Cheat the Grave (8 page)

And they chose her.

 

Suzanne may have been right about true love never dying. I didn't think so, but the things I didn't know had turned out to be more varied than I'd ever imagined. Still, her determination to hang onto love—and Cher's Disneyfied dream of it—didn't match up to my own experience. I couldn't put my faith in a fairy tale. Sure, I believed in the wicked witch and the fire-breathing dragon parts, but the happily-ever-after? True love?

I scoffed, and pushed the thought away.

Misgivings about love aside, there were a shitload of other things I didn't understand, all of them more pressing than finding some elusive Prince Charming. For example, who had removed the lock on this side of Midheaven, letting out Mackie and Tripp, and effectively any rogue who still had enough willpower and soul energy to attempt the crossing?

What was this “cell” Tripp was entering—a place to keep him safe? Surely not another lockup. And could I be safe there too? Because how the fuck was I going to dodge a homicidal agent with a soul-stealing knife when my own protection was skin-thin?

“I could use a fairy godmother about right now,” I muttered, and I didn't mean a rogue Shadow agent fond of shit-kickers and strange cigarettes. Even had I agreed to help Harlan Tripp, he was no match for Sleepy Mac. He'd already been wounded, didn't seem to have a conduit, and besides, I'd seen the fear in his eyes when he mentioned Mackie.

Cautiously, almost furtively, I reached into my pocket and fingered the phone Warren had given me. I'd been able to count on him and the troop to cover my back in the past, but Mackie had ruled over agents like him in Midheaven. The strongest agent of Light I'd ever known was over there now, though hoping Hunter Lorenzo would rescue me was as reasonable as believing in fairy tales about princes on noble steeds.

Because Hunter
hadn't
come after me. And with Mackie and Tripp's disappearance, he had to know the entry between the two worlds was open…and my life was in danger. His girlfriend—no, his
wife
, I remembered belatedly and bitterly—had sent Sleepy Mac.

And that brought me to Solange. Ah, beautiful Solange. I sighed, thinking of Midheaven's queen bee. Sola, Hunter called her. Other women adorned themselves in clothing to entice, makeup to enhance, baubles to catch the eye. But Solange
was
the adornment and enhancement and enticement of her world. Her appearance was a private thing, a bottle you'd found and rubbed. The answer to anything you could wish. At least, that's how she appeared there
.

But she'd originally been a Shadow agent, also from the Vegas valley, escaping to Midheaven a few years earlier for some unknown infraction against the Tulpa. She and a man named Jaden Jacks had met here, unwisely beginning an affair that was a paranormal mixing of oil and water. When Warren discovered it, he forced J.J. into a new identity—Hunter Lorenzo—and ordered him to forget the Shadow he loved.

Except he never did. Hunter spent years searching for Solange. He donned a new cover identity and kept it from Warren. And sought her even after we became lovers.

As for my would-be rival, all I knew was this: Solange was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but it was a beauty gained by raping the souls of others. She used alchemy, magic, and a uniquely savage mean streak to turn those valuable bits into gems, which she then strung into a recreation of the night sky. So beneath her soft, inviting exterior was a beast as vicious as a rabid hellhound, and that was the type of woman who thrived over there. In short, Solange made Mackie look like a pet rock.

And Hunter was in love with her.

So I'd helped him get to her. As hard as it was—and it'd been as acute as being struck with Mackie's blade—what
else could I do? Even learning of his past—discovering I hadn't known him at all—I'd wanted good things for him. Besides, Warren had thrown him from the troop, essentially declaring paranormal jihad on his ass, so there wasn't anything left for him here anymore.

There was you.

I shook my head, stopping when the smoky feeling hit me again, though I was grateful to note it was marginally less. No, Warren had been clear on the terms of Hunter's banishment. If he'd stayed, Hunter would have been a rogue agent, driven from the city to live somewhere not yet populated enough to warrant a troop. If he remained in Las Vegas, or tried to contact any of his former allies, then the people he'd been raised with in the sanctuary of Light would kill him. So, either way he was an outcast. At least in Midheaven he'd have the love he'd so long searched for.

But he'd betrayed me, not by leaving me for his version of true love, or even because he'd failed to warn or protect me from Mackie. But
he
had been the one to tell Solange who I was, so that she could whisper it into Mackie's ear.
Go after Olivia Archer,
I could practically hear her purr.
Joanna's alias in that parallel world.

