15
Luc stepped out of the limo and up to the entrance of Umbra Motus with an irrational anger at the cold. After his rather pleasant—if short—time in the warm winter/summer south of the Equator, the frigid air of Virginia's winter was an affront. It made the tan he'd gotten during those few days on the island look out of place. Even so, it felt good to finally be home.
The evening's party hadn't yet come into full swing. It was good to see that the club was still functioning well, even after his long absence. There was even a "reserved" sign on his usual booth. That had been left sacred. How nice. He had to hand it to Scout and Betty for this. But it had been almost a year since he'd disappeared. He couldn't help but wonder how long they would have waited. Or if this was just show to make him think his place had been maintained. When the cat was away, after all…
His office in the club was tidy and appeared undisturbed. He took the hidden stairs down to the basement and the ECAA. Even that seemed normal enough. His entrance was noticed, marked, and then immediately discarded as unimportant by those training in the main room. As it should be. Luc walked along the walls until he reached his rooms. His office there was also untouched except for dusting. Even the files from the "innocents" were left on his desk. Nothing had been moved.
His bedroom, though, showed the dust of the time he'd been gone. Nothing personal of his had been touched or gone through. If a beetle had tromped through the thick layer of uncleaned time that lay over everything, he would have seen the marks of it. He wanted to clean it immediately, but travel had left him tired and feeling grimy. A shower, first.
It was well into the post-midnight hours before he felt comfortable sleeping. He'd showered, dusted, wiped down all the surfaces, exchanged his musty linens for fresh ones, and then taken another shower to wash off the exertion. But once he finally climbed into his bed, it almost felt like he'd never been gone. He fell asleep immediately.
Less than three hours later, he woke to a dark room and tried to remember his dream. One of his former students.
Dwayne Bush, the young man who had been questioning belief and morality in relation to their craft. He'd sent the young man to Father Martin for counseling. It seemed like ages ago.
Unable to get his eyes to remain shut again, he sent an email to his former student, asking after him. There likely wouldn't be a response for a day or more, but it made him feel better. But not completely better.
Luc spun around at a breath of sound in his room. The only light came from his computer, and it cast deep shadows between furniture and into the corners. He swore he saw movement.
"Insidia?" he whispered, peering into one of the shadows where he thought he saw movement.
When no one responded and nothing moved again, Luc finally turned back to his computer screen. He stared at his email inbox and wondered if talking to Father Martin might be a good idea for him, too.
Lesson Nine: Assassin's Keeper
1
"Thomas," Luc said smoothly, "Stand up and back up very slowly. You get one chance."
Luc didn't enjoy being so openly aggressive, but to be fair, Statford had begun it. This was not the first time the man had burst into Umbra Motus and caused a scene. Last time, it had been a brawl. This time, it had been a brawl.
It seemed to be a pattern with the private investigator.
Luc stood with his mouth perhaps two or three centimeters from Statford's ear, but he couldn't be certain whether it was his words or the stiletto he had pressed against the man's neck that truly had his attention.
Both the TASER and the baton Statford had grabbed from security hit the floor.
"I will handle this, gentlemen. See to Charles, Vernon, and Percival, s'il vous plaît?"
The security men began recovering themselves, and Luc put them from his mind. Later, he would see to it they were compensated for their troubles. For now, there was something much more annoying on his mind. He allowed a chill to enter his voice. "You come to my table, Thomas, though by all rights I should end your life here and now, non?"
He didn't have to gesture with the stiletto or even push Statford to move. The man got the idea and led the way to the booth Luc kept as his own. Somehow, the rave going on in the club had been largely unaffected by the brawl, and the two of them were hardly noticed as they crossed the floor. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but Luc's mind raced the whole way. By all rights, he should kill the man. Should have already done it, actually. They'd made an agreement. A few years ago, when they'd first met, they'd made a wager. If Luc won, he would never see Statford again. If Statford won, Luc would swear to Insidia never to harm another innocent. The bout had come to a draw, though Luc still disagreed with the outcome. Even so, Luc had made his vow— and taken on the world of complications that came with it— but now, here was Statford. Existing. Where Luc could see him.
Luc's fingers itched to take his due. But he couldn't discount something Insidia had said to him only a few months ago.
You could do with some friends.
What bothered him was that she was probably right. She was a goddess, after all. That alone had been quite the odd situation, finding himself suddenly in a world where the divine was reality.
What bothered him more was that Statford knew exactly what he'd been doing in making Luc swear to Insidia. He'd known goddesses and gods were real. He'd understood perfectly the mess he'd thrown Luc into. He'd done it on purpose.
So, Luc decided to be generous. "Go ahead and sit, Thomas. Were you any other man, we would not be having this conversation."
Statford sat, and Luc took a place across from him. While Luc knew that Statford knew he was outclassed—at least here—he still positioned his shoulders in just such a way to leave the handle of his stiletto showing in his coat. A reminder. Statford's eyes flicked to it briefly. Satisfied he'd made his point, Luc asked, "Why do you come into my place and start trouble?" He left out the "again" that had his blood boiling.
