Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Holding his thigh, the older man stilled.

  Tzivia sobbed, nearly bent in half, calling for her abba. Over and over.

  Nur’s finger twitched in the trigger well.

  “London,” Tox heard himself saying. He blinked and met Nur’s cutting gaze. “We need to go back to London for the next piece.”

  Nur glided closer. “And how do you know this?”

  “I don’t,” Tox admitted, eyeing Khalon’s grip on his injury. His expression. Had he made a mistake? “But if anyone else has a better guess . . .”

  “She betrayed you! Why help her?” Nur asked.

  “I’m not,” Tox said coolly. “I’m helping myself. Buying time.”

  “Then why would I let you go?”

  “Because you want the sword and can’t afford not to take the risk, especially with Elah in two days.”

  “My men go with you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  — LONDON, ENGLAND —

  “He’s dead.”

  Directly in front of Dr. Cathey’s upscale flat sat a police car with an officer inside. He wasn’t moving.

  “You sure?” Even as Haven glanced up at the red brick building, then back at the car with the dead officer, she couldn’t shake a sense of dread. She looked at Tzaddik in the driver’s seat, then back to Chiji. “Why would they kill him?”

  “So he can’t interfere.” Tzaddik’s tone turned icy. His suddenly dark eyes scanned the street.

  “Interfere with what?” Though Haven saw nothing, chills still skittered up her spine and swirled through her, a potent concoction of fear and foreboding.

  Tzaddik pushed open the door, forcing Haven to do the same. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, he hesitated.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You still have the photo?”

  She lifted the copy from her pocket, and her gaze once more hit the likeness of Elisabeth Linwood Russell.

  “The ampoule,” Tzaddik breathed. “Where is the ampoule?”

  Haven looked at him, then the picture. “The what?”

  “Adorning her hair”—he traced the crown of the statue’s head—“resting at the center of her forehead was a bejeweled ampoule. It’s not in the picture.”

  “What do you mean, an ampoule?” she asked as Chiji joined them.

  He radiated urgency and panic. Which was alarming. He’d never been so ardent. “You have another photo, do you not?”

  Haven frowned, digging into her tote. But the answer to her question dawned on her. “You knew—you knew what we needed.” It made her a little light-headed, her mind unable to reconcile this timeless being before her.

  He snatched the picture from Aunt Agatha’s album from her.

  “Here! The ampoule.” He tapped the gem hanging at the center of Lady Elisa’s forehead. “We must have the ampoule before the great battle.”

  Haven studied the droplet-shaped piece fashioned out of what looked like bronze.

  Wait. How could she know that? The photo was an old tintype, black and white. Why did she think it was bronze? A hand flashed before her mind’s eyes, holding the ampoule. A laugh. Haven hauled in a breath. “No wonder . . .”

  “What is it?”

  She looked at Tzaddik. “I think my great-aunt has the ampoule—she wears it as a necklace.” But they were in London. Aunt Agatha was in Virginia. “The battle is tomorrow. Do we even have time to fly there and back?”

  “I can go.”

  Haven opened her mouth to question him but remembered his uncanny ability to appear places.

  He nodded to the building. “Go on in. Secure the bust. You will be safe.”

  “I—” Haven peered up at the building, the second floor. Safe. With the enemy who had killed the police officer up there? “I have to question your definition of safe.”

  Tzaddik touched her shoulder, then nodded to Chiji. “Stay close to her.” He turned and started walking down the street in the opposite direction.

  A real fear wormed through her that if she took her eyes off him, he’d vanish. So she stared, long and hard, until her eyes dried and forced her to blink. And he was gone.

  “That is so crazy,” she mumbled, shaking her head. She turned to Chiji. “Ready?”

  He looked at the doors. “I do not like this place, Ngozi.”

  “I don’t either. But . . . we have a mission,” she said with a huff and started up the half dozen steps to the entrance. Steps. Always steps. She sighed and climbed. The knob twisted without complaint, and she pushed it open. Another flight of stairs waited there, and around it, four doors.

  “Second floor,” Chiji said, pointing up.

