by Joss Ware
Picking yet another clump of the damned wool from her shirt, Zoë walked quickly away from the loading dock on the north side of the city, out of sight of the shore. No one seemed to pay her any mind, for the dock was just as busy as the ones she’d seen in movies—lots of activity, people moving crates off boats, shouting and calling out orders.
Her bow slung over her shoulder, her quiver still on her back, she knew she had only a short time to get away before someone did notice her. Keeping her eyes averted from passersby, she hurried along, gripping her arrow.
She wasn’t worried about Quent. He couldn’t be any safer than with Seattle, who’d protect the valuable bounty with his life—until Quent escaped, which was inevitable. Seattle was no match for Quent’s intellect, calmness, and strength. Which was why she’d chosen Seattle instead of Ian Marck.
And if Quent didn’t happen to escape, she had a backup plan that would make Seattle just as happy. All she’d had to do was mention Remington Truth, and he’d been slathering all over her deal—so anything else she told him later would only sweeten the deal and ensure Quent’s release.
But for now, all Zoë needed was a bit of time, a delay. That would give her the chance to do what she needed to do.
Looking for the large building with the red squares on it, she shielded her eyes from the blazing sun. She’d done the right thing. Of course she’d done the right thing.
Quent would be safe, and he wouldn’t have to take the risk.
He wouldn’t have to live with the decision.
She found the building with the red squares that edged the roof and walked toward it, up a narrow street and down another one. The thoroughfares were quiet, with an occasional passerby now that she was away from the dock. Zoë passed a glassed-in building that looked like it housed plants. Along another street was a garden where three young people hoed and weeded beneath the sun. The city was eerily silent, and seemed almost as if it was asleep. Nothing like Envy, where people walked around in the habitable areas all the time, and the sounds of voices and children playing always filled the streets.
When she found the walkway to Fielding’s red-tiled house, she paused and looked up. Her palms felt a little damp and she tightened the grip on her bow. The structure resembled a squared-off pyramid, with four stories. A bit of greenery, neat and cropped short, made two small squares in front of the entrance, which was behind a high gate.
She approached the pair of guards boldly. “Tell Fielding that Raul Marck’s killer is here to speak with him. Make it fast.”
One of them gaped, while the other reached for a device that looked like an old telephone. Zoë had fit an arrow into place and she held her bow ready, but pointed to the ground. She waited as the guard spoke in a low voice into the speaker.
At last, the guard hung up the phone and said, “He’ll see you.”
To her surprise, they didn’t require her to leave her weapons behind—but, of course, what damage could a bow and arrow do to an Elite?
The guard sent her up a walkway to where tall, double doors opened at her approach. They were made of massive glass wedges set in silver hardware, and beyond she could see a gleaming marble floor and a large vestibule.
“Follow me,” said a man dressed in white, with colorless hair and pale blue-gray irises. “Mr. Fielding is waiting.”
Moments later, Zoë found herself alone in a large room. White, of course. Good fucking grief, do the Strangers have a problem with pigment? Or are they simply trying to convince themselves of their purity and innocence? The sound of rushing water was really beginning to get on her nerves.
Unsettled, she walked around the space, brushing her hand over a shiny glass table that was inset with seashells, examining the crystal pitcher of water and matching glasses that sat on a clear tray.
“So you claim to have killed Raul Marck. I heard it was his son who did the deed.”
The voice surprised her. Its familiar accent, a bit more clipped and formal than Quent’s, caused her heart to bump a bit. And when she turned and saw Parris Fielding, Zoë’s stomach did a quick flip.
At first glance, he looked too much like Quent. Tall, but not as broad and muscular. More elegant, precisely groomed, and older by perhaps two decades. Very handsome, dressed in a slate gray jacket and matching trousers. A black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. Gleaming black shoes. A knobbed cane in his hand that he didn’t seem to need.
