A poster was plastered on the side: Spring Break Party Videos--Come On Girls, Show Us What Ya Got. A blond grinned out from it, her shirt lifted, a blackout banner with the company logo across her chest. I checked Benicio's directions again, in case I'd taken a wrong turn and missed the "Instructional Tai Chi" video tent where I was supposed to be. No such luck.
My contact was the dramatically named Caesar Romeo. He wasn't a gang member, just a supernatural they hired to weed through potential recruits sent by Benicio's agent. As for what kind of supernatural he was, either it wasn't important or Benicio thought I could figure it out. Doing so--safely--was my next goal.
I took my time sliding my sandals back on, then slowly walked along the side of the tent, but caught not so much as a vision flicker. My sense for supernaturals has about a 60 percent accuracy rating: the "weaker" someone's power is, the less likely I'd detect it. I'd been told I could hone this skill, but had no idea how except through practice and concentration. There were maybe a half-dozen other Expisco half-demons in the world and I had no idea how to find them, so I was stuck muddling through on my own.
Two girls stood at the tent flap, daring each other to go inside as a male friend egged them on. Typical students on a spring break, with burnt noses and bad dye jobs from a last-minute decision to test whether blonds really did have more fun.
"I hope she's not trying out for a spot," one girl muttered as I headed their way. "My fourteen-year-old sister has bigger boobs."
"She can practice her Kama Sutra on me anytime," the guy said.
I nodded to them as I passed, pretending I hadn't heard. Just like Mom would have done...though she probably wouldn't have added the mental "Fuck you."
I pulled the tent flap open a crack. A stomach-churning blend of pot and incense rolled out.
"Caesar Romeo?" I called.
"Who's askin'?"
"Faith Edmonds. You're expecting me?"
The dimly lit tent was divided into rooms. The front one was a reception area, complete with chairs and magazines--Playboy and Penthouse. Maybe for inspiration.
"Well?" the voice barked. "If I'm expecting you, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get your ass in here."
I followed the voice into a room that looked like a sultan's tent. Multicolored pillows carpeted the sand floor. A huge gilt mirror on a stand had been tilted at an odd angle--odd until I followed the reflection to the pillows.
Caesar Romeo perched on an ornate wood seat, so huge it looked like a throne. He was no taller than my five feet. His skin was wizened, and so darkened by the sun I couldn't guess his age or ethnic background. Beady black eyes glared out from deep-set sockets. A flame-red Afro, gold lame shirt and tight white leather pants completed the look. If I believed in goblins, that's what I'd peg him as--one of the pisacha from my mother's tales.
His gaze crawled up me, then down, as cold and critical as a matron eying a slab of beef she wouldn't serve to her dog.
"Turn around," he said.
"I'm not trying out for a part," I said. "I'm Faith Edmonds. Ned Baker sent me."
Romeo waved a hand and I thought he was motioning at me, until I noticed a man smoking a joint off to the side, who was giving me a much more flattering appraisal.
"Felippe," Romeo said. "Go. Shoot those bimbos giggling at the door."
"Should I give them T-shirts?" Felippe asked.
"Don't waste the merchandise. They'll be lucky if they make the cut."
Felippe stubbed out his joint on a brass urn and left. Romeo's gaze followed him, and he listened as his assistant offered the girls a "role."
"Hear that?" Romeo said. "They'll flash their tits on film for nothing but the honor of being ogled by men they'd cross the road to avoid. Teasing little bitches. Like all you girls. Can't resist flaunting it at some guy who doesn't have a hope of touching."
Knowing I had to play nice, I settled for a noncommittal shrug.
"You disagree?" he said.
"I'm sure that applies to some women."
"But not all?"
"I can't speak for 'all.' Now, Baker tells me I need to pass some kind of test--"
"I suppose you think you're better than those girls, don't you? Smarter. More dignified." His lips curled in what I presumed was a smile. "Or maybe just more expensive."
