Wild Cards IV
Page 46
Joann lowered her gaze. Oh, to be young and full of convictions. “Katrina—be careful. I’ll be in Prague for another day. If you get in trouble or need help, contact me.”
“I’ll be fine. Tell Cramer I’m fine.”
With a flounce of her skirt, Katrina turned and stomped off, her tentacled arm curled protectively around her middle.
Joann didn’t get back to the hotel until dusk, and Ray met her at the door.
“You’re late,” he said, glaring. “We’re due at the embassy in half an hour.”
“That’s right,” she said, slipping past him. “Did anything happen while I was gone that you couldn’t handle on your own?”
“Well, no.”
“Then I’m back, I’m on duty, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
“Are you getting into some kind of trouble out there?”
She looked up enough that he could see her expression under her hood and raised a smug brow at him. “I said I didn’t want to hear it. Do you trust me or not?”
He frowned. “I don’t not trust you. But you’re kind of weird, you know?”
Coming from Billy Ray, that was almost a compliment. “Agent Ray, I am an ace, which makes me exactly as weird as you are. Now don’t you think we should round up the delegates and get a move on?”
He gestured grandly into the lobby. “Lead on, princess.”
The U.S. Embassy in Prague was an honest-to-God seventeenth-century palace, with courtyards, wings, baroque moldings, cavernous ceilings, and some hundred rooms. Even Dr. Tachyon seemed impressed as the group traveled up the garden walk through arched doorways into the formal reception hall. Human beings so rarely lived up to his standards.
Embassy receptions, Joann had learned, all looked pretty much the same. The ambassador and spouse would be gracious hosts, and their staff would be preternaturally adept at smoothing over difficulties, faux pas, and other mishaps before they became international incidents. The food, drink, and music would be excellent. Some national specialty would be prominently featured—tango in Argentina, sashimi in Japan, and so on. There might or might not be alcohol in an Islamic country, but there’d likely be something to make up for it if it was absent. Amazing coffee, for example. But this was Eastern Europe. There was plenty of alcohol.
It was all like watching a movie, from Joann’s perspective. The same movie, with this crowd. Dr. Tachyon downed champagne glassfuls at a time. Hiram Worcester had returned to the tour, at least for the moment, and was holding forth over a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The politicians circulated, shaking hands and conversing. Joann spotted Representative Cramer, in a conservative high-necked gown that seemed more like a dress suit with a long skirt than formalwear. Xavier Desmond, who might insist that he wasn’t a politician, was part of the circulating group. Chrysalis, however, was not. Wearing a purple strapless gown that seemed to draw attention to the shifting contours of her visible musculature, she sat on the periphery, watching closely. One change from the start of the tour: Peregrine was no longer modeling sleek, haute couture gowns at every event. She still managed to look gorgeous in shimmering maternity wear that draped artfully around her expanding middle.
All this, taking place in the embassy’s finely curtained and carpeted reception hall, made for a strange gathering. Both political and public, sensational and serious. As usual, Joann remained outside, lurking in her cloak and hood. Observing, and nothing more.
When Cramer detached herself from her conversation and came across the hall toward her, Joann’s stomach sank. What now? It couldn’t possibly be important enough to interrupt the reception. For someone who wanted to avoid attention, Cramer was certainly drawing a lot of it to her now. Joann straightened and reminded herself to be professional. No ducking around the corner to escape from this.
“Lady Black. Agent Jefferson. May I speak with you?”
Joann had to keep her sigh to herself. “Why don’t we step outside, Representative Cramer?” The ace led the politician through a side hall to a secluded corner of the patio, where the light and eavesdroppers didn’t reach.
Cramer was impatient when she demanded, “Were you able to arrange a meeting with Katrina?”
“No, Representative Cramer. Ms. Duboss doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with her family.” She said you were pandering, Joann kept to herself.
“She’s wise,” Cramer said, and her expression changed, wincing into something like pain. Joann raised a polite eyebrow, inquiring.
The woman started pacing along the edges of the marble patio. “I spoke on the phone with Katrina’s parents this afternoon. I’m afraid … I’ve been under a bit of a misapprehension. When they asked me to contact her, I believed they wanted her to come home. I assumed—you see, if she were my daughter, I’d want her to come home.”
“What was it they really wanted?” Joann prompted gently.
It had to be bad, the way she took a deep breath before launching in. “They want evidence that she’s broken the terms of her trust so they can disinherit her. If she ever gets arrested, if she’s ever convicted of anything more than a parking ticket, she loses her trust fund. And mind you, this isn’t because she ran away, this isn’t because she’s done anything wrong, it’s simply because of her condition. It’s terribly unjust. So you see, Katrina’s wise to distance herself. She’s their daughter. They should be taking care of her.”
The world of trust funds and disinherited children was far outside Joann’s experience, but Cramer’s consternation was plain. Family was clearly more important than the wild card virus or any other consideration. That, Joann understood.
