Realm of Infinite Night (Goth Drow Unleashed Book 3)

by Martha Carr

  She closed the passenger door behind her and reached up for the seatbelt, grimacing again when her shoulder protested with another flare of pain. The way I’m going, those holes are never gonna get a chance to heal.

  Rhynehart started the engine but paused, watching her as she pulled her seatbelt across her lap and buckled herself in. When she looked up, she saw him staring at the mostly hidden lump of gauze bandage beneath her shirt. He saw her watching him and nodded at her arm. “How’s your sho—”

  “Don’t even go there, asshole.” The halfling sat back in her seat and thumped her head against the headrest.

  With a grunt, the operative sniffed, cleared his throat, and pulled the Jeep away from the curb without a word. He didn’t laugh this time or smirk to himself either, which probably saved him from getting a blast of drow magic to the face.

  I’ll work with him to bring these scumbags down and save all the kids we can, but we’re not friends. If he cared about how my shoulder was doing, he wouldn’t have put a goddamn tracking device in it in the first place.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After driving another ten minutes in complete silence, Cheyenne figured she might as well break it to ask a question she wanted to know the answer to. She shot Rhynehart a sideways glance and cocked her head. “You see those weird pendants those guys were wearing?”

  “The what?” He glanced at her in surprise, probably because she’d said something to him. “On those black magic morons?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see any pendants. What did they look like?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of silver bull’s head. Not real intricate, but they were all wearing them.”

  “Huh. Probably just part of the damn ritual. I swear, you people put more stock in rituals and symbols than I’ll ever—” He stopped himself before Cheyenne could stop him with some choice words of her own and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I don’t mean… Just magicals in general. I don’t know what you’re into, and I don’t care.”

  “Good.” She stared at him a little longer because she liked how uncomfortable it made him. When Rhynehart got uncomfortable, he let off this smell that made the halfling think of those huge grasshoppers she’d found in the open field behind her mom’s house during the summer—a dusty, grassy sweetness that turned sour if she sniffed it for too long. She slid her hand onto the button for the automatic window and pushed it down.

  He shot her another quick glance. “Getting too hot in here?”

  “You smell.”

  Rhynehart choked on a laugh and shook his head. “A drow’s sense of smell is exactly what everyone talks it up to be, huh?”

  “I don’t know, but I kinda wish it didn’t work so well right now.” She leaned toward the open window and let the fresh air blow her hair away from her face. That hair was black again, her skin returned to its normal human paleness. At least she’d managed to calm herself enough after the church fight to bring her drow magic back under control. She’d have thought it would have been impossible after what she’d seen.

  The sign for the exit that would take them back to the mall where he’d picked her up crept steadily closer. By the time they reached the exit, Rhynehart didn’t slow down at all, and then he passed it.

  “You were supposed to get off there, by the way.” She jerked her thumb behind her.

  “Yeah, we’re not heading back to the mall just yet.”

  “Seriously? I did the freakin’ job with you. You’re gonna hold me hostage again?”

  Rhynehart sighed. “Just one more stop, rookie. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  “You promise? That supposed to mean something to me?”

  He shot her an irritated frown before gazing back out at the highway. “I get that you’re pissed, kid. I would be too if I were in your shoes. And I was just following orders, yeah? That’s something we do. But now that everything’s all laid out on the table, you might find things get a little easier if you stop holding a grudge.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll stop holding a grudge when you stop springing surprises on me, like missing the exit for the mall.”

  The operative puffed out a sigh through loose lips and didn’t say anything else.

  They pulled up five minutes later outside a diner on the edge of Richmond—the kind with the silver runners all the way around, the rest of the outside painted that glittery red that made a diner a real diner. It might’ve even been the same place Ember had taken her to one of the first times they’d gone out together freshman year, mostly because the place was open twenty-four-seven. It was the kind of place that would have made Bianca Summerlin press her lips together in silent distaste. Cheyenne didn’t think the food was all that bad, but the timing was just plain awful.

