Page 12 of Gates of Tartarus

“Thanks, Marco. Did you... was the body still there when you got back outside?”

He shakes his head. “Naw. The girl and the other two were gone. I was upstairs for like ten minutes maybe?”

Sitting back, I motion toward the door with my head, and Walker nods. “And Bianchi?” I ask. “Anything unusual? Anyone messing with his drinks, his car… anything?”

Chantalle shakes her head. “We run a tight ship, Kailani. We step too far out of line, and all of our special friends at the precinct would do shit to help us, or worse, would try to take advantage. We operate withinveryspecific parameters, balancing on a razor’s edge to keep our business going. Bianchi’s car wasn’t here the entire time. He came in, dranka lot, passed out. When he woke up, we called his driver, who arrived and tried to help Bianchi out to the car. Bianchi fired him on the spot, then got in by himself and drove away. If you look in the alley outside, you can see where he hit the wall and then the guardrail across the street. Guy was blitzed and high as a kite. He came in here with a joint almost smoked out. We don’t allow that shit in our house, so he had to put it out, but he lit up again as soon as he left.”

I slowly stand and start to gather my things. “Thank you, guys. Really. You’ve been very helpful.”

Chantalle leans forward and grabs my wrist, hard. Without thinking, I break the hold and put her in a tight joint lock. She makes a small, pained noise, and the guys behind her move forward towards me as one, giant wall of muscle. Walker is suddenly at my back, anger rolling off him in waves, and the room is choking me with the sudden wash of violence. I let Chantalle go, who waves off her men, cradling her tender wrist, and apologizes: “I’m sorry, Kailani. I shouldn’t have... I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

Everyone takes a step back, emotionally if not physically, but Walker, who is still brushing my back every time he breathes, and whose body is vibrating with tension.

“Okay,” I say quietly, “Just... next time just ask, okay? No hands.”

She holds her hands up in front of her and promises, “No hands.” Sitting back down, I wait for her to continue. “I read that article…”

“It’s bullshit.” Walker speaks for the first time, his smooth, hot-chocolate voice warming me from my toes all the way up. “She’s just a fucking good detective.” Chantalle gazes appreciatively at Walker, lips curving up into a practiced allure, shaking her glossy ponytail over her shoulder.

“I can still ask though, right?” she says to him in a breathy, bedroom voice, eyes wide, lower lip slightly wobbly.Jesus Christ, this girl, I think, half amused, half jealous, and an unnamed amount of oddly pissed off. Amusement pours off Walker like cool rain, shivering down my skin as he looks down at me and raises an eyebrow, nodding towards my hands, which, for no apparent reason, are clenched tightly aroundmy napkin, knuckles white.

“Marco – he’s a good kid.” Marco looks up sharply, frowning, clearly surprised by the direction this conversation has taken.

“Ms. Haven….” he begins, protesting, but she talks over him.

“Something happened, like a year ago, and I don’t know what exactly and he won’t tell me, but whatever it was happened on my time, and it’s fucked him up. I want to know what happened, and how we can fix it.”

I start shaking my head, and she motions to a guy behind her, who throws a stack of bound bills on the table in front of me. “We can pay, Kailani. This is a business deal. $2,000.00 cash, off the books, if you can help.”

Marco is trembling slightly beside me but hasn’t moved, and I’m reminded for all the world of a baby bunny caught in the gaze of a coyote. I push the money back toward her. “I don’t do that.”

Her mouth tightens. “$4,000 is as high as I can go.”

“I don’t think you understand,” I say quietly. Walker is on edge behind me, and the swirl of emotions between Chantalle’s determination, Marco’s fear, and Walker’s tension, is making me feel like I’m going to throw up. “I don’t go somewhere I haven’t been invited.”

“I’m inviting you. My time, my employee.”

“His mind. His emotions.” I turn to Marco. “You want me to try and help, I can try and help. No promises. It doesn’t always work.”

“Kai,” Walker says behind me quietly, but I silence him with a quick hand gesture.

“Will it hurt me?” Marco asks softly, and I shake my head.

“It won’t hurt you,” I promise, and he sighs.

“Will you get off my case if I do this?” he asks Chantalle. “If she can’t see anything or whatever, will you promise to just leave it?”

She nods. “I promise.”

Crap. Time to perform, I guess.Wishing Deo were here to help, since he’s used to how I work, I reach forward slowly and hover over Marco’s hands until he nods, and then I take them in my own. Totally unnecessary, but it helps provide drama to the moment and distract from what I’m doing.

“Think of whatever happened that day,” I say softly, and fear flashes across his face before he gets sucked into the memory. Concentrating, I lower my walls a little, and Marco’s emotions push into me.Ah. Guilt, guilt, guilt.He hadn’t checked in with a girl; she had been hurt, badly enough to go to the hospital. He wasn’t in charge; no one had told him; but her face was burned into his mind. He’d been carrying around her bruised and bloody visage long enough that somehow it had twisted him into feeling likehewas responsible for it. It’s becoming difficult for him to remember thathedidn’t hurt her. All the memories of the violence are blending together and hardening into a knot that pretty soon won’t be able to be undone. He has nightmares about it, has become religious about checking in on the girls now… I sigh. This is part of the problem with reading emotions as truth. Your memories get tangled, and false recollections morph into a perverted reality.

Gently, very, very gently, I lift the outline of her face from his mind. Pulling the strands of guilt and shame away into myself, I dull the memory until the knife-edge sharpness fades into a shadowed corner. I drink in the violence, her tear-stained face, her shaking body, and leave him wrapping her carefully in a blanket, calling the ambulance, holding her hand on the ride to the hospital. I leave him staying at her bedside but take the feelings of inadequacy. I leave him pushing away the perpetrator who came by with flowers to avoid having charges pressed against him, leave the feeling of Marco’s hand connecting with the man’s jaw, but take the insidious strands that have tied that memory to the image of the girl’s face being hit.

Shaking slightly, I try to chase down every tainted emotion creating the false memories, leaving enough of the actual event that he can remember it and feel it accurately, without guilt. When I’m done, just a few minutes later, I sit back and shake out my hands. Marco’s eyes are still closed, though his jaw has relaxed slightly.

“Well?” Chantalle asks eagerly.

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