by Sonya Clark
“I saw him with an interesting sunburn right after that night. It rang a bell in my head, I guess.”
“Who is he?”
Nate took the tablet and opened another bookmark. The new picture showed the man standing behind and to the left of Senator Beckwith. “His name’s Kane. Just the one name is all I could find on him. That and that he’s the head of Beckwith’s private security detail.”
That made no sense. Why would the head of a senator’s security team be protecting a Magic Born?
One whom she didn’t recognize.
One who used electric magic.
“I don’t know exactly what happened that night,” Nate said. “But I know they went to a lot of trouble looking for you. I was scared of them finding you.”
“So you walked away.” She returned the tablet. “You let Beckwith have what he wanted.”
“I got what I wanted too.” He stroked her cheek. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.
What did Calla Vesper want? There’d been a time not too long ago when the answer would have been easy: to see the people who threw her away suffer. To see Senator John Beckwith revealed as corrupt, see his reputation tarnished, his career destroyed. Really, any kind of hurt would’ve sufficed. She’d thought then that nothing could truly make up for her being cast into the zone, a forgotten orphan, but that she’d take what she could get.
Underneath the anger and resentment, though, the question had always lingered: What else could have happened? There were no ways of getting around the DNA testing of newborns, no exemptions to the Magic Laws. The image of Isabelle Beckwith—her mother—looking so fragile, almost ghostlike, floated to the surface of her thoughts. Calla wasn’t the only victim here, she knew that. But the senator was a man in a position of great power and influence. He could use that to change things, but instead he was helping perpetuate a system that tore families apart and created a permanent underclass that didn’t even have the most basic rights of citizenship.
She hated her father, but he was the one who’d sent Nate Perez into her life. A chuckle slipped out of her, sharp and ugly. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she tried to stop but couldn’t. Full throated laughter poured out in a mockery of cleansing tears, and she was so close to the edge of hysteria she could almost see it trying to swallow her. This was no relief, no easing of tension. This was the best fuck you to the universe she could manage at the moment.
Nate said, “What is it?” He looked at her with a mixture of confusion and worry.
Getting the laughter under control took a moment. “Nothing I want to talk about right now.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Oh come on, don’t be like that. I was hoping we could trust each other with this.”
“We can. I do. I just—one thing at a time, okay?” She held out her hand. “So you want me to hack that storage drive? I’ll need your tablet too. I don’t have one of my own.”
The simple admission felt like a weight lifting. All the years of hiding from all but a very small number of people had taken a toll she’d never realized. Even more surprising was the surge of pride that swelled in her chest.
Nate broke into a wide smile and handed over both tablet and drive. He kissed her, then stood and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To do something I should have done before.” Stopping at the door, he turned to face her. “Talk to Ronald Jenkins.”
“Forbes’ assistant,” Calla said almost to herself. The two devices warmed her hands, strong with current. “You know this is incredibly dangerous and probably stupid.”
He nodded briskly. “I also know there may be nothing on that drive but porn and Jenkins probably won’t tell me a damn thing. But I’m going to at least try. I have to.”
“I don’t have to tell you if you push too hard it may cost you your badge. Even your life.”
“You’re right. You don’t have to tell me. Look, let’s just see what Jenkins and that drive tell us. Then I’ll make a decision about how far to take this. Okay?”
That sounded reasonable, except not really. Reasonable would have been smashing the damn drive into dust and forgetting everything. “Is your phone charged?”
“I charge it every night.” He grinned. “Are you trying to tell me to be careful?”
“That would be entirely too domestic of me and besides, you’re a big asshole cop.”
“I have missed you calling me asshole.” He winked, then opened the door and was gone.
“Be careful,” she whispered to the closing door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ronald Jenkins lived in a tony neighborhood that straddled Midtown and Central. The high-rise had better security than most, with a guard inspecting Nate’s badge and calling to alert Jenkins. They couldn’t stop Nate, but they didn’t have to make it easy for him either.
As he took the elevator up, he tried to work out how to question the lab assistant, but his thoughts were scattered. He wanted the truth, and justice. He wanted Calla safe, and to be free to be with her as much as possible. Depending on what he found, he might not be able to have both. The trouble was, he didn’t think he could live with letting an innocent man be sentenced to death, and there were too many strange things about the Forbes case and the Santo arrest for him to keep wearing blinders.
Jenkins opened the door at the first knock. “Detective, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some questions about the Forbes murder.”
The lab assistant didn’t look particularly surprised. “I thought that was closed.”
“Well, it is. I’m just curious about a few loose ends. Mind if I come in?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jenkins held the door wide open. “Why not?”
The apartment was spacious, with expensive furnishings and a large bay window with a stunning view of the city. The last rays of the day’s sun glowed a warm, buttery gold, providing the room’s only illumination. Jenkins took a seat on a chaise lounge, next to which an e-reader and a tall drink waited on a small table. Nate sat in a wing chair without waiting for an invitation.
“So what loose ends are you concerned about?”
“Certain pieces of evidence were never fully explained. I’d like to follow up on that.” Nate still wasn’t sure how to handle this without tipping his hand that he was here on his own.
