“Who’s FarjAd Daei?” I asked.
“I have never heard of him,” said Vayl, who kept up with world movers and shakers even better than I did. The crowd sure had. Many of the men took the time to spit beside their shoes when they heard his name. But a few made a gesture so casual I wouldn’t have noticed if one man, about my age, hadn’t caught my attention. He drew the thumb of his right hand across his thigh, then turned his hand, palm outward, toward the doomed woman. When he caught me staring he nodded once and mouthed the word “Freedom.”
I raised my eyebrows at him and he nodded again before melting into the crowd. The young woman went through the trapdoor with a mahghul draped over her head like a second scarf. Already its comrades had begun to feed off the uniformed men, some of whom watched her body swing while others stared off into the crowd as if this execution had as little to do with their lives as a classic-car auction.
When the second woman dropped, her chador came off. She’d pinned a picture to the white dress she wore underneath. I couldn’t see the details, couldn’t read the bold black captions above and beneath the photo, which covered her entire chest. But those in the crowd who stood closest to her shouted in outrage. The crowd surged forward, their screams encouraging those behind them to join in, and within seconds the bodies disappeared beneath their tearing hands.
“Time to leave,” Vayl murmured. I could feel his power rising to shield us from watching eyes as he took me by the arm and steered me out of the plaza.
Behind us the rest of the mahghul had joined their brethren, sweeping down on the rioters, shrieking joyfully as they fed on the violence.
Vayl and I didn’t speak as we rushed away from the scene. Within five minutes we arrived at our destination. As soon as we saw the place we reached an unspoken agreement to put the nightmare of the plaza behind us, at least temporarily. Duty called. As usual, it surprised me. I’d expected the Oasis to present me with a dimly lit throwback to the 1860s. A men only sign on the front door. Cigar smoke so thick you’d have lung cancer by the time you sat down. Dancing girls entertaining the high rollers in the back room.
What I found was a thirty-year-old, white-block two-story building housing an Internet café, with single booths stationed around the perimeter of the room, each holding a PC, most with an avid user glued to the blocky, fifteen-inch monitors. In the middle, tables with red-cushioned chairs invited customers to sit and chat face-to-face, rather than online. Either way, it made no sense to me. Why would the Wizard, a guy who’d sent a letter to the BBC stating that “America is the infant England should have aborted,” agree to party in a café surrounded by reminders of the very country he despised? Okay, so it’s the World Wide Web. The whole concept of freedom of information is so American it practically square dances.
We sat down. Since the place had signs in both Farsi and English, we felt free to reveal our foreign natures. At least to some degree. Vayl lapsed into his accent to order us both tea. And when the waiter inquired as to our countries of origin, Vayl told him we were from Romania, attending a family funeral. I didn’t speak at all until the waiter left.
“Nosy, isn’t he?” I whispered.
Vayl’s eyes followed the waiter as he cleared a table across the room. “He could be freelancing for the government. You never know.”
Too true. “Listen, do you really think we’ve got the right location?” I shared my doubts.
“Perhaps that is why he has never been caught,” my boss replied. “By maintaining continual unpredictability he has evaded the authorities for nearly twenty-five years.”
“I guess,” I said. I badly wanted to study the photograph Dave had given us again. Ask it questions neither one of us could answer.
Vayl nodded his head behind me. “This is a modern building. They actually have public restrooms. Given the rate at which tea passes through the system, I would say our best shot at the Wizard will be any one of the three to five times he goes to the bathroom during his visit here.”
“So you want to set up in there?”
Vayl stood. “I will go check it out.” I watched him leave, wishing oddly that I could stop him. We shouldn’t be here, I thought, sitting back and casting my eyes casually around the room, hunting for the source of my unease. As usual, I couldn’t match it with a familiar face or a psychic scent. Couples, most of them under thirty, sat chatting and laughing over bowls of thick soup and plates whose predominant ingredient seemed to be long-grained rice. No threat there. So what the hell? It’s this whole damn mission. Everything about it’s got me flinching at shadows. Or maybe it was my double trip to hell that had done it. Either way, I wanted badly to click my heels together three times because, by God, there really was no place like home.
