Boundary Lines (19 page)

Chapter 31

I went back down through the hotel with my eyes trained on the floor, avoiding looking at any of the people in my path. I didn’t want to stop and think about who might be real and who might be a “specter,” as Mark had called himself. I couldn’t help them, at least not yet, and I needed to find Nellie Evans. I could only hope that whatever was stirring up Boulder’s magic would extend to Denver as well, because that meant I wouldn’t have to wait until nightfall to talk to her.

My hands were shaking as I put the keys in the ignition. The memories from the war washed over me again, and I had to spend a few minutes with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, as cars whooshed past me on their way to the Pearl Street district. I felt like my brain was fracturing into different people. I’d gone into the army as Allie Luther, but by halfway through my first deployment I had become a different person: harder, more cynical. I’d been that version of myself for the whole deployment. When I finally returned home from the hospital in Germany, it was obvious that Allie was dead, but less obvious who I was supposed to become next. The old Allie was gone, but the soldier Lex felt betrayed by the army. They’d discharged me—honorably—as soon as it became clear that there was something fishy about my medical situation.

Switching identities between soldier and civilian was never an easy thing. The first few weeks home had been rough: I remembered going into stores and being overwhelmed by the crowds of people and the variety of options for every product. I would go to the park or for a bike ride and find myself terrified of the garbage barrels, the trash on the ground.

It was Sam who’d gone to Target to buy toilet paper for me, Sam who’d held my hand at the mall when I absolutely could not go any longer without buying new clothes. My sister had helped me forge another new identity: still Lex, but tempered with enough Allie to keep me securely connected to the people who loved me.

But Sam was dead. And now I felt split in two again, and there was no one to help me with that. There was nothing to do but sit in my car and wait for the wave of anxiety and panic to recede again. It took a while, but it helped that I was more determined than ever to go see Nellie Evans. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go through all of this for nothing.

Realizing that I hadn’t eaten since a quick drive-thru breakfast
hash brown, I stopped at one of Boulder’s many coffee shop/lunch cafés and got a veggie sandwich to go and a coffee. The caffeine probably wasn’t the
best
idea while I was still a little unsteady, but the cup was warm and comforting in my hand, and having food in my stomach helped the shakes. I stopped at a Target for a few B&E tools, and then followed the navigation app on my phone to Market Street in Denver—specifically the area that used to be the red-light district.

I knew from Quinn’s printouts that a hundred years ago this whole neighborhood had been elaborately divided into sections representing different classes of prostitute: the upscale parlor houses, the more “common” brothels, the specific areas reserved for women of color. Now, however, the entire neighborhood had been taken over by trendy businesses that leeched onto the consumer runoff from nearby Coors Field: pricey taverns, steakhouses, and coffee shops with pretentious fonts on their signs.

Nellie Evans’s old brothel was only two blocks away from the stadium, and it was the very definition of the word “eyesore”—a dingy gray-brick building that seemed to suck the light out of the clubs on either side. The front door was boarded over, and plywood covered both windows in the front. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, I ducked down the narrow alley between the brothel and the club next door. The back alley stank of vomit and urine, which wasn’t surprising given the building’s neighbors. I ignored the club on my right and circled to the back door of Nellie Evans’s building, pulling a hand-sized pry bar out of the Target bag I’d brought from the car. There was a large “Keep Out” sign and several boards nailed unceremoniously across the entrance. Just as unceremoniously, I ripped them off with the pry bar and jimmied the door open.

The back entryway led into a grand foyer with a long winding staircase that immediately caught the eye, even in the dim light filtering between the boarded windows. This was normally the kind of entrance one saw at the front of a building, but a brothel would emphasize discretion, meaning customers had probably always come in and out the back entrance.

I clicked on the flashlight I’d brought and shone it around the room. In the harsh white beam, I could see how decrepit and worn-down the interior had become. There were spiderwebs everywhere, and the wooden floors and bannister had turned green with mold. The air reeked of decay and dust, and I shuddered as I imagined trying to live in such a place. It wasn’t exactly the Munsters’ house, but it was pretty damn unpleasant.

