The Taste Of Night

6

Ever since Steve Wynn single-handedly revitalized the casino industry with the 1989 opening of the Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas had experienced a growth like that of a pygmy into a sumo wrestler. The stretch marks could be seen in beltways and housing tracts spreading throughout the valley, and navigating these thoroughfares-though they were always in construction so could never truly be called thorough-really did resemble a combat sport. One made that much more challenging when you added in 110-degree heat.

This afternoon Mother Nature was taking a test drive at summer. The wide sky screamed with sun, and the heat radiating against my Porsche-a recent gift from Xavier-was felt even from within the confines of its air-conditioned cabin. It wasn’t the full frontal beating the valley would take under a midsummer sun, but soon. Very soon.

I’d dressed casually for the day, throwing on summer-weight jeans that cost just under two hundred bucks but looked like they’d spent some serious floor time down at the Salvation Army. I added slide-on sneakers and a fitted top, switched out the bag I’d been carrying the night before, and pulled my blond mane back into a high ponytail that shone and swished when I walked. I left my face bare but for sunscreen, but the effect was still dizzying. I swear, sometimes I felt like I was dressing a life-sized Barbie.

I pulled into a nondescript strip mall-the kind that could’ve sprouted up in any town, anywhere-swerving sharply in front of the blare of oncoming traffic, and narrowly missing a teenage skateboarder who’d decided to use the shopping center’s paint-chipped handrails as a training facility for the X Games. Miscreant, I wanted to yell, but didn’t because I was afraid I’d sound like my mother. Or, rather, an approximation of somebody else’s mother. Mine was a miscreant too.

I turned off the car and stared up at the building that housed Master Comics. It looked innocuous enough from the outside, just another comic book and card shop for angsty teens and shifty-eyed adults. But this was where the manuals depicting the actions of both Shadow and Light were sold, and, I’d discovered, where they were created. The store’s owner, Zane Silver, wrote both lines of comics, recording the two sides’ quest for dominance over city politics, community mores, and personal power, though technically we-the valley’s heroes and villains-were the creators. We fought our very real battles between good and evil, and the next week our derring-dos ended up on the pages of graphic novels to thrill the voracious reading appetites of gullible preteens everywhere.

There was no way to tell if Joaquin was already here or not. Mine was the only car in the lot, and other than the aforementioned teen-currently riding a storefront railing the way a pro surfer would ride a wave-there was nobody else in sight. But I was early. I stepped from the car, thinking I’d settle in and have a deadly little surprise waiting for Joaquin when he swung in the door.

Entering the shop, I let the glass door jangle shut behind me, the air-conditioning muting the sounds of traffic, as well as the gratifying yelp of the skateboarder as he took a hard tumble. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the outdoor glare to the dim interior, but when they did I saw a handful of teens scattered about the shop, all looking my way.

There was an Asian girl I didn’t recognize looking up at me with eyes as wide as the heroine on the manga she was holding, a threesome of boys who couldn’t have been more than ten poring over some sensational find in the store’s far corner, and the rest were the usual suspects. As one of them trotted toward me, I shot Zane-the only adult-a half wave. He grunted in response and turned back to the paperwork splayed next to the register.

“Hey, Archer.” Carl Kenyon was a shrewd-eyed boy verging on gangly, and just strange enough that every time I saw him I felt like saying, Take me to your leader. He was also the penciler for the Zodiac series, a seriously talented kid with a dubious sense of humor and an astounding knowledge of the complex ethos behind every comic series ever made. For some reason he’d taken a liking to me. I looked him over, from his black Converse high-tops, striped pants, and white T-shirt declaring I’M A LOVER. NOT A FIGHTER. His hair was plastered in yesteryear’s faux-hawk, a fashion miscue I forgave since he’d given it his own twist, forming two rows of spikes along his skull instead of one.

At least, I noted, he’d grown out of his fondness for excessive body hair. And, as wary as I was about Joaquin’s imminent arrival, I was happy to see Carl. I guess he’d grown on me too.

