Dark Oracle

by Alayna Williams

  Cassie chortled.

  Harry resisted the urge to tell the old man exactly what he could do with his book. He snatched his coat and headed out the door behind Tara, letting the screen door bang behind him. Maggie nosed through the door and followed.

  The day was crisp and cold, snow still clinging to the shady spots under the trees. Harry had been so focused on cracking the computer that he’d forgotten to look outside. He saw no planes overhead, not even contrails. That could either be a sign they’d stopped looking in this area, or that their location was already known.

  Maggie vigorously sniffed the ground, inhaling ferociously enough to get snow up her nose. She snorted and took off into the brush, tail wagging. In her dog’s imagination, surely a rabbit had become a great and fearsome beast in need of a good chasing.

  Tara stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Your dad has quite the sense of humor.”

  “My dad. . . sticks his nose in a lot of things. Pay him no mind.”

  She nodded, following him down the porch steps into the woods. Underfoot, where snow had melted, the exposed patches of pine needles were soft and rotting. The branches that still held their needles cast fringed shadows over her face. She was an enigma to Harry. . . She spoke little, seeming to strive to blend into the environment and soak it up. Harry never knew what was really on her mind, behind that face as blank as a porcelain doll’s. But he found her impossible to ignore. Try as she might to fade into the background, Harry always saw her in his peripheral vision.

  “We’re going to have to move Cassie,” he said. “And I am all out of secret hollows in the woods.”

  Tara was quiet for some time as they walked. She seemed to be chewing on something, and her words were reluctant when she spoke. “I know someone who can take her.”

  “You trust this person?” He didn’t know how to read the reluctance in her voice.

  “For this one thing. . . yes, I do.”

  “That’s not a resounding endorsement.”

  “She was an old friend of my mother’s. If anyone can keep Cassie hidden, Sophia can.”

  Harry nodded, kicked at a broken branch. If she trusted this Sophia, that would be good enough for him. She’d trusted Harry to take them to Martin. “If you can get in touch with her, we’ll take off in the morning. You take Cassie to Sophia, and I’ll head south to meet with DiRosa. Martin has a truck. It’s old, doesn’t have heat, but it’ll get you where you need to go.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, we’ll meet back up at Los Alamos.”

  “This assumes, of course, that DiRosa isn’t the bait in a trap.”

  “We don’t have much choice.” Harry kicked at the stick. “Better one of us than both of us walking into it.”

  “Harry.” She put a hand on his chest, and he hoped she couldn’t feel its quickening under his coat. “You don’t have to be chivalrous and fall on your sword.”

  He put his hand over hers before she could draw it away. “Nothing chivalrous about it. I’m being practical here. Somebody has to protect Cassie and Magnusson’s laptop. We don’t want to think about what would happen if they got into the wrong hands.”

  She nodded, and a curtain of hair fell over her face. “Just be careful, Harry. And please remember what I said about Corvus.”

  “Hey.” He brushed the hair back behind her ear. That motion revealed the beginning of a scar curling behind her jaw and disappearing into the collar of her coat. Instinctively, she shied away. “I’m not forgetting.”

  He supposed he could understand that, her shyness about those marks that disappeared into her clothes. He couldn’t imagine the trauma behind them. But he wished he could make her understand they made no difference at all to him, that whatever suspicion she held surrounding the Division need not extend to him.

  On a gut level, he could understand her dislike of Corvus. And there was clearly some bad history there. But Harry had no evidence to show that he should not trust Corvus, that the man was anything other than what he seemed. Corvus might be a perfect jackass, but he was still Harry’s superior jackass.

  But he wished he could somehow wipe it all away, that unknown thing that kept her awake at night, that thing that caused her to look away from him with sad, downcast eyes. Harry wanted her to see what he saw: the powerful, insightful mystery, that beauty wrapped in scars of thorns. He was drawn to her like metal to a magnet, to the way she challenged him, forced him to think. . . and yet was unconditionally behind him.