  “You are not taking me out to dinner.” She scowled at Rhynehart when he parked the Jeep in the lot and turned off the engine.

  “Well, I wasn’t planning on it. You got any cash on you?”

  The halfling blinked at him and spread her arms.

  “Nah. That’s cool. If you want something, I’ll float you this time. Come on.” The guy got out of the Jeep like he’d been waiting for a sit-down with a plate of fried diner food, smiling up at the building as he shut the door behind him.

  “A freakin’ diner.” Cheyenne shook her head and jerked the seatbelt out of the buckle before tossing it against the door. Then she got out and had to fight not to slam the door so hard it shattered the windows.

  She stalked after the operative, who was all but skipping toward the diner with his hands in his pockets. When she reached him at the front door, he held it open for her until her blank stare convinced him to drop the attempted chivalry. With a shrug, Rhynehart stepped inside, and the halfling held the door for her own damn self.

  The little bell on the door chimed, and the smell of frying oil, frozen burgers, slightly burned buns and fries, and cooking eggs assaulted her. Her stomach turned on her in an instant and growled, but fortunately, the hiss of the grill and the clack of the metal spatula against it made it impossible for anyone else to hear.

  Rhynehart nodded at the cook behind the order counter. “Hey, Roger.”

  “Charlie, my man.” The giant man in a grease-spattered apron gave Rhynehart a huge grin. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

  “Couldn’t stay away for much longer. I tried.” Rhynehart shrugged and pointed toward a booth halfway down the diner.

  Cheyenne almost choked on her own laugh. “Charlie?”

  The operative slid into a red vinyl booth behind one of the white-topped tables lined in the same silver ridges around the edge. A woman wearing a pink dress and an apron straight out of the fifties approached with menus and silverware. She couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties, her blonde hair in a neat bun. She stopped beside their booth as Cheyenne slid in across from Charlie and laid everything down.

  “How you doin’, honey?” The gum smacked obnoxiously loud between her teeth as she smiled politely at Rhynehart.

  “Better now that I stopped here.” The man skimmed the menu, then dropped it onto the table. “Just bring me a black coffee for now, yeah?”

  “Sure thing. How about your friend?”

  The halfling blinked up at the server and cut Rhynehart off as he opened his mouth. “We’re not friends. And I’m not getting anything.”

  “Oh.” The woman shrugged like it didn’t make a difference to her either way—like she hadn’t even picked up on the sting in the Goth chick’s words—and kept smacking her gum. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be right back with your coffee, hon.”

  “Thanks, Grace.” Rhynehart smiled after the woman, then sat back with a thump and ran a hand vigorously over his dark hair. “I usually go with the bacon burger, but I’m feelin’ like switchin’ it up a little.”

  Rolling her eyes, Cheyenne leaned toward him over the table. “I’m not sitting here with you while you eat a burger or whatever the hell else you fee
l like. Is there a reason I’m here, or do you just like screwing with me?”

  “Relax, rookie. There’s a reason. You’ll find out soon enough.” He didn’t look at her as he pored over the menu, hmmming at some of the offerings and tapping them in thought.

  Cheyenne started to get up out of the booth. “This is bull—”

  “Sit.” Rhynehart kept his voice low, but the urgency of that one word made her pause.

  The half-drow narrowed her eyes at him and tried to figure out what was pushing his buttons like this. Then the front door of the diner swung open, jingling the little bell hanging from the top, and Rhynehart nodded over Cheyenne’s shoulder.

  Maybe she should’ve thought about it before she turned around because the person walking through that door was the last person she wanted to see right now. She turned quickly back and thumped her hands on the table, glaring at Rhynehart. “Are you serious?”

  “What do you think?”

  Sir walked through the diner like he owned the place, lifting a hand in greeting to Roger on the other side of the counter. The cook didn’t have nearly as friendly of a hello on his lips this time, but he raised his metal spatula in reply and nodded. When the man stopped beside the booth, dressed like just another civilian and with his hands clasped behind his back, he eyed Cheyenne with those dark, beady eyes beneath his salt-and-pepper hair. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

  The halfling raised her eyebrows and glared at him.

