by Jenn Stark
But how far in my pursuit to protect Connecteds had I really come?
Suddenly restless, I moved down the long corridor of the shadowy cathedral, closer to the nun and her charges. They were younger, I realized as I approached. Not little kids, but mostly in their late teens and early twenties. Dressed in street clothes, they looked like any ordinary group of tourists, but there was something a little…off about them. I paused in the shadow of a wide column and flicked my third eye open.
I sagged against the cool stone bricks, my mouth going dry.
The young adults who stood with the nun weren’t ordinary mortals, or even ordinary Connecteds. Even with the briefest scan of their energy, I could tell that these were some of the most powerful twenty-somethings I’d ever seen, and I’d seen my share of young Connecteds over the years. As I looked closer, another anomaly struck me. The energy that surrounded them leaped and swirled, but as I drilled in to focus on the Connecteds one by one, I realized their individual readings were far more normal. It was as if singly they were impressive, but together, they completely soared off the charts. I’d never seen anything like this before, had never even heard of it.
During the time I’d worked with Father Jerome I’d learned that most of the children had come to him in ones and twos, sometimes with their families, but far more often alone, either abandoned by their parents or given up willingly in the hopes that the children would be more secure in one of Jerome’s safe houses than with their own families. It had proved a heartbreaking decision for some parents, one fueled by both fear and love. But most of those children, even as they came together, were quintessentially loners.
Not this group.
“Where is he now?” The question was high and clear, and I glanced sharply at the young woman who’d asked it. Her hair was dark, her eyes large and luminous, and her skin pale. Her accent was Russian, though she asked her question in perfect French.
At the head of the group, the woman in nun’s attire smiled. “He’s passed into the hands of the Father, his tireless devotion at an end,” she said, her words gentle but firm. “Father Jerome understood that his role on this earth was to shepherd the children of God, particularly those with gifts beyond normal mortal understanding. He didn’t seek personal acclaim for his work, only to share the love of God with those who needed it most. It is in his name that we continue our work today, but he didn’t want anyone to cry by his grave. We can honor him most by doing the work he loved so much.”
By now, I was grinding my teeth. I hadn’t been with Father Jerome when he’d died, but I’d watched it happen on-screen. The man responsible for that death was also dead. That didn’t make any of this any easier. Father Jerome had been my lighthouse in the storm, one of the few people I’d trusted, especially in my early days as an artifact hunter.
I should have kept him safe. I hadn’t.
“So who’s in charge, you?” another boy asked, a tawny-haired young man of no more than eighteen. He was thin—far too thin—but his clothes were new and he looked freshly scrubbed. Had he just arrived at Saint-Germain-des-Prés, another of Father Jerome’s rescues? “I left behind an entire extended family of people like me. I may have been the strongest, but they’re all at risk.”
The nun folded her hands over her stomach, her face remaining serene. “I’m here to help you get your feet under you again, and we are here to help each other. You—all of you—will go back out into your communities when you’re ready, keeping vigilant watch. If there’s a child or family in need, you’ll know where to call.”
“We should fight,” the boy insisted. “It’s not enough to herd our people from camp to camp, protecting the most Connected until they’re strong enough to hide on their own. We have skills. We should band together and fight.”
A wave of dizziness made me take a step back, and I reached for the nearest pew, catching my balance before sliding onto the polished wooden bench. The church seemed darker now as the nun continued leading the group of young men and women closer to the altar. I couldn’t hear her words anymore, but I didn’t want to hear them.
Fight.
That’s what the boy wanted, and none of the others had gainsaid him or objected in any way. Even the nun hadn’t reacted with much more than patient understanding. But these kids—these vulnerable Connecteds—didn’t understand what they were asking. The battle they wanted so desperately to join couldn’t be won. Out of the seven billion people in the world, there was a little more than a few million Connecteds. Out of those, only several hundred thousand had abilities strong enough to do much more than bend a spoon. Most of the most highly skilled Connecteds were old enough to keep themselves well hidden from the world, but the children…
Only there were more young Connecteds now than ever, it seemed. And they were stronger too. Significant numbers of Connecteds had leveled up recently, most especially the children and young adult Connecteds. Who was teaching them, guiding them, now that they were turning out in numbers that could make a difference? Who was keeping them safe? I’d taken on the role of Justice to help police those Connecteds who had decided to use their influx of power to harm others, and there was no shortage of work in that regard, but was it enough?
Would it ever be enough?
I don’t know how long I sat there in the shadowy embrace of the great church, staring at the dimly lit altar. I was surprised the church was open at all, but then again, I hadn’t come in through the front door. It was simply sanctuary, a place for me to catch my breath before I went back out into Paris and made my way to the Magician’s Parisian property. Hopefully without my merry band of pursuers following me either.
