He had considered telling Iduyan, but in the end had decided that it would be for her own good, and the good of their small community, if he did not. After all, he reasoned at the time, there was nothing she could do that was not already being done at the court of the powerful Queen of the Otherworld.
And Iduyan, for all her gifts, had been born Human, and had lived many centuries longer than even the oldest among them. She was frailer than she used to be, and it took more and more of her energy to keep herself and the rest alive long past their normal span of years. Batbayar knew that if she heard that her son was injured, possibly dying, she would insist on leaving the enclave and going to him—and no one knew what would happen to the others if she did.
If Gregori died, Batbayar thought at the time, she would be spared the grief of knowing. If he did not, as it had turned out to be true, as a mortal he would be dead in fifty or sixty years at the most, and the problem would solve itself. It had hardly seemed a decision at all.
But that was before today. Before Batbayar had felt the universe shiver and looked into the sacred waters to see Gregori, not only quite alive but holding a book and peering at a map within it intently. In the background behind him, Batbayar could faintly see what looked like rows of other books, a treasure trove of knowledge such as he had never seen.
He could not make out what place the map was of, but he had a bad feeling. Batbayar suspected it was time for one of his rare forays out into the world. He did not know where Gregori was, but he could find out. His gifts, wrought by years of spiritual study, were not limited to looking simply into water, after all. And when he found him, Batbayar was going to find out just what Iduyan’s long-lost son was up to. It was Batbayar’s job to protect Iduyan and their community, and he intended to do just that, no matter who was involved, and no matter what it took.
• • •
CIERA scooped up some mashed potatoes and put them on the cheap white institutional plate that was held out in front of her. But her fingers tightened painfully around the metal handle of the ladle when she took a closer look across the serving table.
“Oh, Tori,” she said, wincing in sympathy. “Are you okay?” A stupid question, considering that the girl had one eye that was swollen shut and colored various grackle-wing hues of purple, green, and black. A bright red mark with matching colors around the edges spread across most of her too-sharp cheekbone on the same side of her face. The girl huddled deeper into her winter coat, despite the warmth of the soup kitchen, and shrugged her shoulders, making the plate in her hand wobble dangerously.
“I’m okay, Ciera,” she said in a dull tone that matched the pallor of her skin and the lanky, stringy hair that hung down over her uninjured other eye. “It’s no big deal. I just tripped over something in an alley last night.”
Ciera snorted. “That something you tripped over left a hand-shaped print on your face, then.” She lowered her voice, leaning in with a large spoonful of green beans. “Nate did this, didn’t he?”
Tori shrugged again, not bothering to deny it. Nate was a local drug dealer, and no doubt Tori’s supplier. She had the look of someone who spent what little money she had on a fix instead of food, and Ciera had the ugly suspicion that she turned a few tricks on the side when she had to, probably at Nate’s prompting. The girl wasn’t much more than sixteen, and Ciera thought the odds of her making it to seventeen weren’t great unless something changed. This wasn’t the first time she’d come into the soup kitchen with bruises, although these were the worst yet.
“You don’t have to put up with this, you know,” Ciera said. “We can get you some help.”
Tori stared at her as if she were speaking Swahili. “I’m fine. It could be worse. At least Nate keeps me safe from everyone else in the neighborhood.”
“Right. And who keeps you safe from Nate?”
Tori shrugged again, getting ready to move on to Elisabeth’s station, where the meat loaf was. “That’s just how life is on the streets, Ciera. You know that.” Her voice was flat and defeated, and it drove shards of broken glass into Ciera’s heart. She knew she couldn’t save them all, couldn’t protect all the Toris from all the Nates of the world, but dammit, she wanted to. Some days scooping up potatoes just wasn’t enough.
A couple of hours later when her shift was over, she walked out through the kitchen, her eyes automatically drawn to the spot where Gregori sometimes stood elbow-deep in sudsy water. He had already left for the night, though, and some new guy Ciera didn’t know nodded at her from the sink. She wasn’t even sure why she’d looked, since she’d already known Gregori was gone. Habit, maybe, if one could form a habit in so little time.
After she closed the door behind her, Ciera walked briskly for a couple of blocks in the direction of her apartment, then, checking quickly to make sure no one was watching, made a sharp turn to the left and down an alley. A series of winding back streets brought her almost parallel to the location of the soup kitchen, but deeper into the less civilized part of town. Ciera was well aware of Nate’s territory; she’d scouted this whole area for months. She’d been aiming at much bigger fish than him, but tonight she’d run out of patience.
The darkness gathered around her like a cloak, more comforting than fearsome. She’d made her peace with the demons of the night long ago; other devils tormented her with far greater armaments of regret and grief.
She pulled the ski mask down over her face and pulled the hoodie up over the few curls of hair that escaped from underneath its soft cloth. One of the benefits of the cruel Minnesota winters—the sight of someone so bundled up was hardly cause for alarm. The lightweight mask she wore in the warmer months stood out much more, and she had to be that much more careful not to be seen. At least not by anyone who would be in any condition to talk about it afterward.
