World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere

  To say that Mel was bitter would have been akin to calling Mardi Gras a backyard barbeque. She had devoted more than a third of her life to both the Army and Echo, and both organizations had put her out to pasture rather than try to fix what had been broken. The Army’s second-string psychiatrists had offered drugs to suppress her abilities and counter the unavoidable post-traumatic stress disorder that wracked her body and soul after her ordeal, but Echo had left her high and dry. With their staff of telempaths and neurofixers, the woman known as Reverie could have gone back to service in a year overseas, less than that stateside. Mel wouldn’t have cared either way, she just wanted to be useful somewhere. For something. To someone.

  The day that the Nazis had stormed through the French Quarter, she had been useful. For a few days, she had been worth something. To someone.

  The day that the Nazis had landed, she had been working the noisy bar by herself while Elliot had stayed in the back, teaching the new girl how to “make drinks.” Mel had ignored the lie—Elliot bought the liquor, but he couldn’t mix it properly—and remained out front, gathering tips and popping longnecks as fast as she pulled them from the cooler. And then, all of a sudden, the Quarter exploded and she was out on the sidewalk, staring down the street as a line of metal giants cut a swath through strip joints and sandwich shops alike. When the sun had come up the next day, she had been back at the bar, cleaning up and rebuilding and hauling bags of ice to the distribution center in the middle of Jackson Square. Waiting for more help . . . for the same sort of help that had gone to New York, Las Vegas, Atlanta, Boston, St. Louis, and that had somehow conveniently missed her beloved New Orleans. The government forgot about their little corner of the world, ravaged just as badly by the inexplicable arrival and hasty retreat of the metal men, but less important than those cities that Echo had called home.

  Although the government had forgotten the Big Easy, the businesses hadn’t. The less-than-reputable organizations hadn’t. The opportunists, the swindlers, the cheats and the liars, they all moved in on the broken city like sharks on a bloody shipwreck and had a hell of a feast, dividing the city amongst themselves and forcing the residents to choose sides. Without outside help, they built the city back up far more quickly than any government agency could have—dirty money had that ability, but it came at a price. New Orleans’ resurrection courtesy of the underground had cost it that carefree spirit, that bon temps that used to roll through the Quarter night and day.

  These days the krewes kept the city running and business thriving, with the powerful and resourceful at the top of the unique New Orleans ladder. Before that day in August, krewes kept the distinct flavor of the Big Easy in check, planning the festivities and letting the good times roll throughout the city from mid-January until the crescendo of Mardi Gras peaked. Since the Invasion, the krewes had become more than just a trendy organization for a few parties and an elaborate float. They were still part social club and part charity, but mostly enforcers for their own carefully guarded territories. Petty crime was a thing of the past, thanks to the strict control they maintained. Instead, the thriving criminal underground gained and lost ground through business deals and questionable rebuilding contracts.

  Mel looked up to see the television flicker as gunfire rang out across the street. She paused, her hand reaching for the real handgun she kept next to the register as she waited for someone from the Krewe of Perseus to answer the challenge. This newer krewe had brought together hustlers, business owners, natives, and newcomers to exert control from Dauphin Street to the Mississippi River, between Canal Street and St. Peter’s Cathedral. In that four-by-five square of city blocks, they controlled the lucrative entertainment district, the livelihood, the very pulse of the city. Others held the waterfront or the Garden District, but the Krewe of Perseus laid claim to this corner of New Orleans.

  From the front of a nearby novelty shop, bolts of electricity snaked across the street to answer the gunshot challenge. There was an acrid smell of something burning, followed shortly by a car alarm and a fair amount of shouting. Mel let out a long breath and smirked as a stream of vindictive Creole reminded the shooter that there were worse things than bullets to worry about these days.

  She turned away from the door. The three men stared at her, the NASCAR race on the television a staticky mess. One of them waggled an empty bottle at her, his smile a probable attempt at charm that just resulted in being snaggle-toothed and creepy. “’Ey, darlin’, you know how t’fix this?”

