Chapter 17

Heist day. Who was excited? Vera definitely was. Me… not so much. But this was the price for a handcuff-free trip out of the country.

With the morning sun peeking through a thin layer of clouds that would thicken into gloomy overcast by midafternoon, I climbed onto Vera's motorcycle behind her and we made the trek across the bay and back into the city. Faustus's sale was scheduled for that night, and we aimed to be at his restaurant by noon.

Why not sneak in during the sale and use a few good hallucinations to hide our greedy mitts snatching up Vera's artifacts? Because there'd be way too many people, way too much chance for error, and way too much extra security for the very purpose of foiling thieves.

So, being oh so clever, we'd steal her artifacts back before the sale. No way could that go wrong.

I was chewing the inside of my cheek as the bike rolled to a stop at a red light on the Eastside. On the corner across the intersection was a cube-shaped brick building with an unwelcoming front door tucked into a shadowy nook. I squinted at it.

"Hey, I think I've seen that place before," I shouted over the rumble of the bike's motor. "It's a bar, right?"

Vera shook her head. "You don't wanna go there."

"Isn't that where they filmed Deadpool?"

"That's a guild—the Crow and Hammer."

A ping of dread struck me. Okay, not a cool film location. The Crow and Hammer was the guild that had toasted KCQ into blackened debris, then ground what remained—including my not-so-bad life—into dust under their fancy-pants combat boots. KCQ might have picked that fight, but the Crow and Hammer had sure as hell finished it.

I didn't know much about the guild, but I did know I didn't want to hang around and find out if they might recognize a KCQ escapee. With a casual glance around, I dropped a quick halluci-bomb on every vehicle in sight and turned all the traffic lights red.

Tires squealed as half a dozen shocked drivers slammed the brakes.

"Go," I called to Vera.

"The light—"

"Just do it!"

She hit the gas. With a rubbery screech, we were across the empty intersection, and I dropped the hallucination. Horns honked angrily as we accelerated away from the Crow and Hammer—and toward Faustus Trivium. It felt like an "out of the frying pan and into the fire" situation.

I briefly questioned the judiciousness of my life choices, then swatted the notion away. Now was not the time for wisdom. Now was the time for charging headfirst into the lair of a dangerous criminal!

We stashed the bike between a dumpster and a compost bin a couple blocks away from Corky's and walked the rest of the way. Before we were within eyesight of the restaurant, we paused in a sheltered nook behind a dumpster.

Step One: The Anti-Vera Halluci-Bomb.

I deployed the mass projection, effectively wiping Vera out of existence. She and her jean jacket, camo pants, and canvas backpack disappeared in the eyes of everyone except me. She sucked in a steadying breath as all her senses went wonky.

"I still don't… like this," she muttered, holding her hands out in front of her.

We resumed our approach. By the time we reached Corky's, her gait almost resembled that of a normal, functioning human being.

I sniffed the rancid air wafting out the door and asked in an undertone, "Are you sure they serve actual food here?"

She scrunched her nose. "Maybe just order coffee."

I opened the door with enough gusto for her to slip in after me.

The inside of Corky's Cuisine didn't smell any better than the outside, nor did the décor inspire confidence in its culinary competence. The tables looked like the wobbly leftovers from other dive bars, while the chairs had definitely been stolen from the defective bin behind an unguarded Walmart.

My shoe stuck to the tiled floor, and I employed considerable effort not to make an "ew" face at the mysteriously tacky brown substance I'd walked through. A rough, handwritten note stapled to the wall instructed me to seat myself, so I chose the least rickety table I could find in the loneliest corner of the restaurant.

Vera trailed behind me. "You're sure none of them can see me?"

We both looked across Corky's distinctly male patronage. Five men were crowded around a single table in the corner opposite mine, and none of them seemed to know what a razor was. They spoke to one another in an eloquent language of grunts.

"Kind of a sausage party, isn't it?" I observed.

"Yeah. A greasy one."

A man in his sixties, roughly the same size and shape of an elderly orangutan, lumbered out of the kitchen and crossed to my table. "Whattya want?"

"Just coffee for now."

"That it?"

"For now."

The aproned orangutan muttered something unkind and walked away, never once looking in Vera's direction. As he disappeared into the kitchen, she relaxed.

"It's working," I murmured, trying not to move my lips too much. "Either that or he's incapable of acknowledging anyone without a Y chromosome."

She surveyed the dude-centric room again. "Faustus does tend to run a bit of a boy's club. How far does your illusion thingy extend?"

"As long as you stay inside the restaurant, you'll be okay."

"You're sure?"

"A hundred percent."

She stood there for a moment longer, then shook her head. "I'm not getting any visions, so I guess we're good to go."

"Then run along," I urged her. "The faster you are, the sooner you can return to your visible form."

To be honest, I was less concerned with her personal comfort than my endurance. I wasn't sure how long I could keep the halluci-bomb going.

With a quick nod, she moved away from the table and navigated her way through the restaurant.

Step Two: Hide and Seek.

Our success was solely in Vera's hands now. All I had to do was sit still and maintain the projection while she stealthily searched the building for Faustus's stash of artifacts.

This part of our plan was comparatively weak when stacked up against the idea of posing as potential buyers, where the artifacts would be on display and easy to access. She'd have to comb the bowels of Corky's for clues, and being invisible, she had to be careful while moving about. She couldn't shift anything, including doors, if anyone might see it.

And the biggest potential obstacle: if her artifacts were sealed inside a magically reinforced piggy bank or otherwise inaccessible, then we were screwed. And that, of course, would lead to…

Step Three: Improvise.

Orangutan-man pushed through the door, carrying a plate of weirdly slimy chicken wings, and Vera slipped into the kitchen unnoticed. The server/cook/primate delivered the poultry limbs to the beefy men in the other corner, then returned to his greasy domain in the back.

Well, nothing for me to do now but maintain the projection and relax. The more energy I conserved, the better. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In and out, slow and deep.

Several quiet minutes passed, then my respiratory concentration was interrupted by the odor of something that resembled sour coffee. I looked up to see that my order had arrived—only it wasn't the orangu-man who'd delivered it.

Standing in front of me was a fellow with long, straight, jet-black hair that clung to his skull and hung down to his elbows. His clean-shaven, birdlike face made it difficult to pinpoint his age. Thirty-five? Seventy-five? Probably somewhere in between. Everything, from his nose to his shoulders to the pattern on his blazer, was bizarrely geometric. Even his blindingly white grin was too triangular to be natural.

"I don't believe we've met," he said in a voice that registered somewhere between a whisper and a squeak. He extended his hand toward me. "My name is Faustus. Faustus Trivium."