Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance)

by J. S. Chancellor

  Had Trinity actually been a mentor and not the infamous Seer Cleric, I wonder if he would have stepped in or if he would have allowed the target to weed out a liability—meaning me. There is a small part of me that thinks he wouldn't have done things any differently, and yet something else thinks the opposite. I am going to pretend that I don't care either way.

  For all its practical uselessness, all this reminiscing does, however, accomplish one very crucial thing: It reminds me of who I am. Beyond the lies, beyond the layers of some other life that's been woven into mine and the shards of a past I can only see in dreams, beyond all of that is the strength that Jacelynd didn't expect, that Trinity has underestimated and that I have so recently misplaced. Ironically enough, Damian is the only one who seemed to anticipate it.

  I have two options. I can wallow in pity and remain Trinity's pawn, or I can dig a little deeper and draw on the fortitude that I know is there and do what my heart is telling me is right. Several things vie for attention on my list of shit to do, but finding Blake, assuming he's still alive and not in fifty pieces, takes precedence. So, we'll go with option number two. I survey the yard again and insanely contemplate jumping from the third-story window before reason intervenes.

  I stand in the corner of the room and survey what's there. I know that I am taking for granted what belongs in his bedroom after only a few minutes and I do what Trinity taught me to do. I close my eyes and look again. Things that are seen with a precursory glance are merely being noted on a mental inventory, which will be dismissed unless the physical presence of each item is taken into consideration. This is how someone can look right at something and not see it. Now, with my eyes closed, another layer of detail is taken into account—absence.

  That's when I find it. Double doors appear to be the only way in and out of the room. But the floor is made of delicately detailed stone and even with the large area rugs that have been placed throughout, their pattern is distinct. Except in high-traffic areas, like the double doors. To the left of the fireplace, in the corner of the room, the pattern is absent on the stone.

  I feel along the floor and, as I suspected, there is a draft at the bottom of the baseboard. I try the fireplace and the wall itself, but I'm not that lucky. That only happens in bad espionage movies. Or to MacGyver.

  I smack the wall with my fist. Oh, fuck me.

  I've really got to get better at controlling what passes through my head.

  Don't worry, Trinity says. I'm planning on it.

  I decide that going along with whatever he says mentally is my best shot at leaving without his being aware of it. As far as he knows, I will be right here waiting.

  You're insatiable, Trinity. Why don't you come back here and redefine the term for me? I also figure asking him to return will throw him off balance. It does. I want you … like I wanted you last night.

  That's my girl. I'm touched. I knew you'd come around.

  While we are chatting, which, by the way, isn't something I will ever get used to—most people who talk to voices in their heads are committed—I continue to trace the floor.

  I'd rather you were the one doing the touching, I say.

  Christ, you're killing me. I'm really not in a position to lose my train of thought here, Jess.

  The good news is this means he's at least involved in something taxing, which also means time-consuming. I've made my way all the way back to the double doors on the opposite wall and still haven't found anything. A certain favored explicative wants to come into mind, but this time I catch myself.

  Be careful, Trinity.

  I surprise even myself with this. I think it does more than that to him. I don't hear anything in response for a few minutes.

  Do you mean it? There is a dangerous tone in his question, an edge that I have no interest in testing.

  Yes. As I say this, I find a loose stone among the well-worn ones in the corner where I started. When I go to pick it up, it depresses at my touch and the worn stones slide under the wall to reveal a circular opening in the floor. And I will prove it to you when you come back to me.

  I take one last look at the room. This is the point of no return. If I do this, if I turn against Trinity, there will be no forgiveness, no shedding of tears and no second thoughts on his side of things. I am utterly replaceable. This thought and the fear of what I've done to tether myself to him mentally are what I am left with as I drop into the passageway.

  Getting away from his estate from there is a fairly straightforward affair. The passage leads away from the main grounds, into the woods behind it and dumps me out near the river. I soon tread through wild underbrush in the direction I believe Belladonna to be.

  Though I have no idea what good will that do. I have no idea where they would have taken Blake. He could be anywhere. Quinn clearly said that they black-bagged him. But why? This detail suggests that they wanted him to pass as dead. There are only a couple places where this would be necessary, and only one of them has anything to do with labs and comes with a plethora of humans on which to test their theories. The hospital.

  Breaking the Habit

  I assume this won't be as easy as going to the information desk and asking for his whereabouts. There are several major hospitals in the D.C. area, but I don't have any reason to believe he would be at one as opposed to another, aside from some financials received from Belladonna years ago from one establishment in particular. I decide to take my chances on that being the place.

  Yet some things are going in my favor. Trinity can't locate me by disc. If I use cash and don't go anywhere I would typically go, he won't even know where to begin. This, of course, assumes I can keep my thoughts to myself. And I have a feeling he is going to return soon.

  I have on loose boot-cut jeans, a sea green button-down oxford and my hair is swept back in a ponytail. Pretty average attire for hospital visitation. After I walk into the main entrance, I look around and wish I'd paid more attention to this point in all those stupid movies where the hero (or heroine) sneaks onto whatever floor. I seriously doubt that he is above-ground, what with his arrival consisting of a coroner's company and all.

