Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  And again, she moved.

  From ship to ship she leapt or flew, a slash of sword or spear crippling each as she passed over it. Some of these creatures would die. Some already had. With each death, the spear and sword felt heavier in her hands, laden with death, tarnished with tears. And yet, they burned the brighter for that.

  At last she came to the ship of the commander, who thought he was safe, in his one undistinguished ship among all the rest just like it, insulated, isolated, at the rear of the flotilla.

  She hovered, wings barely beating, and gazed at him through the lenses of his cameras. She knew that her face, her eyes, filled the picture in his viewscreen. Her mind bored into his, as her sun-bright eyes bored into his.

  It is as I told you. You shall not do this thing. Turn back.

  But in him was only madness, and that madness frothed and ordered destruction.

  So be it. So you have chosen.

  She flung the spear.

  It pieced the heart of the ship, burned through it as if it were paper, transfixing the commander to his chair and turning him to ash in the blink of an eye.

  As she called back the spear to her hand, the crew of the ship utterly stunned, she spoke again into all their minds.

  Go. Leave this place. Never return.

  And now, without their leader to urge them on, they fled as best they could, trailing smoke and flames, and taking their unnatural storm with them.

  And weary, weary with war and tears, she flew heavily away, back to Atlanta, back to one place, at least, where she could rest.

  She drifted down out of the night sky onto a roof where a mortal man she still did not understand was resting too, after battle, his arms folded along a crude concrete parapet, a bottle of beer in one hand, untasted.

  He did not turn around as she landed, but she knew he knew she was there.

  “Well, Angel,” he drawled, finally taking a sip of his drink. “Whatcha been up to?”

  She considered many answers, and settled for one. “Much the same as ever,” she replied. “And you, John Murdock?”

  * * *

  The furtive man delivered the memory card to the one who had offered so very much money for footage of the Seraphym “in action.”

  “I hope this is all you said it is,” the man said, in a neutral voice.

  “It’s like all the other footage, you don’t see anything of her but this . . . light thing. But you sure as hell see what she does,” he replied. “I wasn’t exaggerating.”

  The buyer held the little card up to the light and considered it. “In that case, it’s worth every penny.” He jerked his head at the videographer. “Pay the man.”

  A coldly beautiful woman who moved in a fashion that suggested she was as deadly as she was lovely handed over a thick stack of hundreds. The furtive man scuttled away.

  “I hope this is what you want, Dom,” said Khanjar. “It certainly cost enough.”

  Dominic Verdigris only smiled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chasing Shadows

  MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN

  Verd was ruthless, and no fool. You don’t get where he is by being reckless, nor by taking anything at face value. If you are someone like Verdigris, you test first, and you test, if possible, to destruction.

  * * *

  Dominic Verdigris III did not like to be kept waiting. It had been over an hour since he had sent a message to People’s Blade, summoning her to his office. Since she had come to him offering her services, Verdigris had gone to great lengths to keep her under a watchful eye. Satellite surveillance, tracking devices, plainclothes agents to follow her; he had even dispatched Khanjar to tail the General’s movements. All of it was to no avail; somehow, Shen Xue was always able to slip away, seemingly at will. It annoyed Verdigris; it wasn’t a feeling he was very accustomed to dealing with for a prolonged period of time. Most things that bothered him were taken care of, quickly or quietly or brutally, whatever the situation required.

  And aside from the annoyance, there was another disquieting emotion associated with People’s Blade; a feeling of powerlessness. He had not felt powerless in a very, very long time, and now he was confronted with being unable to control not one, but two creatures—that so-called “angel,” and now People’s Blade. He didn’t like it. And he intended to change things.

  He stabbed a finger at his desk’s display, bringing up the intercom. “Khanjar, have someone bring in a stiff drink, or five. And keep looking for her. I don’t want to spend all night on this.” He let a hint of his annoyance creep into his voice, but none of his apprehension; it wouldn’t do to let anyone see him start to doubt. His mind was going in circles, like a mouse in a wheel, unable to come up with a way to get control of this situation. It had to begin with People’s Blade. She was the only creature he’d found with a chance of capturing that “angel” for him, so far. And that meant he had to control People’s Blade. Only he hadn’t been able to control People’s Blade . . .

