by RJ Blain
Family meant nothing to the Blade Clan. Only duty, skill, and honor mattered to those who lived by the sword and died by the sword with nothing in between. Had I had any friends in the clan?
If I had, I couldn’t remember their names. After more than decade, I couldn’t even remember any faces. Did they remember my childhood name?
I didn’t.
The surreal wonder of having a mother, who had a sister and several brothers, once again settled over me, but it was coupled with an equal amount of dread. I understood, then, why the Blade Clan did as they did.
Attachments made killing difficult, and the knowledge I would murder my own flesh and blood enveloped me. In the end, I had hurt myself and would continue to do so, but I would use my poisons or my blade and eliminate my uncle if I couldn’t prove his innocence.
If possible, I would save him. Not for myself, but for Gentry and his family. If I followed through with my contract, I would lose my one chance to have a family. Maybe I wasn’t the best person, maybe I didn’t understand how families were supposed to work, and maybe I lacked any skill with friendships, but even I knew I’d be torching every hope of remaining in Gentry, Todd, and Anatoly’s good graces.
They were friends, and if I hurt one of them, I hurt them all.
If I couldn’t prove my uncle’s innocence, they would hate me.
I suspected the President of the United States understood what we risked with her assassination order. The folders contained every single piece of information I needed to learn the truth. The clothbound books contained information on the Hope Diamond, including records of all its bursts, their consequences, and the individuals associated with its flares.
A wealth of knowledge burdened the coffee table. It was up to me to make sense of it and determine if I would be forced to kill my uncle or be able to hunt down the true perpetrator behind the theft of the pulsing Hope Diamond.
Several hours after I started digging into the provided information, I decided it would take me days I didn’t have to get to the bottom of anything. I yawned and went to work putting everything back in order and stacking the books and folders into the blue bag where they belonged.
To complete the first step of my investigation, I needed to recreate the theft of the Hope Diamond, which meant I needed to find out who could make a duplicate of the stone’s pulse and how similar the planted replacement was. That meant working with Blossom, who headed the effort to recover the stone.
I wondered about her involvement but wouldn’t ask about it. In the grand scheme, it didn’t matter why she headed the investigation. With her help, I’d be in a much better position to do the rest of my job—a job that would pay her a lot to side with me. Once I had a better idea of the situation, I’d make certain I received an appropriate bounty for my work.
I dragged the blue bag to the bedroom and shoved it under the bed. I brought my katana and courier’s bag, too, and after I stripped, not caring if anyone found the clothes discarded on the floor, I snuggled into the soft comforter and went through my things.
Within my courier’s satchel, I found a few additions, including a pair of wrist braces similar to the one I had left in Charlotte six years ago and a new tattoo kit in an ebony box. I opened it and peeked inside. To all appearances, it looked like a standard calligraphy set, containing a metal and glass calligraphy pen, spare nibs, six bottles of ink, and nib cleaner. The colors included the rare gold I’d used to tattoo my mark on Anatoly, blue, green, black, red, and silver. I removed the nib cleaner and twisted off the cap, taking a sniff. It smelled like cleaner, but its odd, herbal undertone betrayed it as a permanency and healing salve. I frowned and systematically emptied the box.
It took me several minutes of fiddling to discover how to lift the inset for the bottles and calligraphy set, revealing a hidden compartment. Glass and metal tubes in grooves took up most of the space, each one labeled with a tag in neat handwriting. Bundles of needles, meant for use with my new wrist guards, filled three of the containers.
Either the President moved really fast or she had anticipated my acceptance of the contract. The selection of poisons proved she had researched me far more thoroughly than I liked. I only needed to hunt down the antidotes. I even had enough empty vials for them. With five or six hours of shopping, I’d have everything I needed to resume the life I had wanted to leave behind.
I returned the box to my courier bag, and it, too, joined the documents and books under the bed. When sleep came, it did so in fitful bursts, and I woke regretting I’d slept. Someone had brought clothes without me being aware of their presence in the room, and neatly folded piles took over the dresser. I headed into the bathroom, where a white bathrobe waited along with fresh towels and my choice of tub or shower. I opted for a soak, which offered me a chance to leisurely wash my hair and braid it, taking my time with the rituals I had blitzed through the day before.
Maybe the words and motions lacked the meaning for me as they did for true members of the Cheyenne, but the ritual soothed me all the same. The little bit of familiarity and routine helped me cope with everything new and unwanted.
Today, I faced the real possibility of assassinating my uncle. Tomorrow, the burden of my contract would continue to weigh on me. More than a single man’s life stood on the brink of ruin, and I saw no way to avoid losing the closest thing I had to friendship. Unless I could prove my uncle’s innocence, I’d sabotage any hope of having the family I craved.
The anguish in the President’s voice convinced me of that one, painful truth. If I killed Abraham Adams, I would inflict a wound far deeper than any cut I could make with a sword. Todd and Anatoly would side with their longtime friend.
When I disappeared again, no one would miss me for long if at all.
While I wanted freedom, its price cramped my stomach and left the sour taste of bile on my tongue.
