“Wear your helmet,” her mother said automatically. Then she looked up at her daughter. “Wait? Are you sure you should? What about the police … and the Rogue?”
“Screw ’em,” Chloe said with a fierce grin. Then she softened at the look on her mom’s face. “I doubt the police would even recognize me with a helmet. As for the Rogue—I promise I’ll stay in public places. He won’t do anything if there are innocent people—humans—around. I really need to clear my head for a while.”
“Me too,” Anna King said distantly. “This is … really … unusual stuff for me to deal with, you know?”
“You totally didn’t know what you were getting into when you adopted me, huh?” She said it with a smile, but inside Chloe felt really guilty about it.
“I realized what I was getting into when you were two and you pulled the bookshelf down on top of you. And then began chewing on all of my favorite Tony Hillermans,” her mom said archly. “I’ve been reading about other parents with children who want to reconnect with their … original ethnicity. But none of the case histories in it deal with the supernatural.”
That was a strange word. Chloe had never actually thought about it in reference to herself. Well, she tried not to think about the whole dying-and-coming-back-to-life thing in general. It was too weird. Was Sergei in that place of shadows now? Did he exist with the other lion shadows who prowled the darkness in that eternity? Or was there a Mai hell reserved for people like him?
“The good news is, if I get into an accident, I have seven lives left,” Chloe said with a grin.
“Don’t even joke,” her mother growled.
In some ways. Mom’s a better embodiment of the Twin Goddesses than Kim, Chloe thought as she pedaled to the park. Like when she made that speech about protecting or avenging her daughter if something happened to her—protective like Bastet, warlike like Sekhmet. Kim was deeply spiritual but didn’t really exhibit the qualities of either. If there was something like one of the Muses in the Mai pantheon, that would surely be Kim.
The air was crisp, perfect biking weather, the sun warm on her back. Amy used to make fun of Chloe’s helmet when they were growing up—she always ditched hers as soon as they were out of sight of home. But Chloe thought it made her look like a real biker, like a racer or maybe a messenger girl.
People smiled at her as she took a path into Golden Gate Park; other cyclists said “Good morning” or “Great day for a ride.” Chloe was both anonymous and recognized, greeted and then forgotten like all of the other people enjoying the nice day outside. A little kid on a pink bike with training wheels tried to race her a few feet and Chloe pretended to pedal furiously until the mom called her daughter back.
It was nice feeling her legs pump, the strange hunch as she leaned over the handlebars. But there was none of the familiar burn in her legs that she normally got, which was kind of ironic, really. The whole reason she’d wanted the Merida was because it had an electric pedal-assist motor and would require little effort on her part to take it up hills. With her Mai strength and endurance it wasn’t an issue anymore. I’ll bet I could totally do triathlons now. Except for maybe the swimming part—she wasn’t sure how good cats were at swimming or how much their natural aversion would affect her performance.
She biked past the people who played ultimate early every morning and watched a tall, brown-haired guy leap for a high-thrown Frisbee. Farther on there was some typical San Francisco-style political stuff going on: a shortish blond guy who didn’t look much older than she was standing at a table and handing out leaflets on the benefits of libertarianism. Chloe wasn’t quite sure what that was, but judging from the jeers of some surrounding grunge types, it probably wasn’t leftist.
She swung her bike hard to the north, exiting the park scant minutes later. The destination that had been troubling her in the back of her mind finally surfaced and made itself known: the Golden Gate Bridge.
The place where she had first fought the Rogue and thought he had died. The symbolic gap between her old life and the life of the Mai, holed up in their little mansion across the water in Sausalito. She and Amy and Paul—back when they were just a little younger, back when they were all still “just friends”—used to walk across it and dream of new worlds on the other side. After September 11 legions of National Guard were stationed around it, keeping it safe while making the locals uneasy.
What had once been one of her favorite places in the world had become a source of trepidation for her, of turmoil and serious stomach upset.
It’s time to take it back. To reclaim it.
