The Touch Of Twilight (19 page)

“How quaint. An escort code of honor.” I held up my hands as his gaze whipped up to mine again. “Hey, I’m interested. I mean, do you go to dinner? Dancing? Or is it straight to the bedroom for horizontal gymnastics?”

He almost smiled, and I realized my voice had risen. “Whatever they want,” he said coolly, twirling his pencil lightly between thumb and forefinger. He was watching me carefully now. “Each woman’s needs are a unique and fragile thing.”

“Don’t go all new age call boy on me,” I snapped. “Warren doesn’t know about this, does he?”

Hunter shrugged. “He wouldn’t care. As long as I’m discreet.”

I glanced back down at the flyer with his face plastered across the cover.

Hunter’s jaw flexed as my eyes returned to him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

I was in no position to argue; I’d turned him down repeatedly, and made it clear we would never be an item. Sure, I was physically attracted to him, but the imprint stomped on my heart was Ben-shaped, and it’d been there long before Hunter came along. No matter how honed that capable body and mind might be, he would never fit into that space.

“Fine,” I said agreeably, backing up a step. He watched me for a moment, sniffed, then pulled the cap off a bottle of water, downing it in practically one gulp. “So what are you working on?”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then tossed the empty bottle into a lined trash bin without looking. “A new conduit.”

And anyone could see that designing the weapons each agent carried into battle was his true passion. Two oversized drafting tables took up the warehouse’s nucleus, and both were littered with sketches, pencils and erasers, rulers and flow charts. He then cast his experimental weapons in foam templates, though that didn’t mean his work was tentative. The weapons master prior to him had been an exacting teacher, breaking Hunter’s inferior efforts underfoot until he’d finally learned to abandon caution and rely solely on his warrior’s instinct. For every conduit created there were a dozen more abandoned—as evidenced now by the two full bins of discarded foam—but the result was weapons with responsiveness and punch, a harmonic blend of stiffness and tenuity that coupled with the individual agent’s personality and talents. These martial creations were a big factor in our troop’s success.

“For whom?” I asked, picking up one of the foam templates from a metal bin next to his drawing board. It was probably one he’d discarded for something better, and too bad, because even carved in foam it was very nearly sleek. It looked like a gun with a barrel as long as a spine, but somehow the palm-sized butt was still easy to handle. Probably ballast at the end; I turned it over to look, but Hunter snatched the template from my hand, gave me a hard look, and tossed it back in the bin. I held up my hands until he backed away.
Passionate
could be another word for freaky.

“It’s for Kimber Marshall. Her official metamorphosis is on the nineteenth. There will be a new moon, it’ll be a new week, a new Libra. Marlo’s old sign.”

I waited for him to say more, but the mention of Marlo was enough to tell me Hunter still blamed himself for her death. Sure, he hadn’t been responsible for the virus lying dormant in her young body, but he was there when it’d sparked to life inside her. He’d been the one to ignite it…but I’d been the one responsible for it being there in the first place. Time to change the subject.

“Why a blowgun?” I asked, glancing at the vellum paper splayed over his largest drawing table. The hollowed-out tube was represented there in different dimensions and angles, as were the darts. “I mean, how do you choose this weapon as her conduit?”

Conduits were like prosthetic limbs, extremely personal and individually fitted for the wielding agent. Mine was a miniature crossbow, bequeathed to me by my mother, as conduits often were. But Marlo’s lineage had died along with her, which meant a new dynasty could lay claim to the Libran star sign. Yet because Marlo’s ancestors had been here since the birth of the troop, there were no other Librans of Light in the valley. We’d sent a message out to the troops nationwide, a sort of supernatural want ad asking for a second daughter of good lineage. Our succession was matriarchal, and second daughters were rarely called into duty, but that didn’t mean they weren’t well trained or ambitious. And if a family could have two daughters serving the Light in two different cities, it served to strengthen their legacy and interests.

