Thief of Souls (26 page)

Unconcerned, Winston vanished behind his magazine. “Big deal,” he said. “Dillon would have brought me back.”

“That's not the point!” Michael turned, hoping to find support from Lourdes, but she was digging her hands into the rest of the cake.

“It would have been interesting to see if he could actually die,” she said matter-of-factly. “For all we know, we've become immortal.”

“Immortal?” said Michael incredulously. “What about Deanna? She was one of us, and she died.”

“That was then,” said Lourdes; “this is now.”

“How could you be so flippant about it?” yelled Michael. “How could you be . . .” But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't just them. He wasn't much different. How self-absorbed had he been lately? How malignant had his own arrogance become; the thrill of being worshipped, the self-satisfaction his own power now brought him?

“What's happened to us?” he dared to ask.

“We've risen above where we used to be,” said Winston. “Our perspective has changed, that's all.”

Michael had to admit that he was right. Their outlook, their desires and needs, were markedly different than they had been three weeks ago. Their place in the world was so much grander than they ever imagined it to be.

“We used to be limited by fear, and small-mindedness,” Winston said, puffed up by his own sense of wisdom. “Not anymore.”

But as Michael stood there, a splinter of that old limited perspective came back . . . and for a moment, he was not a god—he was just a kid. A kid with more power than he knew how to wield.

Michael knew that in some way, Okoya's music had bolstered his pride—his hubris. It added to his sense of comfort and confidence. He didn't need the music—he
wanted
it. Okoya hadn't forced him to listen—it was Michael who had seized upon it, keeping himself emotionally sated.

But there was an advantage to hunger.

He dropped the iPod, knowing that if he didn't, he'd be swayed by those rich melodies that he, too, might kill for.

“I don't like what's happening here,” he said.

Okoya had a radar fix on his eyes. “It was only a game, Michael,” he said, with such control in his voice, Michael felt the urge to nod in agreement in spite of himself. “You get way too emotional,” continued Okoya. “You should be more like Lourdes. She'll go far.” By now, Lourdes had finished her cake, and was licking the whipped cream from her fingers. She glowed with Okoya's compliment.

Michael felt the air around him become oppressive and cold. Dewdrops began to form on the ceiling of the bus.

“Hey!” Winston said. “If you have to rain on someone's parade, take it the hell away from me, will you?”

“Yes, Michael,” said Okoya. “Perhaps it's time you left.”

Michael didn't need another invitation to leave. In spite of his hunger, he stepped over the iPod, and hurried out the door without further word.

Tory saw him go out of the corner of her eye, but her attention was on the ice pick still in her hand.

Is that my hand?
she thought.
Was that me bringing the pick toward Winston's chest?

There was a sentence playing over and over and over in her head now; the words Winston had muttered when Michael saved his life.
“Big deal. Dillon would have brought me back.”
Was she so great a soul that she was beyond the need for conscience? And was her lust for Okoya's aromatic potions so powerful that it made even death seem unworthy of her attention?

“Dillon would have brought me back.”

Was life so cheap now that murder meant nothing?

She wanted to let these thoughts slap her—perhaps enough to slap her off the alabaster pedestal she had so willingly climbed
on—but Okoya approached with a palmful of pink lotion.

“You've earned this,” Okoya told her, “for helping me find the weak link.”

The ice pick dropped from her fingers, she leaned forward, and Okoya stroked the smooth fluid across her cheeks like war paint. The scent hit her, and instantly any thoughts of what was right, what was wrong, what was clean and what was foul, were snuffed in the sweet flood of a million rose petals.

M
ICHAEL FOUGHT OFF THE
dewpoint, determined not to telegraph his emotions to the world. His emptiness had returned in full force, growing unbearable by sunset. A hunger, deep in the channels of his ears.
Is it possible,
Michael began to wonder,
to be nourished through one's senses, rather than through one's stomach?

