Vicki Pettersson - The Scent of Shadows

“God, Ben,” I said, pressing the photos to my chest as I closed my eyes. “We’re never going to be this innocent again.”

Laughter sounded behind me again, closer.

The fear that punched at my heart was a physical blow. I rocked into a standing position instantly, my legs braced wide, head up, and I sniffed. Rot on the air. Decaying hate, bloodthirsty hunger. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ajax. I don’t know how he’d found me, but he was coming, and quick.

I shoved the photos and comics into the duffel bag, zipping it as I raced into the store. I ducked down the first aisle and zigzagged to the back of the store, past cosmetics, lotions, shampoos, candy, and condoms, the security globe above capturing my every move. I fled past aisles stocked with visors and cheap T-shirts, there only because the words Las Vegas were splayed upon them in some manner, and quickly discovered that among the mundane and the kitsch and the items that made life oh-so convenient , there was one thing missing. A place to hide.

I should have run, I thought, blood churning. I should have taken off in the opposite direction of the stench and laughter, and run all the way to the Peppermill. To the safety of Warren or someone else who might know what to do.

Nobody can know who you really are, do you understand?

I looked again at the mirrored globe, and cursed Olivia’s reflected image. If Ajax didn’t kill me, Warren was surely going to do the job.

The automatic doors at the front of the store slid open. Through the security globe I saw a figure slide inside like a wisp of smoke, then disappear. He was following my scent, the fear now, and whatever emotion or pheromone that had alerted him to me in the first place. Seconds ticked by like bombs, and I felt the frantic despair rats must feel in a maze. There was, very simply, nowhere to hide. Then my eyes fell to the clearance bin in the middle of the aisle. Nowhere to hide, I thought, except in plain sight.

Tossing my duffel aside, I dove for the mishmashed items; remaindered Halloween costumes made of colored felt and cotton meant to wear away in one washing. All I needed was a mask. I tossed aside bear bodies, bumblebees, superheroes—ha!—and butterfly wings, and finally unearthed a cheap plastic mask. It would only cover half my face, but it’d fit. Fumbling it over my head, I snagged a baseball cap sporting the famous Welcome to Las Vegas sign on it, and tucked Olivia’s golden locks up inside. Then I turned, breathing hard, and waited.

His laugh, the one I’d mistaken for drunken mirth, was the first thing to reach me. But if Ajax were drunk, it was with the intoxication of anticipated success and unrestrained violence, not hard alcohol.

When he appeared, the first thing I noticed was his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, then the anticipatory twitch of his long fingers; those effective, effeminate hands. His lanky skeleton pressed beneath his skin as he moved, and I was almost surprised his bones didn’t clack together when he walked. Already in place, his feral grin widened when he saw me.

“I have to hand it to Warren. This is his best disguise yet…other than his own, that is,” and his laugh was so cruel it was clear he wasn’t speaking of Warren’s vagrant persona. “I’d have never guessed it was you.”

My eyes, beneath the slit of plastic, flickered up to the mirrored ball. A pink pig’s snout protruded from beneath the rim of the hat, but my face—Olivia’s face, and her hair—were perfectly hidden. Dignified it wasn’t, but it did the job.

“I’m guarding my identity,” I said, unnecessarily.

“I see that.” Ajax took a step forward, his long coat swirling around his ankles. I mirrored him, taking one step back. “But, very soon, neither your plastic mask nor your veil of flesh and bone are going to matter. I’m going to rip your head from your body and swim in your blood.”

I thought of Stryker and shuddered. Ajax laughed. “God, but your fear is delicious! It’s like an aperitif…a promise of delights to come. Can you see it the way I do? Every emotion emanating from your body in a silvery wave, rolling in sheets of phosphorescent emotion. See, there goes a particularly strong one. Like the tide rushing from the sea, nice and foamy at the edges as it roars for escape.”

I clenched my teeth and brought a mental barrier slamming down in front of me, the way Micah had taught. I held my breath until I was sure I could control it, then exhaled slowly. Ajax frowned. “Quick learner, aren’t you, Jo? I didn’t expect you to find your glyph so quickly either, but of course you’ve had help.”

I glanced down. The symbol that had been sprayed on my chest earlier that day was suddenly pulsing with light, a white heat throbbing beneath my black turtleneck. Damn it, I thought. I bet that Yulyia bitch wasn’t even from the Ukraine.

The rip of steel through air had my head whipping up. Ajax had his poker gripped in both hands, point down, poised in front of him like a walking cane. One with extremely sharp teeth.

“Tell me, do you also have your conduit?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Let’s see it.”

I swallowed hard, motioning with my chin. “It’s in that duffel bag.”

Smiling, he sheathed his weapon and lifted the bag by its soft handles. “Never leave your conduit unattended, Joanna. You, more than anyone, should know the power in turning an enemy’s own weapon against him.”

He lifted the bag, but hesitated, brows drawing in closely, nostrils working like a rabbit’s. He was sensing my lie. I had to distract him, fill the air with an emotion other than anxious hope.

“Powerful,” I agreed, “and Butch’s scimitar was particularly fun. Do you know I began by chopping his hands off at the wrists? I think the majority of blood loss occurred there, but I also forked his tongue and watched him choke on his own blood. I’ve never seen so much blood,” I said, shaking my head, and that was true. Remembering, I was able to conjure up the taste of molten vengeance in my mouth. I exhaled the memory in Ajax’s direction.

He reflexively lifted a hand, shielding his face, and glared at me from over the top of it. “He was like a brother to me.”

“Well, Ajax,” I said, and leaned forward, “your brother pissed himself when I used his own blade against him. Now that’s what I call a wave of fear.”

I braced myself in case he was going to rush me, but rage had him ripping into my duffel, blindly searching for a weapon that wasn’t there. It also had his fingers inadvertently running across the weapons that were.

Carl, the little wookie, had been right. Getting zapped by an enemy’s manual wasn’t pretty. I had the five agent of Light comics stacked on top of the Shadows, and Ajax, it seemed, got a good handful. He dropped the duffel bag immediately, but the damage was already done. The skin on his right palm charred before my eyes, his eyes rolled so far back in his skull that they were snowy white orbs, and his hair sizzled down to within a half inch of his skull.

I was already turning, ready to run like an Olympic sprinter, when I saw the photos of Ben scattered in the aisle.

Shit. Ajax would recover. Ajax, I thought, swallowing hard, would see them. Then he’d hunt down the one man I’d ever loved, and torture him the way I’d tortured Butch. He’d do it to spite me, or bait me, or lure me. And I, of course, would come.

The fingers on Ajax’s good hand were already beginning to twitch to life, and his eyes were rolling back into place, independent of one another, like twin reels on a slot machine. He’d have himself a jackpot if I were still kneeling at his feet when they hit home.

I lunged for the photos, gathering them quickly. He groaned and staggered forward. He bumped my arm with his left foot and I cursed as he fumbled for his weapon. Springing forward from a crouch, I wrapped my arms around his spindly but strong legs and sent his body crashing forward. His chin landed with an audible crack on the hard linoleum, and he nearly impaled himself on his own poker. Nearly, but unfortunately not quite.