I bounded up the steps to our fourth-floor walk-up apartment. The hallway still smelled like piss. I tripped on my neighbors’ pile of bikes yet again and cursed, rubbing my elbow. But I didn’t care. I had just listened to the voicemail from Reggie, and I felt like skipping.
At last I reached our door, out of breath from running up the three flights of stairs. I was bursting with the news; I couldn’t wait to tell Eva, but I took the time to jangle my keys loudly and then pause for a moment on the welcome mat, to give her some warning, in case her sort-of-a-boyfriend, Ramsey, was over. I was really hoping not. He wasn’t a bad guy, I kept telling myself. But still. Eva fell in love with boys the way moths fall in love with lightbulbs.
Thankfully there was no Ramsey, but when the door swung open, Eva was in the bathtub. This would not have been awkward in a normal apartment, but our bathtub was in our kitchen. The “kitchen counter” was a piece of plywood balanced on top the tub, and the “shower” was a green garden hose we screwed into the tub faucet. And all our friends thought we were so lucky to have found this apartment . . . but that’s New York real estate for you.
“I got it!” I cried out to Eva. “I got the job!”
She leapt out of the tub like a wet dolphin, squealing. Throwing a big, fluffy terrycloth robe over herself, Eva enveloped me in a tight hug. We clutched each other’s hands and spun round and round in a circle on the kitchen floor, whooping with joy.
“I knew you’d get it!” She grinned at me as she wrapped her hair in a towel turban and slipped into her track suit. It too was soft and fuzzy, like a lot of Eva’s possessions. I had the urge to pet her sleeve.
“I wasn’t sure I’d get it.” I shook my head. “I guess you had more faith in me than I did.”
“I always have more faith in you than you do,” she said, putting on her bunny slippers, “and I always end up being right, so you should really listen to me more often.”
I had to laugh at that.
As Eva towel dried her hair, I related everything Reggie had told me about the case. She listened, her head cocked thoughtfully to the side, as she brushed sweet-smelling gel into her long, black curls.
“So when does he want you to go to this club?”
“Actually, tonight.”
“He isn’t going to train you first?”
I sighed. “I guess not. Maybe that’s why it’s a trial assignment.” I looked up at her. “I’m nervous.”
Eva padded over to me, the bunny ears on her feet flopping with each step. She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be great, honey.”
She paused for a moment, and then an impish grin spread over her face.
“Do you know what you’re wearing to the club?”
I stared at her blankly. Fashion was not my forte.
“Um . . . this?” I said, gesturing to the jeans and black T-shirt I’d changed into after the interview.
Eva shook her head in disapproval.
“Come with me.”
“Eva . . .” I protested.
But she grabbed my hand and led me towards her bedroom.
She parted the long curtain of beads that covered the door. The strands tinkled and clinked behind us. As I stepped through, I could smell the lingering sweetness from her altar on the windowsill—the scent of beeswax candles, mixed with the spice of sandalwood incense and the heady fragrance of Florida Water. Her row of resin statues stared down at us from a high shelf. There were a few fairies in the anachronistic mix of goddesses, angels and Catholic saints—I wondered what she’d think if she knew we were nothing like those pink-cheeked children with wings.
Sometimes I’d thought maybe I could tell her the truth, about me having been a fairy. Maybe Eva’s belief in magic would make her able to believe me? I watched her as she rummaged through her closet, humming an old folk song tunelessly to herself in Spanish. Maybe she would believe me . . . but probably not. No one really believed in fairies.
Eva emerged from her closet with a sound of triumph. She had tossed aside her piles of nursing school scrubs and found what appeared to be a very low-cut black dress and a pair of high-heeled boots. I eyed them both skeptically.
“Um . . . Eva, this is business . . .”
“You want to look the part, don’t you?” she countered.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
“You know I’m too flat chested to wear something like this,” I said as I slipped off my shirt and pulled the dress over my head.
“Hush. It’ll look good. And you never know—you might meet someone at this club tonight.”