"It was a mistake, but I had to be sure, Luc. You know I'm not one for causing trouble without a reason."
Luc raised an eyebrow. "Mon frère, you cause trouble by your very existence. Explain yourself. Quickly."
The way Statford cleared his throat sounded like birdsong to Luc. He found he rather enjoyed having the man so unsettled. "I had to know if you had gone back on your promise. I should have known better, and I'm sorry."
Luc wanted to punch him right there, as crude a gesture as that would be. Gone back on his word? He had really thought that? And now he expected a simple "I'm sorry" to excuse it? Luc drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table, tapping out the rhythm to Les Marseillaise. The man knew nothing about honor. Luc kept his voice emotionlessly level. "You believed I was untrue to our bargain, Thomas? You wound me."
"Luc, the only reason I thought of you was the way things had been carried out."
Luc stopped his fingers abruptly. "Carried out what? You may want to explain more quickly than that."
"Someone's been killing a bunch of folks in nasty and creative ways…"
Luc listened as Statford described a pair of rather horrific murders.
"They had to ID Blackston by his fingerprints. That was all they had to go one. And Rusbaum, poor woman. She was literally crushed in her own home. Fucking basement collapsed with her inside it. How the hells that was managed, I'll..."
Luc listened, mind whirling. Of course, his thoughts went first to the Order of Hell, that unacknowledged branch of the Assassin's Guild that continually cropped up in Luc's life. This didn't seem quite their style, though, so he decided against telling Statford about them.
"These are some really screwed up killings, Luc. But they're also incredibly well-executed, pardon the pun."
Luc sighed inwardly and left his face blank. He had no idea how someone might accomplish a basement collapse, either, but that would be in the Order of Destruction's skill set. Not his own. The Order of Release was much less showy.
"You were the firs
t person I thought of that could pull them off. So much for Occam's Razor." The private investigator looked ready to tear his hair out. Whatever this was the man was dealing with, it was bad, apparently.
Luc wanted nothing to do with it. Fortunately, there was an addendum to their arrangement that gave Luc just the out he needed. "While your faith in my skills is flattering, I promised to keep my activities out of this area unless absolutely necessary, out of deference to you and your… patrons." He'd originally thought the "Stay away from the divine" part of their agreement had been bullshit. His recent situation with Insidia—and apparently a trio of conniving Sumerian gods—had proved that completely wrong.
Statford sighed. "You're right, of course. None of your folks would have gotten involved in it either. I know that." Statford pressed against the sides of his head. "I should know better."
Luc hid his outburst of laughter as a soft cough. "That might not be completely true, Thomas. I believe I might owe you an apology."
"Why?"
"While my Order may not have ended the lives of those you spoke, I believe information on those people may have been procured from us." He gestured quickly, cutting off any outburst Statford might make. "I also believe I can tell you why this person is performing these acts."
Statford cocked his head to the side as if listening to someone else, or perhaps just trying to hear Luc better over the thumping music. At that moment, it occurred to Luc that this was, perhaps, not the best place to have this part of the conversation. He would have to tell Statford about the Order of Hell. At least, he'd have to touch on their existence. He rose to his feet and led the way to his office. Normally, the room was little more than an atrium that Luc passed through to head downstairs to the East Coast Assassin Academy and its combined guildhall, but he didn't move aside the false wall to reveal the stairs. Instead, he closed the door behind himself and the private investigator, also shutting out the music of the club.
Luc hadn't thought about his former classmate, Nbuta, for years, but it was something the young man had once said that had given Luc his first bits of knowledge about the Order of Hell's existence. They had formed because some arrogant assassin had believed his skills made him akin to a god, and he'd tried to make himself into a divine being. It was an old story, but his eventual exile from the Assassin's Guild had led him to found his own, separate order. Not they called themselves the Order of Hell, of course. They styled themselves the Holy Order. Luc gave Statford the short version of the story, still not mentioning any specific names that might do harm. That there was an order made up of exiles was Guild business and none of his.
In the end, Luc did not give Statford everything he'd hoped for. The deaths Statford had described earlier were names that had recently crossed Luc's desk. Along with them were more dossiers of information for three other potential contracts. Luc hadn't approved a single one of them. His administrators, Scout Sujyot and Betty Ferriby, had still done their job in filling the manila folders with every bit of information they could on the potential targets. Luc admitted he'd regretted not investigating further into the man who had come asking for information on these people. Never mind that it was Scout and Betty's job to do that; he'd take the blame for it on himself for now. Statford had no reason to know how the guildhall operated. Whatever was going on was Luc's own fault for allowing information like this to be sold to someone questionable. Knowing what damage had already been done, Luc decided not to reveal everything to Statford; he couldn't afford to cause more damage. But he did give Statford the names of the other three potential victims.
"Thanks, Luc. I owe you," Statford said.
Luc let him out the back door of the club before returning to his office and shredding the five folders. He didn't return to the club but sat thinking for a long while. That could have gone better.
Still, Statford had stopped by for an accusatory chat, and Luc hadn't killed him. That sounded like a good first step into friendship.