  Rhynehart tapped her shin with his boot under the table, and she gave him a derisive snort. With a sigh, the operative scooted over on his side of the table and made room for Sir beside him.

  Sir watched his agent slide the menu and silverware down the table. “Huh.” But he slipped in beside Rhynehart just the same and folded his hands on the white tabletop with specks that looked like spilled black pepper. He pointed at her menu. “You know what you want?”

  She scoffed. “Yeah, I’m gonna go with the number-two special. Bite me.”

  “Oh. Well.” Sir raised his eyebrows and slid the menu toward him on the table, spinning it around so he could read the items. “I heard that one’s a little tough to swallow.”

  “Why am I here?” She leaned toward him and tried to keep her voice low enough not to make a scene. “I didn’t sign up for dead kids in a sick ritual before or after a casual dinner, so what else do you want?”

  Sir didn’t look up from the menu as he pulled a pair of reading glasses from where he’d hooked them on his shirt collar. He slipped them on with one hand and tilted his head back like somebody’s damn grandpa to read. “This is a conversation you want to have with me, Cheyenne—”

  “Don’t.” She spat it out harshly enough to make him look up from the menu. “I told you, you don’t get to say my name. Not in my mom’s house, not at this crappy diner, not even in your sleep. Got it?”

  “Would you prefer that I go back to using Blakely?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t call me anything at all, and that I spend the least amount of time possible in the same room as you. I’m only here because you said you could tell me about him.”

  “Yes. Him. That’s why we’re here. But I have a hard time getting into a deep conversation on an empty stomach.” Sir looked back down at the menu and kept scanning. “So I’ll get the BLT, and you’ll sit here at this table while I eat it. And then we’ll talk.”

  Cheyenne clenched her jaw and glared at him.

  “Feel free to get something if you’re hungry. I heard you had quite the time at that church.”

  The halfling switched her burning glare from Sir to Rhynehart, and the operative just raised his eyebrows. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The server picked that moment as the perfect time to come back to the table, carrying not one but two steaming diner mugs of black coffee. She set them down in front of Rhynehart and Sir like one of them hadn’t just shown up out of nowhere and stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron.

  “Grace, you’ve always had perfect timing.” Sir removed his reading glasses, stuck them in his shirt again, and looked up at the woman. “BLT for me, please.”

  “No problem. Charlie?”

  Rhynehart cleared his throat—probably because Cheyenne had snickered when she heard his first name again—and handed Grace his menu. “Reuben, please. Tell Roger to make those fries—”

  “Extra crispy. Yeah, he knows.” Grace shot the man a wink and took both menus. “I’ll have those right out for ya.”

  Then she whisked herself away to put in their order, and Cheyenne was forced to sit there and watch both men take their sweet time sipping what smelled like the worst cup of coffee in Richmond. Sir sighed after a sip, put the mug back down, and neatly brushed a drop of coffee from his thick mustache. “Tastes exactly the same, doesn’t it?”

  Rhynehart chuckled and dipped his head. “If you can count on anything, it’s this cuppa joe.”

  Cheyenne took a deep breath and folded her arms, sitting all the way back in the booth. This is gonna be the longest meal I’ve ever been forced to sit through.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was all Cheyenne could do not to sit there through that endless meal with her fingers stuck in both ears, just to drown out the sound of Sir and Rhynehart munching on their sandwiches like they hadn’t eaten in days. The only other sounds besides all that chewing and swallowing were the drip of mayonnaise from Sir’s BLT, the splatter of Thousand Island dressing from Rhynehart’s Reuben, the occasional slurp of black coffee, and that godawful crunch of the extra-crispy French fries, which were occasionally dipped in a huge silver ramekin of ranch.

