Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  White noise was a flimsy barricade, but I couldn’t process a room overflowing with anger and grief right now. I had my own emotions to manage. And being sandwiched between Creed and Evans wasn’t helping. Both men were furious with the world. Both wore the same washed out, stony expressions.

  I knew Creed didn’t truly blame me. Ronnie did what she always had: her job. Yet, my secrets left one of his officer’s exposed and unprepared, exactly like he predicted. He wouldn’t say “I told you so,” today at least, but he was damn sure thinking it.

  After reminding him we had no physical evidence it was Ronan on the bridge, he agreed to give me thirty-six hours before telling Barnes about my connection to ‘Norman Key’. His concession for time had more to do with the supernatural aspect of the case than him buying into my ‘it could have been anyone behind the mask’ defense. We both knew it wasn’t. Ronnie’s killer was my brainwashed, back from the dead, ex-lover.

  Like this case wasn’t convoluted enough.

  Maybe, I could make contact in the time frame Creed gave me. Maybe not. Ronan had gone underground for a lot less. If I was lucky, I’d get my invitation to the auction before then. Stopping the public body dumping and closing Gant’s operation, might satisfy Creed for a while. In the meantime, I had no choice but to give him a description. I didn’t want him caught unaware if Ronan was brave enough to resurface—and show his face.

  I’d tried talking to Evans, multiple times in the last five hours. He’d accepted my hug and nodded at my words, but he acted like they weren’t necessary. As if he didn’t need them. As if this kind of thing happened every day. His deflection was normal. He needed time to process. But I suspected one loss had sharpened the sting of another.

  If Nadine’s intel was correct, Marnie was never coming home. It would be a long time before my sidekick was anywhere close to himself again. And I needed him to be. I needed his poorly-timed movie quotes and tasteless enthusiasm in the face of danger. I needed my friend to be okay. But he’s not. I swept my gaze over the room. None of them are.

  And it was only going to get worse.

  Moving back to the Sentinel, I’d hoped to make a difference. But with one loss after another, after another, my attempts felt feeble and vain. Reactionary. After-the-fact.

  Shit, I really am just a maid.

  And that wasn’t good enough. I wanted to do more than cleanup. I wanted to be how Casey Evans saw me, as some kickass, vigilante superhero who kept humanity safe.

  I felt so far from that now.

  Even if I stopped Gant’s butchery, how did I fight an unhinged dragon-queen with a network of brainwashed operatives and a blinding need to “purify” Drimera?

  But I had to, somehow. Her recent philosophy, of targeting those who dared pass through Drimera, had turned the Sentinel (already a gateway for the monsters) into a refugee camp. Now, after giving the Market permission to slice and dice any who traveled the exits without permission—any who were not dragon-born—it was a death camp.

  Captain Barnes fell quiet. He dismissed all but those who’d worked closely with Ronnie on the task force. When only our small group remained, Creed stood and said a few words. As he spoke of his fondness for Geronimo, respect crept into the eyes of the officers under his direct command. I’d seen it happening for weeks, but it was doubtful he’d noticed the gradual change in their perception of him. Creed worked at a level of dogged absorption that often drowned out the small things.

  The meeting ended, and the officers filed out. I wanted to talk to Creed. I knew he was hurting. A few kind words were the least I could offer before I went off and drank myself into doing something stupid, but Barnes pulled him aside before I could get there. Their exchange was typical, with gestures and nods and crossed arms. All it lacked was the usual heat. But they didn’t need to yell for me to understand the gist of their conversation: find who did this.

  Joining them was not in my best interest.

  Craving company, I left the briefing room to look for Evans. I spotted him right away, at the end of the hall, talking with two other officers. I started to holler at him, and he raised his phone to his ear to answer a call. Walking as he spoke, I watched him disappear around the corner. I couldn’t help wondering if it was Nadine on the other end. Their fling still didn’t sit right, but I was starting to understand it.

