“And if we get picked up by the Russian police? Without stamped passports? What then?” Leo threw his hands up, clearly reiterating an old argument.
“You’re just scared of Gateways,” Lakota challenged.
Leo glared at her. “That’s because they shouldn’t exist.”
I snickered, which drew the older man’s ire. “Sorry,” I said, holding my hands up in surrender, “I just haven’t heard someone use that line in a long time.” I really hadn’t. As far as I could tell, science seemed to have—by and large—given up on answering the questions posed by our very existence; trans-dimensional travel was really the least of it.
“We should get going,” Jimmy urged, eyes flicking about with the nonchalance of an off-duty cop, casually assessing potential threats. “We look conspicuous standing around like this.”
“No, you look conspicuous,” Lakota replied. “Standing around holding all that shit without breaking a sweat. Tell more people you aren’t a Regular anymore, why don’t you?”
Jimmy frowned but set down a majority of the luggage. Lakota was right; Jimmy didn’t look the least bit fatigued, despite how heavy all the bags had to be. A Regular—what you might call your average human being—would never have been able to do that. My guess was it had something to do with his recent transformation into what my house plant, the budding Tree of Knowledge, had called a Silver Fox. And no, not the dashing, sugar daddy kind. The monstrous, eat-you-literally kind. “My bad,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Leo said, patting the man’s shoulder. “There’s a learning curve.”
“Oh, for sure. You should have seen Hilde when she first started,” Lakota said, chomping down on her gum. “Used to leave patches of ice on everything she touched. We had to use a hairdryer on the filing cabinets for at least a week.”
Leo smiled, but it was thin-lipped and pained. Lakota nudged him, jerking her chin towards the ticket counter. “Come on, let’s go get her back.” She strode off, not waiting for her boss to respond. “Oh, and pick up those bags, newbie!” she called, waving.
Jimmy scowled after her. “That kid is going to be the death of me.”
Leo patted him on the shoulder a second time. “You get used to it,” he muttered, then fetched his bag and left the two of us standing there, staring after the duo.
“Oy, Jimmy,” I said, trying to get his attention before we picked up our tickets. He turned to face me, cocking one eyebrow. He’d shaven both his face and his head since I’d last seen him, leaving nothing behind but marvelously sculpted bone structure—a face cast in gleaming obsidian. It was an admittedly severe look for the already imposing, muscular black man. And yet he appeared practically...serene. Nothing like the raging asshat I’d had to put up with lately. What had changed? “Listen,” I said, deciding our heart-to-heart could wait, “about what ye said earlier…about Dez...” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Anyway, t’anks.”
Jimmy nodded, betraying none of the anger or derision I’d been dreading. “Anytime. You ready?” he asked, his question far more complex than it appeared on the surface. I could practically hear the other questions lurking beneath, like whether it was a good idea to take something like this on right now, or whether I could be counted on to act like a sane, well-adjusted person.
As if I ever had been.
“Aye, as ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, answering all the questions at once.
“Glad to hear it. Maybe once we’re through security,” he added, “you can tell me why you smell different.” And—with that very obscure, but potentially offensive statement—he snatched up the bags and trailed after the two FBI agents.
Great. So, I had a human lie detector, a soul-gazer, and a bloodhound to answer to the moment we made it to the gate. The thought alone was enough to make me want to turn around, go home, and curl up on my couch. But I guess there were worse things than getting grilled about the train wreck that my life had become.
Like abandoning your friends.
I took hold of the collapsible handle and headed towards the ticket counter.
Moscow, here we come.