Down at the end of yet another trash-filled alley, she spotted Nate standing on “his” space, smoking a cigarette and playing some kind of game on his cell phone in the dim light from an apartment window two stories up. She coughed to get his attention, the low, rattling hack that many of the folks from the street carried with them all winter. She’d heard it often enough to be able to imitate it well.
“Hey, man,” she said in the gruff voice she used to disguise her gender. “I heard you could help me out.”
Nate glanced regretfully at whatever was on his screen and tucked the phone into his back pocket, then took one last drag before grinding his cigarette out under his expensive sneaker. Not terribly practical footwear for the weather, but for someone like him, status symbols were more important than cold feet.
He took his time strolling to the end of the alley near the street where Ciera stood waiting, making sure that it was clear who was in charge of this transaction.
“Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t. You a cop?” Nate peered suspiciously into the shadows, but Ciera had purposely positioned herself where she’d be little more than one more dark lump. The streetlight at the corner behind her had been broken so many times, the city had stopped bothering to repair it.
Ciera coughed again, bending over. “Ain’t no cop, man. I look like a cop to you? I just need something to take the edge off. Woman I met said there was a guy hung out here who could help me out, name of Nate. That you? If it ain’t you, I’ll just be on my way. No harm, no foul, man.”
Nate laughed. “No worries. You found the right guy. It just pays to be careful, you know?”
Ciera lifted her head, meeting his eyes straight on for the first time. Startled by what he saw there, he took an involuntary step backward. But it was already too late.
“It does pay to be careful,” she said, still using her rough-edged voice, but stronger now. “It pays to be careful where you are putting your fists.”
She swiveled and struck out with one foot, hitting him in the midsection so hard that the force of it shoved him back down the alley, away from the street. Then she
swiveled in the other direction and did it again, this time impacting the arm he’d flung out in front of him in a vain attempt to protect his belly.
“It pays to be careful what you do for a living,” she said, letting her fighting sticks slide down her sleeves and into her hands, and then bringing one down on that same arm as hard as she could. A sharp sound like a branch cracking echoed off the brick walls, and Nate let out a muffled scream.
Ciera threw him against the side of the building, ignoring the snow that slid down off an overhanging window ledge. An icicle dagger plummeted down within an inch of Nate’s cheek, but he didn’t even notice it. All his attention was on Ciera, his broken arm dangling, sweat pouring off his face despite the chill of the evening.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this? Did Joey send you? I swear, I haven’t been moving on his territory. That thing last week, that was an accident.”
“The streets sent me, Nate,” Ciera said. “Haven’t you heard? The streets are angry with you and yours. They’ve had enough. So they sent me to stop you from beating up on little girls and selling poison to innocents.” She moved closer, sticks whistling through the air inches from his face, thudding into the building walls on either side of him with a mean, hollow sound.
Nate’s eyes were wide and scared, and somewhere in the swirling emotions roiling darkly at the back of her head, Ciera thought maybe she should feel bad about that. Then she remembered that he’d hit a defenseless girl half his size. At least Ciera had given him a chance at a fair fight. Doubt slid away, replaced by adrenaline and righteous anger, cold as any icicle.
“You’re that vigilante they’ve been talking about,” Nate said, glancing around wildly for someplace to run, someone to come to his aid. But Ciera had chosen her spot well. “You must be crazy! Someday somebody is going to catch you, put you in a world of hurt.”
She chuckled, a low, mean sound that had him reaching into his jacket pocket. “Maybe so,” she growled. “But that someday isn’t going to be tonight, and that somebody sure as hell isn’t going to be you.”
He pulled out a switchblade, its sharp edge a dull gleam in the dimness, and held it awkwardly in his left hand. Ciera laughed. In a flurry of moves almost too fast for him to follow, she knocked the knife out of his fingers with a fighting stick, then whacked his forearm on the return swing. A booted foot smashed into his knee, and as he stumbled, she brought her own knee up into his chin. Blood dribbled out of his mouth into the already-dirty snow as he lay on the ground and whimpered. One tooth sat in a puddle, the only white thing in the dark alley.
Ciera shoved the sticks back up into her sleeves and crouched down, her face hovering just above his. Nate closed his eyes and moaned, a low animal noise he’d probably heard from others but had never expected to make himself.
“You gonna kill me?” Nate asked, not looking at her. “Please don’t kill me.”
“How about you answer a couple of questions for me?” Ciera said in a whisper. “Now that you’re probably feeling a little more cooperative.” She asked him the same questions she always asked, getting little helpful information. She hadn’t really expected any.
When she was done, she put her hands under Nate’s armpits and dragged him even farther back into the unlit recesses of the alley, behind a dive bar that didn’t get busy until after midnight. Sooner or later, someone would step outside to take out the garbage or take a piss, and they’d stumble over Nate before he had completely turned into a dealer-sicle.
Maybe he’d use his time lying on the ground to rethink his chosen profession and the way he treated others. Ciera figured that wasn’t too likely, but at least it would be a few months before he’d be back on the street again, hurting someone else. For tonight, that would have to be enough.
