by M. D. Archer
Her impassive eyes are now fixed on the dealer, but he’s eyeballing me. Even with hunched shoulders, heavy-lidded eyes and a bored expression, he’s still paying attention.
What’s she up to?
Crap. But there’s no way he could know what I’m doing.
I’m too old for this shit.
Dammit.
His hand casually passes under the table as his eyes come to rest on me. They’re trained to pick up on abnormal patterns of behavior or unlikely winning streaks. The house always wins, after all.
A floor manager sidles up to the table.
I’m officially out of time.
Across the room, I can make out the top of Mason Maxwell’s head at a roulette table. He’s playing Lady Luck for real. Or maybe not—it’s probably rigged. The house always wins.
Unless you cheat.
Above me a light flickers. The false eyelash affixed to my right eyelid flutters. I push at it and it sticks, but it’s not going to hold for long. My face suddenly feels dirty, caked with makeup, which it is, layered with a primer, foundation and powder, and a coating of blush to top it all off. I learned how to do this from a YouTube tutorial a few weeks ago and now I don’t like to leave home without it—my armor, my mask.
Directly ahead of me but thirty feet away, two large security guards emerge from a door that’s invisible to the untrained eye.
Things are about to kick off.
“Mason.”
“Whatsup?”
“Get ready to leave.”
With a disinterested wave, I throw down my cards and gather up my stash of chips. “I’m done,” I say to the dealer, whose eyes flick across to his reinforcements.
The floor manager glances up at the security cameras in the corner and turns away to listen to his walkie-talkie. I listen too. They’re letting me go—not that they could stop me if they tried, but tonight I’m not in the mood for a fight.
I stand, moving slowly so as not to encourage any last minute paranoia from the casino staff. Their eyes are heavy, weighing on me as I walk away.
My head, my back, my ass.
Mason falls into step as I pass the roulette tables.
“We might need to switch to a new casino.”
Mason grins. “I was getting bored with this place anyway.”
Behind us, I feel rather than hear the burst of motion as one of the security guards makes a spontaneous, instinctive decision to give chase. I grab Mason’s hand and pull him with me. I spring forward in a surge of speed, darting right at the last minute toward the main floor where the crowds are thickest. I risk a quick look back. There are two after us, but they’re falling behind. Mason’s grin widens as one of the guards, scanning the crowds with manic eyes, runs straight into a slot machine and knocks himself out. The other drops down beside his fallen comrade and we’re forgotten. Still, we continue to duck, weave and sidestep through the crowd, breathless with laughter.
“C’mon,” Mason says, pulling me to a side exit. “There’s a rooftop cocktail bar in the place next door.”
When I first met Mason Maxwell after joining the Consillium community, I’d written him off as playboy-party-boy combo—which I was right about—but I’ve discovered over the past few weeks that this particular combo is actually pretty fun, and hanging out with him is less complicated than everyone else.
The elevator doors open. A bouncer guards the entrance to what must be a trendy bar—it’s Mason’s choice, after all. He gives us both the once-over, wondering who we are. But after a beat he decides we are somebodies—or at least Mason must be, with his designer clothes, messy blond chin-length hair, aqua blue eyes and incredible body—and lets us in. Mason takes my hand, leads us to two recently vacated seats next to the pool, and waves the waiter over.
Sipping champagne and looking out over the twinkling lights as cool air plays with my hair, I let myself get lost in the hum of conversation, the heat of movement, and the rhythm of people enjoying themselves.
But are they really? Or are they just putting on a show? I zone in and out of their thoughts, catching them as they drift past like dandelions blowing in the wind. Most of the people up here, like me, are just grabbing pockets of fun wherever they can.
“Hey,” Mason raises his glass. “Cheers.”
I clink my glass against his, and return my gaze to the rooftop revelry.