And who were those guys, anyway? Mercault didn’t know, obviously, and I’d gotten nothing back so far from the Council on either picture I’d sent. I hadn’t been in Paris long enough to piss anyone off, and my most recent work since I’d become Justice had been confined to narrow groups—a cabal of magicians, a coven of witches, and a band of souls yearning for the return of the ancient gods of Ireland. The threats posed by these groups would have had a major impact if I hadn’t nipped them in the bud in time…but I had. Who had I upset by stepping in?
A movement at the front of the church caught my eye, and I blinked in confusion as I recognized the figure of the young nun from the tour—only now, she wasn’t wearing her habit. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have a problem with this. I wasn’t a big fan of even the modified penguin look, though it absolutely served its purpose. But it was the look she was now rocking that made me sit up and take notice: A beat-up pleather jacket and jersey hoodie combination on top, scuffed jeans and boots on the bottom, her brown hair pulled back in a nondescript ponytail.
She looked like me. Or the me of a few years ago, anyway, roaming the streets of Paris with little more than my instincts and a deck of Tarot cards to guide me. I flicked open my third eye and narrowed my other two. The young nun—or whoever she was—did have some Connected ability, but scarcely enough to get her a good run at the lotto counter. I didn’t know how her abilities would manifest, but they’d likely be little more than sparkles and fairy dust, nothing she could use as a weapon. And she didn’t seem like the aggressive type, exactly. She seemed like exactly the kind of woman who’d become a nun. Sweet, generous, gentle.
As I watched, she pulled a gun from a holster I hadn’t seen snugged up beneath her jacket and checked the chamber.
Okay, so maybe not so sweet and gentle.
Part of me wanted to stop the woman where she was and ask her what the hell she was doing…and maybe where had she scored the sweet hoodie combo. But I wanted—needed—to know more about why she was dressed like me. So I followed her instead.
I stepped out into the breezy Parisian night, and impulsively reached out to Armaeus with my mind. Knock, knock…
No response.
Stuffing down my disappointment, I picked up my pace behind the nun-turned-Sara Wilde cosplayer. As it turned out, we didn’t have to
go far.
The Metro trains in Paris don’t run all night to all stations, but the station nearest to Saint-Germain-des-Prés was in operation, and there was enough of a crowd that I could slip in behind the woman and not be noticed. She talked to no one, keeping her head down and her body compact. While the train rattled along, she pulled out a small notebook and paged through it, glancing at notes and pictures I couldn’t make out. I had to say, she looked as badass as me. In fact, as weird as it seemed, every time I glanced her way, she looked more and more like me, until by the time she exited the metro at Gare du Nord, I began to get a sinking feeling about what was going on here.
That suspicion was borne out a few minutes later when she met her party at Gare du Nord.
Once again, I hung back in the shadows and watched the young woman move forward with what seemed like a newfound self-assurance, rocking my clothing, my hair, and now, without question, my face. I watched her eye the incoming train terminal with intense focus, then turned to see what she was looking at. It took me only a second to see the man looking up from the crowd disgorging from the train. His face registered recognition, and his smile stretched wide. He moved forward with a woman beside him, a child huddled against her in turn, but the energy of this small family was weirdly chaotic. He was excited; they were terrified.
Too terrified.
As the nun moved forward with her bold, confident stride, the man’s excitement hiked another few levels, his hand shifting to his side as he shoved away the woman cowering beside him. That was all the warning I got, but fortunately, it was enough.
Moving quickly, I leapt away from the wall. I came up behind my doppelgänger and pushed her out of the way even as the man freed his gun. He brought it up to shoot, but I was still running fast, and fortunately, running didn’t look all that impressive even at the speeds I was able to pull off on short notice. I barreled directly into the guy, sending his gun flying as the mother and child spun off in the other direction.
“Get them out of here!” I shouted back to the nun, who’d started running after me, while I knelt on the guy’s chest. With all the experience I’d just scored at the Luxembourg Gardens, I knew exactly what to do to keep anyone from realizing that I was using magic. My hands flat on the man’s chest, I blasted him with enough electrical current to set his whole body quivering.
“Who are you?” I demanded. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with confusion. “Where’s the man you took those people from?”
“There are—two of you?” he managed in a guttural Eastern European accent, his gaze pinging back to the now wailing woman and her child, both of them pointing urgently at the train and ignoring the young nun who was pulling at their arms.
“Where’s the father?” I asked again, tightening my hold. At this point, I was so mad, I could probably choke the man to death with no special skills required. That thought seemed oddly appealing, but I restrained myself. “I don’t know how much you got paid or who paid you, but trust me when I tell you, it’s not enough for what’s about to happen to you.”
He looked at me and grinned as the police whistles started blowing shrilly around me, and his eyes turned bright white.
“Welcome to Paris, Sara Wilde,” he said, only this time, his voice was rich, cultured, simmering with wealth and arrogance—
I decked him cold.
