Forever Wilde: Immortal Vegas, Book 6

by Jenn Stark

  I blinked, trying to catch up as an oddly heady sense of power stirred within me. “So they’ll be at a local hospital, probably in a private wing.”

  “There are three hospitals in or near Lyon with a toxicology department,” Ma-Singh said. “One we can rule out because of its size—we’ll want something small, secluded. The second would ordinarily be viable, but their census is over the max and has been for the past eighteen months. That leaves Saint-Charles, a research and teaching hospital twenty minutes outside the city.”

  “Security?” Nigel had returned and was peering at the laptop as well.

  “Good, for the most part. But not extraordinary. We could enter by stealth without too much difficulty.”

  I fished into my hoodie and pulled out my cards, absently shuffling them as the men talked. This was happening. This was real. Not a job for someone else…but my job. My call.

  “How many kids did she say?” I asked Nigel. “Marguerite. She said two, right?”

  “She said two, though there could be more. I don’t think so, however. And she characterized them as children, not teens. Manageable, if we have to cart them out.” He lifted his phone. “Luc will meet us outside Lyon. He’ll have medical badges ready for us. We can enter the facility, get the lay of the land.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no…” I spread the cards out on the table in an easy arc and drew three cards in rapid succession, laying them out on the glass-topped table. “Seven of Swords, Four of Swords, Five of Wands,” I said, and was moved to draw another card—the Eight of Wands. “We’re not going to have a lot of time, and duplicity is the name of the game, not brute force. Either way, I think we sneak in, but we don’t sneak out. Sadly, I think getting out of the hospital will be a fight.”

  Nigel looked at Ma-Singh. “How quickly can you have backup here?” he asked.

  “There is always backup for the House of Swords,” the general replied with a broad grin. “Fire? Bomb?”

  I made a face. “It’s a hospital. With real injured people. No bombs.” Another card revealed the Eight of Pentacles, and I frowned. “You said it’s a teaching facility? So there’s maybe a side parking lot, classroom-type facilities off to the side. That’s where we get out.” I tapped the Four of Swords. “One of us checks into the hospital due to injury, finds the kids. Probably makes sense for that to be me.”

  “Not alone,” Nigel said. “I’m your adoring husband, distraught from our recent auto accident, refusing to leave your side.”

  I curled my lip. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is, Madame Wilde,” Ma-Singh said, and his tone brooked no dispute. “If you do not allow your Ace to follow you, you will have two of my men, or me. Neither of those latter options will give you the secrecy you seem interested in cultivating.”

  I stared into their faces for a long moment, then rolled my eyes, trying to hide the strange embarrassment I felt at their intensity. “Fine. Nigel’s my husband. God save us all.”

  The rest of the plans moved quickly, and within hours, we were on the road to Lyon in a nondescript rental car, intel coming in from all sides.

  “Luc reports that Marguerite and Roland are no longer in Paris.” Nigel shot me a look. We were together in our own car, the rest of the team following some distance behind. “They left for the United States immediately after we departed the city.”

  “The United States? Why?”

  “There may have been information leading them to believe that you departed on a commercial airliner shortly before that,” Nigel said. “We had no idea that they would be trailing you so closely, but it seemed a reasonable precaution.”

  “That puts them in the air right now.” I nodded. I peered into the rearview mirror, carefully slitting my scalp along my hairline with the scalpel Father Jerome had helpfully supplied. I watched with satisfaction as the blood began to well. “They’re not that worried about the children, then. That’s good.”

  “It’s been one, maybe two months since they brought them in?” Nigel shrugged. “No one has come for them. No one has claimed them. Our interest was not so great that it was noticed.”

  “Good. Any idea what wing might house them?”

  “Luc is still working on that. We’ll have time. You ready?” He looked over at me and winced. “Good thing Ma-Singh is in the second vehicle. I don’t think he expected you to cut yourself.”