“Hey, Carl. What’s up with the ’do?”

“Thought I’d try something new,” he said, touching the spike tips gently with inkstained fingers. “What do you think?”

“I think you look like the spawn of Satan.”

“Yeah, and you still look like my brother’s favorite blowup doll.”

“Speaking of, what’s the deal with the size of my breasts in last month’s manual?” He’d drawn me so top heavy a stiff wind could have knocked me off balance.

“Creative license,” he said with a shrug.

“A little too creative.”

“Well, I have to do something. Ever since your side and the Shadows called this unspoken truce-which is totally lame, by the way-it’s been hell to keep reader interest.”

“Can’t you just make something up?”

“Like what?”

I thought for a moment. “Give the Shadow Aries a strange itching sensation down there. While you’re at it, make their Gemini accidentally chop off her own hair with her machete. Mangle it too. She’ll really have to do it for continuity’s sake.”

Carl grinned and held up a hand to high-five me, but when I responded in kind, he drew back, frowning. “What’s that?”

I glanced down and spotted the scar on my left bicep. Damn. It was the wound Liam had given me before I’d killed him. I covered it up without answering.

“How’d you get a new scar?” Carl persisted.

“It’s not a scar,” I said.

Carl turned to Zane. “Is it a scar, Zane?”

Zane didn’t look up. “Yep.”

I glared at him.

Carl looked back at me. “How’d you get it?”

I clenched my teeth. “I cut myself on one of my arrows.”

Carl wrinkled his nose in disbelief and glanced back over his shoulder. “How’d she get it, Zane?”

Zane, bulbous body still hunched over his work, did look up this time, and he met my eyes with malicious glee. “She crossed over into an alternate reality, chased a Shadow agent throughout Valhalla, where she was ambushed, cut, and somehow still managed to survive.”

The other kids, who’d been inching forward during this telling, started throwing questions at me all at once. They were like prepubescent rioters. I felt the urge to retreat as their stinky little bodies pressed up against mine.

“You gonna give them milk and cookies before you put them down for their naps too?” I asked Zane. Actually I snarled. Didn’t faze him, though. He just shrugged, reached for his work so I could see the sweat stains circling his pits, and kept writing. Which left me to deal with the Lost Boys.

I felt a tentative tug on my arms, and looked down to find the small Asian girl looking up at me, concern brimming in her large eyes. “You were injured?”

One of the older boys shoved her out of the way. “She was almost killed, dude. Nothing can scar an agent except a conduit.”

“That’s cool,” his bald twin added.

“I wish I could cross into other realities,” one of the ten-year-olds threw in, and I rolled my eyes.

“I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me,” Carl said over them all, his voice filled with hurt as he shook his head. He lifted up my sleeve to get a better look. “How’m I supposed to draw you accurately if you don’t tell me these things?”

I slapped his hand away. “You’d find out from Zane’s storyline soon enough, anyway.”

They all looked to Zane. He sighed and put down his pen, leaning back so his substantial weight was propped against a glass case. I feared for the case. “Actually, he wouldn’t have. Everything that happened from the time you entered the aquarium to the time you woke up this morning…never happened.”

“I don’t understand,” the girl said softly, tilting her head.

“I don’t either,” the twins said together, then grinned at each other.

Carl scratched his head.

“I do.”

We all turned to the back of the shop, where a lone figure rose from his chair, thin and pale and wavering like a snake under a charmer’s spell. Sebastian, I thought, my lips curling. The little freak. Actually the big freak now. He’d grown a whole foot in the months I’d known him, and his bones seemed to rattle in his skin as he stepped toward us, eyes never leaving mine. For some reason the kid had never liked me.

“What do you know, Sebastian?” Zane asked him. I glared at him, but he only shrugged back, a half smile lifting one fat cheek.

“She,” Sebastian yelled, pointing a finger at me, “is hiding something! She doesn’t want anyone to know how she got the scar because she doesn’t want anyone to know what she was doing in the aquarium last night!”