Chloe switched the bike to high gear and pumped as hard as she could, her legs outworking the motor. Trying not to think, she pushed herself forward and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was on the bridge.
It was a glorious day: the orange girders shining in defiance against the soft blue sky and cotton candy clouds, a color completely out of place in nature. The bay sparkled blindingly below, a dark blue on which powder white sailboats rode carelessly by. The hills in front of her were different glowing shades of green and dark green, like a watercolor poster in a tourist shop.
Chloe felt like shouting or singing. Since she couldn’t really do the latter, she let out a, “WHOOOPPPEEE!” that scared several walkers.
Chloe was filled with a happiness in movement she hadn’t felt in a long time. No hunting, no being hunted, no one around she knew to upset this; just the speed, the wind in her ears, her legs moving, the glorious view.
The prayer is the movement.
Chloe remembered something vaguely about Hopi snake dancers who prayed for rain with rattlesnakes in their mouths. The prayer was the dance, not a separate recitation or song or spoken verse. That was what she felt like now: all glory and joy in just being alive.
Thank you, Whoever.
The bridge was far too short in retrospect; as she passed over the other limit, Chloe wondered how it had seemed so endless those times she had driven back and forth, once with Brian nearly dying in the backseat.
She had no desire to return home yet, so she crossed over and made her way up the Marin Headlands, waiting to become tired as the hills took their toll on her legs.
It never happened.
As though she were spiraling to the tip of a giant soft-serve ice cream cone, Chloe coasted around the side of the hill and was confronted with another glorious view: the bridge from above, San Francisco in the distance, water and spray in between. There was only a small parking space and a thin coating of grass on the rocky promontory; most people came up, took a picture, and left. Those who stayed were respectful and quiet. Any noise from ecstatic children leaping at the top of the world was whipped away by the ocean wind.
Chloe carefully leaned her bike up against a boulder and climbed on top of it, hugging her knees to her chest and sucking in the view.
I wish I could feel this way forever.
Chloe wished there was some way to store this entire moment, not just the visual image, but smells and feelings and all. Like in a stone or something that she could keep in her jewelry box and take out when she needed to relive the moment.
Chloe leaned back and lay on her back, looking up at the sky. In the sun and the wind and silence the cogs in her mind slowly began to fall back into place; the monkey wrenches and other acts of mental sabotage from the last few months slowly disappeared. The background chatter in her brain quieted. She just was.
And there, hidden by the mental graffiti, were the answers that had always been there. It wasn’t a great revelation, a message from the Twin Goddesses or her mom or the beyond; it was just Chloe. Speaking clearly to herself.
She sat up and pulled out her phone, regretful that the moment was over but resolved.
She called information so that her phone number wouldn’t show up on caller ID and asked for Whitney Rezza when she was patched through, telling the receptionist that it was Chloe King.
“Why, here’s a call I never exp
ected,” Whitney said with his usual light sneer, like someone at a yacht club.
“Mr. Rezza, Alexander Smith killed Sergei yesterday.”
“Really? Now, that’s kind of unexpected. Good for him.”
Chloe kept her inner calm, refusing to snap or get sarcastic. “Actually, the two were working together. To kill all descendants of the previous true Pride Leader. Like my sister. And me.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” the older man said promptly.
Chloe wondered briefly if anyone on either side had ever seen a spy movie. Of any sort. It was like the idea that two enemies working together for a common goal was preposterous.
“Well, they were. I know: I was there when the Rogue killed him. They both talked about it. But look, that’s not really why I called.”
“Oh?”
“As the new Pride Leader—the Chosen One—I am offering a truce.” She took a deep breath. She wasn’t overstepping her authority; she was the new leader. People like Igor would have to just toe the line.
Right?
“We’ll let the death of Sergei be the last violence between us. On my word,” Chloe said with resolve.
“Hmmm … a fascinating idea …”
Chloe held her breath.
“… but no, sorry, not that interested. This is the first time in years our Order has had a cause worth coming together for; why settle for a truce when we can proceed to wipe out the rest of you? I really should thank you, you know…. The little showdown at the Presidio you arranged really did wonders for our morale and purpose.”