He wasn’t alone. Three beautiful women, all dressed in floor-length silver gowns that seemed to be painted onto their bodies, came into the room with him. A dark-skinned, dark-haired one on his arm, and a dark blonde and a platinum blonde floating in their wake. Behind them trailed a very handsome young man with curling bronze-colored hair. He wore a shiny white shirt, half buttoned, and dark trousers. He had bare feet. The glow of a crystal shone faintly through his light shirt on the right side.
Zoë focused her attention on Fielding. “Ian claimed to have killed Marck? What makes you think he’d finally grown the balls to do that? It was me.”
“You’ve come to brag about it? I wonder why.” Fielding strolled farther into the room. The woman on his arm looked up adoringly at him but he ignored her. “You’ve come to beg my forgiveness, perhaps? For eliminating one of my best bounty hunters?”
Zoë met his eyes. They weren’t like Quent’s, although they were the same brown-blue color. Fielding’s were more aloof. Barely lit with curiosity.
Her hand at her side, she felt the heavy metal weapon hanging beneath her loose trousers, from hip to knee. She could pull it from inside her pocket and have it in her hand in a moment. She didn’t even care if there were witnesses. Fielding’s companions seemed oddly vacant in the expression. And aside of that, she had her bow and arrow as well.
But which side was the man’s crystal on? Damn it to hell. The young man’s crystal was on his right side. And Zoë remembered Marley’s being on her left. Was it a gender thing? Or random? Crap. She couldn’t do a thing until she knew for sure.
“Please, sit,” Fielding offered, gesturing to a long white sofa. The two floater-women took his suggestion and settled on the furniture. “It’s been a terribly exhausting day, and I have no desire to be on my feet any longer.”
For some reason, the platinum blonde found that an amusing remark and she giggled. Fielding patted her on the head as he walked around behind the sofa. “Yes, indeed, Lila, you were very helpful, chasing my golf balls. I’d be even more exhausted if I hadn’t had you running around on your hands and knees.”
Zoë watched in fascination as Fielding walked over to the handsome young man and adjusted the collar of his shirt, then patted him intimately on the chest. “Much better. If you’d had it pressed like I told you, you wouldn’t have offended me.”
“It won’t happen again,” the man replied.
Then he looked at Zoë, spreading his hands in dismay. “If they didn’t have me to help them, they’d be a bloody mess.” Smoothing his hands over his trousers, he settled them on his hips, pulling back the suit jacket he wore. “Now, what’s the purpose of your visit? You’re interrupting my afternoon massage.”
“And your manicure,” added the young man.
“And your meeting with Liam,” said the dark-skinned woman. She still clung to Fielding as he moved about the room as if unaware she was attached to his arm.
“Oh, damn Liam. The man can’t make a decision to save his life,” Fielding said. “If I weren’t here, I can’t imagine what this place would be like. Dirty, falling apart, disorganized.” He shook his head woefully, and Zoë realized with a start that he wasn’t jesting. “I always have the plan, I always execute the plan. Everyone else just waits for me to tell them what to do.”
“What a burden that must be,” Zoë said, trying desperately to keep the sarcasm from her voice. She wasn’t certain she succeeded when Fielding looked at her sharply.
His eyes had turned cold. “You’re wasting my time. What do you want?”
“I want to tal
k to you alone,” she told him.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so? What makes you think I’d acquiesce to such a demand?”
“Because,” she said, “you’re obviously the most intelligent man in Mecca and I know I could help you. You don’t want everyone to know about your secret weapon.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Zoë simply raised her eyebrows. “If the rest of your people are as incompetent as this Liam person, and Raul Marck, of course you need my help.”
Fielding looked at her for a long moment, then gave a sharp jerk of his chin. Without another word, the three women and the young man got up and left the room.
“Well, that was a pretty good trick,” Zoë said. Her heart started beating faster. If she could figure out where his crystal was, this was her chance.
