by Jenn Stark
“Enough that I’ve continued doing it. Enough that I’ll keep doing it. We don’t have very much time when they arrive, and if they’re coming to our door, they’re very attractive to the arcane black market hunters. There are always vultures waiting to strike.”
“Like the man at the train station.”
“I knew something was wrong when he didn’t rush over immediately upon seeing me. By the time he went for his gun, you were already in motion. Thank you for that.”
“Do you always carry?”
She hesitated. “As of recently, yes.”
That answer didn’t make me happy. “That man knew you were coming. Or that I was coming, either way. And he had a gun. He was prepared.”
“I don’t think so.” Emma held her ground, surprising me. “He had the look of an opportunist, not necessarily sure of who would be getting off that train, but knowing someone would, someone he could sell for a profit. The police won’t be able to hold him, but I suspect he won’t stick around either. There’s always more game to catch. And Paris is a target-rich environment.”
I frowned. I would have accepted her answer, except for how the man spoke to me. The aristocratic vocal style he’d begun using was vaguely familiar to me…that couldn’t be coincidence. Emma might be right that he’d been an opportunist, but someone had used him to let me know I was being watched, tracked. Which meant my adversary remained one step ahead of me, even when I thought I was safe. But those were my problems, not Emma’s. Emma’s were challenging enough.
“So the situation for Connecteds has gotten worse, not better,” I said.
“It’s gotten different from the battles you fought alongside Father Jerome, certainly. The promises being made by unscrupulous black-market harvesters to Connected families are different. Now these families are being asked to let their children join research studies and fancy educational institutions. They know in their hearts they should resist, but when you’ve lived your life on the edge of poverty, the chance to make things better for your child can be overwhelming. And some of them simply don’t know how to say no to that much hope and money all at once.”
“Even if it’s all lies.”
Emma shrugged. “Especially if it’s all lies. That’s all some of these people have ever known.”
“Do you know anything about the man who intercepted your runners tonight? He seemed a little…special. Maybe not so much your usual opportunist.”
“Oh, no.” Now she did sigh, as if recognizing a greater gravity to the situation. “His eyes went white on you, didn’t they?”
I shot her a look. “They did. Is that relevant?”
“Only in that it’s been happening more and more, particularly with high-value runners. Which we didn’t know about this family, but it’ll come out in their intake process. Ghosts—that’s what we call them—are getting deployed all over Europe in increasing numbers and have since the start of the new year. They are the worst to fight because they don’t hesitate to use their weapons in public. They don’t care who dies, even themselves.”
“Skills?” I asked, thinking about the group of asshats in the Luxembourg Gardens. But Emma’s response surprised me.
“None, other than being bounty hunters. We’ve never had one of them attempt any use of psychic ability to restrain their prey, just basic intimidation and brute force. We don’t actually believe they’re Connected, just being used by Connecteds, which is frightening enough.”
She wasn’t kidding. “No special strength or speed at all?”
“Beyond probably being drugged with technoceuticals, no. Actually, we suspect those who are using these ghosts to do their hunting have plenty of abilities, but are trying to keep a low profile. We’ve got people trying to track down who might be behind it, but so far—nothing.”
“Got it.” My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it for the moment. Hopefully, it was Nikki with information on the chick with the tattoo in the Luxembourg Gardens or her motorcycle-riding partner in crime, but I couldn’t walk away from Emma yet. “So exactly how is this working now? You’re in charge of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés drop site, but who’s taking over for Father Jerome in general? Because you can’t be running the whole operation from here.”
She bristled, as I expected her to, but the truth was only the truth.
“I can’t?” she challenged.
“No. It has nothing to do with your age or your strength—you’ve got skills. But you’re not connected enough in the nonpsychic sense of the word to pull off what Father Jerome was able to do. Father Jerome had to know that. He would have left someone else in place.” And, great friend that I was, I should have known who that “someone” was. Alas.
She grimaced. “He knew you would come after he died, whenever that happened. Not right away, but eventually. And that you’d be asking these questions. But he didn’t tell me who he wanted to be in charge—I still don’t know. I get my information about new drops by either phone or email, but it’s an untraceable sender in both cases.”
Oh, fantastic. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. I don’t bother questioning it, because without fail, a day or two later, someone shows up needing my help. Fortunately, we have enough security measures in place to make sure that no one enters our facilities without legitimately needing to be here. And they have to go through a long process before they end up in one of the secret safe houses we’ve set up.”
“What is this, Charlie’s Angels? You seriously don’t know who’s running the show?” I could hear my own voice rise defensively, but of all the crazy answers I expected Emma to give me, “I don’t know” wasn’t one of them. I passed a hand over my brow, trying to focus. “Father Jerome had friends in high places in the church and in government, but I don’t think in Interpol. Otherwise, I would’ve been cut a little more slack. He worked alone except for…”
I lifted my face from my hand, focusing on the young woman again. “Max Bertrand,” I blurted, pulling a name out of my memory banks—a laughing, happy-go-lucky great-great-something-great nephew of my very own Armaeus Bertrand, who I’d run into on jobs a couple of times before, and who’d also worked with Father Jerome on occasion. “Do you know that name? He was with Father Jerome for a while, but—not anymore. What happened to him?”
