Final Kill (Cain University Book 3)

by Lucy Auburn

  The Black Serpent is dead.

  My father's closest friend, and the man who knew what happened to him in his final moments, is gone forever.

  I feel a strange, hollow kind of grief. For a moment, at least. Then I remember how he kidnapped me, and a bit of common sense overtakes me. Reaching down, I grab his beautiful, well-stocked knife belt, and take it for myself.

  He won't be needing it anymore, after all.

  Chapter 16

  After the ashes of Brutus's stolen body blew into a mound at the edge of my force field, Mason found a vase, and I scooped what I could into it using my powers, watching the ashes swirl around with a strange kind of grief in my throat. I couldn't stop wondering what it means to mourn a father you never met.

  There was only one thing to do with the remains.

  My father and mother will be together again, in death if nowhere else.

  "I can't believe no one noticed this was empty." Brushing my hands against the clean marble of my father's drawer in the Arizona mausoleum, I wonder how many people spoke words in front of it. "Let's open it up and put him to rest, finally."

  But the drawer isn't empty. It has ashes in it—of a sort. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of them, until a sniff from Killer reveals they're not human at all—his olfactory senses can tell the difference even if I can't. They're just regular fireplace ashes, with a faint scent of wood on them.

  I've been learning how to look through Penny's eyes as she curls up on my shoulders, and use Killer's nose when I need it, but I've also discovered a strange kind of peace with not being able to see things, through my own eyes or others. I would still give anything to have my sight back, especially if I got to keep my powers, but I can't say that it's in even the top ten of my current list of worries.

  Not with so much going on in my personal life, and so many threats out there.

  I came so close to losing Wyatt today. It could've been worse. When we got back to the room where we trapped Cleopatra, Shu and Covington were there, putting her in cuffs both physical and magical. She's now been remanded into Shadow Fold custody—whatever that means. Hopefully they're figuring out a way to make stabbing her to death stick.

  Meanwhile, I have a father to put to rest. And no idea what to say about any of it. There's a brief moment of relief when Wyatt pulls the drawer out and walks the entire thing outside to dump the fake ashes onto the ground, until he returns, and I'm force to reckon with the fact that I'm saying goodbye to a man I never knew—one who made me who I am: a killer.

  As I stand in front of the open drawer, aware of the space inside but unable to see it—Penny has decided to watch a fly instead—a hand brushes against mine. Long, cool fingers twine in my grip. The world becomes colorful and visible again.

  "You don't have to say anything," Grayson reassures me in a low voice. "Your father already had a funeral."

  It's true, he did. My mom had photos of it in her photo album. He was laid to rest the way any veteran would be, with honor and respect.

  There's just one question on my mind.

  A question that's been nagging at me, that I can't seem to let go no matter how hard I try.

  "Do you think she knew?"

  "Knew what?"

  I swallow, and raise my voice, so the others can hear me. "Do you think my mother knew that it wasn't my father's ashes she was interring here after he supposedly died?"

  My words seem to fill up all the empty air in the mausoleum, so that there's nothing left for anyone to use to speak. Eve coughs, then blushes, and stares down at her toes. Even Killer looks awkwardly away from me and licks his lips like he's hoping no one will call on him.

  Grayson, of course, is the one who says, "You could ask her."

  I could, I realize. Now that I have my powers back, I can speak to ghosts again. That includes my mother—who may even be easier to summon now that I've grown stronger because of my weakness developing.

  It's possible I could see so much more now than ever before.

  As I pour my father's ashes into his resting place, my closest friend, four Conduits, and two precocious pets at my side, I don't say anything at all. I just think of him: that wide smile, those bright eyes, how much joy he seemed to bring to those around him, the strength and power he must have had that someone as immortal as Brutus himself would want his body as a vessel for his soul.

  I swear, for just a moment, I see his smile curving up in my direction, as his spirit briefly stands in the family mausoleum where one day I, too, will rest.

  Then he disappears, and all I'm left with is a pile of ash and other people's memories.

  My new necklace sings to me.

  Things back on campus aren't normal again—not quite yet, at least. There are still students to account for, including not just the now-dead Carter, but others who disappeared during the battle. Shu needs to recover, and she's not the only one; apparently Cleopatra got a little liberal with the stabbity stab as she searched the campus for Wyatt so she could give his body to her boyfriend.

  We are, apparently, supposed to take two days off and go back to classes as usual afterwards. "Usual" here being a relative term. But I guess there are always shitty people all across the globe who need murdering, and the next generation of assassins ready to do it have to be trained. Moving past trauma seems to be part of the general blasé culture of this place.

  I can't say I mind it. I'm not one for hugs and therapy myself. The little I experienced of it in jail, mostly the dreaded group therapy, left me thinking maybe only people who have actually lived through awful shit should help others get through it themselves. And I'm not sure patient-doctor confidentiality extends to things like, hey doc, I'm kinda training to be a full-time assassin, and also I've already killed people on assignment.

  Still, it would be nice to get a little acknowledgment. We did beat back an invasion—for the most part, save for poor Carter, and miserable Connor-not-Lionel. The future we walked through came to pass, and somehow we're still alive through it.

