Twenty Palaces (7 page)

But would Jon believe me? Maybe this happened to him twice a week.

I needed to find him. I needed to get away from this woman and tell him everything that had happened, whether he believed it or not. Maybe it would save his life.

We zoomed around a corner and she swerved across the double yellow line for a dozen yards. She was going way too fast, and the wind in my hair made me acutely aware that I wasn't wearing a helmet. Neither was she, of course, but she could probably drive into a brick wall and walk away unharmed. I hung on for my life, too tall for the small bike and whipped by the chill wind.

After a few more hair-raising turns, we pulled into the driveway of a hotel. We passed the sign before I had a chance to look at it and she braked hard at the entrance.
 

A valet took her key and gave her a ticket. She swung her leg off the bike and gave me a hard look. I followed her inside.

The hotel lobby was the most beautiful man-made place I had ever seen in my life. The floors were marble tile. The desk looked like it was trimmed with mahogany. To the right, a three marble steps led to a genteel little circle of plush leather couches. Beyond that, a longer flight of marble stairs led to a restaurant.
 

The tattooed woman marched straight through the room without a sideways glance. If she was impressed by our surroundings, she didn't show it.

I felt wildly out of place in my sooty clothes. The woman looked like a street weirdo, with her tattered fireman's jacket hanging open to reveal the swarm of ribbons clipped to her vest. We made quite a spectacle for the suit and tie crowd. Not that there was a crowd. I glanced up at the clock. It was 1:45 in the morning. Uncle Karl had probably already taken my things from my apartment and dumped them on the back yard.

A tall, slender man with a receding hairline stepped out from behind the concierge desk. He was dressed in a stylish black suit and wore a golden name tag so small I couldn't read it. I had a moment of absurd envy for that name tag.

"Ms. Powliss," the man said. His tone and expression were full of snobby contempt. "The service elevators are this way."

Ms. Powliss ignored him and marched straight to the stand of elevators against the back wall. I was grateful to have a name to hang on her. It made her seem almost human.

The concierge glanced at me but, before I could mouth the word "Help" or "Call the police," he turned away. I looked at the front entrance. What if I ran for it? What if I simply shouted
nine-one-one
?

I didn't do any of those things. As if she could read my mind, Ms. Powliss grabbed my jacket and dragged me into an opening elevator. Besides, I had no idea what she would do to the people who came to help me. She'd killed that drunk without a second thought. Would she do the same to the bellhops and cleaning staff here? And while I had no great love for cops, including my uncle, I didn't want to see them burned alive.

She pushed a button. We rode up alone. If she'd taken me to a secluded spot, I'd have known she was planning to kill me. But a four-star hotel? I figured I was either about to meet someone important or we were going to do some hot-tubbing.
 

The doors dinged open. Ms. Powliss lead me down a wide, tastefully decorated corridor. The wallpaper was covered with lemon-colored stripes and there were small tables with vases of fresh flowers against the wall. I supposed there was no point in smashing a vase over her head. Maybe I should offer her a daisy and kill her with kindness.

"Are we going to order some raisin toast?" I asked, trying to hide my growing fear. "Cause I'd love some raisin toast." She wasn't amused.

She stopped at a door and thumped on it hard enough to make it rattle. I couldn't tell if she was angry or if she couldn't handle all that strength.

The door swung open, revealing a man in his early fifties. His skin was pale and his eyes were vague and sleepy. His blond hair was long and fine, hanging limp around his sagging face. His shirt--he wasn't wearing pajamas, even at this hour--was pale blue silk and he wore a waistcoat embroidered with elaborate stitching. The designs reminded me of Ms. Powliss's tattoos and ribbons. His pants were cream colored and tailored. He'd probably been handsome when he was younger, but now he looked all used up. He looked weak. And rich.

"Annalise, how good to see you," he said. I couldn't place his accent. Something European, but I'm not much for accents. "How goes the hunt, my dear?"

"I don't report to you." Annalise shoved me toward the door. The European released the door knob, letting me bang it open with my shoulder. I stumbled a few feet into the hotel room, trying to keep my balance.

