by G A Chase
“We couldn’t let you kill him. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.”
“Fair enough, but if you’re not worried about humans attacking me, why bother with this dusty cage?”
Like a magician performing her act, Kendell had pulled the yellowed bedsheet off the French doors. Light had flooded into the dreary apartment. “Because this building belongs to me and Myles. This may be the only room in all of New Orleans where the loas of the dead dare not enter. You can sleep here.”
Sleep. That’s a good one, Sere thought. But the promise of keeping the dreaded lords of the dead off her ass was enough incentive to keep her in the big city. She hadn’t anticipated becoming addicted to the human energy that constantly surrounded her as well.
Before entering the small bathroom, she bolted the front door from the inside. Though there was no need for covert behavior, finding alternate ways in and out of the loft helped keep her focused. Dangers—both human and supernatural—would be lurking from every shadow in the dimly lit French Quarter.
She opened the frosted glass window above the toilet, pushed her saddlebags and bedroll through, and climbed over the porcelain commode. Squeezing past the chipped paint and rotting wood frame sent adrenaline pumping into her blood. Outside the small window, she secured her belongings over her shoulders. The roof angled sharply down toward the courtyard behind the club. She knew every handhold and loose piece of mortar in the brick walls. Hell’s version of the walled-in open space had been where she’d endured Joe’s combat training when she was just a child.
Too obvious an escape route. Skipping the courtyard, she scurried along the rusted gutter to the side of the club. Without breaking stride, she jumped over the five-foot alleyway between buildings. Her mercenary training had become so ingrained that she didn’t always know when her memory was pulling up Joe’s teachings and when it was her interpretation. Stealth isn’t just about being unobserved. When noise is unavoidable, imitate nature. People will happily discount the sounds of a rat outside their window rather than accept the need to investigate a burglar.
The lesson, however, hadn’t taken into account that at 109 pounds plus belongings, Sere couldn’t put as much trust in the hundred-year-old structures as a two-pound rat could. Her alligator boot went straight through a piece of Swiss-cheesed gutter, causing her to lose her balance. Even curling her body into a tumbling-gymnastic fall failed to prevent the snap of her arm as she landed on the concrete sidewalk. To avoid being seen, she continued her roll until she was under the wooden porch.
“Fuck.” She held her wrist and slowly twisted it to confirm the break. “Nothing I can do for it now. Joe is going to kick my ass. Guess I shouldn’t have skipped out on those last training sessions.”
She double-checked her bags to make sure her snakes and gun were still okay before sneaking out of hiding like a raccoon starting her nightly prowl. If people had noticed her fall, they weren’t rushing to her aid. Not the ideal escape route, I guess, but at least I don’t have to explain my night’s plans to Aunt Kendell. Sere kept to the shadows as she hurried along the street lined with colorfully painted old homes.
At the plywood-covered doorway of an abandoned cottage, she checked to make sure she hadn’t been followed. The security light over the entrance, which she’d knocked out a week before, hadn’t been changed. With a backward thrust of her good elbow against the frame, she popped open the makeshift door. Staring out from under the caved-in ceiling was the headlight of her Triton café racer.
She snuck in, tossed her saddlebags over the back seat, and bungeed her bedroll onto the front fender. “The team’s back together.” The cheesy line had become her rallying cry.
Wheeling the motorcycle out of its hiding spot, however, proved challenging with a busted arm. The snakes shook their rattles in displeasure at the lurching exit. “You’re right. I’m not ready. Before I head out to the swamp to confront whatever just escaped hell, I need a refresher course with Joe. And I can’t fight him until my arm’s healed. I guess we’ll just have to hole up somewhere until morning.”
The swamp beckoned like a warm bath, but finding rest among the rivers, cypress groves, and wild animals wouldn’t quicken Sere’s healing. If she was to face Joe—and after him hell’s demons—she needed to be fully functional.
