“Come on,” Rose whispered once she’d unlocked the front door to the building. With a last look up and down the street, quiet blocks of residential buildings, I followed and we gently closed the door behind us. Ascending to the third floor, I kept my feet a few millimeters off the ground in order to keep from making noise. Rose, too, seemed to take a cue from me and muffle her footsteps, taking her time and walking like her head was on a swivel. Brilliant play acting if she was betraying me, or possibly just the actions of a young woman who’d tasted danger and knew her life was now thick with it, thanks to her hanging her hopes on me.
Her friend’s flat was on the third floor, and sure enough, she unlocked it without issue. I preceded her in the door, listening for trouble. When I didn’t hear any, I swept from room to room quickly, hands out and ready. I checked in every closet, under every bed, cringing slightly at the extremely girly pillows and décor, but hey, any old port in a storm.
Once I was satisfied that the only residents of this apartment drawing breath were Rose and me, I came back to the little living room that served as a central hub, a combination living and kitchen with an entry out to the hallway. Rose was peering out the window from behind the curtain, and I walked up behind her and took a look for myself to see what was going on at street level.
Nothing. Nothing was going on at street level. Edinburgh was quiet. Damned quiet, actually.
“How’d he find me at that Asda?” Rose asked, looking somewhat rattled.
“I don’t know,” I said, a little more cagily than if I’d been certain she wasn’t a mole. I mean, really, she flagged me down on day one in the city, saved me from Frankie’s thugs when they had me cornered…
Points in her favor—she’d taken a bullet for me, and those can kill metas, probably even empaths. Which prompted the thought, “Let me see your wound.”
“Right,” she said, and walked me over to the sofa, a white fabric monstrosity that would have looked really good in some granny’s living room. It actually fit this room as well, strangely, a sort of concentric circle of style, I supposed, in which that which was old was now in fashion once more. Rose sat down, taking care not to touch the back of the couch, and lifted her shirt so I could see her side.
The bullet hole was still there, angry weal between her ribs. It was mostly crusted over at this point, and the edges had begun to close in with new skin to replace that which had simply been blown away by the hot lead passing through her. She was lacking a giant hole in her side now though, which I considered good for her. Taking a bullet like this in the side might have been a calculated risk to get close to me, but…damn. I mean, that’s some serious calculation. Most people considered me crazy for the stuff I’d done, but I couldn’t recall a time when I’d wanted to leap into the line of fire for someone else, especially not if that person was on my kill list.
“Looks fine.” I rubbed my face as Rose dropped her shirt, my inspection complete. “I think it’ll be just about gone by tomorrow.”
“I’m going to hit the loo,” she said, and got up, disappearing into the hallway. I heard the door close and knew she was in. I debated what to do next, and then got up and crept over to the entry by the hall to listen. I’d probably hear it if she punched the buttons on a phone. I needed to know if she was going to call Frankie, or share her location with him, though if she had a phone on her that was doing that automatically, there was going to be no avoiding the hell coming my way, because he’d already know where we were.
I listened to the sounds of a woman going to the toilet through the door, mind racing all the while. What if she was working for him?
Well… Zack said, what would be the point?
To have a spy on the inside with Sienna Nealon, I said. Duh.
Yeah, but this Frankie guy is trying to kill you, Zack said. Why would he need a spy for that?
He didn’t start out trying to kill her, Harmon said. He started out saying they were made for each other.
Yeah, if incubuses could stop doing that, it’d be great, I said.
Well, the alternative is for them to seek love with mortals who they’ll absorb and kill, Zack said with a thick dose of irony, so…going after you is probably the least homicidal, most normal they could do, right?
I pretended he was standing in front of me as I narrowed my eyes in fierce irritation. You know what? You’re awfully annoying, Mr. Knowy McKnowkins. These people are all psychos anyway, so this idea that coming after me as a mating prospect is the sanest thing they can do? No points for that. Why can’t I meet a nice incubus boy who doesn’t go around murdering people? Because clearly Frankie has absorbed a few souls in his time. Meta souls. And by a few, I mean—
Tankerloads, Eve supplied. Fucktons, I think you call it.
