What She Doesn't Know (39 page)

“Citar.” Christopher thanked him and introduced Rita. The man seemed to accept him as Alta.

A couple wandered into the warehouse dressed in deep shades of pink, a couple of matching jewels. “Astar and Cosmo,” Rita whispered.

Soon thirty or more people had trickled into the room. It reminded him of the tableaux, all of the colorful costumes and animation. Once again, he was trying to steal away the crown from the golden prince. No, worse, pretending he
was
the golden prince.
 

He put his hand on the sword beneath his coat, reassuring himself that it was still there. Rita was at his side, being greeted and welcomed by curious citizens. He had decided to make the announcement about Atir the way Brian had planned: at the commencement ceremony that evening. That was all they knew about the rituals of the Gathering from that short script Brian had left. He slipped his arm around Rita’s waist and held her close as more people filtered in and surrounded them. If he lost her…he didn’t want to think about that.
 

You have to think about it. Her life is in your hands
. Everything crowded at once, what he’d felt when he’d held her the night Sira had slipped her ketamine, what she’d done to him last night, even his words to her that morning haunted him. Who was Christopher LaPorte?
 

He wasn’t sure he knew anymore. The hard man who pushed away love and warmth, sure he would destroy it? A man holding onto superstitious beliefs to protect not others but himself? Or the man who had made love with Rita last night, who had felt that protective shell splinter apart?
 

“Christopher?” she whispered, watching his inner struggle.

He didn’t know how to put any of it into words, especially not now. Strangely enough, all those words wanted to tumble out to spill at her feet. She knew his darkest shadows, had seen the coldest, hardest part of his soul. Yet she stood there now with compassion in her eyes. And love.
 

“Your majesty, the city looks stunning again,” one lady who looked like one of the
Cats
said.

“We are so glad you’re back. Xanadu wouldn’t be the same without your leadership,” another said.

Both he and Rita asked if anyone had seen Vitar, but no one had. Nor had anyone seen Sira.

“Oh, but I am sure she will be here. You know how she likes to make an entrance, your majesty,” one man in a vibrant orange cape said with a mischievous smile.

“She’s not going to miss this,” a woman in silver lame said. She surveyed Rita. “It’s going to be a most interesting Gathering.”

Christopher glanced up at the clock he’d spotted earlier. It was made out of papier-mâché and fit the decor of Xanadu. The Gathering would officially start in forty minutes. With every person they met, he had to endure their adulation. Brian had apparently taken his role as king very seriously.

“All that adoration. Can you handle it?” Rita asked when they had a moment to themselves.

He opened his mouth but stopped his words when he realized he was going to say the adoration he needed could only come from her. Was he getting into this role a little too much? “I think so,” he answered to both questions.
 

He understood how easy it was to lose yourself in a role. That’s why he’d accidentally stabbed Brian, living up to the role of the bad prince. Back in Brian’s office, he’d slipped right into the role of being Rita’s king. As each word had come from his mouth, it had opened something inside him. More than anything, he needed a clear head in the next several hours.
 

A gong sounded through the warehouse. It was time.

He ran his thumb over her lips, wishing it were his mouth instead. “If you feel anything weird, let me know. We have to be prepared that Sira will try ketamine again.”

“You be careful, too. You may be king, but you’re human.”

“Too human,
cherie
.”

He didn’t know how many people were crowded into that large room with the strange chairs, but he figured at least forty. Rita was nudged away from him as more and more people pressed close to ask him a question or to merely say how glad they were that he was feeling better. He kept an eye on her, though, as he danced around questions. She was asking questions of her own, undoubtedly as to Vitar’s and Sira’s whereabouts. Only two people knew he wasn’t really Alta. He was searching expressions for suspicion and hostility.

Someone turned on music, a strange concoction of flute and sitar.
 

“Where is Vitar?” he finally managed to ask the group of people around him.

One man searched the room. “I saw him earlier.”

“What does he look like? I’ve forgotten,” a woman said.

“He usually wears a vertical stripe down his face and layers of robes. And he has an “A” tattooed on his finger.”