Vayl returned in a reasonable amount of time. “There is a window big enough to crawl through if it comes to that. We are — how do you say — set.”
I smiled thinly as the waiter brought our tea. Vayl began to talk, or rather gush, about Zarsa. And I meant to listen, honest I did. But Raoul chose that moment to drop in. His way of grabbing my attention is to reach into my brain and squeeze until either I tune in or black out. It had taken a while, but I’d finally learned to listen.
“Let me guess,” I said in the mental drawl I reserved only for him, “you were the fifth of eight children and your mother had you all very close together. Am I right?”
CLOSE ENOUGH.
Figures. “You probably shouldn’t even be talking to me.” I told him about my return trip to hell and gave him my fake Matt theory. When he didn’t immediately reply I said, “So, what do you think? Is he gunning for you?”
MAYBE. And that’s really as specific as Raoul would probably get at this distance. It wasn’t the ideal way to communicate, but hey, considering we were operating on entirely different planes, I probably came off sounding like a talking mosquito to him.
“Actually, I have a great number of preparations to make this evening,” said Vayl as I snapped back to my reality. Which currently sucked.
“You do?”
“If I am to turn Zarsa without injuring her, I must make sure everything is in order.”
Okay, this is the point where a reasonable (sane?) person would back off. Because clearly this train was headed straight over the cliff and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it. Still. I raised my hands to the table. Was not even slightly surprised to see both of them curled into fists.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘in order’?” I inquired acidly. “Are you doing an HIV test on her before you dig in? Having her line up a nanny in case you goof and leave her children motherless? Is there a liability-free form her hubby has to sign before you can kill the woman he loves and turn her into a creature who will be forced to watch every single person she loves die?”
Vayl leaned forward. Shot the word at me like a bullet. “Stop.” I met him halfway. Not a smart move for anyone facing a pissed-off vampire. But anger generally puts me beyond smart moves, especially when it comes to Vayl. Knowing he could sense all of my strongest feelings, I wrapped them in a flaming ball and threw them at him with two simple words. “You first.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vayl left me at the door to the Oasis with a mumbled, “I am sure you can find your way home from here,” and disappeared into the night. I watched him go, depressed on every front, including the one where I had to admit he was right about getting back to base. I didn’t even need a map. (One of the perks of my Sensitivity.) What I did need was to talk to somebody who could help me unravel this coil. Usually Vayl was my go-to guy. But since he’d caused the biggest tangle, I was left with little choice. Too dangerous to contact Raoul. Too risky even to talk to Dave. That left the old man. I pulled out the new stealth-communications device the DOD had issued us before leaving on this mission, stifling a pang of guilt at the pleasure that flashed through me as my fingers caressed the sleek black case. I love technology almost as much as I adore fast cars and strong, mysterious men. I
opened the case, took out the trendy new eyeglasses it contained, and put them on. As soon as they settled on my face a robotic arm grew out of the earpiece. Having watched the live-action version before we left, I knew a tiny receiver was blooming from its tip, and within moments the arm would stick it in my ear. In the meantime, using visual commands to work the menu shining across the top of my lenses, I placed my call. Then I covered my mouth with my hijab so no one could see me having a conversation seemingly with myself.
“Parks residence.”
“Shelby?” I was surprised. Usually, well always, Albert answers the phone. Finding his nurse on the other end of the line was a bad sign. Dammit, I needed to talk to my dad!
“Jaz? Did your work finally track you down?”
Shit, shit, shit. Stop talking right now, Shelby. I do not want to hear what you have to say. “No.”
Long pause. Big breath on Shelby’s end. “Jaz, your dad’s been in an accident.” When I didn’t immediately reply, he added, “He’s alive. But he’s in critical condition.”
