Broken Shadows

by A. J. Larrieu

  Thomas turned to Jackson. “Who’s she?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Play nice and we’ll let you out a week early.”

  He shrugged and settled his hands on his thighs. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Be quiet and stay still,” Cameron said.

  Jackson and I backed away, and Cameron covered Thomas’s hand with her own, bent her head and closed her eyes. He watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed. After a moment, she stood up.

  “Whoever did this was sloppy,” she said. “Maybe in a rush. They didn’t even cover the whole memory—only the part where he picks up the drugs.”

  “So you recovered it?” Jackson said, but Cameron shook her head.

  “Can’t do it. He’s a shadowmind. Whoever did this must have a special gift. I can tell the plant was recent, though, maybe less than forty-eight hours.”

  I pushed off of the wall. “But that’s how long he’s been down here.”

  Cameron shrugged. I looked at Thomas. He was listening to the exchange and rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Are your powers back?” I asked him.

  He made a sort of snorting noise. “Why? You wanna get charged up again? No fucking way.”

  Jackson turned to me. “Do you think...?”

  “One way to find out.” I was pretty certain I hadn’t used up my capacity for grounding. I knelt in front of Thomas. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I put my hand on his arm.

  “Fuck!” He tried to twist away, but Jackson held him. His fist came up once but stopped in midair a foot from my face, his face contorted with pain. I glanced back at Cameron and the grin she gave me was downright scary. I held onto him until the electric feeling in my hands faded. The rush of adrenaline was there again, everything sharper, everything in slow motion. I could tell he was on enhancers—the charge was more intense.

  I backed away and let the energy slowly dissipate through my fingertips. The air around me warmed, a miniature heat wave. I rubbed my arms.

  “Try it now,” I said to Cameron.

  She raised a single eyebrow at me and bent down to Thomas again, covering his hand with hers as she’d done before. Only this time, whatever she was doing was bothering him. His hands twitched under hers, and his eyes moved back and forth, unfocused and wild. It went on for several minutes, and he was sweating through his thin undershirt. Finally, she broke away and stood.

  Thomas opened his eyes and rubbed his face. “Shit. That was fucking weird.”

  Jackson said, “Did it work?”

  She nodded. I could tell when Jackson dove into his newly restored memory, because his eyes lost focus. After a moment, he unconsciously clenched his fists. Cameron and I exchanged a glance, then she shrugged and looked away.

  “Well,” Jackson said finally, his eyes focusing again. “That certainly explains some things.”

  * * *

  “Conner?” I said. “Bridget’s brother?”

  “Yep.”

  We were driving back to Jackson’s apartment, just the two of us. Cameron had left from the speakeasy. She hadn’t said where she was headed, and Jackson hadn’t asked. Before she’d gone, he’d passed her a wad of bills, which she’d tucked into her bag as if they were spare socks. Her fee, he’d explained to me. Apparently she never worked for free, even for friends.

  “Hasn’t he been missing for weeks now?”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Oh, God. You think he’s the one who cut me?”

  “It would make sense. Thomas tried to mentally contact him once he knew we were after him. There was no reply, but that doesn’t mean Conner didn’t get the message.” He stared ahead, lips set in a line.

  Cameron had done a great job of recovering the kid’s memory. According to Jackson, underneath the excised jump from the speakeasy to his apartment was the real, and much more believable, image of him at Conner’s apartment, the two of them sharing a joint. He paid a wad of hundreds for a bag of pills, and Conner put the money beneath the false bottom of a drawer.

  I’d never met Conner. From the way Bridget talked about him, I had no trouble believing he was a small-time drug dealer. But an attempted murderer? A shadowmind drug lord?

  “Do you think Bridget knows anything?”

  “I doubt it.” Jackson rubbed his face with one hand. “But we have to assume she’s hiding something.”

  “That’s a pretty elaborate game she’s playing if she’s asking you to look for him.”

  “I agree. But after what happened to you...” His knuckles whitened. “I’m going to suspect everyone until we figure this out.” His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin looked a little green. I imagined I didn’t look much better.

  “I’m going to break into Conner’s place tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “By which I mean this afternoon. Want to come?”

  “Sounds like a blast. Can we sleep first?”

  He pulled into his parking garage and killed the engine but didn’t get out. “I could fall asleep right here.” He leaned his head back and tilted it sideways to smile at me.

  “It’s tempting.”

  “Probably not a good idea. Too cold.”

  “We could leave the seat warmers on.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his head, mussing his hair even more than it was already mussed. “Come on.” He opened his door. “Bed is softer.”

  “I should probably sleep in the spare room.” I was getting better at consciously blocking power transfers, but I couldn’t vouch for my mental control if I slept next to him for hours in a state of total exhaustion.

  He gave me a wistful look that made my heart flutter. “You’re killing me, but you’re probably right.”

