Men of the Otherworld (36 page)

He leaned out farther. “And that ass. She has an amazing ass.” He glanced back at me. “That's the first thing I thought when I met Jaime Vegas. How much I'd like to—”

My look stopped him in midsentence. He flinched, but recovered quickly, being the type of man not given to flinching.

He shifted in his seat, then cleared his throat before announcing, “I'm investing in her production company.”

I nodded.

“Quite a lot of money,” the man said. “A significant investment.” He caught my gaze. “I think she's going to be very grateful.”

I met his gaze with my best Alpha look. “How grateful?”

His mouth opened. Closed. He squirmed. He looked out over the audience. Tried to relax in his seat. Then he cleared his throat again. “So, um, your connection to the show is … ?”

“Jaime.”

“You know her?”

“We've been together for two years.”

“Together…”

“Yes.”

I'll give the man credit—he did try to sit it out after that. He managed two minutes, during which he looked everywhere except
at Jaime. Then he mumbled something about a prior engagement, and fled.

He'd been gone about five minutes when I heard someone coming—the creak of a foot on the step, the whisper of the curtains. More than that, I
felt
someone coming—that sixth-sense awareness that warns me I'm being approached from behind.

I waited for the rush of air as the curtain was pulled back. When it didn't come, I turned. The curtain was rippling as if someone had brushed past. But I couldn't see any feet under it and, when I inhaled, I smelled only the investor's cloying cologne.

I rose. At that moment, Jaime glanced up, her face lighting when she saw me. She started to smile, then stopped herself, features rearranging into a look of concern as she crouched beside an elderly woman hoping for contact with her deceased husband.

I hesitated. Jaime snuck another peek my way. I tugged my shirt, as if I'd been standing to adjust it, then sat back down.

For a moment, I disconnected from the surrounding noise, focusing on the space around me, listening and smelling and, yes, sensing. Nothing. If anyone had been there, he was gone.

I turned my attention to Jaime as she communicated with the spirit of the dead husband. As for whether he was really present, I doubted it. Jaime prefers to work without employing her necromancy skills. This is the part of her job that makes her uncomfortable, but it's necessary.

This woman wanted the reassurance that her husband had happily passed over so she could get on with her own life. What if he hadn't passed on? If he was caught in limbo? Or if his message to her was less than the missive of love she needed? She'd come to Jaime's show for comfort, not truth.

Jaime finished with the woman and passed into a section of the auditorium where she couldn't see me. I slipped behind the curtain, searching for some reassurance of my own—a scent that confirmed someone had indeed come up those stairs. But there was none.

Jaime's show ended shortly after that. I was heading backstage when a scent wafted past and I stopped short, every hair on my body rising, arms pimpling with goose bumps. When I tried to isolate the odor, though, it vanished, and I couldn't even remember what it had been, so faint it had only teased some deep memory.

Even after it was gone, that sense of unease lingered, slithering down my spine and settling in the pit of my stomach. When a draft tickled my neck, I spun to see the curtains fluttering, and caught a glimpse of a young woman, small and slight, with straight black hair falling past her shoulders.

I strode forward and yanked the curtain open. Beyond it was an empty hall. At both ends was an exit, each too far for her to have traveled in those few seconds.

“The dressing rooms are this way.”

I turned as Jaime's assistant, Tara, walked up behind me. She motioned that she'd show me the way. I gave one last glance and sniff, then let the curtains fall and fell into step beside the young woman.

“Good show, wasn't it?” she said.

“Very good.”

“Jaime's always at her best when you're here. There's that extra spark, you know?” Tara clutched her clipboard to her chest. “I was thinking, next month she has a show in Mexico City. It's her first south of the border, and she's really hoping to break into a more international market. Maybe we could fly you in.”

“Ahem.” Jaime marched toward us and mock-glared at Tara. “Jeremy is my guest, not my mascot.”

She shooed her away. Before Tara left, she mouthed to me “we'll talk.”

“I think I'd make a good mascot,” I said. “I wouldn't need to dress in one of those awful costumes. I come with my own.”

She laughed and looped her arm through mine as we walked.

