“This isn’t an exercise or a drill. Nobody will blow the whistle and make the other side stop shooting while we huddle up and review what we did wrong. This is the real shit. People I go up against kill children. They won’t hesitate. They will slit your throats and never think about it again. Your lives mean less to them than the life of a mosquito.”
“We’re not children,” George said. “You killed your first man when you were fourteen.”
He would have to wire Gaston’s mouth shut.
“I was fighting in a family feud. It was about pride and hate and survival. And I had my family around me. It’s different when you’re in a group. Crowd mentality kicks in.”
Kaldar made a right turn and slowed. The boundary bit down on them with its blunt teeth. The kids gasped. The car kept rolling, the pressure grinding him, compressing his bones, then, suddenly, they were through. George coughed.
“We’re a crowd,” Jack said.
Kaldar sighed. “More like a gang of idiots, and I am the biggest moron in it.”
George coughed carefully. “Would that make you the Chief Moron then?”
Kaldar parked the car under a tree and rapped his knuckles against George’s head. The boy grimaced.
“Gaston does that, too,” Jack reflected.
“Family punishment.” Kaldar got out of the car. “You will come with me to Washington. I need to find a woman there. You will not get in my way. No more unsupervised outings, no more field trips, and no more fights. You do as you are told, when you are told, or I will hog-tie you, load your scrawny behinds onto that wyvern, and have Gaston hand-deliver you home to your sister with a pretty little ribbon tied over your mouths. Understood?”
“Understood,” the two voices chorused.
As they headed up the path, he checked the gray shape in Jack’s arms. “How’s the cat?”
“He’ll be okay,” Jack said. “He just needs someone to take care of him for a while.”
Don’t we all, Kaldar reflected. Don’t we all.
FOUR
HELENA d’Amry inhaled the evening air. It smelled of the woods and dampness. She leaned against a large cypress, her cloak mimicking the color of the cypress bark so precisely she was practically invisible. In front of her, the road stretched into the distance, sectioned off by a weak shimmer. The boundary.
Helena closed her eyes and felt the reassuring current of magic. It was weak here, in the Edge, much weaker than in the Dukedom of Louisiana, but beyond the boundary, it didn’t exist at all. Beyond the boundary, she would be dead. She could see the different dimension, but she could never enter it. The Edge was her limit. Very few of the Hand’s agents could cross into the Broken. The Hounds were differently augmented, and yet barely a third of her crew had been able to cross the boundary.
This place, it was too damp, too rainy, too . . . verdant. Her Louisiana estate was verdant as well, but there the nature served her will, shaped by the tools of her gardener. Here it ran wild, like a bull out of control.
Still, it was good to be back. She had grown up in the Dukedom of Louisiana, on the family estate, and although her duty took her from the colony all the way to the capital of the Empire of Gaul, she had missed it. The air here smelled different from the atmosphere of the sprawling monster cities in the Old Continent. She hadn’t planned to return, but her uncle needed looking after. To uphold the family name, she had stepped in to fill his shoes. They were rather large shoes to fill.
A faint noise made her turn. Three men approached from the Broken, running at an easy jog and carrying a bundle. Helena watched them enter the boundary. They slowed. One by one, they stepped through it, inching forward, their faces contorted, their legs bowing under the pressure. A long, torturous minute passed. Finally, the first man was through.
Helena peeled from the cypress trunk and stepped out into the road. Her cloak reacted, the long feathery strands contracting. Without an environment to mimic, they turned pale brown, each strand darkening toward the end. The strands fluttered weakly in the wind, as if she wore a mantle of owl feathers.
The men dumped the bundle on the ground.
To the left, Sebastian dropped thirty feet off a pine, landing in a half crouch. Jasmine stepped from behind the trunk, her bow aimed at the bundle. All around Helena, her unit, twelve of the Hound’s finest, congealed as if by magic from the forest.
