The Taste of Night (24 page)

I pulled out another manual, and though I immediately recognized there was something off about the cover, it took me a moment to realize this one wasn’t the work of Zane and Carl.

Philly’s Penumbra
, set in Pennsylvania. Backdated a week. Joaquin must have them overnighted to his home, but if so—I looked up again at the cavernous height of the ceiling, manual slots soaring all the way to the top—he was doing so with every Shadow troop in the country. Which meant the accounts of the Shadows’ dealings in each major city in the United States were archived in this room. A quick tour around the perimeter confirmed this suspicion, though it didn’t explain why. He couldn’t interact with or influence the balance of troops in other cities as far as I knew. So what was the point of all this? Was he picking up tips from the manuals? Incendiary techniques from Quentin Black? Or just a simple diversion for those nights when he wasn’t out raping, murdering, and otherwise victimizing the women of Las Vegas?

“Except…” I muttered, tapping my fingers against the cool earthen wall. Except there were too many of them, stacked too precisely, protected too well, and collected too obsessively. I crossed to the trestle table and the sole manual lying there, opening it to a page that’d been bent, marked because it was obviously meaningful to Joaquin in some way. I saw only a panel depicting a street fight between agents of Light and Shadow in a city with a river winding through the middle of it.

He was studying it. But for what? “Why?”

As tempting as it was to stop and investigate further, I couldn’t risk it. Today was Thursday. The new manuals came
out every Wednesday, and after Joaquin had committed whatever crimes and melee he could happily manage in a twelve-hour period, I’d bet another eyetooth he’d be back here, poring over pages that would bring this shrine to life with sound and color and light.

A plan began to assert itself. If I could find a place to hide, somewhere I could burrow in so deeply that Joaquin would never intuit my presence, I could stalk him from down here. I could take him in this room, which he felt was a safe and hallowed refuge. One moment he’d be leafing through pages of violence, incense burning the air, and the next he’d be sitting, stunned, in the afterlife. I smiled. There was a lot to be said for the element of surprise.

The crowded anteroom would be my best bet, I decided, snuffing the black taper and exiting the room after one final look. There were dozens of niches and crannies where I could bury myself; an old English wardrobe, a sliver of space beneath the giant bed, or a leaning bookcase piled with old tomes, though that might be tricky to wriggle my way out of later. I rejected a large trunk as being too uncomfortable—plus if Joaquin carelessly threw the lock, I’d have sealed myself in my own tomb—and studied the rest of the room, kicking off a scorpion as it scuttled across my boot.

Somewhere on the hillside’s surface the day was being born. Now that I was more than human, I felt the nascence of dawn and dusk the same way consciousness slipped into me at the start of every morning. I’d known coming into this I probably wouldn’t be heading back to the sanctuary at dawn, but I still had to fight back a wave of regret. It disappeared entirely seconds later as a noise sounded from the bug I’d planted in the living room. It was a lock snicking, a door being opened, then keys tossed on some hard surface, probably the coffee table, as the sound thudded jarringly through my earpiece. I looked around with renewed resolve. The evidence of my run-in with the hounds of hell would probably send Joaquin scurrying to his hidey-hole to make sure for himself that nothing had been tampered with.

Which meant I had to hurry.

I yanked the device from my ear as my gaze landed on a space I’d dismissed before as being too narrow. But it was deep and would provide easy access to the other chamber, and I could slip behind Joaquin when he ventured inside. So I slid in sideways, angling to nestle back as far as I could, and cocked my conduit in front of me as I made sure my mask was firmly in place. Then I slowed my breathing until the air around me was as pristine as glacier wind, and waited.

I’d been standing still a full thirty seconds when it occurred to me to wonder: if daylight couldn’t seep underground, why was it growing brighter in here? With a gasp, I looked down to see my glyph alight, then an arm like a crowbar yanked me against a body I knew all too well. My wrists were grabbed, torqued expertly in an unnatural angle, making my dog bite throb anew, and my conduit clattered uselessly to my feet.

“Regan said you might be stopping by,” Joaquin whispered in my ear.

I’d have sighed if I had any air to spare. Instead I choked on fear and adrenaline. As I said, there was a lot to be said for the element of surprise.