  “Sure thing. Won’t even take me half a lap,” she drawled. She hopped over the counter, hand still wrapped in the whiskey-soaked towel. With her uninjured hand, she reconnected the fraying wire to the cable box, then thumped the set for good measure. Sure enough, the image returned on the same lap as when it had gone to static. The men chuckled and snorted, and Mel set down another round of cheap domestic beer before turning back to the bar.

  “Well, well. As pretty as you are in my dreams, Revvie-baby.” The voice pushed at the space between her eyes, the tone familiar yet nearly forgotten after so long away from the service. Mel froze, then turned to see a lanky man in denim and a worn but clean T-shirt hanging in the doorway. Her jaw dropped, and he repeated the words aloud in a rough Cajun drawl.

  She threw her head back and laughed, her easy tone a mask for the familiar ache in her heart. “An’ when did you get int’ town, Kip? Coulda used ya in a fight yesterday.” She moved around to the barstools to meet him with both arms around his neck. The faint smell of cheap cigarettes clung to his shirt and mingled with the sweat that came from an easy walk through the Quarter on a summer afternoon. His hands moved around her waist and he returned the embrace before lifting her up to sit on the polished bartop. Mel winked, then bent to press her lips to his in another more intimate greeting. The shared kiss was as much for show as for sentiment, and it had the boys in the back staring in envy at the everyman who’d just walked in.

  He laughed and patted her hip, his thumb hooked in the worn beltloop of her jeans. “Got in last night, actually. Been doin’ work here an’ there, an’ figured I’d stop in an’ see how life’s been treatin’ my favorite Army girl.”

  Mel’s smile faded, and she swung her legs around to slide back behind the bar. With Kip came a host of memories, mostly involving their combined days with Echo. She had met the man during her first tour in Somalia, and the two had become fast friends and more as the years had gone by. Any relationship was of the on-again, off-again sort, with no real animosity between them when they had drifted apart after assignments on opposite sides of the world.

  He still looked like she remembered him; pale gray eyes and jet black hair complementing a wiry build, the caramel tone of his skin only bringing more attention to the lazy smile he still bestowed on her. She shook her head and bent to retrieve a bottle from the cooler. “I ain’t Army no more, Kip. Ain’t really Reverie no more, neither. I do have say over who gets a beer in this place, though. Y’want one?”

  “Sure wouldn’t say no.” He settled on one of the barstools and leaned against the counter, nodding politely to the men in the corner. “The place looks good, even after all the hell that went through here. Guess you keepin’ busy, Mel?”

  She shrugged, the bottle cap lifted with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Busy enough. Work, sleep, gettin’ by. Keepin’ my head down an’ my nose outta trouble, helpin’ out where I can. Tizzy’s shop got burned up good back when them things came and she lost Roscoe a few months ago, so I work Sundays for her at the shop so she can get to church.”

  It was the same story for everyone here, she mused. For Mel, it was just as much therapy for her as help for others. Serving cold drinks or spooning up fresh jambalaya, she could prove to herself that she was worth something to somebody. “Y’know,” she began, “if you’re around for a few days, they could use another set of hands to help fix the tile in the front . . .”

  The man shook his head, taking a long pull on the bottle before answering. �
�Sorry t’hear about Roscoe, but I’m just passin’ through. I did come by special to check on you, though. An’ what’s this about a fight yesterday? Anythin’ t’do with them Stone boys an’ what went down at their little club?”

  Mel paused, her thumb running over the raised edges of the bottle cap. While she had sent Bulwark and his two associates in the direction of the Stone brothers, she hadn’t heard anything about the results of that meeting. Instead, she pushed the conversation in another direction, not wanting to be reminded of the Echo group. “I dunno, Kip. Fights happen ’round here all the time. I do my best t’stay outta it all, earn my keep. What about you these days?”

  “I got a decent gig out in Biloxi, actually. Not too far from Keesler, working security at one of the big casinos. Decent money, too,” he added with a wink. “Better ’n tips here an’ there. I mean, if y’wanted, I could put in a good word for ya there, get you workin’ with a clientele that tips in Grants instead of Washingtons. That, or you could get a security detail there, too. With those pretty tricks of yours, th’ cheaters an’ swindlers wouldn’t see you comin’.”