The raw fucktonnage of people he’s killed is staggering, I said. The range of meta powers he’s displaying is way beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I mean, I saw multiple kinds of energy projection in addition to that ripper beam, his mind is unreadable, he’s got Gavrikov fire, gravity powers like Jamie, one of the lightsaber ones like Chase…I mean, I don’t know how he’s accumulated that many powers without someone noticing. The sheer numbers of the mysterious, metahuman dead here in Edinburgh must be staggering. And no one has noticed this until now? How?
Maybe they’ve just gone missing heretofore, Bjorn offered. I lost count of how many I killed that were never found.
I was torn between saying, “Good insight!” and, “You’re a sick bastard, Bjorn. Sit down and shut up!” I ultimately chose neither, however, instead going with, That’s a reasonable point, because if I was trying to kill one of—if not THE—strongest foes I’d ever fought, alienating the people who were on my side seemed like bad strategy. Even if some of them were hideously evil murderers.
There’d be a rise in the missing persons rate then, you’d think, Bastian said. These are the sort of things that the police should notice.
There should be, you’re right, I said. And another thing—those toughs he sent after us in the cafe. How was it that Harmon couldn’t read their minds?
I don’t know, Harmon said, and I sensed he was telling the truth. That sort of thing would drive him crazy.
Glancing furtively down toward the hall, I could hear Rose finishing up. You’re sure that whatever they were doing, it wasn’t an empath covering their minds?
Definitely not, Harmon said. I remember well what an empath feels like, having received a thorough drubbing during the debates from your friend Senator Foreman, one of those very kind.
I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this, I said, but watching him wipe the floor with you there was probably the highlight of that year.
Ass, he said. But I suppose I was deserving of some small comeuppance. Arrogance comes as naturally to me as it seems to to…well…you.
Well, I got some comeuppance today, I said, leaning back on the soft, overstuffed sofa. Frankie comeuppanced all over me. I paused. That sounded way dirtier than I intended it.
Rose emerged from the hallway as I listened to the sound of guffaws in my head, my lowbrow audience endlessly amused by that sort of double entendre. She leaned against the wall into the main room and stared out at me, folding her arms across her chest. “What do we do now?”
“Well, we have two choices,” I said. “Three, really. We can hunker down here for the night and get some rest, get back to a hundred percent. Or we can go out there and get in another fight with Frankie right now.”
Rose seemed to hold her breath at the second option. “Or…? That can’t be all.”
“We can flee,” I said. “Run for the damned border, get the hell out of Dodge…pick a cliché that fits, but retreating is option number three.”
She let out that breath she’d held. “You don’t like number three, do you?”
“I’m fine with a strategic retreat every now and again, when my position gets untenable,” I said. “Running away from this fight so I can win the next one? It burns the pride a littl
e, but winning in the end is a good salve for that. Getting killed, on the other hand, because you don’t want to show the enemy your back?” I frowned like I’d gotten a whiff of skunk. “That’s just dumb. I’ve run away from a superior enemy or one that’s gotten some advantage over me plenty of times, no regrets. But I always get ‘em in the end.” I let out a long exhale. “And that’s what’s going to happen with Frankie. I’m going to get him in the end, put the nails in his coffin, put paid to his ticket—”
“I get the point,” Rose said, unfolding her arms uncomfortably. “Well, in this event, I must say I vote for resting for the night, and coming back renewed tomorrow, because I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m about to pass out.” For the first time, I could see the fatigue etched in hard lines around her eyes, around her mouth. Yeah, she was tired, and I hadn’t even noticed. It was possible she’d been running on adrenaline this whole time, and it had just petered out, leaving her low, drained. I knew that feeling well.
