Tails You Lose (17 page)

The Magic Box was little more than a gutted warehouse, its walls and ceiling painted a flat black. There were no tables or chairs, just a series of squat pillars, each about shoulder-high and inlaid with pentagrams. Mages and shamans—both professional magic jockeys and amateur spell chuckers—sat or stood on top of these platforms, casting their spells out over the dance floor. Their target was the crowd below: humans and metas jammed shoulder to shoulder who swayed in time with the Mood Muzak, a chest-rattling mix of subsonic vibration, tribal drum and gongs.

Illusion spells filled the air over the crowd in a chaotic mix: exploding fireworks, snarling dragon's heads, neon butterflies, and comets that streaked through the air, reverberating chords of music in their wake. But it was the emotional manipulation spells that the crowd came for; they expected their feelings to be stripped raw from the highest highs to the lowest lows. Amid the confusion of images, an illusion of a crucified Christ rose into the air and pinwheeled in a frantic circle, spraying the crowd below with blood. Those hit by the drops of blood were immediately plunged into a religious fervor and fell to their knees, weeping. Elsewhere on the dance floor, people either laughed, cowered in fear, flushed with a sexual rush, or leaped up and down shouting like fans at a combat biker game as emotion-controlling spells swept over them like breaking waves, leaving them gasping in their wake.

Night Owl nodded to herself as the pinwheel Christ faded. It had to be one of Miracle Worker's illusions—it looked like the former shadowrunner was still moonlighting, despite the church gig. Night Owl searched the platforms at the edge of the dance floor for her chummer, but she had no idea what illusion Miracle Worker was cloaked in tonight. She could have been any one of the mages below.

Giving up the guessing game, Night Owl squeezed her way along the metal-grid catwalk, which was jammed with first-time magers who were still too timid to venture down into the wash of spells. She jumped for one of the polished brass poles near the catwalk, slid down to the floor of the club, and ventured out into the crowd.

She wound up dancing beside an enormous sasquatch who turned in a slow-mo circle, his hairy white arms extended like rotor blades, and a cluster of dwarves whose holopic headbands were projecting realistic images of West Coast Native masks. The arched beak of a thunderbird mask swept like a ghostly sword through Night Owl's waist as one of the dwarves whipped his head to the side and then back again. Another mask seemed to purse its wooden mouth and howl like a wolf, while the dwarf wearing it scrambled around the floor on all fours.

A wave of giggles swept through the crowd toward Night Owl. and a moment later she found herself doubled over and clutching her stomach as tears spilled down her face. The sasquatch's hairy arm thumped down across her back in magic-induced camaraderie, and then the wave was past, leaving them both gasping for breath. Night Owl peeled the heavy arm off her shoulders and staggered away.

She found herself in the middle of a group of young Full Blood elves in Vashon Island suits who were spraying each other's expensive clothing with water pistols filled with body paint. A splatter of fire-red paint hit Night Owl just as an illusory beam of sunlight lanced down from the ceiling above. Bright green grass appeared to burst out of the floor below her feet. Even though she was wearing boots, it felt as though she were standing on the soft springy grass in bare feet.

Instantly her irritation at getting splashed was gone, replaced by a warm, happy glow that flashed through her like sunshine. She embraced one of the elves, hugging him like a long-lost brother. The elf, a teenager with model-perfect features, smiled back at her and shouted something in Salish that was lost in the throbbing music. It didn't matter that she couldn't understand him; she felt a rush of empathy for the kid. She could also sense the petty jealousy of everyone who looked at him like hot wax dripping on her exposed back.

She gripped his face in her hands. "It's not our fault that we're perfect," she shouted back at him. "We were made in the year of the rat—the year of the lab rat!"

Then the beam of sunlight swept away. The kid wrenched his face out of her hands, his eyes shooting a wave of hot anger at Night Owl. She backed away, surprised to see that her hands had left bruises on his cheeks. In that same instant, a rush of excitement swept across the crowd. Caught up in its frenzy, the elf and his friends ran after it, whooping with glee. Suddenly alone, Night Owl realized she'd been projecting her own insecurities—filling in a stranger's blanks with her own past.