I rolled my eyes, though I knew Eva couldn’t see it with the dress over my head. She had taken on my dating life, or lack thereof, like it was her pet project. Not that she was always the greatest dating role model. Personally, I didn’t have much hope. Twenty-two years in this body and human relationships were as baffling to me as ever.
I smoothed the dress over my hips and pulled on the high-heeled boots. Eva whistled, but I couldn’t see myself yet. I walked over to her full-length mirror, wobbling in my heels, and then stopped, staring at myself. I had never felt so naked wearing clothes before! The sheer black fabric stopped before I’d even fully lengthened my arm. It was slightly scandalous. And yet—as I looked at my reflection, I saw that I was smiling, involuntarily. As I turned to see the back, the skirt swirled flirtatiously around me. I blushed.
“Oh my god, you’re like the girl version of James Bond in that!” said Eva.
“You really think so?” I asked. I still wasn’t sure.
Eva smiled at me. “You’re going to rock this assignment.”
She paused.
“You sure it’s safe, right? I mean, a girl who went to this place did disappear.” Eva’s forehead wrinkled. She was worried about me.
“I had the same fear,” I said. “But I keep telling myself it’s a public place. Reggie wouldn’t have sent me on this assignment as a newbie if he thought it was dangerous, right? And I’m just there to observe. It’s not like I’m coming in to bust this guy.” I gave her a thin-lipped smile, trying to reassure her. But I was also trying to reassure myself. “I’ll keep my wits about me.”
“Write down the name and address of the club.”
I nodded.
“And text me when you get there. Then text me periodically, just so I know you’re okay. And text me when you’re headed home!”
“Yes, Mom.” I smiled at her, but I appreciated Eva’s concern. It was good to have somebody worried about me.
“I promise I’ll text you,” I told her.
I got out of the subway, clutching the little slip of paper where I had jotted down the address of the club and the name of the proprietor, which Reggie had given me. I peered at it in the halo of a lone streetlight to make sure I hadn’t gotten lost. I wasn’t familiar with this part of Brooklyn. The sound of my borrowed heels click-clacking over the sidewalk was too loud, and I was feeling self-conscious in this too-short dress. Not that anyone could see it under my bulky winter coat.
The street was dark and unusually quiet for New York City. The buildings were old and tired. A few of them had sheets of plywood nailed over the windows, the front doors decorated with scrawls of graffiti. Occasionally I heard shouts or peals of laughter from inside one of the buildings, but then the sounds faded into an eerie quiet.
I was alone on the street. Every so often a car would pass, its stereo cranked up loud, the beat vibrating in my internal organs. Then the sound petered out into the distance, and I was alone on the silent street once more.
At last I came to the door that matched the number on the little scrap of paper. This was it? This was not what I’d been expecting. The whitewashed brick building in front of me looked like a warehouse or abandoned storefront, a rusty fire escape running up the front, windows boarded up, paint peeling from the door. I double-checked the address, but it was right. I stepped closer. Then I heard the muffled sound of music coming from inside.
It wasn’t the kind of music I was expecting. It sounded like a brassy, jazzy swing band. There were lights too, flashing now and then from beneath the dark window shades. I heard a lull drone of voices and occasionally a peal of high-pitched laughter.
My stomach fluttered nervously.
Human social interactions were confusing enough when it was one-on-one; throw a whole group of humans together and add alcohol—and I had no idea what to do. I mostly sat on the sidelines at parties, an awkward observer. And those were the parties that were supposed to be “fun”—at this party I had a job to do. But maybe that would make it easier, I told myself—at least it would give me a focus. Still, I wasn’t sure. What if this “Obadiah Savage” Reggie wanted me to talk to found out I was working for a private detective? Worse, what if he thought I was an undercover cop come to arrest him? Would he be mad? Would things get ugly?
I paused on the sidewalk outside the door. I could turn back, I told myself. I could return to Reggie’s office tomorrow and say, “I can’t do this alone. I need backup.”
