Soul Fire

by D. N. Erikson

  “That’s not what it says.” Rayna growled the words.

  The leather-bound journal contained almost four years of field notes, mostly clinical in their analysis. Not light reading, that was for sure. Maybe I’d give it to Khan, since he was complaining about a lack of mental stimulation.

  “Well,” I said. “If you’ve got nothing to share, then I guess it’s time to go.”

  “You’re leaving me here?” A feral cat roared in the distance, driving home that we were in the dangerous, uncivilized wilds. “Untie me right now, Hunter.”

  I had briefly considered killing her, but murdering an FBI agent—even a corrupt one—would rain an unholy shitstorm down upon me. Besides, Lucille’s trials forced my hand.

  No killing.

  Lucky Rayna. She was too much of a pain in the ass to kill.

  “Explain how to pull the file from the FBI mainframe and I’ll give you a bottle of water.” I stared into the darkness. “Maybe.”

  She didn’t answer, so I headed toward the smoking SUV.

  “Wait.” Rayna sounded beleaguered, which brought me no small amount of satisfaction. “Just wait.”

  “I leave in ten,” I said, echoing her directive back at the arena. “Actually, make that two. It’s kind of late. Time flies when you’re being kidnapped.”

  “All I wanted to do was scare you a little, Hunter. Enough to hand over the map.”

  “Why do you want the Sword of Damocles so damn bad?”

  “Because we want the island.” Rayna exhaled and looked up at me plaintively.

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “The FBI.”

  I wasn’t buying it, so I climbed into the driver’s seat. Surprisingly, the engine started—although the metallic clanking didn’t sound promising.

  I started to back up, giving her a slow wave.

  “All right, all right, Hunter.” She was practically shrieking. A jaguar answered her voice with a roar of its own. “I’ll tell you.”

  “No thanks.” I turned down the road, cracking the window just a little.

  “It was part of the goddamn stress test.” That got my attention enough to slow down. “This is the psych evaluation.”

  The SUV ground to a rickety halt when I floored the brakes. “Start talking, bitch.”

  “My assistant spiked your morning coffee with a potion.” Rayna looked almost pleased with herself, which is a pretty hard look to pull off when you’re trussed up to a tree like a holiday turkey.

  “Which potion?” I wouldn’t have put it past her to poison me with some slow-burn concoction that ate my intestines from within.

  “Gauntlet Root.”

  “Just curious—you know, for the laywoman who doesn’t roofie people with potions on the regular—what is this Gauntlet Root?”

  Rayna glowered, not appreciating my high-horse tone. “Induces paranoia, disorientation, other negative psychological effects. Lasts twelve to twenty-four hours.”

  “Sounds like weed without any of the fun stuff,” I said.

  “It’s commonly used for interrogation and pre-screening people for high-stress employment.”

  “Figure that nugget out yourself?” I shook my head.

  “No. The DSA did.”

  I should’ve guessed.

  “Breaking people before they work for you is kind of like running into the Gap and pissing on all the clothing racks.”

  Rayna shot me a withering look. Whether it was because she considered the Gap the bane of fashion, or was dismissive about my inability to connect the dots was an open question. “It’s to see if you’ll crack under pressure.”

  “Sure it doesn’t turn you into Wonder Woman?”

  “In psychologically robust individuals, the mind channels this paranoia into a heightened flight-or-flight reflex.”

  “Aww, are you saying I’m strong?” I batted my eyelashes and puckered my lips.

  Rayna said in a low grumble, “And my assistant gave you too much.”

  “You drug all your candidates?”

  “Just on the island.” That was a lie. I’d seen the rest of her personnel. No way would someone like that blonde forensic assistant survive even three minutes of this gauntlet, despite claiming on the steppes that the Feds had put her through the wringer.

  “Gee, if I had known about all the perks, I would’ve applied sooner.”

  Rayna sneezed again, her eyes looking hopefully at the car. “It’s a rough place, Hunter.”

