Fiction River: Hex in the City (19 page)

“Like you,” I said.

That surprised him; his eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“You apparently got the bar patrons to calm down, and you made me listen to you last night.”

He smiled again, not at me, but kind of self-satisfied, and that kinda scared me again. “Smart.”

“Is that why you aren’t affected by me?”

He turned his head and tapped his ear, at which point I noticed the flesh-toned plug tucked inside.

Of course. High-tech equipment. If we were going for government conspiracy, let’s go all the way. I sipped my coffee, and it was goood.

“Why hasn’t this happened to me before, then?” I asked.

“I don’t know, actually,” he said. “What’s happened in the past when you sang?”

Ouch. I looked down at my coffee cup, the old wounds raw enough that I didn’t care he was asking questions now. “Nothing. I mean, I’ve never sung before. My parents…”

And I told him how they’d lied to me, all my life.

When I finished, Davis whistled softly, shaking this head. “I’m sorry. Shit, that sucks.”

Maybe it was the unexpected show of sympathy, because even though I didn’t want to believe him, deep down, in my gut, I was starting to. It made a certain amount of sense—I’d used my Siren-y powers for the first time last night, and it’d kick-started…something. I felt different, even though he told me I hadn’t changed. I’d always been this way. I’d never felt it because I’d suppressed it by not singing.

I had more questions, but I delayed asking them by crunching some Cheetos. After we were done, I was going to need real food, but for now, these would suffice.

“What about Ophelia?”

“Ophelia's only a half-siren, since your stepfather is human,” Davis said. “She no doubt got where she is because people are drawn to her voice, but she doesn't have the power to manipulate them. Many top singers have some Siren blood in them. Plus orators, politicians…”

Well, that would explain an awful lot of bad pop stars and whackadoodle politicians, wouldn’t it?

I was sounding like I believed Davis, believed his insane answers. Pretending for a moment that I did, I asked, “So what would happen next? What would the training entail?”

“We have a facility nearby,” Davis said. “In the beginning, it would be advisable if you stayed there—that would allow you to focus, and also get to know the others.”

“So, like Hogwarts for Sirens?”

“We’re a little more upscale, and there are no moving staircases, but I suppose you could think of it like that.”

Dammit. He never smiled when he said things like that, although he had leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Open, welcoming posture. Hey, I took Psych 101.

Well, I’d already planned to dump this place and get a condo. Putting my stuff in storage—surely they’d cover it—would be easy enough.

Was I convinced? Oh, hell, no. I needed verification.

“I’d need time to pull my shit together,” I said.

“We’ll assist in any way possible, of course,” Davis said. “Just let me know.” He stood. “I don't mean to sound harsh, but please remember, you don’t have a choice in this. Our priority is to make sure you don't hurt anybody. You have twenty-four hours.

“Oh, and Annalee? Don't try to run. We found you here—we can find you again.”

Well, that sounded ominous. Not that I was in any shape to run anywhere. I’d be lucky if I could make it to the bathroom without stumbling into something that would leave a bruise I couldn’t explain away in two days.

Davis closed the door behind him. I knocked back the rest of my now-lukewarm coffee.

There was one thing I really needed to do.

***

Ophelia had an insanely palatial estate in Bel Air (as in, The Fresh Prince of), one of the most expensive areas in Los Angeles. You couldn’t see any houses from the road, of course; it was all gates and fences and security systems, with long driveways and landscaping and probably snarly drooly dogs.

On a whim, I decided to try something. I felt a little rush of energy up my spine as I sang softly into the gate’s intercom, trying to convince some poor staff member to let me in.

I didn’t know whether to be astonished, smug, or sick that it worked.

I settled on sick. Sober, I could consider the implications of my newfound abilities.

I’m a nice person, really. (The phone in the iced tea thing was an anomaly.) Someone else, upon discovering they had awesome magical powers to control people, might have rubbed their hands like a super villain and started plotting how to take over the world, or at least knock over a bank.

Me, I wanted to know how to never do what I’d done to Randy, not ever again.

Remembering what I’d done to Randy made me feel like I had ground glass in my stomach. Oh, he deserved something, but not that.

Walking up the drive, I felt…weird. Almost like I had last night after the third (or was it…oh, never mind) drink. Was this what they meant when they said “drunk with power”?

Past the kidney-shaped pool with the brightly tiled Moroccan-inspired bathhouse; up the gravel-and-stone path bordered by native succulents; to the massive house made of redwood and tan stone.

My apartment would fit in the bathhouse. No, my apartment would fit in the pool. How could one person need all of this?

Okay, one person and her parents: Ophelia was barely an adult, and although she’d bought the estate herself, our parents lived here, too. I wasn’t sure if they had a wing, or a guest house, or whatever. To be fair, Ophelia had offered me space, too. But it was too late; they’d all already walked away from me. That time, I’d done the walking.

Speaking of walking, even though I was wearing sneakers, that blister on my heel was killing me. Those boots were going in the trash as soon as possible.

I sang my way into the house, hating myself for it, and found them in the kitchen, which was also approximately the size of my apartment. Of course, my design eye appraised everything, even as my steps and my heart were heavy. The kitchen looked like it had never been cooked in, although I could smell roasted chicken.

Crap, I hadn’t had real food since yesterday’s pho. The Cheetos and coffee didn’t count.

But my stomach was too tied up in knots to really want food.