  He wanted her. Impulsively, he reached out for her, kissed her. Her cheeks were cold against his palms, and he felt her eyelashes fluttering against his skin in surprise. He felt her melt against him, fingers wrapped in the collar of his coat, yielding to the kiss that scalded him with its intensity. His fingers brushed over the scar on her neck, sliding to the warmth of her collar. He trailed a kiss behind her jaw, feeling her pulse thud against his lips, and wrapped his arms around her. He could feel his heart beating against the cage of his ribs, and he wanted, more than anything, to feel her bare skin against his hands.

  She gasped and he drew back, with effort. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and desire. “Harry, I. . .” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I’m more broken than you think. I’ve been cut up, dissected, head to toe.” She seemed to force herself to say the words, to be honest with him.

  “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “How could it not?” she said, and her tone was hopeless. “How could it not matter to you?”

  “It just doesn’t. What matters is what you feel. What I feel. The rest is immaterial.”

  She sniffed, ran her gloved finger under her dripping nose.

  Still caging her in his arms, he told her, “You come to me when you’re ready. I’ll wait.”

  BARBARA DIROSA CLICKED HER CELL PHONE OFF AND STOWED it in her purse. She walked briskly down the busy midday street, the wind tearing at the edges of her coat. Her shoes clicked along the pavement, and she clutched her briefcase tightly. In sharp contrast to the time she’d spent lately in radiation suits, her taste in civilian clothes was impeccable and expensive: wool pencil skirt, silk blouse, custom-tailored jacket. When she was in civilian attire, she eschewed the anonymous shapelessness of the white plastic suits she was forced to wear day after day.

  Her heart hammered in fear, and she kept glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t followed. She just had to hold on until tomorrow. She could stall Gabriel until then, keep Magnusson’s correspondence safe until she could turn it over to Li.

  Blinking, she stared up at the blue sky. It was impossible to believe Magnusson was gone, dead or otherwise. She’d fallen—hard—for her mentor months ago. And she was beginning to believe he was starting to return her attentions. He’d seemed so apart from the rest of the research team, walking distractedly along another plane of theory. She longed to bring him back down to earth, for there to be something more.

  And it seemed to be flowering. He let her feed him. DiRosa had dragged Magnusson to half the restaurants in town after work. Over filet or dim sum, he was still guarded. He rarely spoke about his personal life. Most of it seemed to center around his dog. Their conversations were overwhelmingly work-related, though Magnusson seemed to tentatively probe the edge of sensitive subjects:

  “What brought you here?” His slender fingers sketched the world outside the window of the bistro they once sat in. “How did they bring you in all of this?”

  DiRosa paused, twirling her linguine around her fork. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.” His blue eyes seemed hungry for the answer.

  She shrugged. “Nobody else could afford me.”

  That didn’t seem to be the answer he was looking for. He pushed his ravioli around in silence.

  “How about you?” she asked. “Why are you here? To be honest, you don’t really fit in.”

  “Any more than Prada does among the jarheads?” He was teasing her now. He always called her Prada.

  “Hey, we established
that I’m here for the money. What’s your excuse?”

  Magnusson’s eyes seemed hungry. “I’m here for the machines, Prada.”

  DiRosa glanced at him coyly over the moist rim of her wineglass. “Boys and their toys.”

  He sighed, pushed away his plate. “It’s what the other boys will do with the toys that bothers me.”

  “Why does it bother you? What they’re going to do with our research is too far above our pay grade to worry about,” she chided him.

  “I guess I’m naϊve, but I’d like to know what they’re going to do with it. Make sure they’re not going to start World War Three. That kind of thing.” His hand was balled in a fist around his napkin.

  DiRosa rested her sharp chin in her hand. “You are being naϊve. But it’s kind of endearing.”

  “Prada, I suspect that they’re gonna weaponize it.”

  She paused. The possibility had been so much a part of her reality for so long that she was shocked Magnusson hadn’t seriously considered it. He was more naϊve than she thought. “And. . . ? Look, our government has always had the shiniest, most expensive toys. Some of them go boom. Loudly. It’s better we develop them before someone else does, right?”