“But you’re an agent of Light,” said one of the bald twins. “What could you have to hide?”

“Did you fulfill the second sign of the Zodiac? Will all the Shadows die on a cursed battlefield?”

Obviously a reader of the manuals of Light.

“Or did you finally jump to the Shadow side?”

“Dude! I told you she would! You owe me five trading cards!”

“Or did you find your mother?” the girl asked, peering up at me sweetly.

“Did you get it on with one of the underwater divers in the kelp forest?” Carl asked, nudging me in the side.

I looked at him.

He grinned. “A boy can dream.”

“No!” Sebastian yelled, slamming his fist down so hard on a glass case I thought I heard the top crack. “You idiots! There’s only one way to wipe out an entire block of time so it can’t be recorded in the manuals. Only one way you can disappear for twelve straight hours and nobody know where you are, who you are, or what you’re-”

He didn’t get to finish. The others had all turned back to me, and Carl’s fist shot into the air. “The aureole!” they all yelled together.

The twins started hopping around, I think they were trying to dance, and the girl began clapping madly, her face a mixture of delight and hero worship as she gazed up at me.

“Man, the aureole,” Carl said, shaking his head. “Good job, Archer. Two times in six months. That must be some sort of record, huh, Zane?”

“The aureole,” Zane repeated in a whisper, nodding to himself as he turned back to his work. I should have known I couldn’t keep it a secret.

“How long do I have?” I said, crossing to stand in front of him, a half-dozen kids trailing me like I was the Pied Piper.

“Before this issue comes out?” he asked, pointing to the pages in front of him. He was writing it already? “Two weeks Wednesday. I might be able to delay it until Thursday, but that’s all.”

Two weeks before the entire Zodiac found out I’d killed Liam with his own weapon…when I wasn’t supposed to be chasing the Shadows at all. And once the Shadows found out-which might be any minute if these little brats kept yelling their heads off-it would totally jack up the cosmic balance. Warren would not be pleased.

“So who’d you kill, Archer? Was it Zell? Or Dawn? Or Sloane, the Shadow Goat?”

“Oh yeah. That Capricorn bitch totally needs to die.” The boys high-fived one another.

I agreed, but shot them a hard look anyway. “Guess you just have to wait and read the book.”

A chorus of protests met this announcement, but I ignored them and headed to the back of the shop. There was an alcove next to the manuals that was the perfect spot to lie in wait for Joaquin.

Sebastian had returned to his usual chair, and was using a newspaper to shield his face from my view. I flicked it as I passed, which made him jump and fling a few F-bombs my way, but I just smirked and kept on walking.

The shop was elongated, each wall filled with floor-to-ceiling comics, with an entire section devoted solely to manga. The collectibles, action figures, and model kits were grouped together, and there was an extensive DVD collection filling the back wall. I stopped in front of a wooden cabinet with glass doors and studied the two carousels of comic books locked inside. The only other books that were locked up this tight were the collectibles, and Zane kept those near the register, right under his nose. Carl pulled up behind me with the key he’d fetched from behind the counter.

“You want the newest manuals?” he asked, unlocking the case. “I don’t think you’ve seen Shadow Sanctuary: Portal to Hell or The Might of Light: Warren’s Return.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll take those, and…” I hesitated, sneaking a peek at my watch. I was still five minutes early. Joaquin would be here, or he wouldn’t, but I could kill two birds with one stone…if I was quick about it.

“And?” he prompted.

“And I’m looking for some back issues too.”

He chuckled darkly. “The classics are going to cost ya.”

“Not that far back. I just want to find out about the last Cancerian star sign.”

“Shadow or Light?” I had the feeling Carl got off on asking me that question. I hated being reminded of my Shadow side-as if I could ever forget-but as the only agent who was both, I was also the only one who could touch both series of manuals. Try to pick up a manual that didn’t belong to your troop, and you’d get a shock that made sticking a finger in a light socket…well, child’s play.