  She allowed herself a small groan as they climbed the steps carefully, quietly. Her heart hammered as she listened, all too aware that things were off already. At the landing, they hesitated. Glanced at each of the four doors spread around the staircase, just like the lower level.

  “There, Ngozi,” Chiji said, rising to the last step and moving in front of her. The door he indicated stood ajar. “I do not like this.”

  “Haven.”

  She pivoted at the new voice, stunned to see who was walking stiffly toward her. “Ram! What are you doing here?” Relief choked off the anxiety that had made her limbs feel leaden.

  “I would ask the same of you,” he said with a nod of acknowledgement to Chiji.

  “A clue to the sword—at least, I think,” she said as she took a step forward. “I’m not sure what it is exactly, but Tzaddik sent me here to find this bust.” She produced the picture from her pocket.

  Something in his expression changed. “I’ve seen it.” He pointed to the apartment. “It’s in the alcove. Come in. I’ll show you.”

  “Wait.” Haven hated the tremor in her breathing, the strange, sudden feeling that doused her in unease. The way he wouldn’t look at her. “Why—why are you here, Ram?”

  He turned, and in his gaze glowed an angry flame. “Inside, Haven. Now.”

  A great precipice hung before him. If Tox did this, if he’d figured out the clues given by Gath and the professor, he’d find the sword piece. A victory for Tzivia. A defeat for most of the world. But if he didn’t, Yared Khalon died.

  Or would he?

  When the time is right . . .

  Dr. Cathey had tried to utter that with his dying breaths. Then Lukas Gath repeated it before everything went haywire. And now, as Tox stared at the ornately carved clock, he couldn’t help but condemn himself for not connecting it sooner.

  The clock wasn’t set to the correct time.

  When the time is right.

  It couldn’t be that simple, could it? He glanced at Tzivia, her wide, expressive eyes begging. Pleading. Full of desperation and hope. To limit exposure, only the two of them had come up. “If we do this,” he said, “you know what happens.”

  Belligerence brightened her face. “Yes.” She glowered. “My father is free.”

  “You know better than that, Tzi. I’m not sure he’s a hostage.”

  She blinked. Frowned. “You saw the beatings, the bruises.”

  “Easily done with makeup. Why are his bones not broken, his will? Why does he walk without complication?”

  “Did you miss the part when Nur shot him?”

  “Flesh wound. If the bullet had gone through, there would’ve been a lot more blood and piercing screams. Trust me,” he snapped. “I know.”

  She shoved her hands into her hair and gripped her head. “Stop.” But confusion played havoc with her tight scowl. “Just—we have to do this.” She sounded weary, less convinced. “Do it,” she said. “Please. We’re out of time.”

  “Nur knows who I am, Tzi. If he knows that, what else does he know?”

  “He doesn’t care about anything but the sword,” she bit out.

  Tox had reservations about her father, but no proof. Nothing definitive. What if he’d read it wrong and Yared Khalon was truly innocent? And killed because of Tox’s mistake? Clenching his j
aw, he huffed and strode to the clock, recalling the knot it had given him on the back of his head.

  “So,” she muttered, eyeing the timepiece, “what will it take to get you to reveal the secret?” She glanced at Tox over her shoulder. “Do you even know how to fix a clock?”

  “No.” Muscles tight with apprehension, he aimed a finger toward the white hour hand.

  “Then how do you know we’re supposed to do this?”

  “I don’t.”

  She caught his hand, eyes bulging. “You’re guessing?”

  “It’s what I do best.” He traced the sides of the clock, nerves buzzing. If this thing had a trigger, if it was wired to blow in the event of failed protocols, would he blast them into the afterlife?

  Don’t think about it. Think about Haven. Getting home to her.

  Igor appeared behind them with an irritated huff. “Get on with it.”

  “I rush this, we could all be mopped up,” Tox said, looking at the three new men in the room. Once they backed off, he dug his fingers along the back of the clock but felt no wires. No intricate connections. Shoulder pressed to the wall, he leaned his head in, feeling the scrape of plaster along the side of his face.

  “What—” Thankfully, Tzivia swallowed her question.

