When he glanced toward her, she had her eyes shut, and her head tipped back, breathing deep – searching, somehow, supernaturally. He’d spent plenty of – too much – time around Castor’s pet conduit, once upon a time, but it still rattled him to see one use her senses in this way.
“There are cameras at either end of the street,” she announced, when her eyes opened. She blinked a few times, as if clearing her vision. “But they aren’t pointed toward us.”
“Guess that’ll have to do.” He met Rose’s gaze, and she nodded, ready, a length of cable attached to a grappling hook already coiled around one wrist. “Are you good to climb?” he asked Morgan.
“Yes.”
The building was three stories, old, weathered brick gone slippery from years of water, algae, mold, and ash. The hooks went up cleanly, firmly attached, and they had gloves, and boots with thick, rubber tread; safety carabiners. Still, it was hard going. By the time he finally reached the top, Lance all but dragged himself over the parapet, and flopped inelegantly down on his stomach, shoulders and arms burning, breath coming in sharp pants. He was lying in a puddle, could feel it soaking into his fatigues, but he shut his eyes a moment, let the rain pelt the side of his face, and pretended he couldn’t feel how disgusting the texture of the roof was against his other cheek.
When he pushed himself up, he wasn’t at all surprised to find Rose on her feet already, stowing her rope, Morgan standing beside her, placid and unbothered, and not even out of breath. At least Gavin and Tris and Gallo looked properly winded.
“There’ll be guards on the roof,” he said. “Make sure your suppressors are on. Let’s move.”
They picked their way carefully over the rooftops, leaping narrow gaps, and slipping on rare steep slopes. When they were behind the townhouse block, amid the rear units, they crouched down behind an air conditioning unit that didn’t look like it had worked even before the First Rift. Shubert had enough money to burn electricity, apparently: in the house, beaming up through a skylight, and down on the street, a yellow glow off the building facades opposite. It backlit the men prowling the roof, hulking silhouettes with slender rifle barrels sprouting over their shoulders.
“I count four,” Tris said.
“Five,” Gavin corrected. “The one over on the corner.”
Lance took a steadying breath and tried to form a strategy. Once the first one was hit, the others would know something was up. If they had radios…or if one of them shouted, and alerted the troops on the street, who most certainly had radios…Lance didn’t want to open things up with a firefight; it would give Shubert a chance to flee, and if he was like Castor at all, he had secret doors, stairwells, and tunnels that would get him off property while they were busy mowing through hired goons.
Morgan said, “If I may?”
Lance turned his head to regard her, met only by a small, serious face, flyaway white-blond hair glued to her cheeks with rainwater.
Over her head, he met Rose and then Tris’s gazes. Tris shrugged. Rose nodded.
He said, “Go for it.”
“Alright.” The girl took a deep breath, pressed her hands flat to the AC box, and shut her eyes. After a moment, she shuddered.
Lance glanced up and over, just in time to see the five guards freeze, and then fall, boneless, to the rooftop. Above the patter of rain, he could hear the clack of their rifles hitting gravel. None of them had bothered to catch themselves or slow their falls.
Gavin let out a low whistle.
“Shh.” Lance said, “Morgan?”
She swayed a moment; Rose caught her shoulder and steadied her. Then she sighed and opened her eyes. “That should keep them out for about twenty minutes, I think.”
“That’s a helluva trick,” Lance said. “Can you keep doing it?”
“She’s getting tired,” Rose cautioned.
But Rose squared up her shoulders and looked steadier on her next inhale. “No, I’m fine. I can do it. That’s why you brought me, after all.”
Rose’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue.
“Let’s go over, then,” Lance ordered, and they moved.
When they’d leaped over to the correct roof, he paused to nudge at one of the guards. The man’s head lolled, and his eyes stayed shut, his hands lax where they’d landed at his sides.
However she’d done it, it was a very useful skillset to have on hand.
“Bastard,” Gavin muttered, over the by skylight.
