Into the Fire (The Mieshka Files, Book One)

by K. Gorman

  Her hands shook. Roger picked up Gerard’s phone.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Luck,” Roger said. He put the phone down and searched Gerard’s pockets. “Underground people work in this building. They suspected it could be connected to the Underground.”

  That made sense.

  Blood pooled beneath Gerard, seeping into the black grout between tiles. Gerard’s hand twitched once. He had fallen sideways, resting on his arm. Gravity slumped his shoulders.

  His eyes, paler now, focused on the air by Mieshka’s shins.

  No way. This did not just happen.

  This time, she counted to twenty. The psychiatrist had not prepared her for this.

  Forcing herself to take slow breaths, she smelled copper in the air.

  Blood.

  Forcing down hysteria, she focused on the main problem.

  “The shield’s down,” she said. Leaning her head against the wall, she recalled the prison box. “Aiden was taken. They were taking me to the prison cell.”

  “I know,” said Roger.

  A draft cooled the drops on her face. Her mind veered dangerously back to red.

  “Does he have handcuff keys?”

  “No. However, I have a spare set.”

  Why was she not surprised?

  She jumped as his hand brushed hers. He held the cuffs—and her hands—away from her. A second later, they clicked free.

  “Do you know who runs this building?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who would have a fancy office on the top floor?”

  “Roger was quiet for a moment.”

  “James Redenbacher is the CEO. I have lists of the managerial and supporting staff.”

  Redenbacher. So that was who The Boss was. Maybe. Mieshka thought on it.

  “Your boyfriend is here,” he said.

  “Chris? Why?”

  “We could not let you storm the place alone.” He stepped away. Aware of the growing red puddle in her peripheral vision, she followed.

  “Where?”

  “He was a few minutes behind me. We have this covered, Mieshka. We will find them.”

  Doors marked the left side of the hallway. A fan rattled in a vent. The hallway continued straight before, like the last, it turned left. Footsteps echoed from that direction. She focused on the corner.

  She felt exposed.

  “You came from that way?”

  “Correct.”

  The bloodied knife back in his hand, he stood behind her elbow. His voice was quiet and close.

  As Chris jogged into sight, she relaxed. There, at least, was something normal. Or, as normal as it could get in this situation.

  “What will you do now?” Roger asked.

  Anger returned. She reflected back to her encounter with Redenbacher. A grim grin tightened her mouth.

  “Bomb this place.” Her mom taught her to keep promises.

  Roger studied her a moment, flipping the knife.

  “There is a gas station down the block. They will sell matches as well. You could—”

  “No. There’s one crystal left. I intend to use it.”

  Roger matched her grin.

  Chris jogged down the hallway.

  What was he doing here, anyway? He hadn’t mentioned he worked for the water people. You’d think it would have come up.

  Well, whatever. His arrival was convenient for her. Almost too convenient. She glanced back at Roger.

  “Don’t suppose I could walk out the lobby?” This was a big building. It must have a lobby.

  Roger smiled. “In my experience, very few people stop someone covered in blood. I think he’s got a crush on you, way he’s looking.”

  Chris stared at her, eyes wide. She thought it had more to do with the red in her hair.

  “You using him right now?” she asked.

  “Boys aren’t my style.”

  “I’m borrowing him.” She stepped forward, ignoring Roger’s soft chuckle.

  Chris paused. He looked mildly concerned. She took him by the arm.

  “Time for a second date,” she said.

  Her hand continued to tingle as they walked away.

  ***

  Prison boxes were not fun. Specifically made to capture powerful, rogue Mages—such as himself—they were something Aiden had hoped had been left with his old world.

  Who the fuck brought one over?

  That was easy: anyone wanting power. He should have thought of it himself. But then, there hadn’t been much time to prepare, back then. A side-trip to prison had not popped into his mind.

  It had occurred to someone else, obviously.

  He didn’t feel. He didn’t see, didn’t smell, didn’t hear. The darkness came, he remembered, from the colour of the box’s casing. The same depthless black of his ship and every piece of Lost Technology.

