The Dawn of Dae (Dae Portals Book 1) (7 page)

I retreated to the relative safety of my apartment to discover my macaroni and cheese casserole was hard at work scrubbing my kitchen cabinets. The stack of papers slipped out of my numb hands.

How could a conglomeration of noodles and fake cheese hold a sponge? How did it manage to do a far better job of cleaning than I ever could? The floors sparkled beneath the kitchen’s bright-white lights. No evidence of my dinner’s parkour abilities remained on the ceiling. The cabinets and counters had seen better days, but my macaroni and cheese had worked wonders.

I closed the door behind me, sighed, and locked the deadbolt and knob. I stooped down to pick up the papers. I had no idea what the deal was between Rob and Kenneth, but I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to assume their dispute would get me out of checking over the list of names the dean had pawned off on me.

Was the list even real? It felt real enough. The paper was cheap, thin, slick, and prone to crinkling. It was the sort of stuff given to students in the poorer districts when they were privileged enough to be given a stipend of paper at all.

I made it to the living room before the macaroni and cheese noticed me.

“Mommy!” It bounced in place as though conscious of its tendency to smear neon-orange residue in its wake.

“Hey.” It was my apartment. I would talk to my hallucinations if I wanted to. If I was going to acknowledge my sentient leftovers, I would even give it a name until the narcotics wore off and I discovered moldy noodles scattered all over my kitchen. Until then, it deserved a name.

I went with my favorite cheese. “Colby,” I announced.

“Mommy?” my macaroni and cheese asked.

“Your name is Colby. Please be quiet for a while. I need to work.” I sank down on the couch, slapping the papers onto my coffee table. I grabbed my tablet, unlocked it, and wondered where I would begin figuring out what to do with the list.

I could get used to my mind playing tricks on me if people—and things—listened to me half as well as Colby did. Without another word, it went back to work scrubbing cabinets, although I did hear the occasional squeak out of it.

I regarded the list with disgust.

The list wouldn’t tell me what was going on. The news might, so I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Instead of a broadcast, I got to enjoy a blast of static. I checked every channel I could with the same results. Grumbling curses, I turned off the set and tossed the remote down.

While I didn’t want to see how badly my face had broken out from Rob’s hand and blood, I forced myself to go into the bathroom to check my reflection. Rob was right; there was a lot of blood on my chin, and grabbing a washcloth, I went to work scrubbing it off.

My elbow where Kenneth had grabbed me hadn’t gone unscathed; my skin was red and raw, and a scattering of hives spread from where he had touched me.

Why hadn’t my face reacted? I checked my chin and stuck my tongue out, but both looked normal. There was no visible evidence Rob had come into contact with me at all.

The tingling that had started on my tongue and spread across my face was working its way to my stomach. It burned, but in the pleasant way alcohol did on the way down. I fidgeted with restless energy, impatient to do
something
, although I had no idea what I needed to do or why.

I voiced my frustration as a choked-off scream, yanking at my dark hair before tying it back into a ponytail. I stormed out of my bathroom. I needed to get out and do something before I went insane—or dreamed up another sexy older man to drive me to the brink of insanity.

Maybe a walk would do me some good—and I’d get a better fix on reality for my effort.
 
If I hurried, I might be able to find out what Kenneth and Rob were up to. I had tricks of my own, and I knew how to access my boss’s precious tunnels, which gave me a damned good place to listen in on what Kenneth likely didn’t want me to hear. To do that, I’d need to wear black clothing and face paint.

His surveillance cameras were good, but they weren’t infrared. One day he’d learn not to cut corners—maybe.

Sniffing out my boss was a good start, and it’d keep me busy. I changed into dark clothes and gloves, dug my paint out of my bag, pocketed it, and hit the streets.

The roads leading to the Inner Harbor were closed, leaving drivers to find their way through Baltimore’s downtown via narrow side streets bordering the fringe. Fortunately, the cops were letting pedestrians through without hassle.

No one showed any signs of noticing—or caring—that humans had become a minority when compared to the eclectic variety of species now wandering the streets. I kept as close to the buildings as I could, checking my back for anyone who might be following me.

Everyone else seemed far more concerned with the other creatures than they did with me. A herd of the three-headed giraffe clopped down the center of the street, and unlike the one I had met outside my apartment building, they wore no hats and had sharpened their horns.

Werewolves and other part-man and part-animal creatures made up the majority of those prowling around. Sensible people gave them a wide berth, and I was no different. Those who could take to the air did, and the sky was filled with things other than birds.

The winged werewolves were the most normal of the flying beings—and they looked the friendliest, too.

The easiest way for me to enter the tunnels connected to Kenneth’s townhouse was through the sewers. Baltimore’s sewers had two parts. The sewage tunnels, meant to control and direct the flow of refuse beneath the streets, were unfit for rats, let alone people. I didn’t know when the adjacent walkways had been built, but they paralleled the main channels. The city had stopped using them after a better sewage management system had been developed—one that didn’t require human intervention.

Kenneth had claimed them and made them his own, offering their use to the elites seeking drugs.

I smiled at the thought of pulling the wool over my boss’s eyes. Kenneth believed himself so superior. The tunnels were
his
secret, and an impoverished rat like myself was below being let in on such a thing.

