A black leather three-piece suite, polished tile kitchen, resembling the worst, coldest human styles. Right down to a shrieking hussy in an open silk robe, scrambling out of an armchair trying to cover herself up. Flynt pushed her back down, waving his gun shakily. “Not a sound, not one fucking movement.”
He looked at Letty, scarred face unsettling with its dried blood and the raw, trembling emotion in his eye. He was straining to hold back. But he was in control. Just. Letty bore into Nimm. “We’re gonna have a chat and you’re gonna want it to go well, because my mate’s looking to work through some emotions.”
There was no question Nimm had power: despite the big nose, skin patterned by liver spots, and hair coming out of his ears, he owned a pad like this, waited on by this pretty escort. Letty dragged him around the kitchen counter and kicked him onto the sofa. He scrambled back, hands up.
“There’s no need,” he squeaked, “the compound is gone!”
Letty paused. “Compound? Of what?”
Nimm’s face mirrored her confusion. “You’re not here about the septjad?”
“What fucking septjad?”
Nimm looked from one intruder to the other, worry mounting as he reassessed the situation. His eyes rested on Flynt, with a gasp. “No – they’re preparing it now, in response – you don’t think I had something to do with Edwing . . .”
Flynt’s face hardened. “There a reason we should?”
“Shit.” Letty stepped between them. This was supposed to be the safer, subtler option, going for the guy knee-deep in the why without losing their cool chasing murderers. To Nimm, she said, “We’re not here for your fucking compound and we don’t think you killed anyone. You’re gonna take us to the Dispenser, your other fucking sins can wait.”
“What do you mean? There’s no –”
“‘There’s no question I’ll do exactly as you ask, Letty, it’s wonderful?’” Letty’s fist was raised, making Nimm push himself deep into the sofa.
“But why? The Dispenser is secure –”
“Not as long as Val’s got a hand in it, it’s not! Tell me you’re not trying to sabotage the thing? Make like it never worked?”
“Of course not, why would we?” He genuinely didn’t follow.
Letty explained, slowly, “Because Val doesn’t want us to retake the Sunken City.” It only softened Nimm’s features, the threat diminishing as he grasped the nature of the misunderstanding.
“But disabling the Dispenser has nothing to do with that.”
Letty cocked her head to one side. He was almost smiling as he saw she didn’t have the first clue what Val and her people were up to, even regarding the Dispenser. She met Flynt’s eye again, and could see the same concern caught him. He needed clear, cold retaliation – what the hell was this?
“Explain,” Letty said, holstering her pistol.
“You’re Letty, aren’t you? I –” Nimm cut off his attempt to get friendly as she unsheathed her big old hunting knife.
“Explain well,” she advised.
He swallowed. “Valoria sought to conceal the Dispenser, yes, but only to avoid public concern. There’s no need to risk disabling it, it could be easily recreated, and” – he hurried on, past Letty’s startled reaction – “anyway no Fae would use it, or could use it, safely. The energy it sends out – surely you understand, the interplay with dust production, with electric weed as a fuel – it could kill us.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What’s electric weed got to do with dust?”
“They’re the same genus,” Nimm said, surprised at her not knowing. “There’s similar energy stored in dust fungus. Different strains, but similar enough to make the weapon’s discharge dangerous. It could create a chain reaction – essentially drawing on that same energy in us.”
“You . . .” Letty focused on the edge of the knife, trying to keep calm. “You already understand it. You understood it before?”
The scientist twisted in the seat, appealing to Flynt for reason. “Yes, well. The issue with the Dispenser was never that we couldn’t rebuild it. We can neutralise Sunken City energy in controlled conditions, with the right materials. The unknown is what comes next.”
