Secret Worlds (231 page)

While Jane’s going all Lower East Side Ghetto, I’m focused on the pill bottle and why it’s on the floor. Something stirs behind my red eyes—a familiarity.

I watch Jane tentatively place two fingers at Dick’s throat. “Well, at least you’re alive.”

As she turns toward the dresser, I snuggle farther under it. The look on her face clearly registers there’s no money on top.

“Son of friggin’ Sam! An hour wasted, an’ a fifteen-minute walk back to my corner with nothin’ to show for it.” Her shoulders slump with a snort of frustration.

She pulls a cell phone out of her left boot, looks from it to Dick, and then back to the phone. She fills her chest with the acrid air and chews on the corner of her lip.

I figure now is as good a time as any, before she makes that call, and ooze out from under the dresser and up Jane’s body. Totally into her situation, she doesn’t realize what’s happening, and I’m in before she can squeak an objection.

I look at her sleeping body stretched out on the filthy carpet and momentarily think about dragging her onto the bed beside Dick before I use her cell phone to call the police. But I decide it’s a stupid idea. The police need to find them just like this. I hope Jane on the floor and the brand of the open bottle of bourbon is enough to make them question him.

“At least I didn’t kill either of you,” I say through Jane’s lips, tits heaving, as I carefully dig under Dick and pull a wallet from his back pocket.

Fifteen minutes later, I sneak out of an alley and hug the shadows as I pass empty police cars flanking the hotel. I know Jane is fine. I would feel it if she weren’t, and I’m betting Dick’s presently dumbfounded by a shitload of cops hovering over him in room two-oh-seven of the Ambassador Hotel. I hope it scares the shit out of him.

Two blocks down, I hit the sidewalk heading east on West Colonial Drive, hips swaying, tits bouncing. I look exactly like Jane. With five one-hundred dollar bills stuffed in one boot, two Smith & Wesson 9mms—I have Jane’s and the one that appeared when I doubled up—in the other, I take long strides, pushing a real shadow in front of me toward Jane’s corner on South Orange Blossom Trail and the car we’ll be borrowing for the night. I’ll hide one of the pistols in Jane’s car so she finds it. Dick didn’t have a gun, and I didn’t want him to have a chance to use Jane’s. Down under individuals are not supposed to get this involved with a host above the sewer. But I want Jane, streetwise, bawdy, outspoken, and independent, she is a survivor. Together we are going to find Gaire. Besides, I think I covered our tracks, and I did not publicly try to avenge Dick’s behavior, or force his downfall, while dressed in a human double.

I’m betting Dick is wishing he were dead right about now. Neither of them will have knowledge of me, or that Jane is living a double life, one real and one fabricated by me. Underneath Jane’s skin, I am still a doppelganger, neither male nor female, and incapable of reproducing, with no sense of family, empathy, or kinship with anything. Doppelgangers are not just a myth. But we
are
singular in existence. Some stupid demon has to screw up a conjuring spell to get one of us instead of the scary entity it was looking for. Our kind is limited, but because of our uniqueness we are the only Down Under beings that are undefinable unless we choose to be, even amongst ourselves.

I don’t do evil possession; I just borrow the humans I wear and enjoy being part of humanity for a few weeks—no frothing, cussing, obnoxious, head turning human, writhing in a decomposing body from me. Demon guy isn’t exactly gonna get any demonic gold stars from the big guy from a human hopping mistake, so he dumped me in Limbo to lead a half-human existence.

Gaire is going to change all of that, because everything is wonderful when I’m with him—really wonderful … deep inside the doppelganger, not just the human I’m wearing.

I wonder if he’ll be attracted to Jane like he was to me. He won’t know it’s me underneath her skin, so I hope so. Her mind is slowly filling mine with past images, desires, fears, strengths, weaknesses, dreams, goals, and a street-wise mentality that I can definitely live with.

I wiggle and roll inside Jane’s double, filling its every part, much like struggling into a pair of skinny jeans that stretch, give, and soon fit comfortably—a second skin.

“Damn, it’s good to be human again,” I tell the early morning darkness, stretch Jane’s arms, and twirl a glance at a starlit sky over her corner on South Orange Blossom Trail.

No one is working her spot. It is quiet and dark outside the light from the streetlamp that will burn for a few hours more before daylight makes it wink out.

I jog down the alley where Jane parked her car, and five minutes later we’re heading for Purgatory, fifty miles north of here, Down Under.