  Magnusson took a swig of his wine. “Right.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  She frowned at him. “We’re here not just to serve our own interests. Part of the deal is that we also serve. . . and national security is part of that.”

  “Right, Prada.”

  She leaned forward. “Why are you all right with building a power source for engines of war, but actual weaponry is wrong? Where do you cross that line?”

  “I don’t want to be Oppenheimer quoting the Bhagavad Gita.” He swished his wine around in his glass. ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of Worlds,’ and all that.”

  “You’re not Oppenheimer.”

  He snorted. “I want to build things. Not destroy them. We’ve got an amazing opportunity to build technology that could end the energy shortage around the world. . . This could create a tremendous positive impact on human history.”

  “And we will. But there’s a price to pay for that.” He never sounded convinced that they were on the side of the angels. She’d had to kick him in the shins in meetings for asking too many questions. And she worried what he had found out. Damn the man for being saddled with such a limited, simplistic ethical range.

  DiRosa wiped at her watering eyes with her glove as she walked down the street. For a smart man, Magnusson could be really stupid when it came to politics.

  “Dr. DiRosa.”

  She turned, nearly tripping over her expensive Italian shoes.

  Major Gabriel was striding toward her, hands in the pockets of his military coat. His face, as always, was carefully neutral. Had he been following her?

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “Had some errands to run, sir.” The fewer details she gave, the better. She could feel her ears turning red. She was a terrible liar. And Gabriel had a more. . . evolved sense of situational ethics than she did.

  “Come walk with me.” He grasped her elbow, and DiRosa knew that she had no choice but to go with him as he pulled her down the street with an iron grip. She furtively glanced around her, wondering if she could make a break for it in her impractical shoes. She wondered if anyone would come to her aid if she screamed.

  “Have I ever told you the story how I got into this business, Dr. DiRosa?” Gabriel asked, his tone conversational.

  She swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “In-house, we call it the Clean-Up Crew. We’re good at cleaning up other peoples’ messes. I put in for the transfer after I saw what happens when well-intentioned people don’t have a view of the big picture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I used to be with Criminal Investigation Command, investigating a breach of intelligence at the Centers for Disease Control. There was a guy there who didn’t think that the lab should be studying a strain of a hemorrhagic virus that could infect humans. Felt that the hazards were too great, and he felt the need to share his concerns with the press. He talked to the papers off the record.

  “But the damage was done. The leak inspired a group of would-be terrorist lunatics who wanted to create some snazzy new bioweapons. They cobbled together enough intel to intercept the delivery of the virus samples.”

  DiRosa’s brow wrinkled. “I never heard of that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. We caught them before they crossed the state line, contained the samples. Well, we contained most of them. Two of them disappeared.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I want you to understand why we have to contain leaks.”

  Gabriel walked her to a car parked on the side of the street, where Richard Corvus sat behind the wheel. Corvus nodded to him, the satisfied look of an owl whose shadow was falling over a mouse.

  Chapter Twelve

  TARA STARED at the shadows of tree branches on the ceiling. Beside her, Cassie lay curled up in a tight ball, asleep. Maggie lay perpendicular to her, as long as she could stretch out, shoving Tara to the edge of the bed. In the living room, Martin snored softly on the couch. All was quiet, but her thoughts raced.

  Adrienne was after her. She hadn’t told Harry. . . How could she tell him that a member of a secret society of women was harboring enough of a grudge to try and chase Tara down? He’d send the men with the white coats after her for certain.

  She’d called Sophia this afternoon, when Harry and Martin and Cassie had been outside with Maggie. Sophia had picked up on the first ring. Unnerving, that habit of hers.

  “Adrienne has been at your house,” Sophia told her.

  Tara swallowed. “Is Oscar okay?” If that bitch had hurt Oscar, she’d tear her throat out.

  “He’s fine. He’s with me. He’s eaten two chicken sandwiches from the drive-through and is taking a nap.”