  The blonde woman sniffed, her arms folded across her chest as she thought of the people who were still recovering and rebuilding. Going to Biloxi would make her just as bad as the Echo brass, and that wasn’t something that she wanted on her conscience. Besides, the stretch of casinos along Highway 90 were garish tourist traps even more than before, now that so much dirty money had been poured into them to build them back up. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Workin’ here pays the rent, and I got people to look after.”

  “Like who?” He shook his head and gestured to the door and the dirty window that looked out onto Bourbon Street. “This place is falling apart left and right, Revvie-baby. It’s not like they’re looking out for you because you get ’em a beer at the end of the day.” Kip shook his head and turned away, his gaze focusing on the NASCAR race. Regardless, his words pushed between her eyes, the touch a sweet caress against her mind such that she immediately relaxed. You used t’be so good at what you did, Revvie. Best combination of raw talent and special skills I’d ever seen . . . and Uncle Sam kicked you to the curb, with them Echo punks shutting the gate behind you . . .

  She swayed slightly, her eyes closing as the familiar and soothing tones washed over her. All other noise disappeared behind Kip’s mental “voice”—the television, the clink of bottles against the tables, the shuffle of feet on the linoleum. When Mel spoke, the words came slow, soft and dreamy to match the brush against her thoughts. “Yeah, they didn’t give me nothin’ for all I did. Just ‘goodbye an’ have a nice life’ for all I did for ’em . . .”

  Could make ’em pay, Revvie. There’re folks out there who appreciate what you can do for ’em. Ain’t like Echo, where you gotta kowtow t’some bigshot who ain’t gonna understand what you been through. He took a long pull on the bottle, a boot resting on another stool. Behind him, Mel hummed in contentment as a bittersweet smile lifted the corner of her mouth. His own posture relaxed to match hers, he smiled as the race went to a commercial. The fans kept a steady rhythm, the click-click as much hypnosis as the voice that surrounded her like the August heat. How ’bout we pack up your things and drive down I-10? Stop off in D’Iberville at the old house, find a few memories left there, an’ start over. You an’ me, makin’ some sweet dreams t’gether—

  A crash followed by the sound of chairs scraping against the floor jolted Mel from the trance, the touch abruptly pulled from her mind. In front of her, Bulwark flexed a meaty hand before setting the amber bottle upright on the bar. The three men at the table in the back had discarded all semblance of backwater ignorance, each reaching for his sidearm while Kip staggered to his feet. He licked the corner of his mouth, grimacing as he tasted blood. “Was wondering when you’d come back here, Bull. Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he said.

  “Likewise. So, did you start working for Blacksnake after the Nazis landed, or did you get a head start after that dishonorable discharge? I didn’t keep up with your stellar career after the court-martial.” He folded both arms across his chest and nodded to Mel. “Heard that Damon got into town shortly after we left, and after your run-in with Blacksnake yesterday—”

  Mel turned a hate-filled gaze on Kip, who smirked as the mercenaries moved behind him. Her face reddened as she realized what had happened. “You . . . oh, you didn’t. No, wait . . . you did. You lyin’, two-timin’, selfish sack o’ shit, you came here t’turn me over to ’em because the ones here yesterday couldn’t.” Her eyes narrowed and she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrapped hand, wishing that she could get the smoky taste of his kiss off her lips.

  He spread his arms in a gesture of faux welcome. “What can I say? They knew your weakness, Revvie. When reason don’t work, they give ol’ Kajole a call, an’ he answers. So an old flame comes walkin’ back int’ your life, an’ you’re lonely enough to believe whatever he tells you. I’m makin’ you an offer. It’s good money, an’ Blacksnake’ll put you to good use. People like you an’ me, we’re hot property these days.”

  “I ain’t a traitor, Kip,” she spat. “I’m tendin’ bar, I got a right to refuse service t’anyone, an’ I’m refusin’ t’serve you. Get movin’.”

