I could head back to the library, maybe do some more research on Ouroboros. Except I doubted that anything I found online would do me—or the sick kids—any good. It was hardly like they would publicly post the directions to make a cure for whatever mutant disease they’d cooked up.
A bus glided past the opening of the alley, its brakes squealing as it came to a stop. BROADWAY/CAPITOL HILL glowed on the sign along its side, declaring its route.
Reacting on instinct, I stumbled to a jog before I even realized what I was doing. I made it to the bus just as the driver was shutting the door.
A cheerful, bushy-browed guy in his fifties or sixties greeted me with a wide smile. “Almost missed you there with those dark clothes. You blend right in with the sidewalk this time of night.” It was barely past six, but late enough that the sun was down and night had set in.
“Thanks for waiting,” I said, breaths quick from the dash. I fed a few bucks into the cash slot in the payment kiosk at the front of the bus and plopped down in the nearest open seat, just a few back from the driver. The bus was fairly full with evening commuters, but not packed.
My heartbeat picked up as the driver shifted gears and the bus lurched forward. It had been almost a week since I’d gone home. Surely I could risk a peek. I wouldn’t even get off the bus; I’d just ride past the shop and make sure everything looked alright. Make sure Nik wasn’t letting the place fall apart. Make sure he was alright.
Heru had wanted Nik to come back to Bainbridge with him—for his own safety—but Nik had refused, claiming the Senate would never consider coming after him. He’d been the host to our creator, the Netjer Re, for thousands of years, and our kind have long memories. He was revered, still, even though Re was long gone. Targeting Nik, making him into a martyr, would send a ripple through the Senate’s ranks, shattering their following and driving too many of their people to our side. They couldn’t afford to go after him. He was as untouchable as anyone could be.
His logic was sound enough to convince Heru, but a seed of doubt had implanted itself in my chest. I wasn’t as convinced of his supposed immunity to the Senate’s wrath. Peace of mind was well worth the minimal risk of a quick bus ride past the shop.
It would be quick. Totally harmless. Right?
Chapter Three
Apparently, I have the will of a Chihuahua. I got off the damn bus.
And the moment my boots touched the cement of the sidewalk on Broadway, I felt a deep sense of rightness. I also felt something slightly nauseating. I’m pretty sure it was an even deeper sense of paranoia. Of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing.
I should’ve hopped right back on the bus, or at least hung around the bus stop until the next bus—any bus—showed up and ridden the hell out of dodge, because if there was one place the Senate was sure to be watching for me, it was the shop. Getting their hands on me would be a big win for their side and an even bigger fuck-you to Heru. And yet, knowing all that, I still let my feet carry me up the block. At least I was on the other side of the street. That little precaution had to count for something.
It was doing a lot more than drizzling now, and the hood of my sweatshirt was soaking up the water like a thirsty sponge. I ducked into the recessed stoop of a vacant retail space across the street from the Ninth Life and crouched down. I nodded a greeting to the only other occupant of the space, a grimy old fellow who looked just this side of death’s door. He offered me a toothless smile.
The shop would be closing soon. The artists were surely finishing up with their final clients of the day before cleaning up, if they hadn’t done so already. I could see their silhouettes through the fogged glass, and I yearned to go in. That shop was my home as much as the apartment overhead was. More so, maybe.
With the chime of a bell, the shop door opened. My heartbeat sped up. A waif of a young woman emerged and brought with her a wave of disappointment. I’d been hoping for a familiar face. Oh, who was I kidding—I’d been hoping to see Nik’s face.
I watched the door from that dingy alcove for another ten or fifteen minutes, but nobody else came out of the shop. Deciding it was time to stop tempting fate, I stood and started walking down the sidewalk, hands stuffed into my pockets and head bowed. It was stupid of me to come here in the first place, knowing I’d only be able to watch my old life from the outside looking in. I felt worse than before. Like even more of an outcast.
