Lightning Blade (Ruby Callaway Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  “How do you remember it all?”

  “Memory palace,” Roark said. Another tool necessary to drive him forward, to his goal.

  In a way, he was just like Marshall: the kind of guy who would build his own time loop to hunt his enemy. Block out the world and everything else in pursuit of a single target. What would happen after that target vanished?

  It wasn’t my problem. But I felt some modicum of concern, beyond my own selfish motives. That Roark, without his dark lighthouse leading the way, would become unmoored and unhinged.

  With rapt concentration, he smoothly made his way through the files. Candidates for removing our chips streamed through the ether.

  “Alpha wolf who was excommunicated from his pack,” Roark said, opening the floor up for discussion. “Hiding as a janitor at a coffee shop.”

  “Couldn’t we just ask Kendrick if he knows someone?”

  “I don’t want to ask him.” The implication being that he already owed the bar owner too much to repay back in this lifetime.

  “Uh, fine,” I said, examining the alpha wolf’s history. “Too volatile.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Look, you want someone who can do the job and keep their mouth shut, right?” I crossed my arms and circled the table. “That means tech skills, access to a scanner and, the rarest virtue of all.”

  I waited until Roark said, “What virtue?”

  “Silence.”

  “It’s a loop,” Roark said.

  “But say it gets back to Marshall.” I saw Roark pick up my line of thinking. “He hears it through the grapevine, then he changes the game, right?”

  Like hell was I going to rebuild this timeline from scratch. I’d just gotten used to the routine. Wake up, share niceties with Stevens, stop Roark from walking into a trap.

  Resetting was not an option.

  “Okay,” Roark said, relegating the alpha to the trash bin, “cloaked Fae, running a bridal shop a few blocks from here.”

  “Convenient,” I said, staring at the gleaming smile. “And pretty.”

  “Kendrick, you jackass,” Roark muttered to himself.

  “But Fae are some of the worst gossips I’ve ever encountered.”

  “They’re faeries.” Roark crossed his arms, muscles tensing. Even with this deluge of intel at his fingertip, he remained a little green when it came to the supernatural. Brilliant in comparison to his colleagues, but I got the impression that they didn’t do a lot of field study.

  You know, actually interacting with us.

  Then again, the way a creature of essence acted around a mortal was generally different, anyway. So his blind spots could simply be a matter of distrust. That polo wasn’t helping. He looked ready to throw everyone in jail, following all the rules.

  Bottom line was this: the stories you heard about faeries weren’t true. Them being nice, benevolent, all that nonsense—no, no. Creatures of light essence could be nasty bastards and those of dark could be shockingly pleasant. There was no correlation whatsoever between the two.

  “Look, you want my expertise or not?” Our eyes caught for a moment. “I’ve been doing this a while. Which you know.”

  “Fine.” With a grunt, Roark swept the Fae away on to the digital scrap heap and pulled up the next option.

  I stared at the image hovering in the small room, finding it hard to believe. “She’s a CI?”

  “You know her.” Not a question. Roark could read me like a damn book.

  If he was green, he wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  Good for me, since we were bound together.

  “What the hell did she do?”

  Roark flicked through the air. “Stole medical supplies from a government facility.”

  I looked at Serenity Cole’s mug shot and breathed a sigh of relief. At least one thing was right in the world. “Good.”

  “That’s a Class A Felony,” Roark said, like I gave a shit. “She’s lucky she wasn’t put down.”

  “You’re lucky, too,” I said, staring at the elf on screen. “Because this felon’s gonna help us both get off the grid.”

  Roark picked up the data cube, the bits of color dissolving into the air. I felt pleased with myself for all of two minutes, until we exited Kendrick’s bar.

  And it looked like Rome itself was burning.

  Or MagiTekk.

  But in this world, what really was the difference?

  28

  Every spare frame of glass or circuitry capable of displaying an image displayed the breaking news. I’d thought Midtown was quaint, but the glowing pixels reminded me that progress was everywhere.

  I stared at the converted hospital—now an apartment building—across the street. Its entire front played the video on repeat, making it seem like this building, instead of one far down town, was burning.

  The flames flickered across the windows, grainy and larger than life, a text scroll reading Explosion in the MagiTekk District.

  “Guess we know what Marshall was planning,” I said, watching the video play over and over. The media had a curious penchant for understatement, given the mayhem on display. Explosion wasn’t the word for this—demolition was. Because, even from the brief clip—no doubt carefully chosen to hide the full extent of the damage—it was clear that this structure was no longer standing.

  Roark, for his part, looked entirely consumed by the clip.

  “Roark?” It dawned on me that his father might work there. But it was only 5:05 AM—so relatively few people were at work. Unless the 9 – 5 thing had shifted, too, over the past twent years.

  “Hm?” He blinked multiple times, as if shaking cobwebs from his mind. “Has to be him.”

  “What building is that?”

  “R & D center.” Roark shook his head in stunned disbelief. “The security protocols are insane down there.”

  “You worried?”

  As if anticipating my question, Roark said, “The old man doesn’t work from an office.”

