incident he’d been on leave. I’d remembered all this well because Ben hadn’t been able to hide the bruises on his torso, and though he’d grinned at me when recounting the antics of his older brothers, he’d done so with a split lip, his front tooth missing. He’d told me with a crooked smile that he didn’t care-it made him tough and built character-but then Charles Tracy made fun of him in front of a student assembly, and Ben didn’t show up to school for three straight days. It was okay, though-or so I’d thought then-because neither had Charles.
And now I knew why.
Ben’s father had served in Nam, and when he wasn’t using his family as a punching bag, he’d regale his boys with stories of his non-government-sanctioned activities. When Ben came home from that assembly, pissed and humiliated about Charles’s taunts, his brothers decided to test the effectiveness of wartime tactics on a thirteen- year-old. They abducted Charles on the way home from school, told him they were going on a little desert camping trip, and pulled out a sleeping bag to prove it.
They used military grade twine to bind him inside that bag, laid him out at the base of an old Joshua tree, and rigged a water cooler to release one icy droplet at a time onto the center of Tracy’s forehead. According to the entry Ben didn’t have a hand in this, but he didn’t try to stop it either. It was only water and it couldn’t really hurt, right? Besides, it was just as likely he would end up in Tracy’s position if he said anything at all.
The following week rumors of torture circulated around school, but the Traina brothers denied it, their father backed them, and Ben said nothing at all. I finally cornered him in fourth period gym class and asked him about it outright. He looked me in the eye, sincere and earnest and intent, and he lied.
Charles Tracy, once one of Olivia’s greatest tormentors, returned to school like a ghost of his former self. His harassment of her-of everyone-abruptly stopped, and I’d thought it was because Ben and I had finally set him straight. Eventually I’d stopped worrying about him, stopped seeing him as a threat, and finally-like a ghost-he disappeared altogether.
So what did this confessional entry say about Ben’s actions? What explanation did he have for allowing the torture, then lying about it afterward? Had he hidden the truth from me because he was afraid I’d judge him or because he was ashamed of what he’d done?
No. He’d hidden it because he wasn’t.
“It’s exactly what Regan is looking for,” I murmured, lacing my fingers beneath my chin. These words were the smoking gun Shadow agents looked for in the mortals they targeted as beards, allies, or victims. And yet I was having trouble reconciling the boy portrayed here with the man I’d left sleeping in my bed a month earlier. As for the drug dealer in Dog Run, I didn’t care what it might look like-what this entry alone might hint at-there was no way Ben could kill another human being, take a shower, and then make love to me only hours later. It would mean he’d been caressing me with lethal fingers, and that just didn’t compute.
But the entry on Charles Tracy forced me to consider one thing that’d niggled at me since Ben’s reintroduction into my life. What else, in the name of justice, had Ben decided to take into his own hands? What else had he done behind the shield of his badge and not felt ashamed about? And did I really want to excavate the answer to those questions?
I could feel the chaotic energy balling inside me, and swallowed hard, closed the file, and calmly shut down the computer. I sucked in a long breath, holding it before letting it spiral out of me like a string of yarn, then left the room to put on some tea. I was determined to put the issue aside until Warren could do his research to confirm for sure the dealer, Magnum, was dead. I walked back to Olivia’s bedroom, reasoning that even if he was, Warren’s account would be markedly different from Regan’s. Opening the closet doors, I stepped inside to the scent of cedar and expensive leather, and gently pushed aside a wall of little black dresses.
Then I punched five holes through a false back, the report muffled by the clothes and soundproof foam I’d installed four months earlier.
I didn’t know what had happened in that dark alleyway last month, but I did know this: Ben was the victim here.
I’d opened the door to his life and Regan had walked through it. She was like her mother that way, insinuating herself into the life of the vulnerable and unsuspecting, and filling his mind with ideas he’d never have otherwise had.
I knew what it felt like to be a pawn in someone’s twisted game, and it was my job to keep that from happening to others, mortals, Ben. And. I. Would. Not. Fail.
Because there was also the issue of that unwanted pregnancy I mentioned before, the one I’d once believed had been the result of violence. Ben had a child out there he didn’t know about, and I’d be damned if Regan was going to be the one to reveal that.
“She won’t tell him,” I swore, breathing hard, “and she won’t tell the Tulpa.”
And, of course, there was only one real way to ensure Regan’s silence. I’d have to make it look like an accident to keep Ben from suspecting my involvement, and I’d have to act without the troop’s knowledge too. They weren’t yet aware of Ashlyn’s existence either.
But Rose/Regan
And, eventually, when he was ready, so would Joanna.
A harsh glint of red rebounded off metal hangers, belt buckles, and far too many sequins and crystals as I left that closet, but my blazing eyes didn’t concern me. Neither did the smoke trailing behind me like a wispy, lashing tail. I didn’t worry or fear that the third portent of the Zodiac really did mean my Shadow side was rising up to overshadow the Light in me. This was the real world-one with superheroes and demons and the soul of the city at stake-and brutal machinations demanded brutality in return.
And mothers, I was discovering, did what they had to to protect their children. I had a daughter who would someday ascend to my star sign, the Archer, though like me at that age she didn’t yet know it. But when she did finally find out, she’d want to know who her real father was, and I’d be damned if I told her he was once a good man who’d been tainted and tormented and turned by the Shadows. I was determined to protect them both from that possible future.
Because the story of a little girl with a monster for a father had already been told. It was ugly, and it was mine.
7
Even though it was the final stretch of the year, and the rest of the country was gearing up for cold nights, blazing hearths, and the holidays, those of us who’d just endured a blistering summer season were only now settling into the welcome balm of fall. There was no changing of leaves or need for scarves and gloves and down jackets in Las Vegas. Burning candles was a waste of wax; with a sky so blindingly blue, the flame stuttered feebly in comparison. In short, Las Vegans were experiencing the summer the rest of the country still yearned for, our seasonal marathon of blazing heat over for another year.
Of course, the Strip bustled all year long, so it was with amusement that I kept one eye on the ever- entertaining flux of tourists gawking at one another in the cavernous halls of the Forum Shops, and the other on Chandra as she was fitted with custom couture tailored to her strong, stocky frame. Frankly, people watching couldn’t compete with the entertainment value of seeing the robust and athletic Chandra polished and fawned over like a well-heeled society maven. And it was close enough to Halloween that I wanted to toss her some candy.
“Enjoying yourself?” she hissed when the tailor briefly left the room, already knowing the answer.
I widened my innocent blue eyes as I opened my Balenciaga bag, rummaging inside, though instead of lipstick, I pulled out a syringe and primed it. “You can’t waltz into Xavier Archer’s house in Doc Martens and fatigues. In
