“Should we call a cab or just conjure one?” he asks after I’ve released him.
I instantly remember my promise to Paige. “Oh shit, my phone.” Somewhere between being chased by a dragon and sloshing through the L.A. sewer system, I lost my purse.
“Not a problem,” Bishop says, winking at me. He holds out his hand, and a small silver phone materializes in his palm.
I smirk at my boyfriend before snatching it up and dialing Paige’s number. It rings eight times before going to voice mail.
“Weird,” I mumble, and dial it again.
Voice mail.
“What’s going on?” Bishop asks.
“I don’t know. She’s not answering.”
I remember the missed call from Paige earlier. At the same moment I remember that she left a message, and frantically dial the number to reach my cell phone’s voice mail. Soon, answering-machine lady speaks to me in her irritatingly monotone voice.
“You have one new message, left yesterday at nine-forty-five p.m.” Static plays through the speaker, and then …
“Hello, Indigo.”
Leo.
I gasp.
“I’m here with your friend Paige, and you know, even though you and I have had our problems in the past, I can agree with you on this one thing: she is an absolute doll.” There are muffled moans in the background. Someone grunts, and the sound of china shattering pierces through the phone. When Leo speaks again, his cool confidence is gone, and his voice is cut with an edge of hostility. “I was really hoping you’d come by and join us, but since you’re not answering your phone, I think we’ll just have to come to you.”
Epilogue
Four Hours Ago
I blink my eyes open. At first I see nothing but darkness, but when my eyes adjust I find that I’m in a small room. The muted bass of club music thumps above me, vibrating the wooden beams of the low ceiling. A slow, aching pulse pounds against my skull, and when I swallow, my throat burns as though I’ve just put away a whole pack of cigarettes. I rub my temple, racking my brain for a clue—something, anything—about where I am or how I got here. Think, Paige. Think. With a jolt I recall the man with the scarred face. Remember his threats, his scary obsession with Indie, him pushing me into the backseat of the car.
And then nothing.
My heart races, panic setting up camp in my chest. I need to get out of here.
My eyes lock on a thin strip of pale light I hadn’t noticed before, illuminating the edge of a door. Swallowing, I push myself to my feet, my muscles complaining against the movements. My head drains of blood when I stand and I nearly pass out, but I hold out my arms and soon the world stops swaying. I take a hesitant step forward. Then another.
A sound outside the room stops me short. Footsteps. Laughter. Coming closer.
I suck in a breath and scuttle backward, my back slamming into a shelf. Something clatters to the ground, and the laughter stops.
Holding my breath, I close my eyes tight and clench my shaking hands at my sides. Please don’t come in, please don’t come in.
The door creaks open.
“And what do we have here?” a man says. His words send a chill up my spine.
I force my eyes open. Two figures stand in the doorway, backlit by smoky gray light. A thin-faced man with buzzed hair and too-tight pants, and a generic-looking blond bimbo who clings to his arm.
The man shakes off the girl’s grip and steps into the room. My heart rate accelerates with each step he takes nearer to me. He reaches up over his head and pulls something, and I’m suddenly blinking against the dim light of a single overhead bulb. The man stares at me for way too long, his eyes traversing every inch of me so that I want nothing more than to melt into the shelf and become part of the decor.
“And just what do you think you’re doing here, human?” the man says, contempt lacing his last word.
The girl steps forward and throws her arms around the guy’s shoulder, assessing me. “She looks young, Bobby.”
Bobby grins. “Old enough.”
This is a nightmare, I decide. Just a horrible nightmare. I close my eyes tight and try to wake up, but when I open them again, they’re still there, sneering at me.
An unwitting sob escapes me.
“Aw, you’ve scared the little girl,” the bimbo says, laughing.
Bobby joins in. “What’s your name, little girl?”
I press my lips together to keep from crying again.
“Come on now, don’t be shy,” Bobby says.
A shadow falls across the room. At first I’m not sure whether the person in the doorway is a man or a woman. The albino-white hair, which matches equally pale skin, is short and slicked back, reminiscent of James Dean’s. The eyes are big, framed by white lashes that are bare of any makeup, and all the other features are so androgynous it could go either way. It’s only the voice that gives her away as a woman.
“What’s going on here?” the woman says.