Fuck it. Instead of heading for the freeway and the peace of the bayou, she turned down Esplanade toward the river. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the professor won’t be in. He can’t possibly spend every moment in those dilapidated shipping offices.
The approach to the seemingly deserted warehouse was lined with hidden detectors and more blatant video cameras designed specifically to identify Sere and her demon brethren. She pulled the motorcycle alongside the building, looked up into the round black dome, and smiled in case there was someone doing guard duty at the monitor.
Before heading in, she reached into her saddlebag and pulled out the lazy snake. “If there’s no one home, I’ll need you as my lookout.” The serpent coiled around her neck like a scaly scarf.
With one quick thrust of her combat knife between the boarded-up glass door and metal frame, she gained access to the office. “Anyone here?” she called out.
All she got in response was the ticking of the professor’s equipment as it projected data from the living world into hell’s virtual reality. She headed to the medical cabinet at the back of the office. “I fucking hate this.”
She popped the latch as she’d done with the front door. Inside the white-and-red locker were boxes of wire-laced cloth, computer cords, metal probes, and all manner of sensors designed to read Sere’s vital functions. She felt a bit like Frankenstein’s monster staring into the laboratory where he’d been created.
On the highest shelf were neatly stacked bundles of technology-infused ACE bandages. She grabbed the top one and headed for the professor’s workbench. “I really fucking hate this.”
The snake around her neck craned its body around so it could look her in the eye and hissed.
“Yes, I know I repeated myself. Deal with it.” With only one working hand, she found wrapping the cloth around her broken arm a challenge. Even when she thought she had it right, she pulled loose the Velcro tab and rebandaged the arm. By the third wrapping, she gave up trying to do it perfectly. “It’s not like anyone’s around to judge my efforts.”
She reached over to the archaic computer and booted up the hard drive. Of the roughly one million files representing every person in New Orleans, only Jennifer Ellen Cranston had her own tab at the bottom of the screen—right next to the one labeled Sere’s Recovery.
Sere plugged the bandage into the USB port and opened the file regarding her personal projection. “I really, really fucking hate this a lot.”
The snake slithered down her arm and onto the table as if indicating it had heard enough of her whining.
“You’re right. I need to face my doppelgänger condition like a warrior. No point in putting this off.” She opened her personal tab and hit the file marked Connection to Real.
Jennifer Cranston swerved her mom-mobile and hit the brakes to avoid slamming into the stopped cars on the Crescent City Connection incline. “Shoot. That was close. Are you okay, baby?”
“Mom! Stop calling me that.” Bobby was just old enough to start being belligerent.
Thank God I never had kids in hell, Sere thought from behind Jennifer’s eyes.
The woman’s headshake reminded Sere that she was supposed to be the silent energy parasite. Anything she thought could too easily distract the airheaded, hair-dyed, post-popular girl.
“What a strange train of thought.” Jennifer rubbed her forehead, feeling for a bump that she might have sustained from hitting it on the steering wheel.
Of course you didn’t hit your head, you cock-loving, moronic ex-cheerleader.
Jennifer turned the sedan back in line with traffic and tentatively eased the accelerator down as if she wasn’t sure she remembered how to drive. A beat-up truck shot
into the gap in front of her.
My God, woman. You are an even worse driver than you are a cook. Sere desperately wanted to take the reins and stomp on the gas.
“Are you wearing your seat belt, my love?”
“Like you’d ever let me leave it off.” Bobby’s voice had a high-pitched arrogance that made Sere want to slap him across the face.
To Sere’s surprise, Jennifer punched the gas and turned hard left to cut in front of a slow-moving semi. The big truck blew its air horn, but not before Jennifer had made another lane change into the carpool lane.
“Jesus, Mom. Are you trying to get us killed?”
Shut up, you little pip-squeak, Sere thought.
“Just trying to get home before your father. You know how he hates it when his dinner gets overcooked.” From behind Jennifer’s calm façade, Sere could tell the woman’s singsong voice was her way of telling her son to politely fuck off.