She also understood: Katrina was, right now as they spoke, getting herself into exactly the kind of trouble that would get her disinherited. Cramer would want to know—though it was probably better that she didn’t. Katrina would want to know … surely she’d stay out of trouble if it meant keeping her trust fund. And pissing off her parents to boot.
Now, if only Joann knew exactly where Katrina was and what she was doing.
Cramer went on, “I only want to offer her help. She can’t go to her family if she gets in trouble, obviously. But I’d like her to have some recourse. We get into politics because we think we can fix all the world’s problems. That we really can make a difference. I knew it would be hard—look at this tour, what good are we doing, really? But I thought I could at least help this one person.”
Joann was hardly listening, because this wasn’t about Cramer anymore. She decided: She had to get out, find Katrina, and keep the police off her back. The rest could wait.
“I’ll try to talk to her one more time,” she told the congresswoman.
“I very much appreciate your help, Agent Jefferson.”
That was nice, but at this point Joann was mostly worried about whether Katrina would appreciate it.
She looked around the reception hall and the party that was in full swing. The delegates could not be any more secure than they were here, in the middle of the U.S. Embassy. They could spare her for a couple of hours.
Billy Ray made an impressive show of force all by himself, planted at the arched entrance between the reception hall and the gardens. He wore his white fighting suit and stood, arms crossed and scowling, studying everyone who entered or left. She sidled up to him, swirling her cloak behind her, and spoke over his shoulder.
“Billy, can you cover for me?”
“Why? What’s up?”
“This is a personal favor for one of the delegates that has gotten way out of hand, but I’m in it now, so I have to finish it.”
“Hon, you are not making any sense at all. What’s wrong?”
Urging him outside, to the shelter of an obliging shrub, she told him the whole story.
“Huh. Great,” he said, lip curling. “You know you don’t owe these people anything, right? Not Cramer, not the rich kid.”
“This isn’t about Cramer anymore—that’s the whole point,” Joann said, sighing and looking ou
t over the city as if she expected to see fireworks launching up from the planned protest. The river shone like liquid lead under the city’s nighttime lights, and the spires of the Church of Our Lady before Týn rose up like a demonic scepter. “Back in the sixties, a couple of students here set themselves on fire to protest Soviet occupation of the country. That’s what I’m afraid she’s gotten herself into.” Because here was a kid whose life had been turned upside down by the wild card virus, but she was determined to move on, to find meaning, to do something great in the world. Joann understood.
“And if that’s what she’s determined to do, how are you going to stop her?”
“I just want to find her and talk to her.”
“Then I’ll help.”
“Really, that’s not necessary, you don’t—”
“Seriously. Sounds like more fun than this show.” Indeed, a tipsy Tachyon had just accosted the pianist who’d been providing background music and was imploring him to sing Mozart. Ray leered. “Besides, you need someone watching your back.”
What harm could he do? Ha.
Together they snuck out of the reception. He touched her shoulder and urged her on, down the sidewalk to the embassy delivery gate. He didn’t even think about it; the gesture had been as natural as shading one’s eyes from the sun. The fabric of her cloak protected him, and her. So close and yet so far, she thought for the millionth time.
A spring rain shower had fallen that afternoon, giving the streets a slick sheen, and the air a fresh chill. The hem of Joann’s cloak grew damp as it brushed on the pavement.
When she thought about it, their destination was obvious: Wenceslas Square. The broad thoroughfare had been the site of political gatherings and demonstrations for decades. If Katrina and Erik’s bunch were planning something—something they wanted to garner a lot of attention—they would go there. She and Ray set off on foot, planning to find a cab once they got off the embassy grounds. But of course, this late and in this part of town, taxis were scarce. The central part of the city wasn’t that big, so they kept moving, across the river and into the Old Town—where Ray was immediately tackled by an immense figure in a long coat. Joann’s tail from yesterday. The big man had grabbed the ace around the middle at a dead run, and he kept going, carrying Ray off the sidewalk and across the street.
Joann put her back to the wall of the nearest building and looked around for the guy’s partner. She spotted him across the street, waiting. The big guy kept going, smashing Ray into the wall and cracking the brick in all directions. Ray slumped, dazed, but kept on his feet. He threw a punch that landed on the guy’s gut with a dull thud before the guy picked him up and smashed him into the wall again. They must have known about Ray’s ace, that they’d have to do a lot of smashing before they could drop him. They seemed intent on doing exactly that.
Joann couldn’t let that happen. She ran, shifting her cloak over her shoulders and reaching out for the tough guy. His partner, the smaller man, didn’t do anything, which made Joann suspicious. What was he waiting for? Or more likely—what was he hiding?
Keeping an eye on the partner standing watchfully half a block away, Joann slapped her hand on the large one’s back and pulled, opening the doors to her power. The feeling was like a vortex in the middle of her gut, a yawning hole that was desperate for power, that would swallow the energy and keep going until her whole being exploded. She had it all planned out—drop the man like a rock by sucking him close to dry, then turning and punching a big chunk of his own energy back into him. He’d be off his feet for weeks, if not dead outright.
