Knight of Flame

by Scott Eder

  She’d chosen her spot well amongst the array of deep-backed chairs in the waiting area. She could keep an eye on the bank of elevators and the front doors within the building’s glass walls.

  Damn, it’s cold. Cassidy shivered. Across the street, the coffee house churned out customers. She would kill for a cup of hot coffee, or a blanket, or even a pair of socks, but she couldn’t leave her post and risk missing her target.

  Cassidy paced around the waiting area for the third time. She stretched and rehearsed the questions she planned to ask about the club. Even in her head, her voice cracked.

  Relax, he’s just a man. But not every man had the money and power of Alexander Gray.

  Speaking of power, what if the Knights were right? What if Gray and his company were part of this Shadow Clan thing? If there was some secret war going on, she didn’t want to get caught in the middle.

  Carjacking and kidnapping aside, she’d grown fond of the Knights, but she didn’t believe they’d given her the whole story. Even though she’d witnessed some crazy stuff both on the bridge and in her own backyard, she still found everything hard to swallow.

  A chill shook her and her teeth chattered. This is ridiculous. I need to move again.

  She walked around the small waiting area to get her blood moving and stared at the Dali painting for the third time. She liked his art, but after the second inspection of melted furniture and bent clocks, it lost its appeal. Next to the painting, a press release announced Daegon Gray’s purchase of Seagren Chemical and how adding the agricultural giant to the existing corporate portfolio excited Alexander Gray.

  Huh. How exciting can fertilizer and insulation be? She blew on her frozen fingers and rubbed her hands together. Come on, Gray, where the hell are you?

  Mr. Gray strode out of the elevator and around the corner, heading for the main doors. He’s been here all along. She straightened her suit and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Only two lackeys and they’re walking behind him. Time for the frontal assault.

  Folder in hand, she hustled to beat him to the door.

  “Mr. Gray!” Cassidy shouted above the bustle. “Mr. Gray.”

  Alexander Gray did not take note, but the closest guardian put out a restraining arm to keep her at bay.

  Amateur. She may not have been in the reporting business long, but even she knew how to avoid “the arm.” She lunged, reached for the door handle just ahead of Alexander Gray. His warm fingers closed over her popsicles and sent a strong emotional jolt up her arm. Cassidy tried to pull away, but he refused to let go.

  Furious brown eyes turned toward her as a wave of malevolence hit. Her hope for an interview wilted under that hateful stare, but in a flash it was gone, replaced by a gentler mien.

  Whoa.

  “I am sorry, Miss?” He unleashed his world famous smile.

  “Sin…Sinclair, Mr. Gray. Cassidy Sinclair, with the Weekly.” She reversed her grip and shook his hand, pumped it twice with purpose as her father had taught her.

  “My goodness, Ms. Sinclair, your hand is an ice cube. How long have you been waiting down here?” His smooth baritone soothed her jangled nerves and calmed her down. She breathed easier and her heart rate slowed its sprint. What was I worried about? He seems like a normal guy.

  “A little while, sir. Would you mind answering a couple of questions?”

  Mr. Gray’s two associates stepped between them, but he refused to release her hand. When he shifted his eyes, the men backed off.

  Beat it, boys.

  His heat stole into her, worked its way up her chilled arm, and made her skin tingle as the warmth returned. She didn’t want him to let go.

  “Not at all. In fact, I was just going to indulge in a cup of coffee. Would you care to join me?”

  Cassidy nodded. Awesome.

  Gray ordered his men to stay put and escorted her across the street.

  * * *

  “Put these on the corporate tab, please…” Alexander read the cashier’s name tag and winked, “Glenda. Thanks, sweetheart.” The joyful barista couldn’t take her big, doe eyes from his and fumbled with the keys on the register. Hiding his impatience, Alexander nodded and carried the drinks to the table the young reporter had chosen.

  What was her name? Eh, it did not matter.

  She was an odd one, though. Pretty. He detected a hidden strength when he touched her hand. Curious, he wanted to find out more.