With no conduit, no leverage against his superior physical position, and having received a few sharp blows from Joaquin against my face and kidney—warning shots; he wasn’t trying to hurt me yet—I was easily subdued. I quickly found myself in the center of the room, trussed up to a sturdy, high-backed chair, which Joaquin happily assured me was an original Louis the Fourteenth. Oh goody. I’d hate to die bound to something from IKEA.

I looked around for something I could use as a weapon, but I was tied up so tightly, I might as well have been wearing a straitjacket. There was nothing I could do but wait for an opening and hope Joaquin released me, or made a great mistake. Like the one I’d made.

For now, he was simply scrutinizing me. He hadn’t removed my mask—I think my identity was yet another treasure to be mulled over later—but gone was the lascivious smirk he usually wore—I’d long ago become more to him than a mere conquest—and in its place was a thoughtful gaze, like I was a puzzle he’d yet to solve. Of course, when he saw me watching, his demeanor shifted, and a cagey gleam returned to his eye.

“Still looking for buried treasure, Archer?”

“You seem to have plenty,” I said, indicating the room with my eyes, as everything else, including my neck, was too tightly fastened to move. The ropes dug in uncomfortably, and the glyph on my chest was beginning to feel like a severe case of heartburn, though I tried to let none of this show. It irked me that his glyph was significantly less pronounced, the smoke rising from his chest in scant tendrils, like incense recently burned out.

“Oh, this?” he said lightly, looking about as if seeing his cavern for the first time. “This isn’t treasure. It’s…creature comforts, that’s all.”

“And the mini-cathedral you’ve built next door?”

“Ah, yes. I was wondering how you liked that. You spent enough time in there,” he said, and I could see it bothered him. “I almost left my hidey-hole to find out what you were up to, though I could see where my reference room would be of interest to you. Perhaps you’d like to borrow a few manuals, do some light reading of your own…though I’d have to insist you return everything back to its proper place. It took me ages to organize.”

“No, thanks,” I said dryly. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes. Hunting me,” he said, eyes widening dramatically. He laughed then, and I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same were our positions reversed. Sometimes irony sucked. “You’ve done so well too. Without Regan’s help I doubt you’d ever have found me.”

I bristled at that. “Maybe not here. Not now. But I’d have found you.”

“Oh sure,” he said, crossing his ankles as he leaned against a pine farm table crowded with Civil War–era dust catchers. “After your entire troop was massacred by disease. After the valley’s population was decimated, though that could be any day now.” He leaned close to me, so close my eyes nearly crossed, his soiled breath warming my cheeks. “By the way, whatever damage was done to my dear pets upstairs will be done to you, tenfold.”

The thought of screwdrivers made me swallow hard, and picking up the emotion, Joaquin inhaled theatrically. I smiled back and let my Shadow side flare, sending up the scent of fresh ash to mingle with the cloying scent of burned honey and rotting fruit. Joaquin jerked back at the reminder of just whose daughter I was, and for the first time, looked as if his back was against the wall.

Perhaps I did have a weapon after all. “My father—”

I was going to say,
My father has ordered me not to be killed, hasn’t he?
but Joaquin didn’t give me the chance. His expression hardened into stubborn lines, and it was even more frightening in this gilded, infested room than it’d been on a moonlit desert night a decade earlier. I snapped my mouth shut, knowing I’d pressed too hard, but it was too late.

“Fuck it.”

He came at me like a bull, fists clenched, and I tried to push away, but ol’ Louis had made some seriously fine furniture. Joaquin was on me instantly, my hair clenched so tightly in one fist that tears watered up in my eyes, nails from his other hand digging into my shoulder as he pressed me back so the wood of the chair sent arrows up my spine. Then his lips were on mine, thin and slimy and demanding as his tongue fought entrance past my teeth, an intrusion that reminded me of the lizards wriggling above us, the worms writhing in delicate peril, the serpents sliding through earthen roots and sun-baked grit. I gagged on a combination of panic and revulsion as juices from his mouth entered mine, his death stench seeping down the soft lining of my throat.