“Alright, girlfriend,” I tell the rearview mirror, “all we need to do now is find Gaire.”

Pushing the Smith & Wesson deeper into my right boot, I pull into Walmart in Mount Dora. It’s almost four in the morning. The store windows are bright even from the other side of the lot, and high pressure sodium bulbs on twenty foot metal poles light lanes throughout the parking area.

I know the local police patrol the lot at night. Walmart is open twenty-four-seven and often attracts a more colorful crowd after normal shopping hours. As I pick up the second pistol from the passenger seat and tuck it into a sling Jane has rigged under the dash, I catch my reflection in the dark window of the door. Jane’s streetwise eyes and over-the-edge makeup have me spreading her lips in a smile. Still, I wonder if the hooker’s look is something I should tone down with a pair of jeans and tee shirt from Walmart. Walking around in leather, and a skirt that shows a good half inch of butt cheeks every time I move, is great advertising for Jane’s street corner, but here it’s begging for the wrong kind of attention.

Jane’s car is useless to me Down Under, so I toss the keys on the driver’s seat and lock the car with a button on the door. I strut across the pretty much vacant lot toward Walmart, boots announcing my vulnerability. Thirty minutes later, I’m quietly jogging toward North Orange Blossom Trail, miles away from Jane’s corner, in a pair of pink tennis shoes. A snug little camouflage tee with a picture of an old man, all long straggly hair and beard, is silkscreened across my chest and riding high over a pair of low-rider Levi’s, S&W slipped behind a wide leather belt. With Jane’s street clothes inside two plastic bags, one in each hand, I trot past Jane’s car tucked into the shadows of the parking lot, and continue across the six lane on my way to a sewer entrance behind a strip-mall on the other side of the highway.

Human transportation is a must to get around slightly rural Lake County above ground. But below ground, it’s a breeze, because I can drop into a sewer through a storm drain, and once there, use a red token wish to transport myself—even wearing Jane—to any location Down Under. Then I just look for another drain or runoff exit and climb, swim, or crawl out. Tokens are bought, or won, or traded for favors in places like Purgatory. The red ones carry twenty, state-wide transport wishes.

Out-of-state tokens are blue and have only ten transport wishes. Tokens for trips to other countries are green and have only five round trip wishes. Heaven or Hell transport wishes are quite rare, expensive, and purchased through a system kind of like humans purchase passports. The requester is required to appear before a panel of otherworld creatures and, if accepted, they are branded—a tracker tattoo that allows summoning back to the council instantaneously. The Hell card is black, and Heaven’s is white. They take months to contract and only contain one round trip wish per token.

I jog around the back corner of Publix supermarket and head for the sewer entrance in a housing development behind the strip-mall. Before I can get past a large green dumpster and about twenty wooden pallets, two guys step out of the shadows and confront me.

“
¿Qué es en las bolsas, chica?
” one asks and steps closer.

Light from a caged bulb over the loading dock bounces a flash off metal in the hand of the heavyset dark-skinned man as he slides it into his pocket. The hoodie he’s wearing shadows his face, but I can see white teeth behind a snarl.

The second guy isn’t quite as bulky. He’s skinnier and taller.

“The bags, chica?” He translates and points at my plastic bags.

I drop them and I take two steps backward.

“
Mejor jugar bonito, puta
,” the tall guy says.

“
Quieres que me corten, chica
? “ the other says, and they both laugh.

The way they’re eyeballing Jane’s tight tee, I figure something in those strings of dialogue pointed to a blatant and totally inappropriate misuse of our acquaintance. When both men lean down to pick up the bags, I slide my right hand along the back of my jeans. I do not like killing humans, and it is especially forbidden by my elders when I’m dressed in one.

“’Ey, youse guys, look. Ya, see me? I’m a bitch. Yeah, that’s right, an’ I’m bigger than you,” Jane snaps and definitely influences me to flash a face full of smartass attitude. Each human host is different and often their personalities bleed into mine. This one seems to be taking over. “Meet Smith.” We fan the pistol in front of their faces, then raise the middle finger on Jane’s left hand. “And this here’s Wesson.”

High on my first big adrenalin rush, I say, “Ain’t nobody takin’ nothin’ we paid for on our knees, got it?” I feel like I’m part of a team now.