It took awhile to get to the dressing room. Every few steps crew members stopped to congratulate Jaime on the show or get her word on some postshow matter. Finally we got there, and then the best part of the evening began: the postshow show.

Overheated from hours under the stage lights, Jaime barely gets the door closed before she starts shedding clothing in an artless striptease. She paces and keeps up a steady stream of excited chatter as one garment after another falls to the floor, her skin beneath shimmering with sweat, the musky smell of her scent wafting through the room. It's like Changing back after a run— that rush of activity followed by a sudden stop, left sweaty and exhilarated, adrenaline still pumping, brain still buzzing, every nerve aching for a final jolt of release … which I'm happy to provide the moment that last piece of clothing hits the floor.

That night, I'd barely settled in to enjoy the show when someone knocked.

“It's Tara,” a voice called.

I resisted the urge to snarl at the door and settled for giving it a stern glare that made Jaime laugh.

“Give me ten minutes,” she called back.

“Twenty,” I murmured.

She grinned. “Make it twenty.”

“Can't,” Tara said. “We've got a PR emergency.”

Jaime looked from me to the door. I knew she had to attend to this, and if pushed on the point, I'd insist she do so. And I knew there was always tomorrow night, and many postshow nights to come. But that didn't keep me from stifling a sigh as she called Tara in.

“We've got a woman outside who bought a fake ticket from a scalper after driving all day to see the show.”

“Reimburse her for it and—”

“She wants you to contact her dearly departed someone-or-other and she's not leaving until you do. She's set up a shrine out front.”

“Shit. Okay. Find her a hotel on our tab and I'll call her in the morning—”

“There are reporters.”

Jaime looked at her.

“With cameras,” Tara said.

Jaime glanced over at me.

“Go,” I said.

“It might take awhile. Impromptu summoning followed by impromptu interview …”

“Followed by impromptu celebration. While you're busy, I'll slip out and find us something better than water to toast with.”

“Presuming I pull this off.”

I kissed her. “You will.”

I was going to find a bottle of champagne for Jaime … right after I checked that passage where the young woman had seemed to vanish. I needed to get that mystery out of the way, so I could relax and enjoy the rest of my weekend.

It took me a few minutes to find the passage. My sense of direction is excellent, but I had to take a roundabout route, veering
onto a new path every time I scented one of the crew members, who would—like Tara—be quick to escort the boss's boyfriend back on track.

I finally reached the bottom of the box seat stairs and slipped into the curtained corridor. I inhaled, but smelled only dust. The hall was obviously used very little, with locked doors at either end.

Then I pulled the curtain back and saw that the other end opened into another room. That explained the girl's disappearance, and I was tempted to leave it at that, but couldn't shake that lingering unease. I'd rest easier when I got a good whiff of her scent to catalogue in my memory.

I stepped into a long, narrow dark room. A deep breath brought only the stink of more dust. I felt my way along, past what seemed to be stacks of chairs and tables. From the other side, I could see faint light shining under a door. As I headed toward it, the back of my neck prickled again and I slowed.

A breeze drifted past, bringing with it… Forest? I inhaled again. Yes, the scent was faint, but it definitely smelled like a forest, earthy and rich. Entangled with that scent was the one that had eluded me earlier—a musky, animal-like smell that made the back of my throat tighten. The scent from my dreams.

My fingers instinctively glided across my thigh. I clenched my fist. My fingers still twitched. It was a nervous tic I'd had since childhood. When I got anxious, my fingers started tracing out shapes. Runes. Symbols embedded deep in my brain.

Small running feet scampered across the room and I tensed, my nose jerking up, inhaling, that latent werewolf instinct kicking in. I mentally followed the sound. Too large to be a mouse. Too heavy for a rat. Too quick for a raccoon. A cat? The size seemed right, but the claws scraping on the floor suggested otherwise. A final staccato
click-click.
Then silence.

I inhaled again. The forest smell had evaporated, leaving only dust and dirt, the stink tickling my nostrils. Then a shadow moved a dozen feet ahead. A large shadow. I tensed.

