Twenty Palaces: A Prequel Read online

  I still had to tell her something, though. I couldn't just lie, not without knowing how much she already knew. Hell, I still wasn't clear on what I "knew" myself.

  The stranger had already slipped under the warp in the fence. I followed, taking my time as I slid on my belly over the dirt. I considered saying that the mysterious, non-weapon-distributing "he" deserved to hear the information first, but I just didn't know enough about the situation. What if "he" was this woman's boss? Her ex-husband? Her--

  "Well?" she said. I had delayed too long.

  A heavy piece of metal fell somewhere across the yard.

  "That way," she said. I went in the direction she indicated, creeping around a low brick building while she went the other way. I was glad for every step that put distance between us.

  The lights were now so far away that I couldn't tell if I was still following the trail of blood. I had to detour around a pile of something I couldn't make out in the dark. I laid my hand on it and immediately recognized a brake pad. They were auto parts. I didn't know for sure if the yard was still operating, but the rusty grime under my fingers suggested not.

  I inched forward carefully, not wanting to trip and cut open my head on a lump of metal, and not wanting to run into either the strange woman or the... thing. The stolen blue ribbon had repelled the creature, but would it work a second time? Better not to gamble on it.

  I couldn't hear the tattooed woman's footsteps anymore. I looked behind me; the parking lot was well lit and there were no silhouettes between it and me. Time to get the hell out of here.

  There was a groan from up ahead. It was a man's voice, hoarse and trembling. I stupidly edged around a wrecked car toward the sound.

  The old man lay on the asphalt, half-lit in a shaft of reflected light. My vision had adjusted well enough to make out his general form. He lay stretched out on his side, facing me, as though he'd tripped over one of the empty bottles by his feet.

  I moved toward him. "Come on, dude. This is a bad place for you to be right now." God, he stank like a urinal, but I grabbed his arm and tried to lift him to his feet. With luck, I'd be able to get him back through the warp in the fence before I passed out from the stench.

  As the old man shifted position, the reflected street light fell on the thing clinging to the back of his tattered jacket.

  I grabbed the old guy's jacket and tore it off his shoulders. The huge worm jumped backwards before I could throw the jacket over it. It snapped open its wings and fluttered a foot or two off the ground.

  I yanked at the old man's arm, dragging him across the concrete. The worm fluttered toward us, zeroing in on the old man. I heard a scuffled footstep behind us and turned to see the tiny woman approaching. She had a green ribbon in her hand.

  "Wait!" I shouted. "Just wait!"

  She didn't wait. She threw the ribbon straight at me.

  I dropped to the ground, thinking I should have run away when I had the chance.

  The worm fluttered toward me and the old man both, but the ribbon intercepted it, striking it dead on. There was an explosion of green fire. The thing burned up to nothing without making a sound.

  A blast of icy air struck me just before I was engulfed by green flames.

  But they didn't hurt. Again, the ribbon in my pocket hummed with power. Flames surrounded me, licking against my skin, my clothes, even my eyes, but they felt like a wintry breeze. Nothing painful.

  The homeless man beneath me wrenched in agony, then seemed to dissolve. The flames suddenly receded.

  The old man had been burned down to a pile of smoking bones. He hadn't even had time to scream.

  There were greasy ashes stuck to the front of my clothes. I tried to brush them away and they stuck to my hands. My nostrils were filled with the stink of burned oil and charred meat. Revulsion flooded through me as I looked down at my palms, and that revulsion immediately changed to rage.

  I leaped to my feet. "You killed him!"

  The woman turned and started to walk away. "I saw the creature warded away from you. I assumed you were protected."

  The stolen ribbon in my pocket... No. No, I couldn't think about that yet. The woman was still walking away. Hadn't she heard me? I followed, determined to make her understand. "You killed that old man! If you'd given us another second and I would have gotten him away."

  She waved me off. "This was easier."

  "EASIER!" I grabbed her elbow and spun her around.