He finally pulled back, a curious mix of triumph and fear twisting his features into an uncertain blaze, all wiped away with a frown as he watched me hack and spit. His sewer-water saliva was fouling my mouth, and noxious fumes rose to burn the membrane lining my nose. I needed a glass of water, pronto. No, I needed a tetanus shot. Better yet, a shot of pure alcohol to cleanse my senses…and something to cool
the ember on my chest where my glyph was scorching through my shirt. Fuck, but it hurt! I focused on that, and used the pain to anchor me.

“What?” I demanded, as Joaquin continued looking at me expectantly. I spit again.

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly, but his mouth only twitched, holding the words back as he waited for…something.

He’s waiting for you to die.

I stilled, before letting a curious, cautious look sweep over my face. I exaggerated it since he couldn’t make out most of my features beneath my mask, then started gagging and choking, alternating back and forth…just for good effect. Joaquin did lean forward then, hungrily taking in every spastic twitch of my body, the saliva pooling at one side of my mouth, and the way my eyes rolled back into my head, showing only white as I let my head loll forward. I heard a choked sound coming from him, though not one of regret or sympathy, but one of climax, like he just came and was reveling in the aftershocks…or was just about to.

I straightened. And smiled. “I’m such a tease.”

Every feature on his face sharpened into angles and points, his nostrils flared, and the ripe scent of anger and embarrassment flooded me. His recovery wasn’t as quick this time. His glyph was smoking again, and I saw his right hand shaking as he backed up, trying for nonchalance as he reordered his thoughts to take in this unanticipated development. Regan might’ve told him I was coming for him, but she’d forgotten to mention my immunity to the virus.

“See the obits lately?” he asked conversationally, leaning back again. Picking up an antique letter opener, he began to clean beneath his nails. My eyes darted to my conduit lying next to him, my own fingers twitching behind my back with the need to curl about it. I jerked my eyes away too late, and Joaquin’s full smile returned, though he pretended not to notice. “Fascinating reading, really,” he went on. “Couples, young and old. Lovers, gay and straight, black and white.
We’ve created the great equalizer in this virus. The greatest, even, as mortals and superhumans alike are susceptible to this strain.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me. Nor you, it seems.” He raised a brow, inviting me to expound on that. Why not, I figured. Talking might keep him from other activities. Torture, rape, and murder came immediately to mind.

“Regan kissed me,” I said, without emotion.

“That whore.” Joaquin shook his head, almost sadly. “You know, Regan won’t tell me who you are behind that mask. She wanted to keep that little nugget of information to herself.” His eyes lingered on my face, though he didn’t try to remove it right now. He was going to save that for later, I knew, when it counted. When it would best serve to make my humiliation complete. And, of course, he had all the time in the world for that.

I swallowed hard, but managed to keep my voice even. “Yes, she seems to keep all her bases covered.”

“She’s a devious bitch. Manipulative. Conniving. A perfect Shadow-in-training.” He pursed his lips, like a proud father bemused by his offspring’s latest antics. “Yet you have something extremely interesting in common with her.”

If he expected me to prompt him as to what that was, I was happy to disappoint. I’d been taken in by Regan’s act hook, line, and sinker, and didn’t particularly want to hear about our similarities. Which Joaquin also knew.

“You’re both puppets,” he went on, tapping the letter opener against his thigh as he approached me again, slowly this time. “And neither of you know it. Of course, that just makes it more fascinating to watch. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Or is it a comedy?”

He straddled my legs and sat, nestling in close, not bothering to lessen his weight on my behalf. Shit. He was going to start.

I can survive this. I did before and could again. Even if he got inside me physically—which seemed probable at the
moment—he wouldn’t get inside my mind. Not this time. So I clenched my teeth, and even though my stomach knotted at the thought of his scent and rot invading my body, I kept my chin lifted high.

“Miss me?” he whispered, giving me the once-over, eyes lingering on my chest. My heart skipped a beat. My glyph pulsed painfully.

“Like a urinary tract infection,” I said, through gritted teeth.

