The Scent Of Shadows Part 10

He opened a gray door, ushering me inside, and flicked on a light to reveal an equally dismal room. The requisite bed, dresser, and bedside tables were so nondescript I barely saw them. I dropped into one of four chairs flanking a battered round table and slouched with my back to the wall, head back, eyes closed. Every once in a while a car would pa.s.s along the road behind the building, tires humming and splas.h.i.+ng in the puddles left by the storm, before fading away again into a soundless void.

Warren picked up the phone, and speaking lowly, ordered someone named Marty to bring us food. Gone was the feebleminded lunatic who'd taunted Ajax, the one I'd hit with my car. This was a man in charge, who apparently gave orders he expected to be obeyed. I didn't understand it, but that was a pretty common state of mind for me these days. All I knew right now was that I didn't want to eat whatever he'd ordered. I didn't even want to drink...imagine that. Instead, I felt like keeping my eyes closed, mindlessly counting cars pa.s.sing outside the room until forever itself had come and gone.

"You should shower," Warren said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was still cracked, dusty with dehydration and disuse, but his words were appropriately somber.

"You should shower," I retorted, though the usual heat was lacking from my words. They were wearied, weak, and shaky. Like my knees. Like my life.

"Fine. I'll shower."

I didn't move when the bathroom door shut, or when I heard the shower start up. I didn't move when the knock came at the door, or when a man entered, uninvited, with a tray of bread and lunch meats that made my stomach do an unsettling flip-flop. When he left, I still sat there. Finally, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed the room to stare in the mirror at a woman I no longer recognized. She was dark-eyed and disheveled. She had blood beneath her nails and a stone where her heart used to be. She had killed a man in cold blood and hadn't an ounce of regret.

"Who the f.u.c.k are you?" I said hollowly. The woman stared back. She had no answers for me.

The bathroom door opened and I turned to find Warren watching me, still bearded, but clean-faced and clear-eyed. He had on fresh clothing; a gray T-s.h.i.+rt and baggy blue sweats, worn but odor-free and unsoiled. His hair was snarled and matted, but it was pulled back relatively neatly. Only the uneven gait remained totally unchanged. He wobbled, crossing to the tray to make himself a sandwich. When he finished, he took a seat across from the one I'd been slumped in and looked up at me expectantly.

"Tell me what happened." He didn't baby me, and he didn't beg, just as he hadn't pleaded with me to shower or to eat. He gave me nothing to rail against, no reason to argue, and so I found myself obediently seated as before. Perhaps he could give me answers. And maybe the answers would provide some relief to the grief and guilt rising like a geyser inside of me again.

I explained as much as I could remember of the night's events, and when I was done, waited for his response. Warren continued to chew, pausing mid-bite to nod thoughtfully. "That's why you were able to resist Ajax's conduit. I'd heard of it being done before, but I've never actually seen it myself."

At my look of incomprehension, he explained. "A conduit is a weapon made especially for the individual operator, a weapon of great energy and power. A conduit, by definition, channels energy. In this case, intent."

"You mean because the user intends to kill someone else with it," I said dully.

He nodded. "Here's the thing, though. Not only can't a conduit be duplicated, it leaves no trace of existence in the physical world. You literally melted Ajax's, without lifting a finger in defense."

Even I was curious how that had happened. "And?"

"It was because you'd just killed another Shadow agent-that's what we call those in our enemy army-but it was more than that," he hurried on, excited now. "You used Butch's conduit on him. You turned his own magic against him. No agent can heal from the blow of his own weapon.

"But, most important, was your motive. Intent. You slew him in vengeance, pure and simple. An 'eye for an eye' and all that. Powerful stuff. We don't practice that much."

I frowned, not liking the way that sounded. That wasn't how it had happened. Vengeance was something requiring forethought, and cold-bloodedness. Warren didn't see the way that monster had carved into my sister's perfect and delicate skin. Or the way he'd tossed her like refuse from the side of a building. "You'd have done the same thing."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean it wasn't hard to do. You killed a senior Shadow agent, without training, knowledge, or a weapon of your own. We work for years to instill that sort of instinct in our troops and still often find ourselves on the losing end of the battle."

I looked at him warily. "Who's 'we'?"

"I told you before. Zodiac troop 175, division Las Vegas-"

"f.u.c.king superhero s.h.i.+t!" I pounded my fist on the table, a gesture so swift and violent it surprised us both. I pointed my finger at him. "Don't start that again! I just watched my sister die and could do nothing about it! Nothing! And neither could you!"

"No," he said softly. "Not this time."

"'Not this time'?" I stood, knocking my chair backward as I stalked to the door, throwing it open. "Not any time, nutcase! I'm out of here."

"Hope your shoulder feels better."

I froze. Then backed up to look in the dresser mirror. Checked my hands. Then sank onto the edge of the bed. "No wounds."

