“You wanted to tell me last night.”
Roark leaned back and pretended to focus on the road. Which was hard to pull off, since he wasn’t actually driving.
“Look, I just didn’t get around to it, okay? I got kicked up after the Marshall case cleared.”
Roark reached toward the stream of data, but I was having none of it.
“So you don’t trust me,” I said. “Even though I’m the one who killed that son of a bitch.”
“We really need to focus on the Crusaders.”
“Sure,” I said. “Once you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“I’m the Bureau’s new MagiTekk liaison.” He cracked his neck. “No new title, really.”
“Sounds pretty damn official to me.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“How modest,” I said with a fake grin. “You’re really moving up in the world.”
“I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“Oh, but that’s easy,” I said, keeping my eyes on him. “Just over a few drinks say, hey, Ruby, you know those people we were gonna take down and burn? Yeah, I kind of already worked for them because the Feds are in their pocket. But I really work for them now. And oh, by the way, my father figured out what we were planning because of my new job. Background checks and heart-to-hearts and such.”
“You’re angry.”
“No kidding, dipshit.” I stared at the sidewalk bazaars blurring past the windows. “You don’t think they’ll keep a close eye on their little government mole?”
“I’m not a mole.” Roark noticeably bristled.
“Next thing you’ll tell me is that you report to your father.”
“What’d he want last night, anyway?”
“You guys didn’t talk it over?” I asked with a sneer.
“We’re not close.”
Funny, I’d heard that before. “Nothing big. Just calling in a favor. Protect MagiTekk’s little suppression serum rollout on Friday.”
“I told you that asking him for a favor came with strings.”
“I’m just wondering if the same is true about you. Partner.”
Instead of answering, Roark swiped through the data stream with stiff fingers, bringing up a photograph of a church in Old Phoenix. While I’d only been out for three weeks, there had been a startling lack of religious structures—anything other than corporatized businesses, really—around the city.
“The Cathedral of St. Peter.” I peered at the dilapidated structure, dropping the oh, you basically work for MagiTekk issue temporarily. Most of Old Phoenix was in absolute shambles, and this building was little exception. Reading the brief database description revealed that it was being monitored by the FBI for its “historical significance.”
“How the hell does a building less than twenty years old qualify as historically significant?” I asked.
“It’s the last church to be constructed anywhere in Phoenix.” Roark swiped through the file, which was thin. “One of the last in the entire United States.”
“Did the Crusaders pray there?”
“No.” The image dissolved into a stream of digital bits as Roark went on to the next part of the improvised presentation. An endless blur of data ran through the air. “But the Feds caught a couple of guys trying to sneak in during the summer of ‘36.”
Maybe the Crusaders had been back longer than I’d thought.
Then again, I didn’t get all the world’s breaking news during my stay in Tempe.
Roark dismissed the information and continued through the stream. I could’ve been imagining things, but even the data connection seemed snappier with MagiTekk’s invisible blessing. It didn’t thrill me that the people we’d sworn to get rid of were now our bedfellows.
Sharing a cage with a tiger rarely turned out well.
Roark turned his palm over, halting the blur on some out-of-focus surveillance snaps. The low resolution made it difficult to tell whether the infiltrators were even male or female.
“Very helpful,” I said. “Practically cracked the case.”
“If you’re gonna be like this the whole time, you can get out,” Roark said pissed off.
I almost said, sure thing, asshole, but I bit my tongue and said, “What happened to the perps?”
“They self-immolated instead of surrendering to authorities.” A flick brought up the charred bodies. “Notice anything?”
The glowing magical split cross in the center of a bare chest, pulsing with energy even in the still shot. Unlike the sacrifices, the magic within these markings was far more powerful—branding them proper Crusaders, on a Holy Mission.
As we headed into Old Phoenix, the skyscrapers ceding control of the landscape to stubby row homes and crumbling apartment buildings, I asked the million dollar question.
“So what’s inside this cathedral, anyway?”
Roark turned as the screen went blank. “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”
11
Old Phoenix
8 Hours Ago
We made our way up the front stairs, passing a placard declaring the cathedral a protected monument without anyone shooting us or questioning what the hell we were doing. For a supposedly FBI protected facility, the Cathedral of St. Peter’s defenses weren’t impressive. The wide, wooden double doors creaked as we stepped inside.
Roark flashed his credentials at a woman seated near the entrance. His old-school leather badge looked remarkably out of place in the modern world. Well, not in this world. Because this structure, built a little after all the supernatural sanctions came down, looked ancient compared to downtown.
She nodded before returning to her paperback.
The security was getting less impressive by the second.
Our footsteps echoed off the cavernous ceiling as we walked in silence past rows of plain pews. Multi-colored light streamed from the ornate stained glass, depicting some scene or another from the Bible that I’d long forgotten.
My mother, if she were still alive, would no doubt be disappointed.
The scene was normal, other than the prolific array of security cameras ringing the bottom edge of the cathedral’s dome. I doubted that a single inch of the facility was left uncovered. And although I couldn’t see into the shadows at the top of the structure, I had my suspicions that more than cameras hid up there.
