Destiny: The Girl in the Box #9 (6 page)

“Look at you, following up on leads and suggesting patterns,” Scott said, “like a regular Sherlock.”

“Sherlock would already have it figured out by now,” I said and finally turned away from the wall. I couldn’t look at it anymore. My face melted into a cringe. I wasn’t close to tears, but the sight of it … hurt, for some reason. Sickened me.

“Come on,” Scott said, and put his hand on my shoulder again. I started back toward the car and he walked beside me. “I’ll call the LVMPD and see if I can track down some video for this … this …” He was lost for words.

“Call it what it is,” I said as I shrugged his hand off my shoulder when we broke at the car; I headed to my side and he to the driver’s. “It was a slaughter. Pure and simple.” I glanced back one last time at the bloody, broken wall where my aunt had been crowned into the afterlife. “Whoever did this, Charlie never stood a chance against them.”

We were sharing a suite at the Palazzo, which was not as awkward as it sounded. Scott, because he was a gentleman (or possibly because he feared death), had volunteered to sleep on the couch. I was undecided about whether I would take him up on that or let him sleep in the bed. If he’d worn as much cologne as he used to, it would have been the couch for sure. Now that he’d learned some moderation, I was torn.

We’d stowed our baggage and nipped downstairs to the Palazzo’s promenade for dinner at a steakhouse that looked entirely too fancy. They didn’t balk at the fact I was wearing jeans under my blazer, though, and I didn’t balk when they handed me a menu that included a rib eye that cost more than fifty dollars.

I did, however, consider putting the menu down and leaving. But I didn’t. Because it wasn’t like I couldn’t pay for it out of my own pocket if I needed to. I didn’t spend money on anything else, and my housing was paid for, after all.

“Nice of the Agency to splurge for dinner,” Scott said with a smile, glancing over the leather-bound menu. His voice made him sound pensive, but I suspect he was closer to drooling. We hadn’t had lunch, and it was close to seven o’clock our time. “Living first class on the taxpayer’s dime.”

“We’ve never gotten a cent of taxpayer money,” I said, probably a little defensively. As putative head of the Agency, it was probably my responsibility to defend budgetary decisions. Which we didn’t really worry about, since Congress never asked about our budget and we never asked them for money. “Ariadne didn’t say anything about a budget for this trip, so …”

Scott smiled as he looked up from behind the menu. “I bet she won’t make that mistake again. Ariadne tends to watch the dollars and cents.”

“She’s never fought me on anything,” I said, pretty settled on that rib eye. I was trying to figure out how a steak could be worth fifty dollars. And I’d had some pretty good steaks before. “Is this steak really fifty bucks?”

Scott looked back at the menu. “Yes.”

I closed the leather volume in front of me. “And it’s a piece of meat?”

He cocked his head at me, eyes filled with curiosity. “Yes …”

There was a low-hanging light above our table and I leaned across, under it, my shadow darkening the unsullied white tablecloth. “It’s not like … magical meta steak that has powers beyond those of a regular steak? Able to—I don’t know? Cure cancer for the eater? Give them off-the-charts sex appeal that will allow them to sleep with anyone?”

“No,” Scott said, and he seemed amused. “Well, maybe on the sex appeal. It’s just a steak, albeit probably a very good one. Haven’t you ever eaten at a fancy restaurant before?”

“I used to go to Biaggi’s sometimes in Eden Prairie Center,” I said, thinking about the Italian place that Zack and I had gone to. I felt a pang of embarrassment thinking of Zack locked up in my head right now, probably watching this whole scene play out in … well, dismay. Or horror. Something. “I used to love Santorini’s, but I’m pretty sure their steaks topped out at about thirty dollars or so.” I had also gone there with Zack. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I didn’t dare check on him, not now.

“We should go to Manny’s in Minneapolis some time,” Scott said. There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke. “Or Pittsburgh Blue. They’ve both got steaks for fifty dollars.”

“I haven’t even gotten over eating one steak for fifty dollars and you’re already trying to talk me into two more?” I glanced back at the menu and then shut it. The price was not going to fall anytime soon simply by me staring at it in disbelief. “That’s ballsy.”

“Confident,” Scott corrected.

