Yet, it wasn’t our act that drew my eyes. It was the epicenter of the crack. My spontaneous strike of the glass had been for therapeutic reasons. Yet, neither the rewarding smash nor the release of energy had eased my mind. Nothing had lessened my grief or anger. Not sparring. Not drink. Not even the lyrriken in my bed. And that disturbed me. My balaur lover had never failed to satisfy me before. In his arms, I’d found comfort. Many times, they’d proven to be an escape from the darkness. But there was no more escape. There was only death.
The hands gripping my hips tightened. Lips descended. I opened my legs in welcome. Turning my head, I was determined to put the mirror out of sight and focus on the balaur in my bed. This was our last time together. Soon, the retrievers would come for me. And I had to let them. To die with honor, I must surrender gracefully. But could I?
I’d never been what they expected before.
Finding the pull too great, I looked back at the mirror—and froze.
The cracks were moving, crawling over the glass and widening the web. Broken edges trembled in place. A bitter wind raced cold through the room. My panting breath became visible in the air. Yet, the balaur caressing and filling me seemed unaffected by the abrupt cold.
With a noise like wails of the dying, the mirror burst apart. Jagged pieces fled the metal frame, and I flinched, ducking to avoid the spray of glass. But it never reached us. The fractured pieces hung, suspended in the air, a few inches from the mirror. As they spun, sparkling with color and light, a black cloud grew out from the empty, metal frame. It moved in to claim the space between the shards, darkening their light, slowing their rotation—scarring the fabric between the worlds.
I sensed them on the other side. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. Their agony stole my breath. Their insistence slithered over me. Every single one longed to be recognized, to be heard. But the ghosts weren’t alone. Something else was there, waiting. Growing.
The blackness stretched away from the mirror. It traveled over the floor, eating up the light. It crept onto the furs, and I tried to move, to warn my handsome balaur, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. And it was too late. The black was climbing over their skin, adhering and devouring.
As their blood ran to stain the furs, I thought, what have I done?
All this time, it was waiting, searching for a way in.
And I had opened the door.
I blew the hair out of my face with an irritated growl. My sheets were sticky with sweat. My heart was pounding as hard as the wind hitting my bedroom window. It beat against the glass, rattling the panes. The sound tugged on my nerves.
Seizing my pillow, I flung it across the room to strike the blinds.
It didn’t help.
I glanced at the clock—3:32 AM—and I felt worse.
It was late by the time I got home. After waiting for Harper and her crew—two of which were new and gave off the distinct impression of lyrriken—to finish their inspection of the truck, I finally had my turn. With Creed at my shoulder, as I pretended to examine the remains, the readings I triggered were quick and not particularly helpful. I saw shadowy figures, hooded like the clawed-ones at the steel factory. A bright, sterile room with carts of surgical instruments and saws. The creature inside was restrained, alone and scared, as it bled out. There were no windows, and nothing to identify the building.
Flashes of the slaughterhouse were of a similar theme. Blood splatter on the plastic sheeting. Blurry images and incomprehensible pain. More clearly, I saw was a filthy back alley where a middle-aged woman in a mini-skirt met her end. She wasn’t a target, though. Shooting up at the wrong place and wrong time, she witnessed the abduction of an aswang by four hooded men—which left her wrapped in plastic in the back of a semi.
Most disappointing was the clump of blue hair. It gave me nothing.
I took Creed back to the station when I was done. We gave our statements, and I hung around awhile, keeping him company while he filled out miles of paperwork and reports. Other than our minor injuries and a busted lock on the freezer door, there was no physical evidence to prove our altercation at the slaughterhouse ever took place. Creed’s weapon had been fired, but there were no casings, no ballistics report. Our injuries could have been sustained anywhere. Whoever was cleaning for our killers was damn good, their drivers—not so much.
The wind outside whipped louder. The window was closed. I still shivered. It had been over ten hours since Creed and I escaped the freezer. Why did I feel like I was still inside?
