by Mark Anthony
The woman looked up. She wasn't beautiful—her features were too hard-edged for beauty—but intelligence shone in her eyes, and even grim and frightened as she looked now, there was a wryness to the set of her mouth that bespoke a keen wit.
She looked him up and down, then nodded. “You're the one he said I have to talk to. The preacher.”
He sat down across from her. “What are you supposed to talk to me about?”
“About this, I suppose.” She opened her hands, revealing a silver computer disk. So she had been hiding the disk, not praying. “God, I hope this was the right thing to do.” Or maybe she had been praying after all.
“You hope what was the right thing to do?”
A laugh escaped her, a slightly mad sound. “I suppose it won't hurt to tell one person. After all, I want to tell everyone in the world about what's on this disk. Besides, I think I can trust him.” She glanced at the door where Brother Cy had vanished. “I think I have to.”
“Did he bring you here?”
“Yes.” She frowned, shaking her head. “No, not exactly. He helped me escape the . . . he helped me to get out. And he gave me a card with this address on it. Only the cab driver couldn't find it, he said the address didn't exist, so I got out and walked, and then I saw the light shining in the dark.”
Two of the mission's workers passed nearby—the young man with the bleached goatee and the young woman with the green hair.
“Who are they?” she said, shivering. “They're all so strange, and him most of all. Who are they really?”
“Here,” he said, reaching out and gripping her hand. “Let me show you.”
Before she could pull away, he whispered Halas, the rune of vision. It was a weak magic; he was tired, and he had not opened the box to touch the Stones. However, it was enough.
She pulled her hand away and gazed at him with wide eyes. “My God, what are they?”
Travis sighed. “That's a good question. And one I don't think we'll ever really know the answer to. But some call them the Little People.”
“Little People,” she murmured. Already her shocked expression was transmuting to one of sharp curiosity. “But what do they want with us?”
“I think they want to help us.”
She brushed tangled brown bangs from her eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe they want us to help them.”
“I'm Travis Wilder,” he said.
She clutched the computer disk. “I know. You see I work . . . that is, I used to work for Duratek.”
He lurched to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor as he backed away from the table.
“No.” She reached a hand toward him. “Don't go. I told you, I don't work for those bastards anymore. Please, you've got to help me. They'll be looking for me—looking for this.” She gripped the disk. “And if they find it, there's no hope of ever stopping them.”
The expression in her eyes was earnest, anguished, but it could be she was a good actress. All the same, his heart slowed in his chest. Brother Cy wouldn't have let her in here if she was evil, would he?
He picked up the chair and sat back down. “Who are you? Tell me everything. Now.”
“My name is Ananda Larsen. Doctor Ananda Larsen. I used to work at a high-security Duratek facility in Denver. It was the one you and your associates—”
“The one we broke into last fall.”
She nodded.
“So what did you do there?”
She fingered the disk. “I was working on a research project investigating the use of gene therapy as a means to enhance animal intelligence. My main work involved a chimpanzee. Ellie. Her progress was amazing. Only then they brought another subject they wanted me to work on. It was . . .” Her voice caught. “It was a human subject. A male.”
A sickness spread through Travis, quickly burned away by rage. Until that moment, he had thought he knew what anger felt like. He was wrong. “You were the one who held Beltan prisoner. You were the one who did . . . who did those things to him.” He reached a hand toward her. Runes blazed in his mind: spells of mayhem and death.
She clutched the edge of the table, but she did not flinch. “I don't think I'd blame you if you killed me. What I did was wrong. Wrong on so many levels.” She shook her head, and her gaze grew distant. “It happens so gradually you don't even notice it. Each step is so small, you think it's just a little slip down the slope, that you're not compromising yourself, that you can always back out later. Only then one day you wake up and realize it's too late—that day by day, bit by bit, they've turned you into a monster, and you let them do it.”
Rage burned to ash in Travis's chest, leaving him cold and empty. His hand fell to the table, useless. He knew what it was like to be made into a monster. No rune he could speak, no vengeful magic he might work, could have destroyed her; she was already shattered.
“Why?” he said. “Why did you work for them?”
She laughed as she wiped tears from her eyes. “To help people. At least, that's what I told myself. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the truth. What I really wanted was to prove that I was right, to show everyone who had ever doubted me they were wrong, that my research really could work.”
Travis made a decision. He could hate this woman for what she did to Beltan; it would be all too easy. But wasn't that what Mohg and the Pale King stood for? Those who served them gave up their hearts. If Travis gave up his own, if he let hate consume him, he would be no better than they were.
He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “I don't believe that, Dr. Larsen. If all you had really wanted to do was to prove you were right, then you wouldn't be here now talking to me.”
She stared, astonishment on her face. Then, slowly, she nodded. “All these years, I kept telling myself they would use my research for good. But I know now it is—that it always was—a lie. That's why I stole this.” She touched the disk.
Travis leaned closer. “What is it?”
“Everything I need to expose the truth behind Duratek, to show the world what they're really doing.” She looked up, her fear gone, her face hard as porcelain. “Everything we need to bring them down.”
