The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [80]
He didn’t need to say more. White meant a police car. Of concern, but not immediately dangerous. Grace was still wanted in this town for assaulting an officer, but not every cruiser would be looking for her. As for black—that meant them. And from what Travis had told her, she would much rather have a long conversation with the police than a chat with one of the friendly representatives of Duratek.
“White,” she said.
They kept walking. Grace was aware of a pale blur as the patrol car drove past, but she did not glance in its direction. She breathed a sigh as the vehicle rolled down the street ahead of them—
—then her breath ceased as the vehicle slowed and halted. Through the dim rectangle of the rear window she saw the driver look back over his shoulder. She caught the faint sparks of his eyes with her own. The car’s reverse lights blinked on, and her heart stuttered.
Grace clutched Travis’s arm. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know. If we run, we might as well hold up a big sign that says Fugitives ‘R’ Us.”
Motionless, she watched the car back up toward them. What would she say when they questioned her? You can’t detain me, Officer. I’m a citizen of another world. Something told her there were no Calavaner embassies in Denver.
A blaring noise vibrated through her body. She managed to crane her neck in time to see a delivery truck hurtling east down Colfax. Brakes hissed and squealed as the truck slowed, coming to a stop mere inches before colliding with the police car. The truck’s door flew open, and the meaty driver clambered out, his face puffy and red as he strode toward the patrol vehicle, arms waving.
“Now,” Travis said. “While he’s distracted.”
A row of brick-and-glass storefronts lined the block, a shopette that had no doubt seemed sleek and modern in 1964 but was now squat and drab, part of an architectural experiment that had ended, not only in failure, but in ugliness. Travis pulled Grace toward the nearest doorway.
The sound of chimes floated on the air as the door shut behind them, along with the sound of water bubbling over stone. A faint haze of smoke drifted on the air, rich and mossy on the tongue. A tree branch arched overhead, its gold leaves glinting in the faint light.
A small gasp escaped Grace. Once before she had walked into a room only to discover a forest instead. It had been in Castle Calavere, when she and Travis had gone to speak with Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors. Through some magic of the Little People, their room had seemed at once a castle chamber and a greenwood glade. Was there a similar magic at work here?
“Hello,” a husky voice said. “Can I help you find something?”
Smoke swirled, and before them stood a tall, lean, dark-skinned woman. From her clingy red minidress sprouted slender, beautifully muscled arms and impossibly long legs that Grace knew hordes of Paris runway models would gladly sell what little remained of their souls in order to possess. White platform shoes made her nearly as tall as Travis, and the fantastically sculpted black coiffure that crowned her head was clearly not meant to be anything but a wig. She was, in a word, gorgeous.
“Incense? Herbs? Candles?” She lifted a hand tipped by wonderfully unnatural press-on nails, gesturing to the crowded shelves all around. “If you need a little magic, you’ve come to the right place. Just tell Marji what you need.”
How about getting us off this world? Grace glanced back through the door, but the glass was obscured by sun-faded posters, and she couldn’t see the police car she knew was parked on the other side. Was he still occupied with the truck driver?
She turned back. “We need … that is, we wanted …” Grace felt her eyes bulging. Had she always been such a terrible liar?
Travis rescued her. “Candles,” he said. “We need candles.” He pointed to a nearby shelf. “Those red ones look good.”
The woman—Marji—raised a precisely tweezed eyebrow, then sauntered to the shelf. She picked up one of the red tapers. “These? You’re sure?”
“Yes, those are the ones I want.