  But he felt her presence close. Felt her hovering. Even felt her tension thicken the air to the consistency of dirty oil. They were all impatient to get this done. Tox was impatient to get home to his wife.

  Between the clock and the wall, he barely spied the nail that held it up.

  “You think it’s rigged?”

  “Has to be,” he muttered, and then he saw it. The wires feeding along the nail from the back of the clock into the wall. Way more wiring than a cuckoo clock needed. He hefted it forward a fraction.

  “Wait!” Tzivia hissed as she caught his arm.

  Holding the clock, Tox slowly slid his gaze to her. Telegraphing his annoyance at her jostling of his arm.

  She wet her lips. Gulped. “Listen.” Though they were practically toe to toe, she leaned closer. “Look, you know”—her voice was barely a whisper, hard to hear, especially over the thundering of his own heart—“how you want to get back to Haven?”

  “Yes, which is why pulling my arm while I’m holding a possible det cord is a bad idea.”

  Her fingers eased off, but her intensity did not. “I want to get back to Omar.”

  Surprise darted through him. “What about your father?”

  Conflict clouded her features. “I . . .” So his queries earlier had aroused the doubt that had lain quietly beneath her steel surface. “Of course—but . . .” She shook her head. “I’ve never—Omar gets me. I need to fix things. I need him to know.”

  Strong, confident Tzivia struggling with her emotions. As always. But new-to-her emotions. Ones she probably hated having.

  Tox nodded. “I hear you.”

  She stepped off.

  He set the clock back on the wall, then swung around to the front. Stared at the Germanic design. When the time is right . . . The clock read 2:24. Tox checked his watch. 9:52.

  So did he wait till 2:24? Or did he set it to 9:52?

  They didn’t have time to sit around for four and a half hours. Besides, if that was the case, whatever the mechanism unlocked or set off would happen twice a day. Didn’t make sense.

  So change it.

  But Cathey had never been one to conform to norms. And if he was supposed to wait, changing the time could kill them.

  Tzivia had gone strangely quiet. While he appreciated the solitude to focus, it also somehow weighted the moment. He rubbed his jaw. So move the clock hands.

  “Just do it.”

  Again he slid his gaze to her. “Do what?”

  “Whatever you decided right there—I saw it in your face.” Her eyes were alive, bright. “You felt it was right.”

  He arched his eyebrow, dragged his focus back to the clock. He lifted his finger to the delicate hands and manually forced the hour hand around. As he neared the precise moment, he twitched his wrist to verify the time.

  Shunk!

  A strong vibration thudded beneath their feet.

  “What’d you do?” Igor demanded.

  Popped and released, a full doorframe presented itself where there had last been a panel break.

  “What is that?” Igor pressed forward, but Tox held out a hand.

  “Unless you know where all the trip wires and triggers are, I’d stay back.” He didn’t really expect any, but he wanted them at a distance.

  Tzivia sucked in a breath and darted past him. She dug her nails into the door to pry it open. It came out an inch. Then another. And another.

  Tox stepped over to assist with the seemingly endlessly thick door. He braced with his feet and pulled the heavy steel. Igor and one of his men moved in to help, but there wasn’t enough room for all of them.

  “Good grief,” Tzivia muttered with a grunt. “I knew he was anal about security, but this is obscene!”

  There came a pop as the door’s seal broke. “There.” Tox glanced along the edge of it to where a sliver of space provided the first peek into the hidden room. “A little more,” he said, and they gave another pull.

  The hinge flew loose.

  The room before them was exactly the size Tox had expected. Yet with the floor-to-ceiling shelving and glass cases stuffed into it, it felt much smaller. Crowded. So much that standing shoulder to shoulder with Tzivia, he could reach most of the shelves. This wasn’t crowded—it was suffocating. Like a tunnel.

  Tzivia whistled. “He was holding out on me,” she said with a breathy laugh. “He never fully trusted me.” Those words were less lighthearted, more filled with sadness, grief.

  Picking up a well-aged tome, Tox glanced at the spine, but the lettering—once probably gilt—had worn off. “I don’t think it was a matter of trust.”