A shiver danced up Travis's spine, and he cast a glance out of the corner of his eye. The light inside the mission seemed dimmer than before, the walls and floor dingier. Several people in the commissary stared in their direction, and there was no sign of Brother Cy or his followers. Something told Travis it was no longer safe here.
“I think we should leave.”
“Why?” Larsen said, eyes startled. “Where will we go?”
Travis stood and shrugged his coat on. “I don't know. Anywhere. Come on.”
Larsen rose and put on her coat. They headed down the corridor to the lobby. No one stood behind the counter; the ivy that coiled up the post was brown and shriveled.
“What's going on?” Larsen said.
There was no time to explain. Brother Cy was gone, and so was whatever protection his presence had brought to this place. What if Mohg's slaves had known Cy was here? What if they had been watching, waiting for him to leave?
Travis opened the door, and the cold hit them like fists as they stumbled into the darkness. It seemed like hours had passed inside the mission, but it was still night. They walked quickly down the deserted street, past darkened storefronts. Footsteps echoed behind them.
Larsen glanced over her shoulder. “There are people back there. I think they're following us.”
“Keep moving.”
“Oh God, they're coming toward us. What do they want?”
“Our money,” Travis rasped. “Or maybe our hearts. This way.”
He yanked her arm, and they stumbled around a corner. Up ahead, lights shone against the night; the sounds of traffic and distant music drifted on the air. There were people this way, real people—they would be safe. He tightened his grip on her hand, lowered his head, and ran.
The roar of an engine ripped apart the night, and a black car sped fr
om a side street. Tires squealed as the car came to a halt, and both Travis and Larsen had to skid to a stop to avoid crashing into the side of the vehicle. Shouts rang out behind them, but before either of them could move, one of the car's windows slid down.
“Get in,” Deirdre Falling Hawk said. There was a chunk as the car doors unlocked. Her eyes moved past Travis. “Now!”
He jerked the rear door of the car open, shoved Larsen through, and climbed in behind her. Travis was barely inside before the car started accelerating. He grabbed the door and pulled it shut, then glanced out the tinted glass of the rear window. He saw three shadowy shapes in the middle of the street.
“Are they ironhearts?” Deirdre said.
Travis tried to answer, but he couldn't catch his breath.
“Here, use these,” the driver said in a gravelly voice, tossing a small plastic case at Deirdre.
Travis couldn't get a good look at him, but one thing was certain: The man behind the wheel wasn't Hadrian Farr. He was thick-shouldered, his short hair white-blond.
Deirdre fumbled with the case. “What is this?”
“Heat-sensing goggles, mate. They translate thermal patterns into a visual signal.”
Deirdre opened the case and pulled out something that resembled a small pair of binoculars. She turned around in her seat and held the device up to her eyes.
“Damn it—how do you adjust these things? Wait, I see them now. They—” She sighed and lowered the goggles. “They're gone. I think they ducked down an alley before I could get a good look at them.”
Larsen had managed to right herself on the seat. She swiped her tangled hair away from terrified eyes. “Who are these people, Travis? And what are ironhearts?”
Travis was sweating now, and he couldn't stop shaking. “How did you find me?”
“Child Samanda led us to you,” the driver said. “At least, that's what Deirdre told me. Personally, I didn't see any spooky girls lurking about, so I think my partner is positively barking. But I suppose she did find you.”
Child Samanda? Yes, that made sense. If any of this could really make sense. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”
The driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I'm heading back to the hotel. That's where the others are.”
“Others? What others?”
Deirdre turned around in the seat. “Vani and Beltan. They're both there, Travis. They came here to look for you.”
A sharp pain stabbed at his chest. They shouldn't have come. It was too dangerous here. They had to go back. All the same, joy filled him.
“Beltan,” Larsen said, arms crossed over her chest. “That was what he was called, wasn't it?”
Travis looked out the window. “You never even asked him his name.” He caught the ghost of her reflection in the glass: pale, haunted.
“We didn't . . . I didn't know I could communicate with him. Has he . . . how is he?”
Travis turned to look at her. “Different, Dr. Larsen. He's different now.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded.
They reached the hotel minutes later. On the way, Deirdre introduced them to the driver. His name was Anders, and he was her new partner.
“Where's Hadrian Farr?” Travis asked as Anders brought the vehicle to a halt.
“I honestly have no idea,” Deirdre said and got out of the car.
When they reached the hotel suite, the door opened before Anders could swipe the card key through the lock. But then, she was always watching, wasn't she?
Travis gazed into golden eyes. “Vani . . .”
She smiled, then lowered her gaze, as if suddenly shy of him. This astonished Travis. Vani was so strong, so full of danger, that sometimes he forgot how beautiful she was, how small. He coiled her inside his arms, and he could feel her trembling.
“You smell,” she said, laughing as she pushed him away.
“And you don't look too good, either.”
Travis glanced up, and he was certain his heart couldn't bear the sight before his eyes.
“Oh, Beltan.”
The blond man grinned, an expression that transformed his usually plain face. “You didn't think you could get away from us that easily, did you?”
