Shadow Flare (The Ruby Callaway Trilogy Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

  My fingers gripped the stock as I grimaced. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “You’re a legend.” The long-haired woman on the counter shrugged as her partner slunk around me, flicking my jacket’s zippers with suggestive fingers. “Is she not?”

  I caught Roark’s eye. He couldn’t hear—but he also wasn’t pulling the trigger. Following his gaze, I saw a small object in the counter siren’s hand.

  Dead man’s switch.

  Just what I needed.

  I slid the shotgun out carefully and pointed it at the long legged one’s head.

  “Looks like we have ourselves a standoff,” I said.

  “Oh, she’s serious,” the siren responded, touching the shotgun’s barrel.

  “Too serious,” her associate said.

  “You should relax a little.” Long legs pushed her head against the barrel of the gun, daring me to shoot. Between the rapt mob ready to tear Roark and I asunder and the bomb, I wasn’t eager to call her bluff. “I could help with that, you know.”

  “We’ll double whatever the Crusaders are paying you,” I said.

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” the counter siren said, wagging the switch at me. “Donovan Martin doesn’t forget those who cross him.”

  “Some say he has even risen from the ashes of the dead,” the other one said. “But we didn’t come to tell stories.”

  And here I thought the legends that swirled about my exploits were overblown. The Crusaders were pushing the supernatural PR into overdrive.

  Guess you got cocky when you were sitting on your very own wellspring.

  “That’s right,” the counter siren said. “We came here to make you an offer.”

  “This ought be good,” I said.

  “It is.” The counter siren, who was clearly the leader, nodded. “Isn’t that right, Helena?”

  “It is so, Capri.”

  “You can trust us, Ruby.” Capri smiled from the countertop. “We’re trying to save you, Ruby.”

  “You’d like that, right?” Helena said, the crowd buzzing in bland agreement.

  “Just tell us what the FBI discovered this morning and you’ll live,” Capri said.

  “And Colton’s handsome face can kiss yours,” Helena said with a wicked smile.

  “Generous offer,” I said, trying to keep my mind focused on the situation. Sirens could throw off anyone, any creature. Didn’t matter the gender or discipline. Bounty hunters avoided them entirely, since they tended to make situations complicated.

  But today was a day for rule-breaking.

  I racked the shotgun, and Helena popped away from the barrel, startled by the aggression. Around me, the mob—still growing, despite the sirens’ focus on Roark and I—tensed, noticeably perturbed by the threat to their glorious new leaders. Deep in the back of their minds, terror and confusion probably reigned, but most rational thought was overtaken by whatever illusory promises of glory and pleasure had short circuited their minds.

  As for the wisps, well, what few remained were black. Even my intuition knew to stay the hell away from sirens. They could corrupt a dead nun.

  I slammed the shotgun against Helena’s torso, sending her stumbling back into the crowd. Then I quickly moved forward and grabbed Roark’s arm, indicating we needed to move back.

  There would be no heroic antics here today.

  Capri, however, was having none of this. She held the dead man’s switch high, the threat hovering over us all.

  “We set this party up just for you.” She gave a pouty face. “And you’re just going to leave, refusing our offer?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said, desperately fighting the desire to stay. Pearl would’ve slapped me in the face for that mental weakness.

  But you stay in jail for twenty-one years and then walk around in a techno-utopia hiding dark secrets and see where that leaves you. Out of practice—in the best-case scenario—would be my bet.

  “That’s why you should always have a contingency.” Capri’s finger slipped off the trigger.

  I braced myself, awaiting a bath of white light and the songs of angels. Or permanent darkness. But instead, a guttural roar overtook my ears, shaking the aluminum baseball bats off the racks in the back of the store.

  Before I could react, the mob was upon us, Capri and Helena’s fleeting laughter dancing above the melee as Roark and I were torn apart.

