In this dream, I walked through a fancy cemetery.
Well. I suppose the proper term is “memorial garden,” one of those nice park-like cemeteries where the dead are interred in tombs that look like big marble file cabinets standing ten drawers high. Metal letters on the front of the marble drawers show the name and dates of the deceased, and there’s usually a little symbol to indicate whether they were Catholics or Lutherans or Masons or veterans or whatever.
Every single drawer said the same thing.
NADIA MORAN read each drawer.
Under that was a cheery little epitaph.
SHE DIED AGAIN AND AGAIN. SHE DIED AND WENT TO HELL AND CAME BACK. SHE DIED AND IT BROKE HER.
I wandered down the aisles of my tombs, my shoes clicking against the marble paving stones. In every direction, I saw more tombs, more and more tombs, all of them marked with my name. And why not? I had died fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and nineteen times, so why shouldn’t there be fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and nineteen tombs with my name on it?
Maybe this was the last death. Maybe I was about to die for the fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and twentieth and final time.
I reached an intersection of two aisles of tombs. I found myself in a little park, with a fountain and a garden of massive flowers, stone benches ringing the fountain. A plinth of white marble rose from the center of the fountain, and atop the fountain stood a woman. She was short and wore a heavy gray sweater, a long black pea coat, black jeans, and black running shoes. Her brown hair had been pulled in a ragged ponytail, and her gray eyes glittered with feverish intensity. Her face was haggard, maybe a little gaunt, and did not look healthy.
I was looking at myself.
Huh. I did look like hell, come to think of it.
The flowers shivered. I looked down and saw that they were closed.
Once more the flowers shivered, and then every single one of them opened at once.
Faces stared at me from inside the flowers, pallid and dead. There was Paul McCade, who I had fought the first time I had encountered the Dark Ones. Sergei Rogomil, who I had killed in Milwaukee. Armand Boccand, who I had hunted and then allied with against Corbisher. Baron Castomyr, who I had killed in La Crosse. Rosalyn Madero, Morvilind’s former shadow agent turned court artificer for the Knight of Venomhold.
“Look at me,” whispered Rosalyn’s head, her dead eyes turning towards me. “I am your future. I was once as you are now, and you will be as I am now.”
“Come, join us,” said Sergei Rogomil’s head. “We wait for you in death.”
“You’ll fail,” said Russell’s head, blood leaking from his eyes. “You’ll fail and follow me to the grave…”
I snarled, summoned magic, and hurled a fireball that consumed the garden of twisted flowers. The liquid in the fountain exploded as if it was gasoline, and the replica of myself on the plinth burned alive. I watched my clothes take fire, watched my hair burn, watched my flesh char and crisp.
“It is inevitable.”
I turned.
A short man in a black suit stood a few paces away, watching me burn. He was middle-aged and handsome, with olive colored-skin, graying black hair, and black eyes like pits into nothingness.
The Forerunner. The herald of the Dark Ones on earth, older than human history. The founder of the Dark Ones cults, and the man who had made the deal with Morvilind that had forced me to work for Nicholas.
“You,” I spat.
“It is inevitable,” repeated the Forerunner. “We have consumed many worlds, and your world and the world of the Elves are next.”
“Are you really here?” I said. “Or is this just a stupid dream?”
The Forerunner smiled. “Perhaps I am real wherever darkness dwells in the hearts of men.”
“That’s a bullshit answer, and you know it.”
The Forerunner blinked, and then laughed. “Indeed. Then behold a true answer. Look and see the future.”
He pointed upward, and I saw the sky was burning.
The sky was burning because of the hammer.
It was a hammer made of molten fire, as large as the world itself.
“Operation Sky Hammer,” I said.
“Do you know what your race fails to understand about history?” said the Forerunner.
I looked at him.
“You think of history as something forgotten,” said the Forerunner. “As bones lying in the dust of the past. Nothing could be further from the truth. The past lies unquietly in its shallow grave. You poke the bones…and then the skeletal hands reach from the earth to strangle you. Behold!”
