up. “I’ll twirl a baton.”
* * * *
Chicago was a living metropolis, a brilliantly modern and majestically primeval creature breathing and teeming and issuing forth a steady cacophony of human noise. Under the stark winter light, the buildings loomed as monoliths, an overwhelming collection of glittering glass, gleaming steel, and earthy stone. At street level, the world was narrow and claustrophobic, life chugging along under the shadows of the great towers like thick blood pulsing through deep, dark veins.
It was beautiful and horrible at the same time. Like most great monsters.
“Where’s Sears Tower?” June craned her neck, trying to see out the moon roof of Cindy’s car. She had seen the skyline from the freeway, the tallest building in the country rising like an obsidian deity amongst a gray court.
“You can’t see it from Michigan Avenue.” Micha sat next to her in the backseat. “And it’s Willis Tower now.”
“What?”
“Willis Group Holdings moved into it. It’s called Willis Tower now.”
“Are you serious? It’s an American icon.”
“They renamed Comiskey Park ‘U.S. Cellular Field.’” Micha shrugged. “Corporations buy things; they change the names. If you think you’re shocked and outraged, you should hear the people who live here.”
“Killing traditions,” June said. “Your city is pretty good at that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask all the pissed off paranormal people.”
Robbie, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned his head and shot a close-lipped smile at her. June mouthed turn around. He did.
“Not that I’ll get to go up it,” June said, “but are you outside on top of the Willis Tower?”
“No.” Cindy snorted. “It’s glassed in.”
“So no spitting over the edge,” June said.
“It would never reach the ground from that high up.” Cindy rolled her eyes in the mirror.
“And it would be so windy up there you wouldn’t be able to stand,” Robbie added.
“Quit bringing me down. What’s next? You’re gonna tell me there’s no God?”
They crept along slowly, the streets choked with cars and the sidewalks alive with pedestrians even in the intense, blustery cold. They passed over a wide stone bridge, and June sat up. The water beneath the bridge was murky green and choked with a mosaic of ice chunks.
“Is water supposed to be that color?” she asked.
Micha sat up as well. “They dye it even greener for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Sounds totally safe.”
“It is safe. The original stuff they used was flourescein, but it was harmful to the organisms in the river, so they changed it.”
“I bet it’s still flourescein.” She relaxed against the seat. “When three-eyed fish start washing up on the banks, you’ll know.”
“Mmm, three-eyed fish.” Micha tilted his head and gave her a crooked smile. “Extra eyeballs means extra delicious.”
June was titillated—yes, titillated—to be called out on her sarcasm.
“Just imagine,” Robbie spoke up. “Once, none of this was here. It was just a peaceful river flowing through the wilderness. No people, no buildings, no cars, no pollution. You couldn’t look at it and imagine that someday civilization would rise up on its decimated banks and all this terrible progress would stand where once there were trees and hills.”
Everyone stared at him, even Cindy.
“I wish we’d brought the Jack Daniels with us.” June envisioned smashing the bottle over Robbie’s head.
Robbie looked over his shoulder at her.
“What’s Sacramento like?” Micha asked.
June shrugged. “Smaller. Brighter. More laid back.”
“Is there a prevalent paranormal community there?”
“Not really. It’s not as out in the open as it is here.”
“Do they have organizations for paranormal people?”
“I don’t get into that stuff.” The buildings crawled past. “Ending up here is a reminder why.”
“I read in the Tribune,” Micha said, “you were discovered by an entertainment reporter.”
She snorted. “Yeah. This girl from a local rag came into my shop to get some work done. I’ve known her for a long time, did most of her ink. She was talking about supernatural stuff, and I let it slip, told her about Jason and me. I thought I could trust her. Then she went and wrote a frickin’ article about it.” She fidgeted, looking down at her fingers. “Jason was pissed. Hell, I was pissed. He’s an actor, and he thought if it got out it would hurt his career, thought people would assume he’s charming his way into roles. Not that he would ever do that.”
“If he did, he’d have an Oscar by now,” Micha said. “A million of them.”
“Still, I didn’t think anyone read that stupid paper, certainly not people in Chicago.”
“The Institute is vigilant,” Micha said. “They keep a sharp eye out for the smallest things. The paranormal is still an underground community for many reasons, so they have to canvas far and wide. And your power is uncommon, being an aural captivator, a Siren.” He scoffed. “‘Siren’ is such a misleading term, though. Sirens are mythological creatures. Hypnotic voice phenomenon isn’t gender specific, either.”
“Thank you, Mr. Encyclopedia. I don’t give a damn. I should have kept my mouth shut. That’s what I get for trusting people. I don’t understand why you like being so involved in it.”
“My family had a lot of paranormal friends when I was growing up. Before it was recognized scientifically. Back then it was all about getting people to accept it as a reality. People like my mother campaigned for her friends to get recognition. Now I’m trying to convince people not to hurt them.”
“So you inherited a legacy.”
“And my family is paranormal.” He waved this off as if it were a lesser reason. “My sisters both have paranormal abilities. So does one of my aunts. Marked telepathy and mild telekinesis, but Emily, my oldest sister, is also a pyrokinetic.”
“A pyrokinetic? She sets things on fire with her mind? Like that Drew Barrymore movie?”
Micha's voice darkened. “It’s not exactly like that. She can make certain substances heat up. If they’re flammable, yes, they can catch on fire. It’s