They stood in a line on the other side of the marbled gray granite-topped island: Ophelia, delicately pretty with her black hair (straightened, as per current fashion) and big dark eyes and Mediterranean features; my mother, clearly related to both of us even though Ophelia and I didn’t look terribly alike except for our coloring (plus I’m guessing she got a nose job at some point); and my stepfather, who no longer looked big and intimidating as he had when I was little and was forbidding me to sing.

The identical expression on their faces confirmed everything Davis had told me, in spades.

All three of them were frozen, eyes wide: they were terrified of me.

I’d like to say it broke my heart. (Figuratively, not literally. I know the difference.) Okay, yes, there was a moment of pure sadness.

After that, I just felt…tired. Empty of emotion. I had nothing left for them.

There was an enormous coffee maker on one counter, a massive stainless steel contraption with multiple levers and buttons. I took a chance, stuck a mug under one nozzle, and voila! coffee.

Okay, I was stalling for time. But I was still under-caffeinated, especially given last’s night’s escapades.

I walked back to the island, settled onto a black leather barstool that probably cost more than my monthly student loan payment.

My stepfather cleared his throat. “Annalee…”

He wasn’t a Siren; clearly my mother had told him everything, but he could never truly understand, and of the three of them, he was the least guilty.

“So it’s true,” I said, looking at my mother. All three of them flinched when I spoke. Apparently I lied about having no emotion: That gave me a teensy tiny feeling of evil enjoyment. If I wanted to, I could become their worst nightmare. “I’m a Siren.”

“Yes, dear,” she said. She’d never called me “dear” before.

“You knew.” I directed that at Ophelia. She nodded jerkily. Was she wearing fake eyelashes? Just to hang out at home? I like looking nice as much as the next girl, but sheez. “You’re a half-Siren; instead of shunning me, we could have shared this.”

“I was…jealous of you,” she said, her pretty voice, the one thousands of people flocked to hear, barely more than a whisper.

“Bullshit,” I said, almost cheerfully, because her lying to me made this easier.

I sipped my coffee. Holy
crap
it was good stuff. Starbucks was now officially ruined for me. Surely the super-secret maybe-government agency would have access to something like this. I made a mental note to ask Davis.

“You all knew,” I said. “I’m even the same as you,” I added to my mother. “You could have told me what I was, helped me, found people to train me. Instead, you made me deny everything I could be and took away the one thing I loved. Instead, you rejected me.”

The air conditioning kicked on, a hum and a chill in the air.

“We didn’t know what exactly to do—” my father began just as my mother said “We did what we thought was best—”

I held up my hand. “I was going to ask you why,” I said, “but you know what? I don’t give a rat’s ass. And don’t tell me not to swear. You don’t get to tell me what I can’t do anymore.”

I finished my coffee—why waste the nectar of the gods?—and turned my back on them. I hummed to myself as I walked away, pressing my lips together to keep from laughing when I heard Ophelia squeak in fear.

Once I was outside, I took off my sneakers and walked barefoot in the cool grass bordering the driveway all the way back down to the gate.

I wasn’t surprised to see the black town car waiting at the foot of the drive, its windows privacy shaded just enough to block the view of the people inside while not breaking the law.

Or, who knows? Maybe law enforcement was nudged to look the other way.

I opened the door, slid into the backseat, also unsurprised to find Davis next to me. He gave me a small smile. I think it might have been the first time he’d truly, fully smiled at me. He looked especially good with that smile.

“Everything all right?” he asked, as the car eased onto the road.

“Just dandy,” I said. “You?”

“I’m glad you’re with us.”

Beats being against you,
I thought, but then realized I was wrong. Very wrong.

True, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I suppose I could be offering myself up to creepy invasive government experiments, or turned into a lethal weapon. If I disappeared, who’d notice? But I didn’t believe that. In my bones, in my gut, maybe enhanced by my newfound powers, I knew that of all the people in my life, Davis had never lied to me.

I needed to find out who I really was, what I could really do. Davis and his people wanted to help me with that.

I believed they could help me finally hear the sound of my own voice.

Introduction to “
The 13
th
Floor Problem”

Dean Wesley Smith, our Merlin, pulls stories out of hats, and pockets and the shelves that line his brain. “The 13th Floor Problem,”
is the latest from his vest pocket where he keeps the Poker Boy series. The main character is a magic man who gained power with his skill at poker. He is surrounded by competent women who do his bidding with class and sass. Sound familiar?

Dean is the bestselling author of over ninety novels under many names. He has more than eight million copies of his books in print and has published in nine different countries. He has written many original novels in science fiction, fantasy, mystery, thriller, and romance as well as books for television, movies, games, and comics.

The 13
th
Floor Problem

Dean Wesley Smith

One

As a professional poker player, I don’t have any superstitions. Not a one. I don’t believe that if I won a tournament with one sock inside out, that I needed to always wear one sock inside out for good luck. I know for a fact that Lady Luck, actually named Laverne, paid no attention at all to how my socks were worn, or if I threw salt over my shoulder, or if I walked under a ladder.

She was just too busy. Now don’t take me wrong, I wouldn’t want to cross her, but she just wasn’t the type to pay attention to the small stuff.

In life and in poker, I have had my fair share of good luck and bad luck, even though as Poker Boy, I know Lady Luck likes me, and my team. In fact, one of her four daughters, Terri, the Queen of Clubs, has just joined my team of superheroes.

My team works to save the world when it needs saving and it is often Lady Luck who gives us the assignments.

As it happened, just luck or coincidence or whatever, most of my team was having lunch in my office when we learned about what we came to call “The 13
th
Floor Problem.”