  Tell me about it. She was learning that first hand.

  “The kidnapping was a little overkill, don’t you think?”

  She bit her lip, debating her next words. I revved the engine, and she hurried to explain. “I was going to leave you in the eastern part of the island.”

  “And hope I got eaten?”

  “To see how you reacted to a crisis.”

  Oh, yeah, that would be a pleasant walk late at night. Only, oh, fifteen or twenty miles from being back to complete bumblefuck.

  The only crisis I was having right now was whether or not to shove my foot up her ass.

  “Releasing the file just wasn’t enough, huh?”

  Rayna’s lips twisted into a pained sneer, displaying her red-stained, perfect snow-white teeth. “You think I’m dumb, Hunter?”

  “I’m not the one tied to a tree,” I said with a shrug.

  “The shit that’s in that file…Jesus Christ, if that got out, the clusterfuck.” She jerked against her bonds again. Had to give her credit for persistence, at least. “That was just another test. See how you’d react.”

  “The cherry on top of the shit sundae, huh?”

  “For the record, you passed. Convincingly.”

  “Don’t remember asking for your opinion.” I reflected on my options—leaving her out here was appealing, but she was liable to get eaten by the wildlife.

  So I got out.

  Rayna looked genuinely relieved as I approached.

  “Oh, thank God. You’re doing the right thing, Hunter.”

  “Trust me,” I said leaning down so we were nose-to-nose, “I know.”

  Then I punched her in the face.

  Hard.

  35

  After dropping an unconscious Rayna off in front of the FBI’s Headquarters—naked and covered in a mountain of whiskey bottles acquired from the nearby liquor store, because, really, I figured I owed her one—I caught a taxi home.

  Not before I called the local cops, of course, and saw them haul her naked ass away in cuffs.

  The battered government SUV lodged against the light pole was a nice touch, I had to admit.

  If you’re thinking I enjoyed all this, you’re wrong.

  I loved it.

  But it didn’t solve my more pressing issues, which were tracking down the three murderers—well, one murderer and two contractors—stopping the Phoenix Protocol, and figuring out what the hell Aldric was up to.

  I checked in with Kai. He was still buried under paperwork. A couple units had driven by Samantha Williams and Thomas Johns’s respective houses, finding them both in the wind. All on the down low, of course, since we still didn’t have any hard, admissible evidence on Williams and Johns—fingerprints on the magical syringe aside.

  Trafficking in illegal magical merchandise—if an official law against that type of thing even existed—would be like nailing Capone for tax evasion. A matter of last resort. Right now, there were plenty more cards left to play—and I wasn’t ready to fold.

  All that could wait until morning, though. I’d shower to cleanse the day’s grime, sleep off the Gauntlet Root, and wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed.

  Or, you know, just looking less like I’d spent the night in a bush would work too,

  The taxi dropped me off at the service road. One hasty shower later and I was tucked soundly in on the couch. Sleep had never felt so good.

  When I woke up the next morning, I checked my phone. A message from Renard—accepting my apology for Rayna’s rogue actions—and
radio silence from the rest of my contacts.

  Guess no one had any comments regarding my little prank.

  After brewing a strong pot of coffee, I considered my next options.

  I could pay Tamara Marquez a visit, but I was more concerned about the Phoenix Protocol. I already knew who had attacked Anya; I didn’t need her to read the soul to tell me. Punishing the guilty, while appealing, would be a short-lived victory if my ass ended up as a pile of ash.

  On the other hand, reading the soul might give me a clue where Deadwood was holed up. And he had threatened Sierra. But she had a goddess watching her back. Kind of.

  Even so, I grabbed the soul from the safe, when I went to snag the USB key.

  Phoenix Protocol first, then a visit to Tamara.

  I used my phone to Google the address Rayna Denton had given.

  Skin joint indeed.

  A quick zoom-in showed that it was the kind of place a girl went to make her self-esteem plummet through the floor. The dancers because, well, they were working out their issues by getting dollars stuffed in their thongs.