I shut my eyes and leaned my head back on the buttery headrest. Whomever contacted me that afternoon had been right. I should never have gone out tonight.

True love never dies…even when it's gone, its memory keeps you safe
.

“Bullshit,” I whispered, though I didn't believe love, once felt, just disappeared. My first love, Ben, still influenced my life, though our love belonged to a different place and time. No less meaningful, but no longer relevant to the woman I was today.

Yet my burgeoning love for Hunter had been different. We were two fallible people with scarred pasts that had springboarded us into the same passion. I might have been
wrong about the permanence of both relationships, but they had shaped me. Love, truly felt, really did leave a mark.

But so did getting whacked with a tire iron. And in my experience,
that's
how love marked a person's life. It was as random as violence. As senseless as an early death. And Suzanne was dead wrong about one thing in particular, I thought, a lone tear slipping over my cheek. Love
could
be dangerous.

Mine was fucking killing me.

Las Vegas actually dozes in the early morning hours, resting up from the roughshod night, and catching its breath before it rides again. Unfortunately, you don't fall asleep after a night like I had. You drop into a pool of exhaustion, and land in restless half-consciousness. But only after locating a place of relative safety, where demons wearing bowler hats can't plow soul-stealing blades through your innards.

For me, that place turned out to be a bright conference room streaming with morning sun, espresso fumes, and the disapproval of twelve board members constituting the whole of Archer Enterprises.

“Ms. Archer?”

Too late I realized my head had lolled on my neck again. Snapping upright, I checked for drool. Seriously, these blue bloods were so boring they could send Mackie back into his coma. Still, it was my first board meeting of Archer Enterprises, where I'd just replaced Xavier Archer as chairman of the board. It occurred to me that maybe I should make an effort. I yanked off my oversized shades and shielded a
ginormous
yawn.

“Sorry. You lost me at the bit about that vesting thing.” They'd drawn the subject out so long I think oceanic plates had shifted.

The man to my left, six feet away but still seated closest at the long, glossed table, studied me drolly. “Late night?”

“It was a killer,” I replied huskily, and reached for the water.

The man beyond him—indistinguishable but for the three feet separating them—placed his pen down and folded his hands in front of him. “Yes, word is your traveling disco got hijacked. It must have been terribly traumatic for you.”

I let my water glass dangle dangerously from two fingers just to see him squirm, and discarded the idea of detailing what “trauma” really meant to me. “It was more of a rave than a disco,” I said, angling my glass in a halfhearted toast.

He stared at me with undisguised disdain, and though I hated to do so, I blinked first. Olivia Archer didn't “do” stare-downs, though I quickly followed up with another gaping yawn. At least that didn't have to be faked.

“Perhaps we can get back to the business at hand?” One of the eleven identical twins intoned. It was John, Xavier's attorney, whom I'd apparently inherited as well. “The compensation plan again, then?”

I replaced my water glass with a pen and waved down the table with my free hand. “That would rock.”

He began his monotonous intonation again…and I began to doodle. Catching the words “strip” and “straddle,” I perked up a bit, then realized he was talking about how they intended to keep the money I paid them this year. Oh well, I thought, broadening my pen stroke along my pad. Someone would go over all this with me later, I was sure. Ad nauseam.

As John droned, a shape formed beneath my pen. I jolted upon recognizing it, marring the precise whorls, but was back at it before it could escape me. I began sharpening the outline more consciously, scrollwork leading up to a pair
of wings. It wasn't just familiar, it was somehow
mundane
. I pulled back my pen, frowning. It was also the symbol I'd spotted on the giant chest from in the previous night's treasure hunt. Cher's report that Arun's servants were the ones to arrange the hunt and plant the clues initially surprised me, but it was now clear that someone with unnatural powers had infiltrated Arun's little cadre. Maybe, I thought, pen stilling, Arun Brahma himself. Could he be an agent? A rogue newly arrived in the valley, and using Suzanne and Cher to get to me?

Or, if the weapons were left for me, could he actually be some sort of ally? My pulse leapt at the thought, not because it was particularly likely, but because the idea of an ally in a world rife with enemies was shiny enough to draw even a magpie's attention.

It was worth looking into either way, if only because of Suzanne and Cher. I might not be a superhero anymore, but I'd die before I allowed another attack on someone I cared for, like the one that'd taken Olivia's life.