Anyway, the inability to read our enemies’ actions kept the playing ground relatively even, Warren’s beloved “cosmic balance.” The manuals also had a kind of fail-safe mode, a way of depicting an agent’s life and actions while excluding details that might compromise that balance.

For example, in my case they revealed what the interior of my home looked like, but not where it was, or that it was located in a high-rise. They also referred to me as either Joanna, or The Archer, but they didn’t use my full name, and never, ever my hidden one. This protected the mortals, the children who read these books, as much as it protected us. None could be tricked by an agent into revealing the secrets of the opposing Zodiac signs because they simply lacked all the pieces of the puzzle. Besides, by the time the manuals were released, the events each contained were already ancient history.

But now I could read the Shadow manuals, report my findings to the other agents of Light, and we could anticipate their actions from the information gleaned there. Cosmic balance or not, Warren had no problem listening as I recounted The Shadow Chronicles: Under the Cover of Darkness. I suspected this was another reason the Shadows had been lying low as of late.

“Shadow,” I replied in a low voice. There was nothing to be ashamed of, but I didn’t exactly relish the world knowing my business, and I was all too aware of Sebastian lurking just behind me.

“Ohhh, they’re sucking you in, aren’t they?” Carl said loudly. “You’re inching over to the dark side.”

I gritted my teeth and silently counted to three. “I just want to know a bit about this agent’s history. How she lived, how she died.” I couldn’t find out about Regan directly; her first and second life cycles-from birth to puberty, then from puberty to age twenty-five-weren’t depicted in the manuals. The third life cycle was the only one recorded, so her history, strengths, and identity would remain veiled until she metamorphosized. Studying the actions of Regan’s mother, however, might give me an idea of what I’d someday be up against…and possibly her true motivations in seeking me out.

A voice popped up at my other side. “I can show you where they are.”

The young girl again. I smiled, amused by the way her eyes kept darting to my smooth fingertips, and flattered by her obvious infatuation. She had glossy black hair cut in a sharp bob, with a long fringe overrunning her brows. Long lashes fluttered above deep-colored orbs, and she wore a schoolgirl’s uniform, complete with knee-high socks and polished Mary Janes. I hadn’t seen anyone this cute since Shirley Temple last graced the screen, and I wondered why she was hanging out with these losers.

“I’m sorry,” I said, bending so I was eye level with her. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m-”

“The Archer,” she said quickly. “I know.”

“Jasmine’s a big Zodiac fan,” Carl said, patting her on her head. They had to be about the same age, but he was at least a half-foot taller.

“Just the Light series,” Jasmine clarified. “When I grow up I want to be an agent of Light too.”

Sebastian gagged behind us. I ignored him and smiled at Jasmine. She was like a little pixie, and I couldn’t easily envision her conking Shadow agents over the head with billy clubs like I had the night before. “Well. Eat your veggies.”

She nodded vigorously and took my hand. I straightened and headed in the direction Carl was pointing. “In the storeroom, all the way to the back, right-hand side, fifth shelf from the bottom. Let me know if you need any help.”

I’d need help all right, I thought, letting Jasmine lead the way. Help explaining, justifying, and ever being allowed out of the sanctuary once Warren found out what I’d done. If I wanted to find Joaquin before then, I had to get busy. Two weeks felt like a mere ten minutes away. Then again, if I was lucky, I thought, looking at my watch, five more minutes was all I’d need.

Jasmine and I had to pass single-file along a dark hallway before getting to the storeroom, which was strange in itself. The building didn’t appear that long from the outside, though I hadn’t been around the back. Not only that, the air was growing colder as we progressed, until the warmest thing around me was Jasmine’s hand clutching my own. Rubbing one arm with the other hand, I kept my eyes focused on a light directly ahead, shivering as I thought of hot toddies and furry slippers. Odd for late May in Vegas.

Finally we crossed the threshold from darkness into light. I blinked a few times so my eyes could acclimate, then blinked again to be sure what I was seeing. And feeling. The cold was gone, replaced by a warmth as welcoming as a wool blanket falling over my shoulders.

