Lucian phrases his plea in an almost nonchalant manner, but it belies the genuine plight thrumming through his voice. He’s legitimately struggling to hold himself together after being bested by the Knights twice in twenty-four hours, and he’s worried he’s going to fail a third time. What I feel for Lucian is not quite sympathy—I can’t feel that for him, not after what he’s done to me—but I can understand him. I’ve felt exactly the same way numerous times over the past year, particularly in situations involving people I care deeply for. Which is why I know exactly what to say.
“It should be his choice, Lucian,” I respond. “It was his family the Knights slaughtered. It’s his house the Knights have usurped. It should be his choice whether he wants to fight back or hang out on the sidelines and cower in the face of his sister.”
“Kinsey, that kid has never been to war. He doesn’t know how this game is played.”
“The hell he doesn’t. He ripped a guy’s head off and punted it across the woods earlier. He can fight, just like the rest of you. And he can cast a spell too. If you can’t come up with a fifth man on your own, then Foley’s what you’re going to get.”
Lucian growls. “I asked you to protect him, not encourage him to—”
“I will protect him.” I meet Foley’s inquisitive stare, his lips parted in surprise. He doesn’t know why I’m defending him so vigorously. “Because I’ll be there too. At the gala. I’ll be his guard, while you lead the counterattack against the Knights. That way, you won’t have to keep looking over your shoulder to watch him. You can trust me to do it, the same way you trusted me enough to send him to my apartment in the first place.”
Lucian lets out an exasperated breath. “It’s not going to be the same at the gala. One slip-up, and there’s going to be seven—well, six, now that Caine’s dead—nobles on our asses, plus at least ten turned vampires supporting them. That’s a death sentence for all of us.”
Foley stands up and moves closer to the phone, nodding to me in appreciation. “Then we don’t slip up, Luc. We do this right.”
Lucian is silent for a moment. Then he says, letting his exhaustion bleed through, “I really don’t want to lose you, kiddo.”
“I don’t want to lose you either. You’re the only real friend I have left. So please let me help you.”
For the first time since we were introduced that day in the alley, when he revealed to me, in all his pomp and sarcasm, the shadow war that had been playing out right under my nose, Lucian Ardelean sounds painfully human when he replies, “Okay. You can be the fifth man, Foley. I’ll send Kinsey a text with the instructions on where to meet in the museum before we put the plan into action.”
“I’ll be waiting for those instructions,” Foley confirms. “See you later.”
“See you, kiddo. Stay safe.”
Lucian ends the call.
For a long while afterward, no one speaks.
Then Lassiter says, “Huh, I expected him to be a much bigger asshole.”
“You caught him on a bad day,” I retort.
“He’s not as awful as all that,” Foley says, “when you get to know him. He just wears a different persona when he’s working in the field.”
“A murderous one,” I say, trying to stymie the sudden influx of pity I feel for Lucian. He truly is in a terrible situation and has suffered devastating losses, but if I allow myself to commiserate with his predicament, think of him as a human being in a shitty situation, I’ll start to lose perspective on who, and what, Lucian truly is. And I can’t allow myself to forget what Lucian did to Delos’ puppets any more than I can allow myself to ignore the viciousness Foley displayed in the woods when he killed Caine.
I’ve spent far too long underestimating every supernatural creature I encounter—even as I feared Charun, Ammit, the Wolves, the Methuselah rogues, for the power I knew they possessed, I still didn’t grasp just how powerful they were until it was too late—and that mistake has burned me too many times. I have to maintain perspective. I have to remember what I’m dealing with.
After Delos, I cannot afford to underestimate anyone. Ever again.
Even with my power of déjà vu nothing but a memory itself, I know in my heart that the next time I flub one of these situations will be the last time I ever get the chance to. The players in this shadow war are simply becoming too numerous, too strong, and they’re attacking too frequently. I no longer have the room to make mistakes without deadly consequences. I barely have the room to breathe.
