Hannah Jayne (22 page)

Which, given the city, wasn’t entirely impossible.

I beelined back to him, grabbing his arm. “Hey, come on. We don’t have much time.”

Will’s eyes were focused over my head; his lips pressed together. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed slowly.

“What?” I looked over my shoulder at the two carved cement lion/dragon statues that guarded the mouth of Chinatown. “Those? They’re not real. Promise. They don’t come to life during a full moon or a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon or anything.”

“It’s not that,” Will said, starting to shuffle with the tourist crowd. “It’s”—and here he wagged his head from side to side, hazel eyes scanning, scrutinizing—“Mogwai.”

I stopped dead and crossed my arms, feeling one eyebrow creep up. “Mogwai?”

We had crossed through the Chinatown gates and were flanked by a couple with thick Midwestern accents, who were pausing to photograph everything, and a guy power walking while listening to his iPod loud enough to hear every one of Steven Tyler’s wailing screams.

“Yeah,” Will said, voice lowered, “Mogwai.”

“Look, Will, I know every single demon in the Underworld. And the majority in the upper world, too—wait. A Mogwai?”

Will nodded nervously, as if saying the word would bring one about.

“That’s a Gremlin, Will.”

“If you feed it after midnight, it is. And whose midnight, you know? They’re Chinese, right?

Is it when it’s midnight in China or here? And, well, I’m British. Does my Mogwai become British—”

“It’s a freaking Spielberg movie, Will!”

Will stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think it was based on something real?”

I could feel my left eye begin to twitch. “Fine.” I put out my hand, wiggling the tips of my fingers. “Give me your wallet.”

“No. Why?”

“Give it to me.”

Will reluctantly fished his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. I pulled out his credit cards and all of the cash—seventeen dollars, all in ones—from it; then I handed it back.

“Hey!”

I shoved his money in my pocket, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “See? Now I’ve got all of your money. There is absolutely no chance of you buying a Mogwai, unless you’ve got some magic beans in your pants. Now let’s get going.”

Three uphill blocks and six wrong turns later, I had lost my spunky, go-get-’em spirit and was bemoaning the city as a whole. I spotted the Chin Wa bakery and its glistening selection of glazed confections in the front window and began fishing Will’s dollars out of my pocket.

“Pineapple bun?”

I pushed in the heavy glass doors of the bakery and was immediately hit with a blast of hot, pastry-scented air. I huffed it until my head felt light, and then traded some of my pilfered dollars for a bag of toasty pineapple buns and a Diet Coke. I offered the white bag—as it quickly became spotted with grease stains—to Will.

“Want one?” I asked, my mouth watering.

“Don’t like pineapple.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, fishing one out and taking a huge, satisfying bite. “There’s no pineapple in them.”

Will took a bun and shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”

“So what does the map say?”

Will pulled the map from his back pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it across his thigh. I leaned over, smattering the crudely drawn map with pineapple bun crumbs.

“Okay, from the looks of it”—I looked over both shoulders, feeling my ponytail bob against my cheek—“we should be here. It should be right there.” I pointed to a squat building across the street that housed a Chinese/ American/Japanese delicatessen, a handwritten sign in the window proudly touting, Free Wi-Fi/bathroom for paying customers ONLY.

“Wow,” Will said, “they really cover all their bases.”

I popped the last of my pineapple bun into my mouth, taking a half second to revel in the sugary, buttery, custardy bliss. I washed that all down with a Diet Coke so my thighs would remember that I was serious about slimming them and grabbed Will by the wrist. “Let’s go.”

Will stood up with me, and his palm slid up to meet mine. Our fingers instinctually laced together. I sucked in a sharp, guilty breath and tried to convince myself that the speed up of my heart was due to our impending meeting, rather than the comfortable way our hands fit together; the ease of our conversation, even when we were walking in circles; the way the golden flecks in his hazel eyes exploded when he looked at me.

“Ready?”

Will stayed rooted, his thick lips pressing up into a slow smile. “You’re blushing, love.”

I clapped a palm to my cheek. “I’m flushed. It’s warm out here. We should go.”

We ran diagonally across the street, making our way through four lanes of tightly packed cars, some inching forward at glacial speeds; some parked and littered with tickets.