A creak, and a rectangle of light as the distant door swung open. A figure moved into the rectangle. A black-haired woman, like the one I'd seen before. She glanced back, and with that flash of her face came a jolt of recognition. Then she was gone.

I hurried across the room and yanked open the door. The ripe smell of garbage hit on a blast of cool night air. Bright overhead lights blinded me as I stepped out.

As I peered down the empty alley, that face flashed in my memory. Zoe Takano. I didn't know her well, but the jolt of recognition told me I hadn't been mistaken. Zoe's face and her figure—fine-boned with shoulder-length straight black hair— matched the woman I'd seen. That would also explain why I couldn't pick up her scent. Vampires didn't have one.

As for why Zoe would be in New York and following me, I could only hazard a guess, but it was a reasonable one. Zoe was a thief; therefore she likely traveled on business. While vampires and werewolves are not the mortal enemies portrayed in popular culture, we are wary of one another, as all predators are. Zoe was warier than most, being disinclined to confrontation.

If Zoe sensed a werewolf in New York during a visit, she'd want to take a closer look and assure herself he wasn't a threat. Likewise, if my extrasensory perception picked up a vampire in the vicinity, it might interpret that as a threat and sound the alarm.

I caught a flicker of movement in a dark laneway running along the theater.

“Zoe?”

Soft-soled shoes whispered across the asphalt. That must have
been what I'd heard earlier and mistaken for an animal—the scuffle and scrape of Zoe in her cat-burglar footwear.

I walked a half-dozen steps to where the open delivery area narrowed into a lane, bracketed by towering buildings.

“Zoe? It's Jeremy Danvers. Elena's…” It was a relationship hard to categorize in human terms, so I said simply, “father-in-law.”

I could still hear the whisper of her shoes, but even when I squinted, I could make out only a dark form hurrying toward the distant street.

I glanced at the theater door. Jaime wouldn't be much longer. I'd ascertained the nature of the threat and acknowledged it was no threat at all. I could go back inside. Yet I'd rather get this matter settled than have a vampire stalking me all weekend. And I had promised Jaime a bottle of champagne. An excuse, then, for following Zoe a little farther.

I entered the lane. It was at least ten feet wide, but the walls on either side seemed to loom more with each step, closing in, enveloping me in shadow until even the bright street lights at the end grew dim.

Before I could blink, the darkness lifted… and I was on a wooded path leading through a forest. The buildings had become densely packed, towering trees. The stink of exhaust gave way to rich, damp forest. The honk of horns and squeal of tires became the hoot of an owl and the scream of its prey. Even the asphalt underfoot softened to packed earth.

I stopped and looked around. Whatever my mixed bag of psychic quirks, hallucinations were not among them. Nor tele-portation. Yet I was clearly in a forest at twilight. Every sense confirmed it.

I walked to the trees. I could feel the bark, and yet when I tried to reach between two trunks, my hand stopped, as if hitting the
building wall instead. I smiled. A vision then, overlaying reality. Interesting.

That “other” part of me wanted to linger, to explore, to discover, get to the bottom of this mystery, but the werewolf was already growing impatient.
Petty magics,
it sniffed.
A simple illusion. You've figured that out, so get moving. Ignore it. You have a job to do.

I ran my fingers down the tree, closing my eyes and imagining the wall, and when I did, I felt not bark but brick. I opened my eyes and concentrated on seeing that wall. The tree flickered, like a projected image, wavering, the wall coming clear behind it.

Great. You can break the illusion.
Even after all these years that inner voice carried the snap of my father's bark and the twist of his sarcasm.
Now stop daydreaming and move. She's getting away.

True, but my interest in Zoe Takano was fading fast. Here was a far more intriguing mystery.

As I touched the wall, my other fingers twitched against my leg. I automatically clenched my fist, then stopped myself. I lifted my hand to the wall and let it trace a shape floating half formed in my brain. When the figure was complete, the last shimmering overlay of the trees dissipated and I was staring at brick.

At a snort, I glanced down the path—now a lane again—to see an old homeless man sitting at the end, watching me and shaking his head. I shoved my hand into my pocket and started walking. I made it three steps before the forest scene reappeared.