Born To Be Wilde: Immortal Vegas, Book 3 (11 page)

The doors of the penthouse conference room opened with a bang, and Armaeus was suddenly five feet away from me.

Literally, five feet away, looking cool and unmussed as the Fool of the Arcana Council burst into the room with a laptop and a pile of printouts bristling in his grasp.

“I dove in as soon as I got your message,” Simon said. He grinned at me as he strode forward. “How’d the hairpin work out for you in Germany?”

“Perfectly,” I said. I could do cool. I could do unmussed. “How about five more of them?”

“I can do that.” He beamed as he dumped his materials on the conference room and spread them out. Today he was wearing his usual knit cap, this one decorated with Day of the Dead skulls adorned with fat pink roses. Beneath, his wiry hair stuck out in all directions around his lean, pale face. He’d poured his slender body into a knit hoodie, ragged-hemmed jeans and Chucks, and he fairly bounced with energy. “Went low-tech to do the research on this one. It seemed…I don’t know, less rude. Given they’re kids and all.”

I recovered and looked down at where he was pointing. The posters had been recreated with exacting detail, all of them except mine. Six children stared at me from the table with their camera-happy faces. Beneath each, Simon dropped blown-up photographs of the age-progressed images.

“A few anomalies right off the bat. As you noticed, that’s not a computer-generated background behind these kids, and they haven’t been Photoshopped onto other images. These are all complete photos. And they’re
photos
, not computer graphics. The lighting shifts in each of them, and the quality is flawed in nonstandard areas, suggesting a snapshot. Their expressions match that theory as well.”

“So where are they?” I squinted, trying to get anything from the painted concrete wall behind the faces. “Someone simply lined them up and took their pictures? That’s a pretty basic wall. For all we know, they could be in a prison somewhere.”

“Maybe, but if they are, they don’t know it.” Simon tapped keys on his laptop and hit return. The image on his screen reappeared on the table in front of us. It was the face of the youngest girl, Mary, reimagined as if she was Pinhead from
Hellraiser
. “The human face is a map of trackable muscle movements connected to emotional expression. Even faking a smile maps to a highly specific series of muscle movements and skin tone reactions that are significantly different from those affected by a natural smile.” He moved his cursor, and the pinpoints went away, leaving the smiling face of the older Mary Degnan, aged approximately seventeen. “This girl is smiling naturally. Her eyes are warm and engaging, her teeth are slightly mismatched, her face is turned slightly off center. She’s not posed. If I had to guess, I would say she was caught leaning against a wall, talking to her friends, and was called to attention for a quick camera shot.”

“She’s real, in other words,” I said.

“As real as can be.” He lined up two more photos as well. One of a boy, the other a girl, both of them tilted slightly toward the other. I hadn’t noticed that before. “The camera angle is such that the movement is cut off, but these two almost certainly had their arms over each other’s shoulders, looking out toward the camera as a unit. Though they aren’t looking at each other, their smiles mimic each other’s, implying either a romantic relationship or a longtime friendship. A sibling relationship could also be indicated, and though the subjects aren’t related, forced proximity for ten years could result in that kind of a bond.”

I winced. “Okay, this is getting a little
Flowers in the Attic
for me.”

“But notice again, there’s no shame—not a hint of sadness. Nor the scars of long-term depression, which you’d find in sallowness of skin, discoloration here—or here.” Simon pointed to the faces in quick succession. “These children all went through a devastating experience ten years ago, but the result of that experience appears to have been almost fully expunged from their features. It’s fascinating, really.”

I stared, wholly absorbed, the beginnings of excitement starting to warm the cold rock of loss in my stomach. “Actors?”

“Negative. The facial projections match. These are the sixteen- and seventeen-year-old versions of your missing kids, down to dental imperfections. However, they might not realize they’re missing.”

I jerked my head up, staring at Armaeus. “Can he do that? Wherever he stuck them?”

“He, who?” Simon asked as Armaeus nodded.

“He could.” He shot Simon a glance. “Viktor Dal, Simon. That’s who abducted the children, and that’s who, it would appear, now wants it known they were abducted.”

“The Emperor,” I added.