  “Ni hao, Dominic Verdigris.”

  One moment the office had been empty. Now, there she was. Relaxed. An arrogant calmness of purpose, denoting her presumptions of superiority. Damn her. I’m not going to flinch in front of her. I’d rather piss glass. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence, General. I had almost given up hope of seeing you tonight.”

  One elegant eyebrow rose. “I have many things that occupy my attention, barbarian. I attend to them in their order of importance.” She shifted her weight slightly. “I assume this is about a matter of importance to you?”

  “That it is; thus it’s important to both of us, and our shared cause. Wouldn’t you agree?” He didn’t give her an opportunity to reply; he needed to take control of this conversation. “I have a task for you. Should you prove successful in what I have laid out for you, I will have more . . . pertinent things for you to attend to. Things vital to the war against the Thulians.” The edge of his mouth quirked in a smile as he leaned forward. “Interested? Or is your schedule too cluttered, General?”

  “So, despite what you already know, you have decided I must pass some childish little test to prove my worth?” The General didn’t sneer. Somehow, the fact that she didn’t curl those young lips made her contempt all the more apparent. “Really, Verdigris, this is a waste of both of our time.”

  Verdigris shrugged. “It is something I need done, and need to be certain will be handled appropriately. If you won’t do it, I can pass it off to some lesser minion, but I’m all about the efficiency of effort with my plans. I’d much rather you took it, so I could rest easy.” There was a slight hidden in there, and he knew that the General would see the implication. Will she rise to the bait, though? “Besides, you don’t even know what I’m going to ask you to do, yet.”

  People’s Blade half-lidded her eyes. “True. It might be worth my while, if it is challenging enough. All right, barbarian. What is your foolish test?”

  “Challenging as you asked, so it’s sure to not disappoint. This is a special case. In the war we’re fighting, there are going to be losses. In an effort to keep that to a minimum, with regards to winning the battles more efficiently, we will need the right weapons. In this particular case, the weapon is a person.” He tapped on the display in front of him, bringing up several very grisly pictures of crime scenes. “We need the man that was responsible for these . . . gruesome images.”

  People’s Blade looked at the displayed pictures without even a hint of flinching or distaste. “Interesting, but I see only the savage hand of a common criminal. What is it that differentiates this creature from any other mass slayer?”

  “One, he’s never been caught. This individual was given the code name ‘Shadow-Storm’ by Echo. His or her list of exploits is long, but surprisingly mundane: racketeering, bank robbery, extortion, blackmail, and plainly some rather messy murders. He operated for over forty years, and never once was caught or even seemingly hurt, even when confronted with nigh insurmountable odds.” Verdigr
is tapped on the screen again. “Two: This is what he did to an advanced reaction team from Echo.” Another image came to life on the display; it was hard to tell where the room began and the bodies ended. “Those were three OpThrees and an OpTwo, all of some small fame. They were torn to shreds.

  “During his career, this Shadow-Storm is estimated to have accumulated quite the fortune, but never seemed to do much besides run-of-the-mill savagery and crime, with a few grandiose capers thrown in. Then, suddenly, he dropped off the map. Echo’s detectives had several sources that confirmed that the subject had died in a plane crash.” Verdigris steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “However, I have quite a few more resources at my command than Echo does. I’ve found this Shadow-Storm. Given his past, I think he could be useful against our enemies.” And not just the Thulians; there are more enemies in this world for a man like me than you can imagine, General. You’re probably one of them.

  “So, you ask me to recruit this creature for you, with no more information than this?” The eyebrow rose again. “I fail to see how he could be useful. I suspect your quaint little bodyguard could accomplish similar goals. Certainly she could serve the same function as I, if you insist on recruiting him.”