She sagged her way over to the edge of the room and sat on the floor with her back against one of the pillars. Here in the shadow between the pillar and the wall, with the catwalk a few meters over her head, she was temporarily out of the streams of magic that pulsed across the dance floor.

She found herself at eye level with one of the club's astral patrons: a spirit with grainy, concrete-colored skin and blinking eyes that looked as though they were covered in oil slicks. The spirit's scalp was hidden by a multicolored tangle of hair-thin electrical wires. It wore a suit made from a patchwork of discarded fast-food wrappers and had plastic bags wrapped around its feet. It smiled at Night Owl, then opened its mouth into a perfect rectangle, exposing twin rows
of square teeth that were miniature computer-monitor screens.

Words scrolled across the incisors: SOMEONE'S LOOKING FOR YOU.

Night Owl sat up.

"Who?"

A MAN WITH STRANGE EYES.

"Why are you telling me this?"

TATYANA SENT ME TO FIND YOU.

Night Owl sprang to her feet, keeping the pillar between herself and the dance floor. She leaned out to scan the crowd but didn't see anyone she recognized as a Red Lotus ganger. That didn't mean anything, though. The shaman Wu had already proved that he could sneak up on her invisibly, and the Red Lotus were always recruiting new members from the city's illegals. That teenage girl in the shimmy skirt might be a ganger—she could have sneaked a blade into the club tucked into her ample cleavage. Or the old guy with flexible glow tubes braided into his beard who kept glancing over his shoulder like he was afraid someone was going to jump him. He was a Euro, but he might be with the Red Lotus, just the same. You never could tell who was going to put a bullet into your back . . .

Had the spirit moved? Night Owl spun around, her right eye twitching like crazy. Her left hand whipped to her empty holster in a futile search for her Predator. Then she realized what had just happened. When she'd leaned out from behind the pillar, she'd been caught in the edge of a paranoia wash.

Only when her heart slowed its beat from rapid-fire to single shot did her eye finally stop spasming. She leaned back against the pillar, catching her breath. Even without the emotion spell pumping her full of adrenaline, she realized she'd made a mistake in coming to the Magic Box. She needed to shift out of here, before the man with the strange eyes found her. Unless . . .

She looked down at the spirit, which was waiting patiently beside her. Crouching down so
that
it would hear her over the chest-rattling music, she shouted into its ear, "Did Tatyana let the man with the strange eyes inside?"

The spirit grinned. YES.

"Is he with the Red Lotus?"

NO. TATYANA SAID SHE'D NEVER SEEN HIM BEFORE.

Night Owl sighed with relief. Tatyana had run with the Screamin' Mimis for several years and knew every ganger in town. Maybe Strange Eyes wasn't looking to flatline Night Owl after all. The encounter with Wu and his dragon master two nights ago had left her twitchy. For all she knew, the guy was another Johnson with a nice, fat credstick in his hand.

"Where is he?"

The spirit slowly scanned the room. I DON'T SEE HIM.

Great. Night Owl would have to scope the fellow out on her own. She thanked the spirit, which dematerialized back into the concrete floor, leaving a scattering of food wrappers behind, and stood with her back against the wall, trying to keep out of the wash of spells. Her night-vision goggles were hanging from a clip on her belt. She snugged them down over her eyes and activated their binocular function. The most logical place to stand and look for someone was on the catwalks above. Night Owl slowly turned her head, scanning for anyone who matched the description the spirit had given her.

She spotted her target halfway down the catwalk on her left. She knew he had to be her man—he had the strangest eyes she'd ever seen: pure white, without a hint of iris or pupil. They had to be cybered—although why he hadn't opted for natural-tint models or even mirrored lenses was a mystery. The bulging expanse of white reminded her of a hard-boiled egg.

She studied his profile and then decreased the magnification until his entire body was within the goggles' field of view.