  “Scalp wounds are easy.” I checked my image in the rearview mirror, satisfied with the slice of crimson running down my face. Then I unhooked my seat belt. My injuries had to look legit. “You’re the one who’s going to have to run this car into a tree credibly enough without actually killing us.”

  “You do your part, I’ll do mine.” Nigel banked hard, and I obligingly rolled against the window and inner door, hard enough to bruise. Another careen in the opposite direction, and I lurched against him. “I don’t think we need these precautions, but—hey!”

  Without warning, Nigel swerved the car again, and we crashed into a flimsy guardrail hard enough to punch through it, rolling into a shallow ditch.

  Within thirty seconds, Ma-Singh was at the passenger door. “Madame Wilde!” he gasped, and I gave him the thumbs-up, grimacing as he turned to Nigel and started berating him in a language I didn’t know—Mongolian, I was pretty sure. Nigel gave back as good as he got while we hustled to the van. Ma-Singh handed me in, then stood back, his face morose. He was to stay with the wrecked vehicle until Luc’s urgent call to the police went through, then set it on fire.

  “I told you he wouldn’t be happy about you cutting yourself,” Nigel said as the van bounced its way down the road.

  “He’ll get over it. I had to look legit.”

  Still, scalp wounds did bleed like a bitch, and by the time we made it to the hospital, horn blaring, driver screaming in French, I was feeling credibly dazed. Nigel burst from the car and started screaming, “Au secours! Au secours!” with such earnest feeling that I could almost believe he cared.

  “Faint already, for the love of Christ,” he gritted out as he rushed back to me.

  I obligingly slumped in his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Nigel somehow managed to snag a gurney, which made me feel more at ease, if only because it more exactly matched the imagery of the Four of Swords card. The advantage of the gurney became more obvious as I entered the hospital as well. Nurses and orderlies seemed to have a different protocol for gurney-level injuries, and within a matter of minutes, Nigel and a young man who looked entirely too comfortable with both of us strode quickly through the halls, pushing me between them.

  We ended up in an examination room with three curtained sections, and Nigel rolled the gurney to the farthest one. The man asked Nigel a quick question in French as I sat up, then turned to me with a gauze pad in his hand.

  “You’re not hurt badly, Madame Wilde?” he asked in a thick accent.

  “No—no, I’m fine,” I said. I took the gauze as he frowned back to Nigel, who was now speaking in rapid-fire French. Then the orderly turned back to me, waving off my hands and neatly sponging away the blood on my face.

  “I am honored to serve,” he said. “My family has been part of the House of Swords for as long as records have been kept. I never expected to be called up.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.”

  “This will continue bleeding. Keep the gauze on it,” he said. He glanced at Nigel. “Your targets are in the basement. Three access points: elevator, service elevator, and emergency stairs. The main elevator and stairs are guarded, one orderly up top, one below.” He blew out a breath, dismay etching his face. “If I’d known they were of interest to the House…”

  “We didn’t know it until today,” I said. “What can you tell us about them?”

  “Two children, girl and boy. We were told they were in quarantine because of a new flu strain, but not a deadly one, so there was to be no alerts to the media or local health officials. It’s happened before.” He shrugged. “We’re remote, an
d the country is large. Taking in these children is no hardship, and the basement suite is completely autonomous—full testing and surgical bays, as needed.”

  “You ever been down there?”

  “No, not with these children.” He shook his head. “They’ve been here maybe two weeks. The rotation hasn’t reached me yet. But from what I’ve heard, they do not make a sound. They sleep, they eat, they stare. They’re not in a coma—they can hear and understand questions, but they make no verbal or written response. They’ve been traumatized, but as to what else…?” He spread his hands. “We do not know. We assumed it truly was a flu-like lethargy, and we have been busy.”

  “You’re about to get busier,” Nigel said, and I gradually became aware of the bustling of the outer corridor. People were running now, talking in loud voices. Nigel waved his phone. “How many beds do you have free in the ER?”

