"The Better Part of Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gay Kelly)

CHAPTER 4

It took all my effort not to slam my fist into Will’s face. I stayed against the wall, fingers flexing, trying to regain some control and hurting more than I had in months. I was an idiot.

Will braced his hand on the opposite wall, letting his head fall low, his rugged profile grim. He shook his head and stared at me, so full of regret. Whatever was going on in his head was far more complicated than I’d thought.

I hated that his scent evoked so much history between us. We’d spent our young adulthood together, built a life together. Two nineteen-year-olds facing the world. As a team. It hurt just to look at him. In the last six months, he’d succeeded brilliantly in his career, but was it on his own merits? He claimed to have quit practicing after that night. Friends, family, everyone believed him. And I guess I did, too, or else I’d never allow Emma to spend time with him. I also knew that he never meant for things to get so out of hand, but there was a mountain of emotional obstacles for us to overcome. He wanted too much, too fast.

I had to learn to trust him again. And right now, that seemed impossible.

With a determined gaze, he moved toward me, not stopping until his mouth was on mine. I sucked in a small, surprised gasp, pulling his warm breath inside me without meaning to. He kissed me hard and meaningfully. No tongue, but with so much emotion that tears welled in my eyes. I knew he loved me, and his sorrow and regret tore me in half.

The squeal of bus brakes broke us apart.

Grateful for the reprieve, I sidestepped my ex-husband, straightened my shirt, and redid my hair as Will went to the sink and splashed water onto his face. He was just as shaken as I was.

The entire visit had rattled me to the bone. Emma and I had been doing just fine on our own. We’d settled into a comfortable routine in the last few months, had pushed past the initial hurt of divorce and were moving forward. Damn him!

He dried off and then finished the bottle of water as Emma came through the door.

“Daddy!”

Like magic, the dark aura of emotion surrounding him lifted and a wide, genuine grin split his handsome face. For a moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the world.

“Hey, you. How’s my girl?” He set her on the counter.

“Fine.” Her brown eyes grew larger and more serious. “Amanda is in the hospital.” Her confident gaze flicked to me. “But Mom’s going to help her.”

Tall order, Charlie. I plastered a mom-smile on my face, ignoring the concern that her trust and matter-of-factness stirred in my gut. She believed in me. And there was nothing worse than letting your kid down. Nothing. “Why don’t you go wash your hands and put your things in your room?”

She hopped off the counter, the soles of her Mary Janes thudding on the tile floor. “Am I going with Dad tonight?”

Will glanced from Em to me, and I could see he was up for it. I shook my head. “No, Aunt Bryn wants to have a sleepover.”

“Why don’t I take her now,” Will said, “and then I’ll drive her over to Bryn’s after dinner.”

I hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be left alone after the day I’d had. But Emma loved her father so much. I couldn’t say no. “All right, but make sure she does her homework.”

“I’m taking my DS and my iPod!” Emma yelled, running from the room and pounding up the steps. I followed at a more sedate pace, picking up the backpack she’d let fall on the kitchen floor. Will stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” But I didn’t feel fine; I felt torn apart and downright sluggish as I followed my daughter up the stairs.

I packed Em’s clothes while she washed up. When she came into her bedroom, I patted the bed. “Hey, kid, I want to ask you something.”

The mattress dipped with her weight. Then she noticed the backpack and frowned. “Mom.” I sighed as she unzipped the bag and pulled out all of the clothes I’d just packed. “I can pack myself. And I hate these underwear and these socks.” She went to her dresser and rooted through drawers, shoving clothing into her backpack without folding. “So, what’s going on?” she asked over her shoulder, turning her attention to the small stack of DS games on her desk.

Emma and I had a pact. We always consulted each other before any major decisions were made. It was my way of making sure she felt included. “So … how would you feel if I took a desk job at the station instead of working out in the city?”