  And a regular girl because the line-up of dancers looked like, well, goddesses.

  I tapped on one named Odyssey.

  “The Player’s Pad, huh?” Khan suddenly hopped on my shoulder. “I prefer my women more natural.”

  “I’ll keep a look out,” I said as I scrolled through the site. No mention of an owner.

  Then again, four-hundred-year-old soul reader wasn’t the type of thing you plastered on the front page of your website. Immortals usually kept a low public profile.

  After shaking Khan off my shoulder, I looked up a second address—for the library.

  I didn’t have a computer at home, so I’d have to use a public one.

  At a little past ten, I rode over to what passed for the Atheas Public Library. Library shack would be a more accurate description. The converted row home was nestled between a coffee shop and a clothing store. Figured that Aldric didn’t care much about promoting literacy.

  At least it was in the nice part of town.

  The smell of dusty pages greeted me as I stepped inside. A dead, stale heat lingered over the cramped space. Three small computer nooks were tucked near the entrance. Past that, it was wall-to-wall books, with only the narrowest of passageways along the left side to shuffle through.

  I sat down at the lone empty computer, between a kid blasting music on his headphones and an older gentleman who, by the way he peered at the screen, looked confused about what a computer did. The plastic around the thick, bulky monitor had turned yellow from the sunlight that snaked through the nearby shades.

  The ancient machine groaned to life when I tapped the keyboard. I examined the USB drive while I waited for Windows to load. Plain black plastic, just like you’d find at an office supply store. No magical enchantments or biometric security. Not that I’d expect Renard’s guy to give me something that required three hoops and a jump to get through.

  But he hadn’t given it to me.

  He’d given it to Rayna.

  And I could definitely see him screwing with her. Especially if she’d been her usual charming self.

  The computer’s blue desktop appeared, so I inserted the drive. I kept one eye outside, through the slits in the worn blinds. No threats jumped out from the palm tree lined street—like this was Beverly Hills—but that didn’t mean I was safe.

  I waded through the sea of PDFs and other files on the drive.

  None of them were labeled, so I started with the first one and double clicked.

  “This would’ve been useful a couple days ago,” I mumbled to myself as I skimmed the first page. It was a complete list of personnel outside the DSA who had been given the Phoenix Protocol. It swore them to secrecy, under threat of execution. Three pages—fourteen names in all—complete with details and addresses. Edgar’s name was present, as was Ferdinand Hall’s.

  Samantha Williams and Thomas Johns were absent.

  I didn’t recognize anyone else.

  That made it likely that Hall had tipped off Williams and Johns about the Phoenix Protocol.

  The next file was an internal memo, timestamped yesterday, from Lucille to the rest of the DSA. I cracked a grim smile, just from the idea of a goddess tapping out memos to her magical hordes.

  The rain goddess declared that “mortal interference into the phoenix and the surrounding protocols will prove disastrous to our entire organization’s standing with the governing powers in the Elysian Fields.”

  Lucille, of course, was referring to the gods who lived in the Elysian Fields. Which was all of them, except for her—thanks to her being banished—and her husband, Eros—whom she’d murdered for banging the harvest goddess.

  The gods and goddesses were too busy enjoying the fruits of the Elysian Fields to bother with mortal matters. As long as Lucille didn’t fuck everything up, they’d leave her alone.

  It was obvious, then, why Sierra had repeatedly blown me off: The DSA was likely to be subjected to a celestial inquiry if the DSA failed to tie this problem up. And they didn’t want to share the investigatory kitchen with other law enforcement cooks.

  Too bad this not-so-master chef had a vested interest in the kitchen not burning down.

  The third and fourth documents were similar memos, albeit with more colorful language freaking out about the “total fucking incompetence” of her agents in apprehending “that asshole Deadwood” and inability to use their “sources at the FBI to head off that annoying Reaper’s curiosity.”