Making a mental note to research Arun Brahma when I wasn't being bombarded by balance sheets and cash flow statements, I started drawing the emerging symbol again, trying to remember where else I'd seen it.
And what did it mean?

“Excuse me, Ms. Archer?”

Blinking, I startled into awareness. “What?”

“You said something?”

Shit. I'd spoken aloud. “Um, I said…what does that mean?”

“Which part?”

“Um. The last part.”

John lifted a brow.

I waved my hand. “Just the bit before I interrupted.”

He sighed, and started over.

I tapped my pen. Maybe the symbol was benign. Or meaningless alone. Stripping it of context might also have removed its significance. But I'd had Cher take a picture of
the chest. I could study that and try to make out the surrounding carvings. A quick Internet search might yield the information I needed.

Yeah, but will it keep you alive?

I sighed heavily, and the attention of the room shifted my way. I ignored it. Let them think I was shallow, hung-over, and ineffectual. A death-dealer on a mission took precedence over stock options any day.

Then the door to the conference room opened
. Or maybe not
.

Dropping my pen, I crumpled the paper with the strange symbol between my palms, and slid my hands—with their printless fingertips—into my pocket. Then, touching the phone Warren had given me, I watched the leader of the paranormal underworld, my birth father, enter the room. His flinty gaze roamed the length of the suddenly silent conference table before landing on me, at its head. My mouth went dry. He sensed it…and smiled.

 

Here's the thing about the Tulpa. You never knew when or where he was going to turn up. The agents of Light had long known he'd been Xavier Archer's benefactor, and the one who actually ran Archer Enterprises, but his appearances were as random as tornadoes. As far as I could tell, even his own troop didn't know when he'd drop in. Grasping the phone tighter, I slid lower, like I was again nodding off.

You could never be sure what physical form he was going to take either, and clothing was the least of it. While agents could be given new identities or take over others—like the way I'd been transformed so convincingly into Olivia—his body literally shifted and morphed depending on what he needed to present, and to whom. I'd seen him as a mafia don, a mild-appearing professor, and a monster pulled directly from Stephen King's dreams. As you can imagine, it made him rather hard to track.

It also freaked me out. This man was my
father.
A
mutant being that had somehow taken on enough cells and atoms to impress a genetic code upon me. It made me wonder how I'd have turned out if he'd been wearing his horns at the time of my conception.

I'd seen him in this current guise once before, at Xavier's wake, so it was clearly the personage he wore when taking care of any Archer-related business. His skin was unmarred by freckle or line, his limbs deceivingly slim and long. Yet he was still seated as he made his way into the room, the benign exterior framed in an electric wheelchair. That was the difference since we'd last met. Were I still able to sense the power swirling around him, I'd have realized it sooner. Yet even in the absence of that ability, one thing was achingly clear.

The Tulpa was exhausted.

The thin skin beneath his eyes was powdered in gray, and though smooth as clay, his mouth turned down at the corners. His lids were heavy, and his right hand trembled slightly at the control panel. Despite the careful attention paid to what had to be a three-thousand-dollar suit, one side of his hair was mussed, like he'd just come in from the wind.

Or he'd just come out on the losing side of a battle.

The men at the table recognized him, and the way John stiffened told me they didn't care for him either. I remained prettily slouched. Better to observe the dynamics of power from Olivia's usual position. Window dressing.

“Don't tell me I'm late.” The whiskey-strong voice was as smooth as ever.

“Almost an hour,” said one of the men meekly, earning a hard look from the others.

“You're not on the board,” John said shortly.

He
was
the board, I knew, eyes racing over every face.

The Tulpa smiled, unperturbed. “Xavier never seemed to mind. He rather appreciated my advice. Benefited from it too.”

“Xavier's dead.”

“So severe, John.” The Tulpa rolled up to the opposite end of the table, one corner of his mouth lifting so a dimple flashed. “You should be more sensitive. His grieving daughter is sitting right here.”

Silence rang, and I pretended to startle awake. “Sorry. Are we done?” I ran a hand through my hair, but paused halfway through a stretch. “Who are you?”

The Tulpa inclined his head. “I was your father's consultant in all matters of business. We met at his wake, remember?”

