Dangerous Creatures

CHAPTER 25 Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door

Link didn’t have time to pick up the phone. To be honest, he didn’t have time to think about Ridley. He didn’t have time to do anything but freak out.

In a big way.

A hybrid Incubus–sized way.

More than anything, Link hated it when girls cried. He hated it when they cried or when they were mad at you or when they just gave you those big old eyes so wobbly that they made it seem like they belonged in a basket of puppies.

But this was worse.

Necro wasn’t doing any of those things. She was just lying there—not moving. She didn’t even look like she was doing all that much breathing. She didn’t look all that different from the dead she was supposed to be talking to, Link thought.

Her skin was pale to the point of near greenness. Shadows had emerged under her eyes. The gash on her neck almost seemed to be growing, from the looks of it.

It was a mess.

All three of them had taken turns trying to bandage her neck. The results were pretty shoddy, but it didn’t matter. The black ooze seeped through, no matter what they tried.

Even Lucille Ball sat on the foot of the bed, staring.

“That can’t be good,” Floyd said. “It should’ve stopped by now.”

“You think Necro hit an artery or somethin’?” Link asked. “Do you have arteries in your neck?”

“I don’t know.” Floyd looked at him. “You think she’s going to bleed out?”

“No.” Link shook his head. “You can lose up to one-third of your body’s blood before you die. But we need to suture her.”

“What?” Floyd looked at him. He didn’t sound like himself to her, but that was probably only because she hadn’t known him during Shark Week.

“Sew her up.” Link shrugged. “I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”

“Hold on. Let me get my needle and thread.” Floyd was losing it.

“That only works if it’s sterile,” he informed her. “You guys got a Insta-Clinic Super 24 around here?” Link tried to think what the New York version of that would be.

“You want to take her to a Caster emergency room or something? Because, guess what? They don’t exist.” Floyd sounded desperate.

“She’s probably going to die,” Sampson said from the other end of the room.

“Shut it, man,” Link practically shouted.

“Please.” Floyd shook her head.

“Let’s face facts.” Sampson paced across the room. “I don’t know how long a Necromancer can stay like this before the effects are permanent. Not long. She spends enough time in contact with the Otherworld as it is. All it takes for someone like her to cross over is a little shove in the Other direction—”

“You think?” Link snapped, and bent over her bed. “Hey, Necro. Wake up, man. That was a killer gig. You gotta wake up so we can talk about it.” He shook her arm. He was desperate, and he couldn’t think straight.

What would Ethan do in this situation? What had Ethan done, seein’ as everythin’ that could go wrong in the whole universe had already gone wrong for him? Why is my finger burnin’ like crazy where that stupid ring is?

But it didn’t matter who tried, or what they said or did. Necro didn’t respond. She looked pale and small, lying half under the blankets. Floyd sat next to her on the floor.

“Esperanza,” Floyd said.

“What?” Link looked down at her, confused.

“Her real name’s not Necro. It’s Esperanza.”

Link looked at the sleeping punk. “Are you sure about that?”

Floyd smiled sadly. “She hates it, and she’ll kick your butt if you call her that. But sometimes she still seems like an Esperanza to me.”

“You guys have been friends for a long time, haven’t you?” Link suddenly felt almost as bad for Floyd as he did for Necro.

Floyd shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. She’s all right. For a Necro.”

“Who did this to you, Esperanza?” Link leaned closer to her face. “Esperanza? Wake up and kick my butt.”

It was no use. The blood was seeping from her neck, turning the whole bandage black and green.

Link gave up. “How did this happen? We would’ve seen it if she was in a fight.”

“Not in the night, when she’s sleepwalking.” Floyd looked stricken.

“And I don’t sleep, remember?” Link said. “I shoulda seen her, comin’ and goin’.”

“Not if someone didn’t want you to see her.” Sampson looked up from where he stood, leaning against the doorframe. “Not if the right Cast was in place.”

Now he was next to them. “Not if the right Caster was behind it.”

“What the—” Ridley fumbled for the clock on the bedside table, barely registering that it was a carved silver elephant and the clock was resting on its trunk. She sat up in the middle of Nox’s sister’s otherwise empty bed, completely disoriented. The skylight overhead had turned orange pink. Almost sunset.

Then she remembered how she’d gotten there.

Ridley turned and pulled the pillow back over her head. Everything had caught up with her, and she was exhausted. She’d collapsed into bed, dreaming about ships and Sirens and gardening shears. Odysseus and Abraham Ravenwood and Link and Necro. She was still wearing her bathrobe, and the damp towel had tangled its way into the sheets.

Necro.

Ridley held up her phone. No calls.

Necro might be better by now, or she might be worse. Either way, Floyd and Link weren’t about to pick up the phone. Not if it was Ridley on the other end.

Still.

She sighed, pushing the call button.

The phone started to ring and ring and ring.

Nothing.

The doorbell chimed in the other room, startling her.

Ridley was spooked. She hadn’t figured out what to say to Lennox Gates when she saw him again. Not about the photograph, or the Siren, or The Odyssey. But when she pulled open the door, it wasn’t him.