For a moment I thought I’d entered another portal rather than a storeroom, but that wasn’t possible. Jasmine was with me; and though she was an oddly cute kid with a startling awareness of supernatural phenomena-prepubescent teens had an acceptance of the extraordinary that adults had long lost-she was no agent. Yet here we were, in a room more befitting the manor house of an English lord than the storage room of some caustic counter jockey. Sure, there were comics stored along every inch of the wall, but the shelves were made of thick mahogany planks, and matching crown molding arched toward a cavernous ceiling soaring over a room the size of a small theater.

While there was space enough for multiple aisle dividers in the center of the room, it was already clustered with leather easy chairs, each with an overstuffed ottoman, and mismatched side tables piled high with comics, texts, and what looked like a teetering cup of forgotten coffee. At the room’s core was a square stone fireplace lit and jumping with orange flames, its flue suspended yards above, but still able to capture the smoke as it rose lazily from the ash. Hence the warmth. I turned a circle around myself, taking it all in.

Observing my reaction, Jasmine pointed to a tight circular staircase in the back corner of the room, which wound up into a rectangular platform, leading to what I assumed was an attic. “Zane’s living quarters are upstairs, but he spends most of his time writing and researching down here. He says the fire keeps his third eye open, and the dance of the smoke lends inspiration.”

“Geez,” I said, whistling as I ran my hand over a stack of titles dating back to the eighties. “He must have every comic written for the past fifty years.”

Jasmine shook her head earnestly. “Oh no, these are all manuals. Zane wouldn’t waste valuable storage space on regular comics.”

“All manuals?” But there were thousands of them, tens of thousands. “How far back do they go?”

“All the way to the beginning,” she said, pulling me toward a tottering stack of sleeved comics pushed up against a corner shelf. “Back to when the first troops settled in the valley.”

“Really?” I’d never thought to ask before. I’d been too concerned with the present to worry or wonder much about the past, but I knew that Las Vegas was only a hundred years old, and the troops wouldn’t have formed here until there was a large enough population to merit notice. That’s when agents moved in, staked out their places on the city’s star charts, and began the whole good-battling-evil-for-the-sake-of-mankind bit. This same scenario had played itself out for centuries in every major metropolis, though the suburbs were the domain of the independents. Too many representatives of the same star sign-even Light-tended to destabilize things, so rogue agents weren’t tolerated within city boundaries. I knew all this, but nothing about where the agents originally came from, or how far back the beginning really was.

I asked Jasmine just that and she eyed me with a small frown, though more out of concern that I didn’t already know than suspicion as to why I wanted to. “You mean back to the original manual?”

“Is there such a thing?” I asked, watching as she knelt, hair swinging to obscure her china doll face, and began picking through the stack. I mean, I knew there had to be at one time, but what shape or language or location it was in was anyone’s guess. But the idea was compelling.

“Well, you know originally legends on both sides of the Zodiac were passed on orally, right?”

I nodded like I had, and leaned against a bookcase as Jasmine handed me a manual with an agent of Light running through an alley, a shadow looming on the brick behind him. “Well, the first manual was put to paper-or papyrus-as oral storytelling was becoming obsolete. It documented the original division between Shadow and Light, and foretold everything from the spread of troops to the new world, the proliferation of cities throughout North America, to the migration westward. It also predicted the creation and rise of the Tulpa.”

I blinked. The little girl-turned-walking-encyclopedia blinked back. I said, “I’d love to see that.”

Jasmine scoffed, looking back down to blindly pass me another comic. “Yeah, you and the rest of the paranormal world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Legend has it that it also contains the so-called recipe for killing the Tulpa, but each metropolis possesses one copy only. Our city’s original manual is lost. Or destroyed. Nobody really knows. Maybe the Tulpa got ahold of it and destroyed it himself. Still, the knowledge buried in that one manual is so complete, so powerful, it’ll forever tip the balance to the side of the Zodiac troop that possesses it, so the search goes on. That’s Zane’s quest, you know. He’s given his life over to finding the original manual, or die trying.”

