by Loren Walker
Shock radiated up her spine and down her legs, replaced by pins and needles. Through the screaming pain, tears in her eyes, CaLarca could hear Cohen and Sydel fighting. “Stop pushing me!” he was telling Sydel. “How could you just leave like that, without telling us, without at least saying goodbye?”
“The note was enough!” she yelled back. “I should have known you would track me down. That’s all I am to anyone, something to collect and hide away.”
Cohen grabbed her by the arms. “We are the only ones who have never tried to hurt you, or manipulate you, or use you. Don’t you see that? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Sydel stopped fighting.
“Come back,” Cohen was still talking. “Don’t leave like this. We’ll help you, we’ll do whatever you need to -”
“I won’t leave,” Sydel said in a whisper. “No. I’ll never leave the Arazura again.”
Sydel’s shadow passed. Her short tufts of hair rippled from the wind, and her path was unsteady, her hands hovering at her sides, as if keeping balance.
CaLarca struggled onto her hands and knees. Then the light grew cold.
“You.” It was Cohen, looming over her, blocking out the sun. “You have a real talent for manipulation. Vyoma said you were a mother. She could tell you’ve had a kid. Well, that kid is better off without you in his life.”
Then he was gone. The shadow of the Arazura lifted, and the sunset was there again, cold and pink.
She couldn’t breathe. It was over. She had failed. She was alone in the grassy fields, remnants of dead petals strewn like a bruised carpet.
The gazebo was deserted. No lights, no cameras. No Kuri, and no Marette either. They had faded away, once again.
Cohen’s words floated past. Better off without you. Better off without you.
She couldn’t stop the tears from spilling, a continuous flow, burning trails down her cheeks. She couldn’t control her anger, her fury at Kuri, at Marette, at the brothers’ betrayal, her revenge and retribution for her family’s loss.
The town of Zanguri felt ghostly, after so many people streaming through its doors and alleyways. Her fingers shook as she found a public Lissome dispenser and keyed in the access code.
A rumble, and clang. Beneath the plastic drop, a small black cube lay, one inch squared. Cold in her hand, after so long in storage. But it still rippled to life at her touch, asking who she wished to contact.
Within seconds, the connection was made.
“Zanguri Law Patrol.”
Her hands burned away the cold on the Lissome. “I wish to report the location of a wanted criminal. I believe someone is looking for Cohen Byrne.
PART FOUR
I.
Two patrol officers were posted outside the townhouse, rotating on twelve-hour shifts. Phaira watched through the mirrored window as Detective Ozias went through a series of checkpoints with the men, trading credentials, passcodes and retinal scans before the officers allowed her into the vestibule.
The doorbell chimed.
“…. appreciate your willingness to take her into your custody,” Ozias was saying. “Rough night?”
“Noisy night. She barely slept. Pacing. Running up and down the stairs. Scared me awake.”
“An attempt to escape?”
“As tempting as it is, as her lawyer, would I really tell you that?”
The door to the sitting room opened. Clad in a white robe, Jetsun’s hair was already styled in sweeping blonde waves, her complexion peachy and warm in the morning. “You have a visitor,” she announced. “Take care with your words, because I’m listening.”
Ozias slipped inside, dipping her head at Jetsun. From her armchair, Phaira watched the exchange. In the center of the sand-colored room, made with silken wood and covered by grand carpets, Phaira felt about two feet tall, and more exhausted than she could ever remember.
“Have you found him?” she asked Ozias as the woman walked past.
Ozias unbuttoned her jacket lapel before settling onto the window bench. “No,” she admitted. “We don’t know where that man is. Or who he is. Not yet.”
“Great,” Phaira said sullenly, laying her chin on her knee. “He could be anyone, or anywhere.”
“Have you ever seen technology like that before? To take on another appearance?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think that’s tech.”
Ozias frowned. “What else would it be, then?”
“I doubt you’d believe me if I told you.”
“It’s a strange enough situation, Ms. Lore. I might have no other choice.”
That might be true. Still, she kept silent.
Ozias laid her forearms across her thighs, leaning forward to catch Phaira’s eye. “The sooner you talk, the sooner the house arrest will be lifted.”
Phaira scowled. “There are innocent people at risk here. I won’t expose them. If it means jail time for me, so be it.”
“You consider Emir and Anandi Ajyo to be innocent?”
“Compared to what I’ve seen in the past month? They’re saints.”
“Saints who left you to be prosecuted,” Ozias pointed out. “Where are they now? Why don’t they come to defend you?” As she spoke, the detective was looking at Phaira’s hands and arms, the tiny white scars and delicate flecks of pink that covered them.
Phaira glared at Ozias until she looked away.
“How did you know Aeden Nox?” she tried.
“You already know.”
“Ms. Byrne.”
Her true surname. So much for aliases.
“It must have been very hard to see your friend impersonated like that,” Ozias continued. “Horrifying, given the way that he died. Crushed by falling rock in the stairwell of the Kings underground base. Took several minutes to die, according to the coroner’s report. Unbefitting for such a decorated hero.”
Every muscle in Phaira’s face strained to remain calm.