Lance joined him. Through the pollution-clouded glass, he caught a glimpse of a wide, high-ceilinged room cleaner and more decadent than any they’d set foot inside in recent memory. Gleaming hardwood floors, pale couches and chairs with dainty legs; gilt mirrors on the walls, and he spotted the intricate arms of a crystal chandelier. The room blazed with expensive electric light, and a woman in a white dress reclined across a chaise lounge, reading a magazine while a TV played to itself on the wall, unwatched.
“Nice to see he’s sparing no expense,” Lance muttered.
“That his girlfriend?” Gavin asked.
“One of them, at least. Morgan?”
She was already drawing up beside him, hands pressing to the glass. A moment later, the magazine hit the floor, and the woman slumped down on the chaise, eyes fluttering shut. A black-clad security thug hit the hardwood like a felled tree.
The door was locked, but easily jimmied; Shubert had been confident in his staff, and in his own power. A common mistake among this crowd, in Lance’s estimation. A stairwell led down into the beautiful room where the girlfriend and her guard lay unconscious. It smelled of chemical lavender, and spilled wine. The furniture all over, Lance thought, was mismatched. A rich man buying up things he thought looked lavish, without an eye for cohesion or style.
Morgan froze in the center of the room, stark still, head cocked at an angle. “There’s a conduit here,” she said, tonelessly. “Heaven-born. Like me.” A beat. “Not like me at all.”
“Okay,” Lance said, tension winding in his gut. “We can handle that. Stay behind us, help where you can, and keep clear if we have to deploy a Wraith Grenade, okay?”
Morgan didn’t seem to hear.
Rose went to her, touched her shoulder; he still marveled over the fact that Rose, his best conduit-killer, so readily made physical contact with this one.
“Where?” she asked.
“Ground floor. He’s – something’s – different.”
“Different how?” Lance demanded.
Rose shot him a warning look. “Different how?” she repeated, much softer.
“He’s…I don’t know.” Again, more faintly, “I don’t know.”
“Are we proceeding or not?” Tris asked.
Morgan shivered all over, and said, “I’m ready.”
“Proceeding,” Lance said. “Rose, stay in the back with her.”
Rose shot him a glare, but didn’t argue, for once, hand still on Morgan’s shoulder.
Lance drew his suppressed gun, and a knife. Tris did the same, took up the point position, and they went through a door. One that led out into a hallway.
A guard turned toward them, opened his mouth to shout – and went down, eyes closed. Men went down in great, limp tangles as they found a second stairwell, and went down two more floors, to the ground level.
That was when felt the unpleasant, electric tingles down the back of his neck that meant a conduit was near. He felt them in Morgan’s presence, but they had their own particular thrum, and he’d learned to ignore them.
This, though, this – pulse. A ripple like an unsteady heartbeat, a push and pull rather than a static humming. It set his teeth on edge.
They stood in a grand foyer, its slate floors polished to a shine. A clock on the wall chimed the hour, and through arched doorways he heard the murmur of voices, and the steady tread of unhurried feet. Someone laughed – loudly, and wildly. Crystal shattered with a bright, tinkling sound, but there were no screams or rushed steps. A normal oc
currence, then: the breaking of things.
A glance toward Morgan revealed she was bone-white, and trembling, whether from exhaustion or fear, he had no idea.
At her side, Rose gripped the hell dagger, the hilt’s rubies winking like blood drops in the glow of the chandelier.
“He’ll have the hostage with him,” Rose said, sure of herself. “That’s where he can guard him the closest.”
Lance nodded. They’d peeked in a few bedrooms upstairs on their way, and found all of them empty. There would be only one surefire way to ensure a hostage stayed carefully-watched.
He faced forward–
“Hey!” someone shouted behind them.
A moment later a thud registered as Morgan collapsed the body, but the shout had been loud. It would have been heard – and had been, if the sudden silence from deeper in the house was any indication.
Lance took off at a run.