“An arrest was made and the case is closed.” Jenkins took a sip of his drink. “Why do you care?”
So much for not tipping his hand. “I don’t like loose ends.”
“You’d be the only one who feels that way on this matter.” A sardonic smile briefly crossed Jenkins’ face.
Nate said, “Maybe so, but I still want to know. Why did Alan Forbes have a partial recipe for nightshade in his possession?”
Jenkins raised a surprised eyebrow. “You don’t play around, do you, Detective?”
Nate said nothing, waiting for an answer.
Jenkins took the hint. “What if I told you then? Do you really think it would matter? You try going to the press you’ll find yourself stonewalled, probably without a badge in pretty short order. This case is over and I know you got a commendation, so why do you care?”
The guy definitely knew more than he’d admitted before. Maybe if Nate laid his cards on the table, he’d talk. “I know it’s over and there’s probably nothing else to be done. But I want to know the truth. Even if no one else does.”
“You’re not gonna get it from me,” Jenkins said. “I like my life. I’m not looking for some lowlife cop to blow it apart on a half-baked crusade.”
The insult carried no weight, but it still rankled. “Why was he interested in creating nightshade in the first place? I can’t believe a man like that had any interest in the drug trade.”
&nbs
p; “Oh he didn’t, you’re right about that.”
“Then what was he interested in?”
This time it was Jenkins who kept silent, gazing at Nate impassively over the top of his glass. Nate leaned over, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. “Okay, I’ll play. He wasn’t interested in drugs. Probably not interested in bettering the lives of people he consigned to an existence without civil rights, either.”
Jenkins laughed. “Careful with that, Detective. You don’t want anyone at the police department to hear you talk like a Magic Born sympathizer.”
That much Nate knew was true. “Was it magic itself? Is that what had his interest?”
The coy look on Jenkins’ face was all the confirmation he needed. “But why?” Nate said. “The DMS party line on magic is that it’s dangerous. That’s the whole justification for the Magic Laws. Why was he experimenting with it? That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it? Experimenting with magic.” It was the only thing that made any sense, even though it made no sense.
Except in one context—the old stories about government-run black magic ops. While stationed in Africa, Nate had heard rumors of other countries still employing those types of units, even some of the few countries similar to the U.S. with greatly restrictive laws on magic, but he’d never heard anything about American units. If the government was still using magic as a weapon in any capacity at all, the DMS had to be a part of it. Someone like Forbes would be perfect as part of a research and development unit.
And the unknown Magic Born that Calla had seen being guarded by the same man who guarded Senator Beckwith? That was too much of a coincidence. If that unknown Magic Born was part of Forbes’ experiments, Calla would be dead if her identity was ever discovered.
With that realization Nate made his decision. If he was anywhere close to the truth with these theories, it could get him and Calla both killed. The Department of Magic Security was too big to go up against, too dangerous. Living with blinders on was preferable to risking Calla’s life.
Nate stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins.”
Jenkins said smugly, “What, no more questions?”
“Like you said, this case is over. Nobody cares.”
“Indeed, Detective.” Jenkins rose to escort Nate to the door. “Nobody cares. I sure don’t and you shouldn’t either.”
“I don’t. And you can tell that to anyone who might ask.”
Once in the elevator, Nate leaned against the back wall, feeling like he’d dodged a bullet he’d aimed at himself.
* * *
Blue-white sparks danced off the tips of Calla’s fingers as she picked up the tablet, the glass storage drive already plugged in. As she sank deeper into trance, electric energy called to her and she responded. First she wove a quick spell to mask the tablet’s internet usage from being tracked, just in case, another trick she’d learned from Vadim. Then she got down to business.
“Enchantress of Numbers,” she murmured. “Guide my journey.”
Nate or any other Normal would have needed to hack the drive to find its password. For Calla it was a matter of pushing her consciousness into its wires and circuits. It took some force, true. Nate’s late friend Henry had known what he was doing when it came to computer security. Without magic Calla wouldn’t attempt this—wouldn’t have any idea how to even start. With magic she whispered to the tiny device’s components, pushed and pulled energy through it, weaved a spell to make it open to her.
Eventually she was rewarded. The first file to reveal itself was a copy of the DNA test stating the hair found at the crime scene belonged to an unregistered Magic Born. It shimmered in the aether, a red flag in front of a bull. Nate had seen the test but still hadn’t spoken of its details to her. What did he suspect? More importantly, what would he do about it? A lot more people than a coroner and a too-smart-for-his-own-good lab tech would die if the DMS found out about the railway.
Calla pushed that aside and forged ahead. The DNA test dissolved as she moved on to other documents. Much of the rest looked like copied and pasted articles and chat logs from the internet. Actually from the darknet, a place Vadim knew more about than she did. All she really knew was that it was a place to find rumors of unregistered Magic Born, rumors of ways to hide and leave the country, though none of those mentioned the railway even obliquely. Conspiracy theories about DMS research on magic and the government still using witches as black magic operatives was another thing Vadim had mentioned. Sickened by the thought, Calla kept going.