"Maybe. Now, this test--"
"I have a better idea. There's another line of tapes I'm working on, high-end videos for more discriminating customers who want something more...exotic. The kind of girl they won't find humping poles. That sound more your style, princess?"
"I'm...flattered." I struggled to get the word out. I failed on the accompanying smile, though. "I'd rather just take the test."
He leaned back in his chair. "What if we skip the video? You undress right here, stretch out on the pillows...amuse yourself for a few minutes. No camera. No audience except me."
There was no lust in his eyes. No interest even. He didn't want to see me naked. Probably wouldn't even get a rise out of watching me masturbate. He just wanted to make me do it.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. "I'm afraid I'm pretty shy. My upbringing, the culture, you know..."
I tried to read him for chaos thoughts, but detected only a swirl of low-level negativity.
"What if I said there wasn't a choice? Do this or I tell Baker you failed the test?"
The chaos level rose. I shivered, but found little pleasure in it. My survival instinct ensures I don't enjoy chaotic impulses directed at me, thankfully.
I met his gaze. "Then I guess that's what you'll have to do."
I started to leave. Benicio had hired a spy, not a whore. He'd have to find another way to get me into the gang.
Romeo waited until I was almost out of earshot, then called me back.
"Take the fucking test. I was only trying to give you an easy way out. Just remember, when you change your mind, it'll take more than twiddling your knob to get a pass-card from me." He threw a scrap of paper on the floor. "An address. You're looking for a conch shell there. A tourist knickknack with Welcome to Miami and a girl in a bikini painted on it. Get it, bring it back, you get your pass."
I looked at the address. "Is this a house or a--"
"Could be a house. Could be a warehouse. Could be a fucking cemetery with the shell buried in one of the graves. Have fun, princess."
I kept my expression neutral and turned to leave.
"Oh, and did I mention it's a race?"
I stopped. "A race?"
"You think you're the only piece of pussy fancies herself a gangster? There's another girl out there with that same address, and there's only one spot to fill." He glanced down at his fake Rolex. "She left about an hour ago."
I FUMED THROUGH the entire cab ride. Was I surprised? I'd foiled that goblin's little game and I should have expected to pay for that. But how badly was he going to screw me over? Was there a competitor? Or was he just saying that, hoping I'd rush and make a mistake?
Even if Benicio found me another way into the gang, the failure would sting. Yes, Mr. Cortez, I know you tried to make it easy, but it wasn't my fault.
Whining. Complaining. Blaming someone else. I hate those traits in others, and I loathe seeing them in myself. Fate makes you a half-demon? Gives you visions of death and destruction? Makes you crave them like candy and cigarettes? Too bad. Suck it up and move on.
While I was damning myself for not handling Romeo better, I was heaping a generous dose of curses on his head too. My mother would have told me to look at the guy and imagine how many times he'd been rejected or laughed at by a pretty girl. Even if that didn't excuse his behavior, I should rise above it. But I couldn't. I wanted to win this race, drop the conch shell on his lap and guzzle the sweet chaos of his rage.
And I would. One way or another.
I CHANGED BACK into jeans and T-shirt, and had the cab drop me off in a tourist section that looked as if it'd been born in the fifties and untouched since. I stood in front of the Ocean View Resort, t
he kind of decrepit motel unwitting families book by name alone, only to arrive and discover they could indeed view the ocean--if they stood on the roof with binoculars.
Next door a soda fountain promised "authentic malt sodas." Having once tried a malt soda, this was not a selling point for me. On the other side was the ubiquitous Florida T-shirt shop. Three shirts for ten dollars. If they didn't survive the first wash after you got them home, you wouldn't fly back for a refund.
The address Romeo had given me was across the road. A souvenir shop with painted conch shells in the window. None had the markings he'd described, but the sign promised more designs inside.
This was too easy. I wasn't waltzing into that store until I'd taken a look around.
HOPE
SUNKEN TREASURES
I circled behind the store to a parking lot filled with compact rental cars and minivans with out-of-state plates. A narrow gravel path ran between the lot and the store.
