by Rachel Caine
I rested my aching forehead on my palms, and quietly, deeply hated Ashan all over again, the smug and unfeeling bastard brother of my soul.
I left the next morning, as soon as I could be sure of recovery from my adventures on the aetheric ... because I had a new destination. It was far, far across the country, but the first new lead that I had on Pearl and her plans.
First, I had to get to Trenton, New Jersey, but I needed to do it without triggering the interest of the FBI, which had to be actively on the lookout for me now. I was an easy target to spot—after all, I was tall, thin, albino in coloring, with green eyes and a hand and forearm made of copper. Not exactly average, especially in my white motorcycle leathers and on the sleek Victory I was riding.
I needed a human makeover.
My first task that morning was standing in front of the mirror and concentrating very, very hard on altering my appearance, one feature at a time. The hair was the most obvious, and easiest ... I slowly darkened it from pink-streaked white to a smooth cap of black. My skin was much harder to alter, and I decided not to try; I had seen others with similar coloring who achieved it through application of makeup, and although they attracted attention, I would be a stereotype, difficult to identify as an individual.
Hair completed, I went to a cheap, dingy thrift shop, where I found a tight, long-sleeved black shirt, a battered black jacket, and black nylon cargo pants covered with massive silver zippers and nonsensical pockets. When the clothes were paired with equally battered black boots, I looked ... different. I studied myself in the mirror critically.
“Needs something,” the clerk said. He was an old man, with rheumy eyes and a humped back from age and bone loss. What little hair he still had was a dirty gray. It stuck out like the mane of a lion and hadn’t been washed in some time. “I got it. Hold on.”
He shuffled off at a speed that was, for him, fast, and returned a few moments later with two things: a black collar studded with silver spikes, and a necklace. I dropped the chain of the necklace over my head, and a snarling silver skull with wings leered back at me.
I liked it.
The collar fitted around my neck with just enough room to feel comfortable, and I had to admit that the two additions made the ensemble memorable, and at the same time, utterly not matching the description of the woman the FBI would be seeking.
One problem remained. The Victory.
“If I pay you a fee, will you keep my motorcycle here for me, but not sell it?” I asked. “And my other clothes?”
He squinted at me suspiciously. “How much of a fee?”
“A thousand dollars to hold these for me here. You can place a price tag on them, but just be sure no one buys them.” I gave him an unsettling smile, one I had learned from the best. “I would be very upset if I come back and they’re not available.”
“A thousand,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. I watched the light slowly dawn in his eyes—the sunrise of greed, with dollar signs for rays. “Yes, sure, can do, missy. What name do I—”
“Jane Smith,” I said.
“That’d have to be cash, missy.”
I opened my backpack and took out an envelope. “That is fifteen hundred,” I said. “For the clothing I just bought, and for your services. Please understand that even if you take this money and run, I will find you. I’m very good at exacting justice when someone tries to cheat me.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck like a golf ball trapped in a hose, and then he nodded. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he lied. “I’ll guard your stuff like it was my own. Better, even.”
“An excellent idea.” When he tried to take the envelope, I held on to it. “This also buys your silence.”
“Never heard of nothing,” he agreed, and snatched the money away. “I’ll put that bike in the back, put a ten-thousand-dollar price tag on it. That’ll keep it here. Nobody with ten grand to their name ever stepped foot in here, anyway.”
It sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan. As long as the Victory was gathering dust and dreaming of the open road, I’d be far less recognizable.
I bought, at the last minute, a pair of black leather gloves with the fingers cut out. That disguised most of the oddity of my left hand. A few large silver rings drew attention away from the coppery skin even more. As I was admiring the effect, and thinking that these would be a great benefit if I had to punch anyone, I heard a harsh blatting noise from the parking lot. The clerk went pale and scurried into the back.
I headed for the door. A hulking man at least six and a half feet tall shoved in before I could reach it, and all six and a half feet of him—at least the parts visible—were covered in violent tattoos, mostly in reds and blues. A winged dragon graced his shaved head, its snarling maw open just over his nose like a helmet. His black leather jacket was heavily decorated with patches and paints, rips and scuffs, and I was fairly certain he was a murderer. Some people just give off that aetheric stench.
He barely gave me a glance as he stalked forward, bellowing, “You got any new blue jeans in, old man?” The jeans he was wearing were, in fact, splattered with a dark substance that could have equally been motor oil or blood. I decided I didn’t need to know the technicalities, and walked out into the parking lot.
A large black and chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle was parked at an angle in front of the shop, the leather tassels on its handlebars flickering in the breeze.
I smiled.
Really, sometimes it’s just too easy.
The Harley was built for intimidation, not comfort, and it jolted me with every bump of the road—but the freedom it gave me was a wonderful thing. I called Marion before I left, but there’d been no real change in Luis’s condition; he was still unconscious, though she’d been able to repair the physical damage, which had all been internal. She didn’t think he was in any lasting danger.
I did. Ironic that I’d warned him to watch out for the traitor at the school, and then done him an injury myself, but that didn’t mean the traitor wouldn’t take the golden opportunity to put Luis out of the way when he was down.