“Oh,” said Ridley, strangely disappointed. “It’s you.”

The Darkborn desk clerk held a silver tray with a single card balanced on it. Ridley took the card and slammed the door in the clerk’s face.

Dinner at eight? Three words. That was all that was written on the card, in spiraling calligraphy.

Really? He thinks he can snap his fingers and I’ll jump? I won’t. I don’t jump for anyone.

Ridley looked down at herself in the robe, her stomach rumbling.

I’ll think about it.

A girl really does have to eat. Even a Siren.

And I have to talk to him.

If I could get him to open up to me…

I could find out what the Siren in the photograph has to do with Sirene and Nox—and Link and me.

The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced of what she had to do. But first things first.

Like the fact that she was wearing what was basically a glorified towel.

What had Nox said about clothes? Ridley investigated the apartment until she found a large bamboo wardrobe built into the bedroom wall. When she pressed against the doors, they folded open, but the closet was empty.

“Great.”

So much for Caster magic. Apparently the Charmings needed to spend a little less time in the throne room and a little more time at Bloomingdale’s.

She reached for one sad-looking, empty hanger and pulled it from the silver bar that ran the length of the closet.

As she lifted it higher, though, she could see it wasn’t empty at all.

Now a dress hung on the hanger.

Not just any dress, but a black leather Gucci shift, cut like a knife—the one Ridley had admired in a Milan store window last summer.

It was more than a dress.

It was Ridley’s weapon of choice.

Siren battle armor.

She tossed the dress on the bed and stuck her hand in again, this time pulling out a pair of sky-high, or at least thigh-high, calfskin boots. Prada.

She went back in for a bag—a soft suede envelope, in a sort of metallic gray. Chanel.

Earrings? Tiffany.

Bangle? Cartier.

Necklace? Harry Winston.

Diamonds really are a Siren’s best friend.

She could’ve gone on like that all night, but she only had one body to put it all on, and it was nearly eight.

She resolved to come home early and play dress-up with whatever else the closet would cough up after dinner, which was the first moment she admitted that she really was going through with it.

She was going downstairs to meet Lennox Gates.

Ridley was determined to uncover the reasons behind the photograph on the wall, no matter what.

By the time she had squeezed into a dress that would stop traffic, she was ready for more than dinner.

She was ready to face Nox Gates.

He was waiting for Ridley in the lobby, looking less like he owned an Underground nightclub and more like he owned the world.

Worlds, Ridley thought. Caster and Mortal alike.

He rose from one of the sculpted horsehair lobby chairs as soon as he saw her, buttoning the center button on his tailored jacket. His long hair hit the starched linen collar of an equally well-cut shirt, but he wore the whole look as easily as he had his old leather one at Sirene.

Underworld and upper class. Another clue to the mystery of Lennox Gates.

“Nice threads.” Ridley smiled. “Wait, are we playing polo with your butler tonight? My valet didn’t tell me.” Her voice sounded surprisingly light, under the circumstances.

Strange.

It didn’t make anything easier that Nox was so good-looking, especially tonight. She couldn’t help noticing. There weren’t many guys who dressed like that in Gatlin. Or any. She couldn’t imagine Link in that kind of getup. That’s what he’d call it. A getup.

“Polo, yes, of course. At my country estate. We can take my yacht—I parked it around the corner.” Nox looked her up and down. “Though I’m not sure you’re dressed for anything as innocent as sailing.”

It was true. Ridley did look like a bad girl tonight, even for a Siren. The way her leather dress hit certain places and skimmed others was practically criminal. That really is some Caster closet, she thought. All the better for making a Dark Caster talk.

She batted her eyelashes. “How ironic. Innocent is my middle name.”

Ridley let Nox help her into his black Lincoln Town Car. As the door closed behind her, she settled into her seat, feeling guilty, like a princess going off to a ball. Battle armor notwithstanding.

A wicked princess crashing an evil ball, but whatever.

Charming was Charming, whether you were talking about Mortal royalty or a Dark Caster and a modern Siren. And whether you had a secret agenda or not.

You say glass slipper, I say calfskin stilettos.

She’d never left a shoe behind for a guy before. She supposed there was a first time for everything.

Stop it, she reminded herself.

This is war.

Nox Gates is the enemy.

And I’m keeping the shoes.

Dinner was private, as private as two people can be in a sprawling city of millions.

On this particular rooftop—the garden of an immense stone building—they were very intimately alone.

Alone with a chef and a violinist and a waitstaff, but still.

They sat at a small round table overflowing with white linens and white flowers. Gardenias, Ridley thought. The smell was as sweet as the city was gray. Instead of stars there were city lights. Instead of mountains there were high-rise buildings.

“Try a Metropolitan Cosmopolitan,” Nox said, pouring a pink drink from a tall crystal carafe into a sugar-rimmed glass.

It smelled like the flowers in the islands, Ridley thought.

“Sort of a house specialty,” he added.

“Big house,” Ridley said, sipping from the glass. The sugar rush was intense. She could feel her heart pounding, so she put down the glass.

She needed a clear head tonight.

