whole thing reminded her of one of those overhead projection sheets her geometry teacher sometimes flashed on the wall. You had to stare at it awhile before anything made sense.
The dream had been a bad one, like nothing she’d ever had before. The kid sitting on the vanity: she was pretty sure that, in her dream, someone was torturing him.
She could still remember the cold bite of the handcuffs on her wrist. She’d even caught the scent of shadow-man’s cologne as he’d bent over the boy.
When the guy stuck the needle in the boy’s neck, she’d felt that, too.
The pain of that needle, she’d felt it as if it were happening to her. Not the boy, but her. That’s why she’d woken up screaming, bringing her mother running.
Only now, the kid—she guessed he was about her age, tall, maybe as tall as five feet eleven, with gray eyes and dark blond hair—was sitting on her vanity stool, the nightlight shining at his feet. To Stella, he looked completely real, the living breathing version of the boy in her dream.
Of course, she knew he wasn’t really there. He couldn’t be. No live kid was sitting in her room, creepy eyes watching her.
He was a ghost.
And Mom hadn’t seen him.
Mom—the lady who talked to ghosts, who painted portraits in order to pass along messages to loved ones left behind—hadn’t even known he was there.
In Stella’s life, it was Mom who did the woo-woo thing. Her mother had these dreams. Visions. A lot of times, the awful stuff her mother saw came true.
“Go away!” she said, louder this time.
The ghost just stared back at her.
She told herself she wasn’t like her mother. Sure, she’d get a weird vibe every once in a while, mostly about her mother’s paintings. But the really scary stuff, like waking up in the middle of the night and seeing someone who wasn’t there, that was Mom’s gig.
“Please,” she whispered. “I can’t help you. Just leave me alone, okay?”
Stella slipped back under the covers, tucking the sheets and quilt under her chin, using them like a protective shield. She concentrated on a giant sunflower painted on the wall across from her, part of a mural her mother had painted in Stella’s room, turning it into a kind of English garden. She tried to forget that awful basement and the sound of the boy’s screams.
When looking at the flower didn’t work, she squeezed her eyes shut. What did people do to fall asleep? Count sheep?
Suddenly, she felt a cold touch on her neck. She opened her eyes.
The kid, he was right there, standing next to the bed.
“Get out!” she said.
She pulled the covers over her head, breathing hard. How many times had her mom told Stella how to banish a bad spirit? Why hadn’t she paid attention?
Get a grip, Stella! She tried to even her breathing, telling herself that if she’d had anything to do with bringing him here—some weakness a loose spirit might glom onto—she should have the strength to make him disappear.
After a few minutes, she lifted the sheet, scared of what she’d find.
He was gone.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. She knew her mother could get in touch with some pretty gnarly things. She’d heard Mom explain it once, how the really bad spirits were drawn to powerful psychics. And that’s what her mother was. A superpsychic. Last year, she’d even helped the police catch two serial killers, a woman and her son who’d targeted other psychics.
Her mom had a very powerful gift—the kind of gift Stella didn’t need.
The only thing Stella wanted was to be normal.
She glanced back at the stool in front of the vanity. It was still empty.
He was really gone.
Stella lay back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Funny how that fact didn’t make her feel better.
3
There was blood everywhere—on the mats, on the cage itself, in the men’s hair and dripping down their bared skin. And the noise…the sounds of violence washed over Evie, drugging her.
The Junoesque redhead with striking blue eyes sat near the front row of the MGM Grand’s Garden Arena. Tonight, the stadium housed a near-record crowd, each and every fan mesmerized by the battle on the raised platform, center stage. The caged enclosure called The Octagon housed two fighters locked in a human cockfight.
Suddenly, the champ, Curtis “The Native” Santos, felled his opponent with a double-leg takedown. The crowd went insane as Santos scissored his legs around the challenger’s midsection. There were two minutes left in the final round.
Sweat mixed with blood as the two warriors remained locked against the cage’s vinyl-coated fencing. Wearing only shorts and light gloves with the fingers cut off to allow for grabbing, both gladiators heaved for breath. The challenger, Teri “The Greek” Dupas, defended against the champ’s relentless attack, now pinned in a rear choke. The men’s muscles clenched and gleamed under the white-hot lights.
That’s exactly what she wanted, Evie thought. Those hands on her. That battle for life embracing her.
With just under a minute left in the match, the crowd began to get antsy, screaming for a standup. The referee complied, bringing both fighters to their feet. Santos didn’t waste any time, nailing Dupas to the canvas with a killer left hook.
The crowd went ballistic as more blood sprayed from the challenger’s nose. The round before, Santos had hammered Dupas to the mat with a straight right, opening the floodgates.
Men and women chanted “San-tos!” jumping to their feet as the champ landed punch after punch. Santos maneuvered Dupas into a mount and scored yet another takedown. The crowd began counting down the last seconds of the fight as if it were New Year’s Eve in Times Square. When the bell sounded, marking the end of the fight, Santos, bald and tattooed, paraded around the ring, pumping a fist in the air.
Ten minutes later, the redhead’s long-legged stride took her out to the casino floor. Popping gum and listening to “Fergieliscious” on her iPod nano, she pushed past the minions working the slots and video poker machines.
As she walked past, each and every slot hit.
The clatter of falling coins accompanied by the bells and whistles of the machines was almost deafening. Chaos ensued as men and women jumped to their feet in disbelief. The redhead kept walking, unfazed, a faint smile on her lips.
She stepped out the entrance made famous by a forty-five-foot bronze statue of the MGM lion. She’d been playing hooky coming here, blowing off the VIP ticket Zag had given her to see the new Lance Burton wannabe at Mandalay Bay. The magician’s final act featured the band Do It To Julia vanishing off the stage after performing their new hit single.
Zag had masterminded the gig for his charity du jour. He’d
