Blindsight:: A Mirus Short Story

by Kait Nolan

  Unless. . .what if someone had hired him to steal her from Bael?

  Isla stood and paced restlessly in the small space of the bathroom. What was she supposed to do? Call the guards and risk the probability that Ransom would kill her before they could get through the door? Go with him and risk that he’d be handing her over to someone as bad—or worse—than Bael? Or go with him and be party to who knew what kind of heinous atrocity he planned to commit?

  The devil I know or the devil I don’t?

  ~*~

  Ransom didn’t pace—it was a waste of energy—but he wanted to. Each moment that passed made him more twitchy. They had a little while longer until the sun sank below the horizon and the lights came on, but the Seer was still in the bathroom. What the hell was she doing? Where was the decision to make here? Like staying with Bael was an option?

  He was on the verge of marching in there to drag her out when she walked into the bedroom. Outwardly she was more composed now, wrapping herself in that emotional armor that had served her so well in Bael’s world. But Ransom could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat as she crossed to him.

  “Give me your hand.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why, but this was what she did, how she operated. Maybe she needed to see their chances for success. He placed his hand in hers for the second time that evening, marveling at how small and delicate hers was. Soft hands. Not the hands of a warrior. She laid her other hand over his and her eyes faded to white as the vision took her. The hands around his heated almost to burning, but he did not pull away.

  She was frowning when her eyes turned blue again.

  “What did you see?” he demanded.

  “Enough,” she said simply. “Let me change.”

  She was quick about it, emerging in minutes from the walk-in closet, clad in some kind of stretchy black pants and a form fitting t-shirt, also dark. Ransom approved. She would be able to move in the outfit. After donning her shoes, she grabbed a hoodie, then hesitated. “Will I need this where we’re going?”

  “Might.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Do you really want to take anything from your life here?”

  Isla crossed to a jewelry box, lifted out the interior tray, and grabbed something from the bottom. Whatever it was, she shoved into her pocket before returning the tray and shutting the box. “Okay, I’m ready. How is this going to work?”

  “I’m prevented from teleporting within the bounds of the compound, so we’re out the window, through the grounds, and over the wall. Once we’re outside the blocking spell, I’ll teleport us both out of here.”

  “You make it sound like a walk in the park. Do you have any idea how many guards are on patrol out there?”

  Ransom just lifted one brow.

  “Okay fine, of course you know. But how do we get past them without raising the alarm?”

  “You leave that to me. Come on.” He moved toward the window and raised the sash. The sun was awfully low, the sky the same mottled shades of a bruise. They’d be cutting it awfully close. He turned to Isla, “I’ll brace myself and lower you down. The bushes below should cushion your fall.”

  Isla nodded.

  Ransom slipped one leg out the window and reached for her hand. Outside there was an explosion of light, accompanied by a metallic buzzing as the dozens of security lights snapped on, bathing the grounds in illumination that rivaled the noonday sun. He yanked his leg back in and swore, low and vicious. Too late. They were too late. She’d taken too fucking long in the bathroom and now they’d lost their window of opportunity.

  Isla flicked the curtains closed. “There is another way.”

  “Where?”

  “Bael is always expecting a siege. He would be foolish not to prepare a hidden way out in the event the compound is taken. There is a tunnel beneath the grounds that lets out down by the canal.”

  “And where is the access to this tunnel?”

  “Bael’s bedroom.”

  “And that is. . .?”

  Isla grabbed a notepad and pen and drew a quick sketch of the floor plan. “This is my room. Bael’s room is here, across the mezzanine. These are upper corridors that open to the foyer below. There are guards here—” She marked either side of her doorway. “—here—” And the base of the stairs. “And here—” She marked either side of Bael’s bedroom door. “—if he’s retired already, which he probably hasn’t because it’s early yet. He’ll most likely be in his study, which is directly beneath on the first floor. You’ve seen it before.”

  Ransom pulled up the image of the room in his mind. Nodded.

  “There’s access to the tunnel from his study as well. There is a spiral staircase that winds in the wall going down below the house to cellar level. We can get in from his bedroom, but it means we have to sneak past the study and risk him hearing. Obviously you could manage it alone with your skills, but I. . . It’s a risk.”

  “Is it one you’re willing to take?” he asked.

  She caught her lip in her teeth and gnawed on it. Ransom found himself distracted by the motion, fascinated by her mouth. At last Isla nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

  ~*~

  Isla stuck her head in the hall, casually noting that Bael’s guards weren’t stationed at the door to his bedroom. “Ricardo can I borrow you for a minute? The entertainment system is messed up again, and I can’t get my movie to show.”

  Both guards rolled their eyes, but the wraith came into her room, crossing to the armoire that housed her entertainment center. He reached for the remote she’d left lying on the chaise. “You probably just have the wrong input—”

  Ransom rose out of the dark and snapped the other man’s neck. Isla gasped and backpedalled as he cushioned the fall of the body, true shock lending credence to her performance. Cronin, drawn by the noise, stepped inside.

  He took in Ricardo’s limp form. “What did you—” And then Ransom was on him too. A clean twist and her tormentor lay still on the floor.

