by J. K. Beck
It made sense now. It all made sense. And he hoped to hell he was right. Please, God, let him be right.
They wouldn’t show him Petra’s body, because Petra wasn’t dead.
CHAPTER 7
Nick stood in the dark and stared into the dimly lit cell at the thing that slept inside, surrounded by the gnawed and bloody bones of animals that had been dropped down from the trapdoor to feed it. A thing that looked like Sergius, but was Sergius no more.
One touch from Petra, and Nick’s friend had vanished, all possibility of battling down the daemon that had risen within Serge destroyed. Ironic that so recently it had been that very daemon they sought to subdue and control—a house cat compared to the beast that now raged within. Pure evil, conjured with dark magic, no longer gaining life from blood, but from death and pain. Old magic, Nick assumed, drawn from the earth itself, and that wasn’t the kind of thing that Nick knew how to fight.
He would learn, though. Nick had spent much of his life dabbling with alchemy, looking for the cure to death itself. He hadn’t found it—not the way he’d expected, anyway—but he had never abandoned the love of science. Chemistry and biology had been his particular favorites, and he knew one thing for certain: Even with all their differences, humans and shadowers were nothing more spectacular than a pattern of molecules.
The girl’s touch had manipulated those molecules, creating a chemical reaction in Serge that had changed him at the most basic level. But if those molecules could be manipulated to form a monster, they could be manipulated to restore the man. And even if Nick had to take the girl to the very end of creation to find the answer, he would learn how to restore his friend.
Part of Nick wanted to hate Petra for turning Serge into a monster; the other part pitied the woman whose torment surely rivaled his own. He had battled back his daemon; Petra lived with her curse every moment of every day.
The thing in the cell shifted, eyes slitting open to reveal blood-red irises. Then a slow grin spread across the creature’s face. It loped to the glass, arms hanging down so that fingers dragged on the floor as it moved, apelike, toward Nick.
Once it reached the glass, though, it stood, rising to its full height, its body wide and hard, every old scar healed, every old injury gone. Days earlier, the creature had been in constant motion. It had done nothing but rage and rip, its actions hinting at madness. Lately, there were long moments of calm, during which the creature would sit motionless, its head tilted, as if it were thinking. Or, perhaps, listening.
Then, the body had been twisted, much like a shape-shifter midchange or a para-daemon in a violent fit of temper. Now, though, the body had settled into its old form. Serge’s familiar shape, his familiar stance.
Even the chunk of flesh that Nick and Luke had cut out of its thigh was healed, the skin now perfect and smooth. Somehow, that made the creature that much more terrifying.
It stared at Nick, dark eyes locking onto Nick’s, holding them in an eerie, unblinking gaze. Nick stared back, refusing to show fear or disgust. Refusing to lose faith in his friend now, even though he knew damn well that the thing in that cage was his friend no more.
The creature’s eyes narrowed, and Nick had the impression the thing was sizing him up, trying to remember.
“Serge,” he said, frustrated by the hope in his voice.
The mouth split wide in a horrible mockery of a smile, then the creature lifted its palm to its mouth and sank its fangs deep into its own flesh. Nick shuddered, but didn’t turn away, and when the creature slammed its bloody palm against the thirty-six-inch-thick reinforced hematite-and-glass barrier, Nick winced and stood frozen, awed by what he saw: The creature dragged its hand over the glass, forming lines and curves on the thick barrier. Behind it, on the cement wall, Nick saw similar shapes, and as he looked more carefully, he realized what he was seeing. Mixed in among the streaks and splotches of blood were letters—A’s and V’s and K’s and L’s. Other lines swirled around those, as if Serge wanted to get a thought out, but couldn’t quite remember how. The only thing that was perfectly clear, in fact, was a single figure. The numeral three, scrawled on the wall over and over and over.
Three, thought Nick. Three?
