Black Knight (12 page)

However—and this is a huge
however
—occasionally the variations between the two worlds are striking. I don’t run into it too frequently but it happens often enough to keep me on edge.

In witch world Jimmy and my next-door neighbors were a lovely elderly couple named Betty and James Gardner who went to bed early every night and hardly made a sound. In the real world three young women rented the same house and threw wild parties every Saturday night, and the Gardners were dead.

From researching the obituary section of old copies of the
LA Times
newspaper, I knew they’d died two months ago in a traffic accident, which probably meant they would soon die in witch world.

Probably
but not
definitely
.

All that was definite was that if you died in witch world you always died in the real world, usually the same day, absolutely within two or three days. That was why the sight of Syn and Kendor had thrown me for such a loop. I’d seen the witch-world version of Syn stab Kendor in the heart, and had watched as Whip had stung Syn in the heart.

Cleo’s explanation for their return had been bizarre, to say the least, and yet it had rung true to me. All the little clues Kendor had dropped, and all the ones I had picked up watching the dazed couple—Cleo had tied them together in a neat tidy package.

Yet I still wondered why she’d made that strange remark about me seeing Columbus. I’d just been making a joke but as far as I knew Cleo didn’t joke. And if the Alchemist didn’t waste words, Cleo didn’t either. She’d been trying to tell me something, but what? She’d made it clear that my alpha-omega witch gene would take thousands of years to spring to life. There was no way the gene could come to my rescue in the near future—certainly not in the next few days.

At the theater, I park in the back lot—which is almost empty in the middle of the day—and hurry to the front. Soon I’m standing on Hollywood Boulevard. I haven’t been to this part of town in years and yet everything looks familiar, as if Marc’s memories have slightly merged with my own. The valet booth is nearby and I immediately recognize his boss, Steve Green, the laid-back Australian with the pregnant wife. He doesn’t look busy and I walk up to him and flash my brightest smile.

“Hi, I’m Alexis Simms and I work for the
LA Times
,” I say, using my best friend’s name. It’s an old habit of mine, which grew out of the fact that Alexis almost always uses my name when she’s in a questionable predicament. I continue, “My paper is thinking of doing a personal-interest piece on what it’s like to be a valet for the stars. We’re looking for a single candidate to focus on. I was wondering if you could help me?”

The man gives a friendly nod while checking me out. “You look a little young to be a reporter,” he says in his thick accent.

“Want me to run back to my car and get my ID?”

“That won’t be necessary. I can’t imagine many people would be interested in what we do. We park cars for people and later in the night we fetch their cars. It’s mundane work.”

“Mundane? You’ve got to be joking. Why, in one night, you meet more stars than your average person could hope to meet in ten lifetimes. I think it must be exciting, Mr. . . .”

“Green, Steve Green. I must admit when I started here, twenty years ago, I got a kick out of the red-carpet nights. But now each premiere is the same to me.” He pauses and laughs. “I’m afraid I’d make a lousy man for your article.”

“Is there someone else you can recommend? A handsome young guy perhaps. You know the public—you’re nobody unless you have a pretty face.”

Mr. Green considers. “There’s someone you might want to talk to. His name’s Marc Simona. He’s nineteen, a hard worker, and tons of the starlets stop to flirt with him. Why just the other night Silvia Summer—I’m sure you’ve heard of her—told Marc he should be up on the silver screen. She may have been stroking his ego but I was standing nearby and it sounded like she meant it.”

“Interesting,” I mutter. In my dream Silvia had acted like Marc could do better than park cars, but she hadn’t said the precise line Mr. Green was quoting. It was possible the man was exaggerating, or else he was repeating Silvia’s remark verbatim as he’d heard it here in witch world—when my dream of Marc had taken place in the real world. In other words, in the real world, Silvia might have said almost the same thing but not quite. Once again the variations between the two dimensions fascinate me, as much as they disturb me.

Even more critical is when Mr. Green says Marc met Silvia. It was only last night, which means I had dreamed about what Marc was going to do over a week in advance.

It’s only then that I realize that for the first time in ten nights, I didn’t dream about Marc last night. I suppose there’s no longer any point now that I’m physically with him.

But no longer any point to whom? Or to what?