“Leaning toward that option myself,” I said. The couch was nice and soft behind me. “Why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”
“Right,” she said, and uneasily walked toward a chair, then veered to sit next to me on the couch at the last second. She seemed like she’d been warring with herself over what to do, but she plopped down next to me with only a light cringe that I figured was either indicative of her worry over which seating option was socially best or else related to that bullet wound still healing in her side.
I gave her a thin smile. “Bet you’re wishing now that you’d just let me pass on by without following.”
That got her to smile too, weary but genuine. “No, not exactly, though—well, maybe a little. I mean, I’ve heard of your adventures, or at least as much as what’s reported on the news and blog sites and whatnot.” She leaned back with me, pushing some stray red hairs off her pale face. “I know you’ve had to run before, but—it feels different, being in the middle of it, you know?” She shook her head. “I’m probably doing a rubbish job of explaining it.”
“No, I think I know what you mean,” I said, drawing another slow breath, trying to relax, trying to keep an eye out for ambush even though I wouldn’t see it coming through the walls around us until it came busting through like Kool-Aid Man. “Sometimes the news coverage of me…it’s breathless, and leans toward painting me as some sort of…I dunno, invincible harpy or demon that swoops down out of the clear sky and destroys like Armageddon come to town. I’m a force of nature as relentless as the wind—sorry, Reed,” I said as though he could hear me. “Unchanging as the bedrock of the earth, unbowed by any challenge sent my way.” I sighed. “That’s all crap, of course. Sometimes I get my ass kicked. Sometimes really hard. Eden Prairie would be a great example of that. I got whooped into near unconsciousness by a bum rush of metas and only survived because one of my souls triggered a damned bomb of a firestorm. I’m not invincible,” I said softly. “Sometimes this happens.”
Rose blinked, like she was taking that all in. “I heard something about…in Florida a few months ago…”
“I got shot in the head,” I said, using my index finger to mime a bullet hitting me in the skull. “Blew out my connection to my powers, my souls. I almost didn’t survive that.” She shuddered, and if she was acting, she was Oscar-caliber. “Yeah, I know, it was nearly the end. So, anyway…it happens. I’ve been through worse than a seemingly impossible enemy.” My face hardened and I glanced at the TV. Part of me wanted to turn it on and see what they were saying about me in relation to this most recent disaster. The other part of me knew that I needed sleep and rest, and knowing that every news channel in the UK and probably the planet was shit-talking me? Not a great sleep aid.
Rose was quiet for a little while, sitting in her own personal puddle of unease, next to someone who was the target of a terribly powerful meta. I’d have been shuffling on the couch if I’d been in her shoes, but she was stock still in what I presumed to be the dawning horror of realizing a truth I’d discovered long ago—that sometimes you got what you want, like, say, meeting a hero, only to have it turn out that you really, really shouldn’t have wanted that, because it did not turn out the way you might have hoped.
“I have a question for ye,” Rose said, that brogue picking up again now, in this moment of quiet reflection. I stared at the fireplace standing empty in front of us, tempted to light it up with my Gavrikov powers for ambiance, but I vetoed the notion in case the flue was welded shut or something. The last thing I needed was to burn down our safe house. Assuming it was actually safe at all.
“We’ve been through multiple fights and near deaths today,” I said, “and we’re waiting to see if a big bad incubus comes kicking down our door. I don’t think this is a moment to be shy about asking questions, Rose.”
She shifted on the couch next to me. “You seem so…uhm…” She wouldn’t look at me, which was a bad sign. “I mean, I haven’t heard ye call anyone since I’ve been hanging out with ye…”
“I’m a fugitive from international justice,” I said wryly. “Anyone I call is a target for their own investigation.”
“Right, but…” She finally dared to look me in the eye. “Ye’ve got friends. A brother, I know. D’ye not…I mean, given this, what’s going on…wouldn’t it make sense to call them, ask for help?”