There was a mind in there, in that creature that had once been Serge. A mind fighting to get out. Fighting hard, but not quite making it.
With regret weighing down his steps, Nick turned away, then stopped short as a long, loud growl filled the room. He turned in time to see the Serge-creature explode in a frenzy of rage and fury, tossing itself at the thick glass, pounding and battering it. The transparent wall held, but the power of the creature’s blows shook the walls, and the seams and joints trembled.
The thing was getting stronger. The cell wouldn’t hold it for long.
He glanced at the eight-inch-square opening twenty feet above, now covered by a steel plate firmly bolted in place. It was opened once each day and small animals were dropped through, food for the monster. There were no other openings in the cell, none even the size of a pin, and as soon as the trapdoor closed, the seal was rendered airtight.
So far, there was no evidence that Serge had regained the ability to shift into mist, but Nick had a feeling it was coming. His mind was returning along with a level of control; soon his powers would follow.
A mind, Nick corrected, because that wasn’t Serge. The thing in that cell would rip Nick’s head off the instant it had the chance. No, the bond of friendship went only one way now. Nick hoped that he was strong enough to see this through.
He turned, giving the beast his back, the echoes of fists hammering against the cell walls seeming to pound inside his own body.
One step, then another.
He reached the first door, keyed in the access code, and waited for the thick steel to open.
The second room was small, existing only as an antechamber, a fail-safe if Serge escaped the cell. The door closed behind him, but even through the twelve-inch-thick walls, he could still hear the beast rage.
Again, he entered a code. Again, a door slid open. He stepped through, and the door snapped shut behind him, finally blocking out the sound. The tightness in Nick’s chest lifted a little, and he leaned back against the door.
The room he was in now was completely dark, not that it mattered to him. He could still see the door to Petra’s room along with the door to the exit tunnel and the slightly open door to the sleeping quarters. Between him and Luke and the werewolf Rand, someone was always in the chamber. Always ensuring that Serge remained confined, and ready to sound the alarm if the beast got free.
He closed his eyes. Right then, he didn’t want to see any of it. Didn’t want to remember, didn’t even want to think, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking. Of his friend. Of the girl.
He opened his eyes and looked at the closed door, and thought of the woman behind it. He was bound to her now, both of them responsible in different ways for what had happened to Serge. Both of them fugitives.
She was the puzzle piece that he believed he needed in order to save his friend, yet now that he had her, there was no magic formula, no easy answer. Their work had barely begun … and if the changes in the creature he’d just left were any indication, they needed to work fast. Soon, Serge might regain the ability to transform. Soon, Serge might have the strength to beat his way through the walls.
Soon Serge might run free, and then Nick could add the deaths of thousands to the butcher’s bill, and that was a price he didn’t know how to pay.
He closed his eyes again, then opened them as he felt the cold steel of a blade press hard against his throat. Luke.
“Give me one reason not to kill you now,” Luke said, his voice rough and dangerous.
“Because I need to fix this. I need to see it through.”
“They’ve arrested Sara. She’s in some goddamned holding cell deep inside Division.”
Nick closed his eyes. “I didn’t expect them to find her so quickly.”
“Damn you, Nic
holas,” Luke said, and Nick felt the blade break his skin. “Goddamn you all to hell.”
The scent of Nick’s blood rose up between them, and Nick forced himself not to move. If Luke wanted Nick dead, his head would have already hit the ground. Besides, Nick had no stomach for fighting back. He’d known what might happen when he’d dialed Sara’s number. Now he was facing the consequences.
“Take my life,” Nick said. “If it pays the debt, then take it now, and take it fast.”
A trickle of blood made its way down Nick’s neck, and though he didn’t move, he could imagine it staining the collar, then easing beneath the material to pool at his collarbone. The coppery scent filled the air, all the more pungent now that it was mixed with the scent of Luke’s wrath.
A moment … then another …
And then, suddenly, the pressure lifted.
