As we neared my apartment, I marveled at a wrecking ball tearing through what looked like perfectly good single-family homes--big houses, luxurious even. But houses nonetheless, on valuable property that could hold a hundred times that many in luxury apartment condos. One glance over the Miami skyline, dotted with cranes and skeletal high-rises, told even the newest visitor that this was a city on the move. Out with the old, in with the new.
My apartment was what I would call new, though by Miami standards, it might be a few scant years from the wrecking ball. It wasn't to my taste--small, antiseptic and cold, painted in grays, whites and blacks, with spare modern furniture--but was in a trendy South Beach neighborhood and, for a girl like Faith Edmonds, location was everything.
I got back to the apartment just in time to change my clothes and place a few calls.
I phoned my editor first. Benicio had provided me with the details of a werewolf cult in Fort Lauderdale that I was supposedly investigating, possibly linked to the murder. His people would give me more later, so I could write the article. He'd booked a room at a Fort Lauderdale hotel in my name, with the phone forwarded to my cell. He was even having a young female employee drop by the room daily, to establish my alibi.
Normally "I've taken off to Florida chasing a story" isn't something you tell your editor, not without getting permission first, but I had a good relationship with my boss. I liked my job, gave it 100 percent and had no intention of vanishing at the first offer from a more respectable paper. In the world of tabloid journalism, that's employee-of-the-year material.
Naturally, he chewed me out. Then "get your ass back here" became "fine, but this is on your dime, Adams." By the end of the call, it had changed to "save your receipts, but if I get a bill for the Hilton, you're on proofreading duty for a year."
The next call I made was a dozen times harder. I hate lying to my mother, though it was nothing new. We'd always been close, and still talked for twenty minutes a day and met once or twice a week, but there were days when I felt like an impostor who'd replaced her youngest child. There was just too much I couldn't share with her.
She didn't know she had a half-demon for a daughter. She didn't know such a thing existed. I wasn't even sure she realized her ex-husband wasn't my biological father. My parents had separated around the time of my conception and everyone--my dad included--thought I was his. Did my mother have a postbreakup fling and kept it a secret? Or did she temporarily reunite with my dad after that fling and presume he'd fathered me? Or had Lucifer taken my father's form and returned for one last night together? All I knew was that I'd been raised as the youngest Adams child, treated no differently than my two brothers and sister.
But I had been different. As a child, I'd walk through a museum and stand transfixed before the weapons displays, seeing glorious visions of war and destruction. I'd stare at auto accidents, undoing my seat belt to turn and watch them until they disappeared, then pepper my parents with questions. They chalked it up to a vivid imagination and a taste for the macabre and, since I'd never done anything violent myself, they believed it was just a harmless personality quirk.
By the time I started hearing chaotic thoughts, I was a teenager, and smart enough to know it wasn't something to tell my parents. But it wasn't easy. After a breakdown in my senior year, I'd spent weeks in a private facility.
When I'd gone looking for answers, I asked enough questions in the right places for a group of half-demons to find me. I learned what I was and, with that, found some peace. As far as my family knew, though, I'd simply outgrown my problems. There were friends and extended family members who disagreed--I was a tabloid reporter in a family of doctors and lawyers, and after a brief stint in Los Angeles last year, I'd returned to the same small college town outside Philadelphia where I'd grown up, and lived in a condo owned by my mother. Not exactly a "success" by Adams family standards. But to my mother, I was happy and healthy and after the hell I'd gone through, that was all that mattered. And if she was satisfied, then there was no need to burden her with the truth.
So I called, gave her my story, canceled our lunch date and promised to phone again the next day.
DRESSED IN A deep orange cowl-necked top and flouncy tiered miniskirt, I strolled up to an ugly rear service door and rapped, ready to present myself to my new associates.
Getting their attention wasn't that easy, as it turned out, and my knuckles were raw by the time the door swung open. But it was worth the wait.