She melted back into the shadows, walking rapidly down the street with her head down against the cold, just like everyone else. A couple of blocks later, the mask was back in her pocket, and she was on her way home.
Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up with no elevator in a building that had seen better days. But the locks were good and the super kept the place clean; Ciera didn’t need much more than that. She followed the familiar worn linoleum trail that led to her front door and breathed a sigh of relief to be back in the closest thing to a sanctuary she’d ever known.
An unexpected twinge of jealousy arose as she thought of Gregori and his monastery. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in a place dedicated to peace and nonviolence. It sounded like heaven; well, except for the hours spent twisted up like a pretzel in meditation, or going over whatever passed for religious education in such a place. Ciera laughed at herself, letting go of the foolish envy. She’d go nuts in a place like that, no matter how inviting it sounded. She’d never found a spiritual path that called to her. Unless you considered her current activities a vocation. Maybe they were, at that.
Shedding her snow-dusted coat and hanging it on the hook on the back of the door, she pulled off her boots and padded in her stocking feet over to where a small framed print hung on one off-white wall, long overdue for a new paint job. The scene of an anonymous British seaside was as nondescript as the rest of the furnishings, all of which had come from Goodwill or consignment shops when she’d first moved in. She had enough money to redecorate now, if she wanted to, but she could never seem to make it a priority. All her energy and efforts went elsewhere.
She swung the painting aside to reveal the small hidden panel behind it. Some previous occupant had probably had a safe—or, more likely, a stash—there, but she used it to store her heart, the only part of her that really mattered, the part that no one ever saw.
Inside there were her notebooks, filled with whatever information she’d been able to gather over the last few years; little enough, all put together. And in a sterling silver frame, kept polished to a high shine as befitted the only item of true value she owned, was a picture of two women, their arms around each other, laughing at something the photographer had said.
The younger woman had kinky black hair, a roiling cloud of abundant curls that sprang every which way over her shoulders and down her back, and hazel eyes set over a broad nose and too-wide lips. But those lips were stretched in a cheerful smile, and the eyes were marginally less haunted than the ones Ciera saw in the mirror these days. It was the only photo of herself she liked, even a little.
Of course, that was mostly due to the other woman in the picture, her friend and mentor, Skye Blue. The woman who had saved her life, changing everything first with her presence and then, again, with her absence.
Skye’s face had a few more wrinkles—laugh lines, mostly—and her frizzy blond hair was streaked with the silvery gray she’d always called “nature’s highlighting.” Unlike Ciera’s simple jeans and navy blue top, the Skye in the picture wore a bright turquoise cotton peasant shirt and a multihued embroidered skirt that looked as though all the colors of the ocean had thrown themselves onto the fabric for the sheer joy of being next to the woman who wore it. Long, beaded chandelier earrings in the same vibrant colors dangled from her ears, and around her neck hung an amber necklace in the shape of a crescent moon with the initials S and B done in silver scrollwork over the curve of the moon.
That same necklace sat in a velvet-lined box in the hidey-hole, the only piece of Skye that Ciera had left besides the photo. And her life, which she had dedicated to her friend’s memory and to continuing her mission.
Ciera picked up a piece of blue chalk that was lying beside the photograph and used it to draw a line next to one of many that already marched their way across the back of the cabinet door. Only one more sideways slash to make this set into another five. She didn’t count the total. The numbers didn’t matter.
“One more for you, Skye,” she said, putting the chalk back down and touching one fingertip gently to her friend’s face. “Someday, there will be a mark for th
e man who killed you. That I promise. Someday soon.”
CHAPTER 5
THE wind blew a flutter of day-old newspaper onto the gritty sidewalk in front of Gregori as he walked to the shelter for his first shift of the week. The weekend had been spent focusing on prayer, study, and meditation. Or, rather, trying to focus on those things. He was still frustrated by his inability to sink into a trance state, something that used to come as easily to him as breathing. He had also started to be plagued by strange and unsettling dreams, which tormented his sleep and then haunted him during the day whenever he closed his eyes in pursuit of spiritual peace.
It was beginning to drive him a little crazy. Maybe he should have stayed in the Otherworld after all.
Of course, then he would not have met Ciera, who seemed to be proving as distracting as the dreams, in her own way. Not that she ever said or did anything to encourage even a vague friendship. And not that he intended to pursue one. But for some reason, he still could not seem to stop thinking about the tawny-skinned woman. She had even shown up in some of the nightmares, of late. Probably the universe warning him to stay away.
Mind you, if that was its intention, it would probably not have had the woman in question walk out of an apartment building a mere three feet ahead of him on his way to the soup kitchen. As usual, her dark hair was neatly braided and covered by a black knit cap, and she was wearing the same beat-up old leather jacket, jeans, and hoodie he’d seen her in on previous occasions. She should have blended in with the other people out and about, but somehow she stood out to his eyes like a beacon.
Remembering how she’d startled at the library, he made sure to clear his throat before coming up next to her.
Dangerously Divine Page 4