  “This morning, it is quiet,” the man said. “Twelve bays were free when last I looked.”

  “A rush of thirty people with superficial injuries enough?” Nigel put in. “Or should we send more.”

  “Thirty!” I stared at Nigel. “How are you…?”

  “The roads, they are very dangerous around Lyon, eh?” The man grinned. His buzzer rang, and he stood. “You will be our third flu victim, I think. The children came to us from Tarare. We can say you did as well. The accident brought you in, but given your location and your flu-like symptoms, we are concerned. You need to be checked out like they did, and we’re parking you downstairs until the authorities can be called.”

  Without waiting for us to agree, the orderly turned and pulled up a wheelchair, ushering me into it. “Hold the gauze to your head and sag a little,” he ordered. “The children were limp with exhaustion when they were brought in.”

  Moving through the corridors proved easier than expected. The first wave of car accident victims hit the front doors as we scooted more deeply into the facility, and alerts crackled across pagers and update boards at every turn. No one paid attention to us until we reached a short corridor that terminated in a utilitarian-looking elevator. There, a man stood wide stanced, and the orderly muttered under his breath.

  “What is it?” Nigel asked.

  “Josef is not hospital staff, he’s private security. Probably the staff orderly was called forward to assist with intake. Monsieur Dubois.” This last was directed to the blunt-faced man, whose right hand was on his gun as we approached. “New patient for the ward below, same symptoms.”

  When the man merely scowled, the orderly repeated the information in French. Josef shook his head and held up his left hand. No trespassing.

  “It’s all right, you can call.” The orderly reverted back to English and looked at his watch. “I have to get back. If they are approved, you can put them on the elevator, yes? But be careful with her, eh? She should be quarantined. She’s very sick.” Once again he reverted to French, and once again Josef’s eyes bulged in outrage as he started shaking his head hard, both hands coming up now as if to ward us all back. Nigel pulled my chair slightly to the side, turning us both as if to better watch the exchange, but the guard was focused on the orderly, not us.

  Nigel tapped me on the back of the head, and I spilled forward, making terrible retching noises as the guard leaped away.

  That was all the distraction Nigel needed. Bounding from behind the chair, he caught the security guard with an uppercut to his chin that sent the man reeling. Almost before he’d hit the ground, Nigel stripped him of his badge and gun. Meanwhile, the orderly rushed forward and slapped his badge against the elevator door and keyed in a set of numbers, dictating them to Nigel as he did so. Then he handed over his credentials, pointed to the man on the floor, and grinned. “Orbital bone,” he said. “Needs to look as good as that guy.”

  My eyes flared wide. “Nigel…”

  Without waiting for my objection, Nigel decked the orderly hard enough for the young man’s head to whip back toward the corridor, and a thin spray of blood arced out, misting the wall.

  “Excellent!” the orderly gasped, with a decided French intonation now. Some words transcended language. He wheeled around and staggered away as the elevator opened, shouting more in French as Nigel hustled me inside.

  I sagged against the wall. “What did he say?” I asked, scowling at the keypad next to the door. “And what’s ‘basement’ in French?”

  “S,” Nigel said, punching the button. He cocked a glance at me. “All those years working with Father Jerome, and you don’t know how to say basement?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  The carriage slowed, cutting off our conversation as Nigel squared off against the door. It slicked open, and a worried-looking orderly stood there in a wide reception area, gaping. “What—”

  Nigel didn’t let him finish. His third punch of the day ended in a second knockout. “Will you quit that?” I protested. “He was just doing his job!”

  “His job would have been to report our intrusion. In order to justify not doing that, he needs his attackers to be crazed lunatics dropping people first and asking questions later,” Nigel said.

  I grimaced, recalling the Five of Wands. We’d definitely be fighting our way out of this one.

  “All right, let’s…” I trailed off as a movement at the far end of the corridor caught my eye.