But it was Friday, and that would mean I couldn’t talk to Reggie till Monday, and then we probably wouldn’t have another chance to interview this guy till next weekend. I didn’t want that much time to elapse. I knew this much about missing-person cases: the more time elapsed, the less chance we had of finding Charlotte alive. Plus, it wasn’t like I was coming here to bust this man. As far as we knew, he hadn’t even done anything wrong. I was just here to observe, ask a few questions, then leave.
Get a grip on yourself, I told my fluttering stomach. You could help find this girl. You could finally stop being unemployed.
I took a deep breath. “Please let this go well,” I whispered. Then I knocked on the door with a nervous heart.
There was no answer.
Maybe my knock was too soft? The music was rather loud. I knocked again. And then I realized the door was open. Feeling foolish, I stepped inside.
A swirl of light and music and moving bodies accosted me. For a second I stepped back into the door frame, like an animal in retreat. But remembering why I was here I took a deep breath and walked forward.
The room was full of people. The walls were lined with smoky glass mirrors, framed in peeling gold, with little flickering candles beneath that multiplied their numbers even more. Everyone was dancing and talking and laughing, and the air in the room was thick with their heat. On the far side of the club was a small stage where two saxophonists, a singer and a bassist were rocking out a raucous ballad. I felt like I’d gone back in time to some sort of twenties speakeasy.
I found a sliver of space in the crowd and perched myself there, a vantage point from which I could see both the door and the stage. I stared at the dancers, my mouth gaping open. Everyone was ridiculously good-looking, their statuesque bodies swaying in perfect rhythm to the bluesy beat. I’d never seen dancing like that. They all moved like professionals, like this was some sort of movie set, but their ease and familiarity with each other told me they couldn’t be actors. The dancers’ hips and limbs glided with a sensual grace I could only marvel at. I knew I didn’t dance like that. Was I going to have to dance in order to play the part here? My stomach did a nervous flip.
I glanced back towards the door and noticed there was a row of colored lamps hanging over the front entrance. The big glass globes looked like whale-oil lamps, fitting the old-fashioned décor; except that they flashed bright colors whenever someone walked under them. There were different colors turned on depending on who was walking through.
A sallow-cheeked girl in a blood-red cloak sauntered in; I caught a whiff of the heavy perfume she wore as the purple lamp illuminated over her head. But when a group of scruffy young men entered, laughing too loud and playfully punching each other, the light changed to white. Then a bevy of ethereal blondes passed by, and the lamps flashed an eerie emerald green.
My attention returned to the dance floor. I could see now that there were distinctly different groups and factions within the crowd, whereas before it all seemed like a big, swirling mass.
The young men who’d just entered were showing off now, breaking out hip-hop moves and manly acrobatics, egging each other on into more and more dangerous stunts. Elsewhere other cliques were emerging; the ethereal blonde girls had formed an impenetrable circle and were dancing almost in unison. The best dancers were a group of dark-haired women closest to the stage. The band had switched to a sultry tango and I watched the women’s legs in awe as they sashayed and serpentined and slipped coyly between their partners.
As I observed them all, I became aware of a few people who weren’t on the dance floor. They were hanging to the sides—some seated at the tables, some just standing by the edge of the stage, their hands jammed in their pockets, gazing longingly at the dancers. Unlike everyone else in the room, they weren’t perfectly beautiful, and their bodies were of all shapes and sizes. Instead of resembling Greek statues, they looked like ordinary folks. At least I’m not the only one. But I didn’t want to be one of the gawkers. If I was going to do this assignment, I needed to be on the inside.
I walked towards the glittering black-haired tango dancers, and then stopped. I could smell their heady perfume, so chokingly sweet and thickly floral it made me feel dizzy and faint.
“Can I help you, miss?” said a growling voice. The tone was threatening. I nearly jumped as I turned around. I hadn’t known anyone was behind me, but when I saw him, I didn’t know how I could have missed him. The man staring down at me was enormously tall and hulking, his arms like two boulders, with a rough, whiskery beard. He wasn’t bad-looking, though there was something wolfish about his eyes . . .