  He was ash and air. The box had taken his element and consumed him with it. Then it had condensed him into the spatial paradox inside the box and closed the lid.

  It was very neat.

  It was a nightmare.

  How long had he been here? Time was impossible to tell in this place. Time consumed itself in this place, and yet it was infinite. An Ouroboros Construct, they’d called it, after the snake that ate its own tail. Constantly creating and devouring itself.

  Aiden felt sick.

  Clunk.

  The sound came from everywhere. He heard it as through water.

  Had someone dropped the thing? Even then, he shouldn’t have felt—

  Everything tipped. Light and fire blazed around him. Briefly.

  He glimpsed the small, black room before falling gracelessly to the hard stone floor. The fire guttered out beside him. He looked up in time to see a square-shaped hole hiss closed in the wall.

  He fought his nausea and won. Barely. The stone floor felt warm under his palms. Muggy air stuck onto his tongue.

  He wasn’t alone.

  “Please tell me you have a plan.”

  He craned his neck back. Sophia stood behind him, along with Michael and a toilet. Against the black walls, the porcelain contrasted enough to make him dizzy again.

  He fought another wave of nausea, sorting out his senses. After being absent from them, they had come back out of order. His head throbbed.

  “Plan?” Sophia’s boot tapped.

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  He pushed himself up further, sliding his butt under him. He felt the floor, attention drawn to its warmth.

  His heart shrank.

  “Is this—”

  “Pre-exposed Maanai. Plan?” Sophia looked down on him. Her usually neat hair was scraggly and unkempt. A sheen of sweat and oil covered her face. Red showed in her eyes.

  Maanai. Pre-exposed. His head hurt more.

  “You haven’t been throwing magic at it, have you?”

  She tched. “We’re not stupid.”

  All Lost Technology was, technically, made from Maanai. Maanai was a hybrid stone that could channel magic. If exposed to certain strains of energy, it became programmable and immune to mutation—perfect for gadgets such as Magic Detectors and Prison Boxes. Even the ships were made from it.

  Raw Maanai was trouble. Throw enough magic at it, and it grew an appetite.

  The more it ate, the more it grew. The more it grew, the hungrier it became. Hungry enough to eat a world.

  That was why they’d jumped worlds.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  “Plan?”

  She was not in a good mood, was she? Aiden put a hand to his head, rubbing his scalp. “The plan was for my apprentice to absorb the Phoenix crystal and track the rest.”

  “Apprentice?” Michael this time. Grizzled stubble roughened his chin and neck. Dark bags under his eyes reflected the ghosts that haunted his grief. He had been on the front lines when the Maanai mutated.

  “Yeah. New kid, funny magic. Give her a power source, and she can channel it.”

  “And you�
�re giving her Lenn’s Phoenix?” Michael scowled. Lenn Glavinstone had been a doctor of Crystal-Energy relations. He had grown the crystals as an experiment. When the mutated Maanai came knocking, he took his expertise to the front with him.

  Like many others, Lenn was dead.

  “Lenn won’t mind.” Aiden shrugged. “And the bird likes her.”

  Sophia sighed. “And the shield?”

  Aiden winced.

  “Down. Unless they didn’t take the crystal from the engine. Maybe they forgot.”

  “We’re doomed.”

  Ignoring the warmth rising from the black stone, Aiden laid his head against the wall. The single, unshaded lightbulb glared past his eyelids.

  Maybe he’d messed up. Probably, he should have transferred immediately. She could have handled it. Last night proved how tough she was.

  He opened his eyes again. No changing it now. What was done was done. Spots coloured his vision. At least he could get some sleep in here.

  Michael grumbled to himself. Aiden ignored him, shifting his numb butt.

  He glanced at the toilet. It was out of paper.

  No wonder they were cranky.

  CHAPTER 13

  A stone kicked away from her toe, ricocheted off the coarse concrete wall, and skipped to a stop in the dark. The tunnel closed in around her. Every sound muffled with its echo. It seemed like she was being followed.