The land changed. I was standing on a freeway outside a major American city. I didn’t recognize it. New York? Los Angeles? Maybe a mixture of both.
Children ran past me, thousands of children, desperate to get away. Their mothers ran with them, some carrying babies, some grabbing their children’s hands and helping them run along. Something terrible was about to happen.
Then I saw Nicholas.
He held that colossal hammer of molten fire, raised it high over his head, and brought it thundering down.
“No!” I shouted, drawing power for a spell.
It was too late.
Nicholas drove the hammer into the ground.
There was a brilliant flash of light, and fire swept through the city, incinerating it in an instant, turning the skyscrapers into infernos. The wall of the firestorm howled out of the city, roaring up the freeway and turning the children into twisted black husks.
I screamed in rage and started a spell to kill Nicholas, and then the wall of fire hit me, and everything vanished.
I drifted in nothingness for a long time after that.
Then I started to become aware of things. Maybe they were dreams. Maybe they were real events filtering to my tired mind.
Someone carrying me, my arms and legs hanging limp.
The clatter of plastic wheels against concrete. Harsh lights overhead. Was I on a gurney?
A woman’s voice speaking with a strong English accent. She sounded alarmed.
I think I saw Murdo then. He was arguing with two people. I couldn’t make out their faces. One was an old man in a suit, the second was a tall woman with dark skin.
A constant beeping noise and the smell of antiseptic.
And then, bit by bit, I regained consciousness.
I opened my eyes.
There was a gray concrete wall in front of me. I turned my head and saw that I was in a concrete room with steel rafters. There was a slow, steady beeping noise in my ears. I was lying propped up in a bed, something cool and soft against my body. Was I naked? I looked down at myself and saw that I was wearing a hospital gown, the blanket pulled up to my chest. There was a plastic clip on the middle finger of my right hand, and I grunted and pulled it off.
The slow beep turned to a steady electronic tone. I saw a rack of medical equipment next to the bed. A heart monitor, that was it.
The door opened, and a fiftyish woman in blue medical scrubs stepped inside. I felt like I should have been alarmed, but I was too groggy to do anything.
“Hi,” I said. “Am I dead?”
“Apparently not,” said the nurse. She leaned back out the door. “She’s awake.”
The nurse stepped into the hallway, and Rory Murdo took her place. He was wearing a three-piece suit similar to the one he had worn on the day I had met him, and he looked…
Relieved. Overwhelmingly relieved.
I didn’t get it. We had just met. Why did he give a damn about what happened to me?
Still, it was nice that someone cared.
“Miss Stoker,” he said, stopping by the edge of the bed.
“Mr. Murdo,” I said. I blinked. “Um…is that a water bottle?”
He nodded and handed it to me. “Though you might be thirsty.”
My mouth felt like the desert outside of Red Ditch. “You’re a saint.” I opened the bottle and drank two-thirds of it in about five
seconds. While I did that, Murdo grabbed a folding chair from the wall, slid it over, and sat next to the bed.
“You probably have a lot of questions,” said Murdo, “so we should start with that.”
“Yeah.” I took another drink of water, a smaller one this time. “First. Uh. How long was I out?”
“Nine days,” said Murdo. “It’s March 22nd.”
I rubbed my face. “Good God.” That was the longest I had ever been unconscious after the regeneration spell, but I had never used it after getting shot four times. “Okay. Next question. Where am I?”
“Manhattan,” said Murdo.
I blinked. “Manhattan. Where in Manhattan?”
“John Doe Hospital.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said.
“Not many people have,” said Murdo. “Certain private organizations operate out of New York. Sometimes their members take injuries, and they want the injuries treated quietly and off the books. Hence, the John Doe Hospital.”
I frowned. “This is a Rebel place?”
