by Dakota Banks
He and Maliha were intimate friends, tied together by a deep platonic love and by their actions and goals.
While his aging followed a predictable path, Maliha’s didn’t. Anu could be rooting for her to succeed, or not, because her ultimate goal was not only personal redemption but the deaths of Anu’s seven offspring, the Utukki—Rabishu and his kin. Where did Anu’s loyalties lie? With his offspring or with humans?
How long will my concerns be Yanmeng’s? How long do I try to bind him to me, if bind is the right word?
The time he was with her, before he was claimed by death or by ascension to the third sphere, was hers to treasure.
Not many people could say they knew a god-in-training.
Chapter Seventeen
Maliha sat on a bench half a block away from the Keltner Building in Washington, D.C. December sunshine felt warm on her shoulders as she watched a lunchtime crowd scurrying back to their offices and cubicles.
When Maliha closed her eyes to think, she had to push the memories of Ty’s and Claire’s deaths from her mind. She’d paid for them with the reverse movement of her scale, but that wasn’t everything—there was the guilt. Now Jamie and her daughter had been killed, although Maliha suspected that they would have been targets regardless of her contact with them.
Mogue had a nasty habit of eliminating everyone she turned to for help, and the injuries he’d been given, though dire, weren’t going to keep him out of circulation for long. After all, she’d snapped Lucius’s neck, something fatal to humans, but he’d recovered from it promptly, as she knew he would. There weren’t many ways to kill an Ageless one. Leaving the body in one piece would never work.
I have to set these feelings aside. If I’m paralyzed with regret, I can’t act, and even more people will die. I never had this problem when I was Ageless! Things were so much easier without having to worry about collateral deaths.
She had a one-o’clock appointment with Dr. Amalia Ritter, vice president of development at TGEF. Dr. Ritter was responsible for raising money for the foundation, and that involved schmoozing with donors and potential donors, such as Marsha Hughes, a wealthy young heiress with plenty of time on her a hands and a philanthropical bent.
Marsha Hughes, in spite of her wealth, wasn’t a social gadabout and rarely left her Italian villa. That made it easy for Maliha to maintain that alternate identity, since the Hughes woman was, conveniently, rarely seen. All Maliha needed were different ID papers, a different style of dress, and some makeup to distinguish herself from her author persona, who sometimes had her photo in the media.
On the last day he’d spoken to Jamie Blake, Fynn Saltz had had an appointment with Dr. Ritter. He’d signed in at the Keltner Building in the early afternoon but there was no record of him signing out. Fynn wasn’t a wealthy man and wouldn’t be donating so much to the TGEF that it warranted the personal attention of a vice president. She thought he’d been going there not to give money, but to get money in the form of a grant.
Why see Dr. Ritter then?
Marsha Hughes did have the resources and reputation to make a multi-million–dollar donation to the foundation, and Dr. Ritter was going to give her the hard sell this afternoon.
Fynn could have been having an affair with her. Hot sex on the boardroom table? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a man cheated on his fiancée.
Maliha’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Amaro. Glass is doing great, Hound is on his way back from Niger and says that the oasis site was a trap and that Yanmeng alerted him to it. He was in a firefight but is okay. Good thing we didn’t send some unarmed scientists in there. Hound did get a soil sample that he sent on ahead but there were no hitchhikers in it. Finally, Doyle Saltz is dead. He was murdered the same day you talked to him.”
Maliha was silent for a moment. The body count is rising and I’m not even on the scene. Mabry!
“Check out Dr. Saltz’s lab assistant, Larry Mabry. You might want to warn him to get out of the country immediately and not tell anyone where he’s going.”
“Will do.” Amaro hung up to search out the lab assistant.
Sitting in public, she let no reaction show on her face. Inside, anger and despair warred for control of her feelings. It was a while before she could order her thoughts.