He shrugged, almost apologetically. "Fast healers."

Like him. Like Butch. I dropped my head in my hands. What was happening to me? Here I was healing while Olivia lay dead, her final scream still spiraling in my mind.

"Why her?" I whispered, shaking my head. "Why not me?"

Warren didn't answer. He just sat there as I sobbed, unashamed and unable to stop, weeping in a way I hadn't for a decade. Bile rose to coat my throat, and I ran to the bathroom.

When I returned, Warren was still picking at his food, though he seemed to have lost his appet.i.te as well. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and took a deep drink of water. It did nothing to erase the cloying sickness from the back of my throat.

Lowering myself to the edge of the bed, I said, "What happened to me tonight?"

Warren took a deep breath. "It's called metamorphosis. It's a transformation that marks the beginning of a third life cycle. It happens to all of us when we reach a quarter century in age. Because you were so well hidden, we couldn't locate you until you began emitting the hormones, the pheromones, that come with the transition."

"Which is why Butch was sent to kill me at that exact moment," I surmised.

Warren nodded. "It's a time of change, one that signifies a move into great power, or at least access to that power. Problem is, the exact moment of transition is also a time of great weakness. You're frozen, as unable to act or react as a marble statue, though most of our members describe it in terms of heat, a rush of energy into your core." That, I thought, jibed with what I'd felt. "We usually place our initiates in a sort of safe house, surrounded by our other members, where they can go through the process without risk to themselves or any near mortals."

Like Olivia. "Why didn't you do that with me?"

"Because the initiate has to be willing. You've been hidden so long your true nature was buried, even from yourself. We couldn't find you in time to enlist you, much less educate you."

"So how'd Ajax find me?"

"Opposites attract. You're always more attuned to that which you fear or hate."

I let out a hollow laugh that broke down into a tattered cough, and shook my head at the irony of that. So why hadn't I known what to do about Butch? Why had my instinct only kicked in after it was too late?

"So, that's how it works," Warren said, after I motioned for him to continue. "We couldn't locate you until our enemies identified you first. Then we could only hope that it wasn't too late."

Which brought me back to my original question-why me? "I think you've got the wrong heroine."

Warren leaned forward, one corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. What was most unsettling about this was how normal, and sane, that smile looked there. I rubbed at my eyes. "You're special, Joanna, even among us. Your mother was also a member of the Zodiac troop. She was the Archer."

I looked at him sharply and my heart began to pound. n.o.body had spoken of my mother in nearly a decade. "You know my mother?"

"You were born on her birthday, right?"

I nodded, both surprised and not that he knew this.

"So was I. I'm a Taurus, though, the Bull of the western Zodiac, also after my mother. Our lineage is matriarchal," he explained, sunburned hands wrapped around one knee. "I suppose you can call it an inheritance of sorts. Every generation twelve men and women are born, raised, and trained to keep order in their part of the world. When all twelve positions are filled, there is peace and cosmic balance. Every major city in the world has a Zodiac troop, though the suburbs are patrolled by independents." He frowned at that, as if the word tasted bitter in his mouth.

"Independents," I repeated, my brows raised dubiously.

"Rogue agents," he said in an exaggerated whisper.

"Superheroes?" I pressed, and he shrugged.

"For lack of a better word, yes. We live in the city of our birth, pay our taxes, and hold normal jobs, but in the meantime we scent out Shadow agents, our polar opposites on the astrological chart, and destroy them."

I shook my head to drown out the words. They didn't make any sense anyway. "I still don't see what this has to do with me. I'm not a superhero. I'm-"

"Something never seen before," he finished for me, and leaning forward, looked into my eyes. "You, Joanna, are the first sign."

I rubbed a hand over my face and did a quick calculation. "Sorry to interrupt this fantasy in progress, but Sagittarius is the ninth sign of the zodiac, not the first."

He shot me a look like I was the crazy one in the room and began cleaning the crud from beneath his fingernails. "Unless you define 'sign' as the portent signaling our ascendancy over our enemies. Your discovery means just that. It's the first sign. You're the first sign."

Oh.

He paused, mistook my blighted look for one of confusion, and rubbed a hand over his beard. "Think of us as a metropolitan police force, but for the paranormal."

"Then you suck," I said bluntly. "Crime has risen eleven percent in the last year alone."

Warren smiled and shook his head. "We can't control what mortals do, Joanna. Ever hear of free will? Individual choice? All those universal checks and balances set up since the beginning of time? We do what we can on the physical plane-if we're in the right place at the wrong time, that is-but our real job is to counteract the criminal activity of the Shadow side."

"Such as?"

"Like the bombing of the Catacombs casino last year, and the tear gas released through the air ducts simultaneously at five Strip properties in June. The ambush of the governor's motorcade three months ago. Oh, and the hostage situation out at the air base. I took care of that one personally." He blew on his knuckles, pretending to polish them on his s.h.i.+rt, and there was that maniacal glimmer I was coming to recognize as his alter ego.