I remembered the name from the scrap of paper Reggie had given me.
“Obadiah Savage?” I asked.
The man grinned, showing yellowed, unusually large canine teeth. I heard him chuckle deep and low.
“Oh, I’m not Obadiah,” he said on a laugh, his voice thick with a Southern drawl, out of place in New York City. He gestured with his head to the far corner of the room. “He’s Obadiah.”
Of course he is, was all I could think as I turned to where the bouncer had pointed.
A man was standing with his back against the bar top, next to the velvet stage curtains. He was devastatingly handsome, but unlike the perfect bodies of the dancers, there was something rough about him, restless. His skin was a sun-weathered brown and there was a dark shadow of stubble along the square lines of his jaw. He leaned up against the shining marble, one hand cocked on his hip—seemingly relaxed, but I could see a tension in his muscles that reminded me of a jaguar poised to spring.
He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt, like a gentleman from days of yore, rolled up at the elbows as if braced for a fight. The material was thin, and I could see the flat planes of his chest as a shaft of stage light hit him. His dark eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence as he surveyed the room—he was taking in everything, like a director watching his play being performed.
From his body, I would have guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, but the expression in his eyes was much older than that. It lacked innocence. It cut right through the sparkle of the party and hinted at something dark at its core.
The floater hovered just above his head.
Then Obadiah turned towards me.
I almost lost my footing as the full force of his attention landed on me, his gaze boring into my skin. He was staring right at me, not even pausing to blink. It was as if his eyes were searching me, trying to figure out who I was, what I was, what right I had to be there. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring—just looked straight at me with such intensity that I had to lower my eyes and turn away because I couldn’t bear it a moment longer.
The man I’d been talking to before, the bouncer, walked over to Obadiah. As he did so, he glanced back at me from over his shoulder, and I detected nervousness in his eyes. He whispered something in Obadiah’s ear. Without taking his eyes off me, Obadiah nodded.
Fear simmering in my stomach, I stepped closer, trying to hear what they were saying.
“Boss, I think it’s her. Should I . . . ?”
“No.”
“But you saw . . . !”
“I saw both.” Obadiah held up his hand for silence. “Just wait. I’ll take care of this.”
The big man stepped back, his head down, like a wolf submitting to its pack leader. Clearly Obadiah was the boss here. But what was he saying? Was the “her” they were talking about me? What had he seen?
My stomach clenched. He knows, I thought, beginning to panic. He must know you’re a P.I. Why else would Obadiah be staring at you like that?
My breath was coming faster, and I tried to slow it down, tried to think.
But how would he know? I hadn’t done anything to give myself away. All I’d done was come through the door, walk a few steps, notice the dancers. I was being paranoid, I told myself.
He knows you don’t belong here, the little voice in my head chastised me. How could you? Look at the people on the stage and then look at yourself.
Maybe he doesn’t know, I thought, trying to comfort myself, trying to get my breathing back to normal. Maybe they were talking about something else? Maybe you’re just reading way too much into a stare?
I took a deep breath, hoping for the best.
When I looked up, Obadiah had stopped staring. But then the other man turned away and Obadiah was walking towards me. My stomach fluttered as I wondered what I should do or say.
As he approached me, his manner totally changed. His full lips curled upwards into an amiable smile. I noticed the floater moved with him, following his every step, hovering just above his head. There was a slow, sensual confidence in the way he walked; almost a swagger, but more restrained. The crowd of people parted to let him through; it was obvious he owned this place in more ways than one. He walked right up to me, and I felt my heartbeat quicken as he got closer, so close I could smell him—the rich old-world scent of his cologne mixed with a darker and earthier masculine fragrance all his own.
His eyes sparkled darkly and he gave a little bow.
“I hope you will forgive me for being so rude,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “I didn’t mean to stare at you like that. For a moment, I thought you were someone else. But I must have been mistaken. My apologies.”
He had a hint of an accent, but I couldn’t place where it was from. Then I realized it wasn’t really an accent at all, just a more formal, deliberate way of speaking than I was used to.