  “What the hell does she want from me?” Tara dimly remembered her as a tall, grubby girl who rarely spoke. They’d probably exchanged a half dozen words that she remembered.

  “She thinks you’re competition for the title of Pythia.”

  “Whoa. Back the truck up.” Tara shook her head. “What?”

  “She knows Juliane was the Pythia’s chosen successor. Juliane’s gone.”

  Tara’s jaw hardened. “I want nothing to do with Delphi’s Daughters. Period.”

  “I know that. But Adrienne sees things differently. She sees you as competition.”

  “Well, the Pythia needs to jerk a knot in her tail.”

  “It’s not that simple. The Pythia has. . . faded.” Sophia’s voice broke. Tara couldn’t imagine what it cost her to admit it. Sophia had always been unquestioningly loyal to the Pythia. “She’s not what you remember her to be. Her power has greatly diminished.”

  “What are you telling me? That the Pythia has no control over Adrienne?”

  She hesitated slightly. “Yes.”

  “Shit.” Tara rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’ve got a bigger problem. I need a favor, but you’ve got to tell me if you’re going to be able to help me.” Tara was out of options; she had no choice but to ask.

  “Anything.” There was no hesitation.

  “I need you to hide someone for me. A girl. And you have to tell me honestly whether or not you can do it.”

  Sophia had listened quietly to Tara’s request for sanctuary for Cassie and the laptop.

  “Of course,” she said. “Meet me tomorrow.” She’d specified a meeting site several hours away, and Tara had scribbled the information down in a hurry.

  “Sophia,” Tara said. “You might want to bring. . . reinforcements. There’s a strong likelihood I’ll be followed. And not by Adrienne.”

  Sophia laughed her bell-like laugh. “Dear child, we will see that she’s safe. Don’t worry about us.” Her voice lowered in seriousness. “Worry about your current situation.”

  Cassie had been reluctant to be h
anded off to another caretaker. Tara had told her, “It’s the only choice. Sophia can keep you safe.”

  “Where will I be going?” The girl’s eyes were large with anxiety.

  “I asked her not to tell me, for your own good.” Tara tried not to think of the worst case scenario, what could happen if Cassie and her location were revealed. “But you will always be able to contact me. And. . .” she added desperately, “Sophia is a wonderful cook. She makes a miraculous strudel.”

  Cassie’s ears perked up at the mention of the word strudel. “I suppose a strudel maker can’t be that bad.”

  Tara looked wistfully out the window, emotions churning. She hoped Cassie couldn’t sense her ambivalence about the situation. “No. She can’t be.”

  Now, Tara lay staring up at the ceiling, hoping she’d made the right call. The only other option would be for Tara to go on the run with Cassie, herself. . . but her chances of discovery were higher with Adrienne in the mix. And, truth be told, she was reluctant to leave Harry alone in this mess. She sensed he was more alone than he knew, that Corvus would not be the backup he hoped for. It was as if she could see a trap closing around him, and was powerless to retrieve him from its jaws.

  She sighed, turning over to watch the constellations tangle in the tree branches. Her emotions were getting in the way, and she was feeling too protective of him. She blushed, thinking of this afternoon’s kiss that made her lightheaded enough to cling to him. Emotions long buried, something hot and wanton, bubbled up within her, and they conflicted with her fears.

  As gentle and determined as Harry seemed, she still doubted his ability to withstand the force of her fears, her fears about her body, and her fears about what he would think about how she worked. Her fingers brushed her lips, pausing to remember his kisses. Ah, to fall into that warmth, even for a moment. . . It was as if he’d kissed her awake. But he knew not what he’d awoken.

  She listened to Cassie’s breathing, even and regular. Tara reached under the bed for her purse, leaned over to pull out her cards. By the dim glow from a tiny night-light, she shuffled them, her heart a conflicted knot of fear and desire. She imagined Harry asleep in the next room, was struck by the greater fear of him falling into Corvus and Gabriel’s trap, of never seeing him again, of never knowing what it would be like to feel her hands and breath on his skin.