After much debate, I told Marion. To my surprise, she already knew. “Luis told me,” she said. “Not sure I believe it, but I agree, the timing of your mudslide was more than just coincidental. I’m watching, Cassiel. Trust me.”
I did, or I’d never have spoken to her about it.
“I got a call from the FBI,” she continued, without changing her tone at all. “They say you were supposed to show up for a meeting in Albuquerque. They’re mildly peeved that you ditched them.”
“Mildly?”
“Well, that’s the story they gave me. I expect they’re beating the bushes looking for you. I assume you’re protecting yourself, including randomizing this phone.”
“I am.”
“Good girl. Go to it, then. I’ll call you if anything changes with Luis.”
“And Ibby?” I dreaded her answer, but it came readily enough, and cheerfully.
“The girl’s doing well. Scared about her uncle right now, but otherwise settling in. She’s a sweet little thing. Her seizures have stopped, at least for now.”
I felt a stir of hope. “Does this mean she can recover?”
Marion’s silence was a depressing omen of the words to come. “No,” she finally said. “That’s not what I meant. Ibby’s damage goes deep, all the way to her core. I mean I can stabilize her and extend her life, but I can’t heal her. If she uses her power, I may not even be able to promise that much.”
I knew that, but for a moment, I had felt an entirely unreasonable surge of hope. And it hurt, badly, to have it taken away. I had known there would be no miracles, and yet ...
And yet.
“I have to go,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” Marion said. “You could turn around. Come back. Ibby and Luis—”
“I have to go,” I repeated. It made me feel cold inside, but I couldn’t let her talk me out of this. N
ot now. Not when I’d seen how close Pearl was to the power she needed.
I had many miles to go, and I didn’t intend to spend them talking.
It took three days, sleeping in short bursts at campsites, to reach the area where I’d sensed Pearl’s presence. Not surprisingly, it was a fenced, guarded compound in the woods, and it was surrounded by federal agents and observers. No press, which was interesting; the FBI had succeeded in maintaining the press blackout so far, and it was an impressive accomplishment, considering the deaths and other criminal acts that had already been associated with the Church of the New World.
But now I had a dilemma. There seemed to be no real way to easily bypass the federal observers and enter the camp, and even if I did, they’d know I was an intruder. I needed a quieter, more thorough reconnaissance, one that required me to blend in to my surroundings—or as much as my costuming would allow. I could try a cloak, but that was one thing I was curiously deficient in as a skill; Luis was much, much better at it, and I could never keep it up for long. Certainly not long enough to make it into the compound, against the Argus-eyed guards Pearl would have set, animal and human.
There would be no way in without the cooperation of the FBI.
So I rode the Harley up to the front door of the communications trailer parked half a mile up a country road, raising a column of dust and frightening sheep with the motorcycle’s unforgiving noise. I parked, walked up to the trailer’s door, and knocked. The sign claimed that it was a telecommunications work van, but the man who cautiously opened the door didn’t seem to me to be authentically blue-collar. He seemed ill at ease in his gray jumpsuit, and I doubted his name was really Earl.
“My name is Cassiel,” I said. “I believe that the FBI is looking for me. I want to bargain.”
Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this. The man stared at me for a few seconds. I stripped off the glove on my left hand and wiggled my coppery fingers in his face, made a fist, and then opened it again. “I assume your instructions said to look for someone with a metal arm,” I said. “It’s a great deal more certain than most distinguishing marks.”
He looked over his shoulder at someone else in the trailer, then said, “Uh, excuse me for a minute, ma’am,” and shut the door. I waited patiently, putting my glove back on and crossing my arms. The day was nice in New Jersey, though humid. Sheep ambled the hills, having forgotten the scare of my passage. I wondered if the cows I’d set free on the road from their slaughterhouse trip had ever found freedom—sweet grass and long life. Probably not. Life was rarely so simple, even for cows.
After a lengthy, but restful, few minutes, the door opened again, and Earl leaned out. “Ma’am? Please step inside.” He said it politely enough, but it wasn’t exactly a request, either. His tone implied the please was really just a formality.
Since it had been my choice, I allowed him his little illusion of power and obliged.
Inside I found no fewer than four agents, all dressed in gray jumpsuits with creatively rustic names embroidered on the front, under a corporate logo so vague as to have been entirely mysterious. Three of them had weapons in their hands—FBI-issued handguns, extremely effective at such close range, should I allow them the luxury of firing.
“Please sit down,” Earl said, and indicated an office chair that, from the warmth of the cushions, had been recently vacated by someone’s rear. The FBI van was stripped to the essentials, but at least the chairs were reasonably comfortable, and there was coffee brewing in the corner. “Special Agent in Charge Rostow is on the way to talk to you. Until he gets here, please sit quietly.”
I didn’t know Special Agent Rostow, but I had no doubt that he would be just as effective and efficient as all of the other FBI representatives I had met. I had no real desire to chat, and instead I studied the van workers each in turn. I found nothing especially interesting, but one of them, a woman, found my regard uncomfortable and finally snapped, “What?”
“She’s not doing anything, Andy,” said the man sitting beside her. They both had banks of monitors to watch, and he’d never taken his eyes off of his responsibility. “Stay focused. She’s not our problem.”