  8

  I felt my arm almost pop out of its socket as I hit the store’s rough carpeting. The rabid sounds of the feverish mob thrummed with the power of a hundred gunshots. Say what you will about sirens—and I had plenty of thoughts on the subject—but they know how to rile up a crowd.

  Which was rather unfortunate, since Roark and I were right in the middle of their trap. It was ingenious, really: they knew we’d be drawn to the commotion, one way or another. Protect and serve, right? Then, either the sirens got the information they sought, or we died.

  Maybe both.

  Win-win, basically.

  I kicked a portly middle-aged man, sending him crashing against a wire-frame rack of championship DVDs. He was quickly replaced by a young tattooed woman, who launched her sharp nails at my face.

  I deflected the blow and yelled, “Roark!”

  I received no response. Three more assailants joined the young woman, hands clawing at my throat. Still fond of breathing, I swung the shotgun like a bat, clocking one in the head. His place was seamlessly assumed by another member of the endless horde.

  The numbers weren’t in our favor.

  As the fragments of the sirens’ influence faded from the corners of my mind, the wisps coalesced. Strands of blue and red down one path, if I dashed to the counter. And a far more uncertain kaleidoscopic collection of possibilities leading where Roark had disappeared into the crowd a half-minute before.

  Blood and safety.

  Or a crapshoot.

  A punch to the jaw decided for me. I jabbed the shotgun’s stock into my attacker’s stomach—a rather paunchy and bedraggled mom-type—and scraped my way along the rough carpeting. I found Roark backed into a literal corner, near the running shoes.

  Still on the ground, I felt a hand grasp my leg. In response, I launched a kick straight back like the most ill-mannered horse in existence. If I couldn’t shoot my way out—technically these were innocents, even if they wanted to kill us—I sure as hell wouldn’t be pawed at like a zoo animal.

  Elbows thrashing through the mob, I managed to stand.

  “Roark!”

  This time, his eyes swiveled toward mine. The fabric ear plugs must’ve fallen out in the scrum. Only ten feet away, we were separated by a mosh pit. Fortunately, like zombies, the hypnotized crowd’s attack skills were unimpressive. However, en masse they still presented a significant problem.

  “Get outta here,” Roark said. “You can make it.”

  “Not without you.”

  Fingers tore at my shoulder, and I shook them off—or at least tried to. But their owner was persistent and strong, clutching my jacket with surprising tenacity. Roark grunted something unintelligible, the noise accompanied by the thud of a solid punch.

  The wisps danced behind him, and I saw where my intuition had led.

  A fire alarm, inside a glass case. Unfortunately, Roark’s head was in the way.

  I tried again to shake my attacker, but the second attempt proved equally futile. A half-turn showed why: the hand belonged to a mountain of a man, with arms the size of my quads.

  I swung the shotgun with my free arm, but he caught the barrel effortlessly.

  My muscles quivered, trying to push the metal and wood forward, but he stood there like an immovable tree, his eyes glazed over from the sirens’ intoxication.

  He released his grip on my jacket, his broad hand shooting toward my throat. With nowhere to retreat, I couldn’t dodge the attack. He lifted me off my feet like an empty sack of flour, stubby nails digging into my vocal cords.

  My survival instincts kic
ked in—innocents be damned—and I reached for my belt. My fingers fished for the electric blade Roark had given me. The one that had once belonged to his brother. I felt the energy in its hilt as I dragged it from its scabbard.

  Then I plunged it into the mountain man’s arm.

  He shook like I’d attached a car battery to his nerve endings. We both crashed to the floor, some of the electricity from the blade reaching my body, too. Nonetheless, I clung tightly to my lifeline, driving the knife deeper into his flesh.

  I saw his eyes flicker briefly before rolling unconsciously into the back of his head. Only then did I release my grip, skin still tingling from the power surge.

  Brow sweaty, I yanked the shotgun from his limp hand and stumbled to my feet. Roark was still fending off the mob with his fists and well-timed kicks. That wouldn’t last long. They were growing more violent and frenzied, agitated by our resistance.

