“Yes. Jewels on every digit, and each one a testament to the power of blow jobs.”
Time to extract myself from
“Here, I’m here!”
“All done having bulimia, darling?” Terry asked as she joined us.
Cher shuddered delicately. “This ethnic food is hell on the American digestive tract.”
“Told you to stick with vodka,” Terry singsonged, holding up his glass.
“You should at least give it a try. I practically killed myself putting this party together,” I said, knowing Helen could hear. I’d done nothing but throw the name and number of Suzanne’s preferred party planner on Helen’s desk, and I smiled, seeing her back go ramrod straight before she stalked from the room. Good. The less time she spent around my mortals, the better.
“Seriously, Olivia.” Cher’s gaze followed my own. “What does your housekeeper do other than skulk in doorways?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
Oblivious to my frown, she patted down her streaked hair with alternating black and red nails. “You should can her ass. Just because your father put up with that behavior doesn’t mean you have to.”
“No, no, no.” Terry fisted one hand on his hip. “You need to look at her contract first. Otherwise she’ll go straight to the press and reveal all your nasty little secrets.”
“I don’t have nasty little secrets.” I just had nasty big ones.
“She’ll just make it up,” he said, jerking his head. “Don’t you read
I wasn’t surprised Cher and Terry had noticed…or that they didn’t care for Helen. Mortals might be ignorant of otherworldly battles and politics, but everyone had intuition. Supersenses were just extremely well-developed extensions of that.
“Oh, here. I forgot this before…” Cher reached into her ample cleavage and withdrew a rolled up photo. “It’s the one you made me take on that awful scavenger hunt. I didn’t know if you still wanted it, or if you’d rather forget the whole thing, but it was developed along with all the other party pictures, so I made you a copy.”
I held the photo in front of me, shocked at the crispness of the image. The flash had caught the intricate etchings on the old treasure chest perfectly, along with the symbol that had been stalking my waking hours. I traced it with my fingertip, wondering aloud. “But what is it?”
Terry tossed a glance at the photo and finished the rest of his drink. “A snake. Duh.”
He set his glass on a passing waiter’s tray, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned back to me. Seeing my surprise, he leaned closer. “It is. See? Wrapped around a stick or some sort of staff.”
Studying the photo more closely, I decided he was possibly right.
“What?” he asked, clearly offended by my pursed brow. “Snakes are present in practically every mythological system out there. Google it. You wouldn’t believe the shit they represent.”
“Such as?”
“Guardians of sacred treasures and sites-”
“Like in
“Yeah, temples and stuff.” He sniffed, tossing his head. “And, like, medicine and healing. Renewal and regeneration-shedding skin, get it?-and vengefulness, sometimes deceit…”
But my mind had snagged on the temple connection. A stupa was a monument containing Buddhist relics, which could be loosely interpreted as a sort of temple. As tulpas had derived directly from Tibetan Buddhism, the connection seemed more than coincidental. Because there was a stupa, or an extremely realistic rendition of one, in this very house. Not a definitive clue, but it was a place to start. “Thank you, Terry,” I murmured, refolding the photo.
“Sure,” he shrugged, then brightened. “Come on. For your sake I will risk death by Naga chili pepper.”
Which would buy me time to think, not that I needed a lot of it. It was clear I was going to have to put the problem of Arun Brahma aside and canvass the stupa while I still could. If anything out of the ordinary occurred at this rehearsal dinner-and a homicidal attack by a creature escaped from another world certainly qualified-
Lindy would immediately alert the Tulpa. Then every action within these walls would be catalogued like a forensic exam. So I’d investigate tonight just to be safe, maybe during the soup course, before making sure all the guests got home safely. Tomorrow I’d stop one of my best friends from marrying a man who made her unabashedly happy despite both his stalker and otherworldly qualities. After that?
I’d gather up the arsenal my mother had left me and go kill myself a tulpa.
20
Dusk still came early in February, so night’s fingers slipped into the mansion before the main course was even served. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch, knowing it would be well into the midnight hours before this party was over. Suzanne hadn’t stopped beaming since I’d arrived, and damned if I was going to be the one to wipe the smile from her face by cutting the festivities short. Even Arun had eased up on the devotedly deranged husband act, swaying in his seat as Bollywood films played merrily on the wall screens.
Deciding a round of raucous toasting was needed to slip away unseen, I passed the suggestion into the ear of a bald man who’d been bouncing along enthusiastically in front of a one-dimensional Aishwarya Rai. It was akin to holding a match to a water-starved field. The idea blazed through the crowd, and a microphone suddenly appeared. Some people were sincere in their toasts, some elicited hoots of laughter and a public dialogue, while others simply vyed for the attention of a man who ruled over his own Indian principality…and for the favor of a woman who would soon be a princess. I made my escape halfway through one of these.
Footsteps light, I slipped through the heart of the house, ears pricking at the occasional bursts of laughter from the dining area, though within minutes it felt like the festivities were in a separate home altogether. This side of the estate was crypt-quiet, and just as cool, as if all the body heat and warmth were confined to the proximity of the human activity.
And here you are, I thought wryly. Baiting not-quite-dead things in the dark. Somebody cue the too-stupid- tolive music.
But I was almost there. Another corner and I’d gained entry to a room made entirely of smooth white marble, bare of floor coverings but with tiny spotlights set low on artifacts Xavier had deemed precious. Stupas, essentially aboveground tombs, traditionally housed the bones of great lamas of the past. Xavier’s stupa didn’t contain bones- not as far as I knew-but it did house a thirteen-hundred-year-old
Spooky. Shit.
Three medieval-style windows popped from their casements along one wall, mere eye slits compared to the giant leaded windows overlooking the front lawn. Unadorned, they also seemed to follow my progress across the cavernous room. The rest of the marble room was sparse, making the giant gold dais and throne stand out all the more. With no interest in waking the dead, I avoided the prayer wheels, my attention on the masks spaced along the white. All were antique, all mystical, and I knew all contained a spirit trapped inside the hollowed space.
I put a wide swath of space between myself and a mask I’d worn before, even while squinting at the design work, looking for the telltale depiction of a snake. The spirit residing in that mask had once tried to take over my mind. When donned unwillingly, it trapped a person’s breath inside the concave form, effectively suffocating them without ever allowing their death. I half expected it to leap from the wall, secure itself to my face, and never let go.
Finishing with the masks, I turned my attention to the etchings on the