“He sounds like a perfect subject for my article,” I say. “Is Marc working tonight?”

“He’ll be in tomorrow evening. If you give me your card, I can have him give you a call.”

“That’s all right, you know us conniving reporters. I’d rather catch him at work when he’s not looking. In fact, please do me a favor and don’t tell him I’m going to stop by. I want to observe him in action before I slide over and interrogate him.”

Mr. Green is amused. “I’m afraid I can’t promise that. All valets live by a secret code. We always cover each other’s back. But I’ll encourage him to do the interview. Marc’s easy to talk to, especially if you’re a pretty girl.”

“Thank you for your time,” I say, backing up. “And good luck with the baby.”

The man blinks in surprise and I quickly realize my slip.

“How’d you know my wife’s going to have a baby?”

I force a chuckle. “I told you, I work for the
Times
. We have a policy of never going to an interview unprepared. Thanks again for being so helpful.”

I get out of there in a hurry.

Having lived and breathed so many nights in a row inside Marc Simona’s mind and body, I know exactly where he lives—just two blocks shy of the alley where he stopped to take a piss as the sun came up. The same spot where the bright light snatched him from the face of the earth. I drive to the alley hoping to find clues of how it was done. But studying the area, I only manage to find the spot where Marc took a piss. Only two blocks to go and he couldn’t hold it. Just like a guy, I think.

I didn’t start the day thinking that I’d try to meet Marc’s witch-world counterpart. For one thing, until I spoke to Mr. Green, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure which version of Marc I’d been observing in my dreams. But now that I know it was the real-world Marc, the temptation to speak to his witch-world counterpart is powerful. Of course, via Mr. Green, I’ve already set up a tentative meeting for tomorrow night. But with so much happening, that feels like a long ways off.

I drive to 14742 Twenty-second Street, near La Brea, and park fifty yards down the block from his studio apartment. He lives in unit twenty-seven—I can see his front door from where I’m sitting. The building is badly run-down and I know Marc chose it because of the cheap rent, and the fact that it’s close enough to the theater that he’s able to walk or jog to work. Marc’s never played formal sports but I know he’s in excellent shape. It’s kind of spooky knowing so much about him.

Yet at the same time I know nothing. What’s our connection? Why did I dream about him? Why was he chosen to be kidnapped with me? It’s like someone’s moving us around like pieces on a chessboard. Cleo told me how ancient the Alchemist is but could he really be behind all that’s happening? I wonder. . . .

Climbing out of my car before I lose my nerve, I stride toward Marc’s door, taking a flight of stairs to the second floor. The wood on the door is chipped and could use a fresh coat of paint. To the left of it is a sliding-glass window, and through a crack in the curtains I’m able to see Marc reclining on the couch with a can of beer in his hand, watching TV.

I’m surprised to see he’s watching
Casablanca
. The movie’s almost over and Humphrey Bogart is telling the love of his life, the incredibly gorgeous and extraordinarily talented Ingrid Bergman, to get on the plane and leave him for another man. It’s like Marc has seen the movie dozens of times. He mouths aloud Rick’s famous last words to Ilsa, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Marc busts up at the scene but wipes at his eyes as well, before taking a gulp of his beer.

Is he crying? I always cry when I watch that scene. It looks like we have more than one thing in common.
Casablanca
is my favorite movie as well.

I can’t knock. I don’t know what to say, how to explain that we’re trapped together in a metal cage in an alternate world. Even if we hadn’t been kidnapped, there’s not much chance he’d believe I’m a witch. Not unless I lifted him to the ceiling with one hand. I’ve already been through that with Jimmy, though, and dislike demonstrating my powers.

Yet it’s good to see him in his natural environment. I have to admit he’s awfully cute. If it weren’t for Jimmy . . . well, there’s no point in thinking about that. Jimmy gave up his normal life to save me and we have a kid and I love him and . . . it’s enough. I don’t need another lover.

I suspect there’s a good chance Marc’s gloating over the emeralds he stole the night before. Although I hate whenever I get ripped off, even when it’s something small, I have to admit it was kind of cool how he jumped in Silvia’s Jaguar and used her own car to escape. It took a lot of guts.