  Cups in hand, he wove among the tables to the one in the back. “Sorry that took so long, Ms.—”

  “Please, call me Cassidy, and it’s no problem.” Cassidy wrapped her hands around the steaming cup.

  “I hope you like the special blend.” Alexander sipped first and suppressed a shudder as he choked down the nasty brew. He despised coffee, but jumped on the opportunity to get the girl into a less threatening setting. Taking this reporter out of the proverbial lion’s den would help her yield her secrets. “Daegon Gray owns a number of coffee plantations in Colombia. We ship our brand to all our companies throughout the world.”

  Cassidy took her first sip.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s very good.”

  He lifted his cup in salute and forced down another bitter mouthful. “So, you have questions for me?”

  Cassidy jumped and grabbed her pen. “Oh, um, yes, I do.” Hand poised, she met his gaze.

  Through those bright, blue windows, Alexander peered directly into Cassidy’s soul. Even without the enhancement of shadow magic, he could tell this woman had seen her share of pain. It had left its indelible print upon her psyche. Nevertheless there was a resilience there, a strength of spirit he rarely encountered anymore.

  As he invaded her mind, her face went slack.

  Like an awl, he gouged his way through layers of experience, down to her earliest memories, and though his intrusion only lasted a few seconds, he extracted a lifetime of information.

  He preferred to work his way out from the first day, fast-forwarding through the lives of his victims. The reporter’s oldest memories had devolved into emotion more than remembered fact, colored by retelling and the perceptions of the people involved through the years. He got the impression of a glorious childhood filled with wonder, support and love.

  Disgusting. While he did not relive each and every remembered moment, he gleaned a general sense of her personality. The memories of her father were the worst—attending her swim meets, laughter, big hugs next to the pool.

  They made him want to retch.

  Where is that pain? He recognized its mark, knew it was there. Did he miss it? No. There was no sign in her early days. He needed to search her current memories. They were more distinct, easier to follow.

  Here. Poor dear. And St. Matthew’s, how fortuitous. Wait, what is this? Alexander schooled his features, putting a damper on his emotions. He grabbed the edge of the Formica table and dug his fingers into its underside. Brutally, he ripped his consciousness out of her mind, planting the seeds of an excruciating headache and the strong sense of being violated, though she would never know of his transgression.

  The Knight of Flame lives. She has seen him. Helped him. Felt a fondness for him and his fellows. I failed. Father was right to doubt me. The thought burned.

  No. Control slipping, Alexander called upon centuries of magical discipline to ease his apoplectic mind. Father was not right. So the Knight lives. I can fix that.

  This woman was the key. Once he destroyed the Knight of Flame, he would dine on her soul.

  As he discarded her memories, he refocused on the woman seated across from him.

  “Ms. Sinclair?” He jiggled her arm. “Ms. Sinclair, are you alright?”

  With a start, Cassidy broke the trance. Wincing, she raised her hand to her head and grimaced.

  Yes, the pain. Consider that a taste of things to come.

  “Ahhh.” Cassidy mumbled, “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?” Alexander asked, feigning concern. “You were
in the middle of asking me a question when you grabbed your head.”

  “Oh god, it hurts.” She dug her fingertips into her temples. “I feel like someone stabbed my brain.”

  “I am so sorry, Ms. Sinclair, but I need to get back to work.” Alexander stood. “My driver can take you home or to the hospital or get you an aspirin perhaps?”

  “No, I’ll…ugh, I’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.”

  “Speaking of hospitals…would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ribbon cutting ceremony at St. Matthew’s this Friday?”

  “St. Matthew’s? I don—”

  “Splendid. My assistant will get your address from your employer and I’ll send a car for you at 8:30. I do hope you feel better.”

  Alexander left the shop wearing a twisted, confident grin.

  Chapter 16

  FIRST THING IN THE MORNING, DEV told Wren about Stillman’s order to ID Alexander Gray and she flipped, charged off to have her own confab with the Man. It didn’t go her way and she fumed at having to drive Dev’s broken ass into town to, maybe, catch a glimpse of this guy.