Clearly. He'd been at Xavier's bedside, keeping vigil with the corpse.
Seeing if there was any lingering soul energy he could suck out and use as personal power
.

“That day is a bit…fuzzy,” I said lightly, looking down at my hands.

“Understandable.” His voice smoothed out even further. Backing up, he pushed a couple of finger levers and headed my way. “Mind if I sit to your right?”

I'd rather pull my own tooth. Fortunately, John minded as well.

“This meeting is for board members only.”

“Xavier never minded as long as I helped make him money.” The Tulpa's pale face took on a new shape, almost menacing, as his brow quirked up. “If I recall correctly, neither did the rest of you.”

“Well, I'm the senior board member now.” John sniffed. The others looked back to the Tulpa, like it was his volley.

I tilted my head. Wasn't
I
the senior board member?

The Tulpa rose from his chair slowly but steadily, catching the eye of each board member, who gazed back as if mesmerized.

“Maybe,” he said in a liquid whisper, “we should vote on the matter.”

And like machines, everyone lifted their pens. I felt a pull too, and looked down, horrified to find the hand previously gripping Warren's phone snaking toward my gold pen. It wasn't done as quickly as the others, but the impulse
was still there. Shit. I looked up to find the same confusion marring some of the men's faces, while others had hands already poised over their pads as if waiting for dictation. I followed suit and pretended to wait as well. It wouldn't do if Olivia Archer were seen as strong-willed. The Tulpa found anyone in control of their own mind an irresistible challenge.

“I love democracy,” I quipped, though it might have been overkill. The Tulpa's gaze left John's, who I saw slump out from the corner of my eye, and locked onto mine.

“Then you, as the controlling partner and figurehead of Archer enterprises—not to mention the only lady in the room—should vote first.”

Heads swiveled my way. They should form a synchronized swim team, I thought, though even my dry humor fell away when I saw the blankness shellacking their gazes. I felt that pull again, the Tulpa willing me to press my pen to the page, and let my gaze gloss over as well. I didn't know why I had partial resistance to this—perhaps because he was my father?—but I wasn't complaining. And yet, I hesitated. “But, sir. I don't even know your name.”

It was a sore spot, not one I could afford to push even were I still an agent, but I couldn't help it. The Tulpa didn't, and would never, have a name. So even though the words were delivered with the sweetness of pure cane sugar, I knew they stung. Leaning forward, he pressed his palms flat on the table. “Sir is fine.”

The mental pressure urging me to write increased. To hide my worry, I bent my head, and decided to listen. Just a little.

My hand automatically began to scribble.

Yes.

And John is out.

With deadened eyes, I pushed my vote forward for all to see. I might be a figurehead, but as the Tulpa had said, I had majority interest. Even I was interested to know exactly how much power that would yield me.

“Read it, Brian,” the Tulpa said, so smoothly the words were almost slurred.

The man closest to me—the one so offended by party buses—pulled the page in front of him, and gasped. His mouth worked silently until the Tulpa's amused voice encouraged him to pass it along. Apparently board meetings were just like middle school, I thought wryly. Pass notes, form alliances…and always keep an eye out for the big motherfuckers.

John froze as he gazed down at the paper. “I'm your father's attorney,” he finally said, leaden-voiced.

“My father's dead.” I returned his earlier words, my feathery voice gone flat.

He sputtered in a mixture of indignation and poorly concealed disdain. A corner of the Tulpa's mouth rose slightly, and words rose in my mind with it. I knew them as his will, like a collision between his spirit and mine, and also knew I had a small ability to control them, but I didn't.

“And I don't like you.” My mouth moved oddly over the syllables. It was like licking Braille, tongue catching on the individual hooks and sounds.

“Listen, Olivia—”

“It's Ms. Archer,” I said sharply, this time my voice all my own. “To all of you. Now vote.”

The Tulpa sat back in his wheelchair, as if a mere observer, his will withdrawn. Moments later the votes were counted, and John was out. The bombastic attorney remained motionless a time longer, eyes fixed straight ahead, brows bunched, though he didn't bother arguing. He'd obviously seen, felt, and
done
this before. Finally he stood. “This is not over.”

And he left. Weighty silence returned to the room, punctured only by heavy sighs.

“Well, that was very uncomfortable.” I pushed back from the table, my chair thudding behind me. “Let's try this again tomorrow, and see if it doesn't turn out better.”