"I never heard about any of those things."

He looked at me. "Exactly."

I frowned. "So what does any of this have to do with me? You said yourself members have to be raised and trained for years to fight paranormal crime." Did those words really just escape my mouth? I shook my head. "Why can't you find someone else to take up the Sagittarius sign?"

"The Archer," Warren corrected.

"The Archer, then," I sighed, uninterested in the semantics. "There has to be someone else who wants the job."

"Because you're different in one way from the rest of us. A way that's been spoken of in our mythology, taught in our cla.s.srooms, but none of us, even in previous generations, has ever seen." Leaning forward, eyes going maniacally bright, he said, "You have a characteristic that makes you exceedingly dangerous to our enemy, Joanna, and, very possibly, even more powerful than the most learned of our troops."

"Let me guess. I can leap tall buildings. Fly faster than an airplane, blah blah blah."

"You were born on your mother's birthday, true," Warren said, ignoring the sarcasm, "but you were born on your father's birthday as well."

I recoiled slightly. "My father?"

"Not Xavier. Your real father."

I crossed my arms and watched him with wariness and suspicion, and more than a little interest. "And he was?"

"Not was," he said, shaking his head, a frown overtaking his expression. "Is. He's the leader of our opposition. He's our enemy. Your enemy."

My enemy? I drew back. What the h.e.l.l did that mean? I mean, up until twenty-four hours ago I wasn't aware I had any enemies. "You mean he's like Butch and Ajax? Some sort of...demon?"

"Oh, he's much worse than that." Warren's face darkened. "And much stronger. Our troops are being depleted. Murdered. Basically, he's finding ways to kill off our star signs. In response, we're having to harvest our initiates younger and younger, before they're ready. But you...you might be the answer to stopping him."

Because I might be this sign, this portent, signaling his super-troop's ascendancy over my evil, overlord father. Yeah. Sure. I rubbed at my eyes. I was fading now, this whole conversation and night blurring in my mind. "Well, what if I don't want any part of this superhero, crime-fighting bulls.h.i.+t? What if I just want to live a normal life like all the other...mortals out there?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"No." Warren folded his arms across his chest. "You can't."

"You said I had to be willing," I argued.

He inclined his head. "There have been those, though rare, who've chosen not to fight. They knew the facts, they'd grown up in the Zodiac, and decided to leave it while they could. There's a procedure that's somewhat painful and has minor side effects-no worse than Paxil, really-but it will clear your mind forever of any paranormal knowledge or powers."

"I want that."

"Jo-"

"I want it! Now!" I did. I didn't know what the h.e.l.l I was going to do next, but I knew I didn't want any part of a world of conduits, enemies, and astrological superheroes.

"Jo, all those operations were performed premetamorphosis." He shook his head. "It's too late for you."

Too late by one day. I stood, needing to pace, to think; needing air and time, and someone to make sense of this all. I felt trapped inside a foreign world where the rules had been upended on top of me. I didn't speak this language of star signs and Shadow agents, and I didn't want to. "Look, I don't want to be a superhero freak like you, okay, Warren? I don't want to fight crime, and I don't want to smell pheromones or kill bad guys. I just want to go home! I want...I want my f.u.c.king life back!"

He motioned to the door. "So leave."

"I will," I shot back, heading that way.

"Fine."

"Fine!"

He lobbed his parting blow. "Just know if you walk out of here now you'll be labeled a murderer."

"It was self-defense!" I said, whirling back. "He attacked me and murdered my sister!"

Warren blinked. "I'm not talking about Butch, Joanna."

I shook my head but it came out in a jerky motion. I opened my mouth but no words fell from it. The room faded and I felt my knees buckle. I leaned against the wall, taking long, deep breaths, and waited until I could stand again. I'd been wrong, I thought, to believe this guy had any characteristics resembling sanity. He was as crazy as I first thought.

"They'll frame you for Olivia's death," the psycho was saying. "Your true father, and all his henchmen. They'll set up all the physical evidence, and there won't be a thing you can do about it. Then, after the trial, when you're in jail and awaiting injection on death row, they'll find you by your scent-by then a soured mixture of bitterness and hate-and they'll kill you cold."

"But I didn't do it," I said breathlessly.

"Your car is at the scene of the crime."

"You told me to leave it there!"

He shrugged. "Your prints are all over the place-on your martini gla.s.s, and I'd imagine on your sister's body as well. They're especially dense in the bedroom where she was murdered."

"And so are yours!" I shot back. "And Ajax's and Butch's!"

He looked at me blankly. My eyes widened and I sucked in a quick breath, remembering Butch's impossibly smooth fingertips. "Give me your hand," I said in a whisper.