“The prodigal child returns.” Simon whistled, rocking back on his heels. “In more ways than one. Viktor’s been off the grid for about, what, two decades? Not practicing at all.” He frowned at the images on the table. “At least not anywhere we could keep tabs on him. That’s…interesting.”

“What exactly are the Emperor’s powers, Armaeus?” I cut in. “Or his abilities or whatever PC term you guys are using these days to explain your psychic skills? Because to convince traumatized children that they haven’t experienced anything bad is kind of a scary trick, you ask me. Especially if you’re the one traumatizing them.”

Armaeus studied the posters with renewed interest. “The Emperor is one of the most skilled mental manipulators I’ve ever met, and I’d lived through my share of military and scientific revolutions by the time he was introduced to me. He was an adherent to Mesmer, but he’d taken his studies far beyond anything Mesmer had attempted. Brainwashing and implanting false beliefs are Viktor’s stock-in-trade. Add to his considerable scientific skill the fact that he is a powerful Connected, and he is a formidable force indeed.”

“Did he work for the Nazis?” I asked. There was no escaping the possibility, given the time and place where Viktor had surfaced. “Is that where he honed his skills?”

Armaeus’s head came up at my tone, but his gaze remained impassive. “There are truths about the Council that are difficult to understand, Miss Wilde, without a perspective of history that spans millennia, not decades.”

I shook my head, turning away. “You people should really listen to your own drivel some time.”

Armaeus did not seem to take my censure personally, which was a shame, since I’d intended him to.

“In addition to Viktor’s memory work, he became adept at managing perception of pain, pleasure, and physical challenge.” Armaeus drifted his fingers over the old photo of me as Sariah. “He could make athletes stronger and faster without any pharmaceutical intervention. He could make militaries stronger. He could make the brightest minds smarter, all with the use of the power of suggestion. The human mind was his playground in 1937, and his work was invaluable to scientists and psychologists the world over.”

I wasn’t mollified—until a new realization clicked in place. “You put him on the Council to keep him in check, didn’t you?”

Instead of answering me, Armaeus turned to Simon. “Have you located him?”

“
I
did, actually.” Eshe’s imperious whine echoed off the conference room walls as she sailed into the room in a puff of entitlement. “He’s in Turkey. Surrounded by his fawning attendants, but not these children.” She waved a dismissive hand at the missing persons photos. “These reek of normalcy. I can’t imagine why he would waste his time with them.”

There was too much derision in her words, even for the High Priestess. Like she took Viktor’s actions personally. “What, were you and Viktor tight?” I asked.

“Hardly.” Oh yeah, they were so tight. “But he is a part of the Council, and he has been sorely missed. He left when Roxie Meadows did, decades ago, and while she stayed close enough, he hasn’t returned.”

“We haven’t needed him to return,” Armaeus said, and his voice had an unmistakable edge to it.

“Now we do,” Eshe countered with equal determination. “It’s time that we provide a united front, Armaeus. You know that as well as any of us.”

“But how can Viktor remain on the Council?” I asked. “You guys should be punishing him for
abducting
children
, not wondering whose kickball team he’s going to captain.”

Eshe regarded me with familiar disdain. I found that more satisfying than insulting.

“We know he took these kids ten years ago.” I jabbed my finger at the posters lining the table. “If he worked with the Nazis, he did a hell of a lot worse than that. According to Brody, he’s suspected of trafficking drugs, humans, and military-grade weaponry. Don’t you guys have
any
standards for the people you accept onto the Council?”

“You couldn’t possibly understand the requirements of being on the Council.”

“Uh huh.” I scowled at her. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were playing Ring around the Globe.”

Her startled glance to me contained just enough pain that validation scored through me. “Hurts worse than you thought it would, doesn’t it?”

“I have a new appreciation for your work and the work of the oracles, yes,” she said, with more grace than I would have expected. “But it is a skill, like any skill. You improve with practice.”

“Yeah, well, you have fun with that. I’ve astral-traveled enough for a lifetime.” A sudden thought struck me. “Wait a minute. Please tell me that’s not how I’m expected to find Atlantis.”

“Atlantis?” Simon’s eyes flared wide. “I’m going with!”

“Council members are forbidden.” Eshe looked at me with curiosity, then slid her gaze to Armaeus. “It’s also quite dangerous for mortals.”