"Callin, keep your wooden men out of my way. I nearly killed him. And next time you put someone in the field, let me know first."

"That's interesting," Callin said. "Because I do not have any wooden men."

"What?" For the first time, Annalise's tough exterior broke, replaced by genuine confusion and worry.

Callin looked me over carelessly. "Not since Hubert died in '93."

Annalise's expression turned back to anger quickly. "You're lying," she said. "No one else would send a wooden man here without telling us."
 

"He doesn't belong to me," Callin said. "Are you sure he's one of us?"

"Look." She tossed a white ribbon at me.
 

I tried to duck out of the way, thinking she was about to set me on fire again. The ribbon homed in and struck my shoulder. The glyph on it immediately glowed silver.
 

"See?" Annalise said. "He's carrying our--"

"Before you say anything imprudent," Callin interrupted, "you are not missing something, are you my dear?"

Annalise grabbed the tail of her jacket and pulled it. She saw the torn threads where the stolen ribbon used to be. "Well, I'll be damned," she said. When she looked up, her expression was icy and dangerous. "Sorry to bother you, Callin. I'll take him and go." She took a step forward.
 

Damn. I backed away. Maybe there was a fire exit in the next room, or--

"I will handle it, child," Callin said. He shut the door in her face.

I stared at the blank white door and the man beside it in shock. I expected Annalise to kick it open any second, but it didn't happen. Either she didn't want to raise a racket in this hotel, or she had to defer to the sickly-looking guy beside me.

Callin leaned against the door and watched me with a placid smile. He didn't look very scary, but neither had Annalise before she'd started tearing off car doors with her bare hands. And if the two of them were at odds, maybe I could use Callin against Annalise and escape them both. Maybe I could even find out who they were. Jon needed to know.

"So," I said, breaking the silence. "Will you tell me what is going on?"

No answer. Callin simply stood and stared at me. He looked a little dazed, as if he was drunk. I glanced around, giving the guy time to think of something to say. The room was tastefully decorated with flowers and cream-colored lace. Everything was refined and effeminate, as though it had been put together for an elderly aunt. There was a hall, probably leading to a bedroom, and a balcony. We were too high up for me to get out that way.

"Okay," I said. "That's cool. Thanks for helping me get away from her. I'll be going now."

I stepped around Callin and tried the door. It wouldn't budge. The knob wouldn't even turn.
 

"Hey, man. Would you unlock this? Please?" I was trying to be polite but it didn't seem to be doing any good. I remembered Echo lying dead on the asphalt and the smoking bones of the old drunk. I needed to get the hell away before something similar happened to me. "Can't you understand me? Let me out."

Still no answer. Callin didn't even move, except to watch my movements.

"No? Then how about in here?" I strode quickly down a short hall into the bedroom. It, too, was pale and tasteful. It was almost ghostly.

And there was no door, just another balcony.

Callin strolled into the room, his body language casual and confident. While watching me very closely, he moved to the desk, closed a leather-bound journal and slid it into the top drawer.

I could have sprinted to the front door, but it was still locked. "Look, this doesn't have to get ugly. I just want to leave. All right?" I couldn't be more reasonable than that.

"You are no one's wooden man," Callin said.

I glanced over at the huge bed. "Nope. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, I've been to jail."

"Annalise should have killed you after all."

That was too much. "You just said the wrong thing," I said with a bluster I did not feel. "Now open that door before--"

Time froze. My thoughts seemed to stand still. The room turned blinding white.

Then the world started moving again. I was on my back on the carpet. Callin had me by the throat.
 

"You will tell me everything," Callin said. He smiled, revealing a pair of long, needle-sharp fangs.

The world turned a blinding white again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I opened my eyes. Sunlight. I was lying on my back and I could see sunlight. The light seemed important, although at the moment I couldn't figure out why. I also had a headache.
 

I was still alive.
 

I felt satin against my skin and sat up. I was lying in Callin's bed. "Oh, shit." I lifted the covers. I was completely naked--even my socks were gone.