The bell over the door chimed again, and I froze. After a quick glance over my shoulder, I hurried to the next recess in the storefronts, the entryway to a desserts-only café, and huddled there, peeking around the edge of my sodden hood to watch the person who’d left the Ninth Life.
It was Nik. He leaned back against the broad shop window to the left of the door, a cigarette held up to his lips between two fingers and a silver lighter in his other hand. He was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and worn, gray jeans. Though he had many more, only a few of his tattoos were visible—most notably the Egyptian goddess inked into his neck, her outstretched wings wrapping around to just barely touch in the back. His dark brown hair was buzzed on the sides, the longer top portion swept back, and his face was clean-shaven. His was a jaw that didn’t require the assistance of a five-o’clock shadow to look strong, a perfect finish to the rest of his chiseled face, slightly crooked nose and all.
He took a deep draw on his cigarette as he stowed his lighter back in his jeans. He blew out the smoke, then rested his head back against the glass, his eyelids drifting shut.
The door to the café opened behind me. “Excuse me, miss. Are you waiting for a seat?”
I tossed the guy a half-assed glance over my shoulder. “No.” When my gaze returned to Nik, he was staring straight at me. Shit.
He’d heard me. That single, brief word had been enough to catch his sensitive ears. And to say he looked pissed was putting it lightly.
I shouldn’t have been there. It was too risky. I was at the tippy-top of the Senate’s shit list. The danger to my life was huge, the danger to my mission—to Heru’s cause—astronomical. Nik had every right to be pissed. I knew it.
Which was why I ran away. Or, rather, walked quickly. I mean, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, after all.
I rounded the corner of the block and headed west. After a sneaky glance over my shoulder, I sidestepped into the alleyway behind the shops lining the block and broke into a dead sprint, making my backpack bounce against my back. I was about a quarter of the way down the alley when a metal door banged open farther down.
Nik burst into the alleyway, a thundercloud in jeans and a black hoodie. A vine of At shot out of his hand, coiling around my neck before I could even consider turning around and running the other way. He closed in on me, pushing me back against the brick wall of the building he’d emerged from. He didn’t retract the vine of At until my back was pressed against the wall and his hands were planted on either side of my head. The straps of my backpack had slipped over my shoulders. I let the bag fall to the ground so I could melt back against the wall, putting a few more inches between us.
I knew better than to try to run from him again. He’d just snag me again, and we’d be right back here, him glowering down at me and me glaring right back simply because it was the only way I knew how to respond.
He stepped closer, leaning in. His inhumanly pale blue eyes were livid, his jaw clenched. And when he spoke, his voice was so low and quiet it sent a cascade of goosebumps trickling over my skin. “What the fuck are you doing here? I told you I’d look after things, and I am. Don’t you trust me?”
I swallowed roughly. I couldn’t help it, not when he was so close and so angry and so him. My heart was racing so fast it was a stumbling, bumbling mess. I was having flashbacks of the last time I’d been pressed against a brick wall. By the bartender, the Senate spy. By the last Nejeret I killed. I lifted my chin. Served him right for calling me a whore.
Nik lowered his face to within an inch of mine. “Well?” I could smell the remnants of his discarded
cigarette on his breath, and beneath that a hint of mint and coffee.
I looked at his lips, just for a fraction of a second, then squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he hadn’t noticed. I couldn’t handle him so close, so intense. So in my bubble. Not without wanting him to invade my space further.
“I, um . . .” I cleared my throat and turned my face away from him. Only then did I reopen my eyes. “Mari’s number,” I said as soon as the excuse popped into my brain. “I need Mari’s number.” He was the only person I knew who had it, and I felt a renewed sense of urgency to get ahold of her. If I could reach her, maybe she would know what had been done to Sammy in that lab. Maybe she would know how to cure him.
Nik was quiet for a moment, his pale eyes searching mine. “Do you have a phone?”
I shook my head. I’d been going through a different burner each day, and I’d tossed today’s as soon as I left the Tent District. I pulled a Sharpie out of my coat pocket with shaking fingers. I always had a couple on me.