The largest of the three men who’d arrived from the Broken, an enormous giant with hair the color of eggshell, dropped onto one knee. Sebastian, her second-in-command, moved to stand by her side, hovering over her and emitting menace. The two men couldn’t have been more different. Karmash, seven and a half feet tall, pale, with long hair so light it was nearly colorless, perfectly manicured nails and a penchant for finer things in life. Sebastian, barely five-ten but weighing nearly the same, darker-skinned, his dark hair cropped short. The ribbon of tattooed words around his neck spelled out FIERCE TO THE END. Monstrously strong and layered with hard, bulging muscle, Sebastian gave the words a new meaning. He was devoted to her the way a dog raised from a puppy is devoted to a kind but firm master. He didn’t trust Karmash, and the albino giant couldn’t stand him. It would be an excellent fight, Helena reflected.
Karmash was a loan, just like Mura, her new slayer shadow, but while the woman fit neatly into the chain of command, Karmash didn’t. He was too used to running the show, and Sebastian hated him with silent, violent fury. That was fine. Sebastian was becoming too secure in his position. He needed some unfriendly competition. Besides, Karmash could enter the Broken, and apparently he got the job done. She had expected nothing less from one of Spider’s operatives.
“My lady.” Karmash’s head was bowed, but his eyes watched her and Sebastian to her left.
“Rise.”
He got up, towering a foot and a half over her. She walked over to the bundle and pulled down her hood. Her hair fell down over her shoulder in a long blond ponytail. “Open it.”
The other operative crouched and sliced through the canvas, dumping a man out in the road. The man rolled up and sat in the dirt. “Hello.”
Helena paced before him, tilting her head to get a better view. Thin. Almost emaciated. Bloodshot eyes. Feverish tint to the skin. Twitching hands. An addict.
“I can’t say I appreciate the treatment.” The man spat in the dirt.
What a sad, ugly wreck of a human being.
She crouched by him and stared into his eyes. He returned her gaze. Most people couldn’t hold it: her pale green eyes with a cat pupil made them uncomfortable. Spider once told her it was like looking into the eyes of a demon and knowing you were about to be devoured. Her uncle always had a flair for the poetic. Sadly, this man was either too addled, too stupid, or too arrogant to cringe.
“Were you bruised?” Helena asked.
“I’m tender in places.” The man sucked mucus back into his nose. “But I could see a way to forgiving this sort of thing, provided you make it worth my while. You did get me out of rehab, after all.”
“Mmm, I see. Do you know who we are?”
“The Hand. The Mirror. Honestly, I don’t give a shit.”
Profanity in the presence of others. Expected of a lowborn mongrel but rude all the same. “Where is the box?”
He raised his chin a bit. “What have you got for me?”
Helena almost laughed. He sat surrounded by the Hounds, and he expected them to bribe him. She leaned closer, her voice quiet. “Are you for sale?”
“Sweetheart, everyone is for sale.” The man shrugged. “You’re new at this? Let me explain to you how things work. I’m not expensive. I know what you’re looking for. You want my sister. Give me what I want, and I’ll tell you all about her.”
“Is that so?” What a worm. No honor. No dignity. No loyalty. Pathetic.
“Like I said, if the price is right, I’m your man. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll even let you in on another guy who beat you to me.”
Helena straightened and glanced a
t Karmash. The big man yanked the captive to his feet, slid his arms under the man’s stick arms, and locked his hands on the back of the man’s head, jerking him up, off the ground.
“Hey, hey, hey!” The man squirmed in Karmash’s grip. “Come on.”
Helena pulled off her glove, unfastened her cloak, and let it fall. Behind her, Mura, dark-haired, sharp and narrow, like the blade of a dagger, took a step and caught the living fabric before it hit the ground. The cloak shimmered, turning an unhealthy shade of orange, straining to duplicate Mura’s magic-altered skin.
Helena stood before the man. She wore supple leather and dark cloth. A leather belt clasped her tunic to her waist, together with custom-made sheaths which held her two curved swords. She pulled a black knife from her waist and took a step toward the addict.
The captive stared down at her. “What, you’re going to work me over now? What for? I’m trying to make a deal here.”