  Despite being one hell of a flirt, she was caring and sexy, with a vivacious personality and a penchant for fun. Nadine was the perfect diversion for a heartbroken young man. Yet, whether he realized it or not, Evans was drawn to her non-human side. Being close with Nadine connected him to the world Marnie was lost in, in a way I couldn’t.

  Because our friendship had limits.

  Reinforced by every tragedy, every loss, every hard decision—every lie—my emotional barriers had been in place a long time. Deceive and deflect had kept me alive. Attachments were a weight I never had time to carry. I wanted to live differently now, to make connections and friendships. But my survival instincts had been ingrained in me over decades. Shutting them off wasn’t that simple.

  Feeling strangely isolated in the crowded hall, I headed to the nearest exit. As I entered the stairwell to the parking garage, my back pocket buzzed.

  “Oren,” I said, answering the call. “I guess you heard.”

  “About the death of Officer Lane? Yes, I heard. The official story,” he added. “I’m calling you for the truth.”

  “It was Ronan. He’s the one exposing the Market. Whatever Naalish did to him, it didn’t stick. Not all the way, at least. He’s…not right.”

  “Interesting,” he said, with the right amount of shock to mask any prior knowledge of Ronan’s activities. “This certainly changes things.”

  I started down the stairs. “How so?”

  “If you’re planning on offering up Ronan’s corpse to take the fall for all this, I approve. But we both know you won’t terminate someone you love. You’ll try and save him.”

  “Loved,” I said firmly. “And I’m not sure there’s much of him left to save—if I can even find him.”

  “If I know Ronan, he’ll find you. Just reach out to me when it’s done. I’ll have the evidence to implicate him, and close your case, ready and waiting. But after that, you must promise me you will leave the Market alone. Naalish is too deep in this, and her tolerance for you was thin before you eliminated Bastian. Now…”

  “Aidric claimed that kill,” I reminded him, “not me.”

  “And if I don’t believe either of you, as to exactly what happened to Bastian, neither does the queen. Even if you didn’t deliver the killing blow, your actions were a direct catalyst for her lover’s death and the current state of the tribes.”

  “I have nothing to do with any tribal issues.”

  “Rumors cast long shadows, Dahl. And since your investigation into Chrysalis, the details of Bastian’s foiled plot have come to light. There is concern over the queen’s level of involvement, particularly with Bastian’s intention to export the drug off-world. Many are questioning her judgment and making decisions without her consent. This is a new position for Naalish, and a delicate one.”

  “A dragon feeling vulnerable? I can’t say that upsets me.”

  “A dragon is never truly vulnerable, as you know. But, like any beast, they will lash out if cornered. I don’t want you within reach when she does.”

  “I can’t sit this out, Oren. The queen’s obsessive protection of Drimera is putting all the worlds at risk.” Pausing to smile at the two officers coming in as I exited the stairwell, I headed across the garage; trying to remember where I parked. “If the tribes understand that, if they’re finally seeing Naalish for what she is, this could be a turning point.”

  “You’re looking at it in human terms. If the elders decide to act against her, it could be a hundred years from now. And there will still be Guild-run operations on other worlds. Those projects and missions are in place to keep the peace. You used to understand that. Even when your d
uties required bloodshed, you knew it was for the good of Drimera.”

  “You don’t need to remind me what I’ve done, Oren.”

  “But do you realize what you’re doing? Instead of focusing on the task, you’re personalizing the death and destruction. You’re taking offense to every move the queen makes, good or bad, because it’s affecting people you care about.”

  “You’re right. My outlook is skewed. But I don’t give a shit. Naalish delivering the same wrongs to everyone doesn’t make a single damn one of them right.”

  “And do you expect the next queen will be better? That she’ll be benevolent to all worlds and compassionate to the plight of others? As long as the elders remain in power, their desires, their comfort, will always come first; above the survival of the linked worlds, and certainly above the well-being of their half-bred children.”