“I could,” I said, leaning back, letting my neck sag so I was looking straight up at the ceiling. It was hell on my spine, but I felt pretty confident I could jerk forward in a half-second or faster if I sensed Rose coming at me in a sudden attack. “And they’d probably come running. But…” I sat forward again, blood rushing back from my head. “Then I’d make them targets for aiding a fugitive, which they’ve so far escaped, thus ruining their lives just to potentially save mine.” I smiled wryly. “I think I’d be better off tucking tail and running rather than involving them in this. I could shoot back over to America in a few short hours, use some of my…connections…” I kept it vague because Rose didn’t need to know about my vast Liechtenstein bank accounts, and all the other resources I had access to if I desperately wanted to raise a ruckus, “…to arm up and come back loaded for bear. Or loaded for Frankie, in this case.”
Hell, I might not even have to go to America to arm up. Likely as not my bankers had access to resources right here in Europe that could arm me—for a hefty price. I could hire a bunch of mercs from the international market and send them to their deaths against Frankie in endless waves the way my enemies always seemed to send them against me. Get a bunch of guns or maybe a solid sniper rifle and just spill Frankie’s brains all over the streets of Edinburgh the way a criminal meta had in a bank in Florida just a couple months ago.
“Given what I saw today,” Rose said, doing another little shiver unrelated to the temp in here, which was pleasant enough, “that doesn’t sound bad to me at all.”
“Yeah,” I said under my breath. The only problem with that was the notion that the US might have me under some kind of communications surveillance. Harmon had proven the US government and its agencies to have an awfully long reach, after all, and if they ever caught me talking back and forth with my contacts, that’d be an ace I wouldn’t have to play when I might really need it.
And as much of an ass kicker as Frankie had proven himself…I still didn’t feel like I was completely overwhelmed. He’d certainly overpowered me, drawing on abilities stockpiled through the sort of mass murder I could scarcely imagine. And he was a definite threat, but…
All I really needed to do was get close to him, and I could use the overwhelming strength of Wolfe and my own unrelenting viciousness to cave his damned head in.
“You’re worrying, aren’t you?” she asked. “I can see it in yuir eyes.”
It probably was in my eyes, given that this Frankie was worrying me from the guts up. I took a breath, trying to cleanse some of the worry. It worked about as well as you might expect given I had an evil, overpowered incubus now trying to kill me. �
�Worry doesn’t really do any good,” I said. “Worry’s the precursor to fear, and I try not to go through my life fearing people. It’s an ugly, unproductive feeling, and Mom taught me to avoid it at all costs.”
Rose just stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “Why?”
“Because fear makes you flinch from the punch,” I said. She just kept staring at me blankly. “Mom was weird, I guess, compared to—well, probably your mom. She trained me as a fighter, and the thing about fighting is…when you get hit, your instinct is to flinch back, right?” I mimed throwing my hands up and dodging back, hitting the sofa back as I did so, rattling it slightly. “You can’t win a fight back on your heels, with your balance all askew. You can’t throw a good punch like that, because you have to put your weight into it, and—anyway, the point is, when you flinch, when you’re afraid, you can’t fight back effectively. You get rocked back on your heels, and the fight’s just about over because you have to move forward to attack fully. Fear, worry—none of these things help. They paralyze you, make you lean back instead of charge forward.” I took another breath, staring at a point on the wall above the mantel. “I don’t like to sit and worry. I like to go on offense.”
“Ah, so that’s where option two came from,” she said. “I thought it a bit of a funny thing to even leave on the table after…well, all we’ve been through today.”
I cracked a smile, grim and half-hearted. “It probably is a little strange for me to be talking about going out and facing him again, given…all this.” I glanced at the window and wondered—no, I didn’t need to wonder, I knew—if the rescue operations were still going on for the area that had gotten hit by Frankie’s blast.
Hunters (Out of the Box Book 15) Page 17