I found my tribal leathers among the outfits left for me, and I chose them, both as a shield and a reminder I lived far to the west. When I finished my work, I had a home to return to. As long as I held faith the tribe would welcome me back, I could keep moving forward.
One day, I either wouldn’t have to run or would no longer have anywhere else to run to. Soon enough, every bridge I’d crossed in my life would burn, and I’d be the one to light the match.
The Hope Diamond needed to be returned, and if its thief proved to be the head of the Secret Service, my uncle, and one of the last people on Earth I wanted to kill, I’d assassinate him. My life, my comfort, my security, and my friendships, such as they were, weren’t worth the lives, comforts, and securities of the hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands, or millions that would be sacrificed if the Starfall stone burst while in the wrong hands.
I dug out my courier bag and the documents from beneath the bed, gathered them, and prepared myself for what I had to do. Once ready, I left the bedroom.
Agent Randal waited in the sitting room, his attention shifting to me long enough to confirm my identity before focusing on the entry. Like his partner, the older man pretended I didn’t exist unless something diverted his attention from his work.
I had the feeling they would make excellent assassins given a chance and the right tools. Their awareness of their surroundings matched mine when I worked a bodyguard job—better, really. It’d been too long since I’d defended any life other than my own.
Someone had cleaned the fireplace while I had slept, and while tempted to light a fire just to watch it burn, I dropped the blue bag on the coffee table with a thump, sank onto the armchair, and dug out the blueprints of the National Archive. Every schematic used in its construction filled the folder, and I focused on the air conditioning system, the plans for its design, and the ducts it used.
Unlike most systems I’d seen, the ducts in the National Archive served two purposes: they air conditioned the library and they served as maintenance tunnels for the wires snaking through the ceiling of every level.
With a little elbow grease, I�
��d bet my katana I’d be able to sneak through the entire building without anyone detecting to my activity. I returned the blueprints to the folder, closed it, and lifted my gaze to the Secret Service agent guarding the door. “Agent Randal? Do you know if anyone will need me for a few hours?”
Randal lifted his arm, slid his sleeve back, and checked his watch. “You have an appointment in three hours.”
“I need a safe place to store these documents.”
“Seal the bag, ma’am. It is mystic sealed to you and one other. Put it somewhere out of sight, and it won’t be disturbed.”
I needed to figure out how someone had managed to mystic seal something keyed to me without me being aware of it. “Is there a reason I can’t go on a short field trip?”
“Where?”
I hesitated, aware the man could, in theory, be a truthsayer. The library had several books on Starfall stones which included information on the Hope Diamond. I’d use that for an excuse, although I really wanted to find out how easy it would be to access the maintenance tunnels. “The National Archive. I need to check something in a book.”
“If you won’t have to stay in the library for too long, we have plenty of time to go. The National Archive is under tight security at the moment, however.”
“Can you get me inside?”
“I can.”
“Perfect.” I grabbed my courier bag, belted my katana in place around my hips, and ditched the blue bag beneath the bed. “No time’s better than the present.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“Frankenlibrary,” I muttered, staring at the horror show of mismatched architecture. In a way, I had missed the place, although my sense of style and fashion appreciated only one ‘graced’ the Earth with its presence. At my side, Agent Randal coughed to cover a laugh.
The doors were closed and flanked by four Secret Service agents, who watched us, their hands on their swords.
“Friendly greeting, Randal. What’d you do? Piss in their cereal?”
My personal one-man army shot a glare at me, tapped his earpiece, and said, “Stiletto requires use of the library.”
Their communication system worked fast; within half a minute, the Secret Service agents stepped aside, and a pair of them wrestled opened one of the doors. I took the stairs two at a time, gave a nod to the guards, and slipped inside.
“Stiletto is in the National Archive,” Randal stated before he followed close enough I could mule kick him into next week if I wanted to.
To give my guard the slip, I needed to lower his defenses and give him a false sense of security. I wondered if I’d be able to pull it off. “How long do I have you as a shadow?”
“Until you’re released from Secret Service protection. Indefinitely until told otherwise.”
“And if the President is voted out?”
Randal looked me over and chuckled. “I wouldn’t count on having your detail revoked anytime soon, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“The President has declared you a person of interest, and your relationship with several prominent individuals has elevated your security status. When your recent past is considered, you’ve been designated at high risk.”
Great. If the President wanted to make my job tougher, she was excelling at it. Then again, perhaps she thought, in her own way, she was offering aid. With a detail who fell under my uncle’s supervision, I’d be given opportunities to get near him. “So someone will always be tagging along no matter where I go?”
“I’d get used to it for now if I were you.”
“You realize I’m a courier, right? My job is to ride where I’m paid to go.”
“We’ll have to get good horses then.”
“You plan on riding a courier route? In a suit?”
Randal’s gaze swept over the lobby and settled on the three guards stationed near the Declaration of Independence. As I had every time I entered the library, I stepped to the old document, reading the words and wondering how the world could have changed so much since its signing.
Lifting my gaze, I stared at the guards, aware of the slight pressure I associated with someone listening to my thoughts, and began counting in fractions, jumping from one number to the next without any distinguishable pattern. They grimaced, although they said nothing.