  You haven't seen how Grayson's ordeal wound up happening, a little voice in my head reminds me. He was injured when Brutus first attacked, but he never said those words again. You were the "her" he needed to say something to. Something about his feelings.

  I ignore the little voice. The future changes. Sure, he was injured, and maybe at some point he did walk through the rain looking for me without his cane, while I was blind and unaware what the fuck was going on. Or maybe it hasn't happened yet, or didn't happen exactly as I saw it. For all I know I was never the "she" he mentioned in my vision.

  Looking into the future is dangerous. Figuring out what to do with what you've seen is impossible. I'd rather see the apocalypse again than Grayson struggling in the rain, blood seeping through his clothes, talking to himself with despair in his voice.

  Now that I have my powers back, I have so many questions. The first of which has to do with a little necklace sitting beneath my chest. There's only one person, dead or alive, who I think can answer my questions about it—and the best way to get those answers is to get a little help from one of my Conduits.

  Grayson.

  "This is about your father's spirit, isn't it," he says in lieu of a hello as he answers the door, fresh out of the shower, his hair damply curled against his neck. "I saw it when we laid him to rest. You have questions for him."

  I blink at him, using Killer's eyes to observe his face. From the dog's lower vantage point it's hard to tell what Grayson is thinking or feeling, but even if I had my own eyes to look through that would likely still be true. He's always been a little opaque.

  "You've got me figured out, but I feel like I barely know you at all sometimes."

  "You know me better than most, Ellen."

  Grabbing a hand towel, he fluffs up his hair while I watch him, noticing from KillerVision how he gets around without his cane, leaning against things, using his hands, and keeping weight off his left leg. It's hard to watch it from such a close vantage point,
but as in all things, he's managed to adapt without complaint.

  I can see the way his shoulders tense, though, and how an occasional shudder of pain goes through him. Grabbing his cane from where it leans up against the bathroom wall, he turns to me and says, "Let's find a good place to do this. Somewhere the ghost of your dead father won't freak people out—his likeness was just used to attack the campus, after all, and I'm not so sure everyone will be understanding."

  "Of course. There's an empty training gym—practice sessions were canceled, at least for today." Glancing over his shoulder, I dare to ask, "Where's Wyatt at?"

  "The infirmary, being checked out. He's fine—before you start freaking for no reason. They want to make sure there are no lingering health issues associated with the spells Cleopatra used on him. It should be fine."

  Grayson tries to sound certain and reassuring, but something about his voice rings hollow to my newly blind-adjusted ears. I can tell that he's a little worried himself, maybe even scared on Wyatt's behalf. We came so close to losing him, and Wyatt is his closest friend, even among the four of them—he has to be just as concerned as I am.

  I have to believe that his strength will get him through, though. Especially because we managed to interrupt the spell before it could do any serious damage. If I ever manage to get my hands on Cleopatra again, though, I'll show her that the Shadow Fold have nothing on my torture techniques. I think I could invent a few from scratch in just a few minutes alone with her.

  "Let's go," Grayson says, setting his cane down with a purpose and brushing past me through the doorway. "The dead don't summon themselves—usually."

  He leaves the lingering scent of aftershave and shampoo in the air, making my breath catch in ways I don't dare think about too closely. Of all my Conduits, Grayson is the most distant, the most mysterious, the one with the greatest pain—and he understands me more than I thought possible, especially right now.

  Sometimes I can feel how much he wants and needs me.

  Other times he feels further away than anything, like a distant star whose light was shining hours or days ago and just now got to me.

  As he heads down the hallway, I pull his door and follow, Killer at my side like the seeing eye dog he basically is. Biting my lower lip, I ask Grayson, "Should we... hold hands?"

  "You sound like a middle schooler," he says, only now his voice is full of affection, instead of the rancor he used on me when we first knew each other. "We can wait until we get there to hold hands. Better not to become co-dependent—you or me."

  I admit, to myself as much as him, "I don't know how I'm going to manage being blind. Even with Killer's eyes, I feel like..."

  "A part of you is missing?"

  "That. But also, it's like I can't live independently anymore. I have to rely on other people... or animals. Even though I wouldn't give up my powers for the world, it's still... I don't even know the word."

  "Bittersweet." I can hear the wistfulness in his voice as he says, "I would give anything to be able to run again. Anything at all. The moments I have where the pain is gone are like nothing I've ever dreamed of in my life, but running... it's one of the things I didn't think I'd miss until it was gone."

  "Like when you have a bad bout of the flu, and the first full, untroubled breath of air is the sweetest there is."

  "Or seeing the sun after days, weeks even of miserable weather."

  I know what he means. Every time I hold one of my Conduits' hands, the relief is immeasurable—but so is the fear that I won't be able to let go, this time or the next. Even now, as we walk slowly but surely towards the training room, Killer at my side, nothing stopping me from seeing the path in front of us clearly, the temptation to grab his hand is impossible to ignore completely.