  “Duck!” I shouted, pointing the gun his way.

  “What?” Roark called back as he landed another punch, his knuckles bloodied.

  “Get on the damn ground.” I racked the slide, and the noise explained things better than words. His head disappeared, and I aimed down the mounted sights at the fire alarm.

  Then I pulled the trigger.

  Glass exploded around the racks of shoes. The sprinklers burst alive, nozzles dousing the sporting goods store in a cool mist. Between the howling alarm and the sudden downpour, the mob suddenly stopped its advances.

  The ringing gradually ceded to the background as I pushed toward the front of the store. The injured murmured and moaned softly, the rest of the mob looking around in stunned confusion.

  In the distance, I heard sirens.

  But these were of the police variety.

  And, as I’d soon find out, equally unwelcome.

  9

  “What the fuck were you two doing?” Supervisor Emma Janssen crossed her arms, looking about ready to murder us both. With the .50 caliber pistols lurking beneath the trench coat, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’d crossed her mind. “First day in the big leagues and this is your idea of an investigation?”

  “I told you what would happen.” I wiped my face with a borrowed towel from the EMTs, catching a glance at the ruined store. “The Crusaders don’t play around.”

  “So you thought this was a good idea.” Janssen jabbed her finger at the dripping counter.

  Tempted to answer we weren’t thinking at all, I instead kept my mouth shut as the supervisor glared daggers at us both.

  “That man might lose his arm, Ruby.” Janssen snapped her fingers, trying to grab my attention.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” I said hotly. “We could’ve shot our way out.”

  “This isn’t the Wild West.” Janssen shook her head, silver hair cascading down the navy-blue coat. “Goddamnit, pulling a stunt like this…”

  “We didn’t pull anything, ma’am,” Roark said.

  “Oh, no? A half dozen broken bones, a quarter million in merchandise ruined? That must’ve been someone else.”

  “We were following a lead,” Roark said, wet boots squeaking slightly against the polished floor. “The sirens wanted information on the investigation.”

  “I don’t suppose you gave it to them.” Janssen’s gaze bounced between us both. “Because I’ve reached my daily quota for bad news.”

  “You should be thanking him,” I said, running my fingers through my damp hair. “He saved lives.”

  “Oh, well, in that case.” Janssen shook her head and made a shooing motion with her hands. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

  I was happy to oblige, but I was no more than two steps away when the supervisor said, “Wait.”

  “You’re sending mixed messages, here,” I said. “A girl could get confused.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Especially not now.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, turning to look at Janssen. Her polished jet eyes darted over me, wearing the expression of an investigator mulling pieces of a puzzle that just didn’t fit together.

  “These sirens should’ve killed you.”

  “You sound disappointed they didn’t,” I said.

  “If you’d stop being so damn witty for a second, you could actually listen.” Janssen took a deep breath, eyes swinging from me to Roark. Satisfied that neither of us would interject, she said, “You were outnumbered what, fifty to one? Seventy-five?”

  “I didn’t count,” I said. Her eyes flashed with restrained anger. “But sure, that sounds about right.”

  “And yet, here you both stand, causing me no shortage of grief and paperwork.”

  “Sorry we’re such a burden.”

  “Be that as it may,” Janssen said, “I’m curious to know why.”

  “What, you think we planned this?” I asked, temper rising.

  “I don’t think you two idiots could plan your way out the front door.” Janssen stepped forward, so that we were nose-to-nose. “This was a ruse. A loud distraction.”

  “And here I was starting to believe that thinking wasn’t in your repertoire,” I said.

  Janssen held my gaze and then shrugged, silver hair cascading over her shoulders. “You’re both suspended until further notice.”

  “What?” This was absurd, and I was about to shove my shotgun right down her throat to prove it.

  “Go home.” She turned to Roark. “And goddamnit, Colton, keep your expert consultant in line.”