Sere felt something yank hard backward against her gut like a parasail that had just been deployed, pulling her out of the boat that was Jennifer’s thoughts. Fucking connectus interruptus.
“Why the hell did you do that?” she yelled. The friction burn on her skin from the bandage being ripped off hurt worse than the broken arm.
Professor Yates threw the strip of cloth clear across the room. “You’re a damn fool! There’s an order to these things, you know. Without the security programs being in place, your thoughts could seep into your real’s. The hard line between where she leaves off and you begin needs to be maintained.”
Sere rubbed her arm. It still hurt below the skin, but at least the bones felt like they’d knitted back together. “I had my snake in case something went wrong.”
“How is he gonna know you’ve gotten lost in the connection? He’s a snake, not a mind reader.” The professor’s wiry gray hair took on an even more electrified look as he shook his head. “Besides, the connection isn’t just about you. If the safeguards aren’t put in place first, your real could end up thinking she’s losing her mind. People aren’t used to random voices inside their heads.” He brought up the Jennifer Ellen Cranston file. “Why do you think I keep her file readily at hand? I have to know if our actions are infecting her.”
Sere looked at the readouts of the mundane life her real was leading. “What are you looking for?” No one knew Jennifer as thoroughly as Sere. Maybe she’d be able to spot something beyond the housewife’s lifestyle.
“Anything that seems like it would have come from you. If she were to take up shooting, for example, or if she cut her hair short and let it return to its natural dark-red color.”
Sere wondered if driving like a maniac counted. “You think she’s going to abandon her family, move out to the swamp, and worry about seeing demons at every turn?” she asked.
“That would be an extreme example, but yes, that is exactly the scenario that worries me. What you see when you look at the doppelgängers could become her reality as well.”
Sere closed her eyes in frustration. “I’ll go easy on her.”
The professor was right, as always. If Jennifer developed Sere’s ability to see the doppelgängers with translucent skin, she’d probably check herself into a mental hospital.
“We need her to continue on with her life as usual. If she gets put under a doctor’s care, he could easily prescribe her antipsychotics. If she loses touch with reality, I might not be able to use her for your body’s blueprint.”
Sere looked at her healed arm. “What would that mean for me?”
Professor Yates turned to the bank of computers that filled the hallway. “The easiest and fastest method of fixing your boo-boos is to hook you up directly to her energy, but I’ve got enough data on her to take care of any situation I can imagine you getting into. The healings will just take longer without her. It’s what I can’t imagine—and what you’re particularly good at creating—that worries me. Then there’s your age. Even if you choose to stay in your late twenties for all eternity, I’d still like to follow your real into old age just so you have some options.”
Sere wasn’t sure being perpetually young was a bad idea, but it would limit her ability to create cover identities and disguises. “You’ve made your point. I won’t mess with your equipment unsupervised again.”
“I’m always around. Show up in my lab, and wherever I am, the security sensors will tell me you’re here. I can work the equipment remotely, so you won’t have to wait on me if things are dire. And Joe has enough of a technological med kit in his cabin to work as a doppelgänger field hospital. Just don’t fuck with the computers yourself. It’s not safe for anyone.”
Sere stood up from the metal table as her energy returned. “There’s something else. I saw green sparks on the horizon. Seven of them. You were able to identify Monty when he escaped hell. Any ideas on these latest seven fugitives?”
She had never seen the professor turn so pale. “I’ll start running some diagnostics,” he said. “Monty was somewhat obvious. He just got up from his desk and walked out of the city. Since Montgomery Fisher hadn’t performed those same actions in life, my sensors picked up the doppelgänger’s inconsistency immediately. But that was the last time the alarms went off.”
Fucking wonderful. “Now are you willing to listen to my concerns that someone is acting against us from the other side?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Glitches happen.”