Foley tilts back and forth on his heels, gaze cast shyly away from me. “Hey, uh, thanks for defending me.”
“You want to return the favor?”
Foley halts, uncertainty coiling tight in his shoulders. “Yes…?”
“Then beat your sister at her own game and take back your house.” I grip his arm and squeeze, hard. “I didn’t ‘defend you’ for your sake, Foley. I did it for the world’s sake. Because the world needs Lucian to win this fight with the Black Knights. What happens tonight at that gala will determine whether the Knights press forward in their desire to pin the world under their weight and cruelty, or whether we deal them a major blow and kick their plans back by years. I supported your decision because it’s a practical solution to Lucian’s problem. Now you need to make good on the role you volunteered to play. Understand?”
Foley is visibly shaken, and I know he didn’t fully consider what he was risking by offering to become part of Lucian’s strike team. Of course he didn’t. He’s the pampered young child of a noble vampire house, a living, breathing contradiction. He was trained to fight yet never forced to struggle for his life. He was educated in politics and intrigue but never pressed to utilize that education. He’s a dangerous creature of the night, complete with fangs and demonic eyes. But he’s also a naïve young man who’s never known real strife.
He’s got the same mentality I had in my last days as a rookie cop. In the immediate aftermath of Mac’s death. When I knew my life had tipped off its axis but I didn’t understand how I needed to change in order to stand up and keep walking forward. Before DSI swooped in and showed me the way.
Foley’s naïveté cannot stand. Not when the world is balanced on a pin and could easily tip either way in the next twelve hours. He needs someone to show him the way. And right now, I’m the only person who can. God help him.
I tighten my grip on his arm, nails biting his skin through the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt. “Foley, do you understand?”
The comprehension slowly bleeds across his face, just what is at risk, just what he has left to lose, and for a second, I honestly think he’s going to back out. But then he remembers—exactly what, I don’t know—and the spark of absolute rage I witnessed in the woods peeks over the rims of his glasses, a flash of red that overwhelms the charm. Stiffly, he nods. “Yes. I understand.”
He still doesn’t completely grasp what hell he’s about to march into (he doesn’t have the right frame of reference), but he’s willing to walk into it regardless because he does understand that’s what he needs to do. And that decision, made with both fear and bravado, I know from experience, is the first step to growing up.
“Good,” I say. “Then let’s get to work.”
Chapter Eight
Sitting at the wheel of Lassiter’s silver sedan makes me nervous, because I’ve singlehandedly destroyed two trucks in less than a year. First was old faithful, the truck I’d had in my possession since I graduated college, which had all its windows and other sensitive parts shattered when Arnette’s got blown up by Patrick Feldman. Next was new faithful, my solid used truck I bought this spring, which got blown up by a vampire earlier today.
Clearly, my track record for using vehicles in the presence of supernatural threats is shaping up to be a raw deal, so I can’t help but feel jittery as I drive down Sheldon Road in a city filled with Black Knights in a car that isn’t mine. Sure, Lassiter can bum another car off the PD, but that doesn’t mean the man should have to lie to an i
nsurance adjuster to cover for my bullshit.
He’s already sticking his neck out to sneak us into the charity gala by altering the list of cops being used as security staff tonight. Without telling his bosses that he’s doing so. Because the Knights have too many ins with the upper echelons of Aurora’s law enforcement. So if the operation to stop Lizzie and company goes south and devolves into a spectacle that can’t be swept under the rug of bureaucratic lies, then Lassiter could end up in front of the metaphorical firing squad with me. And he doesn’t deserve that. Therefore, I have to be extra careful to minimize the risks he’s taking.
I drive exactly the speed limit.
Turning onto Potter Street, I spot the men’s suit shop, along with the gun store a block farther down. I specifically chose this street to do our prep shopping for tonight because everything we need is in close proximity, which will limit our time in public and reduce the chance we get noticed by any Knight goons who might be in the area. They won’t be able to use the blood trace on us for at least a week, according to Foley, but Lucian emphasized the fact that the city is crawling with their agents now. We can’t be too careful.