Nox shrugged. “Big? You could say that. It’s called the Met.”

“The museum?” Even Ridley had heard of that one, and she went out of her way to avoid museums or any place where people stood around looking at things other than her.

He nodded.

Rid picked up the glass and put it back down again. Nervous? Am I nervous? Is that what this is?

She cleared her throat. “Where is everybody?” They had come straight from a side entrance to a service elevator, and until they had reached the rooftop, Ridley hadn’t seen a person except for the occasional security guard.

Nox sipped from his glass. “Let’s just say I gave them the night off.”

The view from their table was breathtaking. Puffs of green trees were still visible in the fading light, even with the concrete jungle rising between them. Ridley understood why Sirens throughout history had been drawn to this city.

“This is beautiful,” she said, feeling very small. It was a new feeling, and she filed it away. There had been so many new feelings lately.

He shrugged. “It’s a beautiful city. I don’t know why I spend so much time in the Underground, when it’s so incredible up here.”

“You love Sirene.” She smiled at him, pushing the conversation where it needed to go.

“I do.”

“Why?” She tried to sound casual.

He studied the view carefully, as if it would disappear the moment he looked away. “I love all my clubs.”

“Because they’re Dark?” She looked at him. Like the Siren in the photograph? The one you named the club after?

But she didn’t say it. Not yet.

A man like Nox Gates wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t come clean that easily. Not to a Siren he barely knew—and certainly not about his connection to another Siren.

Nox studied the view. “No. Because they’re home. Something I never had.”

Ridley smiled, almost involuntarily. “You and every other Dark Caster in the world.”

“Does it feel like home to you? New York?” He looked back at the city. “All this beauty?”

Ridley made a face. “Not so much our apartment. Or my job. Or the subway. Let’s see—yep, those are the parts I get to visit.” She laughed.

He didn’t. “There are others. Let me show you.”

This is it, she thought. “Show me what?”

“New York, the way a Siren is supposed to see it.”

Exactly. “A Siren? How would you know?”

He didn’t say anything.

Ridley shrugged. “You know, I think I’ve probably seen enough New York for a while.” Not too fast. Make him work for it.

“You haven’t seen anything.” He touched her hand.

She pulled it back, startled by the feeling of his skin on hers. Watch it.

He smiled. “One day. Just one. I’ll be a good boy, I promise. Then, if you still want me to, I’ll bring you back to your friends and demand that they forgive you.”

“You think they care what you think?” Her face clouded at the thought of what was going on back in their apartment. You think they’re my friends? She put down her glass.

“Of course they care what I think. Everyone does.” He smiled.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ridley said. “If anything, they’re scared of you.”

“Like I said.” He shrugged. “They care what I think. Does it really matter why?”

“It does,” Ridley said, and she realized as she said it that she meant it. “It’s taken me a long time to figure that out, but it does.”

Nox raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Rid kept her eyes on the skyline in front of her. “It’s nice to have people care what you think and laugh at your jokes. And notice when you say things, and when you don’t.” She smiled at him ruefully. “At least, it was nice.”

Don’t get distracted, she told herself.

“Just one day?” Nox pressed again. “Let me show you.”

“One day is a long time.” Rid hesitated. “A Siren’s view of New York?”

He nodded.

“That’s it?” Just a day? Was that all it would take to unravel the mystery that was Lennox Gates? Wasn’t that what she wanted?

Ridley thought about the unanswered rings when she’d called the apartment earlier. Necro was hurt. What if they needed Ridley? What if there was something she could do?

It’s not like they want me back. It’s not like they’ll let me back. They won’t even pick up the phone. And at least this way I could get him to open up about the Siren in the photograph.

“One day. I promise.” Nox crossed his heart playfully.

“And no trying to trick me or game me into staying?” Ridley looked at him, crossing her arms. She’d made and lost a bet with him before. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “No house rules? No party tricks?”

“Nothing underhanded at all.”

War, she reminded herself. Answers. The Siren in the photograph. That’s why you’re doing this.

The way he smiled, she felt like she could trust him.

And the way she fell for his smile, she felt she couldn’t trust him at all.

As Ridley crawled into the massive circular bed that night, she stared at her phone. Still no calls. Not even Lena was picking up tonight.

No calls… and no friends.

Nothing.

Necro and Floyd and Sampson didn’t want to have anything to do with her.

They didn’t, and Link didn’t.

It was bound to happen. It had only been a matter of time. Ridley had always known it.

You couldn’t fight destiny. Not when destiny was just another door slammed in your face, whether you deserved it or not.

Not when destiny was just you sitting alone on the curb, whether you wanted to come inside or not.

Frustrated, Ridley pulled the covers around her.

But this isn’t just about me. Necro could be really sick. Black blood. That’s some bad mojo.

She had to try.

Even if no one cared, and even if no one wanted her to.

This time, Ridley let the phone ring over and over. Then she called again. And again. She counted the stars overhead until the ringing stopped and her cell phone ran out of power.

By then, she was asleep and dreaming of curbless streets and cracked stone walkways—of smiling mothers and endlessly open doors.