She arched her narrow eyebrows. “I don’t do deals.” She pinched the thin fabric of his shirt and sliced it open, baring his bony chest.
“Listen, you’re making a mistake here. You’ll waste all your time and energy with me, and for what? Just give me my little piece of the pie, and I’ll tell you everything.
Helena pulled back her sleeve and showed him the blue fang etched into her muscular forearm. “I’m a Hound of the Golden Throne. Do you know what that is?”
She could tell by his face that he had no idea. “Do you know that the Dukedom of Louisiana is a colony of the Greater Empire of Gaul?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“When the throne of Gaul wishes to slice open a boil, it calls upon me. I don’t make deals. I don’t bargain. I don’t spare. I destroy for the glory of my country. Look into my eyes, sirrah.”
He stared into her blue-green irises. She looked at him the way a tiger looks at her prey until she saw the first shiver of fear in his face.
“Tell me if you see any mercy.” Her magic rose around her, like a smoky cloak of darkness.
The addict froze like a frightened bird. Finally, she had his attention.
Helena bowed her head for a brief second, her eyes closed. “I’m a Hound of the Golden Throne. I have the right of judgment within the Empire of Gaul and all of its colonies, and I find you, Alex Callahan, guilty. You are an enemy of Gaul.”
Magic sparked. Karmash dropped Callahan, and the man blinked out of existence and reappeared twenty feet away. He hit the ground running and dashed down the path, squeezing every last drop of speed out of his worn-out body. Interesting power. More interesting was the fact that Karmash had sensed something amiss and acted to save himself rather than hold on to the prisoner.
Helena waved her fingers. Soma and Killian sprinted down the road after Callahan. In two breaths, the hunters overtook the running man. Killian crashed into the addict, pinning Callahan to the ground. The Edger’s nails clawed Killian’s arms and slid off harmlessly. Killian was one of her more enhanced hunters: his skin was thick like leather. Together, he and Soma jerked Callahan off the ground and carried him back.
“Nail him to the tree,” Helena said.
The two hunters yanked the Edger upright. Sebastian pulled two daggers from the sheath on his waist and stabbed both through the man’s shoulders, just under the collarbone. Callahan screamed, pinned to the oak like an insect.
Helena approached him, holding her knife. It was an excellent blade, razor-sharp and strong, like all of her tools, human or otherwise. She flicked it across the Edger’s torso. The blade barely touched the pallid flesh, but its razor-sharp point painted a vivid line of red across the man’s skin.
“Help!” Alex screamed. “Help me! Help me!”
The knife flashed once, twice. She used to paint like this in her study: fast strokes of brilliant red paint across the pale canvas.
Alex screamed and buckled, but the knives held him tight.
“Betrayal is bought with agony. When you betray your partners, especially if these partners are family, you should do it only after much suffering. Flesh is weak. When the pain is too much, most people do break. The greater the betrayal, the more terrible the pain the captive will endure.”
Helena slid the point of her knife into the first cut she’d made, hooked the skin, and jerked it down in a sharp move. Alex shrieked a desperate, pain-filled howl. Red muscle glistened bare on his chest. She was always an excellent skinner.
“Don’t worry. I will make sure that the pain you experience is equivalent to your betrayal.” Helena raised her left hand, still in the soft brown glove. “Salt.”
The vial of salt was deposited into her fingers.
“Now then. Let’s talk about your sister.”
JACK looked out the window. Outside, gray rain sifted onto a Broken town called Olympia. It was in the State of Washington, which was like a province but larger. Kaldar had stolen another car—this one was blue and smelled of some bitter fake-pine scent—and Jack got the front seat this time. The view from the window was wet and dreary.
“Does the sun ever shine here?”
“Sometimes,” Kaldar said. “If you wait for a few hours and squint just right.”
In the backseat, George shifted around. They both wore plain brown shirts and loose pants. They still didn’t look like they belonged in the Broken, but at least it was an improvement over George’s poofy shirts, Jack decided.