It’s been three months since I discovered I’m Lucan. I belong to a secret, elite group of not-totally-human beings who have enhanced abilities. At first it’d been awesome, but having a secret identity and being part of the Consillium meant rules—rules I struggled to follow. Trying to do the right thing, I ended up on the wrong side of the Consillium and on the run from Enforcers, Lucan assassins sent by Rica Armandi. But Rica had underestimated me. I’d taken out all three Enforcers and left Rica wrapped in silver chains. That night, I’d learned I am the Cursus Ultimatum, and standing on top of Lakeview Hills with Cedric’s body lying at my feet, I decided I’d be making my own rules. But now that the dust has settled, doubt is creeping under my skin and into my soul, and I’m starting to feel just as adrift as I did before this all began.
WE EMERGE INTO the balmy summer night, warm even though it’s past midnight, as the valet pulls the 2013 Lotus that Mason rented up to the curb with a loud engine rev.
“Sweet ride,” the valet says, running his hands over the hood as he comes to stand next to Mason so they can appreciate the car together.
My phone buzzes again. This time I check the message.
Dana: Are you coming? Alexis is waiting.
Alexis Armandi, head of the East Coast Consillium and Rica’s brother, has been trying to meet with me for three weeks. He wants to know whether I’m still part of the Consillium community.
Good question.
As I stare at the screen, my phone comes to life, nagging at me with insistent peals. I slide it unanswered into my pocket.
Above me neon lights bear down, as if watching me, and all of a sudden I want to get away from here. Away from the greed and depravity and the violence brimming under the surface. Basic human instincts are displayed, encouraged even, and I feel dirty.
“Let’s go.”
Mason hands the almost panting valet a generous tip. He nods and scurries around to open the door for me. Once I’m seated, Mason revs the engine and pulls out with a theatrical squeal of tires.
“Was that necessary?”
“I made his night.” Mason removes his cigarettes from the glovebox. I let him light one before plucking it from his mouth and stabbing it out in the ashtray. Mason replaces his hand on the wheel, knuckles gripping with irritation at first, but loosening as he steps on the gas and pulls out onto the highway. A smile tugging at his mouth, he ignores the speed limit all the way home.
“Food?” Mason asks as we approach the central city. He swerves to take the exit. “I’m in the mood for chow mein.”
“Korean?” I say. Mason doesn’t respond, but he pulls up outside Il Mee, a favorite of mine on Bright Street downtown.
Halfway out of the car I freeze. The scent of fear. About a block away. West. I hover, half inside the car, listening. There it is—a woman crying, and a man with a frightened tremor in his voice.
“I’ll be back in a sec.”
“Really, Tam?”
“It’ll take five minutes.”
I weave my way through clusters of pedestrians—people dining late or being kept up with the heat—moving past brightly lit restaurant facades interspersed with darkened shop fronts. Leaving the noisy chatter of the crowds behind, I turn down a side street to be confronted by the stench of garbage emanating from the row of bins lining the alley. I want to gag. It’s as if the heat, trapped within the concrete of the city, has joined forces with the dirt and pollution to create an insidious grime cloaking everything. It’s a wonder I can smell anything else, but I can. A couple are being robbed at gunpoint, just out of sight less than twenty feet away.
A new smel
l arises.
Sharp, tangy—things are about to turn bad.
Skidding around the corner, I reach the small group in less than a second, wrenching the gun out of the assailant’s hand as it goes off, a harsh sound even amongst city bedlam. As the gunman turns to me in surprise I strike him on the jaw, sending him down, introducing him to the pain of concrete.
Light flickering from second-story shops cast shadows across the grimacing faces of the gunman’s two friends, now advancing on me. The larger of the two, over six foot and easily 220 pounds, lunges at me, but he’s clumsy. I block his heavy swing—it might have hurt if it had connected—and knee him in the stomach, delivering an uppercut to his chin as he doubles over. As he crumples to his knees, the third man flies past me, eyes wide. I turn to face the man and woman, huddling into each other, to my left.
“W-who are you?” the man says.
“No one. Get out of here,” I say, picking up the gun and hurling it into the closest dumpster.
They stand there, clutching at each other and gawping at me. The guy on the ground isn’t getting up anytime soon, and these two are a couple of idiots, so I leave.
Around the corner, Mason is leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.
