Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Elodie
Iswap my attendant-ish shirt and vest for a more typical Other Elodie silk blouse and unfurl my hair in a stall of a fast-food restaurant bathroom. I’m glowering at my reddened eyes in the dingy mirror when my phone pings.
My first—stupid, aggravating—thought is that it’s Byron. Who as far as I know doesn’t even have my phone number in this reality.
Who I shouldn’t want to have any contact with again, because clearly I don’t know how to control myself around any of these men.
But of course it’s not him. Instead, another text pops up from the unlisted number I showed him less than an hour ago.
Next time I send the message with a knife instead of a text. You don’t know who you’re messing with.
A twinge radiates through the scars on my back. My pulse stutters with the memory of the blade driving into my flesh, the sharp stabs and the spreading ache.
No. That attack was made on a totally different Elodie three years ago. Whatever’s going on here, it can’t have anything to do with my near-death.
I can’t imagine how my double and I could have pissed off the same person to murderous intent.
Hugging myself, I lean against the cold tiled wall. My bewildered thoughts are punctuated by the steady dripping of the tap.
The message is true. I don’t know what I’m messing with. What could this unknown maniac be threatening me about now?
Is it because I went back to Beacon Prep? If so, why wait days before laying into me about it?
They can’t know that I was at The Eclipse today, can they? I’ve either been completely concealed or in disguise from the moment I left my house. I can’t come up with any reason for them to tie me to the club.
The only other thing I’ve done recently is my pawn-shop tour yesterday. Would that have set off my anonymous enemy for some reason?
A couple of snickering teenage girls push into the bathroom. I grit my teeth against my frustration and shove my phone into my purse.
There’s way too much I still don’t know. Why did Other Elodie have to be such a complicated mess?
As disastrously as my last venture into The Eclipse went, I do know a couple more things than I did before. Thank the Seven Gods of Fortune I managed to provoke a little useful conversation from Grady before Byron showed up.
Steering my mind away from all other thoughts of Byron—the hot pressure of his mouth seeping through the glove to the back of my hand, his fingers stroking over my breast—stop it, stop it, stop it—I slip out the back door of the restaurant and grab my phone again.
Groove Garden. Let’s see what that is.
Right away, a listing pops up for a local venue with that name. The brief description says it’s a dance club, which fits Grady’s comments.
It’s on the outskirts between the neighborhoods with a strong lucent presence and those that are almost entirely drab. Maybe a twenty-minute walk from where Other Elodie met her grisly end.
Hmm.
My double was definitely concerned about more than just her personal problems. Her potentially misguided efforts to help the Beacon Prep families with whatever they’re facing proves that.
But she could still have been wrapped up in something illicit at the same time. I can’t see how Grady could be connected to Beacon’s student disappearances.
What business would be happening out of the back of a dance club that might elevate your skills? Is it related to the lucent drug deals I witnessed when I poked around at the strip mall? Some of those enhanced chemicals can supposedly lift your mind to another plane of consciousness.
How deep was Other Elodie into that side of lucent life?
I waver for a moment at the edge of the restaurant parking lot. The thought of having a new, definite direction steadies me.
Groove Garden doesn’t open until seven o’clock tonight. I’ll go home, force a smile through another family dinner with my wacko aunt and the dad who doesn’t know he should be mourning me, and then sneak out to see what’s what.
When my ride drops me off down the street from Groove Garden at half past nine, I immediately regret the timing. Thick shadows drape the buildings on either side of the street between the narrow yellow glow of the streetlamps.
It’s way darker now than it was on the dreary early evening when I was literally stabbed in the back. My unknown text harasser could be lurking anywhere nearby, the knife they threatened me with in hand.
I gird myself, brushing my fingers across the hip pocket of my jeans where I’ve tucked my own weapon.
No one should have any idea where I am. I took the same steps to conceal myself that I did when leaving this morning, and before I summoned a ride, I put my illusion-imbued ring back on.
There’s no reason Chuck couldn’t poke around this venue. I’d rather no one realized that Elodie Devine has been here.
The effect will wear thin soon. My own capacity to work ephemera is fading with fatigue. As I walk toward the dance club, a familiar pinching sensation nibbles at my joints. Dizziness prickles through my head when I turn it too fast.
I’ve pushed myself hard today. Please, let it be worthwhile.
The sign for Groove Garden comes into view down the street, green neon letters surrounded by crudely painted flowers and stars in blue and red. The night is still young, but a few patrons are just coming to the door, looked over by the bouncer before bounding inside.
They’re all lucent, giving off the slightly heightened quiver of energy that drabs never do unless they’re carrying someone else’s magic.