His side ached. He discreetly rubbed his bruised ribs. Gaston had been less than happy to find out that the two of them had taken off into the Broken and gotten themselves caught by Kaldar. Words like “morons,” “spoiled babies,” and “made me look like a total imbecile” had been said. And then words turned into punches. To be fair, he did throw the first one, Jack reflected. But there was only so much baby name-calling one could take. He and George had double-teamed Gaston, but Gaston was strong like a bull. Still, he hadn’t won by much. It was fine now. They had made peace. He’d just have to be careful with the ribs for a couple of days.
Jack had left the little cat with Gaston. It had taken them a few hours to fly to Washington, and they spent the night in the Edge. Until they’d crossed back over to the Broken, Jack had carried the little cat around in a basket he’d found in the wyvern’s cabin. The cat drank but didn’t eat. That was usually a bad sign.
Gaston would take good care of it. He’d stayed behind to watch over the wyvern, and he promised he would check on the little cat. Of course he would.
“Where are we going?” George asked.
“We’re looking for a thrift store. Anything would do. Goodwill, Salvation Army . . .”
“Salvation Army?” Jack perked up. “Crusaders?”
“No, not that Salvation Army,” Kaldar said. “A secondhand clothing store.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve been rich for too long.” The thief sighed. “Does Rose do any charity work?”
“She gives alms to the poor,” George said.
“How does that work?”
“We ride up to the Helping Hand building,” Jack said. “We get out and carry the food crates inside. Rose talks to the people in there. They look at accounts for a while. She gives them money. We go home.”
“Okay.” Kaldar nodded. “A secondhand store is like Helping Hand: it’s a store that raises money for the poor. In the Broken, they are usually attached to houses of religion.”
“Churches,” George said.
“Among others. People bring in clothes and furniture they no longer need and donate them. The stores sell them and use the money to feed the poor.”
Jack frowned. “Why would you want to wear clothes somebody else had worn?” The scent alone would drive him mad.
“Because you can’t afford anything else,” George said quietly. “Rose used to shop at the secondhand store.”
“I never got clothes that somebody else wore,” Jack said. “I would’ve known.”
“Not for us, you dolt. She shopped for herself. You don’t remember
because you were seven.”
Jack bared his teeth. “I remember just fine.”
“Another word, and it’s back to Adrianglia for both of you,” Kaldar said. His mouth smiled, but his eyes were dead serious.
Jack turned around and shut up.
“A thrift shop is the place where people shop when they don’t have money or when they’re looking for a bargain. Men of doubtful legality, such as ourselves, shop there for three reasons. First, the clothes will be clean, but they’ll look worn, which is what we need. Fresh-off-the-rack stuff draws attention, and that must be avoided at all costs. The idea is to blend in. Be one of the guys. Second, the regular stores have surveillance cameras. They record your image, which means someone can track you down. For the same reason, we will stay away from any shop that has a camera in the window, TV screens, electronics, convenience stores, ATMs . . .”
“What are those?” Jack asked.
“Small automated banks that give out money.”
“Why doesn’t anyone steal the banks?” Jack asked.
“They are very, very heavy.”
Jack grinned. “You tried?”
“Yes, and I don’t recommend it. You need a sturdy truck with a wheelchair lift and a dolly. A rental truck with a ramp is good, too. And that’s if said ATM isn’t bolted to the ground. Anyway, we want to find a thrift shop like that one, for instance.” Kaldar made a left and parked in front of a plain concrete building. The sign above the door said MISSION STORE.
“When we go in, keep your heads down. Don’t stare at anyone, don’t make eye contact, and shuffle a little. This is the third reason to shop here: people who work in these stores are either kindhearted or recovering from their former life: ex-addicts, ex-drunks, ex-homeless. They know what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the poverty line. All they will see is a man down on his luck trying to find his sons some clothes. They take cash and don’t look too closely at the faces. If cops come asking, they won’t remember seeing you. Remember: heads down, think humble, and don’t draw attention. Jack, no getting excited and running down the aisle like a damn idiot because you saw a cat or a mouse or some such. George, try to remember what it’s like to be poor. One sneer, and I’ll tan both of your hides. This is your test, boys.”
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