“She made me swear not to harm you,” Luke said. “One phone call, and she used it to tell me that she’d have my head if I took yours.”
Nick closed his eyes, grateful not so much for his life, but for the chance to finish what he had started. “Then that’s another debt I owe your wife.” He turned to face the man he counted among his closest friends. The man he’d betrayed by pulling his wife into a goddamn hornets’ nest. “I didn’t want this, Luke. I had no choice. But believe me, I never wanted her involved.”
“I’d say you failed miserably in that regard.” He still held the knife in his hand. Now he wiped Nick’s blood on the thigh of his jeans, then sheathed the blade at his side. “Let’s hope the rest of the mission goes better.”
“At this point, I think there’s nowhere to go but up.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Luke said, something in his voice grabbing Nick’s attention.
“What’s happened?”
“Tiberius contacted me. He wanted to give his condolences for what happened to Sara. He will do what he can.”
Some of the tension drained from Nick. “Good. And Petra? Did he speak of her?” Luke said nothing, and Nick clenched his fists in anger. “Dammit, Tiberius should have argued in favor of a stay. He owes his place at the fucking Alliance table to the girl, and he damn well knows it. He should be bending over backward with gratitude.”
“He says he has no choice.”
“What? Because if he doesn’t support Petra’s termination order, Dirque will rally the troops and vote him off?”
“Is that so hard to understand?” Luke asked.
Nick frowned, because it wasn’t hard at all. Tiberius was a politician, and right now he was playing political games. As an advocate for the Alliance, Nick knew all about the machinations of politics. But as a friend, he’d hoped for more.
“It’s more than his seat at the Alliance,” Luke said. “He said the girl’s touch can bring about the end of the Alliance. He says it’s been foreseen. A prophecy.”
“And you believe that bullshit?”
Luke almost smiled. “The Alliance just locked up my wife. Right now, the prospect of someone bringing it down sounds pretty damn good.”
Nick matched his friend’s smile, and for a moment, he felt like things were right between them. They weren’t, though. Things wouldn’t be right again until Sara was free and Serge was himself, and both of them damn well knew it.
“It’s dangerous for you to remain here,” Luke said. “You and Petra need to leave tonight.”
“Understood.”
“Are you sure about this? Turn her in now, and we can end this. Sara can walk free tonight.”
“It’s Serge, Luke. The only way you can stop me now is to use that blade at your thigh.”
Luke’s hand closed over the hilt, and Nick held his breath. But the knife stayed sheathed. “The girl has no idea how to reverse the curse,” Luke said. He dropped his hand. “Hell, she doesn’t even know if it can be done.”
“But it is a curse, Luke. That means it has a source. If we can trace it back …”
“If,” Luke said. “And in the meantime, he grows stronger. If he gets free—”
“He won’t.”
“No,” Luke said, “because if I fear we are close to that, I will terminate him. Make no mistake. Poison, fire, I will find a way.”
“You would do that to a friend?”
Luke closed his eyes. “My friend Sergius is dead.”
“I intend to bring him back.”
“Even if you do, his daemon is still unbound.”
“Under the circumstances, I’d say that was a minor problem.”
Luke nodded, then opened his eyes and examined Nick with a cold, calculating look. “Even if you succeed, the Alliance has a long memory and a swift temper. You may find yourself strapped to a slab in the execution chamber.”
“I’ve done my homework, and this is a risk worth taking. If we can pull it off—if we can rid Petra of the curse and transform Serge back into himself—I’m confident that my superior advocacy skills will woo the Tribunal to my side.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I shall be forced to acquire a taste for the fugitive lifestyle.” He brushed a speck of lint off the cuff of the neatly pressed shirt he’d changed into, then looked up at Luke with an ironic grin. “Fortunately, I’m not a man who sets much store by creature comforts.”
CHAPTER 8
“Nick, wait.”