I looked at him as I put the menu down. “I admire your optimism, but it might just be unfounded. I don’t see myself going out for a lot of fancy dinners once we get back to Minneapolis and I—as you put it—pick up my baggage.”

“This problem won’t last forever,” Scott said with a light shrug as he matched my movement and put his menu down as well. The black leather binder stood out on the white tablecloth. “You’re going to figure out how to use your powers, and we’re gonna beat Sovereign and Century like they’re a cheap steak and we’re a tenderizing hammer.” He paused. “See what I did there? What with us being in an expensive steakhouse and all—”

“Subtle.” I cut him off, letting my fingers hold up my face as I leaned on my elbow, staring at him. “Listen … I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but I—” I glanced around. There was no sign of our waiter, for which I was actually grateful, in spite of being hungry enough to order the uncooked, unskinned hindquarters of the cow if it were available now. “I think your faith in me might be unfounded.”

“You’ll get it,” he said and waved a hand at me in utter dismissal. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten it yet, I mean—”

“I don’t know how to do it,” I said, brutally cutting him off. “I’ve tried. I dug deep, talked to my little collection of matryoshkas within, and—it doesn’t work. No chance. Nothing. They’re not even talking to me at this point.” I leaned back in my chair, feeling like I’d achieved some mighty victory by throwing this desperate, horrible information at Scott right in the middle of a restaurant so fancy I wasn’t sure even my most expensive clothes belonged here.

“Hello, my name is Garion, and I’ll be your server tonight,” a shorter man said as he approached us with a little flourish. His uniform was natty-neat and matched with everything else I’d seen in the restaurant thus far. “Sorry for the delay, but I can get you started with anything?”

I didn’t answer at first and neither did Scott, each of us staring at the other across the table. Finally, I did speak. “Just water for me.”

“The same,” Scott said, and his voice scratched in his throat like he’d drunk a bottle of sand straight out of the desert.

“Let me tell you about our specials for the night,” Gar said, but I was already tuning him out. My eyes were fixed on Scott. His face was red, eyes downcast, hands folded in front of him. I watched him as the waiter talked on, without a reaction from either of us, and knew that I’d thrown the entire weight of my baggage on him.

And just as it had done to me, it completely crushed him under its weight.

When I awoke, it took me a minute to get my bearings. I was wrapped in soft cloth sheets pressing against my exposed shoulders and arms. I could feel the lines of my tank top and sweatpants because sleeping in anything was so foreign to me. I adjusted my body as I sat up, the sunlight flooding in from the massive windows that took up an entire wall.

The city of Las Vegas was spread out before me, hotels on the other side of the road obstructing my view only a little. There were mountains in the distance, dust-covered and plain, so unlike the green, verdant and snow-capped ones I had seen on TV. I stared out at the vista, all that wide-open space, and took a long breath.

Between the window and the bed was a sitting area filled with ugly green-tinted couches that had a dark pattern embroidered on the cloth. The scent of Scott’s cologne was the only thing in the air, and fortunately it was faint. I could see the top of his head over the small wall separating the bed from the sitting area. His gaze was tilted down, focused on the glass-top coffee table in front of him.

I yawned and clapped a hand over my mouth. I had dragon breath, no doubt, and suspected that his meta senses would allow him to detect it even from ten feet away. That was one of the drawbacks to the enhanced senses of a meta; I’d learned to ignore it somewhat after months of kissing Zack and tasting the hints of whatever he’d most recently eaten. I’d also bugged him about breath mints and brushing his teeth more often, the poor guy.

“You’re awake,” Scott said without turning to face me.

“Naw,” I replied, “I’m just sleepwalking, that’s all. Ignore me, and eventually I’ll pitch over and start snoring again.” He laughed nervously, but still did not turn to face me. “Oh, God, I don’t snore, do I?”

“What?” He finally turned his head around, and I saw him from the cheeks up, the rest of him blocked by the short partition wall between me and the sitting area. “No, I didn’t hear any snoring. I think you laughed at one point, kind of softly.”

I put my back against the wooden headboard and pulled my knees to my chest, letting my hands slide down the soft fabric of my sweatpants. “I find it hard to believe I’d have anything to laugh about in my dreams.”

“Maybe I was dreaming, then,” Scott said with a shrug. “I contacted the local PD about the surveillance cameras on the strip when your aunt was killed. They have nothing.”