Letty dragged a hand over her face. Of fucking course. She shouldn’t be surprised, after Val’s betrayal, with all this about the Fae settling into their transitional culture. They weren’t ever waiting on her for salvation, the one person that could find the Dispenser. It was always replaceable and they let her believe otherwise. For nine years. Nine fucking years. She threw her knife with a snarl – half the blade sank into a wall, the impact making Nimm jump out of his seat. She said, “You fucking . . .”
Flynt moved past her, quickly. In front of Nimm.
“How many people know about this?” he demanded. “How many people know we already had the means to fight the creatures down there?”
“Plenty!” Nimm blurted out, frightened eyes on Letty. “It’s not a well-kept secret. Half the workers in the vats must have an idea of it – knowing where dust comes from –”
“What the fuck’s that mean,” Letty snapped, “where dust comes from?”
“We cultivate a – a particular type of energy.” Nimm’s voice wavered. “The similarities in the Sunken City creatures are obvious. Likewise, how we might neutralise it –”
“So what’s your damn unknown?” Letty said.
Nimm stared gravely. “Many tools were tested, before Valoria took power. The Dispenser was merely the last of them. They worked, of course they worked, but the berserker never stayed neutralised.”
“Didn’t . . .” Letty trailed off. They’d actually tested it – attacked the berserker before, that amorphous minotaur, the Ministry’s protected praelucente. The heart of it all. They had hurt it? “This is bullshit. Why not keep trying until it was gone?”
“Because it’s next to impossible for Fae to get close unharmed! All for the possibility of removing a force of energy that’s likely to come back?”
“But the humans can –”
“Work with humans? For what? We have the resources to expand our dust production here, what more does the Sunken City offer, worth that risk?”
“A home!” Letty shouted. “It’s our fucking home! It belongs to us!”
Nimm looked at her like she was mad. “But you can’t honestly believe it? Those tunnels weren’t made for the Fae – I would say quite the opposite.”
Letty glared hard, unsure exactly where to direct her anger. Valoria, the lying snake. This whole society, implicitly following her abandonment of the place Letty always aimed to return them to. How many scores of people were simply ignoring that option? She turned to the pretty escort in the armchair, sat in terrified silence, and said, “You know about this?”
The woman shook her head quickly, lost in fear.
“Reckon there’s ordinary Fae that would like to know? Might kick up a fuss?”
The woman nodded desperately, agreeing with whatever Letty might say. Flynt came in, speaking low: “Of course they would. Else it wouldn’t be secret. Else they wouldn’t have killed my brother.”
Nimm swallowed uncomfortably. “That is not my area. Your brother – Valoria would not have dared. She didn’t think it necessary. And the things that have been said about you” – he gave Letty a look – “it is politics. All she wants is security.”
Letty frowned. None of it was anything to do with him, from his perspective. “You thought we were here for something else. What’s this compound?”
Nimm went quiet again.
“Speak,” Letty said, leaning closer to him again, “or I’ll cut your fingers off.”
He croaked, “The Stabilisers are distributing the septjad compound across Ordshaw, as an insurance, to be ready for when the Council meet this afternoon. With the humans moving in the tunnels nearby, and now Edwing’s death, it’s our answer – but only as a threat – I thought you came to make it a reality.”
“I asked what the fuck it is.
”
“Uh. A poison, water soluble, virtually untraceable. Cultured in Russia. Perfectly harmless in its current state, but placed in a water supply it becomes deadly. A way to disable high-profile humans.”
Letty glowered. A poison from fucking Russia. A chemical weapon. The boxes that had been in the room with the Dispenser, all covered in Cyrillic. A gift from the Rostov Fae? Their closest neighbouring Fae community were a collective of unscrupulous psychos who experimented in vile, vicious technology. Perfect examples of what happened when Fae gave up on being civilised. Which was actually most Fae, most places. If anyone knew effective ways to kill humans, Rostov would. While Letty was itching to get back a weapon that was apparently never special, Val’s people were preparing something that clearly was. “Val’s going to threaten Ordshaw? Poison the humans?”