  Dev wasn’t too happy about it either. Riding bitch in her pink Caprice wasn’t his idea of a good time. He wanted to take his Harley, but Wren insisted on her car, and he was in no shape to argue.

  “You are in no condition to be out and about,” Wren said.

  “I know…I know.” Dev frowned at his resident nag. She was many other things too, but that title fit best this morning.

  “You can barely move.”

  Count to ten. Chill. It was true, but that didn’t mean Dev wanted to hear it driven into his skull. Yes, he overdid it last night. Yes, his body scolded him mercilessly this morning. Yes, he freakin’ hurt. Shut up and drive.

  “And all the stupid walking around last night with Magnus.” She smacked the steering wheel. “I’ll deal with him later.”

  Heh heh. Poor bastard.

  “Oh, and put up your hood. The police are still looking for you and you don’t need to get turned in by some good Samaritan.”

  She dressed him this morning in jeans and a black hoodie with the swooping emblem of Magnus’s band, Light’s Keen Edge, emblazoned on the back. He made sure to strap on his armor underneath first. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Over there, behind the truck.” Dev nodded at a parking space down the street from the Daegon Gray building behind a white truck with “Devonshire Catering” painted on the side in big red lettering. It was the perfect spot to wait.

  Yeah. Wait. It’s not like his body was up to anything else. Hell, it had taken all his energy just to port in to his apartment, slither down the stair rail with Wren supporting him and hobble into the car. He knew he shouldn’t be out, but orders were orders. Actually, he needed to see Gray for himself and would have made the case for the recon trip even if Stillman had not.

  Wren fought him, even after her conversation with the boss. In the end, though, after he threw out her buzz words like “duty” and “honor” she relented.

  The man he fought in the club was Alexander Gray. He knew it. As soon as Stillman said that name in the Hall of Ages, he felt the truth of it in his bones. Still, he had to be sure.

  Dev yawned like a grizzly. “Ooh, coffee.” He spied the coffee shop across the street. “How ‘bout a nice white mocha on me?”

  Wren pursed her lips and placed her hands on her hips.

  “What? I’m just going to sit here and watch.” He sank into the seat and adopted a pathetic half-smile. “What trouble could I possibly get in to?”

  “Dev…”

  “I know.” He would have raised his arm in surrender, but that simple move required too much energy.

  “Do you have any money on you?” Wren asked.

  “I, uh, left my wallet in my other pants?”

  “Whatever. You owe me.” She rolled the window down like he was a puppy that needed air and got out of the car.

  “Make it a large, please.” Dev shouted. “Oh and get me a blueberry scone too. Thanks!”

  The shouting sapped his energy. He needed to keep his eyes open, but they grew heavy. He didn’t want to succumb to the dark dreams of sleep, but he was losing that battle.

  Hey. This was an older model princess car. He checked the dash. Score. Cigarette lighter. He pushed it in and yanked it out when it popped. The heat from the spiraled coils felt great as he held it up to his face and, before it cooled, he placed it on his tongue.

  The hot wires sizzled, sent a jolt of fire down his gullet, giving him the boost to fight off sleep’s minions. He did it again…and again…like chewing peppermints, while he waited for Wren to return with the caffeine.

  A familiar voice plucked the strings at the fringe of his hearing.

  Cassidy.

  He could never mistake her voice. What’s she doing here?

  Cassidy’s voice got stronger, closer. He sucked on the lighter and scoped out the coffee shop. Come on, Wren. What the hell. How long does it take? Why is Cassidy giggling?

  Dressed to the nines, Cassidy approached the shop with a man at her side. When they got close to the door, he sped up and opened it with a flourish. She smiled at him as she entered.

  No way. That wasn’t him, was it? Why would she be with him?

  He spat out the lighter. Anger fired across his heart. Energy flooded into his limbs. He had to move, had to get out of the confines of this car.