  “Khanjar has her uses, but every weapon is suited to one type of a task or another. This one does not suit her. Truth be told, we don’t have much more information on this target. Which is precisely why I’m sending you to deal with him.” With a quick twist of his hand, the screen cleared. “And that is the third reason. All that we know about his powers are that he somehow uses shadows, manipulates them in some way. Recordings from the victims’ comm units are fragmentary, but there are shouts about ‘the shadows’ before the comm links ended—sometimes in screams, truth be told. From the results, we can presume he’s extremely deadly; he’s been given a probable classification of OpFour, due to the length of time he was active, the destructiveness of his abilities, and the fact that no one could even seem to hurt him.” Verdigris leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side. “Will you take this on? If so, we have his location and a jet to fly you there, ready immediately.”

  There was a little glint in Shen Xue’s eyes. “Well. You have intrigued me. I believe there is—how is it you barbarians put it?—room in my schedule.”

  “Excellent.” Touchdown. He reached into his jacket, pulling forth a small envelope. “This has most of what you will require: pass for the jet, a card for expenses, access to our armories and equipment locker. Just make sure to sign out for anything; no, don’t bother me with it, that’s for whoever is in charge of those areas. Also, there’s a cell phone. Keep me updated, if it pleases you, General.”

  People’s Blade said nothing; took the pass, left the card and the phone. Did not so much bow as incline her head ever so slightly. Then she just sauntered out, with a very slight swagger in her step. A few moments later, Khanjar entered, carrying a tray with glasses of Scotch and a small bucket of ice.

  Khanjar was frowning. “Why was that . . . thing here?” she asked. “I do not trust it. It is arrogant, and it distracts you.”

  And she puts you on edge; worried about our position on the food chain, dear?

  “She is arrogant, and you certainly shouldn’t trust her, dear. But sometimes even dangerous foes can be put to a very good use. People’s Blade is one such foe, and I have many uses in store for her.” He fished one of the glasses off of the tray, sipping at the drink. “Never forget; just because someone is against you doesn’t mean you can’t still use them for your own ends.”

  “He who uses a crocodile as a stepping stone generally loses a foot,” Khanjar replied crossly. “Don’t come complaining when that thing betrays you. And it will.”

  He feigned a look of hurt. “Darling, you misjudge me. I’m not blind; she’s using us, as much as we’re using her. She simply thinks she’s on the winning side of the equation. Everyone breaks faith, everyone betrays, everyone becomes a traitor; life has taught me that, if nothing else. It’s a matter of when, and how it can be used to our benefit.” He chuckled, taking another drink. “If I had half a mind, I could immortalize myself with a proverb book, or something equally egotistical.”

  “You already waste too much time adding to the Evil Overlord lists,” she countered. “Why did you not give the ‘useful’ monster the files on Shadow-Storm?”

  “You mean the complete files?” He laughed a little. “Simple. I didn’t want her to have them. We’ll see how well she can adapt. If she wins over the target to our side, we have another tool at our disposal. If she fails, then we still gain; we’ll be left with one less enemy to keep a watch over . . . one less distraction, as you put it. I imagine that’d please you quite a bit.”

  “Well, you had better hope that Shadow-Storm never discovers it was you that sent her.” Khanjar’s frown deepened. “I do not wish to have to counter an assassin that uses magic. It is not my strong suit.”

  Magic. Pff. Khanji’s superstitions win out again. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t seem to cure her of her insistence that some metas were actually magicians. Or worse, wholly supernatural. “My dear, in my experience there are very few things that can’t be bought, reasoned with, or killed. In that order, preferably.” He waved at a chair. “Don’t trouble yourself with it. Drink your scotch before it becomes too watered down. We have to sit through another fundraiser for the opera house this evening.”

  * * *

  SUNSET MANOR: HOME AT LAST. That was what the expensive, sandblasted, laser-cut redwood sign said in Victorian-style lettering. It was not what Shen Xue had been expecting. Volcanic lair? Unlikely, but possible. High-tech safe house? Certainly. High-tech safe house hiding beneath the facade of a warehouse or a tenement or a half-abandoned old farmhouse? Almost not worth mentioning the near certainty of it.