She turned, eyeballing me like I’d sprouted a shiitake mushroom on the tip of my nose. Then she walked over and placed her soft palm on my cheeks and forehead, testing for signs of illness.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

She stepped back and put a hand on her hip. “Okay,” she said slowly, “and why would you want to quit your job?”

I returned her attitude-ridden look. It wasn’t like I was saying I wanted to move to Antarctica. “Because it would be safer that way, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Mom. If you do that, who’s gonna help Amanda?”

I blinked. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I’d promised to help Amanda, and I’d also promised myself I’d be a better mom and take a safer job. Two things that couldn’t exactly be accomplished at once. I rubbed my hands down my face and let out a deep breath.

“You can’t quit now. Amanda needs you.” Em straightened, bent one knee, and cocked her hip, giving me her best superhero pose—hands on hips, chin lifted, and eyes looking off into the distance. “Atlanta needs you. The very world itself might, one day, need you.”

Despite myself, I laughed. She giggled, blew a wild strand of hair from her eye, and then zipped the bag. When she turned to me, slinging the bag over her shoulder, she shrugged, pleased with her summation and logic. “Plus, Hank would never forgive you if you quit.” She waited by the door.

I stood, thrown by her reaction. I’d underestimated her, which was an easy thing to do when you didn’t want your kid to grow up. “Maybe after Amanda’s case then,” I said, more to myself.

“Mom” —she snapped the air a few times, feigning a teenager look and tone—“snap out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, following her bobbing form and swinging ponytail down the stairs, and wondering why her reaction hurt. Because she’s growing up. What did I expect, her to jump in my arms and cry grateful tears?

I padded barefoot through the kitchen, down the porch steps, and over the front yard, hurrying to catch up with her before she made it across the street. At the edge of the grass, I caught her around the waist. She squealed in fake protest as I laid several kisses on her cheek and neck. She might pretend to be too old for hugs and kisses, but she loved them just as much as I loved giving them. “Have fun,” I said close to her ear and then let her go. Laughing, she hurried around to the passenger side door.

Will slid into the truck and shut the door, leaning out of the open window. “We’ll talk later.”

I really wanted to respond with a “whatever,” but I nodded, reluctant to admit the feelings I still had for him.

His only intentional crime had been hiding his addiction to black crafting. All the other stuff had been out his control at that point. The real Will never would have made that bet, or cheated on me. And I knew he wasn’t crafting these days. Just like drug abuse or alcoholism, once one knew the symptoms and signs, it was easy to spot a black crafting addict. It left a weak scent of soot on them, like charred pieces left for years in an old, damp fireplace, and it left a trace of smut, of darkness, on a person. It surrounded them like an aura, but it was so faint it was hard to detect if you weren’t looking for it.

I stepped onto the front lawn, watching them drive down the street until the truck disappeared around the corner. Exhaustion fell over me like a heavy down comforter. It was only late afternoon and already my body wanted to shut down. It had been one hell of a day so far. Maybe with Em gone, I could actually get in a good nap before heading back to Underground later with Hank.

I made my way back inside the house and up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.

Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.

Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.

The hospital morgue.

Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.

She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?

The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.

Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.

No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.

She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.

Still, the light tugged.

Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.

“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.

He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.

“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”

He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.

The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.

The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.

The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.

The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.

“Now, we wait,” the white one said.

Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.

And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.

She screamed inside.

Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!

The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the images started, bursting through her damaged, swollen mind. So much pain. Everywhere. She wanted to die, and she would have if she hadn’t already. Death. Murder. Sex. Blood, so much blood. Dark figures. Torture. Pain. And power. Dark power. It hurt. Hurt because there was light, too, and it battled inside her, tearing her apart, fighting for domination. Good things. Good deeds. Love. Growth. Seeds sprouting through green grass, unfurling and growing into sturdy, ancient trees. Crows cawing endlessly. The drip of water. It was too much, too many images, too quickly. She screamed again.

And then she was outside in a circular meadow, naked under a full moon. Surrounded. On her knees. And the man in black and the man in white took turns slicing away small pieces of her flesh, like children who dole out portions.

