by K. Gorman
“Actually, there are quite a few veterans that live down here, and most work for the Society like I do, so we’re pretty mobilized.”
“Still, you’re about to attack a bunch of rich, well-armed assholes with enemy military backing,” she said.
“True, but—”
“Can I help?” she asked.
“I—what?”
He stopped walking and rounded on her, his expression incredulous, eyebrows shooting into his forehead.
“Can I help?” she asked again.
“You just finished getting chased around in a place you’ve never been before, almost got cut up by a psychopath with a knife, and you want to volunteer to attack the military?”
“Well, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. If I can, in some tiny fucking way, help get the shield back up, then that’s awesome. Besides, my best friend is up there, doing the exact same thing, except she’s putting herself in the line of fire.”
“Your best friend is, at last count, about the most overpowered magic user currently in the city,” Ian said.
“She’s still my friend, and she’s still up there. Did you know that I’m actually older than her?” Robin folded her arms over her chest. “I mean, the least I can do is see if you people need help, even if it’s just to move boxes, babysit kids, or deliver messages.”
“I…” He shook his head, clearing his throat. “You know what? Fine. I’m sure there are some boxes you can move. Come on.”
Ian led her up to the front of the building, and the sound of voices and shouts grew as they wove their way through the scattered stream of people moving into and out of the door. A smell of sweat and closed-air came to her as they stepped away from the door, and they had to dodge a few stacked boxes—weapons?—partway down. The walls weren’t drywall like she’d thought, but painted cinder-block, like some of the more utilitarian parts of her school near the gymnasium and the basement. A faded red line pointed back toward the exit, the stenciled white lettering on it looking vaguely military.
“Did this used to be a base building?”
Ian, several steps ahead of her, didn’t hear her question—but she remembered something her mom had said once about Ryarnese history. The base in Lower Ryarne was a pre-Chromatix installation that had been relocated from somewhere else in the city.
Which meant that at least some people knew there was a buried city underneath Uptown.
Well… of course people had known. How could they have excavated it if they hadn’t known it was there?
Ian ducked into a door on the right. She sped up, determined not to lose him.
A few seconds later, when the door closed behind her, she found herself in a small room. Though she could still see the movement under the door of people walking by, the sounds of the outside were shut out. Everyone in the room looked up as she walked in, and she had a sudden panic at all the attention—was she not supposed to be here?
Then, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a chair to the right, and another familiar figure standing next to him.
Her eyes locked on Chris as Ian strode up to Roger, speaking in a low voice. By the way her classmate’s eyes widened, he hadn’t expected to see her.
His mouth opened as he started to rise, but Roger stepped forward first, and her attention focused on him, instead.
He hadn’t changed. When she’d first set eyes on him, she’d labeled him as probably the creepiest, most assassin-like person she’d ever met—it was like the man had stepped out of one of those noir detective shows her dad used to watch, right down to the slacks and fedora, only he was not on the good guy’s side. A kung fu gangster assassin.
Which was probably racist of her to think, but was definitely awesome.
“Ian tells me you’re interested in helping the attack,” he said.
Now that made Chris’s eyes widen.
“What?” he asked, rising to his feet. “No—she can’t!”
“Why not?” Roger asked. “You volunteered.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Talk to Kiersten,” Roger said, ignoring him. “He’ll set you up with something.” His head gave a shake as he stepped toward the door, switching his gaze to Ian as he passed. “Take her there, will you? God knows we could use more runners.”
And with that, he strode out the door and left.
Chapter 32
The sun had set, turning the Uptown Ryarne skyline from a bath of gold light into a glittering, night-time vista. Down below, traffic crawled along on one of the city’s secondary arteries, the occasional car splitting up his building’s small, empty street to merge into the flow.
Hugh Kauffmann swirled the half-empty glass of whiskey in his fingers, watching it move.
This was either his sixth or his sixteenth. He wasn’t quite certain.
But he was certain that he didn’t want to be sober tonight.
His gaze slipped to the side, up from the streets and the mid-sections of Uptown’s metropolitan buildings to the break in skyscrapers that opened on his far right, offering him a dark-lined look toward the south, where the silhouettes of the Lachlan mountains curbed the border between the occupied and the unoccupied sections of Westray. And then, he thought of his son.
They’d have to move, or change their names. Or perhaps Andy could be homeschooled. Elizabeth, his mother, could be moved out.
And Laura?
Well, she could cope.
He knew she suspected something—there’d been enough leading questions and skeptical looks to tell him that. He wasn’t sure what she suspected, but he doubted it was this.
But she could cope. She was strong. Even if he took the hard fall and burned across the courts and media, she’d survive. He’d transferred enough money into her bank account to ensure it.
That had raised some eyebrows at home recently.
The phone rang on his desk. He didn’t jump, but a panicked, electric thrill zipped through his nerves.
Fuck.
He let it ring three times, staring at the night sky, then swiveled, leaned over his desk, and pressed speakerphone.
“Yes?”
“How is everything going?”
General Malnotti’s voice was deep, smooth, and to the point.
There’d be no formalities tonight.