There wasn’t much left. The DNA test was the only thing really pertinent. Calla pulled herself out of the trance and out of the glass drive, sucking in a breath as the connection broke. She dropped the drive on the floor and raised her foot to smash it under her boot. At the last second she paused, then knelt to retrieve it.
She turned the drive over in her palm, wishing it could give her a different sort of answer. There had to be a way to burn Beckwith without compromising either Nate or the railway. All she had to do was find it.
* * *
Nate slapped at the side of his neck, startled by a sharp sensation there. His fingers found a tiny stinger embedded in his skin. He kept walking as he pulled it out, only half a block from his apartment building, wondering vaguely what kind of insect had stung him.
His vision doubled, the world tilting off its axis. Stumbling, he caught himself with his free hand on the side of a building. In the other hand he rolled the stinger between two fingers. It didn’t feel right. Cold, metallic. His screwed-up vision wouldn’t let him get a good look, so he brought it closer to his face.
Definitely metal. He looked around for signs of who’d shot him and found nothing amiss in the usual early evening foot traffic of the neighborhood. Sweat poured down his face. He pocketed the metal and wiped his eyes, trying to keep one hand on the building as he continued toward his apartment. He did mostly okay until he reached an alley, where he stumbled again without something to anchor him. Then the world spun and he fell backward.
Hands dragged him deeper into the alley. Nothing but darkening sky and gray concrete in his vision, lights flashing from the observation deck at the top floor of his building. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his eyes. Beckwith’s guard came into view, features grim beneath his neon burn. Nate reached for his sidearm, struggling to make his limbs cooperate. Kane removed the gun, tossing it out of reach, then pushed Nate’s sleeve up. Two spikes became one as the guard’s hand came closer to Nate’s line of sight. He tried to speak. All he could manage was a gasp as the needle plunged into a vein at the crook of his elbow. The liquid burned as it entered his body.
Within moments a sick sort of euphoria hit, and he didn’t care about anything else. Being loaded into a black SUV barely registered. Nate floated into nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A blend of strange smells was the first thing he became aware of. Something sweet, something spicy like food, and underneath that a layer of something rotten. Decayed garbage, too many unclean bodies in too small a space. Covering it all was a scent he recognized from numerous arrests, random snatches in the air at Sinsuality, Vadim’s office choking with it. Nightshade.
Nate opened his eyes. The room was dark, red lights on the walls shrouded by scarves. Sitting up didn’t work so good the first time. He fell back against the bed or whatever he was lying on, head spinning. No, not spinning. Spiraling out and back in, throbbing to a slow rhythm that seemed to come from outside of himself. He lay there for he-had-no-idea how long, trying to pull the threads of awareness together.
Music was the first thing he was able to make sense of. That was the slow rhythm, and it was coming from somewhere beyond the room. Not quite perfect enough to be a recording, it had the warmth of a live performance.
Next came the bed, which was actually just a twin mattress thrown on the floor, and no
ne too clean either. He didn’t want to think about what the sticky substance his fingers found on the side might be.
Sitting up worked better the second time. Between the darkness and the double vision, he couldn’t see well. He could make out that the room he was in barely qualified as a room. The back wall was an actual wall, but the side partitions looked to be thin plywood papered over with posters or painted with graffiti. The exit was two pieces of ratty cloth strung up in an approximation of a door hanging.
A Riverside nightshade den—had to be. He’d made a few arrests in these places, but there were too many for him to have any idea which one he was in. Not that it mattered. His movements slow, he checked his pockets. No sidearm; he had a vague memory of it being taken away. His wallet, badge and phone were still on him.
The music caught his attention. Spanish guitar joined the slow percussion he’d first noticed. Wherever the music was coming from, it had an audience and an appreciative one at that. He could hear them urge the players on.
Idly he wondered if Jenkins had alerted someone he’d come around asking questions, or if it had even mattered. Nate could have been a target no matter what he did. Beckwith’s guard drugged him and left him to overdose. Being found in a place like this would destroy his reputation, so if he’d made any moves to implicate the senator in anything it wouldn’t be taken seriously. While there was a part of his brain able to register all this, he found himself barely able to care.
The red lights flared in time with the music. Dried sweat covered his itching skin. Struggling out of his jacket, he found his phone and stared at it, seeing at times two and three of the device. How much nightshade was in his system? Calla didn’t have a phone, so he couldn’t call her for help. Not directly, anyway.
The music sped up and a wave of dizziness hit, putting him on his back again. Clutching the phone to his chest, he willed an image of Calla to block out the red light and the roaches crawling across the ceiling. That first time he saw her, pink and purple hair framing a delicate face with blue-gray eyes and a wide smile full of wildness and sunlight. She’d captured his interest before their eyes even met, before their first words to each other. He couldn’t even say it was lust, though there was plenty of that. It was the freedom in that smile—her refusal to be anything but herself no matter how anyone else might try to define her. Nate had never had that and he wanted it badly, needed it like he needed her skin against his, her whisper in his ear.