“I know Max, of course.” Emma smiled. “But he’s no longer with us. He had all the fire you could want in a crusader, but Father Jerome was convinced that a role within our organization is not what he was brought here to do. He believed that God had loftier plans for Max.”
“So where is he now?”
“The last I knew, he was renting out a series of condos in southern Spain.”
“Really? That’s what God intended for him?”
She chuckled. “He’s safe, which mattered more. I think Father Jerome worried about Max, but more what your reaction would be if anything happened to him. He often told me that you didn’t believe you were worth the sacrifices of those around you, even when those sacrifices were gladly made.”
Her words struck a hollow spot in my chest I hadn’t realized was there. Father Jerome had been right about that, anyway. I stood abruptly and pulled out my phone again, pointing it at her.
“Well, if Max isn’t in charge here, someone clearly is. There’s a financial component we can track down, if nothing else. I don’t like that you don’t know who’s pulling the strings at the top of this operation, and I don’t like that they seem to know exactly when the next runner will be coming. Father Jerome was entitled to his secrets when he was alive, and I’m not going to lie, I had my own problems to solve. But now that we’ve had our little chat, I’m officially making myself involved again.”
“You don’t need to do that,” she murmured, glancing away. But her fingers were knitting together, almost in prayer.
I smiled gently. “Yeah, I kind of do. Because you’re using my face, and that face can get you in trouble with the wrong pe
ople.”
Her gaze snapped back to me. “But the people who come here need—” she started, and I held up a hand.
“I know. I understand. Really, I do. But that’s all the more reason for you to have more protection than a pistol tucked into your jeans. You’ll be contacted by Ma-Singh, the general of the House of Swords within the next couple of days. Did Father Jerome ever talk about him?”
“He was your head general when you were Mistress of the House of Swords,” Emma said, nodding. “Father Jerome liked him. He felt that if anyone could keep you safe, Ma-Singh could.”
Me safe. I tightened my lips. I wasn’t the problem, here.
“Well, he’s also got the resources of an entire network of Connecteds at his disposal, and more money than he knows what to do with. He also owes me. If you have a way of contacting whoever it is who’s checking in with you, you can let them know he’s coming. The unknown successor can either choose to work with Ma-Singh or he can step out of the way.”
Emma hesitated. “But this unknown successor, as you call him, has been helping us. We’ve been financially supported, and our work has continued uninterrupted.”
“Sure, but he hasn’t once told you who he is—or she is, for that matter—or why he’s being so generous. I don’t like it. It may be completely on the up-and-up, and if so, great. But until we know for sure, I’m calling for a little oversight.”
“On what grounds?” Emma challenged right back, understandably irritated that I was throwing my weight around when I’d been MIA here in Paris for months. She wasn’t belligerent, but she had backbone, and I appreciated that. But she was missing one critical point.
“On the grounds that it’s my face you’re using to convince these people they’re coming to safety, security, and a better way of life. I have no problem with you using my face either. I just want to make sure that we’re delivering on the promises that face is making.
“We?” she asked, looking up at me. I now stared back into the eyes of a young woman with half her face scraped away, the remaining eye glistening with something that looked too much like hope. Once again, my heart gave a hard, sideways knock of guilt.
“We,” I agreed. Keeping the Connected children of the world safe was no longer my only fight. At the same time, it would always be my fight. “We. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
And with that, I stalked away from the ancient church so beloved by the first man I’d ever trusted in this world, the man whose death I’d caused. The man I’d missed more fiercely than I ever imagined I’d miss anyone…until Armaeus Bertrand had vanished before my very eyes.
My phone buzzed again, and I glared down at it. It was a text from Nikki, but I couldn’t quite read the screen. I blinked hard enough to clear the unexpected moisture from my eyes, but still couldn’t make the words make sense.
Armaeus has split. Call ASAP.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t call right away.
Call it a perversion of the spirit, call it fear, call it an excess of caution, I didn’t want confirmation of Nikki’s words. I knew what she was going to tell me, and I was out on the street—alone, exposed. I didn’t want that either. I half walked, half jogged a few blocks in the rough direction of the address Mercault had given me. My side jaunt to the church had taken me farther from my destination, not closer, but I wasn’t heading to Armaeus’s house tonight anymore, anyway. I needed someplace quiet and anonymous where I could regroup. Preferably with free Wi-Fi and coffee.
Bending against an unusually stiff breeze, I turned onto rue Chomel and took in the Hôtel Signature Saint Germain with a sweeping glance. It was midnight, but they’d left a light on for me, because after all, this was Paris. Or at least I assumed that was the reason. I stalked in and immediately felt a warmth that far exceeded a Parisian hotelier’s typical hospitality. My third eye flicked open.
Rolling circuits of energy stretched out to greet me, enveloping me in comfort and relaxation—not enough to trip my psychic triggers, but enough to know that more was going on in this building than turndown service. Was that good for me, or bad? And exactly what would it be like staying in a hotel run by Connecteds?