Travis could only shake his head. Beltan's grin faltered, and then he was there, catching Travis in strong arms, holding him so tight it hurt, but Travis didn't care. He returned the embrace with all his might.
Beltan whispered fierce words. “By all the gods, don't you ever leave me again, Travis. Don't you ever leave us.”
I won't, he wanted to say. I swear it. But his throat was too tight; he couldn't speak the words.
At last Beltan let him go. “By the Bull, Vani is right. When was the last time you had a bath?”
Travis scratched his scruffy beard and laughed. “I don't really remember.”
Deirdre glanced at Travis. “So, are you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Dr. Larsen stood near the door, her expression uncertain. Travis took a deep breath. How was he going to do this? “Everyone, this is—”
“You!” Beltan roared.
In three strides he covered the distance to Larsen, and before she could react he wrapped his big hands around her neck and squeezed. Her eyes bulged, and her fingers clawed at his wrists, but without effect.
For a moment shock paralyzed Travis, then he was moving. “Stop it, Beltan. Let her go—now.”
The blond man clenched his jaw. “No. Not after what she did to Ellie and the fairy. Not after what she did to me.”
Larsen's struggling was already growing weaker. Her skin was white, and her eyes rolled up.
“Vani!” Travis shouted. “Help me.”
However, the T'gol only crossed her arms over her black leathers. Deirdre stared, her expression one of horror. Anders reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. Travis shook his head. No one was going to die, not if he could help it.
He put his hands on Beltan's arms, not to pull them away, simply to touch them. They were hard and rigid. A light shone in the blond man's eyes: a faint green glow.
“Please, Beltan,” he said. “Let her go. Not for her sake, or for mine, but for your own. You said they tried to make you into a killer. Don't show them that they've won.”
Larsen was no longer struggling. She hung limply in the big man's arms. For a moment he didn't move, his face as hard as if carved of stone. Then a shudder passed through him, and Larsen slumped to the floor. Beltan stared at his hands. The fey light was gone from his eyes.
“What have I done?” he said softly. “By Vathris, what have I done?”
Deirdre was already kneeling next to Larsen. “Anders, help me.”
Together, they pulled Larsen up and sat her on a nearby chair. Her head lolled back and forth. Panic surged in Travis. She couldn't die. He needed her. They all needed her.
Larsen's eyes fluttered open, and a ragged breath rushed into her.
Travis touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—” She winced, holding a hand to her throat. Her skin was already beginning to bruise. “I'm fine.” She looked at Beltan, her expression stricken. “I'm sorry. I know you can never forgive me, but I want you to know how sorry I am.”
Beltan tried to say something, but no words came out. He turned and hunched his shoulders. Travis started to move to him, but Vani was swifter. She placed her arms around Beltan. He resisted a moment, then rested his head on her shoulder.
Stunned, Travis simply stared as Anders fetched a glass of water. Deirdre helped Dr. Larsen sit up straight and drink it. Beltan had pushed Vani away. The knight moved to Larsen, kneeling before her chair.
“Ellie gave herself for me. If you made her what she was, then your work could not have been for evil.”
Tears streamed down Larsen's cheeks. She reached out a trembling hand and touched Beltan's face, and they stayed that way for a moment before he stood again.
“Well, that was all a bit on th
e awkward side,” Anders said, slipping his gun back inside his coat.
Travis let out a tight breath. “I thought Seekers didn't carry guns.”
“They don't.” Deirdre crossed her arms and gave Anders a sharp look. “At least, not usually.”
Anders winked at her, a grin on his craggy face. “I thought you knew by now I was anything but usual, mate.”
Larsen looked up at Travis, new fear registering in her eyes. “Seekers? These people are Seekers?”
Travis nodded. “That they are. And now we're going to have a good long conversation with them.”
“No,” Deirdre said. “First you're going to have a good long shower. Then we'll talk.”
Travis spent the next half hour standing under a jet of hot water, letting it wash away the dirt, the weariness, the fear. As he showered, he thought of Jay and Marty, and he hoped they were all right.
He toweled off, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater that Deirdre had bought for Beltan. They were overlarge for him—Beltan was taller, and Travis was stunned to see how gaunt he had become these last weeks living on the street—but they were warm and clean.
By the time he stepped into the suite's main room, he found the others talking and drinking coffee.
Beltan, who sat on the sofa next to Deirdre, gave an approving nod. “Now that's the Travis we know.”
A powerful compulsion rose within Travis to go to the blond man and hold him tight. However, he was aware of Vani standing at the window, her gold eyes locked on him. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat in a chair next to Larsen. She was no longer shaking, and color had returned to her cheeks. The computer disk gleamed on the coffee table before her.
Travis sipped his coffee; it was hot and delicious. “So what did I miss?”
“Nothing much.” Anders leaned against the back of the sofa. “Just how all the signs point to the end of the world.”
“Oh,” he said, and took another sip.
They spoke until the small hours of the night, and more than one bleary-eyed bellhop was forced to bring a pot of coffee to their door. Travis listened, at once fascinated and horrified, as Dr. Larsen described in detail her research at Duratek: her work with Ellie and Beltan, and then later her assignment to synthesize the blood of the fairy.