We stopped in front of the door and checked our address. “‘Du,’” Will read from the fading painted sign. “This should be it. You ready?”

I stepped back and examined the plate glass windows, trying to find a shred of clarity among the years-old Chinese calendars, ads for cheesy videos, and poster-sized displays of Sanrio imports. I knew that behind the cheery posters, something awful could very easily lie inside.

I squeezed Will’s hand. “Do it.”

A series of bells tinkled as we pushed open the door. My heart clunked painfully and I felt the horror, felt my jaw hanging open, felt my lips go slack. This wasn’t what I expected.

It was much, much worse.

“Will—”

“I don’t know what to do, either, love. Is this ... Are you sure this is the right place?”

I unfurled the paper, having swiped it after covering it in crumbs. “Number 32.” I looked around. “This has to be it.”

Du—the Chinese/American/Japanese restaurant—was, apparently, where wide-eyed Japanese anime went to mate. Life-sized schoolgirls, with melon-sized boobs pressed up to their chins, were painted in all manner of fighting poses wielding swords, along with their pig-tails and knee socks. The blue Formica tabletops were covered in figurines of the same, and seated around those tables were wide-eyed, big-boobed anime knockoff people and their sail-or boy counterparts.

“Are they dead?” Will whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“Hello! May I help you?”

The woman behind the counter had waist-length black hair pinched into a glossy ponytail.

Her straight-angle bangs met thin eyebrows over eyes that were a dazzling, unnatural lav-ender; bits of brown swirled behind the colored lenses.

Her smile was wide and welcoming, and she was dressed like a 1950s diner waitress—if

’50s diner waitresses doubled as schoolgirl-style sex kittens. Will was staring and I gave him a shove.

“Um, right, then. We’re looking for ...” Will’s eyes cut to me, and I gave him a small nod—the universal sign for “don’t just gape at the manga cover girl, talk!”

“It was suggested that we, uh ...”

“We are looking for Xian Lee.”

The girl behind the counter stiffened, causing her ponytail to sway with the sharp movement. “Why?”

“Do you know him?”

“Why do you want to know?”

I leaned forward so that I was a hairsbreadth from the anime girl. “I’m from the Underworld.”

Anime girl blinked at me, and it was hard to discern which one of us was crazier.

“Do you know Dixon Andrade? Vlad LaShay?”

Her eyes widened and she stiffened almost imperceptibly, but just enough to make her long, thick ponytail bob again.

“What do you want?”

I licked my lips. “I work at the Underworld Detection Agency. Right now, my friends are dying, and it’s only going to get worse for them—and maybe for you—if you don’t help us.”

The girl stepped back. Her shoulders slumped a bit with the movement. She held my eye and studied me for a full minute before calling out something in Chinese that I vaguely feared was “Anime friends, eviscerate the nonbelievers.” But, to my relief, an older man came from the hallway. His slippered feet shuffled against the industrial tile. He waved us in and we followed through the kitchen, toward a ratty screen door. The wood was tarry with decades of cooking fat; the rusty hinges barely keeping the door on.

The old man pushed through and so did I; Will hung back in the dank kitchen, letting the screen door work its slow snap shut.

“Come on,” I hissed to Will.

Will shook his head slowly, silently mouthing the word “Mogwai.”

I opened the door again and yanked him by his shirtsleeve. We caught up to the old man, who gestured toward a door, then turned around and walked away.

“What are we supposed to do here?” I asked.

“There’s a door, I’m guessing we open it.”

Will looked at me, rubbing his jaw with his palm. “Vlad just handed you this information, didn’t he?”

I looked around the dim alley, heard the plink! of water dripping off one of the fire escapes into a greasy pool on the ground. “Yes.”

“How do you know he’s not leading us into a trap?”

I stopped, cement filling my body. “I don’t.”

Will’s eyes were wide, focused. “So what should we do?”

I swallowed hard. “We trust him.”

I sucked in a slightly nervous breath—not due to Mogwai fear, by the way—and pushed open the door. The room was large and empty, with hardwood floors. When I blinked, a woman was standing in front of me. She looked nearly identical to the anime girl, save the sexy-waitress costume and the surrounding of big-eyed followers. Even though the room was dim, I could see that her hair was black, waist length and stick straight. Her eyes narrowed and menacing.