With a quick reach out of the covers, I turned on the lamp on the side table. Its yellow glow revealed the nondescript bottle of pills beneath. I tried to remember if I’d taken one before I went to sleep. I must have, I thought. My head was throbbing when I got home, reacting to the rapid-fire readings, I’d put myself through in the truck. Now it wasn’t.
I was grateful for Oren’s magic pills. If only my dreams hadn’t decided to throw me a curveball. Since moving back to the Sentinel, I didn’t simply wake sleep-deprived, agitated, and irritated. Many times, I was downright scared. Not to mention angry, powerless, panicked, and occasionally, unbelievably turned on. My dreams still had a somewhat rigid focus with different variations on the same themes: mirrors and doors, ghosts behaving badly, cold rooms and tunnels, me and almost-me, violent confrontations and, occasionally hot sex—with Coen. This time, I’d been riding the calm, gray-eyed illusionist like it was Free Bull Night at the country-western bar downtown.
There was no denying my attraction to the balaur, but… What the hell?
I jumped as the window shook again. The gust whistled, and I imagined it seeping in; a dark fog pushing through the flaws in the old building. Infiltrating. Spreading. Devouring.
Shaking off the image, I threw off my covers and got up. I refused to go to the window. It was nothing but a storm. There was no giant, broken mirror in my apartment, no invading blackness, no balaur with disintegrating skin. The dream had rattled me, but not past the point of reason. Not quite.
Straightening my skewed shorts (apparent victims of my tossing and turning), I raked the frizz off my face and found my robe on the floor. As I slipped it on, one hand drifted to the pendant around my neck. The eye seemed to hold the only warmth in the entire room.
Déjà vu hitting me head on, I stiffened. A chill swept my arms. “Fuck this.”
I fumbled with the thermostat in the hall and flipped on the heat. I resisted turning on the lights. My irrational need to banish the gloom in the living room was a skittishness I refused to give into. The blinds were partially open, letting the city lights bleed in. The lamp from my bedroom was still on, escaping into the hall behind me. With my heightened vision, it was enough to know the shadows in my apartment were right where they were supposed to be.
Nothing was out of place. No extras.
Armed with that little slice of reassurance, I grabbed a beer from the fridge.
One beer led to two, which led to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and half a bag of Cheesy-Puffs. Eyeing the clock on the microwave, I toyed with the idea of going for a run. It wasn’t like I was sleeping anymore tonight. But the wind was still slamming against the building, shaking the window frames with a troubling ferocity.
Treadmill it is. Sometimes, I loved owning my own gym.
I finished the last swig of beer and left the kitchen. Two steps into the living room, and I knew something was wrong. Not inside my apartment. All those shadows were still in the right place. The issue was outside. Someone was sitting on my fire escape.
The figure appeared to be asleep, leaning against the building, curled up under a heavy coat that kept me from discerning its edges. The only clue to my visitor’s identity was a long swirl of blue hair blowing in the wind. It was all I needed.
Watching the strands dance, I smiled to myself. Nyakree. She was alive. But what was she doing here? And how the hell did she find me?
I opened the window. Blustering wind blasted in my face, stealing my breat
h as the ciguapa woke with a start. She cast off her coat with a hiss and a swipe of the sharp piece of metal in her hand. Menacing, fanged features twisted as my identity registered. Her headlamp eyes softened, and she lowered the makeshift blade with a grateful release of air.
“Come inside,” I said, gesturing.
Nyakree shook her head. High-pitched and deliberate, she replied, “I do not like inside.”
“So, you do speak the language. That would have been helpful to know.”
“I speak many tongues.” Nyakree grabbed the coat and snuggled back underneath. “When I wish to.”
“And you didn’t wish to last night?”
Her blue chin lifted. “I had no trust for you. Lyrriken have killed many.”
“Yes, we have.” I took the fuzzy throw blanket off the couch. Wrapping myself inside, I pulled it tight around me and hitched up on the open window ledge. “If you don’t like my kind, why are you here?”