  Mieshka kept glancing over her shoulder. The darkness weighed on her only slightly less than her conscience did.

  Roger had killed a man. Right in front of her. Shouldn’t she be upset? Shouldn’t she feel something?

  Instead, all she felt was cold. She shivered. There had to be something wrong with her. She’d wished death on Gerard, and Roger had answered like some psychopathic angel.

  Speak of the devil…

  Darkness dogged her steps. It felt open at her back. Like there was a lot of space. Maybe she could hide in it. Maybe all of this would go away.

  She couldn’t do that.

  Pressing her lips tightly together, she jogged a few steps to catch up with Chris. He had the only light.

  His quiet made her uneasy. Chris hadn’t spoken for the entire trip. Had she done something wrong? Had she scared him? Were they still friends? Surely there was a lot to talk about.

  She confronted him about it.

  “Hey, Chris.”

  “Yeah?” He stopped ahead of her. Shadows crossed around them, and his light flipped over the hewn stone steps they’d been climbing.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her hand habitually brushed her hair. She snatched it away when it touched the dried blood. Not the first time she’d done that.

  “You’re not talking much,” she said.

  After that, he talked a lot more. Like she’d thrown a switch.

  Maybe she scared him. Hell, what would she do if the roles were reversed? If he had blood in his hair? Her panic attacks were worse than his silence.

  Granted, she’d just seen a man die. His blood was in her hair.

  A pit tightened in her stomach. Why wasn’t she feeling more? Gerard had been a creep, but he had been a person, too.

  Roger’s knife had ended that.

  And she had wished it to happen.

  Were wishes possible? Magic was real, after all.

  Ahead of them, Mieshka saw a door lined with light. Natural light. Outside light.

  They popped out of the dark. She recognized the buildings. They were a block away from the station.

  Cool, fresh air hit her face. Traffic hummed in the background. People pushed past her, close enough to create a draft.

  She avoided looking at them. She’d done her best to clean up in a washroom they’d found, but there wasn’t much time.

  Chris fell back, no longer leading. The quiet mode was also back.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. Under his scruffy black hair, his eyes stared straight ahead.

  She examined every inch. Looking for flaws. The band shirt was the same as she remembered from the cafeteria. So were the jeans, worn to white around his knees. His skin was mottled between deep purple and a sick kind of green. The eyelid drooped where it had swollen. Just as she remembered.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Tingling crept up her skin. Her breath froze inside as she recognized it. Distracted by Gerard’s blood, she hadn’t noticed the active transfer mark. She forced herself not to look at it.

  She was in trouble.

  Keeping her face passive, she fumbled for something to say. “Sorry about your eye.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said.

  The prickling deepened into her skin. Forcing herself not to look, she felt along the transfer’s link.

  It was similar to Roger’s water. Subtle. Insidious. It moved inside her skin like silk.

  Her thoughts swarmed. How did illusions work? There was a lot more to Chris that simple light bending. He talked. He knew her. His shirt smelled like fabric softener.

  Coming to the station entrance, she dropped down the stairs. Wind tunnelled down. Its howl mixed with the subway’s clatter as they passed the gates. Static blurred the train announcements. Coloured lines on the floor separated the rush-hour crowd. Mieshka weaved through people, following the main tunnel.

  If she came close enough to the Phoenix, maybe she could… what? Overpower them? If she was right, she was likely surrounded by soldiers. A confrontation would not end well for her.

  She didn’t want to hand-deliver them the Phoenix. At the same time, this was her best bet to get close to the ship.

  Briefly, she considered the purple glow that tingled her hand. She quickly quashed that. It’d be like using fire against Aiden, or water against Roger. The illusionist—Guylian—had a lot more experience with his element. It was a fight she would not win.

  What about the elevator?

  Slowed behind a group of business men, she considered it. The elevator limited the number of people, ergo limiting the number of guns pointed at her.

  It also got her closer to the Phoenix.

  Once the link was active, she’d torch the place. If anyone was there, they’d roast. If she was alone…

  Fire couldn’t hurt her, right?

