talented as your mother could have pulled it off.” He leaned forward. “See, while superhuman in some areas, we still have to operate in the mortal realm. We’re bound by all the natural laws—gravity, time, place—so our job is to make other, more fluid boundaries appear normal. And we need mortals for that.”

“A front? Like when the mob used to run the casinos as a cover for money laundering?”

“Exactly! Spoken like a true Vegas girl,” he said, peering up at me in the growing light of dawn. “And in return for this guise, we give these human allies support. Sometimes it’s a transfer of power, convincing other mortals to give him or her an important place in society. Sometimes it’s a bit of physical strength where there was none before. I know of at least one mortal who won a gold medal in the last Olympics because of it. And then there are those who ask for—”

“Money,” I finished for him.

“Money,” he repeated, nodding. “Xavier is your true father’s chief contact in the mortal world. His pet, if you like. He provides a cover for the Shadow side, allowing them to exist and operate on the mortal plane, and in return he is provided all the wealth he could ever desire.”

“So by marrying Xavier, my mother was looking to infiltrate the wolf pack.”

“By marrying Xavier,” Warren corrected, “your mother was living in the wolf ’s den. And you? Everyone believed you were really Xavier’s daughter.”

It explained a lot. Xavier’s meteoric and unprecedented financial rise in the world of gaming. The pitfalls experienced by anyone who challenged his supremacy. It also explained the unmarked, unsigned note he’d received earlier in the week, and his complete unwillingness to question its origin. It came, after all, from his benefactor.

I shook my head slowly. That asshole had been a part of it all along. He’d sold his soul for money, and in doing so, contributed to his own daughter’s death.

“So, theoretically speaking,” I said, “if I did join your forces and the Zodiac troop become more powerful as a result, this would help bring Xavier down?”

“Definitely. In fact, anything with the enemy’s emblem would be open to ruin. In times of strength, like now, it’s a sign of victory. Otherwise, it’s a target.”

I frowned. “What’s his emblem?”

Warren looked amused. “He’s your mirror opposite in the astrological chart, Jo. The Shadow side of the Zodiac. Anything with the word Archer on it belongs to him.”

“So it’s like a brand?”

“It is. It warns, and it protects.” Which put Xavier under the protection of my enemy. Who knew it was possible to feel even more animosity toward the man? “What’s your second question?”

I glanced down at the photo on the table before meeting Warren’s eye. “Where is she?”

“Your mother?” He shrugged, though his shoulders had stiffened. “In hiding.”

“But she’s alive? You’re sure?” and when he nodded, I said, “But you can’t tell me where?”

“I don’t know where. Nobody does.” He paused, as if caught between two thoughts, but his expression quickly shuttered and he hurried on. “If the Shadow Archer knew where Zoe was, he’d be after her in a shot.”

“He hates her that much?”

“He hates us all, but yes,” he said softly, eyes filled with some memory. “He hates Zoe even more.”

I wanted to know why. What had she done to incur such long-held wrath? But more important right now was my third question. I took a deep breath. If Zoe had married Xavier to infiltrate the enemy’s key organization, then what had forced her to leave? I looked at the man in front of me—both crazed and sane, open and guarded, helpful and hard—and the only one who might know. Then I asked him the hardest question of all. “Was this man, my real father, responsible for the attack on me when I was sixteen?”

Warren opened his mouth, shut it again, then swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Even expecting it, the truth hit me like a lead bar. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinched the bridge of my nose between forefinger and thumb and shook my head. My blood father had had me attacked. Raped. Left for dead.

“My mother slept with this guy?” My voice cracked.

“He didn’t know you were his daughter. He still doesn’t. It…it’s complicated,” Warren said, in what was, perhaps, the understatement of the year. “And it’s not my story to tell.”

I stared at him for a long while, then nodded and returned my attention to the table. “Okay, just one more question, then. What’s the worst that can happen? To you, I mean. What would happen if these…Shadows won? If they succeeded in wiping out your troop?”

Warren’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the thought, and the other man shifted uncomfortably on the bed. They shared a look, a whole conversation passing between them in that short glance before Warren turned back to me. “Chaos, Joanna. Sodom and Gomorrah stuff. What do you think happened there? What happens whenever all lusts and baser evils go unchecked? Every man for himself. Society disintegrates, mortals become enslaved to their baser emotions. And the Shadows? They are their captors.”

I stood still and silent for another good minute before saying anything. At last I returned to the photo I’d thrown down in front of him and pointed to Zoe, the woman I’d once thought lost to me forever. “This man, this Archer, has cost me my mother.

“My sister,” I continued, moving my finger to Olivia, who really was.

“And my innocence.” I pointed to myself, then picked up the photo and handed it to him. “This city is all I have left.”

Warren looked at it for a moment before glancing up. “You realize you’d be entering a whole new realm, don’t you? A different reality. More than one, actually.”

“My reality’s already different.”

“We kill these people, these Shadows, Joanna. That’s what you’d be signing up for.”

People like Butch and Ajax. People who sent madmen after little girls in the desert. “I got it, Warren.”

“And do you think you could kill your own father if given the chance?” I nodded once. “In cold blood?”

“I’ve trained my whole life for it,” I said, and even though I’d always told myself my training had been for defense, this was the truth.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Warren nodded. “I can give you that chance.”

“And so the hunter becomes the hunted.” I smiled wryly as I threw his own words back at him, and held out a hand to shake. “You’ve got yourself a heroine.”

Warren ignored the hand. Instead, with tears suddenly springing into his eyes, he leapt from his chair and plowed full force into my arms. I staggered backward, and the other man, silent all this time, caught my eye over Warren’s shoulder and shrugged.

“Okay, okay,” I said, pulling away. “Sheesh.”

“Did you hear? The first sign has come to pass,” Warren said, turning to the other man. “She’ll do it. She’ll join us.”

The man simply nodded. He was beefy, but not in the hard way that Butch had been. More like Santa Claus, I supposed, if Santa had lived in Vegas.

Warren turned back to face me. “This is our witness from the troop’s council. He’s just here to make sure you’re joining us of your own free will, and haven’t been coerced in any way.”

I looked at him blankly. “You’re joking, right?”

“Under any direct duress from me, I mean.” He smiled self-consciously, wringing his hands. “I didn’t twist your arm or knock you around or anything, did I?”

“No.” I turned to the man. “He didn’t.”

“Good enough for you?” Warren asked impatiently. The man nodded and rose. Ah, there was the difference between him and Santa. He was nearly seven feet tall. “Oh, but where are my manners? Micah, this is Joanna. Jo, Micah.”

How did I know he wouldn’t have a nice, normal name like Bob or Joe? “Nice to meet you,” I said, holding out a hand.

Micah, the behemoth, finally spoke. “I hope you still feel that way when you wake up.”

“Wake up?”

The blow came from the side, and caught me on the back of my neck. My legs folded neatly beneath me, and as my eyes rolled into my head I saw Micah looming above me with a steel baton in his hand. I had only a second to think he was faster than he looked before Warren caught me beneath the arms, his lips close to my ear.

“Remember,” I heard him say, “we all become who we need to in order to survive.”

Then his voice, his image, and his scent all swam away on a final wave of incoherence and mercifully dulling pain.