Chapter Six
I peeled away long enough to watch from a distance while the Gare du Nord police came, collected the unconscious Connected bogeyman, and found the missing family member. My doppelgänger, still in her Sara disguise, handled it all as if it was another day’s work. Herding the traumatized family onto the metro, she got them to Saint-Germain-des-Prés without further incident, bustling them into the church while I waited outside. The young nun emerged twenty minutes later, looking decidedly less like me as she smoothed down her habit and adjusted the hood. Her quick, efficient steps brought her close to me, though. She knew I was waiting for her.
“I can explain,” she said, speaking to no one in particular as she approached. I stepped away from the wall, and she turned.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Just tell me who you are and how long you’ve been using your psychic abilities to mimic me. Because, frankly, you were better at being Sara Wilde than I am, at least for those people on the train.”
“If I could mimic your powers, then that would be even more impressive, but my skills only go so far.” She smiled and gestured to a bench on the sidewalk, and we sat. “My name is Emma Fearon, and I’m not actually a nun either. But I was one of the children Father Jerome rescued from the arcane black market. That was eight years ago.”
My brows lifted. “Before my time.”
“At first, yes. I grew up at one of the smaller safe houses, and was already working in the field by the time you joined ranks with him. But I saw you from a distance often enough, and of course, Father Jerome talked about you anytime he got the chance. He was so very proud of all you did.”
My heart knocked sideways, and I grimaced. “I didn’t do all that much. I found things and got money for them, then handed that money to Father Jerome. He did the heavy lifting.”
She smiled. “That’s what he always said you would say when he tried to thank you. But that’s not really true. Father Jerome had been fighting long before he ran into you, and you didn’t need to help him. But you did. Without any questions. You simply started funneling cash to him, cash you could otherwise have kept for yourself.”
I didn’t have much to say to that. Of course, she was right, but it hadn’t seemed like a difficult decision at the time, especially once he’d shown me some of the children he’d rescued from slavers—one who’d had her eyes removed, another little boy with his hands cut off. It hadn’t been a hard choice. “Those kids…”
Emma chuckled softly. “Oh, I know.” Something in the tone of her voice made me glance back at her, and I barely stopped my recoil. Her face was no longer the serene, pale-skinned visage of a young Frenchwoman, but a mass of scars that swept down from the right side of her hairline to her chin. One eye socket was completely covered over with scar tissue, while the other, though still bright with focus, was deeply set in her damaged face.
A second later, her face appeared to me again, normal.
“My God,” I murmured. “You couldn’t…”
“Get plastic surgery? Yes, of course. Father Jerome wanted me to, had the money for it and everything, but…” She waved a tired hand. “There were always better things to purchase, always more children to save. And with my skills, it was not so much of a hardship. I’ve been effecting the glamour for so long, it’s no different from keeping good posture at this point. Even when I sleep, it rarely slips.”
“But how—?”
She glanced away briefly, then met my gaze again, her own eyes clear and frank in her adopted features. “When I was young, I was an aspiring actress. I didn’t realize that I was taking on the faces of the people I was mimicking, and my family didn’t so much notice it. When something is right in front of you all the time, it’s remarkable what can seem normal to you. But others noticed. Rumors started, and one day, two men walked into town and grabbed me and knocked me out with some foul-smelling drugs. They proclaimed me a witch and wanted to see my real face—by skinning the ‘mask’ off me. They got as far as they did before the pain broke through my delirium and I showed them the face they most wanted to see.”
She gave me a grim smile. “Apparently, I make a convincing demon. I got away, but by then, even with my glamour, I couldn’t see out of one eye, and my family was terrified it would happen again, and further afraid I would get attacked because of my demonic manifestation. A week later, Father Jerome arrived in our village and brought me to Paris.”
By this time, I was staring at her, though her face had long since returned to its placid good looks. “And the men?”
“Gone. I didn’t search for them—they were only two of a thousan
d who would have done the same thing. It’s the world we live in, a world mired in fear, despite all our advancements and education.” She shook her head. “But my pain has its benefits. Some of the children who come through this church are scarred worse than I am, and far more wear their scars inside. When I can show them that I do understand to some extent what they are enduring…it helps.”
“Of course it does.” I blew out a long breath. “How long have you been impersonating me?”
“Since a few weeks after Father Jerome died,” she admitted. Her chin tilted up with self-assurance, but not defensiveness. “No one knew what to do. Father Jerome had always been the one to greet the newcomers. His was the face they expected, the only face they knew from the church. We lost several newcomers to the streets of Paris before we could get to them, simply because they got confused and then were lured away. The streets are not kind to those who’ve never been in a large city.”
“You needed a new welcome ambassador.”
“Anyone in the Connected pipeline that led to Father Jerome knew who Sara Wilde was. Some even knew what your face looked like, but most merely your general description. For me to show up as you, provided these refugees with the visual link they needed to get them off the train and into the system quickly and quietly before anyone noticed they’d arrived. When Sara disappears and I reappear in my habit, they don’t blink. They merely assume she’s done her job to make them safe and has moved on.”
“And it works every time?”