I've never been one to swoon over hot guys, and I blamed it on elevation sickness from my new three-inch heels, but when that door opened all I could do was stare. He was average height, average weight, average build...and above-average gorgeous, with collar-length black curls, copper skin, deep-set, hooded green eyes and a grin that sucked my rehearsed introduction right out of my head.
I recovered after a split-second of gawking, fast enough to realize he hadn't noticed my reaction. He was too busy doing his own appraisal, that gorgeous smile making me as giddy as any chaos vibe.
"I hate to say it," he said, "but the club doesn't open for another hour, and you'll need to go in the front entrance."
"I'm here to see Guy."
"Oh?" Another notch on the smile. "In that case, come on in."
He moved back. As I stepped forward, though, he blocked my path, stopping so close I could feel his breath on the top of my head.
"Almost forgot. I'll need the password."
I looked up at him. "Password?"
He leaned against the open door. "Or handshake. I'm supposed to get the password, but I'd settle for the secret handshake."
"Let the girl in, for God's sake," said a voice behind him.
A woman appeared. Her tight black jeans and Doc Martens clashed with her Donna Karan blouse. Dyed black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Nostril and lip holes with no jewelry in them. Simple makeup, but a heavy hand with the eyeliner. She looked like a Goth trying to play it straight, and failing.
She waved me into the darkness beyond. "Ignore him. He's practicing for a new career as a comedian, which will come in handy when we kick his ass out of the door." She turned to him. "Go get Sonny and track down Rodriguez. Guy wants to talk to him."
His gaze hadn't left me. "Do I get an introduction first?"
"Later. If you're lucky. Now move." She led me through a curtain into a lit storeroom. "Speaking of introductions, you are...?"
I thought she'd know, but presumed she was testing me. "Faith. Faith Edmonds."
"The Expisco? Thank God. Guy almost had a fit when he learned we had a shot at an Expisco and might get a witch instead. But rules are rules, and the girl was the niece of a contact, so we had to give her a shot." She extended her hand. "Bianca, Guy's second-in-command."
She opened a door and we stepped into the club.
I know horror films always take place in dilapidated old mansions with creaky stairs and hidden passages, but for spooky places, I'd nominate a dance club before the doors open at night.
When the music's playing, clubs have an energy that's undeniable--the heat of strangers crowding together, the pulsing beat interrupted by the occasional squeal of drunken delight, the sometimes sickening blend of perfume and sweet drinks and hastily wiped up vomit. If you're not in the mood, it can seem like the ninth pit of Hell, but you still can't deny the life of it. Walking through this club now was like creeping through a cemetery.
My footsteps and voice didn't echo through the cavernous emptiness, but were swallowed by top-notch acoustics. Emergency lighting was the only illumination, too dim to even cast shadows. The overamped air-conditioning raised goose bumps on my arms and legs. The smell of cleaning chemicals barely covered the mildew from drinks spilled on the carpeted upper level. The only sound was the slow thump-thump-thump of music in a distant room, thudding like a dying heart.
Bianca was saying something ahead of me.
"Sorry. I missed that."
"I said crew members don't officially work i
n the club, but you could be called on to serve drinks or help behind the bar if we're short-staffed. Everyone's expected to do their part. Is that okay with you?"
I could tell by Bianca's tone--friendly but firm--that this wasn't open to negotiation.
"Can't say I've ever waited tables, but there's a first time for everything."
"Good. Rodriguez is our tech guy and he'll set you up with an untraceable cell phone. You're expected to carry it at all times. If Guy wants you here, he wants you here now, whether it's 2 a.m. or lunchtime."
"Got it."
"You're expected to check in every day at five. He might not have anything for you, but he wants to see every face. So if you meet some hot Miami millionaire who asks you to join him for a three-day yacht trip to the Bahamas, the answer is no. Don't even ask Guy. It'll just piss him off."
"Got it."
"Speaking of hot millionaires, you'll be expected to hang out at the club and make them feel welcome. And, no, that doesn't include sleeping with them. Sometimes we pick a mark, ask you to get some information. Other times you'll just be hanging out, dancing, having fun and convincing people that this club is the place to be."
"Got it."