“Feel better?” He takes a drag.
I shrug, but I do.
“Good. You’ve got company.” He nods behind him at the large shape loping down the street. Even from here, I can tell she’s Lucan. Rogue, most likely.
“Why am I the one with company?”
Mason lifts his shoulders and takes another drag of the cigarette. He’s right though, Mason is too chill to draw Rogue attention, and adrenaline is already pumping through me, charging me, readying me for a fight, even one I don’t want.
“What’s up with Rogues this past couple of weeks? They’re everywhere.”
“Probably the heat.”
Something curls inside me, awakening. And it’s hungry. My breathing becomes rapid, shallow, so I slow it down, control it, sucking in big breaths to oxygenate my muscles, which are firing up. Unable to contain myself any longer, I stride toward her. When I pass a deserted side street, I stop, retracing my steps. Better to take this off the main road.
She appears around the corner.
“Whatsup?” I say.
Her tank shows off well-developed muscles bunching under her skin. Advancing, she cracks her knuckles and squints. I let her get closer, enjoying the feel of my muscles flexing and my heart pumping.
“Is it true?” she says.
“You’re going to have to be more specific. That I love rainy days? Yes. That I talk in my sleep? Sometimes.”
She swings, and I pull back.
“I heard about the Enforcers… and I heard you think you’re special.”
This surprises me enough that her fist connects with my cheekbone in a glancing blow. “Ow! Damn.” I step back out of her arm’s reach. “Who said that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find out how special you are.”
“Sure.” My muscles coil with energy and heat. “Let’s do that.”
I lose all sense of time and place as I abandon myself.
Blood, bone, muscles, skin.
Unleashing rage, bit by bit.
This is my medicine.
Then, a dog barks in the distance. A car horn sounds. A siren wails.
Mason appears at the alley entrance. “Tam. What’re you doing?”
Fist bloody, eyes wet, I sit back, resting on my haunches, looking away so Mason can’t see my tears. The Rogue lies in front of me, motionless. But alive.
What am I doing?
“Come on.” Mason extends his hand to me, his voice soft. “Let’s get out of here.”
AN HOUR LATER, we screech to a halt outside the doors to my apartment building.
“Mason, I have neighbors.”
He raises his hands as if the speed of the car is out of his control. On the fourth floor, where my apartment is, blinds twitch. Mrs. Coletti is going to have words with me tomorrow.
“Nightcap?” Mason says.
I’ve gone there a couple of times with Mason, but being with him is like eating a bucketload of junk food. Fun at the time, tasty and hedonistic, but always followed by guilt.
“Not thirsty.”
I’ve got other ways to distract myself.
“Whatever.” He grins. “Catch you later, Tam Tam.”
“I’ve warned you about calling me that.”
“Okay, okay.” His smile widens, and he winks.
Why do I hang out with him?
Because he’s one of the only ones I can stand, and that can stand me, is why. Almost everyone else in my life is now associated with pain, rage, or grief.
I get out and slam the door. Mrs. Coletti is already mad, what’s one more noise? Mason pulls out with an obnoxious squeal of rubber. Make that two more.
Inside, I go straight to the freezer and pull out the bottle of vanilla Gray Goose. I saw this in a movie—storing vodka in the freezer—and even though a bartender recently told me it’s pointless, I like the idea of it nestled in there, cold and hidden.
As I take a tumbler from the dishrack, residual energy from the challenge of facing that Rogue rattles through me. I pour myself a large double and knock it back, already pouring a second, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands.
“Same again, thanks,” I say under my breath, to no one, pouring a third, this one a triple. If I keep this up I’ll have a headache tomorrow, but the numbness will be worth it.
Damn, it’s hot. I increase the aircon and ease myself onto the beautiful black leather couch that separates the kitchen and dining room from the living area. My apartment, on a six-month lease paid for up front—I raise my glass to whoever invented gambling—is a large open-plan converted space. It has a nineties vibe, with exposed brick and hardwood floors, and everything except the bathroom and a small spare room is in the same 800 square foot space. It’s starting to feel like home even though, apart from clothes and toiletries, nothing here is mine.