My Secret Service agent tensed.
“Telepaths,” I murmured, sliding my way around the display and heading for the stairwell leading to the next level. I paused long enough to meet the gaze of the youngest of the guards. When I had his attention, I thought, Hard to steal what’s already been stolen.
He jumped half a foot and yelped.
“You’re listening too hard.”
With the trio of guards gaping at me, I hummed a happy tune and resumed my walk to the stairs.
Randal hurried to catch up. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what that was all about?”
“I have a bad habit of nettling telepaths listening to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Dare I ask how you nettle them?”
“Fractions.”
“Fractions?”
“Out of order fractions. Sometimes, if I’m really feeling mean, I’ll start counting normally, then I’ll jump around whole numbers, backtrack, and then start counting in fragments of numbers.” I shoved against the heavy door blocking my way to the stairwell. “Nothing against mystics, but I don’t like when people listen to me without my consent.”
“How can you tell?”
I shrugged. “Read somewhere they used telepaths here.” It wasn’t even a lie; I had read about it somewhere, and I’d learned to feel the subtle pressure with some practice. Most of the time, I started counting the instant someone attempted to listen to me. “I assumed one of them would be a telepath since they’d be watching everyone entering and leaving the building—assuming what I read is true, of course.”
“Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Fly.” I took the stairs two at a time to test Randal’s endurance and speed. He kept up with me with no evidence of exertion. Beating me to the door, he opened it and scanned the area, nodding once he was satisfied.
The motion, so habitual, clued me into his experience. No sign of uncertainty hampered his work, speaking of a great deal of practice guarding others. Once he figured out my habits, I expected he would anticipate my every move.
I looked forward to testing him and Simmons. Challenging the Secret Service agents would keep me occupied until I cut ties and disappeared again. Unless a miracle happened, I would be forced to relocate somewhere far away. I’d try Cheyenne first, although I wasn’t hopeful I’d be able to stay.
To them, blood and kin meant everything, and killing family resulted in exile. They wouldn’t delay long before exiling me from the tribe.
My human shadow followed me down the hall to the main section of the second-floor library. I wandered the aisles, clucking my tongue while selecting general encyclopedias for basic information. I dropped my first haul off at a table and resumed searching the shelves, taking the opportunity to get a feel for my surroundings.
Several entrances to the maintenance ducts were located on the floor, including one in a janitor’s closet, one in a hallway, one in the primary stairwell, and one somewhere beneath my feet. While easy to spot on the blueprints, finding them in reality was a little more difficult.
I tapped my feet as I walked, listening for any changes in the sound of my steps. Randal stayed close, watching my every move. With the way I was drumming on the floor and fidgeting, he likely believed I either had zero patience or a nervous habit. Add in how often I paused to check out a book, he probably suspected I had a short attention span, too.
A hollower thump exposed the entrance when I stepped on it, and I paused one shelf away, browsing the selection of books, which included geological references. I grabbed every book on Charlotte I could find, added some general volumes about the United States, and turned to Randal. “Could you take these to the table
while I grab some more?”
The Secret Service agent smiled and took the books out of my arms. “Of course.”
I waited for him to turn the corner before I dropped to my knee, located the access panel, and pried it up with my nails. Three feet below the floor, an access shaft waited for me to explore. I slipped inside, wiggled into the tunnel, and twisted around enough to lower the wood and metal cover back into place.
A faint blue-white glow radiated from the reinforced air duct, and encouraged by the presence of light, I went to work, pausing just long enough to remove my sword belt. I’d have to carry it to keep it quiet, but I’d manage. Excitement coursed through me as I crawled off in search of the Hope Diamond’s chamber on the floor beneath me.
I chose silence and stealth over speed, lifting my katana, placing it ahead of me, and crawling to catch up, careful to keep my shoes from banging on the metal ductwork. A faint hint of lemon teased my nose. Did someone clean the ducts as part of a routine, or had the culprit erased evidence of their passage? I couldn’t tell either way.
The ducts branched, and every now and then, I discovered paired holes in the tunnel, one stretching up into the darkness while a few feet ahead, another descended, allowing maintenance workers to fix pipes and wires hidden in the walls. In the case of the first floor descent shafts, they dead ended. If the National Archive had a basement, I couldn’t access it from the ductwork system. When I made my escape to third floor, the metal bars mounted inside the shafts served as ladders to the next floor. Cool air wafted down, and I paused to listen.
All remained quiet.
I eased my way over one of the dead-end shafts, well aware if I fell it’d be a noisy and painful experience. Every floor of the National Archive had a minimum of one ceiling access into the ducts; the first floor had five, with one located in the Hope Diamond’s chamber. Since the tunnels lacked signs or labels, I couldn’t tell if I had gone the right way. When I found the first pull ring to allow me access to the first floor, I hesitated. Until I lifted it and got a look, I’d have no idea what waited beyond the thick metal plate. Setting my katana behind me, I grabbed the ring with one hand and lifted, reaching to grab the lifted panel with my other hand. It weighed less than I expected, and I set it on the other side of the hole and stared down.