By the time I reached the counter, an older, competent-looking man had taken up his position behind the counter. “Bonsoir, madame. How long will you be staying with us?”
“Just one night.” I felt the urge to use English as the man had, but I suppressed the perversion to contrariness. One of my abilities was language, and I’d be a fool not to use it. A French-speaking woman was less noticeable roaming the streets of Paris at night than an American, and my accent was flawless.
“Of course, of course.” The man switched back to French without batting an eye, then proceeded to tell me of the amenities of the room and the details of checkout. I paid little attention as I handed over my card. I didn’t know which ID it was attached to, but it scarcely mattered. It would go through. The Arcana Council might have its share of issues, but it had good credit.
My focus shifted to the problem at hand as I eschewed the ancient-looking elevator and mounted the five flights of stairs to my floor—about two flights more than necessary, I decided, but the exercise cleared more of the emotion from my mind and allowed me to center. I entered the room and gave the chic, elegantly spare furnishings a quick glance, then pulled out my phone again and stabbed it on, propping it on the desktop while I settled behind it. I could never remember the time difference when I was traveling, but I thought it was more or less afternoon in Las Vegas. Nikki might not be prepped for a video call, but she was the one who told me to check in.
I should have known better.
“Dollface!” Nikki crowed, her eyes bright and her smile wide beneath an enormous pile of red hair. “Tell me everything. Especially about the food.”
I cracked my first genuine smile of the night. When I’d first met Nikki Dawes, she’d been serving as the occasional chauffeur and even more occasional assistant to the Arcana Council, for reasons that had more to do with her own entertainment than her needing the job. That, and the endless supply of clothing the position seemed to afford her. This afternoon, she was wearing a deep-cut sea-green sequined minidress that left no room for a gun or even a particularly deep breath, while acres of red hair cascaded over her shoulders in Princess Ariel ringlets. She stood back from the table to reach for something I couldn’t see, and I caught sight of the tips of white leather go-go boots—no doubt platform boots, taking Nikki’s already impressive height and boosting it well over six feet tall. Her makeup was flawless—giving her arched eyebrows, glittering lids, contoured cheeks, and dazzlingly dewy lips—and she looked unreasonably energized for someone not on a dance club floor.
“Are you pregaming?” I asked, and she rolled her eyes.
“Vegas hops round the clock, dollface, and so do I. You, however, look like shit. You really should eat something.”
“I’m fine.” I resisted the urge to run my hand over my brow. I was sure I looked only marginally worse than I felt. “Where’s Armaeus? What happened?”
“Two things. First, we briefed him on your talk with Mercault. He seemed way more interested in the gold you scooped out of that cave pool than anything Mercault had to say, by the way, especially the storm goddess totem. You left that with Mercault?”
“Negative. Mercault insisted I take it with me. It’s…uh, somewhere on me.” I glanced down to my jacket with a frown, patting my pockets absently before I realized it was still looped around my neck. “But what did Armaeus say about the dates? Did they trigger him? Is that why he took off, because he remembered something?”
Nikki shook her head. “We don’t think so, because we didn’t give him that part of the briefing.”
That made me sit up. “What do you mean? Kreios is keeping that intel quiet? Why?”
The Devil of the Arcana Council was Armaeus’s best friend in the world, and one of the most strategic members of the Council after the
Magician. He was also currently in charge of the Council, along with the Emperor, which was a cakery of crazy I had no intention of slicing into. But the Magician, I was sure, had his reasons. Just as the Devil had his.
“He isn’t thrilled with Armaeus’s progress, and he didn’t want him haring off before he’d fully recovered. So much for that idea. Worse, we’ve been getting a lot of intel on some new activity on the arcane black market, and we don’t know if there’s a link to what’s going on with the Magician.”
“What kind of intel?”
“Apparently, there’s been an uptick in the technoceutical transactions that have been taking place of late across Europe, with newer and more devastating varieties of psychic-enhancing drugs hitting the market way faster than they should. It’s basically like they’re getting created and packaged and then poofed into existence at key points along the supply chain, but nobody knows who’s doing the poofing or how they’re pulling it off. Because that kind of magic is top-shelf stuff. The Council would know about anyone able to wield that kind of power and—they don’t.”
“Great.” I rubbed my hand over my brow, thinking about Mercault’s comments regarding the unnamed group after me. He’d suspected they had very deep pockets. Did they also have very deep magic? Were they tied to this surge in technoceutical traffic? “We need to get Armaeus’s memories back.”
“Roger that. We’re working on narrowing down some places for you to get started, either Spain or England, given Mercault’s mention of Queen Elizabeth, which puts you in a very tight little nexus of influence, by the way. Kreios didn’t like that either. He said Armaeus would have stored his forgotten memories a bit more broadly if he’d had any amount of time to work with. He thinks we’re missing something.”
I shrugged. I thought the same thing, but it made a certain sort of sense. “England and Spain—and France, for that matter—were doing their level best to declare ownership of everywhere back then. Nothing that says we don’t start in the Old Country but end up in the New. But if you didn’t tell Armaeus what I’d learned, where’d he go?”