He drove the letter opener into my wounded arm. When my screaming stopped he said, “Of course you didn’t miss me. How could you? After all, I’m always there, aren’t I? In your mind, behind the lens of your eye when you look in the mirror. Your first thought when you wake in the morning…the last when you go to sleep at night.”

Oh God, how had I gotten here? After all my training, my preparation—my metamorphosis into something super, for God’s sake!—I’d still ended up back where I’d been a decade earlier. Pinned beneath all this evil. Helpless. Again.

No!
I told myself, fear worming itself into my thoughts.
I’m not a victim! And no matter what he did to me, I wouldn’t be made to feel like one
.

So why did I suddenly wish I was dead?

A whimper escaped me at the thought.

Joaquin heard it and bent to me, pausing for a long moment before licking my face, starting below my jaw and ending on my cheek just below my mask. His tongue toyed with the edges of it briefly, as if seeking entrance.

It was all I could do not to scream.
Not again! Not again! Not again!

He pulled back, but there was no reprieve as he pushed his groin against mine. I’d already known he’d be hard. “Tell me,” he said, almost lovingly, “in those deepest, darkest hours, when nobody’s watching, and there’s only you and the singular, compelling thought of me…” He paused until I looked at him. “Do you touch yourself?”

I jerked away, giving him the reaction he was looking for,
and his laughter washed over me like a violent summer storm, beating against my skin, and me with nowhere to take cover. Oh God, I thought. I should have listened to Warren. I shouldn’t have left the sanctuary. I should never have tried this on my own. I’d wanted vengeance at any cost…but now that it was too late, I realized the price was too dear.

“I do love it when you’re predictable, Joanna,” Joaquin said, still chuckling as he caressed my arms with his fingertips. They felt like worms and snakes, and all the crawling things that lived in this underground grotto. Despite myself, I started to shake. “The predictable ones are so much fun. Less challenging, true, but then I was never one to do something simply for the challenge.”

No, he’d done it for the joy he derived in seeing his victim beg and scream and cry, and especially for the humiliation. If I hadn’t known that before, I knew it now by the way he worded his thoughts, singling me out, then lumping me in with the rest of his victims, like I was nothing special to him. Just another body, another tooth in the jar.

One thing he was right about, though. I was predictable. And that’s what Warren and the others had been saying, what Regan had capitalized on, and the hubris that, even for a heroine, could only lead to one place. Capture.

So I concentrated on not crying or screaming or begging…and ignored the question: why couldn’t I have realized all this five minutes earlier?

“The Tulpa will kill you,” I whispered, mouth as dry and parched as the desert ceiling above as I played the only card I had left. I closed my eyes when I said it because I’d never thought I’d have to use it. I didn’t want to admit it now. But it was true, and Joaquin knew it.

There was no response. Unnerved by the silence, I opened my eyes again, and found Joaquin staring at me ruefully. “My life,” he finally said, “is about finding out exactly what hurts people most. And when I find it, that one thing that’ll break the human soul, I use it to make those people beg me to hurt them. It’s like a giant chessboard, really. You position
yourself just so, bide your time, wait until your opponent has committed, and then watch the surprise bloom on their face when they realize they’ve ended up in exactly the place they
claimed
they wanted to avoid.”

He ground against me in demonstration, a slow and sensuous dry hump, taking something meant to be beautiful and turning it inside out. But it was his words that had my breath quickening.
Dammit, Jo, don’t let him in!
But it wasn’t an order anymore. It was a plea.

“Your Tulpa is no different,” he said, continuing. “He knows who I am, what I am, and what I’d do if I got my hands, my cock, on you.” He ran his fingers over my hair, pausing at my mask, caressing my face. “His precious Kairos.”

He paused here, stilling to hold up a finger. “Let me clarify. He doesn’t just know this, he expects it. That’s why he’s kept me in his organization all these years. That’s why he didn’t kill me as soon as he discovered the girl I’d attacked all those years ago was his daughter. In a way, he wants me to finish what I started. That way he’s absolved, you see?”

A tear slipped from the corner of my eye.

“And then there’s you. That beaten and broken little girl who grew up to be a woman with a chip on her shoulder that spans the Strip. You may not have known it before now, but you sought this out. You want me to hurt you. You expect it. And you’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”