  Isla felt nauseous. This was real. It was actually happening. And Ransom was across the room, motioning her to hurry. Because there was no other choice, she moved, stepping past the bodies of her former bodyguards and onto the mezzanine. She peered below. They wouldn’t have long before the guards flanking the stairs noticed that Cronin and Ricardo weren’t at their post. Barefoot, shoes in hand, she followed Ransom to Bael’s room on the other side. He, of course, moved like a ghost. But even the tiny touch of her foot to the marble seemed to echo in Isla’s head. She hardly dared to breathe until they were safe on the other side of the paneled door.

  Bael’s bedroom was a testament to the man’s love of luxury. The space was dominated by heavy, Baroque-style furniture and rich, heavy velvet in a shade that Isla had always thought said bordello more than baron. She paused to slip on her shoes, then crossed to the enormous floor-length mirror—tall as a man, wide as a horse. Bael was nothing if not vain.

  She motioned to the mirror and whispered, “It’s behind here.”

  Ransom curled those strong, deadly hands around the thick gold frame and tugged.

  Nothing happened.

  “There must be a latch somewhere,” she whispered.

  They both began to run their fingers over the swirls and carvings of ornate frame, seeking a button or a switch. Ransom found it along the top edge of the mirror, well above Isla’s head. The huge mirror swung open on hidden hinges to reveal a dark opening.

  “After you,” she said.

  Ransom stepped onto the tread and began the spiraling descent. Isla took a breath. Down the rabbit hole, she thought, and followed him. She could barely contain her gasp as the mirror swung shut behind them, thrusting them both into darkness.

  Her panicked breathing sounded like explosions to her ears. They would get caught. Bael was just below, only feet away. She could hear him speaking in muffled tones through the wall! He would—<
br />
  “Isla!” Ransom hissed.

  She swallowed down a breath.

  “Can I touch you without you going in to a vision?”

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she whispered.

  His hand closed around hers, an anchor in the dark. Her panic leveled off, and he began to lead her down. With each trembling step, she thought she’d hear a creak or groan of the stairs. When Bael’s voice rose to a shout, they froze.

  “The lords of Primastu are breathing down my neck! What do you expect me to do?”

  Who was he talking to? Who was he talking about? She’d never heard mention of any group called Primastu. And she’d certainly never known Bael to bow to anyone.

  Ransom tugged her hand and they started moving again. They’d reached the cellar by the time they heard the alarms.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Where’s this tunnel?”

  “Behind that wine rack.”

  Ransom muscled it over, revealing the steel door. He reached for the handle, but Isla was staring with sick dismay at the numeric keypad illuminated on the wall.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  Ransom swore. Tested the door handle, then swore again. “Do you know the combination?”

  “I. . .I don’t. . .”

  “Well try something!” he demanded. “It won’t take them long to find us!”

  Frantic, she began stabbing in sequences of numbers. The address.

  “Code invalid.”

  Phone number.

  “Code invalid.”

  Bael’s birthday.

  “Code invalid.”

  “Fuck!” she snarled.

  The sounds of running footsteps echoed from above.

  “Keep trying!” ordered Ransom.

  Okay, okay. What else? His number of kills.

  “Code invalid.”

  No, no. It has to be something static. Something that doesn’t change.

  Credit card. Off-shore bank account. She bet he didn’t know she knew that one.

  “Code invalid.”

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  “We’ve got company.” Ransom met them as they reached the bottom, blade flashing in the light that filtered down from the first floor.

  Isla felt her stomach twist at the thud of bodies. She turned back to the keypad. Focus, she ordered herself. What are other important things to Bael? The compound? The number of members of Dodona? She stopped, hand hovering over the keypad. Me.

  She stabbed in her birthday.

  “Code invalid.”

  More thundering footsteps. The thud. What other numbers relate to me?

  of more bodies.

  Hand shaking, she punched in the date of her capture.

  “Accepted.”

  The door released with a hiss of air.

  “Ransom!”

  “Go! I’m right behind you.”

  Isla didn’t hesitate this time before she plunged into the dark.

  ~*~

  Ransom’s blade flashed, an extension of his hand, his will, and another body fell. He backed into the dark, as more feet came into view at the top of the stairs. Trusting that the pile of fallen comrades would be enough to delay them a few seconds, he headed for the open door of the passageway. He tugged the door shut with a clang. It wouldn’t buy much time, but maybe it would be enough.

  Isla had stopped fifteen yards up the tunnel, looking back at him with horror. Taking in the blood spattering his clothes and skin, no doubt. It was one thing to see such things in visions, quite another to see them in reality. She could process later.

  “Go! Run!” he shouted.

  The door was already opening behind him as he sprinted after her, muscles burning as he ran up the sloping, narrow corridor. He rounded a corner and the opening came into view, fifty yards ahead. Boots pounded behind him, but he didn’t slow, didn’t try to take more of them out. He was an assassin, not a melee fighter. They just had to make it beyond the spell boundary.