“How is that possible?” I climbed out of bed, felt my face burn with the heat of shock as the blankets fell away from me.

“They don’t know,” Scott said. “The recordings are just missing, like someone came in and stole them. You’re talking about multiple casinos, multiple security rooms. Not one of them has a recording, not on either side of the street during that time. That also includes the local PD’s cameras. It’s a professional job of some sort, though it’s totally baffling them how anyone could just erase every recording without anyone seeing them do it.”

“Weissman,” I said, jumping to the conclusion before I even knew I was doing it. “It has to be Weissman.”

“That guy you ran into in England?” Scott was frowning now. “How do you know?”

“He probably froze time and just went in to each of the security rooms,” I said and started to stretch. I made a noise with my mouth as I vented air. “Think about it: unless someone could magically—or meta-poweredly—go invisible and sneak in there to delete the recordings—because I presume they’re digital?” I waited for his nod to go on. “So, yeah, someone went in and deleted them without making a fuss. Ergo, Weissman.”

“He can do that?” Scott scratched his face, and I noticed a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, upper lip and chin.

“Yeah, he’s a real Barry Allen-type,” I said.

Scott’s face creased in a frown. “He sings ‘Copacabana’?”

I rolled my eyes. “Barry Allen is the Flash. Barry Manilow sings ‘Copacabana.’”

“Ahh,” Scott said, his face relaxing. “I was wondering what Lola being a showgirl had to do with deleting recordings.”

I ignored him. “This doesn’t do us any good, though. Assuming it was Weissman behind the killing doesn’t tell us much, except that I guess it relates to the extermination.”

“Unless it was someone else with Weissman’s powers,” Scott said. “Is there anyone else with his powers?”

“Someone named Akiyama,” I said, with a frown of my own. “I think. Weissman talked about some guy who had his powers but with more ability. Wolfe gave me the name.” I racked my brain, calling out into the darkened rooms at the back, but no answer came from Wolfe to confirm it.

“Listen,” Scott said, and I could hear a cool urgency in his tone, “I’ve been thinking about this whole situation. I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re assuming it is.”

“So … our entire species isn’t being wiped out systematically by the most powerful meta in the world and his hundred sidekicks?” I stretched while I said it, like it was totally minor, a distraction in my otherwise aimless day.

“Oh, no, it totally is,” Scott said, with a little more enthusiasm than I would have had in his shoes, “I just think you’re over-worrying.”

I sat there in dumb silence for a moment. “Thousands of people are dying, we’re heading toward the twilight of metakind, humanity is probably going to be under an uber-powerful maniac’s boot afterward … and you think I’m OVER-worrying?” I stood there and pursed my lips. “I’m sitting in Las Vegas investigating the murder of an aunt who tried to kill me when last we met instead of protecting the people I vowed to guard. I’m not sure your analysis is …” I let my voice trail off rather than say something flagrantly insulting to him, “… entirely rational.”

“I’m just saying that I think you can overcome this,” Scott said. He gave me a smile that was probably supposed to be heartening, but wasn’t.

“They hate me, Scott,” I said, not flinching away from him. “Hate me.”

His face crumpled into a puzzled frown. “You mean … the people at Agency?”

I suspect my face turned slightly scathing but then loosened. “Them too, for all I know. But I was talking about the voices in my head. You know, the source of these superpowers I’m supposed to be able to call upon? They hate me.”

“Well, you can fix that—”

“I can’t fix that, Scott,” I made a sound that was semi-amused, a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you get it? I’ve never been sweet, just mean. I’m the mean girl. My personality is razor wire drenched in lemon juice. I was raised with a sword in my hand and nary a kind thought in my head. I’m cut off from humanity—mine and everyone else’s. My first instinct is to be snarky and shitty to people, and most of the time I suck at reining in that instinct. The voices in my head are confined in metal boxes in my mind because I didn’t like hearing them. I couldn’t deal with having their thoughts and conversations blotting out my ability to function, so I shut them up by throwing them into captivity. And they hate me for it. Whatever Sovereign’s got going on with his soul captives, it’s not like the relationship I have with mine. I’m their jailer, not their friend, and they won’t help me even if we’re about to die, because what I’m doing to them on a daily basis is worse than death.”