Neither girl answered.
“Hey, Floyd.” Link pointed at her shirt. “I get it. Awesome.” He made a small, worshipful bow. Floyd swallowed a smile.
He looked at Necro. “What’s up, Gaga?”
Ridley snorted. “Link. Don’t be rude. It’s not Gaga. I’m not even sure it’s a Lady.”
“It? Are you talking about me?” Necro examined her fist like she was considering her options. “Ouch, Barbie. Where’d you learn your manners?”
“On the streets of Brooklyn,” Ridley shot back. “Thanks to your excellent directions.” She looked at Link. “This is my boyfriend, Link.” She nodded at the girls. “This is Devil’s Hairspray.”
“Hangmen,” Floyd corrected.
“As if that’s any better.” Ridley rolled her eyes.
Necro looked annoyed. “Aren’t Sirens supposed to keep their killer talons hidden under soft, sweet exteriors?”
Ridley waved a hand of talon-like nails.
Necro smiled. “Oh, I see the talons. I’m just having a hard time finding the sweet exterior.”
“Bite me,” Ridley said. “See how sweet I taste then.”
Necro raised an eyebrow. “Funny, I’m going to pass.”
Ridley smiled back. “Funny, I’m not going anywhere.”
They stood eye to eye, talon to talon. Necromancer to Siren, at an unspoken impasse.
In the end, the Necromancer blinked.
Don’t they always?
Necro shoved the door open with a sweeping gesture. “Fine. Lennox warned us you were coming. You can hang at the Devil’s Hangout until you find a place of your own.” Ridley took a step toward the door, but Necro stopped her. “I hope your boyfriend’s better at the drums than you are at cards, Siren.”
Ridley pushed past her. She didn’t laugh.
There was nothing funny about Lennox Gates.
CHAPTER 9
Use Your Illusion
Apartment 2D was even stranger on the inside than the outside. The moment the door shut behind Link and Ridley, Rid realized she was standing in an inch of clear water.
“What the—”
Beneath her feet she could see golden sand.
Rid looked up to see a beach, and not just the depressing kind you found on a poster in a travel agency.
It was real. The sun was hot. The water was wet. She could tell by the way it was seeping between her toes.
“Is that an illusion?”
Necro shrugged. “Floyd missed the waves.”
Floyd nodded. “I’m a California girl. Totally.”
Link kicked at the water with his Doc Martens. “Killer surf.”
Whatever.
“Can you tone down the water? I can barely hear myself think.” Rid glared at Floyd, and instantly a wave the size of the Beater crashed over Rid’s head. Floyd even made Rid’s hair and clothes look—and feel, to Ridley’s horror—sopping wet.
“Funny.” She tried not to sound impressed.
When Ridley turned her back on the beach, she was dry again—irritated, but dry.
And on the other three sides of the beach, the loft was practically empty. The space was constructed with high, whitewashed ceilings and plaster walls—at least where you could see them behind the hundreds of Pink Floyd and heavy metal posters.
Like Link’s bedroom in Gatlin, Rid thought. Maybe that’s a good sign.
“What’s that?” She pointed. At one end of the massive room was a sort of stage, with microphone stands and amps stacked to one side, and speakers mounted on the ceiling. A drum kit and three guitars sat on the stage.
“Practice room,” said Floyd, banging the cymbal on the drum kit as she walked by. Necro moved next to her. These were going to be Ridley’s new roommates. At least two of them. She sighed. Thankfully, Sampson, the Darkborn, was nowhere in sight.
“Unbelievable.” Link’s face lit up when he saw the stage, and he stood staring at it as if he could imagine himself hanging out there already. He took a step toward the stage, and a stadium-sized crowd appeared behind it, as if they were looking out from backstage.
Link took a step back, and the crowd disappeared.
Forward, back. Forward, back.
Crowd, no crowd. Crowd, no crowd.
He laughed. “I am so down with this.” He took another step forward. Then another. The crowd started to scream, until their chanting drowned out the noise of the water.
“Dev-il’s H. Dev-il’s H. Dev-il’s H.”
Link grinned over his shoulder. “Could we get them to chant my name?”
Rid yanked him back and the stage fell silent. “Can we not?”
“Aw, come on. Look at this.” Link gestured to the posters on the walls, nodding his approval. “Metallica. Guns N’ Roses. Black Sabbath. Iron Maiden. AC/DC.” As he looked at them, each one played a riff of their most famous songs. You had to love Caster fandoms. “Someone’s got good taste.” Link nodded.
“That would be me.” The blond girl smiled, mostly at Link.
“Figured it was you, Floyd.” He grinned. “Your name says it all.”
Wonderful, thought Ridley. A She-Link.
Floyd held up both hands. “No, no. I’m not named for the band. It’s a family name. Frances Floyd the Third.”
Link looked disappointed. “Aw, man. Well, your loss. It’s all good.”
Floyd broke into a grin and pointed at his face, laughing at him. “I’m messing with you. Pink Floyd is the greatest band of all time.” Her arm morphed into an electric guitar, and she played a few bars of “The Wall” with one hand.