What did that mean? There is power in war, that’s what that means, Chloe realized grimly. Their last major strategic maneuver against the Mai was when Whitney lost his wife to a random gang member who was unconnected with anyone…. Since then, the Order had been little more than a bunch of violent, slightly overglorified Masons, with secret rules and rituals but not much in the way of actual targeted attacks.
“I mean, good luck as the new leader and all—but really, they’re going to be a bit like chickens with their heads cut off for a while, aren’t they?”
He sounded so smug. Chloe needed one last thing, one card that would leave him disturbed. Give him something to think about.
“Thank you. By the way, Whitney, how’s your son?” And with that, she hung up.
Secrecy. That was the problem on both sides. Secrecy and ritual. If it had been her, if she had been leader of the Mai years ago when they first came to America, at the first sign of attack from the Order she would have immediately had the top lawyer on racial crimes/crimes of hate on their ass. Blown their cult public. Paul had once shown her the list “Top 10 Things Not to Do as an Evil Overlord” on the Web, and in the top ten was that when the gang of heroes approaches, you do not unleash the hounds of hell upon them; you call the local police and have them arrested for trespassing.
I’m telling, Chloe decided, in as whiny and childish a mental voice as she could manage. She called information again and had herself redirected to the tip line that was on the news before.
“Hi? I have some, uh, information on the guy who was murdered in the movie theater yesterday?”
“Can you come down to the station so we can take a full report?” the person at the other end asked in a brusque and businesslike fashion.
“I’d, uh, rather not. I was, uh, buying some… stuff from a … friend inside—I saw the whole thing, but I don’t want to get involved.”
“All right,” the woman grumbled, “tell me what you saw.”
Chloe told her the entire story, skirting around her own presence as a member of the scene and focusing on the Rogue and Sergei. She described both perfectly—which finally got the other person’s attention; it was obvious that Chloe wasn’t just repeating what she saw on the news because she described the shuriken that went flying into Sergei’s throat. She told them everything she could remember about the Rogue, from his dumb ponytail to the slashes on his arm, and added vague rumors from “on the street” about an insane guy with knives and a penchant for Hong Kong-style fighting. The policewoman thanked her and hung up.
“There,” Chloe said, picking up her bike. “I told. Deal with that, Whitney Rezza.”
Abiding by her new policy of no more secrets, Chloe decided to drive to the Firebird mansion that night without bothering to try and hide her tracks. It was ridiculous, anyway; Whitney knew who Sergei was, and everyone knew that Sergei ran Firebird. And for that matter, the same probably holds true for the Tenth Blade. All of Whitney’s friends must have known he belonged to some private club—it wouldn’t take a genius to follow him there one day.
Strangely, her mom didn’t have a problem with her borrowing the car. Technically speaking, even though Chloe only had a learner’s permit, Anna King decided that her daughter was safer with access to wheels than just showing up in a taxi.
“You call me every half hour,” her mother insisted. “If you miss one and I mean one phone call, I’m calling the police. You understand?”
“Yes, Mom.” She didn’t even say it sarcastically. Frankly, Chloe was amazed that her mom was letting her go so easily.
“And let’s have a word … I know, ’David Bowie.’ If you say that, then I’ll call the police—okay? Those will be our safe words.”
“Okay,” Chloe agreed, wondering how she could work the rock star’s name into casual conversation while her captors/tormentors were listening. “But I think I might need to stay there overnight. …”
“Then call me every three hours after 1 a.m., and I mean it, Chloe King. You may be their leader, but you’re still my daughter, and you’re still under eighteen.”
“Yes, Mom,” Chloe agreed dutifully. She had already planned on keeping the GPS phone on the whole time. So far, none of the Mai besides Kim and Alyec knew about it.
By the time Chloe arrived at Firebird, the sun had set—and the news on TV had changed.