Tell me about it. Those body harvesters in hell are some big-ass glitches. She kept that thought to herself. Though she knew better, people had a way of discounting her dreams as nothing more than fantasy and didn’t listen to the underlying warnings. But laying all of hell’s demons on Professor Yates’s shoulders wouldn’t help solve the faulty computations. Sere needed the old scientist-inventor to stay sharp, not filled with self-recriminations.
“If there are seven new demons headed to New Orleans to kill their reals, it would be helpful to know who I’m supposed to protect.”
He connected the spaghetti noodle of wires from the wall of computers to his laptop and sat in the old lounge chair. “I’ll get right on it. I have to warn you, though—if they slipped past my fail-safes, they won’t be easy to identify. This may take some time.”
“If the new demons are anything like Monty, I’ll only have a few days before they start raising holy hell.”
Professor Yates stared at the cascading formulae, data, and personal files as if trying to meld with the computer. “I’ll do my best.”
She felt wobbly as she pushed off from the table. “If I promise not to touch your precious equipment, do you think I could crash in your back room? These connections always leave me a little fuzzy.” Much as she hated sleeping, her body needed to acclimate to the recent changes before she faced Joe in combat training.
“Help yourself.”
14
Chapter 2
When Sere roused herself out of her uncomfortable sleep on the concrete floor well before dawn, the professor was still going at it on his laptop. He was so far gone into his virtual realm that she feared disturbing him. I can’t sit around here all day waiting for you to figure out what happened. Time to put this reconditioned arm through its paces.
She quietly gathered her things and snuck out the front door without him ever looking up from his computer screen. The Triton started with a touch of backfire. The bike had not been on a good long run in months, and carbon had built up in the cylinders. We both need to get clean from our addictions—mine alcohol, yours overly rich gasoline.
The early-morning ride out to the swamp invigorated her body and soul. Being clear of New Orleans’s incessant temptations and breathing in the clean smells of water and plants sobered her to the reality ahead. But moving into the city had been for the best. She would only have attracted the demons if she’d stayed so close to the hellmouth.
Not that it matters, apparently, she thought. Since the professor didn’t notice them, and those doppelmorons still figured out how to
escape as easily as kindergarteners leaving the sandbox, there must be a superior intelligence working behind the scenes in hell.
She’d have to dig deeper in her search for the mastermind behind the escapes. Before she’d be able to convince those who could help that the doppelgängers weren’t finding their own way out of hell, Sere needed a lot more evidence.
When she pulled up to Joe’s cabin, he was sitting on his front porch, sipping coffee. “You’re late. I saw the green flashes.”
She pulled off her leather riding jacket and held up her healed arm. “Sorry. Had a little accident last night.”
He set his cup on the beer cooler beside his chair. “What do you need?”
My ass kicked. “To clear my head and reconnect to this body.”
He got out of the chair and stripped down to his boxer briefs. “I’ll grab my bag. We can train down near the water. Lose your weapons. I need to see what condition you’re in.”
To avoid destroying a perfectly good set of leathers, she also tossed her pants and halter top on the seat of her Triton. “Let’s do this.”
“Again,” Joe demanded.
After only an hour of intense combat, Sere stood hunched over with her hands on her knees. “I can’t breathe.”
“What are you, twelve?” Joe hadn’t given in to her whining since she was a little girl growing up in hell. And the last time he had played into her hand, she’d managed a good kick to his knee, dislocating the joint.
She took a deep breath and bounded up from her crouched position to grab the cypress tree limb above her head. “At least I didn’t have to deal with my blood’s oxygen level back then.” She swung her heel toward his chest, but she was much too slow. He grabbed her ankle with both hands and twisted her out of her perch. She fell with a loud splash into the swamp.
“The demons you’ll be facing will have the same limitations you do. Understanding what oxygen deprivation does to your reflexes and ability to think will put you a step ahead. I’m not out here simply to teach you how to overcome your weaknesses—you have to experience the pain so you’ll know how to maximize it in your enemies.”