  But an entire expensive, exclusive, gated community for wealthy, retired people, disinclined to put their trust in their former servants or current relatives? Definitely not.

  Presumably by prowling on the network of computer connections that Shen Xue loathed, one could discover a certain amount about this place. It would almost certainly be all a front. Shen Xue preferred to do his investigations the old-fashioned way: with his feet on the ground and the wind in his hair. Nothing else gave a man proper grounding for a battlefield.

  Walls were hardly even an afterthought to him; once inside with a uniform stolen from one of the grounds-keeping staff, his Chinese features and a pushcart laden with gardening tools ensured he would be ignored. He entered the community early in the morning, with the rest of the laborers; another female ethnic face as part of the “help” was nothing for anyone to pay attention to.

  He learned that Sunset Manor was extensively patrolled by a well-trained security staff; that visitors were only permitted during daylight hours and required much the same identification procedures as anyone gaining admittance to, say, Echo HQ, complete with identification tags that broadcast their whereabouts. He learned that staff also had these tags, but as long as he stayed a respectable distance away from the rest, with his hands busy in the dirt, no one checked to see if he actually possessed such a tag, and there was no way to flag someone untagged out in the open.

  The General also learned that Sunset Manor had three tiers of residents. The third tier were those who were bedridden; these were housed in luxurious “apartments” that were as unlike the standard “nursing home” room as an Italian villa was unlike Chinese government housing. The second tier were those who were infirm, but not bedridden; these were housed in true luxury “apartments” and looked after by staff assiduously. The first tier were those who qualified as “assisted living”—and could have been living in their old homes, presumably, except that they no longer trusted the honesty of their own staff or their heirs (who could bribe their staff). Here they had the assurance that the staff was hired by an impartial outside source, their belongings were inventoried on a daily basis, and similarly impartial accou
ntants kept track of every penny. And all of those pennies went towards paying extravagant fees to ensure that everything was in place. Extravagant perhaps . . . but cheaper than being robbed by the maids, the heirs, the accountant using their funds on his speculations. And of course, there was the safety. Despite more than a few of the residents having lists of enemies that would rival those of third-world dictators, everyone here was absolutely safe. You could safely leave your doors unlocked and your windows open, when state-of-the-art security was monitoring your home with an exactitude presidents would envy. You need not concern yourself about thieves, Thulians, natural disasters, insurrections . . . in exchange for privacy and a none-too-modest amount of money, you need never worry again.

  In this first tier, unlike the model-village look of most “retirement communities,” individual expression in architecture was encouraged. So the handsome minimansions spread across acres and acres of property were of styles ranging from ultramodern to antique.

  Among such a disparity, the original Victorian mansion that had stood on the original property did not even stand out, except for the old-growth trees and plantings on its grounds. You couldn’t successfully transplant an oak or a beech with a girth that was several feet around, nor peony and rose bushes standing six feet tall.

  The General was able to pick out the house from his first glance. Instinct counted for as much as intellect, in his experience. What “intelligence” he was able to gather from listening to the other workers, seeing who went where . . . it was clear where the “boss” lived, even if no one truly acknowledged it. The old home that the community was built around had taken on the air of a legend; it was maintained, but not too well. It never had anyone come out, but deliveries were regularly made and always by different people.

  He is there. He does not want anyone to know it, but one cannot help some things. And besides intellect, besides intelligence, besides instinct, there were . . . the senses. The General was a creature of magic and legend. Like called to like, and he sensed the magic in that house, magic that appeared nowhere else on the grounds. Now he understood why Verdigris had wanted him to pursue this creature, and not Khanjar. He was uniquely suited to this task; the General was a scalpel, in this case, and she was an axe. It would not do to send peasants after dragons, when a warrior is called for. For a barbarian, he seems to understand at least this truth.