The Taste Of Night

“Or have been born in an age where men abducted women and sold them into slavery.”

“And pulled them around by their hair,” I said, getting into it.

“What?” Cher paused. “You don’t like that?”

I laughed. I hadn’t always liked Cher; we’d had a fierce, if unspoken, competition for Olivia’s attention while she’d still been alive, but she’d grown on me these past months. Like a fungus. But the good kind.

Now that things were easy between us again, she passed me her martini, watching as I took a small sip. “You’ll miss the Valhalla party. Some are saying it’ll be the party of the year.”

I shrugged. It couldn’t be helped. I’d be tucked safely into the sanctuary by then, and who knew what Warren had planned for me there.

“We’re on the VIP list, of course,” she said, taking back her drink. “So’s Troy.”

I grimaced, unable to help myself. “What does she see in him, anyway?”

“Who, Momma?” Cher rolled her eyes expressively. “The same thing she sees in all of them. An unwillingness to commit, a predilection for lies, and a supertoned bod.”

“So why bother?”

“Because she likes to go out. She likes dinner and dancing.” She rose to move the gowns back into place, straining with the effort, before plopping back down next to me. “And because ever since Daddy died she’s been afraid to allow herself to love again.”

I knew Suzanne and Cher’s father had been a surprise love match, a May-December romance that’d bloomed quickly and been the object of great speculation within their social circle, especially after his death only nine months later. What I didn’t know was how they’d met or how Suzanne had dealt with his death, and I’d never found a way to ask her or Cher about it that wouldn’t incur suspicion. I couldn’t find one now either, so let the moment pass.

“I hate it when you’re gone,” Cher said, pouting a little.

“I really need to get away for a while,” I said, itching to do so now. I had what I came for.

“I do too!” she said earnestly. “But wherever I go this ass will follow!”

“It’s not that bad.” At her horrified look I amended my statement. “I mean, it’s lovely.”

“I’m just worried about you. I don’t want to see you turning into your sister, you know?” And before I could work up affront at that, she continued, motioning with her drink. “She was so alone. Like one of those heroines you read about in a book, sad-without the slightest sense of fashion or personal style-but a heroine no less. I guess she was kind of like Momma in that way.”

I drew back. I’d been like Suzanne in what way?

Cher, noting my surprise, nodded. “It’s true. Momma may seem like she’s living life fully, but look at the way she keeps men at arm’s length. And the way she runs.” She shook her head, eyes softening sadly. “You know that she’s running from, not to, don’t you?”

“From what?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Cher shrugged. “She’s never said, and I can’t ask, but there’s a need boiling deep inside her. And that’s what Joanna was like, except instead of running she used her fists to keep her memories from catching up.”

I hugged my knees, pulling them in tight to squeeze out the hollowness that’d suddenly popped up in my chest, and looked around at beaded gowns and pressed suits and a wall of shoes for feet that never stopped moving. It was true. I had been that way; angry and bitter and trying to turn back time with my fists. “Cher. Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“Okay, but you know I’m no good at math.”

“Let’s say Joanna was still alive,” I said, toying with my nails, not looking at her. “Do you think we all could’ve stopped fighting and just been friends?”

Cher placed her palm over my restless hands. I stilled and looked up to find her as sober as I’d ever seen her. “That’s not a sensible question, Livvy-girl.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s like askin’, What if Momma stopped running?” Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “Women like that? Broken women? With pasts that wake them up screaming at night? They don’t ever stop. They can’t.”

“Because the day they stop,” I said, feeling stripped bare, even kneeling in the corner of a closet full of designer clothes, “is the day they die.”

And for a moment the scent of tuberose and freesia seemed to drift through the air as a Shadow’s laughter growled through the closet. A scream, Olivia’s, sounded in the night. And a thud, a body crashing through an arching wall of glass, resonated in my mind. I closed my eyes and knew she was right. I would never stop. Not until Joaquin, and all the Shadow agents-the Tulpa included-were six feet under, toes pointed up.

When I opened my eyes again, Cher was holding her martini out to me. I took it because last night I’d killed a man, and today I’d been reminded of a daughter I didn’t want to have. A toast to senseless questions and unlived lives wasn’t entirely out of order. So my sister’s best friend and I finished off that cocktail in silence, sitting on the floor of a broken woman’s closet.

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