Nik whispered the number to me, watching as I jotted it onto the back of my hand. “I’ve been trying her every day,” he added. “She’s never picked up.”
When the pen was capped and back in my pocket, Nik leaned in further, pressing his body against mine and bringing his lips to my ear. If anyone walking past either mouth of the alleyway saw us, they’d think we were just a couple of punk kids making out. I kind of wished it were so simple.
“You could’ve called the shop for that,” Nik whispered. “Why’d you really come here, Kitty Kat?” His lips grazed over the shell of my ear as he spoke his nickname for me.
A shiver rolled through me. I splayed my fingers on the brick wall behind me, my nails digging into the grout to keep me from reaching for him. From pulling him closer. He loved messing with me. I just had to keep reminding myself that was all this was. Him messing with me. That’s it.
“Tell me the truth,” he breathed.
“I—” The words “I wanted to see you” caught in my throat. But I had. I’d wanted to make sure he was still here. That he hadn’t vanished into the night again. That he was safe. I choked on the words. Those pathetic damn words.
“Are you ever going to forgive me for leaving?” This wasn’t his messing-with-me voice anymore. This was his full-on serious voice.
I squeezed my eyes shut and a tear snuck free, snaking down my cheek. I didn’t have the mental or emotional ability to deal with this shit right now. I’d let Nik take a single, tiny step into my heart once, and the fallout had nearly destroyed me. Literally, figuratively . . . pretty much every-ly. I couldn’t afford to let something like that happen again right now. Maybe not ever.
Nik pulled back, just enough that he could see my face, and I peered at him through my lashes. For long seconds, he stared at the tear, stuck somewhere between my cheekbone and my jaw, then raised his gaze to mine. “Kat . . .” His whisper was raw, gutting, his breath mingling with mine. He leaned in.
“I have to go,” I said, ducking under his arm and sliding out from between him and the wall. I scooped my backpack up off the ground and jogged up the alleyway, ditching him before he could do the same to me. Again.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. If I did, I might never leave.
Chapter Four
Now that I was in Capitol Hill, now that I was home, I seemed incapable of dragging myself away. It would’ve been impossible if I’d let something happen between Nik and me. I couldn’t. I wasn’t afraid of much, certainly not of anything physical, but emotional shit scared the crap out of me. Except, with Nik—this serious, raw version of him—it was different. Something more. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. This sense of great potential . . . for joy and happiness and wonder. But also for complete and utter devastation. Not. Going. There.
The fresh interaction with Nik left me unhinged. A live wire. I felt the need to lash out. To take all of my pent-up frustration and aggression out on someone. To do something. I couldn’t handle another second of sitting on my thumbs while I waited for Dom to get back to me. There were other ways to attack this problem. And I was rabid with the need to act.
I could call Mari . . . but I’d need a phone for that. There was a public phone at the library, which was just a couple blocks away. Computers, too. Two birds and all that.
As I strode up the sidewalk toward the front entrance to the public library, I pushed thoughts of Nik and the feel of his breath in my hair and his body against mine—of the vulnerable look in his eyes in that last moment before I fled—into some dark corner of my mind. Somewhere where those troubling thoughts could haunt me from dreams. But at least I’d have a semblance of peace while I was awake. Thoughts of him, now, would only get in my way.
The Cap Hill Library is a pretty generic two-story brick building, teetering on the modern side with floor-to-ceiling windows at all of the corners and a strange, cagey protrusion shaped like the enormous bow of a ship at the main entrance. It isn’t the largest library in Seattle, but it has computer kiosks set up with free Internet access to library members, which was all that I needed, really. And it just so happens I’ve been a member since elementary school, and I’d memorized my card number long ago. It was only a matter of setting up an online account, something I’d done on my first day as a fugitive, and I’d been bouncing around the Seattle Public Library system ever since.