  We went through the lobby together, and I leaned my head on his shoulder in the elevator. He snugged me closer with his good arm, fabric between us everywhere. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or all the near-death experiences, or some combination of both, but it felt right to be close to him. I had a flash, a kind of miniature daydream of doing this every night. I quieted my mind before—I hoped—he could see it, but the thought remained buried there, warmer and more comforting than I wanted to admit. I knew it was impossible. I knew I had no future with a man I couldn’t touch. But as the lights flashed in sequence above the door, I let myself imagine it was something I could have.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We both slept like logs in our separate beds. I didn’t even have time to regret not drifting off next to him before I fell into dreamless, miles-deep sleep.

  When I woke, I couldn’t hear Jackson moving around, so I got up and took a shower with a towel wrapped around my head to keep it dry. My hair needed conditioning, but it would have to wait. By the time I finished, Jackson was awake, drinking a cup of coffee in his kitchen. His hair was even more ridiculously unkempt than it had been earlier, and he was wearing only his boxers and thick white athletic socks. He’d changed the bandage around his arm, and I thought he’d never looked more handsome.

  “Made a whole pot,” he said. I went into the kitchen in my towel and poured myself a mug. Before I could ask, Jackson brought cream soaring over from the fridge.

  I plucked the carton out of the air. “Thanks.”

  He mumbled something and downed the rest of his coffee. Then he headed for the bathroom, squeezing my shoulder with his uninjured hand as he passed.

  “Hey! Cut it out!” I hadn’t felt a transfer start, but still.

  “Oh, hush.” He doubled back and planted a kiss on my shoulder blade, darting into the bathroom before I could yell at him.

  By the time Jackson got out of the shower, I’d finished off half the pot of coffee and was feeling more like a human being. We picked up bagels at a shop on the corner and ate them while we drove over to Conner’s place.


  “Don’t you have to be at work today?” I wasn’t used to seeing him in jeans and T-shirts.

  “Called in sick.” He took an enormous bite of bagel while I mimed shock. “What?” he said after he’d chewed and swallowed. “You’ve never played hooky?”

  “Kinda hard to do when you live in the boss’s house.” Also kind of hard when the boss was a telepath. A little pang went through me, a memory of Lionel making cinnamon rolls in the big B&B kitchen.

  “I wish I could have met him,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah. Me too.” I watched him drive, wondering what Lionel would have thought of him. He would have approved of his protectiveness. He would have recognized a like spirit.

  Jackson parallel parked on the street next to a strip of green space. He managed it one-handed—I was impressed. Conner lived in a four-unit building near the Haight, one of the pretty Victorians gone to seed that lined Fell Street. The front door was locked, but Jackson opened it easily and bowed me in.

  “After you.”

  “First in, first to be arrested. How chivalrous.”

  “It’s on the second floor.” He followed me up the stairs.

  I waited on the landing and kept watch while Jackson broke in to Conner’s apartment. I was used to seeing him open the speakeasy door, but this was different. He leaned back against the wall beside the door and took out his phone. I laughed and shook my head.

  “What?” he said. “It’s better than staging an argument.”

  Or making out in the hallway, my brain suggested unhelpfully, forgetting he could hear me. I thought I saw his eyebrow go up, but a moment later, the lock clicked, and Conner’s door opened behind him. I made to go in, but he held up a hand and stopped me.

  “I need to make sure it’s clear first.” His eyes went distant, and I knew he was searching the rooms, looking for anyone still there. He’d told me Conner lived alone, but given recent events, I was glad he was being careful. After a few moments, he nodded, and we both went in.

  It was clear no one had been there in weeks. The fridge was full of soured milk and expired condiments, and dust lay in a blanket under the cheap furniture. Jackson could tell no one was in the apartment, but he still moved slowly, keeping me behind him as he entered each room.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?”

  “Anything,” he said. “But especially anything that tells us something about his operation.”

  Jackson took the drawers out and carefully lifted the jumbled clothes out of each one.

  “Here,” he said softly, and the bottom of the drawer came loose with a click.

  I looked over his shoulder and saw a cluster of small baggies. In one corner was an empty bag, white powdery residue on the inside. Jackson lifted it up.

  “I guess that answers that question,” I said.

  “He didn’t leave much behind.”

  “Anything else?”

  Jackson turned the drawer upside down. “I’d love to find a cell phone. Split up?”

  “Sure.” I glanced in the bathroom and saw enough to realize it probably hadn’t been cleaned since Conner moved in. “I’ll take the living room.”

  “Wimp.”

  Conner’s living room was as typical for a single twenty-something guy as his bathroom, but less smelly. Empty chip bags under the couch, drink rings on the side tables. I rummaged through the drawers and even under the rug. Nothing but trash and dust. The most expensive thing in the room was a flat screen TV sitting on a smoked-glass entertainment center packed with DVDs. He had an impressive collection of kung-fu movies and what looked like the entire filmography of Quentin Tarantino. I started pulling the cases out, looking for things stashed behind them, and found another row of DVDs and video game cases behind that.

  “Jesus, I guess I know what he did in his free time.” I stacked the cases on the mashed, dusty carpet as I went. One of them felt a little light. It rattled when I shook it.

  I stopped my exploration of Conner’s collection and opened the case. Inside I found a small key, the type with bits instead of grooves, a cityscape of silver metal rising from either side of the blade.