I kept strolling down the street as if part of my head hadn’t just floated off into the stratosphere and my heart hadn’t just burst. I didn’t cry or call out, because that would have brought attention to me, and I was on the job. Such the professional. Yo, Pete, I didn’t blow it when my dad’s nurse told me he was near to death. Give me a fucking bonus, will ya?
“What —” I cleared the croak out of my throat. “What happened?”
“He was riding his motorcycle down the street not two blocks from here when a woman hit him from behind. He flew back into her windshield; then he rolled forward onto the pavement. Luckily there was a cop right on the scene. He had somebody pulled over, giving them a traffic ticket. So he nailed the driver right away. Had an ambulance on the spot within three minutes. It probably saved his life.”
“But he’s still bad?”
I could hardly bear the sympathy in Shelby’s voice. I wanted him to growl like Albert. That would make me mad. Then I wouldn’t want to cry. “He’s a sixty-one-year-old diabetic. Admittedly he’s in better shape since I started taking care of him, but he has multiple fractures, including a couple in his back that may be very serious. They won’t know for sure until the swelling goes down. There may also be issues with his kidneys. A young, healthy guy is going to heal up pretty fast. Your dad does have a couple of strikes against him. But he’s also the most stubborn, mule-headed bastard I’ve ever met.”
We laughed. “Me too,” I said.
“If anybody’s going to beat this, it’ll be him,” Shelby assured me.
“Shelby.” I swallowed a sob. Breathe, Jaz, breathe. “I can’t come home. I’m overseas.”
“They told me.”
“Have you been in touch with Evie?”
“She’s at the hospital right now.”
“Okay. Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can and I’m sorry I’m not there.” I’m sorry I’m never there. I walked the rest of the way back to the house in a stupor. Since my mind kept shying away from Albert’s situation, all I could think was, Who am I going to call now? Who’s going to tell me what to do now that the mahghul are stalking Vayl?
When I got back to base the door was locked. Too tired to retrieve the key from my pocket, I reached through the nonexistent side pane, unlocked it from the inside, and went in. Cassandra and Bergman had moved their research to the living room. They’d taken over the love seat and were nearly bumping heads as they whispered over the Enkyklios. Though the marbles kept moving, forming myriad shapes, the pictures that projected from them made little sense to me, probably because they were so small. I shucked my shoes, climbed over the back of the couch, and sank down into the cushions, wishing desperately for a comfort I’d never again experience. Still, I pulled my old card deck out of my pocket and ran my thumb across the tops. Thrum. What a beautiful sound.
Cassandra came to sit beside me, leaving the Enkyklios to wind down on its own. “What happened?”
“You want the bad news or the worse news?”
That got Bergman’s attention. He eyed the cards. “Maybe you should pick up another habit, Jaz. I heard about these ball bearings —”
“Naw. I think I’m just going to start drinking.”
Long silence while Bergman and Cassandra tried to decide whether or not I was joking. Why does nobody get me? Finally Cassandra said, “Tell us everything.”
So I did. And when I was done, I’ll admit it, I was glad our consultants had come along. No matter what else they contributed to the mission, they didn’t make fun of me when I cried for the dad I barely got along with and only loved because I had no other choice. And they didn’t protest when I declared I was going to stop Vayl’s lame-ass turning-the-Seer scheme if it killed me. Which, to be honest, it very well might. But they didn’t want to help me plan how. They had something else on their minds.
“We think we’ve figured out how to detect the shield,” said Bergman, jerking his thumb toward the Enkyklios with barely checked excitement.
“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “And it has to do with your acquaintance, the Amanha Szeya.”
I thought of sad-eyed Asha and actually felt some remorse at nosing into his business. But not much. When a guy keeps me from taking out a reaver, he’d better expect some payback. “So, you have a record of his kind?” I asked.
Cassandra nodded. “He is a Nruug Stalker.”
“And what’s a Nruug?” I asked tiredly.
“An other who’s abusing his or her Gift.”