This piece is mine, that piece is yours. One for me, one for you.

I shot up into a sitting position on the bed, my heart thumping hard and fast against my rib cage. My fists clenched the sheet, and my eyes were wide open, but unfocused. My lungs burned as adrenaline pumped through my system, tasting like dry iron on my tongue.

Breathe, Charlie. No big deal. Just breathe.

Repeating the mantra over and over, I felt the adrenaline finally slow, allowing me to draw in long drafts of air until my lungs didn’t hurt so much.

Chills erupted all over my skin, the nightmare of my death leaving me feeling cold and clammy. Like a corpse. I might have claimed to be used to it by now, but, honestly, every time I woke, it felt like the first time. The only difference: each time left me more exhausted and weak.

Relaxing my death grip on the sheet, I scrubbed both hands down my face to stir the blood flow and then rubbed my cold arms for warmth.

Concentrating on getting warm instead of being picked apart by good and evil allowed my blood pressure to return to some semblance of normalcy.

Then I closed my eyes, regulated my breathing as Doctor Berk had instructed, and pulled my feet inward until I sat cross-legged on the bed. My wrists rested on my knees. Mostly, I did this to calm down and push back all those images bouncing around my mind.

When I woke, especially the last few months, the sensation, something akin to strength or power, vibrated through my veins, making me feel as though my whole body hummed just a little. So I banked it, used the meditation to push all that good and evil shit aside and pull up my humanity. Me. Charlie Madigan. That was who I was. Not some weirdo walking dead person whose insides raged every damn night with images of darkness and light.

Once I had my mind under control, I glanced around my bedroom, drawn to the only light in the dark room. My alarm clock.

“Damn it!”

I had just enough time to get dressed and meet Hank for our trip to Underground.

Ten minutes later I stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed. Well, this would have to do. My hair was down and messy from the nap, but finger-combing had gotten out the worst of the tangles. I had on the jeans and red V-neck T from earlier. I added faded brown cowgirl boots Bryn had given to me for my birthday last year and put a pair of gold hoops in my earlobes.

Full-blown makeup had never been my thing, so I washed my face, put on some lotion, let it dry, and then dusted my face with powder, added a little brown eyeliner, went heavy on the black mascara, and then applied some lipstick that matched my shirt. It made my lips look insanely obvious, like an overripe plum. I looked as though I was on the prowl for sex—not exactly what I had pictured wearing to The Bath House. But, the hell with it, maybe I’d get lucky. My reflection frowned back at me. Or not.

Downstairs, I pulled my old suede jacket from the closet, the faint scent of leather making me breathe in a little deeper. It was tailored to look like a short blazer, but it would hide my firearms, and it was light enough to keep me from overheating. Functional and stylish.

Headlights from Hank’s car flashed across the front window. I hit the inside light switch to off, turned the porch light on, grabbed my keys off the foyer table, and then slid my weapons into their holsters. I answered the door with one hand and tugged my hair from underneath the jacket with the other.

Hank’s large form hovered in the doorway, the serious expression on his handsome face going all cocky. “Hey, is Charlie here?”

I shook my hair out. “Ha, ha. You’re not funny.” I was becoming more and more convinced my daughter was getting her sense of humor from Hank.

A slow smile lit his face as he looked me up and down. “This may be the first time you’ve ever taken my advice. You look …” He paused, trying to find the right words.

“Like I just got out of bed?” I pulled the door closed, locked it, and then ushered him off the porch and down the driveway.

“No … I like it. It’s a good look on you.”

“It’s not a look. I just woke up. But I did do the lipstick for you, so we’re even about the whole oracle thing.”

He grabbed his chest and grinned at me over the hood of his shiny black Mercedes coupe. The street lamp highlighted the sparkle in his blue topaz eyes. “For me? You’re the best, Charlie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said dryly, opening the door and sliding into the supple leather passenger seat.

My spirits lifted, and the memory of my nightmare quietly slipped into the far recesses of my mind. Thank God for Hank. Thank God I hadn’t been partnered with a stiff. If there was anyone, besides Emma, who could change my mood for the better, it was Hank.