“Yeah, but…how?” Nobody knew if the manual even existed. Where did you start the search for something nobody could account for? “Might as well be searching for the Holy Grail.”

Jasmine shook her head, sending smooth sheets of hair swinging. “There are supposed to be clues planted throughout the earliest manuals that reveal its location. Alone they’re nothing more than simple parables and entertaining anecdotes. But together they form a comprehensive map leading directly to the master manual.”

“So somebody should assemble them,” I said, accepting two more manuals, and wondering-with not a little irritation-why Warren hadn’t told me any of this. “Someone should patch together the clues and start tracking it down.”

“Well, duh,” Jasmine said, causing me to blink in affront. Hard to stay mad, though, looking at her wide-eyed innocence. Besides, she was right. Surely I wasn’t the first troop member to think of it. She stood and began studying another shelf. “But the earliest manuals were created before the widespread use of the printing press. One edition only, handwritten.”

And I bet private collectors had snapped those up like priceless Monets. My heart sank. “So they’re all gone. Spread out so thinly that no one collector can piece together the whole.”

At the disappointment in my voice, Jasmine turned her attention from the shelf she was scanning, fingers pausing over a section marker to hold her place. “But the trick is to keep looking, and people do. Agents die, remember? Manuals are bequeathed, won, stolen, bought. That’s what keeps Zane in business. Not only does he trade out and up with every agent interested, but he thinks because he’s the record keeper he has the best chance of finding the original.”

“And you believe him?”

Jasmine shrugged. “One thing’s sure. The Tulpa is endlessly sending agents to troll this place.”

“Then he’s worried,” I said, following Jasmine along the near wall of stretching bookcases. “I didn’t know the Tulpa could be made to worry.”

She stopped beneath a leaning ladder of polished mahogany, adroitly plucking a manual from the dozens buried on the third shelf. She handed it to me as she turned around. “Zoe knew.”

I froze, and the jolt wound through my body like a live wire, making my printless fingertips tingle as I grasped the manual.

“Do you have that one?” she asked innocently, tilting her head.

I shook mine, unable to tear my eyes from the cover. The Archer, it said, Agent of Light. Beneath the emblazoned caption was a photo of my mother.

She couldn’t have been any older than I was now, dressed in short-shorts and go-go boots that were made for more than walking-it was an outfit guaranteed to get her in the creator’s door. But there was blood on her thigh, her conduit-now mine-was clutched in both hands, and she was gritting her teeth, staring into shadows, bent-kneed as she backed away toward an opened door. I flipped open the manual, and caught a flash of color as a howl of rage splintered the silent room. The word nooo-o-o! bubbled up from the page before popping in a angry red spark.

“This is the one where she killed him, isn’t it?” I asked Jasmine, flipping to the back. “The Tulpa’s originator. When she thought killing Wyatt Neelson would weaken the Tulpa.” It hadn’t though, I thought, scanning another page where she escaped through a sewer lid portal. Instead it had loosed Neelson’s hold on him, the creator’s death doubling back to make the Tulpa stronger.

Jasmine nodded, rising to her tiptoes to flip back to the beginning with me, revealing the panels that showed my mother using manipulation, patience, her body, and pure chutzpah to gain that information from the Tulpa. She was already pregnant, I saw. And she was worried that with the hormone shift that came with pregnancy, the Tulpa would soon smell it on her. It would give her Light identity away.

I would give her away.

“This is my favorite,” Jasmine breathed, as we watched Zoe sneak from the Tulpa’s bedroom, him sleeping peacefully-face only partially revealed in black and white-while she stood framed in the doorway, her silhouette backlit, fists clenched, glyph fired. “She was wonderful.”

But she had failed. Killing the Tulpa’s creator had only freed him from the power of the original mind. From then on he’d been free to think and feel and act as he wished. And what did he wish for more than anything? To kill the woman who’d betrayed him.