  “Hey, Jackson?” I called.

  “Yeah?” His voice was muffled.

  “Think I found something.”

  * * *

  “You’re fidgeting.”

  “I’m not fidgeting.”

  “Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

  “That security guard looks suspicious.”

  “He looks suspicious because you’re fidgeting. Smile. Smile now.”

  “What? Oh, shit.” I smiled. Someone was walking up to greet us. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt.

  We were in a bank in downtown San Francisco, the kind with marble floors and well-dressed finance professionals behind heavy wooden desks. The kind with safe deposit boxes in vaults.

  “May I help you, sir?” The man was wearing a tie and an engraved nametag that said C. Brath. His hair had too much gel in it.

  Jackson flashed a megawatt smile. “Yes. I’d like to access my safe deposit box.” He was wearing one of his suits, as much to play the part as to conceal his bandage.

  “Very well. Your name, sir?”

  “Conner O’Rourke. I have my key.” He held it up.

  “Right this way, sir.” C. Brath walked stiffly toward a standing desk on the far side of the bank. He left us there, taking Jackson’s fake ID with him. He’d gotten it from Seb. Seb, apparently, had contacts. Not surprising for a man with six-foot wings.

  Jackson had recognized the key as a safe deposit box key right away. Apparently his parents had one. We’d spent the rest of the afternoon scouring Conner’s apartment for bank statements. They’d been in a paper shopping bag in the back of his closet along with two years of electricity bills, cell phone bills, and credit card statements with high standing balances. Once we’d found his bank, it was a matter of calling around to find out which branch had safe deposit boxes on site. This was the third one we’d tried. We’d arrived half an hour before closing.

  “If you’ll just fill out this form, please, sir.” Brath was back. He put the form down with a bit of a flourish and handed Jackson a fancy pen from his top pocket. I resisted rolling my eyes.

  We’d been prepared for this part. Jackson had gotten an example of Conner’s signature from an old birthday card James had found, and he’d spent an hour practicing until it was seamless. He signed without hesitation, and Brath went away again. My palms started sweating.

  “It’s not like we’re taking hostages, here,” Jackson whispered in my ear. He was smiling.

  “Shut up.”

  I shouldn’t have worried. Brath came back with a key of his own, and we were led into the vault with the boxes. He took both keys, opened a large box on the far wall and left us alone.

  Jackson and I looked at each other. He pulled the box open.

  A gun. Cash—lots of cash. And pills. Hundreds of them. Enough to supply every shadowmind in the state for months. Jackson lifted the first layer of cash and found another layer, and then a second gun.

  “We should have brought a bigger duffel bag,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty

  I should have known that the abandoned car dealership next to Featherweight’s was more than it seemed. Everything else about the place was. When Jackson led me up to the locked garage door and knocked on the corrugated steel, I couldn’t even fake surprise.

  “This is where Sebastian lives?”

  “You have to admit, it gives him plenty of room.”

  The door rolled up with a few dozen rhythmic metallic clanks. On the other side, standing on a concrete ramp, was James.

  “No trouble?” he said.

  “No trouble,” Jackson replied. He dropped the duffel bag ful
l of guns, drugs and cash at his father’s feet. It had been a bit of a rush, carrying it out of the bank. I didn’t know if the enhancers were technically illegal, but they looked damning enough next to a Glock and fifty grand in twenties.

  James eyes the bag. We’d barely been able to get the zipper closed.

  “I take it we’ve moved past street-level dealers,” he said, picking it up.

  “So it would seem.”

  “Come on,” James said. “Seb’s upstairs.”

  He led us up the ramp, and I took in the interior. Half of it looked like an abandoned, cleared-out factory. The windows were painted over with thick, streaky coats of whitewash, and metal pillars stretched from the concrete floor to the raftered ceiling twenty-five feet above. On the floor was a collection of worn-looking sparring equipment—a punching bag patched with duct tape, a rack full of long wooden poles, face guards, swords. Actual swords. I stared.

  “You ought to see him practice,” James said, startling me. “He’s deadly with a short sword.”

  James led us up a dark metal spiral staircase to a loft that covered half the building. Beneath it were a few walled-off rooms and doors painted a dull beige, but above was a space the size of a ballroom covered in polished wood. It was as different as possible from the lower level. One corner held a modern kitchen with steel countertops and a professional-grade hood over the stove. There was no bed, but the opposite corner held a huge canvas hammock suspended from the metal rafters. In the center was a wide leather bench, like a couch without a back, and a huge slab of unfinished wood with bark still attached to one side. That, apparently, was the coffee table, because a collection of iced drinks was sitting on top of it.

  Caleb was sitting on the couch, and the moment he saw Jackson, he stood up, frowning.

  “What happened?” His eyes went to Jackson’s arm, where his bandage was visible as a bulky spot under his slim-cut shirt.

  “I’m fine,” Jackson said. Behind his back, I shook my head.

  Caleb came forward and laid his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, and the muscles in Jackson’s neck tensed and relaxed.