  There was lots of information simmering beneath the surface of those words. But we didn’t have time to delve into Roark’s past. If it was only a little past five, then the necromancer had more festivities planned like dominos stacked up, end on end.

  Any reservations I had about being Roark’s partner vanished. However bad MagiTekk was, I had no desire to see the barbarians sack Rome. I might not have been around during the Dark Ages, but I’d crossed paths with enough to know that it wasn’t a period of history worth reliving.

  MagiTekk would have to be dismantled piece-by-piece. Not brought down in a day-long fireworks show.

  I tugged on Roark’s arm, leading him down the sidewalk. “We need to get the chips out.”

  “He’s everywhere,” Roark said in stunned fascination, as if the magnitude of the task was finally on him. “Pulling strings.”

  “Well he pulled the wrong fucking one this time,” I said.

  My mind was made up.

  I could choose to be a killer.

  Or I could walk amongst the mortals, in the light.

  The scary thing was encapsulated within one little word.

  Choose.

  Because, last time I made one of those, things hadn’t turned out so well.

  29

  Almost twenty-one years ago

  August 4, 2018

  Phoenix, AZ

  “You know what you have to do.” Pearl’s words were deliberate and measured, each syllable racked with pain. With weary fingers, I ignored her, sliding the final essence infused shell into the shotgun.

  I racked the slide in the swirling smoke. Orange slivers of flame and red-and-blue lights pulsed through the ethereal haze within the house. It all felt like a bad dream. But the itching in my lungs told me that this wasn’t something I could walk away from.


  It didn’t take the dark wisps hovering around the burning room to realize the situation was hopeless. Firing a shot against Jameson and what seemed like the entirety of the Phoenix law enforcement community hadn’t ended well.

  Usually, in a standoff, the girl with the biggest pile of ammo wins.

  That wasn’t me.

  Pearl coughed. I stayed low in the doorway. They were trying to smoke us out, like prey in the forest. Starting a fire was a bold move, but it told me just desperate they were to bring us in. Times and tactics had changed more in the past two years than the preceding two hundred.

  It was a problem when the cops fought dirtier than the most amoral of marks.

  I swallowed my righteous indignation, reminding myself that this was a choice. My intuition had shown me the door. Allowed me an escape back into the rapidly changing world. But I had stayed, loyal to the end.

  And this was the fate you suffered when you made a last stand.

  Eyes watering from the smoke, I flattened myself against the carpet. Another five minutes or ten minutes at most. Then I’d suffocate from smoke inhalation. Had to give it to the boys outside; after taking loss after loss for the past couple hours, they’d gone for the jugular.

  The front door creaked open. From my vantage point in the bedroom hallway, I couldn’t see how many, but I could hear the whispers. At least three, maybe more if there was backup. Heavy footfalls across the carpet indicated they were wearing protective gear.

  My sweaty fingers tightened around the shotgun.

  “You heard me, damnit,” Pearl said in a forceful whisper. “You know—”

  “I’m not leaving.” I closed my eyes, head spinning from the smoke.

  “I didn’t spend a hundred years training you for you to be shot like a dog.”

  That passed for affection. I would’ve smiled, but I heard a doorway creak. Opening my eye just a sliver, I caught sight of an armored guard. I pulled the trigger without hesitation, blue lightning zipping through the haze.

  The blast caught him right in the chest, hurling him backward. I could hear his skin sizzle.

  Or maybe it was the carpet.

  That was it. The gun was empty.

  Panicked shouts—calls to retreat—were met with forceful bellows from command to continue forward. Without my gun, I had no offensive powers. Nothing to save us from harm. I pushed against the carpeting, rising into the swirling cloud of smoke.

  “You can come out now.” Jameson’s voice was cool, echoing from behind a breathing mask.

  I backed into the bedroom, clutching the shotgun like a bat. “Come closer and I’ll blow your head off.”

  “It’s not me you should be worried about.”

  There was a cough, then Pearl said, “I can’t let you die for me.”

  I whipped around, staring at the ruined bedspread in murk. Pearl had slipped past as I’d lined up my final shot. Using the very techniques she’d taught me. Break a branch, start at the beginning of the forest. Rustle a leaf, no water for the rest of the day.

  “You can save her,” Jameson called through the mess. “We just want you.”

  “Who wants me? Dewitt?”

  There was a terse laugh. “Above our paygrades, I’m afraid.” There was the cock of a pistol. “Five.”

  He didn’t have to even get to four. I stumbled out into the living room, seeing the masked scourge of law enforcement training their rifles at me. When I dropped the shotgun to the ground, they closed in. My face was pressed against the ashy carpet, and then they hauled me out the ruined door, into the dusk.

  Smoke and flame hung over the dark sky. But I didn’t really focus on that.

  I was focused on the grass, where Pearl knelt, Jameson’s masked face leering behind her.

  His eyes met mine.

  Then he pulled the trigger, the bullet cutting through her mussed black hair, coming out the other end, barely any blood at all. She crumpled to the pleasant suburban grass, like she’d just gotten too tired to stand upright.