  Mistake. The woman slapped her hand over my face. She was small and as light as a child, but her hand squeezed me like a vice. Her strength astonished and terrified me. She could squeeze until my teeth broke off and fell into my throat. She could push until the hinge of my jaw shattered and the bones stabbed into my brain.

  "If you don't change your tone," she said, "I'm going to mess up that pretty face of yours. I'm a peer in the society. You don't talk to me that way."

  She grabbed my arm and marched me around the building. We weren't going to the hole in the fence; she walked straight up to the gate, grabbed the padlock holding it shut and twisted. The lock burst. A few seconds later, she was marching me down the street away from Jon, Macy and Payton.

  "Where are you taking me?" My voice sounded thin and frightened. I hate being afraid.

  She didn't answer.

  Damn. If only I hadn't lost my temper. If only I hadn't tried to save that man's life. He would have been just as dead and I would have gotten away from this crazy fucked-up woman. For a little while, at least.

  I wanted to shoot questions at her: What the hell was she and how could she do what she did? What had come out of Echo? What the hell was going on? But I kept my mouth shut because she'd mistaken me for someone else, someone in this society of hers. She seemed to think I was a junior member, something below "peer." If she found out I was nobody, she could do to me what she did to Payton....

  No.

  To hell with that. This strange, tiny, tattooed woman scared the piss out of me, and I hate being afraid.

  "I changed my mind," I said, unable to hold back. "It's all right with me that you murdered that guy in cold blood. I'm totally cool with that. Seriously. Why don't we head down to the Millionaire's Club? You could probably burn a dozen guys to death for no damn good reason. Wouldn't that be fun?"

  Her only response was to set her jaw. I was pissing her off, which was a stupid thing to do, but damn it felt good. Was that good feeling was worth dying for? Apparently.

  She stopped at a motorcycle parked at the curb. It was a blue and gray BMW R1200GS--a nice bike and fairly new, but it was scuffed, scratched and generally misused and neglected. "On the back."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Then I'll tear your legs off and throw them up on the roof over there."

  Her tiny, pale eyes stared at me and her lipless mouth was set in a thin, tight line. She was ready to do it and I didn't have anyone to back me up. I shrugged and climbed on the back.

  She climbed on in front and kick-started the engine. "Hold onto my jacket," she said. I did. She peeled out of the street and onto the empty road.

  Echo's corpse, Payton's mangled body, and Jon's wrecked van got farther and farther away. I had no idea what I'd say to him if I lived long enough to see him again. Would he believe that Echo had that creature inside her? Would he believe that this woman had forced him to come with her? Would he believe how strong and fast the women had been?

  It was ridiculous. All these people needed were colorful spandex suits and they could fold themselves into the pages of a comic book.

  I shifted my grip on the back of the woman's jacket, mainly to wipe greasy ashes off my hands. She should be the one wearing evidence of murder, not me.

  Because, Christ, I'd been in town one day--one damn day--and I was already fleeing the scene of a double murder. I suddenly barked out with laughter as I pictured Karl's face when I told him what happened. I had ashes on my jacket--and probably Echo's blood from the thing's beating wings--and a story no one woul
d believe. Probably it would be best if this woman broke my damn head open; it'd save me from a life sentence.

  But would Jon believe me? Maybe this happened to him twice a week.

  I needed to find him. I needed to get away from this woman and tell him everything that had happened, whether he believed it or not. Maybe it would save his life.

  We zoomed around a corner and she swerved across the double yellow line for a dozen yards. She was going way too fast, and the wind in my hair made me acutely aware that I wasn't wearing a helmet. Neither was she, of course, but she could probably drive into a brick wall and walk away unharmed. I hung on for my life, too tall for the small bike and whipped by the chill wind.

  After a few more hair-raising turns, we pulled into the driveway of a hotel. We passed the sign before I had a chance to look at it and she braked hard at the entrance.

  A valet took her key and gave her a ticket. She swung her leg off the bike and gave me a hard look. I followed her inside.