Suddenly a voice pealed from the balcony, streaming down the grand staircase. “Why, hel
lo
!”

Fear sloshing in my stomach, I shifted the light toward the top of the steps, illuminating the figure of a woman. She was in her forties, with a slim waist and an hourglass body, like a 1930s pinup girl. She was dressed like a pinup girl too: I’d expected Victorian clothing, but she wore shorts that barely went past her hips, bright red lipstick, and sky-high heels that strapped around her ankles. Her top was sort of like half a dress shirt, polka-dotted—it tied right under her breasts and ended there. Her stomach was slim but slightly rounded, obviously from a time before women were expected to have abs of steel. Her black hair, just beginning to gray at the temples, was curled in bangs over her forehead and tied up in a high ponytail.

After a moment of posing, she trotted down the stairs, no easy feat in those heels, and rushed down to greet me, pausing a few inches in front of me to look me over. “You’re
here
,” she exclaimed. “I know what you are. I know you can see me too, so don’t go pretending you can’t.”

“Okay . . .” I said, thrown off by her familiarity. “Um, I’m looking for Nellie Evans.”

She whooped victoriously, displaying rotting teeth in a heart-shaped face that must have been downright pretty before it became so weathered. “Well, that’s me! You found me!” In response to my confused look, she glanced down at her clothes. “Oh, gracious me. You thought I’d look more like a shady lady, didn’t you?” She waved her hand over her body, and her clothes transformed into a Victorian dress with a tight, lower-than-average bodice and an enormous skirt complete with a bustle. It wasn’t like a movie costume or an antique in a museum: There were small stains and fraying at the hems, and a slight darkening under her arms. This outfit wasn’t a fading relic or a prop, it was her everyday clothing, and Nellie looked comfortable in it. Well, as comfortable as anyone could look in a corset.

She still had the hair and lipstick of a thirties pinup girl, though, which was surprisingly disorienting. “There, now. You see why I’d rather not spend all eternity in this, don’t you?” She turned around, showing off the bustle. “My lord, when I think of what we had to go through each day, just to greet the gentlemen! This house was a museum for a while, you know, and one of the displays was about women’s clothing. This little box of moving pictures would run through all the different periods, and I had the
best
time trying out styles!”

I just stood there gaping at her. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, exactly, but probably not someone so . . . chatty. “Now, I’m told that modern trollops opt for something more like this”—she waved her hand again, and the elaborate gown vanished, replaced by a tight-fitting, simple black cocktail dress. She still had the ankle-strap pumps. “Why, just think of how many more tricks my girls could have turned each night if they hadn’t needed to fuss with pantaloons, stockings, and corsets!” She gave me an elaborate wink.

“Ms. Evans—” I began.

“Please call me Nellie. And, oh! I haven’t asked for your name yet; what terrible manners. You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve had no one to talk to for
ever
so long.” She looked at me expectantly.

“Lex,” I said. “Lex Luther.”

I rarely phrase my name that way, but if Nellie had ever heard of
Superman’s archnemesis, she didn’t show it. “Such an unusual name,”
she exclaimed. “And who are your people? You’re a proper witch of the demimonde, I can see it all over you, so you must have a coven.”

I blinked, not quite sure how to respond to that. Finally I settled for the truth. “I was adopted, I’m afraid. I don’t know my people.”

Nellie folded her hands over her heart dramatically. “Well, if that isn’t the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard!” she cried. “You poor thing. I would embrace you, but I’d pass right through, you know, and I’m told it’s quite unnerving.” A tiny, malevolent smirk appeared on her face and vanished immediately. I remembered all those potential buyers who’d been scared away from the property.

“What does ‘demimonde’ mean?” I couldn’t help but ask.

She gave me a look of genuine surprise. “Why, the half-world, of course. The world beneath the world.” Her eyes flashed flinty. “My mother brought me up in the demimonde, and her mother before her. We may not have had much, but there were always those willing to pay for what we could do. Why, when it was fashionable, I ran séances out of that very parlor.” She nodded her head toward one of the decrepit doorways. Her smugness faltered a bit as she gave me an admiring once-over. “Then again, on my
best
day I had nothing like the kind of influence you employ. It’s a shame you don’t know your people; I bet there’s a story there for sure.”