Chapter 2
Catching my three companions up on current events took up most of the 12-hour flight. To be fair, there was a lot to cover: my batshit crazy trip to Fae, my escape, Dez’s death, Dobby’s betrayal, the fight against Balor One-Eye and his horde of Fomorians, not to mention the subsequent fallout. I left out a few details, of course, like the fact that I’d freely manipulated time, or that I’d brokered a deal with one of the Fae that would put me on a collision course with Nate Temple, one of Othello’s closest friends and a former associate of Leo’s. So far, I hadn’t talked to anyone about either of those things, not even Scathach—the only Faeling I was still in contact with since Dez’s wake. Of course, neither she nor I were chatty types. If anything, I guess you could call her my demented personal trainer, like Mick from Rocky...if Mick were an attractive, sadistic, redheaded female who’d spent his entire immortal life learning how to kill things more efficiently.
“So, you’re one of the Fae, then?” Lakota asked, cocking an eyebrow, fixating on perhaps the least interesting part of my story.
“Ish.” I waggled my hand. “Accordin’ to the few Fae I’ve talked to about it, I’m one of the Tuatha de Danann. Fae royalty, from what I gathered. Pure bloods.”
“Like Alpha shifters?” Leo asked, thoughtfully, referring to those few immensely powerful were-animals capable of partially shifting, most of whom led their respective packs.
I shrugged. “Maybe. I t’ink it’s more than that, though.” I paused, considering whether or not to let them in on what I’d come up with. It sounded insane, even to me, but in between bouts of depression, I’d done considerable digging into various mythologies and had settled on a theory to explain things that held up from every angle—even if it did sound absurd. “I’m pretty sure I’m more like a demigod,” I admitted. “A demigoddess. Or whatever the Fae equivalent is.”
“So, what? You can run faster than a locomotive?” Lakota teased, bastardizing the famous Superman tagline.
“Haven’t tried,” I replied, reflecting on the question seriously. “But I can outrun a car for brief stretches. Punch through brick walls. And I’m sort of bulletproof.”
While everyone stared at me, I fidgeted with the accessory around my wrist—a black leather band with a thin silver sundial mounted on one side like the face of a watch—a gift from a peculiar couple named Darling and Dear who Callie Penrose had introduced me to several weeks ago during an impromptu “shopping trip” in Kansas City. I hadn’t exactly been in the mood to go, but it’s hard to argue with someone whom even angels obey. It turned out Callie had her own personal tailors, a pair of powerful—and quite possibly prescient—immortals, though even now I could only guess at their origins. Given their inappropriate sexual advances, their love of fashion, and their overall air of superiority...well, let’s just say I had my suspicions. Regardless, the couple had insisted I wear the sundial at all times, putting significant emphasis on the concept of “time.” I’d grudgingly accepted; even I know to say thank you when someone gives me free shit.
“And your father?” Jimmy asked, abruptly changing the subject. “Any leads?”
I shook my head. Jimmy reached over and squeezed my arm before settling back in his chair. Unlike the others, Jimmy knew how much it had always meant to me to find out who my father was; he used to joke about it when we were kids, pointing out random white men in the Southie neighborhood who it might have been, always picking the ugliest, meanest bastard in sight. At first his teasing pissed me off, but then I realized he was just emphasizing a point: it didn’t matter who my father was or wasn’t. Not really. Except these days, it did matter. Was I a full-blooded Fae? A half-blood Freak? Or something else altogether?
Lakota nudged me, looking amused. “You’ll figure it out,” she said. “No point worrying about shit you can’t change, right, Leo?”
&n
bsp; Leo grunted, then flicked his eyes in my direction. “That’s what I used to tell Lakota, when we first met,” he explained.
“I think we can all agree it sucks not knowing where you come from,” Lakota continued, leaving me to wonder what bizarre circumstances had led the young Native American girl to the middle-aged FBI agent. “But it sucks a hell of a lot more when you’re a Freak with no one to clue you in on what’s happening. Still, Leo’s half-right at least.”
“Only half?” Leo drawled, cocking his head.