Of course. Doyle was a member of Fynn’s family and so the first victim. Or he could have been first because he knew so much about his father’s research that Mogue planned to kill him anyway. That would account for the fact that Anu hasn’t penalized me—these people were already doomed by Fynn’s association with Mogue. Regardless of the reason, it’s my trail that’s bloody.
She remembered the look of anger on Lucius’s face when she’d accused him of game playing. He’d wanted something from her, and she’d misinterpreted. The crossbow bolt he’d fired at Mogue gave her a chance at life while no doubt walking a delicate line with his demon’s orders. He’d already saved her from the Janjaweed—how much wiggle room did his orders have left?
I see it now. Lucius has doubts. All those questions he asked on the island—he’s thinking of rejecting his contract. And I treated him like shit because of being kidnapped. It has to be Mogue then, flitting from place to place, following me, getting ahead, slaughtering. I must not have slowed him down at all.
Vulnerability was an odd feeling for Maliha. She thought back to her Ageless time, when she walked among humans with such overwhelming abilities that she held their lives in her hands. Yet she’d never developed contempt for humans as inferior beings. She’d never killed indiscriminately, or enjoyed it when she killed on assignment.
Probably because I started out with a normal life, in a loving relationship. What happens if a demon snares someone who is already evil, a true sociopath? That’s what I think Mogue is. Give that person a hundred years or thousands of years of unfettered killing with no consequences and it’s a nightmare beyond imagining, the perfect tool for a demon who serves the Lord of the Underworld, the god of chaos and destruction.
There was no one near her bench, at least no one she could see.
“Lucius, if you’re listening, I’m ready to talk to you. If you’re here, Mogue, I’m going to send your soul to your demon’s hell, where it belongs.”
Brave words, just like the ones I spoke to Rabishu when I became mortal again.
First step: Dazzle Dr. Ritter.
Maliha glided over the lobby’s granite floors, a deadly ninja without the trappings. Today she had no hidden weapons to cause the security force concern. No plastic daggers, no clever pieces of a gun to be quickly assembled. Dressed in the unostentatious manner of old money, she could have been a visiting diplomat or trade negotiator. Alert now to signs of being tracked by one of the Ageless, she used her surest method of detecting one. An Ageless person may appear to the eyes only as a blur or not even that due to incredibly fast motion, but movement left streaming aura trails. By opening herself to viewing auras continually, she was able to detect streaks of color across her field of vision where there was no apparent physical presence.
It was a draining experience. In a crowded building, she was assaulted by pulsing colors, drifting tendrils trailing after people, the interaction of auras between people in proximity, and dissonance between what people were saying and what their auras were revealing. Her own aura was in constant motion, making it slightly difficult to know where the boundaries of her physical self were. She could extend her hand to greet someone, for example, and find out that while her aura touched the other person’s, her hand didn’t quite make it.
She’d done constant viewing only rarely, and there was a reason for that besides the fatigue it produced. She sometimes saw the subdued, ash-gray auras of people who were dying or very ill, whether they knew it or not. As familiar with death as Maliha was, she was never comfortable with it.
Dr. Ritter’s office was spare and unfriendly, a surprising point for someone who routinely greeted wealthy donors and made them feel good about t
hemselves as they parted with large sums of money. Maliha couldn’t help thinking that the doctor did her real work elsewhere, and that brought back the image of sex in the boardroom.
“Please call me Amalia. Everyone does. May I call you Marsha?”
Amalia was an attractive brunette in her early forties, businesslike in a dark skirted suit, but with a touch of wildness in a leopard-print scarf. The contrast was appealing. Amalia’s voice had a professional tone with a hint of Southern charm in it. Marsha found herself relaxing in the woman’s presence even though she had every reason not to. Amalia’s aura belied the pleasant exterior. Waves of greenish-brown avarice, jealousy, and hunger for power were layered below carefully cultivated yellowish-blue swirls of caring. It wasn’t often that Maliha saw such a fine example of what she called a crafted aura—one carefully managed by its owner to conceal the basic personality.