I walked between the two minivans nearest the shop, my apartment key in hand, as if I was preparing to get into one of the vehicles. The solid wall of the store was broken only by a glass door that had probably once been a secondary entrance, dating from more prosperous days when the shop owned the parking lot. It was now blocked by a rack of cheap sunglasses.
Hoping to get a peek inside, I slipped to the front of the vans. As I reached the fence, I had a mental flash--a "light pop" like a camera flash had gone off. I backed up a few steps, then approached again. Sure enough, in the same spot, everything went white.
Sunken Treasures souvenir shop was protected by a spell.
About a year ago, while doing a job for the council, I'd realized I could detect security spells. With Paige and Lucas's spellcasting help, I'd learned to figure out exactly what kind of spell I was detecting. Like having an error box pop up on your computer screen--all you see at first is a basic warning message, but the details are there if you have the know-how to find them. Paige's analogy, not mine. Deep in my brain, a racial demonic memory knew what the spell was. And soon I had it: a perimeter spell to warn of one specific type of intruder--supernaturals.
A souvenir shop protected by a witch spell to detect supernaturals. Was the shop owned or staffed by a witch? Or was it part of the test--so someone would know when a recruit entered the store and could swoop in and make things very difficult.
Damn.
I idly watched a group of teens saunter through the lot. As one tossed a souvenir bag to another, I got an idea.
I FOUND MY target easily enough: a boy about thirteen, still young enough to be on vacation with Mom and Dad, but old enough to escape them when he could. He stood outside the T-shirt store, reading the off-color slogans.
As I approached, his face reddened as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.
"Hey," I said, flashing a big smile. "Do you have a second?"
"Uh, sure."
I motioned to Sunken Treasures across the road. "There's something in there I want to get for my boyfriend, as a joke, but I'm, well, kind of embarrassed to buy it. It's a shell with a woman in a bikini on it."
To an adult, this would seem strange. But to a thirteen-year-old, all adults are strange, their motives inexplicable. I described the shell and gave him a twenty, with the promise of another when he returned.
Fifteen long minutes later, he was back, empty-handed.
"They have a rack of conch shells and some of them are painted, but none with girls in any kind of bathing suit."
"Huh. Must have been a different store, then."
I let him keep the twenty and he disappeared into the T-shirt shop.
My next mark was a fortyish man who sucked in his spare tire as I drew close. For him, I had a new story: I'd been in the store the night before with friends, some of whom had been drunk and made a scene. I really wanted this shell for my brother, but I was afraid the store owner would recognize me and kick me out.
He too returned empty-handed. "It's behind the cash register," he said, handing me back my twenty. "And it's not for sale. I tried, but the guy said a friend of his had painted it and it was only for display. Sorry."
TEN MINUTES LATER, I walked into the shop. It stank of cheap suntan lotion, not quite masking a smell that reminded me of Gran's attic, of dirt and dust and disuse. Most tourists probably never veered from the path between the door to the cash register, lined with T-shirt racks and baskets of cheap shells.
There was no bell over the door, but the clerk's head shot up as I walked in, setting off his spell. Middle-aged with blond shoulder-length hair, he wore a tank top, his flaccid triceps swaying as he moved to the counter. Behind him was the conch shell.
I made it two more steps before the vision hit. A deep voice chanted in my ear. Disembodied hands appeared, pale against the black. Fog swirled from the hands.
A sorcerer. My gaze went to his hands, which were safely folded on the counter. Sorcerer magic is cast by a combination of words and gestures, but the security spell suggested he might also know some witch magic. Better to keep an eye on his lips then, and duck if he started muttering.
I extended my hand. "Marietta Khan, special aide to the council. I work with Paige Winterbourne."
His eyes narrowed.
"You know who she is, then. Good. It has come to the council's attention that you're under surveillance by the Cortez Cabal, following reports of spellcasting in this neighborhood."
He paled, then straightened. "I've been broken into six times in the past year. I have the right to defend my property as long as I don't use excessive force."