  This must be what a dry drunk feels like each time a bottle of vodka is unscrewed. Only in my case, the vodka is my Conduits—and taking a drink is an inevitable part of my life these days.

  The power and strength of my Affinities, especially when my Conduits and I are connected, is nothing compared to the relief I felt while fighting Brutus when my weakness was gone. For those few moments of bliss, I could see with my own eyes, and didn't need to be anchored to anyone's hand.

  I'd give anything to have that be my life permanently, and it scared me a little to know that.

  Thankfully, I have someone to confide in who feels the same as me: Grayson Hughes, once the biggest bastard of them all, now the only other person I really feel understands me inside and out.

  As I open my mouth to tell him, "I don't know if I can—" his voice overlaps me with an, "It's hard, resisting the urge."

  Licking my lips, I nod, curling my fingers up towards my palm. "Is it stronger to say no, or will I be stronger if I give in?"

  "Let's find out."

  With a boldness that was unheard of in the days after we first met and learned of our connection to each other, he reaches out across the simple divide between us and grabs onto me like a boat coming ashore and dropping anchor. The world rushes past me, yet I remain firmly planted, unaffected by all its comings and goings.

  I can see the pain drain from his face with my own eyes. It's an expression I'll never forget, one that makes him young and open, and just a little vulnerable. I memorize every soft curve and yearning line of him anyway, wanting to know him in these moments where he can lift his cane up off the ground and put equal weight on both his legs.

  He seems to marvel at every unassisted step he takes.

  Just like I marvel at being able to see the sun stream in through the courtyard, and feeling his hand in mine, his palm soft and cupped slightly away, like he's afraid to touch me too closely. I hold onto him tight, closing the distance.

  It feels like we come to the empty training room too soon. Everything is a little still inside, as if the weapons racks and protective gear are just as shellshocked by another campus attack as we are. Killer walks inside and curls up on a mat he finds, his eyes watching my every movement.

  Penny, of course, is asleep back at Eve's place, no doubt curled up in the middle of her great big bed, annoying the shit out of its owner. She's a cat, after all. Most of what they do is sleep and lick themselves.

  "What now?" I turn to Grayson, staring into the depths of his blue eyes, and wonder how I ever found them to be cold. "I just... ask my dad about the mysterious necklace? He might not even show up."

  "It doesn't hurt to try. Now that your weakness has settled into place, you should be able to tap into your powers more easily. And if your father's body being used by Brutus was keeping him from being completely at rest, then he'll be easier to summon and speak to."

  I hope so. It was frustrating summoning him for the first time only to get very little in the way of answers. I suppose I had my hopes up—after all, for so long Vincent Arizona was more myth than man, a legend who I'd never get to know. Maybe a long father-daughter chat was too much to expect, but it would be nice at least to get some answers about the questions that frequently plague me.

  Including how much of a killer he was while acting as a member of the Shadow Fold.

  With Grayson's hand in mine, we walk to the center of the training room and face each other. His eyes search my face for a moment, dip down to my lips, then meet my gaze directly. I find myself taking in a little gasp of breath, as if for a moment I forgot to breathe.

  "The necklace," he says, and it takes me a few seconds to catch up to the meaning behind his words. "If you want to ask your dad about it..."

  "Right!"

  Pulling it out from my shirt, I'm cognizant of the heat of my skin that it's warmed to. It doesn't seem to activate completely unless the five of us are all connected together in some way, but there's still a prickling spark of something like static electricity that runs through my fingers as I touch it. The necklace is aware, just as much as I am, that I'm touching Grayson right now.

  And staring into the cool blue of his eyes.

  And wondering what would happen if I
took a little step forward and tilted up my chin...

  Concentrate, Ellen. Now isn't the time. Or maybe it is, but I still have questions that need answers.

  Maybe afterwards, I can find out if Grayson is still afraid of becoming addicted to my touch. And now, if I'm afraid of becoming dependent on his. There's nothing quite so exquisite as being able to look into his sharply handsome face with my own eyes. I might be willing to go to great lengths for more of that.

  Shaking off the thoughts, I think of my father, Vincent Arizona, the man I never knew: how my mother looked when she spoke of them, her eyes softening; the stories his old Air Force buddies used to tell; the framed photos that took up more space in the house than photos of the living; and how it felt the first time I made the connection between my paternity and my powers, realizing I was connected to the man by more than just the blood in my veins and the stories I was told.

  I don't think about the way his body looked when Brutus was behind the wheel.

  But I do consider, for a moment, the mausoleum drawer. The ashes of what could have been: a relationship with the man who made me who I am today. And despite myself, my eyes fill a little with tears, as I realize just how unmoored I am from any kind of familial history.

  The last of the Arizonas.

  It's time to get some answers.

  His spirit appears slowly, fading into view like the first frame of an old movie, only to grow clearer and more opaque as the seconds pass. Grayson turns to look at him, and he briefly studies my Conduit, before eyeing me with more presence than his spirit has ever had before.

  "Ellen." His voice comes easily, clearly; I dare to hope that I'll get to have an entire conversation with him. Then he says, "I don't have much time. What can I do for you?"