  The hotel lobby was the most beautiful man-made place I had ever seen in my life. The floors were marble tile. The desk looked like it was trimmed with mahogany. To the right, a three marble steps led to a genteel little circle of plush leather couches. Beyond that, a longer flight of marble stairs led to a restaurant.

  The tattooed woman marched straight through the room without a sideways glance. If she was impressed by our surroundings, she didn't show it.

  I felt wildly out of place in my sooty clothes. The woman looked like a street weirdo, with her tattered fireman's jacket hanging open to reveal the swarm of ribbons clipped to her vest. We made quite a spectacle for the suit and tie crowd. Not that there was a crowd. I glanced up at the clock. It was 1:45 in the morning. Uncle Karl had probably already taken my things from my apartment and dumped them on the back yard.

  A tall, slender man with a receding hairline stepped out from behind the concierge desk. He was dressed in a stylish black suit and wore a golden name tag so small I couldn't read it. I had a moment of absurd envy for that name tag.

  "Ms. Powliss," the man said. His tone and expression were full of snobby contempt. "The service elevators are this way."

  Ms. Powliss ignored him and marched straight to the stand of elevators against the back wall. I was grateful to have a name to hang on her. It made her seem almost human.

  The concierge glanced at me but, before I could mouth the word "Help" or "Call the police," he turned away. I looked at the front entrance. What if I ran for it? What if I simply shouted nine-one-one?

  I didn't do any of those things. As if she could read my mind, Ms. Powliss grabbed my jacket and dragged me into an opening elevator. Besides, I had no idea what she would do to the people who came to help me. She'd killed that drunk without a second thought. Would she do the same to the bellhops and cleaning staff here? And while I had no great love for cops, including my uncle, I didn't want to see them burned alive.

  She pushed a button. We rode up alone. If she'd taken me to a secluded spot, I'd have known she was planning to kill me. But a four-star hotel? I figured I was either about to meet someone important or we were going to do some hot-tubbing.

  The doors dinged open. Ms. Powliss lead me down a wide, tastefully decorated corridor. The wallpaper was covered with lemon-colored stripes and there were small tables with vases of fresh flowers against the wall. I supposed there was no point in smashing a vase over her head. Maybe I should offer her a daisy and kill her with kindness.

  "Are we going to order some raisin toast?" I asked, trying to hide my growing fear. "Cause I'd love some raisin toast." She wasn't amused.

  She stopped at a door and thumped on it hard enough to make it rattle. I couldn't tell if she was angry or if she couldn't handle all that strength.

  The door swung open, revealing a man in his early fifties. His skin was pale and his eyes were vague and sleepy. His blond hair was long and fine, hanging limp around his sagging face. His shirt--he wasn't wearing pajamas, even at this hour--was pale blue silk and he wore a waistcoat embroidered with elaborate stitching. The designs reminded me of Ms. Powliss's tattoos and ribbons. His pants were cream colored and tailored. He'd probably been handsome when he was younger, but now he looked all used up. He looked weak. And rich.

  "Annalise, how good to see you," he said. I couldn't place his accent. Something European, but I'm not much for accents. "How goes the hunt, my dear?"

  "I don't report to you." Annalise shoved me toward the door. The European released the door knob, letting me bang it open with my shoulder. I stumbled a few feet into the hotel room, trying to keep my balance.

  "Callin, keep your wooden men out of my way. I nearly killed him. And next time you put someone in the field, let me know first."

  "That's interesting," Callin said. "Because I do not have any wooden men."

  "What?" For the first time, Annalise's tough exterior broke, replaced by genuine confusion and worry.

  Callin looked me over carelessly. "Not since Hubert died in '93."

  Annalise's expression turned back to anger quickly. "You're lying," she said. "No one else would send a wooden man here without telling us."

  "He doesn't belong to me," Callin said. "Are you sure he's one of us?"

  "Look." She tossed a white ribbon at me.

  I tried to duck out of the way, thinking she was about to set me on fire again. The ribbon homed in and struck my shoulder. The glyph on it immediately glowed silver.