Lakota shrugged, her amusement fading like the weight of it was too much for her to bear. “There is no point worrying about the crap you can’t change. But that doesn’t matter. People worry about pointless shit every day. At least I’m not lying to myself about what I’d be willing to do to find out the truth about who and what I am.” She pointedly avoided looking at me, at any of us.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, heat creeping up my neck as I realized how accurate that was. What’s worse, she was right, and I knew it; I’d cashed in every favor I had hunting down the mere possibility of discovering the truth. In the process, I’d burned bridges, ignored good advice, and dug myself into a hole so deep I was still wondering if I’d ever find my way out. The problem was—if I was being honest with myself—I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t rational. But it was the truth.
“When did you first know you were different?” Jimmy asked Lakota, earning a fierce stare from the Native American girl.
I was sure the question would set her off; Freaks don’t typically like talking about the first time their ability manifested, and Lakota’s ability was more intense than most. But it didn’t. Instead, she popped her knuckles and lowered her gaze. “I was always different,” she replied, shrugging. “It happens differently for all of us. For most, it’s a post-pubescent surge of hormones. Leo’s was like that.”
Leo shuddered. “First girlfriend,” he explained. “Asked her if she wanted to sleep with my best friend. Ugliest breakup I’ve ever had.”
We all grimaced at that, reliving our own shattered relationships and trying not to imagine something worse: knowing we were being lied to. “But ever since I can remember, I could see what was in people’s hearts,” Lakota continued. “Their souls. Whatever you want to call it. That’s why I always ran away, no matter what home they put me in. Even when I ended up in a good home, I’d find someone to fear. In the neighborhood. In the school.” Something dark and angry flitted behind her eyes.
“Do you hate them? When you see what they are, I mean?” Jimmy asked. The question surprised me. Not because the question itself struck me as odd so much as it was odd that Jimmy should ask it; for as long as I’d known him, the former Marine had been so ethical you could use him to calibrate your moral compass.
Yet another reason things hadn’t worked out between us.
“Not really,” Lakota replied. “I mean, sometimes. But like the way you hate a snake or a wasp. It’s instinctual, you know? Like they can’t help it, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”
Jimmy studied his hands, each large enough to palm a basketball. “I feel that.”
Lakota patted Jimmy’s arm. “It’ll get easier.”
I frowned, trying to figure out what I was missing, but didn’t have time to ask.
“We’re here,” Leo chimed in, pointing out the window towards Moscow, the capital of Russia and the largest city on the European continent. Beneath a blood red sky and a setting sun, the city’s lights flared, forming a series of concentric rings with the Kremlin at its heart—jagged, luminescent cracks spewed from that brilliant epicenter as though a god had smashed a hole in the earth. I took a deep, calming breath as we began our descent. Somewhere among those lights, I hoped, we’d find out what had happened to our friends.
The four of us stared out the window in silence, while I did my best to ignore the fact that the city looked more and more like a spider’s web the closer we got.
Chapter 3
The Russian customs officials wore crisp, dark blue uniforms and sat behind bulletproof glass, their caps slung low over their faces to obscure their eyes. It’s a disconcerting tactic, leaving the traveler feeling unacknowledged, forced to decipher body language, all while looking as non-threatening as possible. Ironic, really, considering I spent most of my time doing the exact opposite—hiking my shoulders back, clenching my jaw, glaring at the world like it owed me money. Basically, every not-so-subtle social cue I could think of to let everyone know intimidation was a one-way street.
Quinn Motherfuckin’ Avenue.
I had to admit I was nervous. My body language and its two-word vocabulary—fuck and off—were so ingrained in me that I wasn’t sure I knew how to look non-threatening. That, and despite the fact that I’d probably accrued several thousand frequent flyer miles via physics-defying Gateway, this was my first time traveling to a new country by ordinary means. Plus, here the stakes were somewhat higher; I wasn’t sure what the Fae did to dissuade unregistered travel, but I was pretty sure Russia had that market cornered.
I shook off the nervousness, feeling silly. It wasn’t like I was wanted by some foreign government, after all, or like I was passing myself off as someone I wasn’t; I was Quinn MacKenna from Boston, visiting Russia for a week with a few friends. A classic tourist. Nothing to see here.