But nothing happened. She had a firm grip, but nothing poured out of him, and she didn’t feel so much as a spark. It was like he was dead already—but somehow still upright, still moving. He turned around to stare at her with a stonelike gaze. Then, with surprising deftness, the big guy grabbed her and hoisted her off the ground. Still her power had no effect. She tried the reverse, grabbing his shoulders with both her bare hands to slam a bomb’s worth of energy into him. Power bounced off in a cascade of lightning, and he continued holding tight to her. Now she struggled, kicking and digging fingernails into his strangely unyielding flesh. The man was solid, his muscles hard, and his expression vaguely bland as he started squeezing.
Here was someone who could touch her—he was touching her, and not falling. Not dying. She could touch this man, and he could touch her and not die; the fact thrilled her. Even as he was obviously trying to kill her, she almost leaned in to kiss him. Proposition: For every ace power there existed, somewhere, an equal and opposite power. Every ace had an opposite against whom their power was useless. The idea offered a strangely comforting balance to the universe. If she could drain the life force from anyone, didn’t it stand to reason there was an ace, somewhere, whose power meant his life force couldn’t be drained?
Of course Murphy’s Law intruded—there was a man who could touch her, and he was trying to kill her.
Her arms were pinned. She kicked at the man’s knees and groin, but he didn’t even flinch. All she did was stub her toes on his rock-solid flesh. Joann’s big professional secret was that she wasn’t at all proficient in the martial arts and hand-to-hand combat skills that would usually be required for a federal agent working security. She could learn movements, but she couldn’t realistically spar with anyone without running the risk of killing them with her power. When she could incapacitate anyone with just a wave of her hand, no one ever thought she needed proficiency in hand-to-hand combat. Well, so much for that. Caught in the powerful ace’s grip, she could do little more than flop, while he squeezed harder. Her ribs creaked, and she choked on a breath when her lungs refused to expand.
Screw this. Wriggling, making herself as slippery as possible, she slid downward in his grip—and right out of her cloak. The guy’s hold on her faltered. He grabbed for the cloak’s slick fabric, and she stumbled away. More from instinct than thought, she turned and let off a starburst of stored energy, a flash that blasted outward, thunder echoing on stone.
The ace flinched back, sheltering his eyes with an arm as he tossed the cloak away. Her blast didn’t kill him, but it seemed to have blinded him.
The other agent still wasn’t engaging. Ray was picking himself up off the pavement, rubbing his head and snarling with rage.
“Ray—” Joann warned.
“Fuck this, I’ve got it,” he growled. And jumped.
The big man made a fist and swung around to punch Ray, but the white-garbed ace was already out of the way and coming down on top of the giant’s head, hooking an arm around his neck, twisting, and landing a punch on the guy’s face. Chips of stone flew from his head.
Wait, stone?
The other Czech agent shouted a word of denial and ran for them. Joann held out a hand in a stop gesture. The guy stopped.
The big man blinked in confusion. Ray had done damage—a series of cracks radiated across his face, starting at his cheek and looping around his eye, then across a marking on his forehead, some kind of scar or tattoo. He reached up, scratching at it … and another bit of stone chipped away, and the symbol fell apart.
The man froze, still as a statue. Just like a statue. The cracks in his face widened, the damage increasing, spreading across his entire body until the whole figure fell into rubble, leaving his coat and clothing slumped on top of it.
A weird silence settled over them, confused and watchful. Joann knelt by the remains, the pile of stone and sand, tracing her fingers through it. Blinking in confusion, Ray crouched where he’d fallen when the giant disintegrated. What was going on here?
The remaining Czech agent’s expression hardened, grief turning impassive. Finally he said, “It doesn’t matter. I can make another one, and another.”
He was the ace, not his hulking partner. His power: bringing stone to life, making stone men—
Joann’s eyes widened. “You’re Jewish. That’s where your power comes from. Your ace, it draws on the golem folklore—”
Joann sighed with frustration. “We don’t have anything planned!”
“I know you are conspiring with the foreign demonstrators to provoke civil unrest.”
She couldn’t help it; she chuckled. “You’ve got it all backward. I was just—” She shook her head, let it go.
Clenching her fist, she felt a crackle of power. She could drop the man where he stood with a touch if she needed to. He was human and had a normal flow of energy through a conventional nervous system. Not like his stone servant. But she didn’t, because he wasn’t doing anything but standing there. Brushing off her hands, she went to retrieve her cloak. With a practiced twist and sweep, she draped her cloak around herself and drew her power close.
“Joann, you okay?” Ray was back on his feet, bruised, a trickle of blood dripping down his forehead, but otherwise none the worse for wear. She wondered if she should tell him about the blood before it dripped on his suit.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. Her ribs felt bruised, but she’d recover. She regarded the Czech agent. “I am honestly not here to cause any trouble. We can both walk away, and neither of us has to report this.”
“You have all the power here. You can decide what we do.” He lifted his chin, in pride and defiance.
He expected them to kill him. He would have killed them, if the roles were reversed. All she had to do was lift her hand—or say the word, and Ray would knock the guy’s head off.