by Stacey Nash
Not that I’m very welcome here. Apparently being a prisoner of the Collective makes one untrustworthy. The kid from the first night is skittish around me, his hand always resting on his gun. And Spinner, well, his constant glower is enough to let me know he’d rather I wasn’t here. Mostly though, everyone keeps their distance. Not that it’s a bad thing. Harris is the one exception and he talks incessantly, worse than Lilly. At least it keeps my mind off Mae, somewhat.
The days have been long. The hours filled with idle waiting by the port-all. Right now Spinner sits quietly, watching, taking in every tiny little thing. Watching Harris, watching the movement of people in and out of the warehouse, watching each roach that dares scurry across the floor, but mostly, he observes me. As if he’s just waiting for me to screw up. He’ll probably spit it out later, somehow use a trivial piece of crap against me.
I can’t just ask Frank for help or tell him about Nik, about the keys, about my need to find them both. Besides, I’m not sure I trust the people here either. Hell, I’m not sure I even trust Sam or Beau with knowledge of the Keys of the Patriarchs. The power’s too great, and most people are by nature greedy. Neither of them would have the balls to destroy the ancient devices, which is exactly what needs to happen.
Finally, shift’s over, so I make my way to bed. The bunkhouse, as they call it, resonates with snores and soft breathing, as it should be at eleven p.m. Even though I’m dog tired, sleep evades me. Mae plays on my mind, but I push thoughts of her and what’s happening back home aside time and again. After hours of lying quietly, I ease myself out of my swag and pad the half dozen steps to the door. Tonight’s as good a night as any to start chasing down my asshole brother. No one stirs when I move across the room.
For this to work, I need to remain under the radar. I can’t tell Frank about my brother and demand to use his facilities. To do that, I’d have to tell them who I am and then, well, the little trust I have would be lost, totally defeating the purpose. No one trusts the son of their enemy.
I sneak into the main part of the warehouse, my heart steady just like my breathing. I’ve been trained for this shit just like I’ve been trained as a weapon. The dim light of a single electric lamp flickers from the floor beside Frank, attracting a flock of bugs and moths that crawling across the concrete. Propped against the wall, Frank’s head lolls on his chest; a common pose for feigning sleep. This, though, is not an act. His eyelids don’t flutter, and his chest rises and falls imperceptibly. The shallow breathing of sleep, not the deep breathing people mistakenly associate with slumber. A little recon earlier means I already know this place only owns two sets of port bands. Lucky for me, Frank doesn’t wear either one of them now. Stupid move. If it were me, I’d have them on, ready to port out at any second.
Shoes in hand, I steal across the warehouse floor and straight to the computer. It’s already on Searcher—the program we use to detect tech usage. I flick my fingers over the mouse and click to bring up a list of recent activity. Today comes up blank, so I expand the search to the past week and two locations ping onto the screen, one of them the little boy Harris and I dealt with three days ago. Both instances have a green symbol indicating they’re resolved. I click on the other one to bring up the report. Collective attack: low scale, riot inducing, suspected political move, no fatalities. Yeah, you really need reinforcements up here, Frank.
I won’t find what I need by searching local, so I click on the icon to open the search to global. If Nik’s going after keys he’ll be chasing the myths. We both learned the same stories at school, heard them sprouted from our father as bedtime tales. It’s the obvious place to start, so I keep the time scale set to the past month and click global. It loads a list nine pages long. Forged founders. I glance down at Frank. What’s the quickest way to do this? Definitely most recent: I click order by date.
Searcher is a networked program set to all resistance scanners. Each base has its own locale to take care of, but some areas like Europe, or Greece—which is what I’m looking for now—mostly aren’t responded to. There just aren’t enough of us and our reach can’t spread that wide.
Bingo!
Two days ago, Macedonia.