Michael took sustenance that evening from the campsites of the followers. It was the first time in days he had eaten real food, but even so, it was unsatisfying—vapid, and flavorless in some fundamental way. It was as Michael wandered from campsite to campsite that Drew came to him with a request.

“See, there's this girl,” Drew said. Michael immediately knew where this was headed, and he had no desire to go there.

“Drew, I'm tired. Talk to me tomorrow.”

“Can't wait. No, no—can't wait,” he said, his words coming out in anxious staccato beats.

Michael picked up the pace, and Drew followed, pushing people out of his way to keep up.

“The thing is, she doesn't like me,” said Drew. This was no surprise to Michael. Drew had not quite mastered the finer points of conversing with girls he was attracted to. In fact, many of those ill-fated conversations ended abruptly with Drew executing one of several bodily functions, none of which was too pretty.

Lately Michael's ears had been so occupied with music, and the adulation of his followers, he really hadn't cared to hear about Drew's misadventures. But now, with his mind clearer, Michael found it all terribly uncomfortable—even more uncomfortable than Drew's former crush on him.

“All I want you to do,” pleaded Drew, “is make her fall in love with me.”

Michael tried to shut this down now. “No,” he said. “Period. The end.” Michael wove faster through the campsites, thinking he could board one of the buses and lock himself in the lavatory—anything for some time alone.

But Drew continued to pester him like a mosquito. It wasn't like him; Drew Camden had never been a pest or a nuisance. It made Michael even more determined not to give in.

“Come on, Michael, you'd do it for any of the other followers—why won't you do it for me?”

“Because,” said Michael, “you're my friend—you're not one of
them
.”

And then Drew pulled out his trump card.

“You made me like this! The least you could do is help me out here!”

Finally Michael stopped and turned to him. The light of several campsites played on Drew's face, creating strange, unfamiliar shadows—but it wasn't just the light. It was the way Drew looked—the way he acted. His character had dropped several octaves, and it occurred to Michael that he did not know this reinvented person before him. He wasn't sure he even wanted to.

“What if I give you my running suit? The one you like,” Drew offered, probably not even considering the fact that it was back home, hundreds of miles and one lifetime away. “Will you do it then? Huh?”

Reconstituted beef.
Perhaps it was just his hunger, but that
was the thought that came to Michael's mind. It was at some fast-food dive. They called it a steak sandwich—and although it looked like steak, and smelled like steak, the thing was mushy and flavorless. The small print said it was “reconstituted beef”; apparently ground up and, through some mystical process, pressed back into little steaklike rectangles, losing everything worth keeping in the process. Michael couldn't help but feel that Drew was now a living loaf of reconstituted beef.

The thought was too much for him, and suddenly Michael wanted to do anything to get the “new and improved” Drew out of sight and out of mind. “Fine, I'll do it. Where is she?”

Drew grinned like a kid in a candy shop. “This way,” and he trotted off, leading Michael toward his current love interest.

Drew barged into the girl's tent and pulled her out, against her protests. “Angela, I'd like you to meet Michael Lipranski. See, Angela, didn't I promise you a personal introduction?”

Angela, at the sight of Michael, began to wring her fingers self-consciously. “Hi,” said Angela timidly. “I volunteered to be one of your personal helpers, but there was a waiting list.”

Drew hovered a few feet away, shifting his weight from one leg to another. “Come on, Michael, do it. Do it quick!”

It would be easy enough; all he had to do was plant the feeling so intensely in her the moment she looked at Drew, that it would shade everything she ever felt. She would love Drew unconditionally for the rest of her life, or until Michael decided to change it. But as he looked into this girl's eyes, Michael had a sudden sense of foreboding—a dark flashback to something he had once seen, once felt, but couldn't place. He had seen those eyes before, but on a different girl. Suddenly a chill wind blew a rain of sand across them, stinging their faces, as Michael realized where he had seen that look before.

It was the same expression, the same blank eyes he had seen on a girl a year ago, when he had witnessed his parasite seize the girl with its violating blue flames and devour her. Maybe no one else could see it—but Michael knew exactly what was wrong.