  "See?" Annalise said. "He's carrying our--"

  "Before you say anything imprudent," Callin interrupted, "you are not missing something, are you my dear?"

  Annalise grabbed the tail of her jacket and pulled it. She saw the torn threads where the stolen ribbon used to be. "Well, I'll be damned," she said. When she looked up, her expression was icy and dangerous. "Sorry to bother you, Callin. I'll take him and go." She took a step forward.

  Damn. I backed away. Maybe there was a fire exit in the next room, or--

  "I will handle it, child," Callin said. He shut the door in her face.

  I stared at the blank white door and the man beside it in shock. I expected Annalise to kick it open any second, but it didn't happen. Either she didn't want to raise a racket in this hotel, or she had to defer to the sickly-looking guy beside me.

  Callin leaned against the door and watched me with a placid smile. He didn't look very scary, but neither had Annalise before she'd started tearing off car doors with her bare hands. And if the two of them were at odds, maybe I could use Callin against Annalise and escape them both. Maybe I could even find out who they were. Jon needed to know.

  "So," I said, breaking the silence. "Will you tell me what is going on?"

  No answer. Callin simply stood and stared at me. He looked a little dazed, as if he was drunk. I glanced around, giving the guy time to think of something to say. The room was tastefully decorated with flowers and cream-colored lace. Everything was refined and effeminate, as though it had been put together for an elderly aunt. There was a hall, probably leading to a bedroom, and a balcony. We were too high up for me to get out that way.

  "Okay," I said. "That's cool. Thanks for helping me get away from her. I'll be going now."

  I stepped around Callin and tried the door. It wouldn't budge. The knob wouldn't even turn.

  "Hey, man. Would you unlock this? Please?" I was trying to be polite but it didn't seem to be doing any good. I remembered Echo lying dead on the asphalt and the smoking bones of the old drunk. I needed to get the hell away before something similar happened to me. "Can't you understand me? Let me out."

  Still no answer. Callin didn't even move, except to watch my movements.

  "No? Then how about in here?" I strode quickly down a short hall into the bedroom. It, too, was pale and tasteful. It was almost ghostly.

  And there was no door, just another balcony.

  Callin strolled into the room, his body language casual and confident. While watching me very closely, he moved to the desk, closed
a leather-bound journal and slid it into the top drawer.

  I could have sprinted to the front door, but it was still locked. "Look, this doesn't have to get ugly. I just want to leave. All right?" I couldn't be more reasonable than that.

  "You are no one's wooden man," Callin said.

  I glanced over at the huge bed. "Nope. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, I've been to jail."

  "Annalise should have killed you after all."

  That was too much. "You just said the wrong thing," I said with a bluster I did not feel. "Now open that door before--"

  Time froze. My thoughts seemed to stand still. The room turned blinding white.

  Then the world started moving again. I was on my back on the carpet. Callin had me by the throat.

  "You will tell me everything," Callin said. He smiled, revealing a pair of long, needle-sharp fangs.

  The world turned a blinding white again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I opened my eyes. Sunlight. I was lying on my back and I could see sunlight. The light seemed important, although at the moment I couldn't figure out why. I also had a headache.

  I was still alive.

  I felt satin against my skin and sat up. I was lying in Callin's bed. "Oh, shit." I lifted the covers. I was completely naked--even my socks were gone.

  "Oh, shit shit shit." My clothes lay on the bed table in a neatly-folded stack. I jumped out of bed and started pulling them on. Something rubbed against my neck as I pulled my shirt over my head. I checked in the mirror and saw a bandage below my left ear.

  I slowly peeled the bandage back. Beneath it were two pin prick puncture wounds. Christ, was that a vampire bite?

  There weren't enough oh, shits in the world for that.

  I grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair and went through the pockets. The blue ribbon was gone, of course. Dammit. I didn't even know what it was or what it did, but it had saved my life twice. I wanted it back.

  There was the desk. Callin had taken an open journal off the desk and hidden it in the top drawer. I tried to open it but it was locked.