  I hesitated replying. I was used to Oren going overboard to pull me back in line, but his speech felt less like a tactic and more like a veiled confession. Is it possible? Is his loyalty to Naalish wavering? If so, why lie about it to me? I was the one lyrriken who would understand.

  I hit the unlock button, and a chirp-chirp echoed through the garage. I headed toward the sound. “I’ll get back to you when I know more. I have to go.” I didn’t have time to unravel the mystery Oren had become. And I owed Ronnie a drink.

  Twenty-Three

  I washed down the knot of guilt in my throat, with a long drink from the bottle in my hand; knowing I’d spent too long here already. The sun had set hours ago. I needed to hit the streets. Find Ronan. Try to get a reading from Oliver Gant’s body. Check the abandoned buildings for potential targets. Anything. Instead, I was leaning against my car, drowning my sorrows, as I stared at the place where it all started to fall apart: the Chandler house.

  It sat so quaint and quiet among the shadows. Innocuous. Ordinary. I remember thinking, that first day, how normal and well-kept it all was; the flowers, the yard, the picket fence. Realtors would have described it as, “A charming starter home. Perfect for young families.” But that charm had long since shrunken into the darkness. The flowers were dead and the yard overgrown. Someone had spray painted Murder House in red across the fence posts. The vandals had taken pride in their work, making sure the ends of the letters dripped like blood.

  I wasn’t surprised. It was almost Halloween, and a legend had grown to surround the house—far beyond anything Oren’s operatives could dispel. The days of surreptitiously convincing the Sentinel that nothing went bump in the night were steadily coming to an end.

  It was ironic, how struggle over an eye had led to the city opening theirs. It was more like a crack, really, but it was enough to let the light in.

  My eyes were open, too. And I didn’t like what I was seeing.

  I was convinced, now, that my investigation into the Chandler murders wasn’t random. If I hadn’t moved back to the city, another operative would have taken the assignment. But I did. And Oren pounced on my presence as a chance to further Aidric’s long-awaited plans for the eye.

  If I was right, then he had to know about those plans long before I told him I was moving to the Sentinel. Which meant, he’d been misleading and manipulating me, using our sham of a relationship to pull me this way and that, possibly for years.

  Yet, Oren hardly talked about the king. Any mention of his position in the Guild was always connected to Naalish. Why would he work privately against her? Aidric must have thrown something in to sweeten the pot. But what had it taken for my mentor to position me here as ordered—smack in the middle of the king and queen’s tug of war over Ella’s necklace?

  Her death, and my involvement in the investigation, had set in motion so many things, including Sal’s and Ronnie’s deaths, Ronan’s current condition, and the formation of an exit in the Chandler living room. I hadn’t checked in on the rip torn open by the family’s trauma in nearly two weeks. It had to be on the verge of being viable. Then, I’d have another problem.

  Unless I can shrink it.

  The few times I tried had yielded unimpressive results. If it was truly possible, and if Erich was correct, I had a little over two years before the blight came through to figure it out. At my current rate of practice, it wasn’t enough. And other worlds were already suffering. If I could shrink the exits and keep the blight from spreading, I needed to be able to do it now. I needed to do better.

  I studied the house a moment more, watching the chilly breeze tug at the bits of faded, yellow “Crime Scene” tape stuck in the mud beside the front steps. What else am I doing? Standing on the sidewalk, pretending to drink with a dead woman wasn’t getting me anywhere.

  I tossed the bottle back inside the jeep and opened the gate.

  Public interest in the property had died since the SCPD completed their investigation. Seeing as Aidric owned the place, I wasn’t worried about it being put on the market. Of more concern, was the prospect of being arrested for breaking and entering. To lessen the odds, I’d put a lock box on the back door (my preferred, less visible way of coming and going). It was the kind a realtor would use. Add in a fake business card, and I had a reasonable cover story.

  Slinking through the muddy yard to the back of the house, I typed the code into the keypad. The door had barely cracked open, when intuition raised an alarm. There was no sound, but the odor was all wrong. Death had come and gone here months ago.