I park the little sedan in a street-side space and cut the engine. “Clothes first?” I ask Foley. “We might have to order some adjustments from the tailor if they don’t have anything that fits us, but these guys do rush work for an extra fee, so I figure we can get fitted then hop on over to the gun store and grab a few extra pieces. There’s also a good pizza place down that way”—I point through the back windshield with my thumb—“so we can fuel up too. By the time we finish eating, our clothes should be ready to pick up. Sound good?”
Foley says, “You sound like you’re planning a chess game instead of a shopping trip.”
“You can’t be too prepared, man.”
“You can be too paranoid though.” He opens the door and slips out onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, please.” I climb out and glare at him over the roof of the car. “There is no such thing as too paranoid in my line of work. If I listed all the crap that has happened to me in situations where nothing bad should’ve happened, you would blow a gasket.”
He snorts. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. I’m saying it now.” I join him on the sidewalk and gesture for him to follow me to the crosswalk. “Mark my words, something is going to happen to us during this excursion. A practitioner is going to set the pizza place on fire. Or the gun store is going to be overrun by wraiths. Or the suit shop is going to be ransacked by werewolves.”
That last example ignites a pang in my chest. I haven’t heard heads or tails from the Wolves since Vincent Wallace died in the old DSI garage after coming to my aid during the fight with Delos. An interim representative was chosen to replace him until the next election, but it’s some woman I’ve never met. Pamela Newsome, a local accountant. As far as I know, she never spoke with Riker in person in the aftermath of Delos’ curse epidemic. Email and paper communication only. Overly formal. Intentionally distant.
Whatever goodwill DSI had with the Wolves dissolved that day.
And I was instrumental in its dissolution.
Another failure on a very long list.
“Are those common occurrences in Aurora?” Foley asks as we wait for the walk light.
“You say that like you’re not waging a secret war in Europe.”
He ruminates on that for a moment, and says, “Fair point.”
The walk light changes to green, and we head across the street. Foley adjusts his clothes and stylish accessories every other step. He looks silly wearing that large leather ascot cap, along with a pair of dusty sunglasses I’m pretty sure Lassiter dug up from a junk drawer. Of course, I’m not much better, dressed in a loose blue hoodie, a bright red baseball cap pulled low to shade my face, and a pair of ratty jeans that are clearly not my size. We look like we went swimming in a thrift store and intentionally picked the most ill-suited clothing possible. But the stuff was free, and it makes for an apt disguise. So I guess I can shove my complaints where the sun don’t shine.
There are no other customers in the suit shop when we walk in—it’s after lunch now, so the crowds have come and gone—and we walk right up to the counter, passing racks and shelves adorned with expensive shirts and pants and suit jackets, the fancily posed mannequins worth more than my monthly rent. The man at the counter takes one look at us and frowns, clearly thinking we’re penniless riffraff about to beg for small change. But before he can get a word in, Foley pulls out his wallet and flips it open to reveal a large wad of cash.
Said dough was given to Foley by Lucian during their escape so Foley didn’t have to risk using his bank cards, since those transactions can be tracked. As for why Lucian had that much American cash on his person during a meeting of the Vampire Parliament, I cannot guess. Must be a spy thing.
The man at the counter stares at the money and stammers for a second before composing himself. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, what can I help you with?”
Foley swaps out his shades for his regular glasses with a carefully timed blink that hides his true eyes. “Yes, we’d like to place a rush order.” He rattles off a list of things we need, and I let him talk without interruption because I know very little about formal menswear. I’ve worn a tuxedo exactly once in my life, and for important ceremonies, like graduations, I always donned a hand-me-down suit provided by one of my foster parents. I used that thing until it literally fell apart. The glory of being a young ward of the state.