  Using her fingers as well as her eyes, Tzivia traced the shelves. “Yeah? Then what?”

  Tox returned to the book in his hands. “A mission—he felt he had a mission, like Tzaddik, to protect humanity from itself.”

  Tzivia eyed him and shook her head. “You always were a little too deep for me.”

  “I thought you were going to say dense.”

  “Didn’t I?” she teased, then nodded to the shelves. “I see a ton of books, but where’s the sword?”

  As her words met his ears, Tox spied a tome on the shelf. A Wrinkle in Time.

  Time. Right time.

  He tugged the book out. The clap of wood on wood sounded behind them.

  Tzivia flinched. “What did you—Oh!”

  Tox turned and found the wall of books behind them had slid aside. In place of the shelves, a light flickered to life. There, beneath that dull glow and cradled in glass, waited the scrollwork.

  “There you are,” Tzivia said, then hesitated.

  “What?” Tox asked, his momentary relief vanishing at her confusion.

  “The scroll—it’s only half.” She muttered an oath and shoved her hair back from her face.

  Half? How was that possible?

  Tzivia reached into the box. A faint red hue struck her hand.

  Rigged! Tox’s gut seized. “Wait!”

  As her fingers closed around the hilt, a buzz sounded. The foot-thick steel door started swinging shut. It would lock them in!

  “The door!” Tox shoved the wooden stand stacked with books forward, sending it sprawling into the door’s path. “Go!”

  The wooden stand creaked. Popped. Snapped. Tzivia threw herself through the ever-narrowing space. Tox couldn’t wait for her to clear the space or he’d be trapped. He flung himself out after her. Shoulder ramming into her back. Colliding, they both went down.

  His leg caught on something. Pulled. He landed hard, flipping around to see a steel rod had torn through his pant leg and anchored him in the door’s path. Struggling would do no good.

  “Tox!” Tzivia shouted, grabbing his shoulders and pulling.

/>   He kicked. Stamped his right leg against the wall. Shoved hard with the left.

  Steel scored his calf. Blood flowed. Material and muscle ripped. Only a few inches remained.

  He was not going to lose his leg. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Again, he kicked. More material gave.

  Hands hooked under his arms. Caught his shoulders. Hauled him backward. His pants tore free, and he flopped. Landed again on Tzivia. Heard her nervous, breathy laugh as he rolled to the side and dropped onto his back. With a relieved exhale, he stared up at the ceiling. It felt like he’d scraped a year or two off his life.

  A shadow dropped over them.

  Tox jerked upward—so did Tzivia.

  Three muzzles pressed them back down. The crowd parted, and Ram appeared in the apartment entrance.

  Tox leapt to his feet, ignoring the sting of objection from his calf—especially when he saw whose arm Ram held in a tight grip. “Haven!” He rushed toward her.

  Igor and his men intercepted Tox, barricading him from his wife. Behind them, forced into a chair and hands cuffed behind his back, Chiji sat glowering, blood sliding down his temple.

  “Sorry,” Igor sneered. “You’re not getting any of that just yet.”

  Scowling, Tox looked at Ram. And it finally hit his brain that his friend held a gun.

  Held a gun on Haven.

  Ram’s hair was shorter. His temper hotter, by the hard expression glinting in his eyes. “What’re you doing?” Tox growled.

  Betrayal.

  No. It couldn’t be. Not Ram.

  But it was.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Fury erupted in Tox, his mind refusing to accept what he saw. Rejecting the reality that Ram was leveling a weapon at Haven. “Let her go!”

  Tzivia sucked in a breath. “Ram! What are you doing?”

  “Ram,” Tox said in a low, warning tone. “Don’t.”

  But Ram stood steadfast on the wrong side of Tox’s anger. On the wrong side of honor and integrity. “Sorry,” he said without regret. “It has to be done.”

  Tox threw himself at the line of men. “Ram!” he roared.

  “Cole, no!”

  “Ndidi!”

  Red. He saw red. Rage. Violence. Whatever it took to protect Haven. Hands clawed and pawed at him, restraining him.