As soon as he backed out of the driveway and slid the gear into drive, I held out the matches. He grabbed them, holding them in front of the steering wheel so he could watch the road and take a look at the graphics. “Where’d you get these? Because I know you’ve never been there. Veritas is a members-only club. Most people who go to The Bath House, even regulars, don’t know it exists.”

“Exactly why we should crash the party.”

He winced. “No crashing. Subtle investigation. Come on, say it with me … Subtle investigaaa— Eh, forget it. Lost cause, I know.” He tossed the matches back to me. “How’d you get them?”

“Auggie. He gave them to me right before he died. Those guys that attacked us, they had to be the ones supplying the ash. Auggie was seriously spooked. I’d never seen him like that before. He said the drug is made from a Charbydon flower.”

He grabbed his cell and began texting.

I stiffened and grabbed the dashboard as his fingers flew over the smooth black keyboard. “I hate when you drive and do that.”

He smiled without looking at me. “I know.” He finished and then tossed the cell back into the empty cup holder. His speed verged on texting genius. “Research should be able to put together some possibilities. That might narrow things down a bit, give us some idea of where it’s grown, who could be making it.”

“My money is on the jinn.”

“Could be. Or could be they’re just the movers, not the source.”

Hank took a left onto Courtland as I glanced at the digital clock in the console. The Bath House was one street over from Bryn’s apartment above her shop on Mercy Street. But it was past ten now, and Emma would already be asleep. Still, I made sure my cell phone was loud enough to hear in case Bryn called and then I refastened it back on my belt.

“Oh, yeah, I stopped by the hospital,” Hank said on an afterthought, “to check on Amanda.”

“You did?” I gave his shoulder a good squeeze.

He shrugged, and I knew the ego was coming. “I know, I know. I’m just a well-rounded, sensitive guy.” He flicked on the right blinker to turn. “She’s still in a coma, but stable. Just like the others.”

I, on the other hand, felt horrible for not stopping by the hospital. I’d had every intention, but then there’d been Doctor Berk, stopping by the store, and then making it home in time to get Em off the bus. And, of course, Will had showed up.

“It’s not like there’s anything you can do for her, Charlie. She wouldn’t even know you’re there. And besides, from what we’re hearing about the ones who have woken up, it’s like being in a constant state of bliss.”

“Yeah, and now those same people are in a living hell. They can’t function, they’re dying. It’s more than withdrawal.” I stared at the glittering city lights, frustrated that we couldn’t help those people, that answers weren’t coming fast enough.

We rode the remainder of the way in silence, and I let my thoughts and gaze drift to the pulsating city, to the people and beings on the sidewalks and crosswalks, in cars and using the buses, entering and exiting shops and offices.

Atlanta was diverse before the Revelation, but now it was like a living, breathing Jackson Pollock painting; so many shades, so many vibrant colors all jumbled together on an ever-shrinking city canvas. Humans of every kind. Elysians of every race. Charbydons of every ilk. All on display right here beneath the hazy glow of city lights reflected against the night sky. It made me think of a huge cauldron, a witch’s brew where all of us, every ingredient, affected the next. And it boiled and bubbled, always moving, always growing, always needing to be fed and tended.

There was no denying that I thrived here; loved it here. I was meant to traverse this landscape and interact with its occupants. I was like one of those witches; playing her role, tending to the cauldron, to see that it didn’t grow cold or boil over.

And if we didn’t find a way to stop ash from spreading we might as well jump right into the pot and call it quits.

My stomach growled loudly in the quiet containment of the coupe.

“Let me guess, you didn’t eat dinner again,” Hank said, throwing me a quick parental glance.

A compliant shrug was all I gave for an answer, choosing to return my attention to the view, wondering if retiring to a desk job was really the right thing to do. Hell, the chief would have a fit. Telling him was going to be just as hard as sitting on Doctor Berk’s plush chair. I chewed the inside of my cheek, but none of the scenarios flitting through my mind were going to help me with the chief.