“We have the last Mage and his crystal, but there was a fourth crystal they discovered.” Hugh paused to clear his throat—a cover in an attempt to not slur his speech, though he doubted Malnotti cared at this point. For them, a drunk Westran collaborator was probably better than a sober one for this operation.
Unless he got so wasted that he second-guessed his agreement.
In that case, he suspected they would just kill him.
“The Fire Mage acquired an apprentice in the last few days. Ramos has taken her under an illusion to locate the last crystal,” he continued.
Malnotti probably already knew about this—an operation this delicate and critical did not happen without intense scrutiny—but the general wanted Hugh to feel that he was a part of it. It was a psychological technique that he wasn’t unaware of.
“And all is well?” Malnotti asked.
“Yes.” He checked his watch. “They’re due back any minute.”
“Excellent. Please update me when they arrive.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead. No goodbyes.
He stared at the phone, watching as its internal sensors detected the call’s end and blinked the line’s light out, then he turned back to the window.
Ten million people, he thought, seeing the lights outside. And I’ve betrayed all but three of them.
For security. For money.
None of that money would end up in Laura’s account. He’d made sure of that. Hers was clean.
His, on the other hand…
Well, it was in his best interest that this plan succeeded.
In one motion, he downed the rest of his glass, then swiveled toward the other side of the
room, where gleaming, tinted bottles sat on a rich, mahogany bar.
Over the winged crest of Ryarne inlaid into its front panel, he poured himself another drink.
And paused as the phone rang again.
Ah, they’ve returned, then, he thought, and went to answer it.
Chapter 33
The Cyprios Skytower looked like a knife. A black, standing blade that blocked out the stars with a curve of darkened glass, its hilt buried deep into the ground. Mieshka followed the slope to its top point, and her upper lip curled back as she saw a tiny gleam of filtered illumination.
Hugh Kauffmann, the company’s CEO—if Illusion-Roger had told her correctly.
For a second, the firepower inside her unraveled, the Phoenix unfolding its wings as if she could reach him from here, but she tightened her grip on the door’s handle and mentally reined it back.
She’d get him, eventually. But first, they had to find precisely where in the building the crystals were hidden. Her internal compass worked well for pointing direction, but was a bit useless when it came to exact floor levels, hallways, and rooms.
She sat in the back seat of a small hatchback car—Mo’s car, according to Jo. Apparently, she and Buck had raced to his place after Aiden’s office had been taken, loaded themselves up with weaponry, and borrowed his keys. They sat in the front, Jo watching the building’s entrance while Buck kept his attention on the rest of their surroundings. A sleek, metropolitan courtyard led to the front door, the large, post-modern concrete planters and benches underlit by a bright, pale light. Inside, the lobby appeared as a slice of warm luxury from the cool outside.
They watched and waited.
As she understood it, it wasn’t just the three of them planning an attack. Once they’d verified the Cyprios building was housing the crystals—and, hopefully, the Mages—Jo had phoned Roger on an Underground landline. With some Underground engineers, maps, and sonar devices, they had located an Underground entrance to the Skytower’s roots. It had been sealed, and looked more like an entrance that had been abandoned than one that had been recently used, but it would do. They planned to blow it with explosives, then storm in with their guns and grenades blazing.
Everyone—both Roger’s people Underground and their three-man-team aboveground—would attack at the same time.
She had been happy to sit back and let Jo arrange it.
Up the street, an ambulance turned up the corner and roared by, its lights blinking. After it passed, the siren kicked in, wailing into the distance. Mieshka closed her eyes, listening as the sound grew more and more distant.
It was the fourth that had gone by, and she had a feeling she knew exactly where they were going. If the smell of smoke in her hoodie wasn’t enough of a reminder, she was still fighting against the memory of men screaming in pain—and the tangible feeling of her fire burning into them.
She sank into the back of the seat. Jo had been right. She had filled the Burn Unit tonight.
When she closed her eyes, she still heard them screaming.
Power folded over her, and a trickle of heat slipped through her fingers. The air felt warm to her—too warm, but if Buck and Jo noticed, they didn’t say anything—and she had an overwhelming urge to close her eyes and take a nap.
She felt tired. Not drained, but exhausted. As if all the power she carried now was running through her like a lightning strike on a power line—too much at once, flooding her senses, brimming over the edge of her mind.
That worried her. Didn’t the brightest flames burn out the fastest?
She leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. She needed to focus.
“What is Cyprios, anyway? What kind of company?” she asked.
“Deals in Chromatix B,” Buck said. He’d had his phone out earlier, likely looking up exactly what she’d just asked—part of scoping out the building.
Her jaw tensed. Chromatix B. The magic medical catalyst whose fifty-year-old founding controversy had been Swarzgard’s excuse for invasion.
It seemed almost poetic that the man betraying the country would be involved in the industry.
“Almost time,” Jo said. “You ready?”
Buck met Mieshka’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Sure.” She blinked her power back as a ream of fire hushed into the forefront of her mind. She refocused on the crystals, putting her attention on the link that pulled between them.
Well, at least Aiden was right about this theory. I can do this.