“I’m Mabily Jones,” I said, nervously extending my hand.
“Welcome to my club, Mabily Jones.” His hand was warm as he shook mine, and he gave another little bow.
“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound breezy and confident, like Eva would have. But inside my heart was fluttering nervously. Who was this man? Right now he seemed so nice—the perfect host—but a moment ago I’d felt genuinely afraid of him.
“So, what do you think of the party?” said Obadiah, making a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room and everyone inside it.
“I didn’t know anything like this existed,” I replied. “I feel like I stepped back in time, or into some other world.”
He smiled at me enigmatically. “Perhaps a bit of both? But where are my manners? May I offer you a drink?”
I demurred. I was, after all, on the job.
“As you wish,” said Obadiah.
There was a pause, and I wondered if now would be a good time to say the speech I’d been preparing, to ask him about Charlotte. There was a twinkling light in his eyes, a mischievous sort of gleam, and for a moment it distracted me completely from why I’d come here. The last song had ended and the room was quiet.
Then all at once the musicians struck up again. But the music was very different now. The new song was a slow dance, the tune almost mournful, but with a sensuous rhythm. The dancers began to couple up and slowly sway, while the others took their seats and watched them enviously from the tables next to the floor.
“Would you like to dance?” Obadiah asked, with another little bow.
The question startled me. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. It was like he was still trying to figure me out. You and me both, I thought.
I hesitated. I wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t the greatest dancer. Slow dancing wasn’t that hard—all you had to do was sort of rock back and forth—but it always left me in perpetual fear of stepping on my partner’s toes, which had happened on more than one occasion. This human body thing . . . it didn’t always work out for me. And yet—the thought of dancing with this man, to be that close to him, skin against skin, sent a little tingle through my spine. Don’t even go there, I told myself. You have a job to do. Maybe Eva was right—maybe it had been too long since I’d been with a man. I wasn’t even able to hold my concentration in the presence of one. But then again, I needed to talk to Obadiah about the case, and slow dancing was often a good way to talk . . .
“I’d love to dance,” I said, flushing a bit.
His black eyes sparkled. And before I could say anything more he took my hand and led me out onto the floor. All around us the dancers were swaying slowly with perfect grace. The nervousness rose in my stomach again. But then Obadiah clasped my hand in his and pressed the other against the small of my back.
For a second I could hardly think. His fingers were warm against mine, and I could feel the heat of his other hand through the thin material of the back of my dress. I was so close to him now, I could feel the palpable maleness he exuded, the quiet confidence. With a small shift of his palm against my skin, he directed our dance, and to my amazement, my movements fell in line with his—we were dancing as one. Without once thinking about the steps, we glided across the floor. I’d never had a great partner before. He made it easy. In his arms, suddenly, I could dance.
I noticed I was smiling, the tension slipping from my body as we moved together, though my heart still fluttered.
Remember what you’re here to do, I had to tell myself. You’re not here to dance. You’re here to find out information.
“I have to ask you.” I leaned in close to whisper in his ear. There was a gap between us and the other couples; it gave us a breath of privacy to talk. “I came here tonight because of one of my friends. Maybe you know her—Charlotte Mercado?” I said, trying to let the missing girl’s name roll off my tongue like I’d practiced with Eva. “I haven’t seen Charlotte in a while. The last time I talked to her, she mentioned she’d been coming here a lot. I just . . . I wondered if maybe you’d seen her around?”
His body froze for a second, and I saw him nod, but it was like a shadow passed over his face at the mention of the missing girl’s name. He let out a sigh.
“I wish I could help you, I really do. But I haven’t seen her lately either,” he said slowly. “I don’t think anyone has. I heard her parents filed a report with the police.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.”
A beat of quiet passed between us.
“I truly am afraid for her,” Obadiah said, breaking the silence.
There was genuine pain in his voice as he said it.
“What do you think happened?” I asked, beginning to feel scared myself.
“Well, if you were really friends with Charlotte, you would know she had a lot of problems.”