No green arrow indicating a report. So the incident wasn’t resolved, probably not even investigated. I set the coordinates and steal another peek at Frank who’s still sleeping the sleep of the dead, or maybe the drunk judging by that whiskey bottle in his hand. He doesn’t stir. A pair of port bands rest near his bottle. His stupidity is my gain. I sneak closer and take them, then slip onto the port mat, tugging my boots on. Just to be safe, I set the time on my watch for an hour. Don’t want to risk any longer.
Four quick taps and I port.
My feet crash into the hard ground, sending up a puff of dust. I squint against the harsh setting sun, the sudden change from darkness to twilight almost blinding. Sloping hills surround the area, with not much to see apart from these eroding ruins. Otherwise it’s just plains stretching to the hills. It looks like nothing more than an archaeological dig. I’m on the right track. Nik’s the only one who would have ported here. The Collective would have no interest in ruins.
According to Searcher, this place is called Pella.
The ancient capital of Macedonia; that’s about as far as my knowledge extends. Maybe it ties in with one of the powers of ancient Greece. But why was Nik here? Perhaps an actual key, or a clue to its existence, its whereabouts? Surely any clue would be long buried or dead, together with the people who knew. Theras only knows where I should begin looking or even what to look for. Christ, I shouldn’t be cursing with a founder’s name, I’m not Collective.
I scrub a hand across my aching jaw, tense with frustration. This is stupid, so forged founder stupid. I need to find Nik, not follow some idiotic wild chase.
I walk around a cordoned-off area, examining broken columns, the skeleton of an ancient building. But I find no signs of a key. There’s not even a damn tourist or a history enthusiast to question, just deserted plains. What a damn waste of time.
The sun continues sinking below the western mountain and soon I won’t be able to see a thing. One more lap around the dig and I’m out of here. This time I weave in and out of the columns, looking for something, anything that’s a sign of . . . hell, I don’t even know.
I trail my fingers over the decaying stone. The texture gritty under my fingertips, feels like it’s turning to sand, only when I pull my hand away, no residue remains. Weaving through columns that are much like the pillars used in Collective architecture, I consider the theory that we descended from the ancient Greeks.
I turn the corner, my fingers brushing over a tall pillar—the most intact of them all.
It moves.
Holy hell. A sudden yank of my hand back and the part I was touching falls to the ground leaving a perfect hole. With a flinch, I jump back, but only for a moment, before leaning in for a better look. The width of three fingers, and stretching well above my head, the hole is thin and long. What was in here? My finger slides over the edge of the perfectly smooth crevice; almost slippery, like glass. No normal stonecutting device could do that, not even a laser. It could only have been clarinium . . . Nik. But why? Nothing’s inside and there probably never was, the gap isn’t wide enough. I step back, squeezing my shoulder where he stabbed me.
Maybe it’s wide enough for a sword.
Cloak, shield, sword.
Shit, maybe he has found one of the patriarchal keys.
Chapter Twelve
Jax
Spinner eyes me across the upturned milk crates, his heavy stare thickening my throat. I shift my weight, crossing my ankles one over the other and lean my head back against the wall. He can’t possibly know how I spent last night. I got back within the hour and Frank was still snoring. When I slipped into my bed, no one else stirred. Just like when I left. If anyone had woken, I was prepared; everyone needs to pee.
Sleep didn’t come easily after Pella. I could sleep right now thoug
h.
Heavy body and eyes like sand . . .
A rustle of movement, a voice booming across the warehouse jars me awake. Shit. I dozed off and that’s not good enough. I need to be more vigilant. Rubbing my stinging eyes doesn’t erase the tiredness. Nor ease the hellish thump in my head. I need sleep.
Frank strides across the shiny concrete floor, his stare on Spinner. “There’s something fishy going on with the presidential visit.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Frank stops at the edge of our circle. “According to the news report I just watched, they’ve changed the plans at the last minute. Caused a bit of an uproar, it did, when the planned meeting with motor industry officials was cancelled and replaced with a school visit. President’s taking his kid.”
The last of my sleepiness snaps away.