“They talk of you on the streets. The runners.” Nyakree shifted her backwards feet, pulling them under the coat. “They say you are different.”
“Different good or different bad?”
“They say you are lyrriken in body, but not in mind. Not like those who chase and kill all who cross their borders.”
“It’s no secret how Drimera feels about visitors.”
“Our presence disturbs the energies of the land. Blood must be spilled to reset the balance. Or so the lyrriken said…before he burned my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was it the lyrriken who were chasing you?”
Yellow eyes down, she nodded.
“Why go to Drimera if you knew it wasn’t safe?”
“It was not my choice. My mother thought she might beg mercy.”
“Queen Naalish doesn’t grant mercy.”
Her reply was a faint shrug beneath the coat.
“The other creatures you mentioned, the runners,” I said, using her word. “What are they running from? Did they come here because their worlds are sick?”
Nyakree hesitated. Wind creaked the gutters. I barely heard her whisper, “We run for many reasons. No world is perfect for all who inhabit it. But sanctuary can be found for those with faith and perseverance.”
“It can’t be easy having faith after what you’ve been through.”
“Ciguapa survive on faith, Dahlia. We believe everyone has a purpose, a moment they are born for, that is only possible at a single time and place. If not for the potential of finding that place, why would the worlds be linked at all?”
“That’s a damn good question.” She seemed unwilling to discuss the specifics of why she fled her world, so I tried something else. “The runners that spoke about me, where did you meet them?”
“There are many dark places in your city. Many creatures who live there. Some stay by choice. Others seek a more accepting world. They wait to be taken, but she who guides them does not come.”
Ella, I thought. “She’s dead. Another has taken her place, a lyrriken who thinks like me. His name is Coen.”
“They do not know this name. Yours, they know. They have seen your good deeds. But they have also seen you kill. Some have seen you kill their own kind.”
“I won’t apologize for protecting the people of this city.”
Nyakree granted me a solemn nod. “You seek justice for those who cannot. I respect that. But memories are long, Dahlia. They wind like a serpent, strangling thoughts, choking off new paths before we have the courage to take them.”
“Okay… Can you say that again with different words? I haven’t had coffee yet.” Nyakree blinked her ridiculously large eyes at me, and I forced a smile. “If you need help, I can arrange for Coen to find a safe place for you. For all of you. It may take some time, though.”
“Time is what we do not have. The plight of the runners is urgent. Many have gone missing. Taken by a hand not dressed in the uniform of the Guild.”
“Not all of Drimera’s operatives wear a uniform.”
“These are not dragon-kind. They hide themselves in dark wrappings and offer no warrant or declaration of orders on behalf of the queen. They take for themselves and give to another.”
Her words were vague, but eerily descriptive. “Do they cover their faces? Is that what you mean by dark wrappings?”
“Their faces and more. Or, so I am told.”
“Then, you haven’t seen them? You haven’t seen the runners being taken?”
“No,” she admitted. “But my lack of personal knowledge does not diminish the fear in those who voice the story. Nor does it change the facts as they were spoken.”
“And if they were spoken wrong?”
“I would know. The eyes tell the truth even when the tongue does not.”
I took a breath, wishing I was at the gym. Conversing with a blue Yoda on my fire escape at four in the morning was not having the same relaxing effect.
Wind blustered, and Nyakree pulled the blanket tighter.
“If you won’t come inside, at least let me get you something to eat. Then you can tell me where the others are, and we can see about getting all of you out of the city.”
I took her silence for agreement. Shedding my blanket, I went back into the kitchen. I opened the fridge, and stared a moment, unsure what to feed a ciguapa. I settled on ham and cheese.
Putting the sandwich together, I called to her. “You shouldn’t be on the streets right now. It isn’t safe. Stay for the night. I’ll try and get ahold of Coen.” I grabbed the Cheesy-Puffs, stuck a bottle of water under my arm, and went to deliver the meal to my blue guest. “After you get some sleep, we can…” I slowed to a stop.
Nyakree was gone.