“All right, then.” Jo opened the front door and got out.
Steeling herself, Mieshka did the same. The car dipped as Buck joined them.
Their guns gleamed in the mercury light. They wore enough to overthrow a small dictatorship, which would come in handy considering it was Swarzgard they were about to face off with.
A jittery feeling crept into her stomach as they walked up the path. She clutched her left hand tightly in her hoodie pocket to keep the shaking down and the fire at bay.
The lobby’s automatic door whirred open for them. Futuristic hanging lights shone onto a black marble floor, looking like suspended falling stars when she peeked up, with matching black walls connecting to a ceiling three stories tall. An unmanned concierge desk with a tan-colored wood grain lay to their right, along with a small lounge area behind it. Across the vast hall, a flight of stairs overlooked the approach, guarded by a glass-and-pipe railing similar to the Underground mall’s, except much cleaner and more sophisticated-looking. Its bottom disappeared behind a three-meter-high frosted glass wall and a security desk.
The blue-uniformed guard looked up as they came in.
Putting on a smile, she made a bee-line for him, moving faster and giving him a little wave that, she hoped, would take his attention from Buck and Jo’s guns.
“Hello,” she said, hoping neither had drawn a weapon yet. “My name’s Mieshka. Sorry to drop by so late. I work for the Fire Mage, and I have urgent business with Mr. Kauffmann. Could you give him a call for me?”
By the way the guard was sizing them up, he wanted more than a bit of polished Plexiglas between him and the two walking armories she’d brought. Blond hair poked out from under his cap, styled differently than the soldiers’ had been—and, also unlike them, his blue uniform didn’t have the Homeguard insignia on its breast. As far as she could tell, he was regular, run-of-the-mill security personnel. Not a soldier.
The guard—Adam, by the nametag on his left breast—nodded slowly, perhaps encouraged by her friendly tone.
“Ah, Mieshka, correct?” he said, enunciating her name with the same care most people did upon first hearing it.
“Mieshka Renaud,” she said, settling her hands on the front of the counter as he picked up the phone. “He should know who I am.”
Behind her, Buck and Jo stood in ultimate silence. She caught their reflections in the glass—Jo looked bored, her attention wandering to the rest of the hall with the expression of an insolent child; Buck was passive, a hand casually resting over the top of a pistol.
Despite her battered and singed hoodie, Mieshka tried her best to look professional. Her gaze slid over the contents of the guard’s desk. A few pencils, notes, a thriller novel—no weapons in sight.
Which didn’t mean he didn’t have any. He kept one hand under the desk, which made her suspicious, but she assumed a building like this would have something akin to the panic switches she’d seen a few times in banks and convenience stores.
Her attention snapped back to him when he began to speak.
“Hello, sir. Sorry to bother you. There’s someone here for you.”
It was probably an unconscious move, but he stood to casual attention when speaking to his boss, his back slipping straight and head coming up. She studied him, trying to read into the changes in his expression.
“Her name is Mieshka, sir.” He paused, catching her eye. “Mieshka Renaud.”
“No, sir… Absolutely, sir… I’ll tell her, sir. Sorry, sir.”
He hung up, the phone missing its cradle on the first try and clacking hard against the plastic before he got it in place. When he met her eyes again, his eyebrows were drawing down into a frown.
“He said no.”
Behind her, Jo gave a snort.
Mieshka ignored it, instead clearing her throat and putting on her best puzzled face. “No, what?”
“No, you cannot see him.”
Okay, she doubted this guy was in on the whole Swarzgard conspiracy. For one, he would have tried shooting her by now if he was. It was more likely he was someone hired for their naiveté. He did look a bit young—maybe only a few years older than her.
She leaned forward. “Did you tell him it was urgent? It has to do with the shield.”
“He seemed to get the idea.”
Mieshka shifted her weight. The man’s hand was still underneath the desk, but what, exactly, would a panic button do? She assumed that Kauffmann’s Swarzgard buddies were already aware of her presence here, so it didn’t matter if it rang them. Did she care if the police came? Was Mr. Kauffmann calling them already? Or would he rely on his built-in security team?
Probably the latter, considering what he was up to.
“But I need to talk to him,” she said.
“Sorry, miss, he said no.”
She frowned. Miss? Okay, sure, that was an accurate title for her—but damn if it didn’t rub her the wrong way.
Heat collected in her hands. “I did mention that I work with the Fire Mage, right?”
Flames crawled up her sleeve, and his eyes went wide as she pressed her palm against the Plexiglas separating them. Her fingers sank in, the material melting at her touch.
“Break this,” she ordered.
As she stepped away, Buck and Jo went to town. There were a few sharp retorts of Buck’s gun and a crash of glass. Jo’s boots scraped as she vaulted the desk and chased Adam down.
Mieshka brought her hands up to massage the part of her head just above her ears, trying to clear a ringing sound that had filled them. Smoke curled up from her skin as the heat rose inside her. After a moment, she brought her right hand down and traced a finger along the back of a leather lounge chair on the lobby’s left side, leaving a trail of soot on its beige surface.