“Certainly. To let you know where I stand, I have a personal foundation with a mandate to distribute a minimum of five percent of yearly earnings to a charity of my choice. Usually I select a charity to benefit for a period of five to eight years. It’s a lot of effort to vet these charities, especially since I do it all personally. So once I do it, I stick with that charity for a number of years.”
“Of course. Always the best way—see things for yourself. We’ve already supplied financial statements, Marsha, but your foundation makes, uh, little information available to the public. Would you give me an idea of the level of support you’re considering?”
I guess she wants to know how much ass kissing she has to do.
“For a period of five years, that would be about three hundred million dollars total. Give or take.”
Maliha didn’t miss the flare of the woman’s nostrils or the brief glint in her eyes. Apparently, she’d just been put on the A-list. This was a good time to press her case.
“I’ve read your material, Amalia, but what I’d really like is to see your work in operation. I want a thorough tour.”
“Of course. I have a cart waiting outside. This is a big place, and I thought we’d take a ride as an overview.”
Good way to keep me from exploring. Won’t work, though.
A small golf cart gaily striped in purple and white, the colors of TGEF’s logo, came complete with driver. Maliha sat in the backseat with Amalia, and noticed that it was narrow enough that their hips touched.
Intentional? Most of her passengers are men, I’ll bet.
The tour proceeded in a controlled fashion that lasted only halfway down the first hall. Maliha spotted a door that said “Authorized Personnel Only” and stepped lightly out of the cart while it was moving. Amalia, taken by surprise, stumbled out after her as the cart came to a halt.
“What’s in here?”
“Oh, just the accounting department. Nothing very interesting about a room full of accountants.” Amalia tried a wide smile that probably charmed the pants off the male executives she usually ferried around on tour.
“My father started out as an accountant. Nothing dull about them. Let’s take a look.”
Amalia swiped a card in the security lock on the door and took her inside. Amalia had told the truth about what was behind Door Number One. Maliha made a point of talking to a few of the staff.
The third time Maliha left the cart and asked to be taken inside a locked door, Amalia refused as nicely and persistently as she could. Maliha hinted at withdrawal of her donation, and although Amalia looked frustrated, she didn’t give in.
Something interesting behind Door Number Three.
Leaning casually against the door as she chatted, Maliha could feel slight vibrations, as if the door concealed operating machinery.
“It’s just a maintenance area,” Amalia said. “Nothing to see. Can we move on now?”
Maliha graciously consented. She barely paid attention to the rest of the tour, because she already had her target.
She returned that night, dressed in black and bristling with weapons. It was a rather undignified entry, since she arrived in a delivery truck, stuffed in a crate of cleaning supplies. Once inside the building, she rode the freight elevator to the floor she’d been on earlier that day.
The easy part was over.
The halls were covered by surveillance cameras that were no match for her supernatural speed. To rest and plan her next move, she used convenient camera-free way stations—women’s restrooms. She’d encounter more sophisticated security behind the door Amalia had refused to open.
The outer door yielded to the stolen security card of a mid-level manager she’d stopped to talk to during the tour. Maliha’s pickpocketing skills had been polished over three centuries and the poor man had no idea that his card had been lifted.
Once inside, she spray painted the camera lens that covered the area. She hoped it would be sufficient to keep the sole guard at the front desk away for the short amount of time she needed.
Where are the big guns for security? I should be running into more resistance.
She faced an inner door that looked just like all the others. Swiping her card, to her amazement, opened the door. Prepared for anything inside, she found only an elevator.
She was beginning to think that Amalia was onto her after all, and she was walking into a trap. A trap had been set in Niger, and Hound had a tough time with it. This might be a pattern, the way TGEF worked.
Warily she stepped into the elevator. She was sure the elevator’s motion had caused the minor vibration she’d felt earlier that day. She found the hidden panel door right away, but her card didn’t open it.