  With that, she left us to our own devices, her input needed at the water-logged crime scene. After a few moments, I felt Roark’s hand lightly grip my wrist. It was only then that I realized I was shaking with actual rage.

  “You’re gonna stroke out if you keep going like that.”

  “That lady—”

  “Pressure from above.” His blue eyes told most of the story. “PR nightmare.”

  “We saved the day.”

  “It’s a powder keg, Ruby. Mortals get hurt with the supernatural around, heads start getting lopped off.”

  “So you’re saying we’re lucky we didn’t get fired.”

  “I’m too good to fire.” Roark winked and gave my arm a gentle tug. “Coming?”

  “I’m not helping these assholes.”

  “So we spend a couple days on the bench,” Roark said. “Who cares?”

  “It’s the principle.”

  “No one said we couldn’t use our unpaid leave wisely.” Roark nodded toward the exit. “What do you say?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  But I still followed him out the damn door.

  10

  Downtown Phoenix

  9 hours ago

  When we reached his cruiser, however, I had plenty to say. Especially when the first words out of his mouth were, “I think the supervisor’s telling the truth.”

  “The truth? Absolutely fucking—”

  “Easy there,” Roark said with a small smile as the doors unlocked. “About this being a distraction.”

  “They would’ve killed us.” I slid into the leather passenger seat and ran my fingers through my hair. As I mulled the problem over, it made more sense. The sirens could have forced those people to do practically anything. Turned them rabid.

  Instead, they’d been more of a nuisance. Enough to injure or warn us. Maybe enough to kill us.

  But all of that was gravy.

  “See, I knew you’d come around.” Roark pressed the ignition key, the engine roaring to life.

  “I didn’t say I agreed.”

  “I can see it on your face.” The car took off by itself, quickly picking up speed.

  I gave him a sideways glance. Maybe this was why we were partners. I reflected on the events in silence, trying to figure out the angle. The Crusaders of Paradisum weren’t known for granting their hunters amnesty. But, then again, they’d never made a move as bold as this morning’s body dump.

  I considered the theatrics. Twenty-three bodies split on each side of the fence. Like
a rib cage with one removed. The media would eat up that symbolism: the association of Adam and Eve, the latter created from a rib.

  But all of that was a smokescreen. It was brilliant because it was the weird shit you expected from a cult. All that it did, though, was tie up useful investigative resources on a goose chase.

  Like a shell game.

  “The force,” I said.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “How much of the FBI came to Midtown just now?” I asked as the car whipped down the street.

  “Basically everyone important.”

  “Maybe the Crusaders are trying to take everyone out.” I scratched my nose. No. Too messy and ill-targeted. They had morals—just the bizarre kind. The Crusaders weren’t indiscriminate terrorists. They only killed sinners. “Or.”

  “Or what?” Roark said, bringing up the holographic map on the car’s nav console.

  “Does the FBI provide security for anything?”

  “That’s pretty much what we’re paid to do.”

  “All right, smartass. I meant specialized security. As in assigned to watch an object. Or person.”

  “Or a place.” Roark’s fingers stopped playing with the hologram, a realization settling into his eyes. He dug the data cube from his pocket and slotted it into a crevice on top of the dashboard. “I might know what they want.”

  “Oh yeah?” I looked at the small cube. We’d had to hunt all over Phoenix for a glass table to read that when we were chasing the necromancer. And yet, here we were, from the comfort of his car, enjoying the data stream. “Since when can your cruiser read those?”

  Roark gave me an embarrassed look. “I, uh.”

  “What.” His face had guilt written all over it.

  “I might’ve gotten a promotion this morning.” Roark scratched his neat brown hair and looked out the window, avoiding my gaze.

  I narrowed my eyes, taking in the interior. Indeed, it was almost identical to his last cruiser, but with just a hint more luxury. The kind that came with a corner government office—albeit only a modest pay raise.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “But you’re full of shit.”

  “No, I really got a—”