Murdo shook his head. “No. They won’t work with the Rebels or the Dark Ones cultists. Fortunately, I still have some friends in the organizations that bankroll the Hospital, and they let us in.”
I finished off the water, and Murdo took the bottle. “So, um…what happened? After I passed out, I mean.”
“I managed to get out of DC without getting arrested or questioned,” said Murdo. “After that, I headed up here to have a trustworthy doctor look at you.”
“Trustworthy?” I said.
“Keeps his mouth shut after getting bribed,” said Murdo. “You…that was an Elven regeneration spell you cast, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
His frown deepened. “How did you learn to do that? I’ve never heard of a human who could cast that spell, not even a shadow agent.”
“Like I told you,” I said. “Something bad happened to me. I learned the hard way.” I didn’t want to dwell on that, so I kept talking. “Have you talked to Nicholas?”
Murdo scowled. “Yes. He called a few hours after the attack. He claimed to have no idea who was behind it. He wanted us to head back to base and hand over the video, but I refused. I told him I wasn’t going to come back until you were healthy, and then I hung up on him. He’s tried to call a few times after, but I didn’t pick up.”
“Good,” I said. “It was probably Corbisher. That attack…it was custom-made to kill me.”
Murdo nodded. “The Seal of Unmasking. They knew you could Cloak, and they were prepared for it. Else you could have just Cloaked and shot them all in the back.”
“That would have been easier,” I said.
A thought occurred to me. Murdo had said we were in Manhattan. And Riordan had told me that the Shadow Hunters were based out of Manhattan.
“Murdo,” I said. “Who pays for this hospital?”
Murdo shrugged. “Various organizations. There are private organizations that the High Queen allows to function so long as they don’t cross her and are helpful to her.”
“Is the Family of the Shadow Hunters one of those organizations?” I said.
“I think so, yes,” said Murdo. “Why?”
“Shit.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “We need to get out of here, now.”
“Why?” said Murdo. “We’re safe enough here.”
“Maybe we are,” I said, pushing away the blanket. I scowled at how much of my legs the hospital gown left bare. At least I could see that the bullet wound in my thigh had been healed. “If we stay, I’m going to get someone killed who doesn’t deserve it.”
Murdo folded his arms. “Explain. You’re not going anywhere until you start making some sense.”
I glared at him, but he only looked…concerned. Like I might hurt myself if I rushed off. Given how woozy I felt, it was a reasonable fear.
“Fine,” I said. “Fine. You want to know the truth? I used to have a boyfriend who was a Shadow Hunter.”
Murdo blinked. “Seriously? Didn’t he…you know, eat your soul?”
I scowled. “The Shadow Hunters aren’t like that. There’s a lot of misinformation about them. Which they prefer. But...something bad happened to me, and that’s why I broke up with him.” The words were tumbling out of me. Some part of my brain screamed for me to shut up, but I was exhausted, woozy, and frightened. “I knew he would have tried to help me, but he couldn’t. I was too dangerous to be around. If he tried to help me, he’d have gotten sucked into this mess, and he’d have been killed. I had to break up with him. It was for his own safety.”
Murdo inclined his head. “You wanted to protect him from all this?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that was exactly it. I hated it…but I had to do it.”
He smiled. “What did your husband and toddler think of your plan?”
I blinked. What was Murdo talking about? I wasn’t married, I had never been married…
Oops.
I had forgotten the cover story I had told Nicholas and then repeated to the other Rebels. I cursed myself as a damned fool.
“This was…before,” I said. It sounded lame. “The bad thing happened, and I broke up with my boyfriend, and then I met my husband.”
“I see,” said Murdo. “So, to summarize, you broke up with your boyfriend because you were afraid that he’d get tangled up in this and get hurt trying to protect you…and then you got married and had a baby.”
I was a very good liar. The trouble was that I was such a good liar that I didn’t have much practice recovering from my lies when they blew up in my face like this. Once more I cursed myself as a damned idiot. Granted, I had never woken up from a regenerative coma after getting shot four times, but still. This was a dangerous game I was playing, and in this kind of business, no one got good grades for effort.