I didn’t like the way he’d said “if you were really friends”—as if some part of him doubted my story.
“Charlotte was pretty lost,” he said, his eyes far away, though his body still moved with perfect masculine grace to the music. “She was deeply in debt. She’d been unemployed for more than a year. Her love life was in shambles. She was estranged from her adopted family. The last time I talked to her, she told me she wanted to track down her birth mother in the Philippines. I guess she thought that would somehow bring her peace, but she didn’t know the location exactly, and she didn’t have the money to travel.”
There was a deep melancholy in his eyes. “So when she asked for my help—what was I supposed to say?”
“But why would she come to you for help?”
The song had ended. Everyone stopped dancing and began to clap as the musicians held hands and bowed.
“Because I help people,” Obadiah said mysteriously. “That’s what I do. When people feel they’re out of options, and they want someone to wave a magic wand and fix all their problems . . . they come to me.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, and somehow I was afraid to ask. There was something ominous sounding about this altruism.
Before I could say a word, Obadiah spoke first, his eyes narrowing.
“You asked me a question; now I have a question for you.”
“Go on,” I answered, my heartbeat quickening. But the expression on his face had changed. His eyes were taking on that cold intensity again, like he had when I first saw him, and suddenly I was nervous.
“Do you know why you attracted my attention, when you walked through the door of my club?”
I shook my head, unsure what to say. Eva would have replied something like “Because I’m cute?” but she was the kind of girl who could get away with lines like that. I was not.
“For a moment I doubted it. I tried to convince myself that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that you were not what I thought you were. But now I am certain. So you can stop pretending.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“I know what you are.”
I froze like a bug when the light is turned on. He knows, I thought, panicking. There was no doubt now. He definitely knows you’re a P.I. All around me, the people, the sounds, everything was too close and too loud. I wanted to run out of this place. My mind was awhir as I tried to think of something I could say to save myself, and couldn’t come up with anything.
But Obadiah spoke.
“You obviously didn’t know Charlotte. If you did, you’d know that she never used her legal name. Only her parents called her that. All her friends, even acquaintances, called her Charley.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued.
“I must say, you did disguise yourself very well. I am sure you convinced all of them,” he said, gesturing to the partygoers, who were starting to dance again. “I am sure they all thought you were just some ordinary girl, out for a bit of fun. You are very good, you know. For a moment, you almost had me fooled.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Well, at least I hadn’t been a complete failure—although that wasn’t going to be much consolation when Reggie found out I’d been recognized and fired me. My cheeks were smarting. I was so mad at myself. I’d just blown my one chance! But how had he figured it out? I hadn’t done anything or said anything that could have given me away, had I? I didn’t even know what mistake I’d made.
“How did you know?” I blurted out.
Obadiah chuckled. “It’s my business to know my customers. I couldn’t be what I am if I didn’t know who they were, what they were, what they wanted, from the moment they walked in this door. I have my ways of telling these things,” he said mysteriously. I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Clearly he wasn’t willing to share his methods with me.
Would Obadiah still talk to me, even though he knew that I was a P.I.? Would he still tell me anything about the missing girl? Maybe Reggie would be less pissed at me if I managed to bring back some information, even though I’d been found out. Still, I’d been outed in my first hour on the job. I knew my chances of getting permanently hired now were slim. My heart sank.
But I had to try. For the sake of poor Charley, if not for myself. At this point, I had nothing to lose.
“So,” I said, trying to sound less devastated than I felt, “you figured out I’m working for a P.I. Congrats. Are you still going to talk to me?”
To my surprise, Obadiah started to laugh—a deep, hearty laugh. He shook his head, his eyes dancing merrily.
“You were worried I thought you were a private detective?” he said, still chuckling.
Unsure, I nodded.
“Oh, Mab.” He smiled darkly, his hand brushing against mine. “You have far bigger worries than that to contend with, love.”
The fear rose up in my stomach again.
“When I said ‘I know what you are,’ what I meant was, I know you’re a changeling.”