Hank found a parking spot near Underground and soon we made our way to Helios Alley.

Underground at night was a hell of a lot different than during the day. Restaurants and nightclubs opened their doors. People spilled into the streets, barhopping or chatting, or just hanging out on the outdoor seating or around open fires burning in city-approved containment barrels. It had become like Bourbon Street in New Orleans. No cars allowed, just locals, tourists, and drunks everywhere. And music. Nearly every place you passed was different. Techno. Country. Ramp;B. Alt-rock. And nestled in between were tourist traps, restaurants, antique stores, and magic shops.

Hank and I walked side by side, scanning the revelers and avoiding the drunks and irritating people who darted in front of us like they had the right-of-way. I hated being around drunks, unless, of course, I was one of them, which happened rarely in my hectic life.

A dark-haired woman in a bridal veil bumped into my left shoulder, spilling her drink over the rim of a red plastic cup. I stepped out of the way before it drenched me. She didn’t even notice, just continued with her friends to other side of the street and another bar.

“You look nice, by the way,” I told Hank as we moved closer to the sidewalk. “Whoever she is, she’ll like it.”

I wasn’t just being polite. Hank looked like a Calvin Klein ad come to life. His blond hair was swept back, but just enough to look naturally windblown. He wore a soft, white linen shirt with the top two buttons undone and khakis. He appeared as though he’d just stepped off some exclusive beach in Tahiti.

“Tonight’s not exactly singles night.” He increased his stride and slipped by a slow couple walking hand in hand. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. This is perfect. If she does notice you and you’re forced to ignore her, it’ll just make her want you more.”

He rolled his eyes, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Your logic needs a serious overhaul. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. He had such an easy, confident swagger. “Well, seeing as you’ve had the day from hell … You sure you’re up for this? I mean, I don’t want you poofing out on me in the middle of things.”

“It’s pooping.” His eyes went wide. Okay, that didn’t sound right. “The phrase, it’s called pooping out, not—” The corner of his mouth started twitching, and his eyes glistened. I smacked his arm. “Damn it, Hank!” His laugh filled the space around us, rich and warm and slightly contagious. But I refused to even grant him a smile.

“I can’t believe you fell for that one,” he said between bursts of laughter.

“You’re so juvenile.”

“And your point?”

I shook my head. “Exactly.”

He ignored my summation and said in a singsong voice, “I got you to say poo—”

“Hank!” God. What was it with him tonight? “Don’t you have better things to do than to make me say immature words?”

His chin cocked thoughtfully and then, “Not at the moment, no.”

“Well, knock it off. And for the record, I won’t be pooping out on you tonight or any other night for that matter.” Please. I could deal with plenty. If only he knew.

The revelers thinned out as we approached an area where there were more stores than bars. Mostly upscale boutiques, hair salons, and spas. A few spas had eateries with outdoor seating and table umbrellas lined with white Christmas lights. There was still activity here, but it was definitely more subdued.

Potted palms framed the tall, recessed double doors of The Bath House. Dark and polished, the wooden doors’ rectangular panels had been carved to depict sea creatures, both mythological and real, some in extremely suggestive positions. Hank pulled his wallet from his back pocket and then slipped a membership card into the slot built in near the door. Once the machine read his card, the door popped open.

I resisted the urge to comment about his membership card. But only for a second. “So, how often exactly do you frequent the House of Bath?”

Following him into the foyer, I linked my hands behind my back and let out a low whistle. The foyer rose two stories and housed tall palm trees and exotic blooming vines. Small parrots and songbirds flitted about in the green canopy above us. The floor was made of thousands of small mosaic tiles, which glittered in the light. Large candelabras burned four to a side.

“I try to make it at least once a week. And don’t give me that look, Charlie. This reminds us of home. It’s part of our culture. We love the baths. And we’re not ashamed of our bodies either.”