Nick paused outside Petra’s door, entrapped by Lissa’s entreaty. He didn’t want to turn and face her. Didn’t want to be distracted by the flood of memories that would surely rise when he saw her.
He didn’t love her anymore—of that, he was finally certain. But their love hadn’t slipped away slowly until it was nothing more than a soft memory. Instead, it had been torn from his very flesh, and like any wound, the scab bled when picked.
There was, however, no avoiding it.
“Hang on a sec,” she said, hurrying up to him and holding out a small canvas backpack.
“What is it, Lissa?”
The smile froze on her face, and she took a step back, her arm still extended with the pack. “I brought these for Petra.”
He took the bag. “Thanks.”
Her brow furrowed with confusion, and he felt like a shit.
“It’s a good thing you did,” she said. “Taking the risk. Saving Petra. I’m glad you did it.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” he said. “Or for her.” He reached for the doorknob.
“Right. For Serge. I get it.” Her cheeks flushed, and he understood why. At the time, she hadn’t known, of course. But after she’d betrayed Nick, it had been Serge who’d pulled him back from the precipice. Serge who had helped Nick battle the rising daemon.
“I have to go.”
“Nick— Never mind.”
He knew he should leave it at that and walk away. Instead, he released the knob. “What?”
“It’s just that … I thought we’d made progress. I thought—”
“I’ve forgiven what you did to me, Lissa. Hell, I even like Rand.”
“Then—”
“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.” He met her Caribbean blue eyes, now dark like water before a storm, and wondered why she couldn’t see how deeply she’d cut his pride. How much she’d made him play the fool. And that wasn’t a role Nicholas played well.
“Oh.” He could see she wanted to say something else. Wanted to somehow apologize and make it all better. A female’s instinct to kiss the hurt and make it go away.
He didn’t want the sympathy.
He lifted the pack. “What’s this?”
“Clothes,” she said. “I took a guess at Petra’s size.”
“Good. Thanks.”
She turned to leave, and he started to do the same, then stopped.
“Lissa?”
Her shoulders stiffened, and there was a pause before she faced him.
“We’re not going to be friends. Colleagues, maybe. But not friends.”
Her face was as hard as glass and just as fragile. “Of c
ourse,” she said stiffly.
He didn’t watch her go. Instead, he turned back to Petra’s door and slipped the key into the lock.
“You got into my head, you mind-fucking bloodsucker.” Petra was up and off the cot before Nicholas had even stepped through the door of her cell. Her new cell. Which, despite the fact that she wasn’t sitting in this one waiting to be executed, still constituted one more damn prison. One more set of four walls and nothing to occupy her but her thoughts.
Right now, her thoughts were firmly of the pissed-off variety.
She held the still-folded blanket in her hands, and now she shoved it against his chest, pushing him back, hard, toward the door. “You got in my head,” she repeated, “and you pushed my mind, and if you think I’m going to forgive you because you saved my ass, then let me tell you right now that you are seriously—seriously—misguided on that subject.”
He looked at her, his blue eyes both commanding attention and conveying regret. “I’m sorry.”
She still held the blanket and started to push toward him again. Started to tell him she didn’t want to hear his excuses or explanations. And then his words shoved through the storm clouds in her head.
She eyed him suspiciously. “What did you say?”
“I said I was sorry.”
He looked sorry, she thought, and yet this was not a moment she’d anticipated. She didn’t know Nicholas well, but she knew him enough. He was arrogant, usually with good reason, and she sincerely doubted that apologies came easily.
“Well, okay, then. But you do anything like that again—you even think about poking around inside there—and you’ll have one very uncooperative woman on your hands.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are we perfectly clear?”
He took a step toward her. Too close, considering that his hands were bare. She stepped back, but he matched her, his proximity making her fidgety. Nervous. She stood still—very still—and forced herself to meet his eyes, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating now, tripping in time with both fear and something else. Something new and just as dangerous as the curse she lived with every day of her life.