  A young raven-haired woman, slightly overweight and wearing ridiculously hot pink Hello Kitty scrubs, is manning the window at admittance.

  "Hi." I wipe at my eyes a little, wishing I could conjure up tears at will. "My brother was brought here, to the morgue. Could you—"

  She shakes her head and abruptly says, "He wouldn't have been brought here unless he was a patient. The city morgue is more likely."

  I don't have time for this and I didn't think about the city morgue as even being an option. The labs make more sense here. "He was brought in initially as a patient. Just, please, if you could direct me to the morgue so I can take care of some things."

  She doesn't appear to buy my story. "What is his name?"

  I blink, amazed that she is unmoved by what I thought sounded at least plausible. All right, I didn't want theatrics, but here goes nothing. I pull out the rubber band holding my hair as though my head hurts and launch into my best hysterical impression of a grieving sibling. My lower lips quivers and I choke on my words. It's quite a scene. "Was. What was his name. He's dead and you don't even have the decency to direct me to where his dead body is!"

  She is staring at me with huge eyes, her pen no longer tapping the notepad that sits open on her desk. I expect her to reach for the radio any second and call for security.

  "The elevator is down the hall. The morgue is in the basement. You'll need this to get past the doors," she says as she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a guest pass.

  All that effort and watch him be in a totally different hospital. Or if I'm really lucky, the city morgue. "Thank you." I smile as sweetly as I can and take the pass.

  I pause to compose myself, tousling out the tangles in my hair and smoothing the wrinkles from where I'd twisted my shirt into one of my fists for effect. It's frightening how good I'm beginning to be at this lying thing.
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br />   The elevator is old and squeals as it descends, and I have a picture in my head of Death standing beside me with scythe in hand, looking down at his watch impatiently—as though my escapades are holding him up for dinner.

  The doors open and though I don't genuinely expect a flickering light (don't all morgues have flickering lights?), I am a little sad when I don't see one. Nonetheless, the hall still isn't too well lit and a cold wave rushes through me as I step out of the elevator. I've never been afraid of death or dark places, so I'm not sure where this dread is coming from. Until I hear his voice again.

  Feeling weak yet? You will. You've been without my blood for twenty-four hours. Another few and you'll be so cold you can't speak. After that, well … I guess we'll have to see.

  I'm calling his bluff. Bullshit. I was without Jace for a decade the first go-around and two full days the second. I can deal with a little frostbite. And for the record, no, I didn't mean it when I told you to be careful.

  He laughs and I wish he'd screamed instead. His voice is calm, not a hint of anger or shock. I didn't ask because I wanted an answer, I asked because I wanted to hear how you would answer. I am not Jace, nor is my blood weak like his. I've been perfectly honest with you. Our blood combined is a powerful thing. You don't have a choice—you need me like you need breath.

  I am halfway down the corridor now, where I find a few fully occupied rooms and notice the sound of a handsaw in the distance. When exactly did you sell your soul, Trinity? Or did you give it willingly?

  Willingly, love, willingly.

  I ignore him and study the doors, frustrated that the secret passageway to the vampire underworld isn't clearly marked. Ridiculous.

  I will find you, Jessica. And I think you'll find our relationship a changed thing when you're returned to me.

  When I'm returned to you? What is that supposed to mean?

  You've tested the bounds of my graciousness, Trinity says, and found them wanting. I intended for you to have free will, was willing to exercise all the patience in world waiting for you to come to me. I have no alternative now but to assure your place by my side. By any way necessary.

  I remember all too late his comment about what he could have led me to believe while he was in effect stealing my life and replacing it with a fabrication. A fate worse than death.

  For Jacelynd, who will still hear us, it will be. You won't see it quite that way—you may have my word on that.

  I am spaced out and appear to be staring indiscriminately at a blank wall when a janitor catches my attention. I look up and realize that another employee, a coroner maybe, is loitering at the near end of what had just been an empty hall. He is wearing a white coat and appears to be engrossed in the chart he holds in his hands.

  "You all right, miss?" The janitor asks. The coroner looks up.

  "Yes, thank you. I um … " I stutter because I am too disturbed by Trinity's proposition to form a rational thought.

  "There you are!" the coroner shouts, leaning in and seemingly adjusting his small-rimmed glasses to see better. "We've been looking for you everywhere. You can't go wandering off from the day room like that."

  My first thought is to run, that this is one of Trinity's overzealous drones, but as the coroner comes closer, I have to fight to contain my excitement.

  "Tenth-floor patient. You know, one of those." Quinn shakes his head as he addresses the janitor and wraps and arm around my shoulder. "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. We've got to get better at this or we'll have no choice to but to go back to the Thorazine drip."

  We are around the corner and standing in an alcove when he moves his arm and speaks. "Do you have a penchant for pain?" Quinn asks hoarsely, trying to keep his voice low. "You could have gotten yourself killed. That isn't a janitor, it's Cerebus. Nothing more than a complicated computer program, but a damn good one. He'll have Sophie's name on his report since I said it three times, but shit, Jess, you were damn close to a catastrophe."