She motioned me to a booth under an emergency light. "A few final things before we meet Guy, and these are the ones you really need to pay attention to, so let's take a seat."
She waved at the room. "You're probably thinking that despite all these rules and responsibilities, this is a pretty sweet setup. But I'm warning you now, Faith, that if you're into the club scene, this is like being in a candy store with no money. I said we don't expect you to sleep with the patrons. Change that to 'you aren't allowed to.' No sleeping with them, no dating them, no giving them your number. You're limited to one drink a night, just so your breath will smell like booze. After that, you'll still order drinks but you'll be served soda and virgin cocktails. While you are here in the club, you'll be the model patron. If Guy so much as catches you smoking in the bathroom, your ass is on the line. If you do drugs, stop now. I don't just mean while you're here either. Guy expects you to be ready to roll at any moment."
"Harsh." None of it mattered to me--I wasn't about to get loaded and sleep with strangers--but I suspected Faith wouldn't be as straitlaced.
"That's the way Guy runs things. We have to stay under the radar. You can't get cozy with the marks. You can't get us investigated for breaking smoking bylaws. You can't get wasted and blow a job. We run this place squeaky clean on the outside. It keeps people from looking too closely." She smiled. "I tell Guy he should have been a drill sergeant, but the guy's a goddamn genius at this. He'll make you work your ass off, but if you stick it out, the rewards are pure honey."
From the way Bianca's eyes glittered every time she said Guy's name, I could tell she was no impartial judge.
"So, are you ready to meet your new boss?"
HOPE
THE FACE OF AN ANGEL
Bianca knocked on an office door, waited, then opened it. Behind the desk sat a man about my age, with a close-cropped Vandyke and short braids. He was running figures through a calculator, and his eyes stayed fixed on the result as we walked in. His suit coat hung on the chair behind him, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal well-muscled dark forearms. Guy Benoit, the gang leader.
"Guy? This is Faith."
"The Expisco?"
"Yup."
He grunted something that could have been "good," then jotted down a figure before looking up. A cold-eyed evaluation, but unlike Romeo's, I couldn't tell whether I'd passed or failed. A second grunt and he returned to his accounting. I glanced at Bianca. She'd made herself comfortable, draped in a chair, long legs crossed in front of her, blue eyes fixed on Guy.
"I presume Bianca told you the rules of conduct?" he said, fingers flying over the calculator.
"She did."
"Thus ends your training, Faith. We expect our recruits to hit the ground running. Your crew mates will help, but don't expect anyone to hold your hand. If you don't work out, there are a dozen more to take your place."
"Yes, sir."
I added the "sir" instinctively, thinking even as the word left my mouth that he might take it as sarcasm. Had this been a job interview, I'd have been seriously considering how badly I wanted the position.
"I don't need to tell you the importance of being a loyal crew member. I'm sure the recruiter explained what happens to those who betray us, either intentionally or through carelessness."
"Yes."
"Then we won't need to discuss that ever again." He lifted his gaze to mine for a split second before returning to his work. "This club has a line every night yet it barely breaks even. For us, it's all about the marks. Miami is full of rich brats looking for a good time."
From the twist he gave "rich brats," I wondered whether the cover story Benicio gave me had been such a good idea.
"They have expensive tastes in everything, from women to booze to dope, and while that would be the easiest way to divest them of their trust funds, it's a fool's gambit. What we run here is a legitimate business, following every law right down to fire code regulations. There's more than one way to fleece a mark. If a young woman overindulges and passes out on our premises, it's our duty to see to her and make her comfortable. But we'll unload her apartment while she recovers. From your dossier, I believe that's the sort of thing you could help with."
I nodded. "I dated a professional thief a couple of years ago. I used to go on jobs with him. Just for kicks."
His lips tightened and I cursed under my breath. Benicio had screwed up. Or, at least, misjudged. Maybe most gangs were rebellious, undisciplined kids looking for easy money and a good time, but Guy took his job seriously, and expected his crew to do the same. A spoiled socialite looking for "kicks" wasn't welcome.