Strange Eyes was Eurasian—no surprise, so was half the population of Vancouver—with an elongated face and a high forehead creased deeply with frown lines. He seemed to be naturally bald—there wasn't any stubble on his scalp—and was probably in his midforties. He wore white dress linens, an Armante cloak that hung as if it was lined with ballistic cloth, and soft black cotton slippers that were probably soaked through, given the heavy rain outside. He stood like a terra cotta statue of an ancient Chinese warrior, arms folded over his chest, his strange white eyes staring out over the crowd. Despite the throng of people moving back and forth across the catwalk, no one bumped into him. It was as if he projected an aura that defied anyone to so much as brush against him.

Night Owl reached into her pocket and pulled out a parking token, flipping it into the air and catching it without even looking at it. Heads, she'd meet with Strange Eyes and see what he had to say. Tails, she'd blow out of here and leave the freaky fragger behind. Still staring at her man through her goggles, she ran a fingertip across the token, reading the face of it by feel. She felt the squarish outline of a longhouse: tails. Time to fade.

Something about the mystery man held her attention, however, as she slipped the token back into her pocket. She zoomed the goggles back in for a closer look at his face. She was curious about those eyes—was he blind? It was odd that he never blinked. Not once.

Just as his face filled her field of view, he turned his head. Although she was more than a hundred meters away from him, Night Owl felt a chill run down her spine as his gaze met hers full on. Although she couldn't tell where those blank white eyes were looking, she was certain he had seen her. She felt as though her gut had suddenly filled with ice water.

An illusion flashed in the air between them, flooding the goggles with a bright blue-white light that left

Night Owl blinking. Yanking the goggles away from her eyes, she saw that one of the mages had filled the air above the dance floor with a roiling mushroom cloud. Surround-sound speakers spread a rumble across the dance floor, rattling Night Owl's chest until it was difficult to breathe. When the mushroom cloud cleared a second or two later, the man with the blank white eyes was gone from the catwalk.

Still blinking away the spots from her eyes, Night Owl hurried toward a spiral staircase in the corner of the room. The brief close-up of Strange Eyes had creeped her out; she wouldn't have done any biz with him even if the token had landed heads-up. She certainly didn't want to come face to face with the fragger here in the club, without the comfortable weight of her Ares Predator in her holster.

She climbed the stairs two at a time, deked her way past a slower group of giggle-gasping patrons, and burst into a run as soon as she hit the catwalk. The exit door was just ahead.

So was Strange Eyes. He stood just in front of the exit, one hand extended toward her, palm up, as if he expected her to take his hand. Skidding to a halt, Night Owl found herself mesmerized by his blank white eyes, which both repulsed and compelled her. She began backing slowly away but found herself unable to look at anything but those bulging white orbs. His fingers twitched—once, impatiently—and a voice whispered in her mind as he spoke:
Come
with
me
.

Like a sleepwalking child, Night Owl walked forward and took his hand, letting him lead her through the exit door. A distant part of her mind was screaming in protest, but the spell he'd used to influence her was too strong to resist. As they passed through the room at the top of the stairs, Night Owl wrenched her head to the side and shot a pleading look at the shaman with the snakeskin tie. The effort took everything she had; it was almost impossible to make her body do anything more than follow Strange Eyes through the room. Words seemed to creak out of her mouth, and sweat trickled down her forehead as she forced a hand into her pocket to pull out a token.

"My . . . coat."

Strange Eyes paused, obviously wanting to keep up the facade that Night Owl was going with him willingly. The shaman, oblivious to Night Owl's struggle, bowed and took the token from her trembling hand. He reached into the wall and came out with her duster.

Strange Eyes plucked the duster from her hand and draped it over his arm. He tugged on Night Owl's hand, forcing her to follow him down the stairs.

The door opened, and Strange Eyes walked her out of the club. As they passed Tatyana, the troll took one look and threw a slap at Strange Eyes with her shock glove. Without even looking at her, Strange Eyes whipped his body to the side, avoiding her blow. He barked two words at her: "Stand aside!" Tatyana shuddered, then slowly backed out onto the sidewalk. Rain soaking her broad shoulders, she stared helplessly as Night Owl was led away.