  “Look, the only way y’make money this good out here is down on your knees,” Kip answered, his lip curled into a sneer. “An’ I’m pretty sure that you don’t wanna go back to that. You’re what, ten, twelve years outta practice?”

  Mel tensed up, then reached under the counter to come up this time with the actual sawed-off shotgun. The group behind Kip chuckled amongst themselves, and Kip took a step forward. She cocked the hammer, snarling. “Get outta here, Damon. You an’ yer thugs. I ain’t so low as a snake’s belly t’decide t’go crawlin’ in their lair.”

  Kip tut-tutted and shook his head. “Now, Revvie, you an’ I both know that ain’t a real gun—”

  A blast shattered the table behind the four men, the sound prompting them to jump and draw their own weapons. Bulwark moved next to the bartender, his expression still unwavering in spite of the threat of more gunfire. “I’d bet that is a real gun, Damon. I’d also bet that if you attack an Echo operative in that fashion, as her commanding officer, I’d be forced to take action.”

  “She ain’t Echo no more, Bull.”

  “She is if she wants to be.”

  The offer hung in the air as both men looked to the bartender with the whiskey-soaked rag about her hand, the can opener in the back pocket of her frayed blue jeans, and the expression that said she had had just about enough of the entire conversation. She looked from Kip to Bulwark and back, then smirked at the Blacksnake operatives.

  “Like hell I’m not Echo.” Mel took aim and shot again, this time silencing the television above the heads of the Blacksnake men. A rain of glass fell and the bartender smirked as the group scattered. “I’ll decline that offer, Kajole. You an’ yer boys can find somebody else who wants t’play traitor. I ain’t biting.”

  “Think about it, Revvie. We got people who can get you fixed up proper. No more nightmares, no more shots, no more wondering if what you see is really there . . .” Kip’s wheedling tone slipped into her thoughts once more, but Mel stiffened against the onslaught. A hand went to her face, fingernails digging into her forehead as she fought to get his voice out. We got the medical records, the reports from Fallujah. Nearly turned your boys on each other. You think the walkin’ wall there wants that sort of liability?

  “Cut it out, Kajole.” Bulwark stepped between the two, his size allowing him to look down at the wiry mentalist. “Like I said and like she said, she’s Echo. You’re done here.”

  “Done? Boy, I’m just gettin’ started.”

  Mel grimaced as she felt the twist behind her eyes, the pressure rising as her vision blurred and she cocked the hammer back. Her arm rose of its own accord, and Mel tried to drop the weapon even as she felt a pair of strong hands pull her down and around the bar. Bulwark pul
led her into a headlock, one palm pressing her shoulder to his chest as he wrenched the shotgun from her hand. Stars blossomed in her field of vision just as shots rang out, and for a moment everything around her had an azure tint to it. Above her, Bulwark grunted as the shots from the Blacksnake men found their marks. Just as suddenly, there was a crash and the shooting stopped, and the grip around her neck and shoulders loosened.

  The Echo man stood straight, helping the bartender to her feet. The bullets that had been intended for them had ricocheted off of Bulwark’s personal force field, the kinetic energy mirrored upon contact. While he had to contend with a few bruises, the Blacksnake operatives were not as lucky. Two tended to shoulder wounds while Kip stood on one foot, his jeans bloodied from a shot just below his left knee.

  Mel picked up the discarded shotgun and aimed at the meta’s other knee. Behind her, Bulwark stood expressionless, arms folded across his massive chest. She cocked the hammer back and sneered. “Now, get outta my life, Kip Damon. An’ get th’ hell outta this bar.”

  * * *

  She locked the front door once the mercenaries had left and filled a clean towel with ice from the cooler. She set it in front of Bulwark, along with two fingers of the best whiskey they had as a “thank you.” Elliot had run out of the office to find Mel aiming at the four men, and a scowl from the bartender had sent him right back. She’d have to explain things later, once everything had calmed down and she’d cleaned up.

  Mel filled a shotglass with bourbon and raised it in a toast to the Echo man. “Look, I appreciate you steppin’ in, Bull. Not that I don’t appreciate you comin’ back an’ playin’ along when I needed it, but makin’ the offer was a nice touch.”