  Grabbing the lighter off the floor, he slammed it into the socket to power up again. The car door handle cracked, but held firm as he swung the door open. After one last hit of the heat, he fell out to the curb. If he could get to the catering truck, he’d pull himself up. From there it was a straight line to the coffee shop.

  On his hands, he dragged himself around to the front bumper and slid up the hood on his left shoulder. Pushing with his fractured legs was not smart, but the only way he knew to get up. He held his breath and shoved. A wall of pain crashed down, but he managed to get to his feet.

  It was him. Had to be. She should not be with that…thing.

  Snarling, the corner of his mouth lifted uncontrollably under the strain. He leaned forward, caught the back of the truck and pulled himself over.

  Where is Wren? Shit. Did Gray have her too? He hung his head, waited for a bout of nausea to pass, and imagined the Shadow ripping Wren and Cassidy to bits.

  Have to see the shop. He rocked his shoulders, and rolled his body across the truck’s back doors so he could lean over to see the coffee shop door.

  What’s happening in there? No sirens. No screams. No explosions. People walking out with coffee cups in their hands.

  “Hey, man.” A harsh, reedy voice called to Dev. “What are you doing to my truck?”

  Dev turned. A wiry man in blue coveralls struggled toward him under the weight of a chafing dish. His Einstein hairdo added a couple inches, but he stood much shorter than Dev.

  “Get off my truck, dirtbag.”

  Heat rippled from the smoldering Sterno canister under the dish where a small flame burned. Dev called and it responded, feeding him a trickle of energy.

  “Back off, Zippy,” Dev said, “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  The little man set the dish in the grass off to the side and swaggered over.

  This isn’t going to end well.

  “You got two options.” The little guy tried to look fierce, but barely managed put out. “One, I t—” He squinted. “Do I know you?”

  Damn.

  “Nope.”

  “I know I seen you somewhere.”

  As Dev shook his head, his hood fell back. With his bald head on display, he watched the light bulb go on behind the guy’s eyes.

  “Hey,” the caterer’s eyes grew big, “you’re that guy on the news.” His volume grew with each word. “The one that killed them rich folks at the club.” He jumped up and down and waved his arms.

  Dev called the small flame, but there was more Sterno in there than he thought and it roare
d into his system. The borrowed strength raced to his limbs, pushed his wounds to the background like the night before. He’d pay for it later, but that didn’t matter right now.

  He clamped his hands over the agitated man’s mouth and pulled him close. “Be quiet if you want to live,” Dev whispered in the guy’s ear, pumping in as much Dirty Harry menace as he could muster. “Nod if you understand me.”

  The smaller man nodded vigorously.

  “Good. Keep still.”

  The boost from the small flame expended, Dev held onto the caterer as much for his own support as it was to keep him quiet. Luckily, the caterer didn’t know that.

  Damn, where is that girl? What’s going on in there? Is Cassidy okay?

  Dev ventured another peek at the coffee house. No change. Distracted, his grip loosened. The small man called Dev’s bluff and fought for his freedom. Dev barely managed to hold on. In the struggle, he lost his balance and fell on top of the little guy.

  “G’off, m—” The little guy wheezed. “C’nt bre—Help. Heeeeeelp.”

  Dev had to stop the pathetic screams before they drew attention. Hands trapped beneath the smaller man, he smashed his head into the caterer’s face.

  The little guy sucked air in with a whistle and screamed louder. “Heeeeeelp.”

  “Stop it.” Dev bashed him in the nose. Blood gushed everywhere, coating the man and Dev in its crimson wash. And still he screamed.

  Shut up. Dev butted him again. Shut up. And again. And again. And again.

  Two cups of coffee hit the pavement. Arms snaked under his pits and hoisted him back. The body under him was still, head cocked to the side. Blood flowed from his ruined face.

  “Dev,” Wren’s voice held equal parts concern, anger, and disappointment. “You promised.” She leaned him against the car hood and bent to examine the unconscious man.

  “He’s breathing.” She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. “Barely.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  Wren ignored the question, punched in three numbers and waited for an answer.