“Right . . .” Skipper drawls like he can’t see where this is going. Stumped if I can either, but something’s not right. My gut’s never wrong and it’s going off like a broken telcom.
“Well, that alone wouldn’t be a concern if yesterday’s paper didn’t have a feature on the president’s new guard. Apparently the head of his security just up and, poof,” Frank’s eyes grow wide, “disappeared. Smells like Collective to me.”
Skipper tips his head to the side, light catching his speckled gray ponytail. “Too right.”
The conversation Mae and I overheard in the council building: This president isn’t working out . . . he’s not open to our persuasion . . . it’s not from lack of effort on Theras’s behalf, though. The man is completely closed off to the usual forms of political influence . . . then it’s time to replace him.
Holy hell. This is it. The patriarchs are moving.
Frank and Skipper stop talking and I backpedal, trying to figure out what was said, why they’re both looking at me. Spinner flips a knife over his knuckles.
“What do you say, hotshot?”
“Mmm.” I finger my jaw, buying time.
“Well, I agree,” Harris says, from where he’s fiddling with Searcher. “We should slip in and check out what’s going on. I mean, I’m sure it’s not an attack or an alarm, so it’s not urgent. But we might be able to stop something before it happens. That’d be better, right?”
He’s right.
“Can’t see why we wouldn’t check it out. Not like there’s a damn thing happening here,” I say. “Plus you’ve got two sets of bands. Someone can scope it out, while other man stays in case of a call-out.”
Frank looks from me to Spinner. Harris shifts, his sneakers scuffing the concrete floor.
Spinner tips his chin up. “You kids can take this one. You’ve got a better chance of blending in. I’ll stay here in case of real trouble.”
“Where are we going?” Harris asks.
“Woodbridge High.”
Harris turns a slow smile my way. “They’ll think you’re some sort of rock star with the whole biker look you’ve got going on. Ready for screaming fans, Jax?”
“You on the other hand . . .” I raise an eyebrow at his green T-shirt that has I’m oil printed above the image of a dinosaur. “. . . will not have screaming fans. Wouldn’t be the first time I did, but hey, I’ll keep them at bay today.”
Damn. It’d be nice to have Mae’s cover-up. Then we could watch without being seen. Hell, I wish Mae was here, but that’s selfish. Her chasing after Nikias with me is too dangerous when they want her.
Harris laughs. “If you say so.”
“Don’t suppose you have a cover-up here.”
“No.” Harris taps his fingers off the desk. “It’d be handy though. Have you seen one? I hear they’re something else.”
“Yeah, my . . . I’ve seen one.” I focus on Frank. “What time’s the visit?”
“About now,” Frank says. “Report in when you’re back.”
I curse under my breath. Nothing like having no time to plan. He could have told us this earlier, surely.
Harris sets the coordinates and I twist the bands already circling my wrists. We port, landing with the pavement of a road underfoot. A dog barks; the sharp sound slicing through the silence like a damn alarm announcing our arrival. Houses, driveways, trees, other than the dog there’s no other living creature in sight.
I sprint toward an alley that cuts between two houses. Grass grows along the edges, but dirt forms a regularly trampled path down the center. At the end of the alley and in the distance a two-story brick building towers above all the others. That’s got to be it and it looks like we’re a few streets away. Can’t exactly port into the middle of a school; there’d definitely be screaming kids, but convinced I was a magician, not a rock star.
The alley comes out dead opposite the school’s entrance where a handful of steps lead up to multiple glass doors with an arch of metal letters spelling out the school’s name above them. With not a soul in sight, everything seems normal. Class must be in.
“What do you reckon?” Harris says.
“We wait.”
Last time I was anywhere near a school wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t a school like this, but a training center in the Collective Agoge. Nikias was partnered with Mae and treating her like shit. I had no clue that neither of us shouldn’t be there, because Manvyke screwed with our minds. Geez, Mae. Just the thought of her twists a weird feeling in my chest. It’s been well over a week since that night on the roof and damn it’d be nice to have her in my arms again. Just to know she’s okay, that this life isn’t breaking her apart.