“You’re wasting my time,” he said flatly. “You have two minutes, you ill-bred bitch. The only reason I haven’t thrown you out to the sharks is because you claim to have killed Raul Marck. I’ve been wanting him dead for five years, so I can only assume you’ve got something worthwhile. But don’t waste my fucking time. Get to the bloody point.”
“Raul Marck was a careless ass-wipe. I took him off your hands. I’m a perfect shot with a bow and arrow.”
“And how might your perfect shot with a bow and arrow serve me?” He walked over to a waist-high channel of water and trailed his fingers into it. “And why would you wish to?”
“A man like you must have need of a secret assassin.”
If he took off his jacket, she might be able to see which side the crystal glowed on. How the hell was she going to get him to do that? Damn. She hadn’t planned for this sort of cat-and-mouse dancing around shit. She wasn’t good at it. Nor was she any good at groveling.
“I’ll need to see proof of your skills before we have any further discussion.”
Zoë nodded. “Whatever.”
Fielding looked at her for a long moment, and she felt as though a hundred spiders crawled up her spine. Not a hint of weakness anywhere. Nor a hint of softness. Nothing but cold.
In the books, and the Law & Order episodes, the cops always managed to find the soft underbelly, the—what was it called? the Achilles’ heel?—of the perp. They figured out what would mess him up, and manipulated the conversation that way.
But that wasn’t her thing. Her thing was the metal bolt in her hand and measured boldness. Female ca-jones.
Fielding seemed to have made his decision, for he walked over to the glass table and began to arrange the crystal glasses in a wide pyramid. “Shoot the top one.”
But Zoë wasn’t satisfied. “I could do that with my eyes closed.”
She went to the table and rearranged the glasses so that they were much closer together, still in a pyramidal shape. The gaps between them were smaller and she took the orchids, separating the blossoms and stuck each one into a glass, for a total of five. She settled the flowers so that each one hung over a gap between the glasses. Just big enough for her arrow to fit through.
“Three blossoms. Three shots. I won’t knock over the glasses,” she said.
Ah. At last a reaction. His brow twitched, and there was a flare of interest.
She stood as far away as the long room would allow, nocked her arrow, and let the first one fly. The faintest tinkle of a glass clinked, then the thwang as the point struck the wall, impaling the orchid.
She settled a second arrow and repeated the process flawlessly. She looked at Fielding, raised a bold eyebrow, and said, “Seen enough?”
“That’s quite brilliant.” The admiration on his face was genuine, and the smile transformed it to an engaging one. “I do believe I could use a woman of your ability. Has anyone else here seen your skill?”
She shook her head. “No one but you and Raul Marck. But he doesn’t care anymore.”
Fielding speared her with sharp eyes once again. “Tell no one about it.”
She nodded. “Duh.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Zoë.” Her heart pounded radically. Holy crap, he looks like Quent even more with that grin. For a moment, she was frozen, realizing she’d likely never see him again.
“Zoë. A lovely name.” He scanned her, his attention more than the cursory, derogatory skim he’d given her earlier. Now he seemed more interested in the details. “Perhaps a bit of work on your wardrobe might be in order.” His lip curled a bit.
“The fucking victim doesn’t care what his assassin is wearing,” she retorted. Suddenly nervous with his regard, she wandered nonchalantly back to the pyramid and replaced the glasses on the tray.
Fielding gave a little laugh. “I suppose that might be the case, but your boss cares.” There was a hint of that steel in his voice. “And we haven’t discussed compensation. That could be a deal-breaker.”
Shit. She hadn’t thought about that. Zoë took her time arranging the glasses, thinking. She had to say the right thing. “I want what everyone wants,” she said, turning to look at him. “I want to live forever.”
CHAPTER 15
Quent limped along the floating walkway, the Taser safely back in his boot, his Eeker in hand masquerading as a cane, and his eyes fixed on his target. Mecca rose in a low smattering of angular buildings, shining in the sun like an angular, flat Taj Mahal, or a pure white Paris.