“But not your fault,” Ozias added. “I wonder if you went to Kings to try and save him. I wonder if he got caught up in some unsavory business with Keller and Xanto Sava.”
“How is this relevant to your case, Detective?”
Jetsun’s voice startled them both. The blonde woman leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still clad in her bathrobe. Grateful for the woman for once, Phaira hunched into her chair, away from Ozias.
The detective exhaled with frustration. “I know more than you think, Phaira,” she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her trousers. “I’m just missing that last puzzle piece. Don’t you think it would be better to tell me, rather than to let me make assumptions? You’re so concerned with innocents; how better to protect them than by telling the truth?”
“Can I please not talk to her anymore?” Phaira called over her shoulder to Jetsun.
“We need a break to confer,” Jetsun announced.
“Fine,” Ozias said. “I’ll go for a walk around the block. But when I get back, no more interruptions. I want this resolved today.”
When the detective cleared the threshold, and she heard the door slam, Phaira pressed the heel of her hands into her eyes. Stop talking, she told herself. Stop reacting to everything she says. It’s a slope, and you’re falling. You’ll ruin everything.
“Well, well, it’s positively crackling with tension in here.”
Phaira dropped her head back, taking in the upside-down silhouette of Jetsun Sava.
“You know, as your lawyer,” Jetsun continued. “Whatever we talk about is confidential.”
“Right,” Phaira scoffed, sitting upright. “I’m sure that you strictly adhere to all proper codes of conduct.”
“Like you do, I suppose? I’m not sure why you’re so hostile towards me,” Jetsun said blithely. “You got yourself into this mess.”
“Trying to protect the ones I care about.”
“Well, last time I checked, Phaira,” Jetsun said. “Regardless of intention, you’re not exactly operating on the good, clean
level of the world. Ducking the law, making friends with known criminal hackers, attacking officers. How are we so different?”
Phaira glared through the window, focusing on the waves of dust blowing down the street. But still, her heart hammered. She hadn’t thought of it like that.
Jetsun sidled over to the windowpane, leaning one hip against the glass. “How do you know Theron, anyways?”
Phaira turned away from the woman’s curious gaze. I don’t even know how to categorize it, she thought. A memory hazed over her vision, the feel of his hands lightly framing her face, palms flush under her ears, fingertips in her hair. Remembering, Phaira let her right cheek graze the skin of her shoulder. How she longed to be back in that room, shut away from everything.
“Interesting,” she heard Jetsun murmur.
“Is it,” Phaira said, turning back to glare at the woman.
Jetsun shrugged, looking across the skyline. “You’re not the typical pick. The last one was a thin, tall, gorgeous socialite, daughter of a longtime partner, from money and good heritage. Historically, those girls are the ones who get woven into the circle. Understand what I mean?”
Phaira resisted the urge to laugh. In a way, she respected the woman’s nerve, how elegantly she just inferred that Phaira was poor and ugly and on a lower plane of existence. And yet, in a way, Jetsun’s cold recitation of facts could be construed as a warning. Phaira understood both.
Then the woman chuckled. “There was a time when we were thought to be a match, you know."
Phaira made a face. “Aren’t you cousins?”
“I’m adopted."
"You have the same color of eyes, though."
"Dyed."
"Really?"
Jetsun gestured at her face. "Shows loyalty to different strains of the Sava clan," she explained.
"And don’t worry, that match wasn’t going to happen," she added with a smirk. "A little too strange, over on that side of the family -”
“After his parents were killed?” The question came out before Phaira could stop it.
Jetsun stared. “You know about that?”
“So it really happened?”
“You doubt it?” The woman sounded surprised.
Phaira didn’t know how to respond.
Then Jetsun pushed off the window, her cold exterior snapped back into place. “Ozias is coming back,” she ordered. “You need to figure out what to say. She’s persistent. You have to tell her something, or she’ll never let you out of here. And I’m not in the market for a roommate, understand?”
When Jetsun was gone, Phaira paced the perimeter of the room, trailing her fingers across the cold windowpanes, the sumptuous curtains, the silken wallpaper. She went through the events of Kings Canyon, again and again, from start to finish, separating the bodies and the blame. There were only two sides to step on.
And regardless of the blurred lines, it wasn’t the side of the Savas.
* * *
“I want immunity.”
She made the announcement as soon as she heard Ozias’s footsteps on the threshold. The detective froze mid-step, her eyebrows lifted. “For yourself?”
Phaira stood in the center of the sitting room. She’d borrowed clothes from Jetsun, who handed them over with reluctance, stating that they were old and far back enough in her closet to warrant a donation. The black jersey dress swung to her ankles, belted at the waist, and the slim-cut black jacket over the dress made her feel a little more secure, a little more contained. She looked slim and chic, by the reflection in the mirror, a slicker version of herself. “For my family.”
Ozias looked at her askance. “Who is your family?”
“You know.”
The woman’s mouth twisted. “You know, your brothers have been just as difficult to grasp as you,” she finally said. “Quite the family.”
It was a relief to hear her say that, though Phaira worked not to show it. Patrol hadn’t found them yet.