Jane and I point the barrel of the gun up to my finger and back at them. Jane sounds all Brooklyn street or Manhattan Jewish to my doppelganger. Whatever, it works. Both guys freeze, hands extended toward the bags but not quite there yet.

“You’re gonna wanna stand up and move back a few steps,” I gleefully let Jane say, still waving Smith; Wesson—my middle fuck you finger—lays proudly among its brethren and down by my side. “’Ey, an’ you! Chubby! Don’t even think about it!”

Big guy’s hand freezes halfway out of the pocket on his hoodie.

“Now, go away from here—far away.”

They don’t move.

“Fast,” I yell loud enough to wake the dead, no pun intended. I know a few dead people up close and personal. “Before I start screamin’ rape, and Smith over hea’ ’as to come to my rescue, got it?” Jane’s street voice rings loud and clear.

The tall thin guy says, “¿
La perra estúpida. Quieres morir?
”

Chubby guy cups his jewels and gives them a shake. “Fuck you, chica!”

They both hold their hands up and slowly move backward.

Big boy snarls. He slides back his hood, and the rest of his face doesn’t look like he enjoys being pushed around by a chick.

He growls, “
Nunca olvido una cara bonita, puta
.”

I have no idea what they’re saying, but it sounds like a threat, so I bob my shoulders, put both hands on the pistol, spread my feet, and nod. “Yeah, whateva! Do I look like I care?”

“Crazy-ass-bitch! You like gettin’ cut?” the guy in the hoodie spits. “You got a real pretty face.
No más bonita cara, la perra
.”

Eyes pushing rage, both guys move backward and around the side of the building before I belt the gun, grab the bags, and back-walk toward the metal fence behind Publix.

Breaking into a run, I hurl the bags over the fence, take it straight on, tennis shoes digging in, and scramble over without breaking my pace. I snag the bags lying in the grass and bolt across a small field outside of the development.

After one last glance to see they’re not following, I slip into the development, zigzag down three blocks, over one, up four, hop a fence, jog around a pool and clubhouse, climb over a back fence near the water treatment building—and boom!—I slide into the sewer system.

I feel tuned into the body I’m wearing, acutely aware of every muscle, every nerve, and every heartbeat. I savor her spirit as it fuses with mine—get off on the fearless way we blindly handled each situation this evening in perfect tandem.

I. Feel. Empowered.

The plastic bags filled with Jane’s street clothes work like counterbalance weights as I hold my arms out and turn circles, eyes closed. Laughing and running, splashing my way through the darkness, my shouts of victory echo in the sewers Down Under—Jane, and the cold hard weight of the 9mm against my back feel more familiar than any being I’ve known, or worn.

“Gaire,” I shout, and it bounces off the sewer walls and reverberates though my mind.

I grit my teeth and squee with glee as I hold out my hand, close my eyes, and draw a fist full of wish tokens I have banked in the Etherafter. I pluck a red one with fifteen wishes left on it, and closing my eyes, I wish the rest back to the bank.

I’m a gnat’s hair closer to finding out what made Gaire kill the berserker at the bar, where he is now, and why I feel like I do simply by uttering his name. I pull the red token to my lips, give it a kiss, and wish myself to the other side of town before stuffing it into my pocket.

***

As I walk into Purgatory wearing Jane, heads turn and nostrils flair.

Down Under is where otherworld creatures are reasonably comfortable knowing they can be themselves without fear of the human race witnessing their true identity. Purgatory is a place to gather, a bar where we can meet, share information, gossip about happenings in our world, and fluff feathers by challenging strength, stamina, and the intelligence in other species. So it stands to reason every time someone enters who looks and smells human, everyone comes to attention.

I know from past experiences Down Under that I’m undetectable in human form. The patrons here see, smell, and sense me as Jane, a human, a threat … until I show my doppelganger.

Two bouncers—a shifter who smells feline, and a troll named Greta—walk toward me. Greta always moves slowly and slurs her words, but her strength is extraordinary. And in these close quarters, with a cat-shifter assisting, Jane would be toast if I don’t do something to identify myself quickly.

As they close the space between us, Jane tsks attitude and swings her hip out in defiance. I can’t help but mentally smile at how good that feels. But knowing my world and the creatures surrounding me, I flash doppelganger eyes, red with no pupils, and let smoke waft from between smiling lips. The instantaneous reaction is almost uncontrollably amusing. Almost. Respect is survival down here.