"Oh, shit shit shit." My clothes lay on the bed table in a neatly-folded stack. I jumped out of bed and started pulling them on. Something rubbed against my neck as I pulled my shirt over my head. I checked in the mirror and saw a bandage below my left ear.

I slowly peeled the bandage back. Beneath it were two pin prick puncture wounds. Christ, was that a vampire bite?

There weren't enough
oh, shits
in the world for that.

I grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair and went through the pockets. The blue ribbon was gone, of course. Dammit. I didn't even know what it was or what it did, but it had saved my life twice. I wanted it back.

There was the desk. Callin had taken an open journal off the desk and hidden it in the top drawer. I tried to open it but it was locked.

I pulled the chair away and knelt beneath the desk. The bottom of the drawer was made of thin wood. I grabbed a letter opener and jammed it into the join at the front, then twisted.
 

The wood split with a crack that seemed as loud as a gun shot. Hesitation kills, so I pried further, splitting the bottom of the drawer free. The book slid out into my hand. There was a slipcase for it stuck in the back of the drawer. I yanked it out, too.

I rolled to my feet and pushed the chair under the desk. The splintered wood rested on the seat. It wouldn't be noticeable until someone tried to sit down. I hoped.

In the mirror, I caught another glimpse of my bandaged neck and peeled back the tape. Yes, the marks were still there. No, I hadn't dreamed it. No, I wasn't crazy--at least, I didn't feel crazy, whatever that meant.
 

The book's cover was made of plain black leather stretched over metal plates and it was creased from years of use. I opened it. It was filled with hand-written notes and diagrams.
 

This was a spell book. Diagrams like the ones on Annalise's ribbons were scattered over the pages, and at the top of each was a name for the spell.
Stepping through Shadows
was hand-written on one page.
Dead Speech
topped another.

I closed the book, and noticed a faint design scored into the front cover. I ran my hand over it, felt the ridges and also the power embedded in the symbol. The book itself had a spell on it.

Goosebumps ran up and down my back. Last night I'd been astonished to see people doing things I'd never seen outside of a comic book. Was this book an instruction manual to let me do the same crazy things?
 

I opened it again. It had been written in black ink with a ball point pen, so it wasn't as old as I'd thought at first. At least it wasn't human blood. It was also much thinner than the magic books I'd seen in the movies; it looked more like an old-fashioned diary.

I tried to read a random spell, but I was too exposed here in Callin's suite, too jumpy. I needed to go somewhere safe to study it.

The bedroom door was closed; was Callin in the front room or had he gone out for breakfast? I listened for him but didn't hear anything. If he was out there, I wouldn't be able to smuggle this book past him.
 

I slid the book into the leather slipcover and buckled it shut. Then I slid open the glass door and stepped onto the balcony. The city sprawled below, with Elliott Bay on one side and the gently sloping hills on the other. The sky was cloudless, for once, and Seattle was almost beautiful from so high up. A heavy black cloth had been draped over the railing, but I wasn't sure what it was for.

There was a parking garage below. The roof had painted yellow lines for cars but there were no vehicles on it, only a line of Dumpsters along the side of the building directly below me.
 

I held the book over the railing with the back cover flat to the ground, then dropped it. It didn't tumble, and none of the pages flew out. It struck flat on its cover in a pile of trash inside a Dumpster.
 

I hurried back into the room and slid the door shut as quietly as I could. I grabbed my socks and shoes, sat on the bed and finished dressing. As I was tying the second shoe, the door opened and Callin entered.
 

He was wearing a robe the color of eggshells and a pair of pinstriped pajamas. He held a long envelope in his hand.

"I am glad you are awake," he said. "Would you please close the drapes?"

Beams of sunlight were shining through the glass doors, falling across my legs. I remembered the bite marks on my neck and concentrated on my shoelace. No way in hell was I going to shut out that light.

"Fine," Callin said, sounding more aggrieved than annoyed. He crossed the room, walking straight through the direct sunlight, and pulled the drapes closed.