  I kicked the nearest officer, splintering his shin. Jerking free, I charged at Jameson, still cuffed. His eyes widened, going from self-satisfied to terrified in under half a second. He fumbled with the pistol, not anticipating my rage.

  I hit him dead center in the chest, feeling his sternum crack.

  Before we hit the ground, I had my knee at his throat, pressing down. Trying to crack his wind pipe.

  His eyes bulged out, red lines straining. Pearl’s death played over and over in my mind.

  “You promised, you son of a bitch,” I said.

  He tried to say something.

  I wasn’t going to let him.

  Then a rifle butt collided with my head. I heard a gasp, my heart wrenching with unfulfilled vengeance. Before I could roll over, I caught a glimpse of another rifle headed toward my temple.

  The next time I woke up, I was inside the Tempe camp.

  And I wouldn’t leave for almost twenty-one years.

  30

  Freedom was always preferable to incarceration. But one could argue that these circumstances—being a pawn on Marshall’s chessboard—weren’t particularly liberating at all. Neither Roark nor I spoke much as we trudged through the quiet streets.

  Hopefully this choice would turn out better than the last one I made.

  Serenity Cole’s clinic was in about the roughest area of Phoenix you could find without venturing into the Fallout Zone. Here, the homes were comparatively miniscule two or three story structures, connected to one another in long blocks.

  Row homes, they used to call them.

  I suspected the city planners now called them a blight. A statistic dragging down their numbers. Cutting them off from precious federal funding. Too many of these shacks, and all the MagiTekk skyscrapers in the world didn’t have a chance of bringing this place above 3,000 feet.

  Here, too, the advertisements were even low tech: electric billboards embedded at vacant bus stops, electronic papers displaying today’s headlines from dented corner boxes.

  Unlike the surrounding area, which was covered in a fine layer of dust and about a decade of disrepair, the clinic was clean and cheery, all the lights on even in the early morning.

  We stopped in the middle of the cracking street. No cars came whipping by. I couldn’t even hear a sound. Either the place was abandoned, or everyone kept a low profile. Like the antithesis of the Fallout Zone, at least in that regard.

  It had the whole ghost town vibe down pat, though.

  “You know this woman?” Roark finally broke the silence. Although the necromancing elephant still loomed over us, the conversation was a welcome distraction.

  “I’ve met her once or twice.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “What, that wasn’t in my file?”

  “I don’t know everything.” His sad blue eyes darted over the glass exterior, searching for threats. From my days with Roark, I could tell he was a good cop. Had instincts that couldn’t be taught. As for what my intuition told me, well, it was a whole lot of nothing.

  A little bit of a rainbow—hints of danger, reconciliation, awkwardness, uncertainty. I didn’t need magic to tell me that Serenity would be less than pleased to see me. My only friend in this world had died twenty-one years ago.

  Everyone else was more of a passing acquaintance.

  “My, how you change from day-to-day, Roark,” I said.

  “Kind of unsporting to beat up on amnesiac, don’t you think?”

  “That was sarcasm.” We could go into a surburban coffee shop, and he’d sit down in the corner booth to get a full view of the place. Sitting straight, eyes open the whole time to make sure no one got the drop on him.

  One person in particular. The necromancer. All that vigilance was really vengeance in disguise. Waiting for his shot. Dreading the thought of missing it.

 
I knew the feeling.

  “Oh, is that what it was?” Roark didn’t adjust his gaze.

  “You need to get out more.”

  “The irony is astounding.”

  “Still good advice,” I said.

  “Let’s save the self-actualization for tomorrow,” Roark said, pointing toward the clinic. “Anything I should know about our friend?”

  “You’re the one who busted her.”

  “I meant is she going to shoot you.”

  I would’ve been offended, but it was a fair thing to wonder. But I still said, “Now why would you say something like that?”

  “Because you’re gripping that damn gun hard enough to twist in half.”

  “Let’s just go before Marshall catches up with us.” So much for conversation. All we’d established was that we were obsessive to the point of being ill-socialized. Lucky for the world, we were tasked with saving the day.

  I tried the clinic’s door, but it was locked. Rapping on the glass with my knuckles, I peered inside. It wouldn’t look out of place in a nicer part of town. Although the threadbare furniture and antiquated computer system kind of gave it away.

  Elves. If there were good guys in the magical kingdom, these were it. Serenity should have been the one saving the world. But that wasn’t usually a job for good guys. Because most of the decisions you had to make existed in a hazy shade of gray.

  In war or bounty hunting, good and bad were merely products of choosing sides. Those on the wrong end of a contract were my enemy. Solomon Marshall was my enemy. MagiTekk’s sordid business—the werewolf trials, the Fallout Zone, the corporate espionage—was merely a depressing foot note.

  I pondered the ethics as we waited, incapable of convincing myself that Marshall was truly evil. Serenity shuffled out from the back, dragging a beanie over her long black hair. Her light brown skin glowed in the weak interior lights.

  Goddamn elves. They literally radiated goodness.

  Then she saw me on the other side of the door and stopped at the counter.

  “Ruby.” Serenity looked at me like a dog who had bitten her before. Her voice was slightly distorted by the glass still separating us. “You swore you’d leave me alone.”