Kenneth kept underestimating me, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Not only did I know about his precious tunnels, I had also pinpointed all of his regular entry points. As an added bonus, I had found a few extra off his radar, too.

The entrance I wanted was located in the poorest district of the city, a place Kenneth avoided whenever possible. I knew the streets well enough, although I didn’t know most of the people—or things—taking up the spots old friends once had.

A dragon—a much larger version of Terry Moore—breathed flames down the street, incinerating those in its path. It took to the air, roaring its triumph while those left alive shouted curses at it.

I decided it was wise to take cover before I got caught in the crossfire. The street was lined with shops, and I picked a tattoo parlor as the least likely place for many people—or monsters—to gather. Inside, the neon lights gleamed, and one wall was decked out in black lights showcasing glow-in-the-dark tattoo designs.

The artist, a younger man with more tattoos and piercings than I’d ever seen on one person before, leaned against the glass counter near his register. He seemed human enough, right up until he flashed a grin at me and revealed a set of pointed canines.

Why wasn’t I surprised the tattoo artist was a vampire? I envied him in a way. While Kenneth called me a collie, I was all bark and no bite. Instead of a vampire, I’d rather be a snake, one who packed a lot of venom for my size.

“Looking to buy or dodging the crazies outside?”

I snorted, twisting around to stare out the front windows of the store. The dragon had landed and was licking at the scorched pavement. “A bit of both, I guess.”

“What do you have in mind, sweetheart? Looking for a tattoo or something a little special?”

Why did everyone—correctly—think I was involved with the black market in some fashion or another? I no longer had the gaunt, near-death appearance of a user. It had taken over a year to get meat back on my bones and erase most of the damage the drugs had done to me.

Sure, I looked a little older than my age, but any girl in my shoes wouldn’t look young. Maybe I didn’t pull the trigger of a gun often, but I had killed people all the same. Telling my boss where to hunt someone down and get rid of them was no different from being the one to do the job.

Still, if the tattoo artist could hook me up, it wasn’t a bad idea. Cash wasn’t the only currency on the streets. I’d find a way to pay off any debt.

“If you’ve got a cleaning kit kicking around, I won’t say no,” I replied, pointing in the direction of the dragon. “I don’t know what the hell I’m on, but I never want to touch it again.”

Asking for a cleaning kit was a nice way of requesting one of the full drug-testing kits used to prepare narcotics users for the real deal. Many of the drugs checked for had counters, and all of them could be bought on the black market.

“Buy some ink, and I’ll toss one in on the house. It can run while I work. Business has been slow today, and no wonder. If you show clean, you can either pay cash or with blood samples.”

“Blood samples work.” I joined the artist at the counter, grabbing one of the thick books of designs. I didn’t really have the money for a tattoo, but I needed the kit if I wanted to have a foot up on Kenneth.

If I was clean and could pay back the artist in blood, that’d make my day. Some other addict would use my blood to pass her tests. I’d lived in and out of the system long enough to want to help others out.

I’d recover from blood loss quick enough.

I flipped through the catalog and sighed at the staggering variety of designs available.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“A snake,” I replied. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. “Just the head, and I want the fangs visible. Stylized.”

My choice of design would be a warning and a promise to Kenneth. The instant he turned his back, I’d sink my fangs in deep and teach him a lesson.

“I think I have just the thing. Come sit down. I’ll draw some blood and get to work.”

I obeyed. A new tattoo to celebrate a new me—one who wasn’t Kenneth’s dog at heel—seemed like a better idea with each passing minute. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain, including the freedom to choose what I would do with the rest of my life, no matter how long or short it was.

Like all good tattoo artists, the shopkeeper worked with gloves on, which prevented him from directly touching my skin. Applying the ink would give me some redness for a while, but it would fade with time. If he did cause a reaction, at least he probably wouldn’t notice.

He started with drawing blood, which was enough to put me to sleep. It was a bad habit, one I’d developed due to associating needle pricks with highs. I relaxed with my eyes closed, waiting for him to begin the painful work of inking my arm. At least, I’d been warned the process hurt.

I’d find out soon enough.

“Sure you don’t want to see the design first?”

“Positive,” I replied.

Maybe latex separated his skin from mine, but the pressure of his fingers on my upper arm near the shoulder felt pretty good, even if the needles he used to apply the ink and draw on me were anything but pleasant.

The pain wasn’t nearly as intense as I expected, and when a timer dinged deeper in the shop, the artist stopped working and got up. “Let’s find out if you’re clean, shall we?”

Having any blood drawn with an empty stomach was a stupid idea at best. The little he had taken left me light-headed and dizzy. I kept my eyes closed, wondering how I’d stagger back to my apartment, let alone gain entrance to Kenneth’s maze of walkways paralleling the sewers.

“You’re clean,” he announced. “I’ll draw a couple of vials, and we’ll call it even. Won’t take long to finish your tattoo, either. You’ll be on your way in a few minutes, in plenty of time to dodge the curfew.”

“Curfew,” I echoed, wondering how I seemed to be the only person who didn’t know about the curfew—if it actually existed.

“Sundown,” he provided before going back to work on my tattoo. “Don’t have yourself a talker?”