After receiving replies from a number of interested parties, Tekla had cast lots and compared birth charts to determine which of the proffered daughters was fated for the job. It didn’t hurt that Kimber’s birth date was closest to Marlo’s, and she would metamorphose—coming into her full powers as an agent—in only a couple of weeks. We needed the manpower now, and she had the added advantage of coming from an allied troop. We regularly sent our initiates for fostering in Arizona; the desert climate meant they faced many of the same physical challenges we did, but they also returned with new ideas and skills gleaned from the leaders of that troop. As an initiate Kimber could still cross state and city lines, but after her twenty-fifth birthday that ability would be stripped. If she remained in Arizona, she’d merely serve on an auxiliary basis. But by coming to Las Vegas, she would become a full-fledged agent, and she would belong to us, leaving her life there behind. She would also need a conduit.

“I don’t choose them, at least not consciously.” Hunter told me, opening a giant chest to pull out the blowgun in question. It wasn’t the crude weapon brought to mind by Pygmies and rain forests and silent ninja crouched on shadowed rooftops. The tubing gleamed unnaturally, not silver but not black, with a mouthpiece and guard matching in opaqueness. A fragile glass cylinder rested on top, presumably the dart quiver. “But I start fiddling around in the workshop, touching this textile or metal or stone, and as I handle all these resources that can be fashioned into weapons, I think of the agent’s gifts—talents and temperament and tendencies—and the right material always speaks to me.”

“Speaks to you.” I raised my brows, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Not literally, but yeah.” He gestured to a sheaf of papers tucked on the corner of his table, which I immediately recognized as a birth chart, probably from Tekla. “For instance, Kimber is the Libra, an air sign known to be calculating and cool, but with a passion for balancing injustices. Yet she’s also near the Libran/Scorpio cusp, which gives her a touch of bravado and some impulsiveness. A distance weapon would fit her well, but not something requiring close contact. Anyway, when I pick up the raw material my fingertips, I don’t know, tingle. I think of her doing the same, envision her body, her particular strength exerting a specific force on the object, and this helps me determine the weapon, its stiffness and density, its design and shape. If I piece these elements together correctly, that tingle turns into a full-blown pulsing when I fire or wield the weapon.”

He’d rubbed his fingertips together when he said it, so I held out my own hand, asking, “You can actually feel if the design is right?”

He nodded. “Firing a weapon is an act of acoustic vibration. A perfect weapon unleashes energy at a frequency that allows for easy manipulation of world matter, and then the throwing or shooting or stabbing or whipping takes no effort at all. Some people call it being ‘in the zone.’ All that violent energy is absorbed by the body; there’s no kickback or impact.”

I snorted. “Tell that to the target.”

He inclined his head, a small smile visiting his lips, and I was glad I’d changed the subject. He was happiest when he was talking about war. “But—and here’s what’s important to understand—a perfectly constructed conduit also manipulates the agent. Firing it releases acoustic vibrations that oscillate back and forth between controller and conduit. A weapon’s shape, therefore, acts as a funnel for the will of the agent, but it also reinforces the agent at the same time. That’s why they must be uniquely matched…and perfectly paired.”

More vibrational theory, I thought, with a wry smile. Explosions destroying molecules, black holes eating up matter. Now violence that resonated in the soul. I shook my head, and stared at him for long seconds. “What are you up to, Hunter?”

He looked at me to clarify, and I would have if I could put my feelings into words. Maybe it was the same sort of power that gave him the ability to study a weapon as if it were a person, though more likely it was the aureole still humming between us. Yet for all that, he was still a mystery. And even though I wanted to know why he’d taken up another identity—in the sex industry, no less—the way he was looking at me now, like I should already know, had me squirming like a bug. I broke eye contact. Maybe some things should remain unspoken.

Apparently Hunter didn’t feel the same. “You know, someday you’ll come to me. I’ll wait, because I’m a gentleman, but you will come. Again and again.”

“That is gentlemanly,” I quipped, but he smiled when he saw me swallow hard. I turned to walk away, but he was suddenly there, spinning me back. I yanked my arm away but he only strengthened his grip, and I knew he’d leave bruises. I shook my head, pissed. That big, powerful body, I thought glaring up at him. Making me feel like a mortal again. But I could still fight him with words. “I should tell everyone about your side gig as a sex worker.”

His hands lowered to mine, still powerfully twined, though his thumb played lazily against my palm. “And I should tell everyone about your daughter.”