“She’s planning…” Nimm averted his eyes, scared to repeat the governor’s spin. “It’s merely for the purposes of negotiation.”
“Fuck’s sake. Where the hell do we find it?”
“Why?” Nimm asked. “After what they did to Edwing, surely you want –”
“The humans didn’t do that!” Letty told him viciously. “If anything, Val planned this shit herself. How the fuck do we stop it?”
“You’re too late,” Nimm said. “By now, it’s already in position across the city.”
Near Monroe’s derelict lair, waiting on word from Sam Ward, Pax leant against the stolen car and reflected on her terrible choices. The car in itself was bad; the second time she’d committed grand theft auto in a week. Now she was wanted for murder, too, alongside suspicions for associating with dangerous criminals. Before this, the worst crimes she’d committed involved recreational drugs and drinking underage.
“About a half-mile walk to the FTC from here,” Fresko mused from the car roof.
“Trying to make me feel better?” Pax said. He shrugged, not bothered how she felt. Mix was even less interested, standing further away, puffing on another Fae cigar.
“Never knew these guys were here, that’s all,” Fresko said. “Big city, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Pax said. “But then a pint of beer would be big for you.”
“Listen.” Fresko took a breath. Something on his mind. “Before you go get yourself killed, I gotta say. Things got out of hand before. Mistakes were made. Things happened. Okay?”
It almost sounded like an apology. Pax said, “One of you shot me in the leg.”
Fresko looked her up and down. “You’re walking, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” What was the use. They’d saved her now. “I guess I’m glad you had a change of heart.”
“For today,” Mix told her. “Or until someone makes us a better offer.”
As Pax regarded him warily, Fresko said, “Ignore him. It obviously wasn’t Letty, or you, that screwed us. They weren’t ever letting us back in the FTC.”
Pax folded her arms over her chest, watching the road. “Yeah, we’re all victims. Look, you’d better clear off. Seeing as you don’t play nice with the Ministry.”
“Uh-huh,” Fresko said. “But if they don’t kill you outright, come find us. I’m interested in what happens next.”
“Find you where?”
“Palleday’s. Couldn’t say your Ministry won’t track you, but the Stabilisers should steer clear, considering him neutral, near as I know.”
The casual suggestion said they knew she’d already been there. How long had they been following her? When the Ministry was supposed to have her back . . .
Fresko shouldered his rifle and signalled to Mix it was time to go. The pair lifted off. Pax watched them flying with birdlike grace, becoming dark shapes against the cloud. How many times had people seen such sights, assuming delicate birds or big insects, when it was in fact a sweary little man with an attitude? There was something to be said for how far she’d come, and all she’d learnt, no matter where she’d ended up.
Checking the road again, she had another thought. How often did people survive learning these truths? And as if on cue, something throbbed in her. Her fingers tingled, something happening, movement, somewhere far off. The minotaur was feeding again. Drawing energy. It barely felt surprising now, tapping into whatever they were up to. She closed her eyes and focused.
Out east, moving north. The horde was getting closer. The screens were still together. Surrounding their minotaur and drawing energy like limpets. But they were reaching out, probing with tiny transfers. Interacting with their tunnel networks, or their monsters? It was too faint to tell, and faded as fast as it came.
Pax opened her eyes to the road again. Much calmer this time than before. Had she somehow triggered that feeling herself? A little casual probing. Ward would be here soon, and they could figure that out together. Once they overcame the Monroe mess. One step at a time. Provided Ward wasn’t coming to shoot her.
13
“You said she had a connection to the monsters. What’d you mean by that?”
Casaria avoided looking at Obrington as they drove to the address Ward’s Support team had found for them. If he concentrated on the oaf’s face for more than a few seconds he was going to punch him. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Obrington echoed. “Slipped your memory between hurling insults liable to get you hurt?”