“Son of a bitch.” I braved the wind and climbed out onto the fire escape. The ladder was down, but the street below was empty. I checked the roof. Shifting my eyes, I looked down over the edge, but there was no sign of her. Bringing the problem to me was as far as her trust went. I understood her reluctance to expose herself or rely on anyone. I’d lived the same way for many years. But Nyakree hadn’t given me anything more than I already knew.
Someone was in danger from something.
Awesome. The clues just keep getting better and better.
Thirteen
I was at the gym by 5 AM. Taking my mood out on the weights, I showered, changed, and still had plenty of time for coffee before heading to the station. I made it as far as the car before Creed texted me. His message was an address, with no explanation or good morning. I’d groaned at the location. I wasn’t thrilled about crossing the city at the busiest time of day. But his lack of details had left me more curious than irritated.
Only one thing made that man rude before breakfast: a new case.
Parking was nonexistent. The closest I could get was a block away. With no idea what to expect, I pulled the switchblade from my glovebox and my kit from the backseat. As an afterthought, I took the hall pass hanging from my rearview mirror and draped it around my neck. Technically, it was a lanyard holding my department-issued consultant ID. Either way, it let me into all the cool places.
The level of police presence was substantial, but nothing compared to last night at the bridge. The emergency service vehicles were expected, but the flatbed tow trucks screamed traffic accident, not homicide. I was hoping we didn’t have another truck of bodily waste to sift through. One per case was more than enough.
The barricade was surrounded by a small mob of onlookers, all bundled in their jackets and scarves. Steam fled the cups in their hands. Enviously breathing in the coffee fumes, I politely squeezed my way to the front. I flashed my ID and crossed the street to where the action was. Several members of the task force were on crowd control at the intersecting street. Ronnie and Officer Connors were talking to, what I assumed, were witnesses. Creed was standing with several techs near a black, four-door sedan. It was a nice car. Expensive. Shiny. But not even the high price tag had stopped the side panels from crumbling on impact. Half the vehicle
had been forced onto the sidewalk. The edge of the front bumper was bent around a fire hydrant. Windows were cracked and shattered.
Traversing the maze of broken glass and bits of metal, Harper waved as I approached. I gave her a nod. It was all she was getting after my forty-two minute bumper-to-bumper ride.
I looked at Creed. “I’m guessing the vehicle was t-boned at about fifty miles an hour from that side street over there,” I turned, pointing. “Either the driver blew through a red light, or he really didn’t like this car.”
“More likely it was the man sitting in the back seat he didn’t like,” Creed said. “Or it might have had something to do with this….” He steered me to the back of the car. The trunk was open. The suitcase in the middle was unremarkable. The five, hard-walled coolers packed around it were nothing special, either. They were all the same brand, large enough for a six-pack. Three of the coolers had tipped over in the crash. The ice inside had spilled and melted onto the carpeted interior. Among the puddles were fleshy, pink objects shrink-wrapped in plastic.
I bent closer. “Are those…?”
“Organs,” Harper chimed in my ear. “This case just keeps on giving.”
“I don’t suppose anyone in the car worked at a transplant center?
She blurted a laugh. “That would have been way too easy.”
“Right. And we don’t do easy.” I turned to find Creed staring. He was giving me a watchful, sideways glance, like he was waiting for me to wisecrack or say something to piss him off. It was too early to go hardcore, so I kept it simple. “Are we doing this hangman style or are you going to fill in the blanks?”
Ignoring my snark, Creed gestured at the body in the backseat. “Harold Frank Watson. Investment banker. Age sixty-nine. He flew into the city two weeks ago on business. He was on his way to the airport when a white van cut across traffic—sped up—and rammed the side of the car.” Creed pointed at the crumpled, van being loaded onto the back of a flatbed at the end of the street. “The driver took off. We’re searching the neighborhood, but nothing so far. Witnesses describe him as male, early thirties, medium build, with a buzzcut, sunglasses—and a baseball cap pulled low over his face.”
Smoke & Mirrors Page 15