Now we’re getting somewhere. Actual resistance.
Removing a small tube from the bag she wore around her waist, she used the tube like a pencil to draw a line around the hidden compartment. A few seconds later, acid bit into the metal and the panel fell off into her hands. Avoiding the still-smoking edges, she lowered the panel to the floor and inspected the compartment. Inside was a single button for a floor labeled T. She checked carefully for the telltale aura streaks of an Ageless presence. No one was in the elevator with her. Pressing the button, she waited tensely as the car went upward.
T for top floor, I guess.
She took a couple of throwing stars from her bag into her left hand, leaving one hand free to cope with whatever was coming.
The door slid soundlessly open and she faced three very alert guards, who must have known something was wrong as soon as the elevator began to move at an unexpected time.
Maliha wasn’t on the guest list.
She ducked instantly and a couple of bullets flew by where her chest used to be. The two throwing stars spun almost invisibly through the air and caught one guard in the hand that was reaching for an alarm button and in his neck. He pitched backward in his chair and then slid out of it onto the floor, clutching at his neck.
Maliha couldn’t afford to be backed into the elevator, a dead end if ever there was one, so she threw herself in the direction of the dying man. There was blood on the floor and she slid a little, but managed to get behind the guard’s heavy desk while the other two were firing. Lying on her side, she launched a knife under the desk that shattered the ankle of the closer guard. He fell backward onto the floor as her second knife, perfectly timed to his fall, thudded into the side of his head.
The third man stopped firing and as she quickly checked his location, she found that he was heading toward a glass tunnel through which visitors had to pass before entering the inner sanctum beyond. Grabbing up a dead man’s automatic rifle, she fired repeatedly at the glass. The guard made it inside, the tunnel door snapped shut, and he began to reach for his radio to call for help. She tossed the useless rifle aside since the glass was barely chipped. Running to the control console for the tunnel, she began wildly punching buttons, hoping to hit one that would open the door for her to follow.
Instead of the door opening, there was a flash inside the tunnel and then it filled with a yellow-tinged cloud, obscuring the interior. A few s
econds later, the guard’s face smashed against the glass and his hands scrabbled against it, trying to claw his way out. His features were distorted as he choked and gasped, and then he vanished back into the yellow cloud. Then exhaust fans cleared the gas and she saw him lying dead on the floor of the tunnel. The tunnel door whished open in front of her.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
Maliha wasn’t sure if she wanted to go in or not. The tunnel might be set to gas anyone who went into it now that the first use had been triggered.
There’s going to be an army of guards here any minute, whether his radio call went out or not. The sprayed camera alone should bring reinforcements.
She glanced around, seeing three surveillance cameras in the space. She might have only seconds. Taking a deep breath she ran in as fast as she could, sidestepped the guard’s body, and slapped her hand against what she hoped was a manual release on the far wall.
It wasn’t.
Trying a forceful approach, she ran headlong into the door at the far end of the tunnel. Stunned, she fell to the floor, her fall cushioned by the body of the guard. After a moment of disorientation, she saw that the radio the guard had been reaching for wasn’t a radio at all—it was a control pad. She snatched it from his dead hand. There was a lighted miniature of the tunnel, so she pressed the spot representing the door she was facing, hoping that she hadn’t just set off another gas release. Behind her the entrance door closed, and then the door ahead moved smoothly open. Apparently, both doors couldn’t be open at the same time.
Running into the hallway beyond the tunnel, she found a series of doors. Most of them had glass windows so she could see what was inside. Knowing that time was not her friend, Maliha moved quickly down the hall, glancing into each room as she passed.
In one of the rooms was a laboratory and she was shocked to see someone in it—Fynn Saltz. He was at a computer, concentrating on what he was entering. The doorknob didn’t yield, so she smashed her fist through the glass and opened the door from the inside. At the sound of the breaking glass, Saltz snatched a jump drive from its slot and stood up.