The very last page showed her returning to the sanctuary, being wheeled into the sick ward by an impossibly young Micah, who told her not to worry. He was going to change her identity so the Tulpa and his agents would never find her.

And they hadn’t, I thought wryly, closing the book. They’d found me instead.

“There are others,” Jasmine said softly, watching my face with those giant doe eyes. “Lots. Would you like me to find them for you?”

“I don’t know.” Which surprised me. I wanted to find my mother, right? I wanted to exact revenge on the Tulpa for forcing her to run, leaving Olivia and me. So why was I so conflicted now? Why did it feel like watching events that had profound impact on my life through my mother’s eyes would somehow be a betrayal to my younger self? “I don’t know,” I said again.

I looked around the room, wondering how many of these books had the power to forever change my impression of myself, and how many times that perception would flip-flop. Where I would end up when I finally knew all. I looked back at the schoolgirl in front of me. “How long have you known all this, Jasmine?”

A half smile flashed, a question she could answer, and a dimple flickered with it. “I was born knowing. Just like Carl, and Sebastian, and the twins. We’re changelings.”

“Changelings?” I asked, recognizing the word from one of Warren’s lectures, but not what it meant.

The embarrassment in my voice touched her. She took my hand and swung it back and forth in hers, like we were schoolgirls on a playground. “We keep the secrets of the Zodiac and make sure the knowledge is passed on to the next generation. We need the agents to continue the battle of good versus evil, of course, so that the legends are put into print, but you need us just as much. Here, read this.” She passed me another manual, then waved for me to follow.

I glanced down as I did. “Why?”

“Because it’s the story of your troop’s emergence,” she said, facing me as she continued walking backward. “Your genealogy is in there. It’s a good place to start.”

“No…er, thanks,” I said, tucking it under my arm. “But I meant why do agents need you?”

She halted so suddenly I almost ran her down, but looked more amused by the question than annoyed. “Because we think about you. We read your stories and believe in you. Were Zane to stop writing them down, or die without passing the craft on to another, or were we to enter puberty without recruiting new changelings from the six and seven age group, your stories would cease to be told. Your alternate realities would fade, your portals would close forever. You would cease to exist.”

“Impossible,” I said, on a half laugh. “I exist whether you believe it or not. One thing has nothing to do with the other.” Though I thought about the Tulpa-how someone else’s thoughts had created him, how a group’s belief had strengthened him-and had to suppress a shudder.

Jasmine half laughed back. “You have an immunity to mortal harm and a chest that lights up like a Christmas tree whenever danger is near. Who’re you to say what’s possible or not?”

Shit. She had a point. I motioned for her to go on. The dimples flashed again. “All I know is belief in something is what makes it real, and not just paranormal episodes but regular things too. Love, hate, fear. Perception colors all our experiences.” She gestured back the way we came, to the shop front and those still there. “For instance, Sebastian believes the Shadows are going to win the fight for the valley, and it’s his job to convince other mortal children to believe along with him. They go home, read the manuals he’s given them, and begin to dream about a world where evil rules the day. Those dreams become energy that feeds and fuels the Tulpa, giving strength and purpose to his troop’s deeds.”

“Can’t disappoint their fans, eh?” I said wryly. At least I had a clear explanation as to why the kid couldn’t stand me. “Maybe we should lock Sebastian up in a cabinet until he reaches puberty. Then, poof! He’s gone. And no more Shadows either.”

I was surprised no one had thought of it earlier.

She gave me a smile a parent would give to a pouting two-year-old, and handed me a comic depicting a man being mutilated on the cover by an unseen assailant, body parts tossed into an abandoned freezer after they were carved up. Nice. “But then you’d have to lock me away too. I’m Sebastian’s opposite. I approach all the mortal children who are inclined to believe in the Light and I tell them the story of the Archer, how she not only survived, but overcame an attack that would have killed any other agent, how she made herself into something stronger, and how she’s the Kairos, fated to bring down the Shadow side in our fair city forever.”

Sheesh. The hyperbolic prose was bad enough. Now I had to worry about ruining some rugrat’s bedtime story. “Thanks…I think.”