I met Murdo’s eyes.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what happened.”
We didn’t say anything for a moment.
Murdo snorted. “All right. I believe you.”
I blinked. “You do? I mean, of course you do. Because it’s the truth.”
“Yes, of course, it is totally the truth,” said Murdo. “But I get it.”
“You do?” I said.
He smiled. It looked a little out of place on that hard face. “I understand what it’s like to try to protect someone you love. I understand what it’s like to fail at it.”
“Do you?” I said, watching him.
“Well.” Murdo got to his feet. “Right before you cast that regeneration spell, you said you were about to find out whether you can trust me or not. I’ll keep your secrets.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.” Murdo paused next to the bed. “Of course, the only way to prove that is to keep your secrets. If you want to leave, we’ll leave. And then once we’re on the road, we can decide what to do next.”
“What is there to decide?” I said. “We have to go back to Nicholas.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way around it. But we shouldn’t talk about it here.”
“No.” I looked around the room. “Hey. Um…you don’t know what happened to my clothes?”
“They went into the incinerator as medical waste,” said Murdo. “They were absolutely soaked with your blood.”
“Right,” I said. “Uh. Do you know…”
“I’ll have the nurse bring you some clothes while I deal with the formalities,” said Murdo.
“Thanks.” I hesitated. “Murdo…I mean it. Thanks. For not…well, for looking after me. You didn’t have to.”
Murdo paused. “I told you. I think you’ve been dealt a bad hand.”
With that, he disappeared through the door and into the concrete corridor I had seen earlier.
The nurse returned a few minutes with clothes. She was apologetic – these were the only clothes they had on hand that would fit me. The underwear was still in its original packaging, thank God. The other clothes were a pink hood
ed sweatshirt with the black letters FITNESS GIRL 4 LIFE across the chest, black yoga pants, and a pair of pink running shoes. I wondered where the clothes had come from and decided not to think about it. At least they were clean.
The nurse handed over my purse and earrings, and I saw that they hadn’t been tampered with. I got dressed, slung the purse strap over my shoulder and followed the nurse down the concrete corridor and into a space that looked like a converted warehouse. Granted, it was the cleanest converted warehouse I had ever seen, and it smelled like disinfectant. I saw Murdo speaking with a gray-bearded man in surgical scrubs, and Murdo passed him a small object. The two men shook hands, and Murdo turned towards me.
As he did, I saw the gray-bearded man pocket the object.
It was a tight little roll of hundred-dollar bills.
Just where had Murdo gotten that kind of money?
“We’re all set,” said Murdo. “Nice look, by the way.”
I smiled and did a little twirl, partly to amuse myself, partly to test my balance. “Do you like it?”
His eyes flicked back up as I turned around. He’d been staring at my rear in the yoga pants. Oddly the thought did not displease me.
“Suits you,” said Murdo. “Let’s go.”
I nodded and followed him, using the mental exercise he had taught me to keep the chill at bay. That was just as well because it was a cold, blustery day outside, flurries of snow whipping past. I looked around and saw that the John Doe Hospital was a former warehouse and parking garage facing the Hudson River on the west side of Manhattan. Right in front of me, I saw several wharves jutting into the river, and all around me I saw the sprawl of New York City.
“Couldn’t the hospital have a stairwell up to the parking levels?” I said, following Murdo around the block. I wrapped my arms around myself, tugging the heavy pink sweatshirt tighter.
“There’s an elevator for patients,” said Murdo, “but you’ve been discharged. The Hospital takes its security seriously.”
“Good for them,” I said. “They could have given me a coat.”
Murdo ignored my half-hearted griping as we climbed the stairs to the parking garage. We walked past the rows of parked cars, and Murdo unlocked the doors of an old Duluth Motors sedan painted an unappealing shade of brown.
Cloak Games: Hammer Break Page 15