I held up my hands. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” he grumbled. “If you went to my world, you’d understand.”

“Yeah, but hardly anyone is permitted. Seems grossly unfair, don’t you think?”

This was an old argument between us. And millions of other people. Seemed it was all fine and dandy for the beings of Elysia and Charbydon to make our world home, but when the tables were turned, the Elysian government permitted only a small number of humans to visit their world each year. No permanent citizenship, no work visas. Just visit. They lived in a pristine environment and didn’t want it contaminated with tourists and disease. Total insult if you ask me.

And no one, unless they were seriously screwed in the head, wanted to go to Charbydon. But Earth, America in particular, had once again become the land of opportunity.

“Welcome to The Bath House,” a female nymph said as we approached a white marble countertop. “I see you’ve brought a guest this evening, Mister Williams.” She placed two towels and two white gowns on the counter. “Enjoy your visit.”

Upon becoming a legal citizen, Hank had adopted his first and last name after the country singer. Apparently, he had a serious soft spot for the musician.

I followed his lead, taking the gown and towel. He leaned close to me as we walked past the counter. “You can put the gown on in the locker room.”

“Whoa.” I stopped and waited for him to turn around. “You didn’t say anything about wearing something this flimsy.”

A few Elysians padded past us, barefoot and naked, or dressed in white gowns and sarongs. Hank edged closer to a grouping of potted plants, his voice tight. “It’s either that or nothing at all. Your choice.”

I lifted an eyebrow, standing toe-to-toe with all six foot four inches of him. “Forget it. I’m not changing.”

My pulse raced. I was way too hard up to be in a place like this with naked bodies and perfect males everywhere I turned. If Will, damn him, hadn’t pushed me away, I wouldn’t be having such a hormonal time. “And another thing, where the hell am I supposed to put my weapons?”

An annoyed huff escaped Hank’s lips, and he pulled me into the shadows of a palm tree. “Look, no one’s gonna talk to you if you’re dressed like that. You’ll stick out like a sore finger.”

“Thumb.”

“What?”

“Thumb. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly at the end of his rope. “Whatever. Just go in and change. Nothing’s going to go wrong in here.”

I gave him my “yeah, right” look. I mean, this was Hank and Charlie, known to get into trouble in the weirdest places. But he did have a point. I would look completely out of place. We had nothing to go on but a pack of matches, and we’d have to blend in and strike up conversations where we could.

“Fine,” I ground out, leaving Hank where he stood and heading to the female locker room.

A nymph attendant stood inside next to a long countertop complete with just about anything one would need to “spruce up.” Just like ghouls were cousins of goblins, and imps were cousins of the fae, nymphs were close cousins of sirens. But their skin was naturally tanner than sirens’, their hair usually darker. They were the only race able to shape-shift without the aid of a spell or charm, and they had an intimate, sometimes fanatical, relationship with nature.

The attendant wore her black hair in a bun with ringlets around her face and a gold headband atop her head. A gown of linen draped over her shoulders, similar to the gowns depicted on statues of ancient Greek goddesses. All of the attendants I’d glimpsed so far wore the same headband, hairstyle, and gown.

I gave her a tight smile and headed for a stall. Once the curtain was jerked shut, I shook out the gown, immediately struck by another surge of denial. In the water, the soft white linen would be see-through. The straps were gathered at the top, there was a high waist, and then the soft material fell to mid-thigh. I guessed you were supposed to go commando underneath, but hell if I’d go there.

I left on my bra and panties (thank God they were white), pulled the gown over my head, and then carried all my clothes, firearms tucked under my jacket, to the attendant to ask for a locker and a key.

There was no key. Instead, she wrote down my name, assigned me a locker number, and would unlock it when I returned. Apparently, there was no place to put a key. Figured.

On my way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and nearly tripped. I backed up to get a better look. Hank had been right. I sure as hell fit in now. The only difference between me and the attendants was the quality of the gown and my hair, which hung long and loose down my back.

Who knew I could pull off Greek goddess so well?