2
Emails from Reuben Gleissner were always a surprise to Luc. The Global Head of the Assassin's Guild wasn't particularly communicative unless something was wrong. At least, that seemed how it was to Luc. He'd gone months or even years without hearing a word from the man. But whenever he did come barging into Luc's business, it was either something crucial or annoying.
This particular email, Luc decided, was the start of something annoying.
Luc. S. Bertrand,
I was overjoyed to hear of your return to the ECAA and East Coast guildhouse. Welcome home!
I will admit, it is a relief that I am not, in actuality, having to replace you. I have been struggling for the last two years to find a suitable replacement for your counterpart on the United States West Coast. With the untimely passing of Anne Imundo there, we have been left shorthanded in our leadership. Providing the West Coast with strong leadership is proving just as difficult as it was finding you to serve as head of the East Coast.
Frankly, I blame you. Your appointment to the ECAA and eventual East Coast Head has set the bar very high. I am, however, pleased to say I believe I have found someone who can support and lead the western United States with the wisdom you have brought to the eastern area.
In this light, I do have a small favor to ask of you. The new West Coast Head is a foreign transplant, just as you were. I hope you agree to provide the new Head with a welcome better than the one I was able to arrange for you.
Thank you in advance for your service,
Reuben Gleissner
Luc read it four times before positioning his hands over the keyboard to reply. Gleissner asked for a favor, but there was really no room to decline the request. Certainly, he could say no, but it would make any assistance in anything that he asked for that much harder to get down the line. Not that he asked for much from the world administration. He'd learned early on that he was largely on his own. He'd been tossed to the dogs when he'd come to the States.
That didn't mean he should do the same thing to whoever was taking over on the west coast. In fact, going to help the new head settle in could get him more support, and relatively close by, should he ever need it.
He replied with his agreement and request for instructions on how to find the West Coast guildhall. It made him wonder if such requests had actually been made to assist him when he first came here. If not, why not? And if so, why had the other U.S. guildhall heads refused to come? He harrumphed at his computer screen and left his office to go talk to his administrators.
Gleissner's reply was waiting for him that afternoon, and minutes later, Scout had booked a flight. By the next afternoon, Luc was in the air and heading away from Virginia. The time changes compensated for nearly the entire flight time, setting Luc down in California just later that same afternoon, instead of evening. It was still better than his jet lag from Austria to D.C. had been.
Gleissner's instructions had said someone would be waiting to greet Luc at the airport, as tended to be the norm when assassins traveled. He searched for someone holding a sign with his name on it, but there was nothing even close to it among the people holding such signs. Instead, he was aware of the sense of eyes on him, of someone in the crowd heading his way.
Luc spun around and came face-to-face with a bouquet of flowers.
"Gladioli," Luc muttered, staring at the flowers. His heart gave a thump and then stilled.
"Oui," a familiar voice replied from behind the greenery. "They are still your favorite?"
Luc automatically accepted the bouquet and finally let his eyes drift away from the flowers. "Hello, Gilles."
Luc's ex-boyfriend smiled. "Welcome to California."
For some minutes, Luc could only stare. The last seven and a half years had been good to Gilles. The boyish eyes had matured, but not so much that Luc thought Gilles had lost his sense of humor. The sparkling laughter was still there, veiled now by what Luc could only describe as experience. Streaks of his hair had faded color, hinting at the grey that would come, perh
aps not for another ten years or so, but eventually. Luc was only in his early thirties, and Gilles not quite two years older, but it was enough to suddenly put time into perspective. It wasn't that he felt old, really. He knew he wasn't, but he'd been denying for some time now that his own hair was losing its color. His father's hair had been turning a rather distinguished grey when Luc was a teenager; he hoped his would do the same. Then again, Jean-Philippe Bertrand's hair had been dark to begin, while Luc had a pale blonde hair he hadn't inherited from Jean-Philippe or from Isabeau, his mother.
Mid-thirties looked good on Gilles. Luc's heart gave another thump, reminding him that he was, in fact, still alive. He'd noticed all that about Gilles in the span of a moment, barely a breath of time.
"It's good to see you again," Gilles said. "I never expected it would be here, though."
Something wasn't right, but Luc couldn't put his finger on it. His senses raced to pick out whatever it was, but he had to say something. "How long have you been in the United States?" he asked.
There was only a spark of disappointment in Gilles's eyes at the question, but Luc caught it.
"Only for a few days. I heard you've been here for years?"
Luc nodded automatically in response. The change wasn't how Gilles was standing, and it wasn't time that had settled on him that had him so different. What was so different?
"I do have to thank you for agreeing to come out here and help me get accustomed. America is…very different from what I expected. Nothing at all like France. Or Austria. Or Italy, for that matter."
"Italy? Is that where you disappeared to?"
"We should probably get out of the airport. We have plenty of time to talk." Gilles strode away, not waiting for Luc to agree.
Much more assertive, Luc thought. Is that what has me so off-balance about him? Could it be something that simple?
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 16