I threw up my hands with relief. “So we’re set! I found him outside Zarsa’s house. She’s obviously abusing. He’ll take care of the whole deal.”
“Not necessarily,” cautioned Bergman. “According to some of the histories we saw in the Enkyklios, many Nruug Stalkers won’t step in until after somebody’s actually died. They have that mentality where it’s not a crime until the deed’s done.”
“Well, shit.”
“But you can certainly talk to him,” Cassandra encouraged me. “And when you do” — she and Bergman shared a gleaming look of anticipation — “maybe you can tell him about Bergman’s idea.”
“Well, it started with Cassandra,” Bergman said graciously.
“But Bergman made the leap,” Cassandra added.
I held up my hands. “Okay, enough with the lovefest. I almost liked it better when you two were slamming each other. At least we were more efficient.”
Cassandra nodded to Bergman, who sat forward eagerly, his chapped hands each clutching a bony knee.
“We realized the only way to detect a shield of the type we suspect is to use a really finely tuned tracker.”
He tried to pause for dramatic effect but was too worried about being yelled at to work it for long. “Like you.”
“But —”
He held up his hands. “I know, you and Cole didn’t feel anything during the card game. But think. Every time Vayl has taken your blood, he’s left some of his power behind and it’s increased your own Sensitivity. The reavers even have a name for it.”
“My Spirit Eye,” I said.
“Exactly. We think if you were able to soup up your Sensitivity again, you might be able to see the mole. Or at least the shield he’s using to hide behind.”
“One problem,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Vayl’s pissed at me.”
Cassandra shook her head. “We aren’t suggesting you donate any more blood to Vayl. We don’t think he’d take it if you offered, now that he’s fixated on Zarsa. We think you should talk to Asha.”
I slumped so far down the couch my butt hit the edge of the cushion. Oh yeah, this was going to be a blast. Because I was sure whatever exchange they were suggesting involved some major vulnerability on my side. And, frankly, if I had to crack open the shell I’d begun to build the moment I heard about my dad, I would never make it through this mission.
A clatter at the door that led into the apartment from the gar
age signaled the return of Dave and his crew. I straightened. Pulled myself together. No way in hell would I let Amazon Grace see me looking pitiful and forlorn. She’d get off on it way too much.
They joined us in the living room. Natchez dropped next to Bergman on the love seat. Grace settled by the fireplace with Cam. Dave sat on the couch with Cassandra and me. Jet and Cole took a detour into the kitchen and came out minutes later with drinks for everyone.
“How did it go?” Cassandra asked Dave.
“Pretty well,” he replied. “We’ve got the location scouted and photographed so we can make a mock-up on the second floor and do some run-throughs with Jaz and Vayl later tonight.” I looked around the room, expecting satisfied nods. But they all looked pretty grim and stoic to me.
“What happened?” I demanded, shelving my own bad news until I heard theirs.
“We ran into some trouble,” Dave said. “We’d probably be in jail right now if not for some quick talking on Cole’s part.”
Now the nods came, along with several toasts. Cole accepted them with his usual good-humored grin. I looked at my recruit and raised my eyebrows. “Well?”
He sauntered over to Cam, held his hand out, received a toothpick and a salute before taking his place center stage. “We’d finished the reconnaissance and were headed back when the police stopped us and herded us into this huge square. They made us join a group of maybe thirty men. I asked an older guy if he knew why we were there, and he told me we were all suspected of inciting a riot that had happened earlier that evening.”
“I think we were there,” I said through lips that had gone numb. “Two women were hung, right?”
Cole nodded in surprise. “That’s what he said.”
“I thought the riot started when the older woman’s chador came off.”
“According to the old man, it was a combination of the picture pinned to her dress and what the people in the crowd were shouting.”
“Tell me.”
Cole scratched his beard as he gnawed at the toothpick, both sure signs of distress. “The picture was of her daughter, who’d been buried to the waist by her uncle and then stoned to death by him and some other male family members for trying to divorce her husband.”
Biting the Bullet Page 13