“Ms. Evans,” I started again, trying to get back on track. “I’m here to ask you a question. Some strange things have been happening in Boulder, about thirty miles northwest of here.”

Her smile began to change, growing craftier. “Aye, I’ve felt it my own self. That’s how I’m able to appear so clear and strong, you know. Why, I wager you can’t even see through me just now.” I couldn’t get a grip on her speech patterns: it was like she’d come to the country as an immigrant, received an education, and was then exposed to half a dozen different dialects. Which, given her background and the house’s museum status, was probably exactly what had happened.

“You’re right, I can’t. But, ma’am, if you’ll pardon my forwardness, you don’t seem surprised by it.”

“No, ’course not.” She looked confused. “Is it not a good thing, then, having your little fragment of the line reawaken?”

“The moon line, you mean?” I asked.

I’d been too eager. Nellie Evans’s eyes narrowed with sudden mistrust. “Who sent you to me, then?” she asked suspiciously. “I haven’t had a single visitor in near on five—no, six years, and you show up asking questions about the lines? How did you know to find me here?”

“A vampire told me about you,” I said. “Do you know that word, vampire?”

Her face darkened. “Aye,” she snarled. “The baobhan sith, my ma used to call them. ’Twas one of the very same who put me here. I’ve no love for the vampires, though they had plenty of love for me.”

My thoughts snagged on that phrase, and I simply had to ask. “Were they drawn to you?”

“Yes, that’s a good word for it.” She gestured around, at the once-grand house. “That is how I was able to build my business so quickly, and compete with the likes of Mattie Silks and her gang . . . well, for a bit, anyway. They paid top dollar for my blood.” She glared at me. “Which one sent you, then, hmm?”

Moment of decision. If I told her the truth, would she be more or less likely to give me answers? Less, probably. But if I lied, she might be able to tell, or she might ask me follow-up questions I couldn’t answer.

I rolled the dice. “Her name is Maven,” I said. “She’s the cardinal vampire of the state, meaning she’s in charge.”

No recognition, but it wasn’t like Maven was using the same name. “And what does she look like?” Nellie demanded.

I held up a flat hand. “About this tall, orange hair, pert nose. Very powerful.”

She studied me for a moment, thinking that over. “Dresses in layers, does she? All decked out with jewelry and extra petticoats like she’s trying to hide?”

“Yes.”

“I
knew
it!”

Then Nellie threw a tantrum.

There was really no other word for it. She cursed and stomped, which was odd because her heels made no noise on the wooden floors. She threw her arms up and muttered under her breath about leeches and slaves and retribution. Then she did some further cursing that deeply impressed me, and I have heard some creative expletives in my day. I just stood at ease, waiting her out.

Finally Nellie calmed down enough to whirl around and face me. “Do you have any idea who you’re working for?” she demanded. “Pale Jennie, she’s the devil herself.”

“Tell me more about the moon lines,” I said calmly.

“And why would I do that?” she contended. “Why on earth would I help the likes of her?”

“If you don’t, people will die.”

She snorted. “I don’t care about that.” She gestured around herself. “Look at me! Look at this place! What concern is it of mine if others suffer the same fate?”

“Well, then, what do you want?”

Another glare. “You’re suggestin’ you’d
trade
me for the information?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. What do you want?” Remembering Hugh Mark, I ventured, “To cross over the line?”

Instantly, terror erupted on Nellie Evans’s leathery face.
“No!
No, please. I don’t want to cross over,” she blurted. “I like it here.”

Interesting. “What, then?”

She thought it over for a few minutes, tapping one toe soundlessly on the floor. “I want one of them motion-picture boxes,” she said finally.

“A television?”

She nodded. “I want one set up in here so’s I can learn about the world outside these walls.” She shot an annoyed look around the brothel.

There was enough room on my credit card for a small TV and some bunny ears, and even if he ever found it, I doubted the owner of the building would much care. “If you answer all my questions, and the information turns out to be good,” I said carefully, “I’ll come back with a television.”