This girl had no soul.

“Aw, come on, Michael,” said Drew. “What's taking so long?”

Michael grabbed Drew and pulled him away.

“Hey! Don't touch me,” whined Drew, trying to wriggle free from Michael's grip.

“This isn't the girl you want, Drew. Trust me, it's not.”

“Huh?”

Michael turned from Drew, and randomly began grabbing followers around him, looking for signs of life inside—and in half the people he encountered, he found the same soulless void.

How was this possible? At first, he thought it might be Dillon—that his spirit of destruction had returned, and had now developed a taste for something more than devastation . . . . But no. That was a spirit impossible to miss. If that
thing
were back in this world, bells and whistles would be ringing in all the Shards' ears. It was not Dillon . . . but if not him, then who?

Michael had a feeling he knew.

“You promised, Michael!” complained Drew, stomping up a dust cloud. “You said you'd do it! You lied!”

“Drew—there's something I want you to do.”

Drew looked at him warily. “What?”

“Tonight—I want you to stay up. I want you to keep an eye on Okoya. Follow him and tell me everything he does.”

“And then you'll fix me up with a girl?”

“Whatever you want, Drew. I promise. But first, Okoya.”

Drew thought about it and accepted. “Deal. Hell, I don't sleep much anyway.”

T
HE LOUNGE ATOP THE
Stratosphere tower offered Radio Joe a bird's-eye view of the Strip, and the mobs pressing in around the Mirage a mile away.

In a few brief hours, the miracle of the waters had become the number one attraction in a town known for its spectacle. There was no keeping the crowds out of the Mirage lobby, and as for management, their hands were filled with other problems. The casino, which consistently raked in a healthy percent of all cash wagered, suddenly wasn't the cash cow it used to be. In fact, the house was losing.

“My wife says she wants to have his baby,” slurred the slovenly man sitting on the barstool next to Joe. “I told her if the kid really is God, he sure as hell wouldn't want to screw
her
. That tore it. She ran off and joined them out there in the desert, saying Hail Marys, or Hare Krishnas, or whatever the hell they do.” He downed his scotch, and demanded another.

Radio Joe kept his cap pulled down low on his face so as not to be recognized, for his face was still on every magazine. He didn't think it mattered much here, however. The liquor was flowing in rivers today, and few in his line of vision could see straight. “You say this boy had red hair and fair skin?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. Couldn't be any older than eighteen. Name was Daryl, or Dalton—something like that.”

The bartender poured the slovenly man another scotch. “I hear the MGM just shut its casino down,” he said.

“No kidding! Them too?”

That makes three,
thought Joe. How many more would go? How many casinos had this boy visited? Radio Joe had been searching for days for a sign of the Quíkadi, but instead had found this redheaded teen. He knew there had to be a connection, but didn't know what it was yet.

“I've lived here all my life,” the bartender told them, “and I ain't ever seen nothing like this. It's like the kid put a fix in every casino he passed. Even the slot machines keep hitting jackpots.”

Radio Joe had noted that the odds on the table games had somehow changed. The random order of dice thrown and cards turned was now less random than before. These events had divided Las Vegas into three factions: those who swarmed the Mirage; those who swarmed the casinos; and those who watched from a numb, plastered distance.

“Have one on me,” said the slovenly gambler, then he called out to the bartender. “One for the chief, here.”

Radio Joe graciously accepted, but didn't drink it. He needed his wits about him.

“When I was a kid,” said the drunk, “I once thought I saw the Virgin Mary in a pancake—but my damn brother ate it.” He took a swig of his scotch. “My dad died of a heart attack the next week. Totally unrelated, of course, but you never stop wondering.”

An announcement came over the loudspeakers that the casino way down on the ground floor was now closed until further notice. Radio Joe was not surprised.

“Some people think it's the Second Coming,” the bartender said, breaking the cardinal law of barkeeping and pouring a drink for himself. “Other folks say it's the end of the world.”