  We weren’t alone in the basement. Two children stood in the hallway that stretched back from the reception area, one at each of the two doors that opened out onto the corridor. They were blond and thin, but not malnourished thin, simply waiflike, the kind of kids who could be supermodels in the right light with the right camera.

  Except these kids were preternaturally still.

  “Dangerous?” Nigel asked, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

  “They’re children, Nigel.”

  “So was Damien,” he said. I stepped forward, and he reached out to stop me. “You heard what Marguerite said. These two are hopped up on technoceuticals strong enough to catch the attention of Interpol. I think it’s better if we take this slow.”

  “’K.” I took a step forward, and the children didn’t move, but Nigel’s breath hitched again. I slanted him a look.

  “What is with you? You’ve gone up against worse than this.”

  “I’m not a Connected, love, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a healthy respect for them. And these two are pinging every radar I have as full-tilt trouble.” He paused. “Have you been doing anything to augment your powers recently? Any skills I don’t know about?”

  “I can play a mean set of darts.”

  “Good to know.”

  We continued to approach the children, and as we did, I could see more of their sleeping rooms, both of them fronted with thick glass windows, not unlike the setup at Father Jerome’s newest safe house. From what I could tell, the rooms beyond the windows looked like any normal hospital room—maybe even a cut above. Pretty cushions could hide a wealth of scary, but I didn’t get that feeling here, exactly. I got almost—

  I felt the push against my mind a second later.

  Only my long experience with blocking Armaeus’s insidious touch gave me any preparation to throw up my mental barriers against the barrage of agony that swamped me. Nigel hissed a curse and staggered beside me, collapsing against the wall.

  I heard him slide to the floor, but I kept walking, though my entire body trembled with the force of keeping the howling in my mind at bay. Both children watched me now. They hadn’t spoken, though; they hadn’t moved.

  They also were younger than I’d realized, now that I was getting closer. Their blond hair was baby fine, their features so angular as to almost appear Nordic, except for the lushness of their lips and lashes. I grimaced. They would have been taken by the dark practitioners on their looks alone. And if they had any record of Connected ability, they’d have garnered top dollar on the arcane black market.

  “Stop,” the left one said, the boy, and I took another step forward anywa
y, just to prove I could. The orderly had mentioned they didn’t talk to anyone. Apparently, I was the exception.

  “Stop,” the girl echoed him, the word almost in unison with the boy’s but not quite, one word ending where the other began. They continued like that, and behind me, Nigel groaned anew in pain. I lifted my brows. I’d heard this cadence before, though it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The voice had been the sound of demons speaking.

  I narrowed my eyes. These were not demons here in this hospital basement. These weren’t even possessed children. I’d had my share of both. But how did they know to use such a vocal projection? They were using something I’d given them, I sensed immediately. A memory, a thought…

  Nigel gasped again, and I pitched my voice over the screaming in my mind. “We’re here to get you out,” I said.

  The girl on the right giggled, her face morphing slightly to something darker, more sinister. “We don’t need your help,” she said. “We’re perfect as we are.”

  I took another step forward, feeling the force of their mental barrier tightening around me. It was like walking through gelatin, and I began seriously reconsidering my decision to come down here.

  “Really?” I asked, the soul of reason. “You want to be buried in a bunker and analyzed like lab rats?

  “Don’t say that!” The boy practically spat the words and threw up his hands. I could feel the roil of magic before it crackled from his fingers, and it did crackle, as bright a bolt of electricity as I’d ever volleyed back to Armaeus.

  Fortunately, I had volleyed those magical bursts already. This wasn’t my first rodeo. At the last moment, as the child’s power bolt zipped toward me, I thrust my hands up, my own reactive abilities forming a psychic wall.

  “Ah!” The children jerked back, their eyes going wide. The cacophony of chattering words suddenly stopped. Taking advantage of their surprise, I moved closer. The girl lifted her hands to form her own little magic spit ball.

  Irritation riffled through me. “Play nice,” I warned.