  "How do you know about this place? I thought that's what you needed me for?"

  He looks insulted. "I, unlike my lovely cousin, don't go barging into places without any preparation. I needed you off of your dose so they couldn't track you here. I wasn't an assassin. I was a transporter. It's how I knew Blake was still alive and how I managed to screw with the assignments enough to call you out of reserves. Nice performance in the waiting room, by the way."

  "I'm so sorry. Why didn't you just tell me that you were my cousins?"

  Quinn laughs. "You know damn well that you wouldn't have believed us even if we had."

  This is true. Sad, but true.

  "Is Jace … ?"

  "He isn't here. I sent him a text upstairs to let him know you'd made it here. He was getting gas at the half-way mark."

  "But how could he have possibly known where I was going?"

  "Whatever you thought to steer Trinity off course didn't make sense to Jace. It was a toss-up between whether you would try to find Blake or go back to Florida. His bet was here and I was already in the city."

  I want to know more, so much more, but we don't have time to linger here and the expression on Quinn's face says as much. He moves to exit the alcove when I grab his arm. I almost ask if Jace will ever be able to forgive me, but I can't bring myself to form the words.

  "Never mind," I say and let go.

  The cheap parlor trick in the hallway of the morgue won't cut it past the passageway into what Quinn says is aptly named Hades.

  As I've said before, I have been an assassin for nearly a decade. I've decided who lives and dies on my watch and dealt out unerring justice to those who were placed on my death list. Cold, calculating and pitiless—all words Trinity has used at one time or another to describe me while on assignment. I used to believe in a higher purpose, that the tyranny I so lovingly referred to earlier was pragmatic and for all its faults, meaningful. As we descend and that line is drawn taut, I see my actions in a different light. This time, my actions are for atonement. I don't care if I live through this. Everything I've done demands that I answer for it. I am prepared for that and for the judgment that will come.

  Death surrounds us. Not physically with the smell of rot and decay, but with the slowly fading essence that was once life for creatures who thrived outside of this place—beyond these walls and in a world where perhaps they too were meant for greatness. Certainly more than this. Quinn has explained that we are in a section of Hades that isn't patrolled too often, where the cameras aren't recording and are rarely monitored. We pass room after room of what looks like the still frames of a dark science fiction movie—humans, vampires, and experimental combinations of the most acute benefits of both races huddled naked in corners.

  Some we see have clearly been left to suffer the effects of new formulations, merely for the benefit of being aware of the side effects. Some of the humans appear to have been partially turned and are stuck in a state between immortality and death, where everything is dying in the flesh but their consciousness continues on until there is nothing left. I understand why this part is left desolate.

  "What are they doing to these humans?" I ask.

  "They're changing the formulation of Icarus. High Coven has some pretty grim things lined up for this world, but we can talk about all of that once we've found Blake and gotten him out of here. Believe me, this isn't the best time to explain."

  We come to a gathering of tunnels and Quinn stops ahead of me at the line. He points mutely to last glass cell, where in the reflection I can see the round black sphere jutting out of the ceiling.

  I nod and motion for Quinn to step out of the way. A momentary conversation of aggravated gestures ensues. Apparently, Quinn has already thought this through and has an answer. I sigh and relent.

  I thought he might shatter the sphere, though that would give us very little time to find Blake. Instead, he takes the conservative approach and uses the panel in the wall to adjust the angles of the cameras and shut down the audio.

  "Where a
re we going from here?" I ask.

  "We're just south of the main holding cells. Cross your fingers that he's there and not already splayed open on an autopsy table. We'll have to do this carefully. I will be escorting you to a holding room. They won't realize that I'm not supposed to be here until it's way too late." He has shed his white coat and I realize that the markings on his sleeves are years of service. He is wearing a uniform.

  Before we enter the opening, I pause to take a deep breath. "Quinn. How skilled a fighter are you?" There are levels one through fifteen and I am fairly confident that he'll be fine. Better safe than sorry.

  "Level thirteen or so."

  I nod. I'd figured as much. "Let's go, then. If all hell breaks loose, or I should say if all Hades breaks loose, just point me in the right direction and get out of the way."

  "You've changed so much," he whispers. "What level are you?"

  I smile widely. "Let's just say it's in the double digits." It's actually sixteen, but we won't go there. I don't want to be overly confident. I fear we are in over our heads as it is. I gesture toward the door. "Here goes nothing."

  We walk for a bit longer than I'd expected. No one says anything to us, but the place is night and day to where we just were. People are everywhere. Finally, he stops in front of a young uniformed guard who looks to be in his early twenties.

  "Open the doors," Quinn says authoritatively. I'm somewhat awed. This doesn't sound at all like the playful man I was just speaking to. "When is the other one scheduled for termination?" He references Blake, who stares at us mutely from his chair.

  "Eight a.m., sir," the guard says.