“I will need you to come with us,” a man said from behind me, his Russian accent thick and plodding. “All of you,” he insisted, eyeing our group. He wore the same uniform as the man clutching my passport, a two-headed golden eagle emblazoned on his shoulder, although his epaulets sported an additional star. He also had his hand resting firmly on the butt of a pistol. I had to admit I was considerably more jealous than frightened.
“Can I ask why?” Leo asked, flashing his teeth, channeling goodwill.
“No,” the official replied, scowling. He nodded to two other uniformed personnel standing near a set of double doors, both of whom were armed. They opened the doors and waited, watching us to see if we were going to comply. When we didn’t immediately step away from the kiosk, the two-star official reached slowly for a walkie attached to his hip.
“Gateway,” Lakota coughed, pointedly ignoring Leo’s glare.
Leo took a deep breath and sighed. “Alright, we’ll come along.”
I pursed my lips, considering whether or not to pick a fight. We would lose. I knew that. Starting a brawl in an international airport overseen by a less-than-friendly government would basically be a declaration of war—four United States citizens against the former USSR. Odds of survival? Slim to none. Still, I considered it.
Which should tell you how much I despised being told what to do.
Jimmy nudged me. “Quinn?”
“Fine, whatever ye say,” I replied, glancing at Leo, trying to gauge his reaction. As a federal agent, I figured he’d know best what to expect when we went through those double doors. He gave me a flat, emotionless look and shrugged.
Great.
The two-star official herded us towards the door after taking my passport from his coworker and pocketing it. “I’ll be wantin’ that back,” I said, glancing at the man from over my shoulder.
He ignored me. Dick. We shuffled forward as a group, only to find several more guards waiting for us on the other side of the door wearing red blazers, like the security you might find at a casino. Of course, for all I knew, that’s exactly what they were. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to find out the airport had its own casino; Russia had earned a reputation for its extremist form of capitalism. I frowned as these men took our bags and suitcases, gently prying them from our shoulders and hands like bellhops.
“You,” the two-star official said, jerking a thumb at me as he strode down the hallway, forcing us to trail behind, “follow me. The rest go that way.” He pointed down a side corridor in the distance.
“Why are ye splittin’ us up?” I asked, eyes nar
rowed, easily keeping pace with my long legs. At six-foot, I could keep up with most men when they walked, even officious pricks like this guy. In fact, at the moment, only Jimmy towered over me.
“We have different rooms for men and for women,” the official said.
I glanced over at Leo, who frowned and shook his head slightly. So, a lie. Lakota, seemingly unconcerned with being confused for a guy, squinted at the official, trying to read him. Whatever she saw, she clearly didn’t seem to care for; she looked like she’d swallowed something sour. “I think we’ve been plenty accommodating so far,” Leo said, his disarming smile long gone. “How about you tell us why we’re being detained?”
The two-star stopped walking and turned to meet Leo’s eyes. “Why do you think you are being detained?”
The two continued to stare at one another, until at last Leo grunted. “So that’s how it is.”
“How what is?” I asked.
“They plan to interrogate us,” Leo explained.
“Why?”
“You tell us,” the official replied. “What are two FBI agents, an American detective, and an antiquities dealer doing here in Moscow?”
I flinched as the guards around us took a collective step back, their hands disappearing beneath those red jackets as if our threat level had just skyrocketed. To be fair, it was the right response; objectively, we were a dangerous bunch. But how had they found out about us so quickly? Why did they think we were a threat to them? And, most importantly, since when had I been downgraded to an antiquities dealer?
“Sightseeing,” Jimmy replied before I could argue the distinction, his voice deadpan.
The official glared up at Jimmy, lip curled in contempt, his cool facade shattering long enough to reveal something hateful beneath. “Take them away. We will find out the truth.”
The guards started to move, angling to escort the others down the side corridor. Jimmy sucked through his teeth. “I don’t like this,” he muttered.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 2