Once inside, I tried calling Mari, not surprised when she didn’t pick up. I would try her again before I left. And again and again and again until I got through.
Standing before one of the computer kiosks, I logged in and ran a quick search for the Ouroboros board of directors. If anyone besides Mari could make things happen in that putrid organization, I figured the people who held the purse strings could. Even if they didn’t know the cure for the disease themselves, they had to know who did.
According to the official Ouroboros Corporation website, there were thirteen board members, but their bios didn’t tell me anything beyond their names, ages, and experiences in medicine, science, and the corporate world. Nothing overtly helpful, like addresses, or even a general location or neighborhood. I could run a separate search for each of them and see what popped up, but once I started down that very specific and targeted path, it was more and more likely that my search would ping some cyber watchdog programmed to keep an eye out for someone searching for such specific Ouroboros-related information. I told them I’d come after them, right after I burned one of their scientists to death with only the power of my sheut, and I had no doubt that they’d be on the lookout for me, in real life and online.
I decided to hold off on cyber-stalking for a minute or two while I consulted the cards. I shrugged my backpack off and unzipped it, fishing out the velvet drawstring bag containing my tarot deck, then set both bags on the floor while I started shuffling the cards. After three shuffles, I pulled a card and placed it on the desk beside the computer’s mouse.
Queen of Swords, reversed. The image on the card looked much as I’d drawn it a few years ago, with a slender woman sketched in black and gray standing beside a massive claymore, the sword’s nose in the ground and the woman’s fingers wrapped around its hilt. But the image wasn’t exactly as I’d drawn it. Because I’d created this deck with ink and paint, and because the innate magic granted to me through my sheut could give the things I drew a life of their own, their images and general design shifted with the tide of my mood, not to mention with the greater movement of events around me. It made this particular deck of tarot cards incredibly insightful.
Last week, when several dozen kids went missing, abducted by Ouroboros, the children had been incorporated into the cards. Now, the children were gone from the imagery, but the tail-eating snake, the symbol for which Ouroboros was named, was still there. On the Queen of Swords, it was a small, golden circlet, resting on the queen’s head like a crown.
Generally, this card represents intelligence and quick thinking, suggesting a calculated, independent intellect completely devoi
d of emotion. But reversed, the Queen of Swords represents quite the opposite—emotional investment that clouds decision making, relying too much on the heart and not enough on the mind.
I picked up the card, flipping it over to get a good look at the queen’s face. She appeared middle-aged and stern. And somehow familiar. I held the card up to the computer screen and opened the page containing the board members and their bios.
And there she was at the top of the list—Constance Ward, Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of the Ouroboros Corporation. Her showing up on this card definitely wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message from the universe. It had to be. Now, I knew exactly who to target—the head of the snake.
I returned the card to the deck and replaced the whole thing in its bag. “Alright, Constance,” I said under my breath as I typed her name into the search bar. “Where are you?”
I glanced around just before hitting enter. Nobody seemed to be watching me, aside from the librarian who’d been staring a hole in my forehead since about two seconds after I walked into the library. Geesh. I didn’t even have any facial piercings anymore. Was homeless fugitive wafting off me or something?
I inconspicuously stuck my nose into my sweatshirt and gave it a sniff. Maybe.
I caught the woman’s eye and winked, gaining an inkling of amusement from watching her flustered fluttering as she moved books here and there, pretending that she hadn’t been keeping an eye on me for the past fifteen minutes. With a blink, I refocused on the computer screen and hit the enter key.
There were about a gazillion entries for Constance Ward, so I amended my search to include the word “home.” My fingers were crossed, but even with the tip-off from the good ol’ universe, my hopes weren’t high.
Which just goes to show you that I can’t predict the future, at least not without the help of my cards . . . or a pen and some paper. The first entry in the search results was an article from the Seattle Times with the headline OUROBOROS CEO HOSTS RECORD-BREAKING FUNDRAISER. Hosts? As in, throws a party at her house?
Kat Dubois Chronicles Page 21