“She’ll have a map,” he said, but Eshe shook her head.

“The price is too high for a map such as that, Armaeus. You know it, and so does Death. There are rules, and you cannot break them. Not even to maintain the balance.”

Simon’s brows lifted so high I thought they might fly off his face. I kind of knew how he felt. “Whose rules, exactly?” I asked. “And when were they made? Because if you guys are somehow okay with bringing on people like Viktor Dal, your rules suck.”

Eshe rolled her eyes. “As I said, you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to consider that a badge of honor.” I shifted my gaze to Armaeus. “I’m out of here.”

He nodded, but Simon frowned, clearly certain he was missing out again. “But where are you going? And when are you coming back?” He poked his finger at the posters. “Aren’t you going after them?”

“First, I’ve got to sleep. Then I’ve gotta see a woman about a map,” I said, not missing Eshe’s patent concern as she snapped her gaze back to me. I smirked. “Have to admit, I’m dying to meet her.”

“Yes,” Eshe said tightly. “You will be.”

Chapter Eight

The parking lot between Dixie’s chapel and Darkworks Ink was empty when I reached it the next morning, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Brody’s car wasn’t parked in any of the chapel’s visitors’ slots. I didn’t think I could handle another of his and Dixie’s meet cutes anytime soon.

I paid off the cabbie and stepped into the shade of the overhang of Darkworks Ink, noting the “OPEN” sign.

The public room of the shop was about what you’d expect from a tattoo parlor. Walls lined with panels of flash tattoos and pictures of happy customers, posters of superheroes and fantasy villains. All of it was dark and kind of grungy, with the not-so-faint scent of patchouli hanging in the air.

A bell gave a sharp ping as the door closed behind me, and I busied myself looking tattoo-curious.

I’d seen one man here before. A thin, long-haired smoker with sunken facial features and hollow eyes. Jimmy Shadow, the man we’d thought owned this place. The man who I’d secretly suspected was Death, when I’d first seen him beneath the flickering neon lights of the shop, next to a poster of a grim, flag-bearing warrior on a white horse—all Death, all the way.

Apparently Death was a she, however, and apparently she was busy. No one came forward from the back room, and I double-checked the neon sign—yup, the place was open. And there was the fact that I’d gotten in the front door without having to pick any locks.

Idly, I flipped open one of the large hanging panels of flash tattoos, sizing up my options. I could get one of literally a hundred bumblebees, hummingbirds, or butterflies, or a full garden of flowers. I could go all tribal and have jagged, swirling lines inked on me for life, or imprint the complete works of Shakespeare on my skin. Eventually, I gave up on there being any sign of life in the place and focused on convincing myself that Hello Kitty deserved to become a permanent part of my dermis. That or a Gandalf symbol. Toss-up.

“Those wouldn’t be nearly enough.”

I have a lot of practice getting surprised in stupid places, and I drew on that wealth of experience as I managed not to jump out of my skin. Instead, I glanced over to the woman speaking…

And nearly jumped out of my skin.

Death leaned up against the doorframe, her gaze raking over me like she was going to have me for lunch. Taller than me by about a half a foot, she was clad in black leather jeans and a tight-fitting muscle shirt that showed off every heavily muscled inch of her. Her hair was cut in a severe up-shaved style with a shock of platinum blonde falling over her eyes. One arm was completely covered in a colorful sleeve of tattoos, the other one almost starkly bare. Her ears were pierced all the way along the curve, but her face was free of metal. She wore no makeup, so all there was to focus on was a double-barreled dose of her piercing white-blue eyes.

I was getting used to the touch of an Arcana Council stare, but this was different. This was…old.

“Cigarette?” She waved a battered pack at me, her faintly British accent a surprise. “I’m taking a break anyway. Come on back.”

Without waiting for me to agree, she turned on her heel, leaving me with no alternative than to trail behind her. Death walked with the easy grace of an athlete or warrior, loose limbed and long-legged, easily navigating the narrow hallway despite the fact that it was stacked with boxes and photograph albums. One large room opened off the hallway with multiple chairs, then private rooms followed, a half dozen in all. I’d never seen any tattoo artist other than Jimmy coming in and out of this place. Clearly, though, they must get some traffic to justify all the workstations.