Except my gumball machine. The one Dad gave me for my eighth birthday. It sits on the mantel above the fake fireplace—currently serving as the perfect spot for the 62″ TV screen that came with the apartment.
I take another sip, gazing at the already healing knuckles of my right hand before touching my cheekbone and my head. I check the drying blood at the edge of my hairline where there’s no longer a cut. Even though my mind can’t let it go yet, can’t shake the images and the visceral memory of the fight, my body has recovered and is ready for the next one.
Sometimes it seems as if I was built for killing.
Maybe I am… maybe that’s what I’m meant to do. At least I would have a destiny, I guess. A purpose in life. And I’m already on track to be a top performer. At the ripe old age of nineteen I have four kills under my belt. All Lucan of course, all killers themselves, but still.
And yet the one who should be dead still draws breath.
Rica.
I shouldn’t have left him there, wrapped in silver chains but still alive. Now, he’s facing the Consillium’s justice system, but is that enough? They haven’t even decided what to do with him yet. He abused his position as liaison to London and nothing’s happened to him yet. Meanwhile I’m still twisting and reeling from the damage he did. Rica is the reason I’m a murderer, that Chris is dead, and that Vincent’s in a coma.
I’m gritting my teeth together so hard my jaw is starting to ache and my whole body is trembling, so I go to the south-facing corner of the apartment where I’ve set up a home gym: a boxing bag, some free weights, and even a yoga mat. I haven’t given up running though; I need it like I need oxygen. For a moment my vodka-muddied mind considers going for a run, but only for a second. No, I can get the shaking to stop in a number of ways, and tonight I choose alcohol.
I down my drink and put on music. For at least five minutes I feel euphoric in my numbness, dancing around the room. But the track finishes and there
’s silence.
My apartment is empty, and I’m alone.
With my drink topped up I collapse on the couch. My phone beeps to remind me I have three new messages. Parsons, Dana, and… Dad.
Fine. I leave my phone on the coffee table, on speaker, and lean back on the couch, drink in hand. First up, Detective Parsons. That man is like a dog with a bone, and he always wants to talk about Cedric.
Cedric was identified as the Campus Crawler after being found at the base of Lakeview Hills, and the proximity of his body to me and my family home was not lost on Parsons. It’s my fault; I didn’t have the first clue about how to dispose of a body, and I didn’t want to bother Dana or ask Nikolai. In the end, I figured the more physical contact I had with Cedric, the greater the chance of leaving incriminating evidence behind, so I’d left him there. They didn’t find any forensic evidence to link me to him, so maybe I made the right decision. But still, Parson’s interest in me was renewed. I’d already been cleared of the Crawler murders, but Cedric’s discovery was too much for him to ignore.
“Tamzin,” his message begins, “I’m here at your apartment. Where are you? Call me back.”
What does he think he’s going to get from me?
I delete the message.
Dana’s message is also brief. She leaves out any mention of my no-show this evening, and instead asks if I can help out at Vincent’s bar tomorrow night. Dana’s been running the place because Vincent sure can’t do anything in his state.
The last voice mail is from Dad. I glance up at the gumball machine and consider playing the message, but I just can’t. I don’t have the emotional resilience to hear his voice right now. I turn off my phone. My whole body heavy and numb, I consider crashing on the couch right here, but eventually I push myself up and stagger to bed.
After only half an hour I lurch awake, sweating, panting, heart racing, crying.
The memory of Chris reaching out to me as he’s immobilized within the grip of Falcone, and his expression—surprised then panicky as Falcone snapped his neck—will never leave me.
But when sleep is torn from me in the middle of the night, it isn’t the brutality of Chris’s death that torments me. It’s memories of ripping out Falcone’s heart, mercilessly snapping Boris’s neck, slicing at Miguel until he was slick with blood, and Cedric’s face twisted into a maniacal and knowing smile as I plunged the knife into his neck. He’d told me there was a darkness inside me that was irresistible, and these words haunt me most of all.