A short hallway led into a massive dining room dominated by a long, gleaming table. Candlesticks marched down its center – for ambiance, rather than practicality, a chandelier burning overhead. Lance registered guards – reaching for sidearms, barking into radios, lunging toward the door, and him. His attention skipped over a skinny-necked, big-eyed teen who could only be Logan, the Prime Minister’s son, but his attention snagged on the man sitting at the head of the table, the stem of a shattered wine glass held negligently in one hand.
There was a reason Timothy Shubert was the head of his criminal organization, and not merely a hired thug: he had the looks for it. Tall, elegant, his short, ash-blond hair combed neatly to one side, in a style reminiscent of a century ago. He wore a suit, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes – his white-blue, glowing eyes. That glow was unmistakable, as was the way the back of Lance’s neck burned now that he was in the conduit’s presence.
Too late – Lance cursed himself for the lapse – he lifted his weapons as the guards closed in.
But Shubert said, “Stop.”
The guards halted.
Shubert grinned, head cocking to the side, gaze fixed on Lance. “How cute. A rescue mission.” Then his expression flickered, and smoothed, and in an entirely different voice – the flat, toneless voice of Morgan, and every other conduit he’d ever faced, said, “That was foolish.”
Two voices. Two expressions. Two entities controlling the body. Sharing.
The burn on his neck shivered all down his back, leaving painful gooseflesh in its wake.
The wineglass stem snapped neatly in two between Shubert’s fingers, and he stood, graceful and human, without any of a conduit’s usual blank efficiency of movement; it was showy, the way he unfolded himself, and buttoned his suit jacket, and stepped around the corner of the table to rest a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked Lance, pleasant and warm.
Lance felt the rest of his company crowd in behind him; heard a few muffled curses as they assessed the situation.
“Feeling shy?” Shubert asked, putting on an overdramatic pout.
Then his expression veered again, and the conduit’s voice rang out from his mouth: “He has an angel with him.”
“Does he really?” Shubert again. He smiled. “This should be fun.”
The guards’ eyes rolled back and they dropped.
“Logan, duck!” Lance shouted, just before a blue glow exploded through the room, and an invisible force shoved him back.
He toppled backward through his own company, all of them scattering like bowling pins. He twisted, got his feet under him fast, coming up with his gun aimed down the length of the table, to the place where Shubert had been – sites falling on the back of Morgan’s helmeted head.
“Shit! Morgan!”
She ignored him. Shubert stared down at her, his gaze flickering between human delight and conduit impassivity, changing second by second, and back again.
Logan was out of sight, at least. Under the table, Lance figured.
“Morgan!” he tried again.
A stirring on the floor caught his attention; then a groan: the guards snapping out of their fugue.
Movement beneath his elbow: Rose flashing past him, ducking low, keeping beneath the table as she raced down the long length of it.
Lance had never felt so helpless and stupid.
Morgan’s hand flew out, a fast, white flash like a bird winging up from the reeds. Straight toward Shubert’s chest. He caught her wrist – but bared his teeth, hissing, blue eyes flaring. Steam boiled up in the air between them.
Rose reared up behind him, unseen, and stabbed him with her hell dagger.
The blow hit him from behind. Had to slide between ribs and muscle and she wasn’t used to aiming for the heart in reverse like that.
It didn’t kill him, not in the way that Lance had seen time and again. But it had to hurt like a bitch.
Shubert dropped Morgan’s wrist and bent forward at the waist, bellowing. White steam curled up from his lips, and from his back, and his eyes went supernova.
Time to go.
Lance stepped forward and shot him at point-blank range in the temple with an obsidian round. The shot wasn’t loud, but the spray of brain and blood was as obscene and messy as ever, spattering against the wall paneling. He crashed sideways, and fell in a tangle of twitching limbs.
Behind him, he heard the suppressed gunshots of his company as they dispatched the waking guards.
Rose stood with the dagger dripping steaming blood, poised like she was ready for the kill shot.
“Rose,” he barked. “Is the kid under the table?”
She glanced that way, briefly, and nodded. “Yeah.” Looked back to Shubert. “Let me finish him.”