  God, was she really planning this? She shook her head. Electronic chirps followed her up the tunnel as the crowd thinned. Glancing back, Chris was right behind her. He looked too real.

  That was a problem. Could she set an elevator on fire with him in it?

  Gerard’s bloody neck lifted into her mind. That had been an illusion, too.

  She pushed the image out of her mind and focused on the route. The tiles of the floor had stained into a tan colour. Lining the path, the security gates had an intimidating presence. An empty plastic bag skidded in the draft, adding to the abandoned feel. The temple stairs were just ahead. She stared up at the decorated archway, feeling Chris stop beside her.

  “The temple? Did he really hide his ship in the temple?”

  “It’s not a temple,” she said. Her voice wavered as she started up the stairs. “It’s a tomb.”

  “What?”

  Ignoring him, she passed under the arch. Tile changed to stone. Dim light cloaked a hush over her. She touched a firebird on the wall.

  “What does that mean?” On her hand, the transfer mark glowed a deep purple.

  “It means we’re close,” she lied.

  She crossed the outer hallway with its burning names, passed the pillars, and dropped down to the dais. Pausing in the center, she turned toward the fountain. The orange screen floated above, translucent. The phrase remained unreadable.

  When this was over, she’d ask Aiden what it said.

  Chris stepped up beside her. The glow of ten thousand names lit his left side a fiery orange.

  He wasn’t real, she reminded herself. The purple mark flickered in her peripheral vision.

  Doubt crept back.

>   What if she was wrong? What if there was another explanation for the glow?

  “Chris?” He looked up at her, eyes dark. She hesitated. If she was right, there was a gun pointed at her. Likely several guns. How could she handle this?

  “Meese?”

  She refocused. “I should go on alone from here. The ship gets moody around strangers. It even hurt Aiden last time.”

  “What? No, I’m coming with you. What if there are people down there?”

  “I’m sure the ship and I can manage. I don’t want to see you burned.” That was the truth. She gave him a smile, touched his shoulder, and moved past him. “See you in a minute. Or five. Maybe thirty.”

  There wasn’t a good excuse for him to go down with her. Nothing he could argue without looking either pathetic or heroic. She walked behind the fountain, pressed her hand against the smooth, glassy black surface…

  …and was mildly surprised when the orange lines did appear in the glassy black surface. The door slid back. She stepped in, pressed the button, and waited.

  Chris didn’t follow.

  ***

  It took three minutes before the transfer switched.

  She knew. She was good at counting.

  Mieshka leaned to the left, shoulder resting on the brushed aluminum sides. The control panel was in front. She stared straight ahead, finalizing her plan. On her hand, the mark blazed a bright orange-gold.

  Heat radiated from it. Already, the warmth had sunk into the bones of her hand. Perhaps the earlier partial-transfer made it easier to leech the Phoenix’s energy.

  Maybe it just liked her.

  It felt different than Aiden’s. The fire of the Sun as opposed to a volcano. Feathers hovered at the edge of her mind, waiting. The Phoenix knew she was coming.

  The elevator kept going down.

  She needed to wait. There was at least one gun on her. She fancied she could feel its sight. Beside her, the elevator stood empty. Silent, except for the creaking outside. The walls gleamed, reflecting the blurred blob of her orange hair, the black sweatshirt. Her jeans were interrupted by a fire extinguisher on the other wall.

  Hah.

  After another count of sixty, she leaned off the wall and placed herself in front of the door. Nerves jangled inside her. She forced herself to relax. Just like the starting position at a race. Her muscles went slack.

  Drawing the fire element into her, she waited for the ride to end.

  Ding!

  She pulled at the element. The air ignited. Heat flooded across her face. Beside her, someone screamed. As a gun fired, she launched herself out of the still-opening doors. Pain snapped through her shoulder. The bullet punched through the aluminum interior. Fire leapt in her wake, briefly illuminating her path.

  It dispersed. Darkness swallowed her. She veered to the left, jamming her glowing hand into a pocket. Her ears rang. Her legs felt rubbery underneath her. At least the floor was flat.