Unknown to Chad and the others, Marc might be the real survivor in the group. I’m stronger but Marc’s got instincts. He knows how to get out of a tight spot. Under normal circumstances he’d make for a dangerous adversary.

“See you tomorrow,” I say softly, thinking I’m not being entirely accurate. It’s Sunday in witch world and when I wake up tomorrow morning it will be Sunday in the real world. So, in a sense, I’ll be seeing him today.

Walking back to my car, I wonder if we’ll still be locked in that strange compartment.

CHAPTER FIVE

I AWAKEN TO FIND THE
sun in my eyes. The glare is blinding—I have to raise a hand and squint through my fingers to see where the light is coming from. A section of our cell wall has been pulled aside as if it were a sliding doorway, and through the yellow glare I catch a glimpse of acres of green and hear the sound of a trickling stream.

“What the hell?” I mutter, glancing at my partners. Although I was the last one to awaken before, I’m the first one this time around. Marc stirs in his seat at my remark but doesn’t open his eyes. The others are out cold. Chad, Shira, and Li all sit with their chins resting on their chests, while Ora lies with his huge head hanging back over the top of his seat, snoring loudly. The guy is so big he can hardly fit in the chair.

I stand and stretch, feeling a momentary wave of dizziness. Since I never feel dizzy when I wake up, and since the rest of the gang has yet to open their eyes, I suspect someone pumped an odorless gas into our cell before we landed. For sure, I have no recollection of us touching down.

I step to Marc and gently shake him, whispering, “Marc, wake up.”

He opens his eyes and frowns when he sees it’s me. “I was just dreaming about you,” he mumbles.

“What was the dream about?”

“None of your business.” He notices the missing section of the wall and the bright sunlight. “Shit. Did we crash-land?”

“I’m pretty sure our landing spot was chosen very carefully. Get up, I want to look around. And don’t wake the others.”

Marc stands uneasily; I have to help steady him on his feet.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I don’t trust them.”

“But you trust me?”

“Don’t fool yourself. Come, let’s take a look outside.”

Outside is unmistakably a jungle. The green foliage is extraordinarily dense; it rises sharply a half mile to our right and a mile on our left. Which means we’re somewhere in the middle of a valley. The stream I heard from inside the cell is to our left—running east, in the direction of the rising sun—and it has enough kick in it to be labeled a river. Although it’s clearly early in the day, the air is warm and humid.

“What the fuck?” Marc gasps as he takes in the scenery. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere we’ve never been before. Close your eyes and listen. What do you hear?”

He indulges me and shuts his eyes. “Running water. What am I supposed to hear?”

“Keep your eyes shut. Listen. What else do you hear?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Can I open my eyes now?”

“Yes.” I take a step away from him, scanning the surrounding hills and the sky. Although the sun is bright, we’re seeing it through a thin haze—a mist perhaps that rises from the damp foliage.

Marc comes up at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“We hear the river but that’s all we hear. This is a jungle. It should be swarming with insects and birds. But there’s nothing. If it wasn’t for the running water, this place would be as silent as a tomb.”

“That’s silly. There’s got to be insects. There’s no place on earth that doesn’t have insects. Maybe this area’s just been sprayed with a powerful insecticide.”

“And the birds?”

“You don’t always hear birds,” Marc says.

“Really? How many jungles have you been in?”

“As many as you. None. Look, we just got here. Don’t start jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m puzzled is all.” I point in the direction of the river, to a man-size stone standing at the edge of the water. “That rock. See it? There’s something pinned to it.”

Marc is wary. “It doesn’t look like something that grew here.”

I pat him on the arm. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

Marc brushes away my hand. “Like you’re in charge.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to say . . .” I don’t finish for obvious reasons. I was about to say it’s better if I check out anything weird because I’m a witch and am better able to protect myself. Like that would put him at ease.

Together, Marc and I walk to the river. It’s only two hundred feet away and we struggle to get there. I’ve never hiked in a place before that didn’t have even a semblance of a path. We have to skirt a few trees but worse is the thick grass and shrubs. Every square inch of ground is covered with life. We hike less than the length of a football field and yet Marc’s sweating by the time we reach the rock. I think it annoys him I’m hardly breathing.