I tried to make up for lost ground. "I know how to use picks, torque wrenches, snap guns and shims. With the right tools, I can do impressions, but I'm still learning that. I can use a Slim Jim and hotwire a car. I know the basics of safe drilling, but I've never opened one myself. I've disarmed simple security systems. What I've had the most practice at, though, is simple stealth skills--moving quietly, avoiding security cameras, foiling attack dogs, that sort of thing."
A grudging nod.
A rap at the door. Again Guy didn't answer, but the door opened after a few seconds. In walked a stocky young man, who looked no older than twenty.
"Rodriguez, this is Faith, the new recruit. She'll need a phone and pager, but that's not why I called you in. I want to talk about this next job."
Bianca stood and waved me to follow her. She made it two steps, then Guy said, "Bee? I need you here." He yelled something that sounded like "Jack," and the guy who'd let me into the club appeared. "You and Sonny take Faith to dinner. Make her feel welcome. Think you can handle that?"
The young man grinned. "I believe I can manage."
"Just don't talk her ear off. I want you both back by nine. You're on floor duty tonight. Oh, introductions. Faith, Jasper. Jasper, Faith."
The young man shot Guy the finger. Guy only smiled and shooed us out.
"Jaz, please," he said to me. "No one calls me Jasper. Not even my mother. The moment she recovered from her temporary insanity, it became Jaz on everything but official documents, and I plan to change those too, as soon as I can be bothered filling out the paperwork. Now to collect Sonny, wherever the hell he's hiding--"
"Right behind you," said a deep voice.
Behind us stood a young man, Jaz's size, but with straight dark blond hair to his shoulders, a deep tan and an angular face that wasn't ugly, but would never make it onto a billboard.
Jaz slapped him on the back. "Hey, bro. Guy just gave us another tough assignment. Gotta take Faith here out to dinner and chat her up. Faith, this is Sonny. Met him in preschool. Our first joint effort was putting worms in the sandbox and we've been together ever since." A wink my way. "Though the pranks are a little more serious these
days."
He kept up a near steady patter all the way out of the club and down the street. He asked about my test, then told me about his and about Sonny's. Jaz had been with Guy's crew for a year now, with Sonny following him the next time a spot opened--they hadn't wanted to compete against each other. Jaz paused for breath only long enough to ask what kind of food I liked.
Normally, such nonstop chatter would have put me off, but in Jaz it didn't seem to be nerves or ego. It seemed like...energy. Endless energy, needing an outlet, and I could feel it, like low-level chaos rippling from him.
Over dinner, Jaz tried to let me do some of the talking, but considering that my life story was a fake, I was just as happy to let him continue.
He told me a bit about himself and Sonny. Nothing overly personal, just enough to be friendly. First, supernatural type. I hadn't been able to pick up vibes from either, and soon understood why. Both were the same minor type, magicians--a watered-down version of a sorcerer.
That they'd met in preschool was no coincidence. Their parents had worked in the St. Cloud Cabal satellite office in Indianapolis where they'd attended a school selected by the Cabal. An otherwise ordinary school. There was no risk in that--supernatural kids didn't come into their powers until their teens. They'd be encouraged to befriend those classmates whose parents worked with theirs--kids they'd see at Christmas parties and picnics and on the company's Little League team. Then, when they grew older, they'd already have someone who could share their supernatural coming-of-age experience, someone they could talk to and commiserate with. Watching Jaz and Sonny, seeing that easy camaraderie I'd lost with my human friends, I felt a pang of envy so sharp it was hard to eat.
They were younger than me, both twenty-three. They'd left home as teens and drifted about ever since. That wasn't surprising. I knew what it felt like, suddenly being different, with secrets to keep, powers to understand, searching for your moorings, for your identity, your place in this new world.
Jaz and Sonny seemed to have found an anchor in the gang. Neither had any complaints and that seemed genuine, not a put-on for the new girl. Jaz gave me a rundown of all the members: their races, positions and personalities. He certainly made my job of intelligence gathering much easier.