  She didn’t expect Sir to be finished when he was; he still had a quarter of a sandwich left. But he picked up his napkin, thoroughly wiped around his mouth and over his mustache, tossed the napkin on his plate, and slid it toward the edge of the table. He drained the last of his coffee while Rhynehart licked the dressing off his fingers.

  Cheyenne blinked slowly and focused on her breathing.

  “Boy, that was good. Never fails to put me in the right mood.”

  “Please tell me I didn’t sit through that carnival show just so you could upsell a BLT.” The halfling tilted her head and dared him with her eyes to keep beating around the bush.

  “I’m certain you’ll appreciate what I can tell you right now.” Sir swallowed and brushed a hand over his mustache again. “It isn’t everything, but it’s what I have the liberty to disclose to you today. And we’ll need more assurances from you before I hand over the rest of the jackpot. You get it.”

  “Sure. Let’s hear it, then.”

  “Do you hear that, Rhynehart?” Sir looked at his operative and gestured with an open hand toward the drow halfling across the table. Rhynehart just raised his eyebrows and stared at his empty plate as he wiped his mouth with his own napkin. “I guess we’ll just have to prove we have viable information. You can take from this what you will, halfling.”

  She stared at him. Like I need his permission.

  “You already know enough about your father to put things together. Inmate 4872, as he’s otherwise called in certain official documents. We prefer not to deal with the names of certain magicals of interest, given or otherwise. They change more often than they stay the same, except for this one. Inmate 4872 goes by the same name on this side of the Border as he did back there. L’zar Verdys.”

  Despite herself, Cheyenne felt a flutter in her chest, just hearing the name out loud. L’zar Verdys. That sounds like the truth. Whatever that meant; she’d just have to go with it. Very few things in her life had felt as certain as the name of the man who’d given her the drow magic running through her veins.

  “That’s a powerful piece of information, halfling. A powerful name. I’d be careful not to overuse it if I were you.”

  “Great advice,” she muttered, speaking in an emotionless tone because she couldn’t afford to let either of these men see how important that name was to her.
“Anything else?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. But for now, I can tell you the drow you’ve been looking for is most definitely still alive. And on this side of the Border.” Sir glanced quickly at the agent sitting beside him. “According to Rhynehart, you’ve already heard of Chateau D’rahl, right?”

  Cheyenne swallowed. “A little.”

  “It’s a maximum-security prison just for those magicals on this side who’ve been deemed too dangerous on both sides of the Border to be re-released into society. It’s a FRoE-controlled prison, which not all of them are, by the way. I’ll tell you right now you won’t find it in any top-secret server or whatever files you might be able to hack your way into given enough time. Yeah, I know what you can do.”

  The halfling clenched her fists in her lap and leaned forward. “I want to see him.”

  “Sure. We can arrange that. But not yet.”

  “What?” Cheyenne glanced quickly from Sir to Rhynehart. The operative met her gaze and scratched his chin but didn’t offer anything else. “Why the hell not? I did what you wanted. I answered the phone and went on a fun little trip with your guys to that church in Manchester. You said you’d—”

  “I said I’d tell you more about your dear ol’ dad after you helped us out again. And I’ve done that. Now you know more.”

  Grimacing to keep her anger under control, Cheyenne hissed a sigh through her teeth. She wanted to launch herself across the table at the FRoE asshole who still called himself Sir. “That’s not enough. You gave me a name and told me I won’t be able to find him. How is that worth my time?”

  “Somebody needs to work on their anger management, I think.” Sir tapped his fingers on the table and looked up with a smile when the server Grace reappeared with the check. “Thank you, Grace. Here.” He whipped a credit card from the front pocket of his pants and handed it to her. Then she disappeared again. When he looked back at Cheyenne, his smile was tight and strained, like he enjoyed sitting here with her just as much as she did. “We need you and your special something extra for one more operation tomorrow. If you cooperate on that one like you did today, I’ll take you to Chateau D’rahl myself. Then you can have that father-daughter reunion you think you want so badly.”