"You're right."
"And if you people think--" He stopped. "I'm right?"
"I'm from the council, not the Cabal. Our job is not only to watch you, but to protect you against ungrounded Cabal prosecution. What I need from you is the paperwork."
"The...?"
"Proof that you needed to cast the spells. I'll need incident numbers for the break-ins, insurance claims and a list of the spells you're casting. We'll take this to the Cabal, and unless they can prove you've cast something stronger, you're off the hook. In fact, if you have those papers and a copier here, I can take care of this right now."
"They're in the back."
"I'll watch the store while you get them."
I HIGHTAILED IT across the street, darting around slow-moving carloads of tourist gawkers, past the soda fountain, past the motel, past the empty shop. I ducked inside an alley and stopped, clutching my prize. My eyelids fluttered as I savored the chaos. Having caused it myself made it twice as potent. I closed my eyes, replaying the ruse and the theft--the perfect high: better than booze, better than drugs, better than sex. Well, better than average sex. A potent mix. And an addictive one.
That thought sobered me. I had the shell. If I wanted more chaos vibes, I'd have to wait until I handed it to Romeo. I opened my beach bag, wrapped the shell in a towel, then--
"Why don't you just hand that to me? I'll take good care of it."
HOPE
CANDY STORE
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see hands rising in a knockback spell. I dove. The spell caught me in the hip and spun me off balance, but I kept my grip on the bag and darted out of the way before my assailant launched a second one.
Ten feet away stood a young woman with spiky blond hair and so many piercings it'd take her an hour to prepare for a metal detector.
"My competition, I presume," I said. "Sorry about your luck."
"Oh, my luck's fine."
She cast again. I dodged the spell easily. Her lips tightened and her fury washed over me in delicious waves.
"Not used to casting against someone who knows what you're doing?" I said. "Lesson one: don't flail your hands."
Another cast. I feinted to the side, but from the look on her face, there'd been no need.
"Run out of juice?" I said. "Lesson two: don't spend it all in one place."
I reached into the side compartment of my purse, a littl
e hobo-style handbag, designed for the young urbanite of the twenty-first century, with convenient compartments for sunglasses, cell phone, PDA and a concealed weapon.
The witch stared at the gun as if expecting me to light a cigarette with it.
"Sit down," I said.
After some prodding, she lowered herself to the ground, muttering about fair play. Among supernaturals, using weapons is considered an act of cowardice. But when your power package doesn't come with fireballs or superhuman strength, you need to even the playing field.
Once she was seated, I used another weapon--my penknife--to cut the bindings from a nearby stack of recyclable papers.
"It's called using what works," I said as I tied her. "You should try it. Starting with learning your own kind of magic. If you'd cast a witch's binding spell, I'd be the one sitting here, and you'd be the one with the conch shell."
She fumed and squirmed and glared. I closed my eyes and drank in her rage, then picked up my beach bag and walked away.
I WAS PREPARED for Romeo to give me a hard time about passing the test. He grumbled and glowered, and I got my chaos reward, but he didn't try to withhold the prize, probably for the same reason he hadn't let me walk out when I'd threatened to--he was well paid for this middleman job and wouldn't risk losing it.
He gave me an address and told me I was expected to show up there in two hours.
I HAD THE taxi do a drive-by of the gang's address before I returned to my apartment, and I was glad I did, because it told me a shopping trip was in order.
The taxi driver recommended Bal Harbour Shops and it was a good call. And a good thing I was using someone else's credit card.
Normally my frugal side would have kicked in, but I was still riding the high from besting the sorcerer, the witch and the goblin, so I was in the mood to treat myself. Considering that the test hadn't been the cakewalk Benicio promised, I felt justified using his cash.
ANOTHER CAB TOOK me to my temporary apartment. The driver made me for a tourist from the first word and tried to "treat" me to the scenic route. I might not know the layout of Miami, but I spotted that trick after two blocks and ordered him back on track.