  Why, then, could I smell it so acutely?

  I slipped the knife from my belt. The shape and color of my eyes changed, and the gloom lightened. Scanning every shadow, I let the stench pulled me forward.

  After checking potential hiding places on the way, I stopped at the threshold of the living room. I hated how I could still see it. How, each time I entered the house, my mind conjured the same image of Ella and her children staked out on the carpet. Each time, memories of the trauma shed by the victims and the police swirled at my ankles and pounded in my head. The blood-smell, the stench of burned flesh, and the presence of lyrriken choked my throat.

  I relived my first glimpse of the crime scene every single time I stood here—except this one. Now, a new horror had moved in to dampen the old.

  Nausea turned my stomach as my gaze leapt around the room.

  Needing to make sense of what happened, I tallied the clues.

  A jacket and shoes were beside me on the floor. A fully functioning exit twinkled in the middle of the room, afflicted with more than a dozen black shards. Spilling out of the center was the decomposing half-carcass of some unknown creature. Dark splotches were growing on the remains, the carpet, the walls, and the sprawled-out corpse of a boy.

  In my absence, the worst had happened. The exit had opened, and a monster came through. Only, it wasn’t the kind of monster I’d expected—or the kind I knew how to fight. Erich was wrong. We didn’t have twenty-six months before the blight arrived.

  Silencing the pounding pulse in my ears, I put my knife away, raised my psychic wall, and plotted a course around the black substance. The heaviest concentration was near the center, surrounding the exit and the creature. From there, long fingers reached out to creep over the room. The texture and density were different than what I’d seen before. When it tainted land, the blight seemed almost to fuse with the soil, leaching all life out and turning it dry and brittle. This was more like an invading fungus or mold, spreading and growing; layering every surface.

  I crouched beside the boy. Height and build put him somewhere around twelve or thirteen. Cause of death was easy to determine. The carpet was crusted with the pool of dried blood around his head. His position was in line with a fall and a strike on the coffee table. But was that before or after the blight ate the skin off his hand?

  Bloating was well underway. At most, the corpse was four or five days old.

  I pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt down over one hand and lifted his arm for a closer look. The flesh of his fingers had been completely dissolved, reducing them to bone. The process wasn’t a
s far along on the rest of the appendage. Pinholes had formed on the cuff of his sleeve where the blight had touched his shirt. And spread underneath, I thought, noting a trace of it on his neck and face. The skin there was still intact.

  The rate of damage appeared fastest at the point of contact.

  I sat the arm down. “Goddamn it,” I breathed. The stench gripped my stomach. I dropped my head, closing my eyes a moment, regaining control. “Why did you have to touch it?”

  My eyes opened at the creak of a floorboard.

  Drawing my knife, I pivoted, prepared to throw, then lowered it at as I noticed the white fedora on the intruder’s gray head. He stopped where I had a moment ago, at the edge of the living room. His powder blue suit and matching vest lent him a kind, approachable air. It was a boldfaced lie. The grandfatherly appearance of his human form aside, Aidric was more than capable of incinerating me before my knife ever pricked his human skin. But he was studying the room, not me. And it wasn’t malice on his weathered face, it was shock and disgust.

  I stood with a baffled, “What are you doing here?”

  Equally blunt, he replied, “Following you.”

  “Coen must have the night off, if you’re pulling stalker duty.”

  “Stalking is an unpleasant, pedestrian word, Dahlia. I simply make it a point to stay informed of your whereabouts.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less creepy.”

  His jaw worked, torn between irritation and amusement. “We must talk.”

  I waved a hand at the blight-infested room. “You think? Your estimation about its appearance here was way off.”

  “I see that. But there is another subject I wish to discuss.”

  “Really?” Mindful of my steps, I backtracked toward him, through the deadly patches of black on the carpet. “Call me crazy, but shouldn’t the impending apocalypse be at the top of your to-do list?”