“If they remain untouched, I’ll tell you what happened in Kings,” Phaira said, her hand resting on the pink armchair. “I want the warrant removed from Emir and Anandi Ajyo, too.”
“Now, wait a minute -”
“How badly do you want to know what happened, Detective?”
“This must be some story you’re about to tell me, Ms. Lore.”
“You have no idea,” Phaira said. “Can we find somewhere private, and unrecorded, please?”
Ozias looked across the decorated room. “Are you officially waiving your right to your lawyer?”
“I guess I am.” Phaira raised her wrists, waiting for the handcuffs. “I just hope you’re the right call, Detective, I really do.”
* * *
For ten minutes, Ozias never moved, and barely blinked. Her brow occasionally furrowed. When Phaira finished speaking, she wanted to slump back in her chipped, rickety chair. Instead she kept her back straight and watched the detective, waiting for her reaction.
Finally, Ozias exhaled through her nose with a soft hmph! “That woman, Huma, she had the ability to blow up the base like that? Using her mind?”
“I can’t explain how, but it happened.” There was no reason that the detective had to know about Sydel’s existence. Huma was an easy substitute. Her words were close enough to the truth.
“And Aeden Nox was a mercenary.” There was a note of disappointment in Ozias’s voice. “Working for the syndicate on this revenge-mission.”
“Yes. He was a good man, as good as his record. Just got lost along the way. And unfortunately, he dragged Cohen into it, too.” When she said her brother’s name, Phaira looked at Ozias expectantly.
Ozias sighed. “I must admit, I don’t quite know what to do with this information.”
“Why do you have to do anything about it? The parties responsible are dead. Close the case. Pursue that shapeshifter instead, and let us go back to our lives”
Then Phaira caught hold of her words. “Let everyone else go back,” she corrected, sobering. “I’ll take the responsibility. I’m ready. I’ll plead guilty to whatever you think appropriate.”
“Why did the military discharge you in the first place?” Ozias queried, peering across the table at her. “I read about the Macatia case, how sloppily it was handled. Even if your public behavior was questionable, why would the government give up such a valuable commodity?”
The word commodity made her uneasy. Still, Phaira said nothing.
Ozias sat back in her seat. Phaira crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, waiting.
“And who is the shapeshifter? Any idea?” the woman finally spoke.
“He was impersonating you,” Phaira countered. “Don’t you have an idea?”
That irked Ozias, she could hear it in her voice: “But you said he recognized you.”
“I think he did.” Phaira looked down at her bitten fingernails. “When you were unconscious, that imposter told me he was with Nox when he died. That he pulled out Nox’s memories. He saw me in them. He wanted to rummage around inside my head for more information.”
“Did he?”
“No,” Phaira said. Underneath the table, she yanked her wrists apart so the hard metal bit into her bone, forcing her brain to focus on the pain. “He didn’t have the chance.” An awful thought occurred to her. “Did he - to you?”
“No,” Ozias said firmly.
Phaira eyed the detective, and felt a tiny, sick drop in her stomach. Ozias had crossed paths with the shapeshifter before, of course she had. Who knew what had transpired between the two?
“Here’s what we do,” Ozias said, leaning on her forearms. “I drop the charges. I release you into the public. And you report to me.”
“As what?”
“An informant.”
“I told you, I’m not a Sava, and I’m not involved with their dealings.” As Phaira spoke, she did a quick sweep around the space, looking for any hint of surveillance. On entering, Ozias gave her word that there was none. She continued to search.
Phaira waved her hand, the chain between her wrists jingling. “I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet.”
“Decision made. Work with me.”
“On what?”
“Well, first off, I want that imposter in my holding cell. You do that for me, we call off the charges.”
“You’ll let me go?” This was a trick. It had to be some kind of deception, some way to expose all her connections and friends.
Ozias spoke very slowly and clearly. “I’ll put out the bulletin that you’ve been released. The imposter will hear, and likely expose himself again. And when he does, then you contact me, and I’ll respond.”
Phaira’s mouth opened and closed.
“I might prefer jail than living under your thumb,” she finally said.
“Really?”
“I don’t know where I’m going,” Phaira said after another long pause. “I don’t know where my brothers are, and I have nothing with me.”
“I know where they are,” Ozias said. “A call came in a few hours ago. An anonymous tip, saying that Cohen Byrne has been hiding out in Toomba. That’s about two hundred kilometers west, in the mountain range.”
“What?” Phaira cried, her panic bursting through. “Who called them in?”
“We traced the call and picked her up in Zangari, though not without a fight, I might mention.” Ozias made a face somewhere between a smile and a wince of pain. “Lucky me, to have another stubborn, sullen suspect who refuses to talk. Maybe you know her?”
Ozias drew out her Lissome. A translucent screen popped out of the top, displaying a mugshot portrait, fuzzy, but the identity unmistakable.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Phaira said, staring at the pixelated image.
“Name?”
“CaLarca,” Phaira said without hesitation. She didn’t care about exposing the woman. “I don’t know if that’s her surname or what. I only met her for a day, weeks ago.” Her stomach twisted with hatred. CaLarca had the nerve to try and get her brother arrested? What else had she done in the time that Phaira was gone?