The bunch I saw were dressed in what Madison would call “mall clothes,” not the more tailored, high-end brand stuff I’d expect on the company Grady seems to keep.
Maybe he comes here to slum it. All the better that I’m disguised.
Since Other Elodie specifically mentioned business being conducted out of the back of the club, I amble over to the alley between Groove Garden and the neighboring Japanese restaurant. With one glance down the cramped space, my heart skips a beat.
I recognize the black-painted wall with its scrawled neon graffiti and the steel staircase that leads to a second-floor entrance at the rear of the club. I’ve seen it in a few of Other Elodie’s secret photos.
There was one with a figure right on those stairs, wasn’t there? One of the images where the face came out blurred.
She was documenting some kind of activity happening here. Competitors? A crowd she got sucked into and then realized she’d need leverage to get out of?
What does it have to do with the other situations she was poking her nose into?
No one’s hanging out in the alley right now. I shift on my feet and pretend to look at my phone while I watch more club-goers arrive.
Pay no attention to me. Just a dude waiting for his friends to show up before heading inside.
My doppelganger talked about people trying to elevate themselves. Grady mentioned some way they might increase their skills. That definitely sounds more like an illicit substances situation than a torrid forbidden love affair.
I can’t imagine that some brilliant lucent is offering tutoring sessions out of a dance club—or that Elodie would have been so skeptical of the service if it was just regular lessons.
Other possibilities weave through my thoughts.
A cheating ring, with inside info on upcoming tests and assignments at the academy?
Someone distributing blackmail material on the professors?
Rising in the class ranks would also be quite the elevation.
Could Other Elodie have been involved in dealings like that, or trying to expose them?
So many possible murder motives, like hydra’s heads: more popping up every time I think I’ve narrowed things down.
Well, the best way to find out what this place might be selling is to present myself as a customer.
Ignoring the pinching of magical fatigue in my elbows and ankles, I keep surreptitiously watching the club entrance. After a while, a guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans comes out on his own. He stops by the corner of the building and lights a cigarette.
His easy confidence suggests he’s a regular there. Even if he’s not dealing anything, he might know someone who is, right?
I meander over with my best casual vibe. The illusion thickens my voice into something passably male. “Hey, man. I heard someone here can hook me up. Give me a little boost, you know?”
Was that believable enough? I’ve committed multiple murders, but I’ve never attempted to purchase illegal materials before. Somehow I’m out of my depth, criminality-wise.
The guy lowers his cigarette and peers at me. “A boost? If you’re looking for anything stronger than alcohol, Stefan doesn’t allow it.” He motions toward the club.
I’m guessing Stefan is the owner or manager of the place. I furrow my brow. “I mean, he can’t see everything that—”
The guy cuts me off with a laugh. “No, seriously, everyone who works there knows. I watched a girl get tossed out on her ass last week for flashing around some fancy pills she had just for herself. Really, it’s better that way. So go sniff around someplace else.”
Okay, not drugs, then. I refuse to be completely deterred. “I’m not thinking so much of stuff you take, but more like, information… To get ahead?”
Now my companion only looks befuddled. He shakes his head and takes another drag from his cigarette.
His answer comes out with a puff of acrid smoke. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude. Sounds to me like you’ve got the wrong place.”
Great. I mumble an apology and retreat to the other side of the alley.
I can try again the next time I see another probable regular emerge. That one guy might not be in the know.
But my stomach is already sinking.
I fiddle with my phone some more while the guy finishes his cigarette and returns inside along with several new arrivals. Impatience winds around my gut.
The front door swings open again—and at the same moment, hinges squeak far down the alley.
My head ticks around in time to see two figures stepping out of the door at the top of the steel stairs. My hand clenches around my phone so abruptly my knuckles ache.
The first of the two figures I don’t recognize at all: a plump, snub-nosed brunette who looks to be in her early thirties. She bobs her head to some last remark her companion said and then starts down the steps.
The other woman lingers by the door in a relaxed but elegant pose totally at odds with her dank surroundings. Enough lamplight penetrates the alley to glint off her wavy red hair and reveal her willowy frame in her sleek pantsuit—mint-green, this time.
It’s Ms. Lupul, the woman who came to talk to Dad at the house the other night. The one he said is a consultant.
What in the meadows of Asphodel is she consulting people about in the back of a dance club?
Ms. Lupul turns toward the door, and my arm jerks up. I manage to snap one picture before her face completely leaves my view.
Not that it does me any good. When I bring up the photo after she’s vanished back into the building, there’s nothing above her shoulders but a magically induced blur.