He knew from Marley that the streets circled the oblong islandlike compound, angling around and around and up the small incline in the middle. Two main thoroughfares cut the island into quarters, ending in a large circle encompassing City Center, which was where Fielding’s quarters were. The closer to the center of the city, the larger and more powerful were the residents who lived in the cookie-cutter buildings with Babylonian vines hanging from them.
Quent gave little thought to Seattle and his comrades, who were likely still recovering from the one-two-punch-and-slash tase he’d given them when they’d been foolish enough to acquiesce to his request for food, water, and a chance to wash up. He’d garnered no more respect for the hotheaded bounty hunter who’d left the work to his less-than-competent men while he relaxed.
If he’d acquired a bounty that would “set him for life,” Quent would have taken much better care of it.
At any rate, they were behind him now and he was on his way to find Fielding. The only hiccup was that he’d lost his gloves in the tussle with Seattle and his cohorts, but Quent had become more confident in his ability to keep the pounding images of his psychometry under control. He’d never been more focused in his life, and he intended to stay that way.
The guards at the gatehouse on shore had been reluctant to allow him access until they were tased into two crumbled heaps on the ground. Quent had to admit, the reformulated electric razor was one hell of a handy weapon, especially when one pretended to stumble into one’s opponent with one in hand.
As he limped along, he passed several other people moving in both directions along the walkway. None of them gave him a second glance, nor did he recognize any of them. And as he drew closer to the island, he located the building with the red tiling. His heart picked up its pace and he felt the familiar cold, dead sentiment weight his belly.
The same feeling he always had when he knew he’d be around his father.
More than fifty years had passed since he’d seen Fielding, and the man still had the ability to affect him. To drive his actions. To give him sleepless nights, and to put his belly in knots.
To destroy his life.
Fathers, good or bad, had untold influence on their sons’ lives. Quent wondered, as he had more than once, what sort of influence it would have been if he’d had parents who actually cared. Just one.
One thing he tried not to think about on the seemingly endless walk was Zoë. Seattle’s taunt still hung in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to believe the implications that she’d bargained for her freedom with Quent, giving the bounty hunter information about him in exchange for…whateve
r.
The possibility left him cold, and threatened to paralyze his thoughts—which was a distraction he didn’t need right now, especially being gloveless. So he thrust it away. If he made it out of Mecca, he’d hunt her down and find the answer. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.
That was what he told himself. Over and over. Step by limping step.
Once he alighted from the walkway onto the actual ground of the compound, he realized it was soil. Solid ground—dirt, clay, and stone made up the surface. He wasn’t certain how deep it went; was it possible this was simply part of Nevada or California and hadn’t been completely buried by the change in the Pacific’s shoreline? Or had Fielding and his Elite accomplices somehow built a floating piece of land?
As he walked alongside the ever-present aqueducts of flowing water toward City Center, he passed residents of the community. Most of them wore loose, simple clothing in what appeared to be undyed linen. They kept their eyes averted and seemed to be out on some mission, for they walked quickly and purposefully without interacting with others. Rickshaws spun by, pulled by brawny young men, and, occasionally, a brawny young woman. Most of them were empty, but occasionally a well-dressed man or woman in white was seated inside, watching languidly from their perch.
Quent felt as though he’d slipped back in time to some exotic nineteenth-century resort, and a strange unpleasant taste settled in the back of his mouth. Did his father reign supreme over this medieval Shangrila? Was this how Fielding and the members of his cult pictured their utopia?
White and pure and unemotional.
The only significant patch of green was a golf course, empty of players at the moment. Rolling hills and sand traps splayed beyond tall walls making up no more than nine holes. And as he walked by, Quent noticed that it was moving. The ground undulated slowly, buckling, flattening, tilting as if it were a thick green blanket and a sleeping giant beneath it shifted in its sleep.