“Wait,” Morgan said, her voice a high, clear note like a bell. It echoed through the room, chiming off the walls, leaving a ringing hush in its wake.
Then the wall exploded.
Not a bomb, Lance thought, stupidly, as he dropped to his belly. There was no flash, no great boom – save the brick and studs and drywall bursting apart under great force. Dust burst through the air in gritty clouds. Debris rained against every surface; he heard the table groan as bricks tumbled down on top of it.
He glanced up through the forest of mahogany legs – table and chair both – and saw Logan crouched down, silent tears tracking down his face.
Lance reached out for him, and the boy came readily, shuffling along on his hands and knees, gasping.
Overhead: a rush of wind. A gravelly voice said, “Two for one. What a bonus.” And chuckled.
Logan took his hand, and Lance dragged him the rest of the way, and twisted around to shove him into Gallo. “Get him out of here,” he hissed. He watched to make sure they were safely out through the doorway into the hall, then he crawled out from under the table, and stood.
The wall had been punched inward, a gaping hole letting in rain, and wind, the scent of a damp, fire-filled evening – and a man dressed in black motorcycle leathers, heavy boots, and with eyes that burned a deep, pulsing amber.
A hell beast.
Shubert continued to twitch against the wall, pulsing with light and crackling like bacon in a skillet: healing, but not there yet, not conscious and able to act. That left the demon conduit squared off from Morgan, alone.
Morgan and them.
Lance reached for his belt and the cache of grenades there. Not a Wraith, that wouldn’t work on a wraith-possessed creature. But he had holy water; he had blinding silver and consecrated iron shrapnel.
A hand gripped his arm, tight: Rose. “Wait,” she hissed.
“We have to go,” Gavin barked behind them, uncharacteristically savage. “Leave the little bitch, and let’s move. We’ve got the hostage.”
Lance wasn’t in disagreement, but before any of them could act, Morgan flew at the demon, whose glowing amber eyes widened in comical shock. When she collided with his chest, both tiny hands against his black leather jacket, a sound like a thunderclap echoed through the room, loud enough to leave
Lance wincing.
Morgan shoved him back, back, back, like he wasn’t a grown man against her adolescent girl weight – but, well, conduit. Powerful conduit, going by the ease with which she backed him out through the hole in the wall, across a bit of alley, and into the street.
When they stood in its center, Morgan gripped his jacket in one tiny hand, and opened the other toward the street, palm flat, fingers crooked at the last knuckle. Another sound – a low, deep rumble, a vibration that came up through their boots.
“Is this a fucking earthquake?” Gavin asked, shouting over the noise.
But it was Morgan, Lance knew – could feel. Just as he could feel the earth shudder, right before a massive crater opened up in the street. Deep, black, the asphalt splitting in jagged lines, it yawned, and spread, and pavement crumbled away down into its depths, depths not visible from here, maybe not from anywhere.
The demon scrabbled at Morgan’s hand, kicking and cursing, but she lifted him with seeming ease, and tossed him down into the hole.
Light flared – white-hot, buffeting their faces with an acrid wind.
When Lance opened his eyes, the street was whole again.
Morgan turned to face them, ashen, swaying.
Rose took off running toward her, but too late, before the girl’s eyes rolled back and she toppled sideways to the pavement.
“Shit,” Lance breathed, stunned. “I guess she’s that kind of conduit.”
He thought he might know her true name, now, but he didn’t dare say it aloud.
~*~
The Present
Lance was convinced Beck had blinked only twice during the telling of their last mission into New York, head cocked at a birdlike angle, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, glowing unnervingly. When Lance’s speech halted, he blinked for a third time, tilted his head the other way, and said, “You have a pet conduit?”
“I wouldn’t call her a pet–” Lance began.
“A pet, yes,” Rose said. “That’s what we’ve kept her as.” Her face showed clear disgust. “After that op, our captain still kept her locked up in the lead-lined cell. She got better snacks, though.”
Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2) Page 19