When Foley finishes, the man leads us around the store and showcases all the options. I pick a fairly generic black and white ensemble, while Foley injects a bit of color, picking something with green accents that brings out the emerald specks in his fake eyes. We do quick fittings, the guy takes all our measurements and notes all the adjustments that need to be made, and Foley offers a generous tip if he can have our goods ready to go in two hours. The man looks a tad stressed at the deadline, but he must envision Foley’s giant stack of Benjamins again, because he cheers up suddenly and promises he’ll have them ready by three.
And off we go, down the street to the gun store. Foley lets me handle this bit, since he’s not accustomed to arming himself for dangerous battles to the death. I walk up to the older fellow at the counter and tell him I want to buy a couple shotguns, along with several boxes of ammo for both shotguns and for my personal handgun. Shotguns won’t kill vampires, but they’re great for distractions, and if you manage a close-range shot at the right angle, you can do enough damage to slow them down. I figure if Foley and I have to flee the museum in a hurry, a few well-placed shotgun blasts might do us good.
As the man ambles off to get the ammo from a back room, I survey the selection of pump-action shotguns, eying two that are compact enough to be concealed in the bag I’m planning to smuggle into the gala. Since my name will be on the list of security guards allowed to enter the building through the back door, and since Foley can use his magic to temporarily veil the bag, we shouldn’t have much of an issue smuggling in the weapons. Heck, if I didn’t have to keep all the gala attendees in mind, I would load up with a full arsenal for this operation. But, like always, I have those pesky civilians to protect.
Ah, the plight of the—
Two shadows flit across the wall of the store’s back room, visible past the door the man left open when he disappeared inside, and neither of those shadows are the right size and shape to belong to the man himself. I shove my hand under the hem of my hoodie and whip out my gun, alerting Foley with a finger snap that jars him out of his thoughts. He pulls away from the rack of rifles he was examining and opens his mouth, presumably to ask what’s wrong, at the exact same time a black SUV—a DSI number—squeals to a stop on the street directly outside the door.
Ella is at the wheel.
Oh, crap. That can only mean…
I lower my gun and dive out of the way as Desmond and Amy barrel through the open doorway and jump the counter, the former f
iring a burst of electricity from his beggar rings at the confused Foley. The bolt slams into Foley’s chest and throws him backward into the rifle rack, guns clattering to the floor all around him as he collapses with a gasp, muscles seizing. Meanwhile, Amy rounds on me, one fist raised, one gun out, her force ring glowing like she’s about to punch me through the wall.
I try to raise my hand to signal for her to wait, but I raise my left hand, in which I’m holding my gun. Because all my life I’ve been holding guns in my other hand, and using my left hand for things like, oh, you know, stop and wait gestures. Surprise, surprise, Amy takes the sight of my gun flying up as a threat, assumes I’m about to shoot her, and launches a wave of force at my face.
I dive to the right, avoiding the full impact, but the wave catches my hip and sends me spiraling into the wall. My head slams into the stock of a gun on display, bruising the skin above my ear and knocking half the sense out of me. Dazed, I stumble into the corner, and my gun slips from my hand and slides underneath a raised shelving unit, out of reach.
Amy trains her gun on my chest and growls, “Try that again, buddy, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
I open my mouth to correct whatever mistaken assumption she’s operating under—because they must’ve come here on the basis of some tip, probably another tactic the Knights are using to catch Foley, now that their tracking spell has failed—but before I get a chance to speak, chaos erupts on the other side of the room. Foley, recovered from his impromptu electrocution, kicks Desmond across the room. Desmond hits another rack of guns, bounces off, and lands on the floor with a groan. The shelving unit, broken by his weight, collapses on top of him.
Amy whips around, beggar rings flaring again as she prepares to take down Foley, who’s standing in the middle of the room, his lips peeled away from his teeth, highlighting his fangs. A heartbeat later, the front door flies open, and Ella Dean charges in with Ramirez’s team hot on her tail. The room fills with trained guns and charged beggar rings, and every single one of them is focused on Foley Banks. Who isn’t the least bit intimidated at being surrounded by a group of Crows.
Day Killer Page 10