Something heavy, like turrets.
I tapped Roark on the shoulder and whispered, “What’s the play?”
“Just browsing.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Since when were you a coward?”
“Since when has prudence been mistaken for cowardice?” I shot back, but followed him up the altar’s marble stairs. While opulent, the collection of furniture and Christian paraphernalia proved remarkably uninteresting.
Short, clipped footsteps caught my attention—the sound of someone used to crossing the floor quietly. Turning, I spotted a tall, craggy wisp of a man shambling toward us. What hair he had left fluttered at his temples at odd angles, like he’d simply forgotten its existence.
His eyes, however, blazed with determined fervor. And their full attention was directed at us.
“Special Agent Colton Roark, was it?” The voice was soft, somehow resisting the echo chamber.
Apparently the door guard had been paying more attention than I’d thought.
Roark stepped down from the altar, meeting the man near the pews. “That’s correct.”
“You haven’t visited before.” The old man turned to look at me. “And you are?”
“A concerned citizen,” I said.
Roark added hastily, “Ruby Callaway. FBI consultant.”
“Yes, but I already knew that.” He folded his arms, loose blazer flapping. The whole aesthetic screamed absent-minded professor, but it was trying much too hard. “You know what I’m really asking.”
“I’m sorry?” Roark flashed his best harmless smile. It was good, but this old man, despite his mad professor ap
pearance, understood bullshit.
“There’s no business of yours here.”
“Care if we look around?” I asked.
“This is a historical monument,” the man said. “Your presence is distracting and you could damage precious artifacts.”
“Wouldn’t want to do that,” I said.
But no, his movements were too cagey, his words too measured for a mere archaeologist or historian. This man had some sort of wetwork writ large over his past. Nowadays he might not have been able to kill someone with a fruit spoon, but those habits didn’t just go away.
Although I wouldn’t bet against him in a fight.
“Actually, Mr…” Roark began, fishing for a name.
The man brushed aside the implicit question. “You both need to leave.”
“Crusaders of Paradisum. Three years ago.”
The old man batted at a tuft of snow white hair, a brief flash of recognition coming into his eyes. It was too quick to note whether it was panic, annoyance or something else entirely. He glanced between us and then shook his head.
“They’ve been a nuisance.”
“That’s what you call two people lighting themselves on fire?” Roark asked.
“They believe this facility is sacred, Agent Roark.” He gave a shrug, the jacket almost slipping from his thin shoulders. “I cannot dissuade them of the notion.”
“Facility?” Roark asked. Damn. I wouldn’t want him grilling me. Except, in the time loop, he had—more than a few times. Trust was hard to earn, and this old shambling twig was gaining none of ours.
For damn good reason, too. He was suspicious as all hell.
“I meant the cathedral.” The man smiled, displaying a row of yellow, half-broken teeth. “That’s why we needed FBI protection, you see. Because these Crusaders wouldn’t stop coming.”
“That’s a real shame,” Roark said.
“Indeed it is,” the old man said. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“One more question,” Roark said, holding up his finger like he’d just thought of something. In reality, it was the guillotine. Whether it would be our necks or this old man’s on the chopping block remained to be seen.
“Make it quick.”
“Anything valuable on site?”
The old man shifted slightly and then said, “I’m afraid not. Looters took most of the good things when everything moved uptown.”
Clearly a lie, given there was six-figures in gold on the altar alone.
“Thanks for your time.” Roark watched as the man walked away. “Hey, if I need to contact you—”
“Don’t return, Agent Roark,” the man called back. “We are all quite busy and have no time for fools.”
With that harsh rebuke, the wispy man retreated away into a side room. I took a step forward, somewhat eager to follow—curiosity overriding prudence. Roark grabbed my shoulder.
“Oh, so who’s scared now?” I asked.
“This place isn’t right,” Roark said in a low whisper. “None of it is right.”
I turned around, finding him staring at the stained glass.
Which is when I saw it.
Clear as day, the light streaming through.
The Crusaders’ symbol, right in the center. Hidden in a beautiful pastoral landscape, but staring back all the same.
A lot wasn’t right.
But what that was, I just didn’t know.
12
Ruby’s Apartment
5 hours ago
Roark and I agreed that the Crusaders’ connection to the Cathedral of St. Peter merited further investigation. But with no sign of them on site, our distraction theory was looking like a bust. We might have been turned away by the shambling old man, but the place certainly hadn’t been burning.
To make matters worse, shortly after our visit, we received an angry call from Supervisor Emma Janssen. The words were unequivocal: if we so much as sniffed anywhere remotely related to the FBI, we would be put out to pasture.
I didn’t think that came with a nice severance package and government pension in 2039, either, but then, I was still getting the lay of the land.
Thus, not only had we failed to determine why the Crusaders had dumped twenty-three bodies and incited a siren-led riot, we were also now sidelined.
Completely.