  Guess that meant me—the Reaper, not the sources. Had no idea who that might be. Not a surprise—I figured the island had to be like the Soviets and USA back in the day. So many spies in every bureaucratic nook—FBI, DSA, Black Sea Holdings—that even the intelligence people needed a flow chart to keep everything straight.

  I dragged the mouse cursor to the next file. It stuttered over the screen.

  Slow, even by library standards.

  The kid slammed his chair against the desk as he left. My monitor wobbled and almost pitched onto the floor. I turned to glare at him, but my eye caught something through the window, past the row of palms.

  A black SUV. Government issue.

  FBI? Definitely possible.

  I hunkered down in the nook, trying to keep a low profile. My arm nudged the mouse, and it jerked to the opposite side of the screen.

  Too slow—even for library standards.

  Suspicious, I guided the cursor to the bottom toolbar and checked the network activity. Little trick Roan had taught me back in the day, to see if you’d been infected with a virus or spyware.

  The outgoing packets were insane. I didn’t even have a browser open.

  “Bastard.” Renard’s hacker had left a little thank you gift for Rayna—more specifically, a Trojan. Access the files on the drive, and it opened up a stealth connection to an off-site location.

  DSA HQ, if I had to guess.

  Rayna had a real knack for making friends wherever she went.

  I hastily clicked another file.

  “Jackpot,” I said loud enough for the older gentleman to give me a funny look. Probably thought I was playing online slots.

  I wasn’t.

  But I had struck gold: This was a full copy of the Phoenix Protocol. I pressed print and yanked the drive out of the archaic computer. The laser printer started spitting out pages like it had somewhere to be.

  I checked through the blinds as the pages piled up. A man in sunglasses and a black suit exited the car, his hand pressed to his ear. He nodded, then dropped his fingers. Someone at HQ had probably just told him the protocol had been accessed. Three identical goons trailed, crossing the street in what had to be practiced synchronization.

  A dozen sheets in, the printer groaned, announcing a paper jam with a blinking amber light. I slammed the top. No luck.

  The suits were only about twenty feet from the library. And I could see the sunlight glinting off the handguns at their wa
ists.

  They didn’t look like a detainment squad.

  More of a hit squad.

  I snatched the hot papers off the plastic tray and darted toward the stacks.

  Shouts erupted outside. I sprinted along the tight wall, racing past a shelf of eighties cookbooks.

  The door swung open, bell jingling as a voice shouted, “She’s headed to the back!”

  It wasn’t much of an observation. There was only one path: a straight shot along the left wall. The shelves extended from the right-hand wall, bolted in place. I reached the wall quickly, since the library was only about ninety feet deep.

  No back exit—just a stairwell leading upstairs.

  I glanced at the front.

  The leader, sunglasses still on, had his pistol raised. A shot shredded a book in a shelf about five feet from me. I scrambled toward the stairwell, taking the creaky steps three at a time.

  The second floor featured a different layout: Much to my dismay, it was an open room dotted by short bookshelves, faded lounge chairs and couches.

  At the room’s opposite end, a large, single pane window overlooked the street.

  In other words, it suffered from a severe lack of cover.

  No patrons were present, at least.

  I raced toward the window as footsteps thundered up the stairs.

  The Department of Supernatural Affairs took mortal interference seriously, it would seem. Too bad no one had sent me that memo.

  Not like it stopped me from digging.

  A bullet exploded through an ottoman about six feet to my left.

  I dived behind a thick indigo reading chair, my pulse pounding like a freight train.

  “Is that you, Miss Hunter?” a man’s steady voice asked from about thirty feet away. I guessed it was the leader, but couldn’t be sure without popping out to check. He didn’t seem winded at all from the chase.

  “Why, want an autograph?”

  “I’m good.” The man laughed at my joke, though. “I’d call this a warning, but all yours are up, I’m afraid. Judging from what I’ve heard.”

  “What have you heard?”