Now he was trying to piss me off. “Then I might slip and mention yours.”

“Then I might slip also, and call you Joanna.” He drew closer, testing me.

I remained where I was, and though the only thing touching was our hands, the heat from his body pooled around him, resonating against my skin like the sun. “Wow, blackmail and threats on top of manhandling. You do know how to woo a girl.”

“Well, you don’t seem like the flowers and chocolate type.”

“Is that your
professional
opinion?”

“Honey,” he said, eyes narrowing as they fastened hard on mine. “Were I a celibate monk secluded from the fairer sex my entire life, I’d still know your type.”

“Really?” I snarled. So much for his lip service to everyone being unique; now I was a
type
. “Which is what?”

Angling forward, his chest touched mine. It was like setting a match to oil, and my nerve endings burned with it. “Mine.”

The warehouse door slammed behind me, and I heard voices talking, calling out, bantering, but I was afraid if I moved, it would be into him. I looked at his body again, running my eyes over it like water.

“We had an agreement,” I whispered feebly, hating my fluid emotions, the pull of both desire and anger, the reaction to his mere physicality.

And knowing how he affected me, Hunter winced like he was apologetic, bent…and ran his lips over my cheek. “Well, now we’re going to agree to disagree.”

I jerked away as Felix rounded the corner, followed by a girl with thick blond hair, dreaded and hanging halfway down her back. Each was carrying three boxes of pizza, and the scent of cheese and pepperoni presumably masked the emotion coming from Hunter and me because neither of them looked alarmed.

“I’ve got eats, yo, but I’m not paying for everyone—poor college student, remember?” Felix threw his pies on top of Hunter’s drawing table, and wiped his hands on his jeans as he shot us his wide, trademark grin. “Pony up the bills, kids.”

I batted my lashes and flipped my hair back over my shoulder. “Sorry, Felix. All I’ve got is my American Express Black, but Hunter will cover me.” I regarded him with a raised brow. “He gets paid in cash.”

In addition to booby traps, and bombs, and anything one would need to manufacture indestructible weaponry, Hunter’s workshop boasted a panic room. If Shadows ever found the warehouse, an agent could retreat here until backup arrived. It’s where we went after everyone else had arrived, chatting about nothing in particular until we’d all gathered in the weapon-and soundproof room.

An old-fashioned card catalog was shelved along one of the shorter walls, and another two drawing tables were pushed together as a center workspace. A blow-up bed, currently deflated and stowed in a giant cabinet, could be pulled out in emergencies, but the room was otherwise utilitarian, without even a chair to sit on. We spread out along its perimeter, and I leaned against one of the cabinets used for archival storage. This one held meticulous records of Shadow appearances and attacks, tracking their movements and dates, and triangulating their positions.

We also kept duplicates of the valley’s street maps here, the residential roadways as well as the main thoroughfares, though they differed from maps that could be bought at the corner gas station in one very significant way. These pinpointed the location of previously known portals, when they opened and closed, who accessed them, and where they led in Vegas’s corresponding flip side. These records were constantly updated, usually by Gregor, whose cabdriver persona gave him the most obvious pretext to canvass the streets, though we all kept daily logs of our encounters that went to Warren at the end of the week.

But the personality of the room, the thing that made it come alive despite a lack of warmth or personal effects, came from the flat stacks of hand-drawn maps in the climate-controlled case beneath the drawing tables. These historic depictions detailed the Las Vegas known to previous generations, all the way back to the early 1700s, and an independent agent who’d been tagging along with a desert expedition led by a Spanish scout. He was the one who’d dubbed this fertile swath of land “The Meadows.”

Of course, Las Vegas hadn’t become large enough to warrant a true troop until long after that; first came the fort that acted as a refuge for the original Mormon settlers, then the trading posts and railroads that brought saloons and prostitution and, eventually, the workers who’d labored over the Hoover Dam in the nearby Black Canyon. No, it wasn’t until the Second World War was over, and tourism turned a sole dusty boulevard into a flashy desert oasis, that the true battle for Vegas’s soul began. So the city grew, our troop formed, and the maps reminded us of how far we’d come, and in a way allowed us to pay homage to those who were here first.