For a high profile case that probably had the public abuzz, Janssen seemed oddly intent on blocking us. Not much we could do, though: the supervisor had been damn clear, and had the clout to turn her threats into reality.
After agreeing to lay low until our suspension blew over, Roark and I went our separate ways. Mostly, if we were being honest, to brainstorm alone. We might have been partners, but our connection was still new, with all the growing pains one might expect from a hasty arrangement.
Roark was used to working solo.
So was I.
Thus I found myself at the kitchen table, watching the skyscape light up with neon advertisements at sunset. The bright colors played off the glass across the street. As for the street itself, I was high up enough that the road was simply invisible.
The 304th floor will do that.
I rubbed my palms together, trying to keep my thoughts away from the case. But the Crusaders of Paradisum had my full attention—particularly since I knew damn well I had theirs. Roark and I were in their crosshairs, now, and being tossed off the case wouldn’t change a thing when the reaper tolled.
Not like Donovan Martin would forgive me for what happened a century ago, suspension or not.
Drumming my hands against the table, I decided that suffering Janssen’s wrath was worth the risk. I got up and took a data cube out of a nearby desk drawer.
It’d laid dormant inside, untouched since I’d received it from Roark’s hacker CI Alice Conway. I should’ve said former CI; after she’d cracked the FBI database and wiped my file from the face of the earth, she was now free and clear. As free as someone living the Fallout Zone could be, anyway.
Instead hanging the threat of jail over her like a noose, Roark paid her now. For things like cracked data cubes—which, I’m sure, Janssen would shit her pants about. But the supervisor never needed to know.
I slotted the cube into the corner of the glass table. Until now, it’d just been where I ate breakfast. But now, the dozens of silicon chips embedded in its clear surface came alive, reading the information stored within.
An FBI login screen hovered in mid-air, before another hologram of a black sombrero wielding a samurai sword came through and cut it to digital bits. Say what you want about hackers, but they had a flair for the dramatic.
And then, just like that, I was exploring the FBI’s database, cruising through classified files incognito. Or, at least I hoped.
No risk, no reward, though—right?
This being my first attempt at using the technology, I expected a steep learning curve. But one flick of the wrist, and I was racing through reams of files that would have taken months or years to track down—even with the regular internet.
Temporarily transfixed by my digital superpowers, I brushed through the contents, speeding through the Top 10 Most Wanted, recent bulletins and Emma Jansen’s personnel file. Only when the wisps danced above the streaming images did I remember my focus.
“Let’s start with the Cathedral of St. Peter.” The words were to myself, but instantly the system brought up the file—or what should have been the file. Instead of a comprehensive document, all I got was the little tourism blurb I’d already seen in the car.
Constructed in 2021. One of the last Christian places of worship erected in the United States. Historical monument under protection of the federal government.
That was about it for the highlights. Nothing new.
Less, even. The references to the attempted break-in had vanished completely.
“Anything else?”
“Further files unavailable,” a robotic voice replied.
I was about to flick away when a dancing samura
i appeared and looked at me sternly. All of two inches tall—and digital—he stood beside the picture of the cathedral, pointing his blade toward it.
“This is bullshit,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I blinked twice.
“I’m Hiro.” He bowed quickly and then jabbed at the data stream. “And this is bullshit. There are things hidden within.”
“I heard you the first time,” I said, still gathering my wits. Look, when you’re a Realmfarer, you see a lot of things. All manners of creatures don’t scare you, from dragons to trolls to strange breeds of vampires. Over two hundred years, you come to expect the unexpected. Otherwise you get dead pretty damn fast.
Unfortunately, all that training and experience hadn’t prepared me for this little AI construct. Granted, I’d seen Roark converse with his data cube AI before—and the machine, from where I’d been sitting, had even flirted with him. However, I wasn’t prepared for my own little digital pet.
“What are you?” I asked.
“That’s a complicated question, Ruby Callaway.” He twirled the samurai sword, and for some dumb reason I was concerned he might cut himself. The illusion was impressive, like being caught in a sorceress’ spell. “What is anyone?”
“I’m not in the mood for riddles.”
“Neither am I,” Hiro said with a smile. “Which means we should get along well.”
“Who created you?”
“God.” He looked at me sternly, then broke into a wide smile. His traditional armor rattled as he laughed. Instead of a traditional hair-bun, he had a punk rock mohawk. Guess his designer had taken some artistic license. “I had you going.”
“Alice Conway,” I said, putting the dots together.
“Consider me like a link between you and her.”
“We’re sharing you?”
“I never said a samurai had to be monogamous.”
“I thought samurai were celibate.”
“Who taught you history?” Hiro gave me a look like he would vomit. “If that was the case, then I would quit.”
I didn’t bother asking him who the hell he could find to get his rocks off in cyberspace. We were already getting further off into the weeds than I wanted. I swallowed the rest of my questions, deciding that a helper couldn’t be all that bad.
Shadow Flare (The Ruby Callaway Trilogy Book 2) Page 5