“He really should cover it,” another man said. “It’s an intrusion. And Dracon wears a watch. A
Timex
. You must address these matters, your majesty.”

As his citizens launched into others issues that threatened the fragile fantasy, Christopher couldn’t help but feel empty.
 

How much was real?
 

The question haunted him. Here he was in this make-believe world, pretending to be someone he wasn’t, looking for two killers. He looked at the people surrounding him, listened to their passionate ideas and plans. This was real to them. To Sira, it was life or death.

Someone was pushing his or her way toward him from the back of the room. A man, he surmised, by the potbelly and hairy arms. He tensed, noting that the man wasn’t going anywhere near Rita. A glittery green horizontal stripe crossed the man’s golden face. And a Timex. Dracon then. He obviously had a serious issue of his own to discuss.

“Alta, your majesty,” he greeted without warmth. “I have heard the most disturbing rumor. Sira says you are shutting Xanadu down.”

Rita wasn’t going to play hero. She had tangled with Sira once before and didn’t much like the result. Her goal was to find the woman and alert Christopher. He would draw her in and cuff her. She wished Connard had called them back. Hopefully he would come at their call for assistance, even if he only half-believed them. She touched the cell phone at her side.

From across the room, she met Christopher’s gaze. The man was absolutely gorgeous, standing inches above those who crowded around him. She’d glimpsed something else in his eyes that had her heart beating faster. Something had changed, and she didn’t dare hope he had come to care about her as deeply as she cared about him. Maybe she was being taken in by his act. He had probably been good at taking on the role of the bad prince. Perhaps he was just as good at taking on the role of the caring king. And caring man.
 

Masquerade.

She pushed away those thoughts and focused on the people around her. They observed her with curiosity, and some even greeted her. Not many new members were let into Xanadu, and that made her an oddity.

“I am looking for Vitar,” she told one woman wearing elaborate snow leopard makeup. Casca, she guessed.

“I haven’t seen him yet.” She surveyed Rita. “Shouldn’t you be searching for the Tailor? He is the first person you should meet.”

“Yeah, sure.” Rita shook her head at the nonsense these people subscribed to. Rules, rituals, anonymity… creepy.

The rising sound of conversation caught her attention. Those around Christopher were urgently questioning him. One man was raising his voice in disbelief.

Before she could head his way to find out what was going on, a man whispered, “Atir,” from behind the fabric wall. She tried to trace the voice. “Over here.” She saw a face peeking out from between the folds. He looked around furtively. “I am Vitar. I must talk with you and Alta.”

He wore a hood over his head and had a wide, brown stripe going down his face. His lips were hidden in makeup, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. His brown eyes blended into the stripe, too. She tried to remember the gardener/janitor’s features, but they were too generic. Vitar was taller, however.

“I told one of the others to instruct Alta to join us in the meeting room where the High Council makes their decisions,” he said. “We’ll be safe to talk there.”

She looked over at Christopher, who was being pulled deeper into conversation with the small crowd. She wouldn’t be able to drag him away now, not by the intensity of their voices. He glanced her way for a second but was drawn away again. Then Vitar pulled her between the folds. As she grabbed for the pepper spray, he put a finger over his lips. “I don’t want Sira to see us.”

She relaxed, though her fingers still clutched the holster. “Have you seen her?”

“Oh, she is here. She’s wearing her usual outfit, a brilliant green body suit covered in rhinestones and feathers.”

“And the black and gold feathered mask?”

“Yes. But she’s clever.” He looked around again. “She could be anywhere.”

“Let me get Christopher.”

“Not with everyone standing around him like that. Sira will know what you’re doing, and she’ll follow you both right to me. I’m in grave danger. I promise you that Pearla is going to tell him to meet us and that you are with me. She’ll pull him away from the crowd.”

Rita followed, but her heart was creeping up into her throat. She didn’t want to be this far from Christopher. She looked at Vitar again. He did look genuinely worried, looking around, skirting a corner when footsteps sounded in the hallway. They kept weaving through the folds of fabric, walking farther from the gathering room. Her feet were killing her in the cramped shoes.
 