“No problem,” she said sweetly, dimples flashing. “Like I said, I’m a changeling. It’s my…”

Jasmine’s gaze left mine as a look of astonishment passed over her face, and she looked through me, as if seeing something just on the other side of my bones. The manuals she’d plucked from the shelves fell to the floor, and she stiffened.

“Jasmine?” I said, putting a hand on her arm. She trembled beneath my touch, small warning shudders before a greater quaking overtook her. It was some sort of seizure, I realized, as her eyes rolled to white, her little mouth opening soundlessly. I didn’t know what to do. I knew CPR, but had no idea what to do with a seizure victim. Lay her down? Stick something in her mouth to keep her from biting her own tongue? I couldn’t even decide if I should try and help her, or if I should leave her and run for help.

What happened next decided it for me.

Her smooth skin began to shimmer, just around the edges at first, like she was backlit, but it soon spread to the center of her frame, like wind rippling over water, except that this was a human being. I felt the texture of her skin alter beneath my hands, softening like putty, and quickly let go when I saw what looked like bruises popping up beneath my thumbs. But the bruises lifted also, like they were attached to my hands, and I jerked away. Her skin, like rubber, snapped back into place. It must have hurt because Jasmine’s wide, rolling eyes seemed to fix on mine. Her open mouth shifted, like something had come unhinged inside, and her jaw extended into a gaping yawn. By the time I realized her teeth had grown unnaturally pointed and deadly sharp, her misshapen jaw was as long as my forearm and growing longer.

God help me, I thought, backing into the shelves with a startled crash. I was going to get eaten by a preteen!

Jasmine-or what used to be Jasmine-reached out to me with her hand, and I noticed the bruises I’d accidentally inflicted had spread. Her whole arm was that deep, shimmery color…and that hand had grown speared claws. I jerked away, dodged another swipe, and began to run across the great room, back into the tunnel leading to the shop, back to where little girls didn’t turn into voracious monsters.

Jasmine roared behind me.

I hurtled through the dark passageway blindly, banging like a pinball against the narrow walls, but keeping my eyes fixed on the pinprick of light at the other end. Was it me, or was this tunnel getting longer? And was the panted breathing behind me getting closer?

“Zane!” I yelled, picking up speed. “Help!”

I’d have stopped to fumble for my conduit, but the-child-formerly-known-as-Jasmine was closer now. I could hear the report of little feet slapping behind me, needy growls erupting from her elongated throat, and knew if I stopped she’d be on me before I could draw and aim. Besides, shimmering spawn of Dracula or not, did I really want to kill her?

Finally, as the light grew larger and the hallway shorter, I could make out the shop beyond the doorway. There were chairs and shelves and-far, far off-the front door. I ran faster. Jasmine roared again. A figure stepped into the doorway of the passage, and I heard a gasp before Carl came barreling toward me as well.

“Carl, no!” He must not have seen the monster on my ass. “Move!”

He did…just enough to send his shoulder barreling into me. My breath left me in a whoosh, and I ended up on my back, Carl on top of me…Jasmine poised for attack at the tip of my head. But she wasn’t looking at me. Carl was yelling, telling me to calm down and let Jasmine get in front of me. His other instructions were hurried, mumbled, panted-something about mask, identity, hide-but I got the gist of it.

“What, Carl? What is it?” I asked as Jasmine squeezed past us with feline grace, limbs blackened to the point of opaqueness, stretching, elongating, and retracting as needed. No wonder she’d been gaining on me. She was a life-sized Gumby! So fixed was I on the sight of her gelatinous legs, I almost missed what Carl said next.

“Joaquin.”

Jasmine roared again, and ahead of me a shadow moved to block the light from the shop. All the breath left my body on a shaky exhale. My conduit was out of reach, dumped on the floor when Carl tackled me, and my glyph had failed to fire in warning. But Carl was right. Joaquin had arrived. And Master Comics had just turned into the little shop of horrors.