“I think you’d better look at this, Chloe.” Kim had been waiting for Chloe in the driveway, perched on top of the ornate marble fountain that marked the center of the turnaround in front of the entrance. She looked worried, which panicked Chloe: her friend usually didn’t react to anything.
No one was in the lobby; no one was in any of the offices. Many of the top people were in Sergei’s office, their slit eyes wide and dismayed in the half-light, soaking up the rays of the giant TV he had behind a curtain.
There was another reporter outside the theater, talking, but the photos being flashed in the corner when he turned the story back over to the deskman weren’t of Sergei—they were of people he had murdered.
Chloe focused on the TV and serious-looking reporter on-screen.
“… now that the FBI is involved. Investigators report that Sergei Shaddar was a criminal mastermind involved in some Eastern Bloc terrorist organizations. Information from Georgian officials suggest that many of the murders he carried out in his homeland were disguised under the cover of civil violence between the Georgians and the breakaway state Abkhazia.”
Chloe looked at Kim. “Keep watching,” the other girl whispered. “It gets crazier.”
“Shaddar was also involved in a number of other murders in the United States, possibly including the murder of a girl whose wounds and method of murder perfectly match those of Mr. Shaddar.”
A photo of the girl who had been Chloe’s sister was shown in the corner now.
Believe me yet, jerky? Chloe wanted to mutter to Igor, but that wouldn’t have been a very leaderlike thing to do.
Instead she sighed, shook her head, then raised her voice, flipping on the lights.
“Could everyone who isn’t Olga, Igor, or Kim please leave the room?”
Everyone turned to face her, blinking against the bright light. A dozen pairs of eyes went back to nearly humanlike round pupils.
“And please ready the, uh, auditorium for the seven o’clock meeting. Could one of you make sure that there’s a TV, with access to the news, or a
giant projection screen, or something like that?”
Heads nodded: “Yes, Honored One.” Chloe tried not to notice how relieved and grateful and hopeful the faces were as they passed and looked at her. Even the receptionist who had sneaked in behind them to watch the news bowed her head.
When they were all gone, Kim closed the door.
“Anyone want to say anything?” Chloe asked, looking back and forth between the three of them.
Olga took the opportunity to start crying. “I never knew!” She coughed. “I can’t believe …”
Her eyes went slitty again and her claws came out as emotions overcame her; Chloe realized that of all the Mai she knew even a little, not once had she seen the older woman transform at all.
“I can’t believe it either,” Igor said softly, but the blank look in his eyes said otherwise. “He was like a father to me. …”
“May I suggest a little perspective?” Kim asked in one of the coldest tones Chloe had ever heard her use. “In other orphan cases like Chloe’s the human parents have ’randomly’ disappeared or turned up dead, like with Chase…. You cannot tell me you didn’t suspect something.”
Neither of the other two said anything. Olga looked vaguely shamefaced, however.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, huh? All right, the past is the past,” Chloe said. She fought a surge of disgust and anger as she thought of her own mom and the traces of Mai presence that Kim had found around her house. “I am declaring an official moratorium and amnesty right now. In the future, there will be no more murders. And if someone suspects something, it gets dealt with normally through the police—not covered up, okay? Listen.” Chloe looked at her watch. “I have to call my mom in, like, five minutes, but before then I want to reveal some of my secret plans.”
Plans that she had worried about and gone over in her head and had found nothing wrong with—but that she still doubted.
“Igor, until—well, until further notice, you’re now acting president of Firebird. Olga, consider yourself CEO.” The Mai boy blinked a couple of times at this in a way that wasn’t entirely human, shocked out of his snit by the sudden weight of responsibility. Chloe went on. “No matter what happens, real estate is not in my future, and human resources is not in my immediate future, as nice as the thought of finding more misplaced Mai may be. I really do plan on going to college. Oh, and let me reiterate one last time—“Chloe fixed her eyes on Igor’s. “Sergei. And the Rogue. Were working. Together. Which revelation will also no doubt appear in the news sometime in the next few hours after the police release the information.”
Nine Lives of Chloe King Page 48