The media arrive first, only seconds after us, each new arrival filling a gap in the sidewalk. By the time the convoy of black cars coast around the corner, a whole bunch of reporters line the street.
“Let’s go,” I tell Harris. “We’ll blend in with them.”
We cross the road, easily merging with the group as they all vying for space. In no time at all three cars pull up to the curb. The back door opens on the one at the front to let out a few people—police, secret service, maybe just his retinue, I can’t be sure. More pile out of the third car, but seeing around the bulky cameraman with a giant-assed recorder perched on his shoulder proves impossible. I jostle closer, using my shoulder to edge a path between the vultures.
The Cadillac’s door opens last.
A man, and a woman with a dark beret pulled low over her head, step out, followed by Phoebe Sinclair, the president’s nine-year-old daughter. Her dark head bobs as she moves out of my sight, thanks to security. The president emerges next, and is apparently the last to exit for the door closes as he moves to stand by his kid. His retinue—all in black suits and dark glasses—close up around the duo in circle formation. Most definitely the security team and chances are the bulk of them are Collective. The group starts for the stairs that lead into the school’s entrance.
Something about the way of the security men moves snags my attention.
Nik.
Of all the frickin’ people for them to send. Heat flushes through my veins and, shit, pounding him to a pulp would be a start to setting things right. Pulling my bastard of a brother away from his damn mission and demanding to know what stupid game he’s playing at and where he hid the goddamn patriarchal keys. But I can’t and, so much for remaining under the radar, he’d recognize me on sight. Just like I recognized him.
A firm hold presses my shoulder. Personal space; people need to respect it and not touch me. I spin around ready to shoot off a mouthful and meet Harris’s steady gaze.
“You all right, man?” he asks.
I inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose, forcing myself to let the anger go. Up ahead, Nik hand gestures to another guard, who passes the message on. They’d have communication tech, so the movements must be for show.
“Yeah. Come on, they’re moving inside.”
Climbing the stairs, I keep my head down, but watch out of upturned eyes. The group must stop, because I reach the top of the stairs and can’t move any further for a wall of flesh and bone. Putting my shoulder
to use once again, I skirt between the edge of the crowd and the cement-rendered wall. Pretty crowded, this foyer area looks like a corridor runs through it, probably leading to classrooms. As I come out the other side I hit a different crowd: students. Only a handful, who should probably be in class, but obviously snuck out to gawk at the political head of their country.
I blend into their ranks, asking the girl beside me what’s happening.
“It’s the president,” she says, voice high with awe.
“Ah yeah, but what’s he doing here?”
“A classroom visit, I think, and then he’s addressing us in the auditorium.”
“Cool. Which is the lucky class?”
She turns around and a huge smile spreads across her face. “You must be a senior.”
I return her smile; she’s young, maybe fourteen.
Harris snickers somewhere behind me; be nice if we had a telcom so I could tell him to piss off. But I don’t and the lack of tech leaves feels weird.
Keeping formation, the presidential group moves away while I edge over to stand beside Harris. “Don’t know what they’re up to, but Collective are definitely on security.” And headed up by Nikias.
“Hmm . . .” He tosses his head toward the moving group.
I shove my hands in my pockets and let my shoulders roll forward, keeping my eyes down. Hopefully I’ll pass for a student and no one will look at me twice, especially not Nik. It’s not like he pays much attention to me, not like he did before Mom’s death. When we were tight.
We shadow them down the hall, and another familiar frame is part of the security detail, his blond hair stark against the sea of black clothes. We spent so many hours together as kids that I’d know my childhood buddy anywhere. Xane’s presence makes this situation even more perplexing. What the hell is this mission about if they’ve sent not only green agents, but two patriarchal heirs? It’s got to be low risk, but high importance. They wouldn’t want either Nik or Xane in real danger.