Vicki Pettersson - Cheat the Grave

“Slum much?” Cher asked cryptically as I unerringly led her down another narrow alleyway. I turned to reassure her, but caught movement from a boarded-up convenience store behind us. My immediate impulse was to sniff at the air to scent out the cause, but that power had been drained from me along with all others. Besides, it could have been anything from floating debris to a shuffling homeless person, or nothing at all.

Immediate arrival at our destination provided distraction for us both. A neon sign heralded the spot, though parts of its tubing were burnt out and the remaining red glow muted by what looked like centuries of caked dirt. Yet the service it advertised was clear.

“A psychic,” I said, feeling my gut sink. Anything having to do with astrology bumped too closely for my liking against the World that Could Not Be Named.

“Smells like cat pee,” Cher said, bringing me out of my momentary reverie.

“We can hope it’s a cat, anyway,” I muttered, taking the lead. I had no weapon beyond my sharp tongue, but it was still natural for me to protect any nearby mortal. Old habits died hard.

Yeah, and sometimes they take you with them.

Climbing a narrow stairwell, we reached what in earlier, cleaner, more hopeful times might have been called a mother-in-law apartment. Right now it struggled to be a garret. I wouldn’t have touched the walls even were I still impervious to disease, and Cher stayed to the stairwell’s center, like the building was contagious. The thin hallway carpeting was torn and stained, and only one of four bald bulbs worked, but revealed a landing with a peeling green door dumped opposite us like an afterthought. Very bad feng shui. A no-longer-tufted stool slumped haphazardly next to it, bearing some long-dead plant in a shattered pot. Since Cher had shrunk into the landing’s center, boa damn near tucked between her legs, I sighed, folded my knuckles in the hem of my wrap, and knocked on the door.

Nothing.

Shrugging, I turned to find Cher already angling back down the staircase. She cringed sheepishly. “I don’t think this is it.”

“I bet they have butler service on that yacht.”

Reluctantly, she rejoined my side.

“Let’s look at the map again.” We each took one side so we could cover our noses. The smell of urine was nauseating.

“This has to be it,” she finally agreed, reluctance oozing from behind her palm. “But if this lady were a real psychic, wouldn’t she know we were coming?”

Good point. I looked around, gaze catching on a shadowed alcove where too much of nothing lingered. “Hey, Cher. Swing the flashlight over there, will you?”

She did, and a stout, square shape took form. Not a guide, no. But not another dead plant either.

Cher inched closer. “What is it?”

“A wooden chest.” It was obviously aged, but unlike the rest of this place, it wasn’t battered. A closer look revealed a black silk lining between glossy if worn slats…something easily ripped, though this was pristine.

“Looks like a pirate’s chest,” Cher commented, and I pursed my lips. One with looping whorls and intricate designs that held centuries of meaning.

“Got that disposable camera they gave out on the bus?”

Cher’s face turned into a shadowed amalgam of confusion and surprise. It looked distorted on the dim landing.

“Why?”

Because the chest was too heavy to pick up and take with us, because doing so would be considered stealing…but also because I recognized some of those dark symbols. “It looks antique. I might want to get one like it.”

“Honey, it looks satanic.” She snapped off a quick shot. “You might want to get some holy water.”

It was foreboding. And if I had to open it, I’d prefer a little distance between me and whatever was beneath that lid. “Maybe we can use that broken broomstick to open it up.” But the stick I’d spotted was as filthy as the rest of this place…

Catching myself mid-thought, I shook my head. I didn’t use to be so precious about things.

“Here, give me the map.”

Cher’s mouth quirked in distaste as I wrapped it around the broom’s splintered handle. “We’ll have to sterilize it.”

“Fine. Go boil some water. I’ll just work on this latch.”

Cher-savvy to sarcasm-stayed put, but after a few attempts I gave up on poking the thing with a blunt object and resigned myself to putting my opposable thumbs to good use. Fingers sinking into the silky lining, I lifted the lid. The hinges creaked.

Something moved inside.

“Shoot it!” I told Cher, jerking back, and I didn’t mean with the camera. Cher just screamed like she was at a Madonna concert. A fat gray rat crawled from the chest and scurried away with the whip of a long tail. Shuddering, I caught my breath and, because we weren’t already dead, picked up the flashlight Cher had dropped. Angling the beam back into the chest, I gasped, and tasted sweet victory despite the dank, rotting hallway. Two brightly plumed masks lay wrapped in clear plastic. “Look. Someone has thoughtfully provided waterless hand wash as well.”

“I call dibs on the green one,” Cher said, reaching in, revived by the sight of crystals and plumes. “That’s totally my color.”

And pink was Olivia’s. I winced as Cher unwrapped it and handed it to me. Not exactly the sort of mask I was accustomed to in my role as a twenty-first century superhero. And just what I needed, I thought wryly. More feathers.

“So where’s the guide to give us our next clue?” That was the point of the identifying boas, right? I searched the chest for an envelope, letting the flashlight beam fall over every corner, but there was nothing else. Yet when it centered on the open lid, I jerked back.

“What?” Cher asked, feeling me startle. She spotted the object strapped to the lid and bent for a closer look.

It didn’t stir my blood as it would have a handful of weeks earlier, but I recognized the item instantly. A conduit was a weapon that could not only kill humans, but super humans-both Shadow and Light. This one was a silver dagger the length of my forearm, though the sole light caught on a depressed hinge. A trident, then, with two more lethal blades that winged out at a thumb’s twitch.

Cher reached for it. There was only one thing to do.

“Cockroach!” I yelled so loudly my voice ping-ponged down the stairwell.

She fled down the stairs so quickly she could have medaled.

I waited until I heard her feet hit the landing, then leaned forward. Someone from my other life had clearly infiltrated Suzanne’s scavenger hunt, maybe even the same someone who’d sent the warning not to go out. Seeing that they’d prepared for the possibility anyway, they also obviously knew me well.

Though my palm itched to hold a conduit again, I resisted. Mine had been stripped from me when I was turned out from the troop. This owner’s weapon was probably long gone, as the silver was tarnished and clearly ancient, and I wondered briefly if he or she had been Shadow or Light. Then I recalled the sense of being watched outside, slapped my palm against the chest, and slammed the lid shut. “Fuck it.”

I whirled, rapping on the door so hard my knuckles would bruise.

Nothing happened, though Cher did call up the staircase. “Livvy?”

“Open up, you rat-fuck bastard,” I muttered under my breath, and the door ricocheted against the interior wall like a giant mousetrap. A clump of plaster fell from the ceiling, and I choked in the ensuing dust, covering my face with the mask and ducking at the same time. A figure swayed like a huge, opaque ghost in front of me, and I wished for the dagger behind me. When that figure slipped into the meager light, I wished for two.