I was about to offer a hand—a shiny, friendly “I’m Sophie Lawson, here to save the Underworld” hand—when I felt hands around my throat. Suddenly I was vaulting backward, crushed against Will, who was crushed against the wall. I kicked out and landed a blow to the woman’s gut; she doubled over and let me go. I gasped, drinking in as much air as I could while Will rushed her. He struck and she blocked; he rushed and she ducked. There was a spinning, dizzying sequence of Will-then-her and her-then-Will; and suddenly Will was pinned to the floor. The only sound in the room was the ominous cock of a gun—its barrel lined up with Will’s nose.

“What do you want?” the woman asked. She had one knee on Will’s chest, a half inch from his windpipe. Her other foot was planted firmly on the ground. In her hand she held a heavy black gun, which she wielded as though it were a tube of lipstick.

I pressed myself against the wall, feeling my shoulder blades against the cold, hard steel of the door. I wanted to do something, to rush her, to take her down in a move that would make Angelina Jolie or Jackie Chan proud. Instead, all I could do was think how badly I needed to pee, and that if I were to make a sound, that lady would squeeze the trigger and Will would be dead.

“What do you want?”

“We come in peace!” I blurted it out before I thought about it. Both Will and the woman about to blow his brains out turned and stared at me.

“She’s got a gun, love, not an alien life-form,” Will said, sounding way too calm for imminent doom.

I dug in my pocket and the woman swung the gun on me. “Hands up!”

I threw my hands straight up—and to be honest, a little bit of my lunch—while Will knocked the stunned gun girl off him, did some sort of barrel roll, and pinned her. He yanked the gun out of her hand and shoved it in his back waistband.

“Let’s none of us try to kill each other for about thirty seconds, okay?”

The woman writhed underneath Will, but she slowly stilled.

“What do you want?” she spat.

I pulled the ziplock bag of bullets out of my pocket and rushed over, shaking it in front of her. “We’re looking for the person who made these.”

Her eyes sliced down to the bag and then held mine. “You’ll have to let me up. I can’t get a look at them.”

Will looked at me and then at her. “How do I know you’re not going to try to kill us again?”

“You have the gun. How do I know you’re not going to try to kill me?”

Will handed me the gun. “Go put this up.” And then, to her, “I’m going to let you up now.

We just want some answers. No trouble.”

“Are you Xian?” I asked.

“No.” The woman rose up on her elbows. “You already met Xian, out there. I’m her sister, Feng. Why do you want to know about these bullets?”

“Do you recognize them?” I pushed the bag into Feng’s hand.

“Maybe.”

I sighed. “Look, we’re not cops. We’re not after you or looking to cause any trouble.

Someone shot at me with these bullets. They shot at me and my friends.”

“So?”

I took the bag back and pushed one of the bullets out. “So these are silver bullets. Silver bullets are only used to kill very specific things.”

Feng said nothing, but everything was held in her stare.

“They kill werewolves,” I said.

Feng’s eyebrows rose. “Who did you say you were, again?”

Will helped Feng up.

“I’m Sophie, and this is Will. We’ve ... we’ve been having some problems, and we need to know where someone would get bullets like these.”

Feng cocked her head, seemingly not understanding. “Why did you come here? To me?”

I glanced around the dismal cave of a workshop and determined that the likelihood of Feng placing an ad in the Guardian or on public-access television was probably a long shot.

“Dixon Andrade.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

Feng shook her head. “Dixon, huh?” But she seemed pacified and almost smiled. “Okay.

So what do you want?”

“Do you know where to get the bullets?”

Feng sat down, kicked her booted feet up, and popped a handful of nuts into her mouth. “I know who makes them.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “You do?”

Feng smiled. “Yeah. Me.” She opened the toolbox on the table and plucked out a silver bullet and set it on the table next to the one I brought in. She examined mine from all sides; then sat back, satisfied. “I made this one in the spring.”

“How do you know?”

“Is it some sort of Underworldy voodoo thing?” Will wanted to know.

Feng looked confused, then spun the bullet. A tiny Chinese symbol was carved on the blunt end. “All of our bullets are marked with a seasonal sign.”