  When Isla broke free ahead of him, the thugs started shooting. Bullets ricocheted off the walls. Ransom hunched, already reaching for his throwing knives. One. Two. Three. He was throwing blind, but a couple of screams told him he’d hit something. Thirty yards. Another bullet whizzed by his ear, pinging off a support beam. Twenty yards. Out of throwing knives, he yanked his dagger from the sheath at his waist and turned, flinging it with deadly accuracy into the lead goon’s throat. The other man fell, tripping up one of the others.

  Gonna make it.

  Another shot rang out, and Ransom felt the burn as he emerged from the tunnel. Iron. He’d been shot with iron. A wave of dizziness rolled over him. He fought to stay upright, stumbling forward in a sprint until he laid hands on Isla and teleported them both to safety.

  He winked from location to location, around the world, in and out of cities, of forests, of deserts, until even he was dizzy and somewhat lost from the trip and from the iron poisoning his blood. By the time he stopped in a New Orleans alley, his head was spinning. But he thought that the trail was probably muddied enough that even the best of Tracers wouldn’t be able to follow it.

  As soon as he let Isla go, she stumbled over by a dumpster and wretched. Her face was pale and waxy from the trip. Humans, even those with witch blood, were not meant for that much teleportation.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She braced both hands on her legs and tried to straighten, glaring at him. “Do I look all right to you?”

  Ransom could see blood on her hands, her clothes and felt his head spin again as he leapt the distance between them. “Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Were you shot?”

  She scooted back, away from him, her eyes on his bloody hands. “It’s not my blood. But you spilled plenty of theirs, didn’t you?”

  It was his blood, he realized. Mostly. It had dripped down from his shoulder to bloody his hands, and by proxy, hers. His relief at her lack of injury was short-lived as he absorbed her tone, her words, and the condemnation in her face. Why should it bother him so much? “I got you out, as promised.”

  “You had to protect your investment,” she said bitterly.

  Investment? And then he realized. She believed him to be just like Bael, intending to use her and her abilities for his own ends. And aren’t I? Wanting to use her to buy my way into the Underground?

  No. He knew what it was to be used. To be a slave to those more powerful. He did not wish that for her. He’d find another way.

  “That’s not why I brought you here.”

  “Where is here?”

  “New Orleans. We’re just around the corner from a bar, Le Loup Garou. It’s one of the home bases for the Underground. They are a group of resistance fighters.”

  “Resistance against whom?”

  “People like Bael. The Council of Races. Those who would exploit you for what you can do. They will protect you.”

  “Why should they?” she asked. “Why should anyone?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.” Ransom dropped his gaze to his blood-stained hands and wished abruptly that he could shower. The consequences of his trade felt filthier than usual in her presence. He looked back up at her and nearly fell from the wave of dizziness that rolled through him. Stubborn, he locked his knees. “Look, I’m not going to make you go in there. It’s your decision. Your life.”

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “I’ll keep teleporting to muddy the trail. They won’t be able to trace you here. I’ll see to it.”

  She stared at him for a long while. “I don’t understand you.”

  Ransom felt his lips curve a little, an unfamiliar expression. “You are something of a mystery as well. Before I go, can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask,” she said, wary.

  “What made you decide to come with me? What did you see in that second vision?”

  This time she smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Bael�
�s head, no longer attached to his body.”

  Ransom’s hands fisted at his sides, itching for his blades. Yes. He could see that vision through to the end. “He won’t hurt you again.”

  She was staring at him again, eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

  He’d lingered too long. Time to go. The healers would have much to do on his shoulder. There was work to be done and a trap to plan. With a courtly bow he said, “Be well, Seer. Goddess be with you.”

  ~*~

  In the span of one blink and the next, Ransom was gone.

  Her decision? Her decision?

  But had he left her any choices? He disappeared. Just winked out and left her. In an alley outside a bar, in a city she didn’t know, with no money, no map, no nothing. The only thing she had on her was the silly alligator keychain shoved into her pocket. The sole piece of her first life. A gift from the Wylk who had saved her, when her village was slaughtered the first time Bael came for her.

  She’d wanted away from the Hunter, from the blood on his hands. Blood spilled in her name. But like this? Was she any safer out here? She’d been kept since she was five years old. Her knowledge of the world was made up entirely from books and movies. But even that was enough that she knew what allegedly went on in big cities at night.

  There was nothing for it. She would have to go into the bar, to meet these people running the Underground and pray that they could and would help her get on her feet.

  Isla looked down at herself, at the blood on her hands, her clothes. The blood of Bael’s men. Even as sheltered as she was, she knew that was going to attract unwanted attention. Despite the chill in the air—it was so much cooler here than Miami—she stripped off her hoodie and used it to scrub her hands and face clean. Or as clean as she could manage. There was still some blood on her yoga pants, but they were, at least, black. She tossed the hoodie in the dumpster.

  Good as it’s gonna get, she thought, curling her fingers around the keychain for courage.

  At the mouth of the alley she peered out, seeing the neon sign lit bright to her right. She was nervous. Stupid to be nervous, she told herself. They’ll either help or they won’t. Either way you’re away from Bael. You can find a way to make this work.

  With a bracing breath, she stepped out of the alley and walked toward the entrance to the bar. You can do this. Head high. Face relaxed. Like you’ve done this a thousand times. It’s just another act. You’re good at acts.