They ducked into a room in the far corner of the warehouse, where a long table and chairs attested to the business attended to here. He led her to two chairs and sat down. He hadn’t let go of her hand. She remembered the “A” tattoo and looked at his fingers. Which hand was it on? She saw no tattoo on the right one. When she glanced at his left hand, she saw the letter and relaxed a little.

“Alta should be here any moment,” he said, looking not at the doorway but at her. “The real Alta is dead, isn’t he?”

At first Rita’s instinct was to state that Christopher was the real Alta. But Vitar was their ally and should know the truth. She nodded.

“Sira killed him?”

“Yes, but we don’t know how exactly.” Rita kicked off her shoes. “She’s killed several people, all for Xanadu. You’re right to feel in danger.”

His expression grew somber. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “You may think she has gone to extremes, but you do see how important it is to keep Xanadu safe, don’t you? Do you see how these people love it here?”

“But it’s make-believe.”

His grip tightened. “Are you familiar with Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, ‘The Kubla Khan?’
 
His
Xanadu was make-believe. My Xanadu is even better than he ever imagined. It is as real to us as the outside world is to you. But there is no evil here, no disease, no hatred. In Xanadu, we are perfect. We can look the way we want, get rid of all our inhibitions and self-doubts…” He stared deeply into her eyes, though his held not a trace of soul. She had seen those eyes before. Not Emmagee’s. Not Tammy’s. “This is our refuge. No one teases us, calls us names or makes us feel like freaks. I’m accepted here.”

With every word, she felt the dread flowing through her veins getting heavier and heavier. She tried to push the fear from her expression.
Stay calm. You don’t know if this is Edward.
She had trouble swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. “You don’t look like a freak to me.” She glanced down at his feet beneath the robes. His boots had platforms that made him look taller.

His smile gave her the chills. “You haven’t seen all of me.”

She forged ahead. “Playing dress up is good. There’s nothing wrong with that. The real world isn’t such a bad place, though. I’ve often felt like an outsider myself.” She remembered seeing that much in Sira’s posts. “I have hang-ups, too. I’m trying to resolve them and find my place. Maybe I can help you.” She tried to casually loose herself from his grip to no avail.

He laughed bitterly. “You don’t know what being an outsider is like. You have no idea.”

“Tell me then. Maybe no one has ever listened to you before. Maybe no one has ever heard your pain. I’ll listen.”

The harshness of his expression softened for a moment. “Maybe if Edward were here, he’d hear you out.”

Her voice was a whisper when she said, “You’re not Edward? Then you’re…”

His voice changed. “That’s right, baby. I’m Sira.”

Rita tried not to panic. It didn’t make sense. He’d sounded like a man before. Moved like a man. “Where’s Edward?”

Sira clenched her other fist and shoved it at her solar plexus. “He’s in here. He wanted to come out and play, but I wouldn’t let him. He’s gone a little mad, you see. It happened after killing that detective of yours.”

“Connard?” Rita asked, her voice a strained whisper. No, not Connard. The crushing sensation in her chest increased, and she started to shake. She tried to get to her pepper spray with her free hand.
 

“Sad, isn’t it, how he believed you and then ended up dead because of it?”

She needed to understand. That was the only way she could try to stay alive. “Edward and you are one person?”

“Much as it pains me sometimes, yes, we are. But he’s going to go away for a while. He was bad.”

“Because he murdered Connard?” She hoped Sira was only bluffing.

“No, because he didn’t listen to me. He sat in the closet and played in the man’s blood. He forgot who’s in control.”

Rita shivered then. Split personalities was beyond her area of expertise. “Sira, I can help you. If you’ll talk to me.” She couldn’t help dart a glance at the door.

“He’s not coming, baby. I have a couple of my loyal citizens keeping him busy with accusations about his closing down Xanadu. It put them in a panic.” Her eyes hardened, and Rita could see the fake brown contacts. “Which is why I won’t let you destroy us.”

When Rita lunged for her spray, Sira was quicker. She pulled out the wavy knife Rita had seen in Brian’s collection and held it to her throat before she could form a scream. She jerked Rita to her feet, keeping the blade close enough to her skin to sting. Her arms were pinned behind her.