I wondered what their problem was, and so I focused on the monitors as well. It was the compound, of course, shown from a painstakingly thorough set of angles, and both distant and close views. Beyond the gates, people moved with every evidence of calm purpose. Some of them were tilling a field, by hand, with hoes. A group of women in pastel clothing was hanging up laundry on a line strung between two trees, while another group had taken on the task of scrubbing and wringing out clothes in a series of large tubs. Still another group was preparing for a meal, and I watched them as they casually chatted and chopped vegetables for a pot.
Men, women, and, yes, children. All seemed totally at ease within their little world.
I envied them that, a little.
A few moments later, the door of the van opened without any knocking preliminaries, and three more men crowded in. The one in front was shorter than most federal agents, and wider; he was definitely a senior man, probably close to fifty, and although he looked soft, I was certain he was not. The benign smile and low hum of contentment emanating from him were treacherous; he seemed to have a touch of Earth power about him—something like what Janice Worthing radiated, but of course at a much lower level. It must have served him well in gaining trust and eliciting confessions.
“You must be Special Agent Rostow,” I said. I dismissed the other two with him, and he didn’t bother to introduce them, either. “I’m Cassiel.”
He smiled reassuringly and gestured for a chair. One of the individuals watching the monitors got up and rolled his over; you had to be quick to catch the expression of annoyance that came across his face before the smile of compliance. Rostow seemed to just expect obedience, and get it. That said a great deal about his style of leadership, I thought.
He settled himself in the rolling chair and moved it to sit across from me, elbows resting comfortably on his thighs, hands dangling. Casual and relaxed. “Cassiel,” he repeated. “I’m pleased to meet you. There are lots of stories going around about you. Is any of it true?”
“All of it,” I said. “Especially the parts that say I’m dangerous.”
“I think I’ll take my chances,” he said. His smile invited me to share the naughty conspiracy, but I didn’t smile back. “So. Half the agency is turning over rocks looking for you, and you just show up here. To what do we owe this honor?”
“Necessity,” I said. “I need to get inside the compound.”
“Inside,” he repeated, and leaned back in the chair. The back gave a small squeak of protest. “For what purpose?”
“If you’re thinking you can keep me here and talking until you get a response from your superiors, I can tell you what it will be—detain me and send me on to Quantico,” I said. “You don’t want to know my purpose, because you won’t care; in any case, you’re not inclined to trust me at all, and you’d never help me get inside. Correct?”
He blinked a little, and some of the benign trust-me aura faded. I liked him better this way: suspicious. “I suppose so,” he said. “I have no reason to help you, and plenty of reasons to do what my bosses tell me. For one thing, I’d like to retire in a few years on my hard-earned pension. So tell me what I ought to be doing for you and why. Make it convincing.”
We were drawing glances from the monitor techs, and Rostow must have noticed; without moving his gaze away from me, he snapped his fingers rapidly and pointed to the monitors. “Eyes forward, people. Always forward.”
There was a murmur of assent. He cocked an eyebrow at me, waiting.
“You’re aware that the Church of the New World is involved in child abductions,” I said. “And murder.”
“Some of them,” he said. “But it’s a subgroup. Most of their activities are perfectly legal, which is why we’re observing, not taking action. No evidence that this compound is anything but a bunch of peopl
e getting together to reject modern life. I’m not going Waco on a bunch of would-be Amish. Not unless I see evidence that something is really going on inside that needs stopping.”
“There’s something evil here,” I said. “Or was, until recently. I need inside to find out what they’re planning, because I assure you, they are planning something. Pearl wouldn’t have been here if they weren’t.”
“Pearl,” he repeated. “Who the hell is Pearl?”
“No one you can find in your monitors,” I said. “You may think of her as—a spiritual leader. She influences others, the way Earth Wardens can; she found a ready audience in the Church of the New World, who already distrusted the modern world, and the Wardens, once they learned of their existence. Pearl has used her influence to make them increasingly afraid of you, and us, making them withdraw even more radically.”
He didn’t indicate whether he agreed with me. “And the children?”
“They believe they’re saving them,” I said. “Rehabilitating them. They think the Wardens will maim or kill them. Make no mistake, Pearl’s followers believe they are saving the world, not bent on destroying it. That’s the danger of fanatics. They’re blind to everything but their own preconceptions.”
“You’re not telling me much I didn’t find out from interviews with detainees,” he said. “And?”
“And if Pearl was inside the compound—and I assure you that she was, recently—she may be back, especially if she has unfinished business there. It’s our best chance to get to her, if we work together.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Miss, we’re the FBI. We don’t cooperate with civilians in investigations, unless we’re the ones doing the investigation and they’re the ones doing the cooperating.”
“I know.” I smiled, with bared teeth. “But I believe that you might make an exception for me.”
“Or I might slap some cuffs on you and hand you over to Quantico, just like they’re going to ask me to do.”
“Not if you want to live,” I said softly. I saw the agents around me stiffen, and a few reached quite calmly for weapons. Rostow didn’t bother. “Please understand, threats are not my preferred method, but I can’t lose this chance; she was here, and I believe she will return.”