The prick. Casaria saved his life, didn’t he? That two-bit thug would’ve choked him, and where was the thanks? Somewhere behind vague threats of losing his job or violence. Like this overweight buffoon could match him in a brawl. Casaria would break his knees.
“I wasn’t thinking.” It was true, he hadn’t meant to say it. Obviously he wasn’t going to share Pax’s secret, not if Pax and Sam Ward had kept it hidden. “I meant these criminals. She understands them.”
Obrington hummed a sceptical noise.
On the radio, they were discussing the city’s news. Someone commented, “It’s Ordshaw, Steve – they don’t exactly have the same building standards there, do they? Don’t they say, those that can, do; those that can’t move to Ordshaw.”
Seeing Casaria’s glower, Obrington said, “Funny because it’s true, no?”
“Funny,” Casaria replied with venom, “is the thought that people don’t even realise how special this city is. You’ve no idea how important it is, what we do.”
Obrington gave him a cock-eyed look. “You think what you do is important, but undermine it by being an insubordinate ass? How about that.”
Casaria didn’t deign to respond.
They were entering the outskirts of West Farling, and the affluent neighbourhood reminded him it wasn’t monsters they were regulating, here, but people. Casaria thought of Pax and that unassuming teenager, Grace. Obrington had shot a man in the face, in the tunnels. He might’ve killed the small one, too, if there weren’t so many loose ends. What Casaria did was important, because he kept the Sunken City in order without ruining the lives above. He didn’t beat up defenceless people, or resort so quickly to murder.
He decided he did have a response, after all: “It’s become clear we need to question Management’s decisions if we’re to do our work properly.”
“Is that so,” Obrington replied. “There’s assuming you know how to do your job properly. Where’d we get to, before, when we were interrupted? Think I was asking, how exactly was it that the only agent to die in the Sunken City in six years did so on Casaria’s watch?”
He clearly had an axe to grind over Gant’s death. “If you’re looking to crucify me, I’m sure you’ll find an excuse. Your type usually do.”
“You’re not shy, are you. Whatever my type is, Casaria, you’ve plainly got a lot to account for. You didn’t get on with the young lad, did you?”
“Did he file a report?”
“After he got killed?” Obrington made Casaria face him. The big man was staring, ignoring the road for longer than was safe. Casaria broke eye contact first. “You believe you’re a good agent, don’t you?”
The
y were passing ever-bigger houses, some of Ordshaw’s grander mansions. Typical of a man like Monroe, living amongst the elite. It’d be good blowing off some steam here. Casaria said, “I put myself on the line, every day, to keep this city safe. I do that well, on my own, because I understand those tunnels and those monsters. I only have problems” – he directed this at Obrington – “when other people bring them to me.”
For a moment, he couldn’t tell if the wide-mouthed goon was going to keep pushing. Obrington focused on the road, and said curiously, “You’d lay down your life for this city, would you?”
“Any day of the week,” Casaria said. Hadn’t he already proved that, saving Pax and the civilians? Ready to take their secrets to the grave, toe severed while tied to a dentist’s chair? A knife in his gut? A shield for Pax when she faced the grugulochs?
Obrington was quiet. Hopefully thinking the same.
A short distance down a hill, they pulled up next to a red-brick mansion, square and tasteless, the grass and bushes of its large open driveway trimmed so neatly it could’ve all been artificial. “This is it, isn’t it?”
The car rocked as Obrington heaved his weight out the door. Casaria exited the other side, pulling his jacket closed over his gun. He studied the road, quiet. Obrington looked unimpressed. “Where’s the others got to, then?”
“Sam Ward is very strict on the rules of the road,” Casaria suggested, checking the car in Monroe’s driveway. A gleaming black Porsche, most likely belonging to a trophy wife half built of plastic.
Obrington had his phone out, dialling. No answer after a long wait. He grunted and tried another number, with no answer there, either. With the third call, he said, “Tori, anything from Ward or Landon?”
The Sunken City Trilogy Page 85
