“When the time comes, Ruby.” His brown hair dangled over his forehead, just above my nose. “You remember, right?”
I blinked, halting a shiver from running up my spine. The feeling of déjà vu was thick enough to cut with a knife. Hadn’t we had this conversation before? We’d been talking about what would be necessary to end MagiTekk: for his father, the Chief of Security, to die.
Roark hadn’t hesitated then. He said he would kill Malcolm Roark when the time came. The wisps flitting around him had been all-in, too. But even my intuition couldn’t be certain he would follow through. Killing your father, no matter how evil, was no small task.
I squinted, trying to read the situation. I noticed with a start that the wisps had abandoned me.
“Do we really need to talk about this now?” I wrinkled my nose and made a face.
“Do you think I’ll hesitate to pull the trigger?” Roark’s eyes went glassy. “That I don’t hate him for what he’s done to the world? To me?”
“I don’t know.” My heart raced faster. “I—I guess I can’t believe you. Not until the deed is done.”
The words spilled out before I could stop them.
“Good.” Roark smiled, the glassiness in his eyes turning into a stony gray. “You realize what will need to be done.” His head dropped, and I thought he was going to kiss me again. Instead, in an ominous whisper, he said, “And that it will all fall upon you.”
“But I’m already awake.”
“It’s time to really wake up.”
I glared at his pleasant smile.
Why did all good dreams have to end?
Or worse—turn into nightmares?
2
The buzzing intensified into a magnificent, blaring ring, and I jolted upright, hitting my head against the metal bedpost. Unleashing a stream of curses that would’ve made my long-dead mother blush, I rubbed my forehead and glanced at the thin phone plugged in on the nightstand.
Roark.
The half-empty bed loomed in my periphery, my mascara smeared across the linen where I’d fallen asleep. The phone continued its buzzy assault as I wiped the sleep from my slightly drunken eyes. This was becoming a thing: Roark calling to wake me from a tipsy night after we’d had words.
Except there had been no words this time. He just hadn’t shown.
Adjusting the too-tight black dress and wincing from the bright neon advertisements filtering up from the dark streets below, I finally answered on the last ring.
Hopefully, that would adequately convey how pissed I was.
“I was having a dream about you,” I said, the words escaping before I could corral them. A quick look at the phone’s display told me it was well past midnight. Roark was supposed to meet me at my apartment more than four hours ago.
Had texted me that he’d even gotten off work to do so.
Yet here I was, alone and irritated, with no Roark in sight. Groggy and in pain, I struggled with the phone as I stumbled around the bed to draw the curtains. I wobbled slightly in the heels as I threw the tan fabric over the windows, blocking out Phoenix’s neon skyscraper jungle.
My head pounded and my throat was dry. I looked sorrowfully at the empty wine bottle on the nightstand. As the hours had rolled on, a friend had joined it.
Ruby Callaway, broken-hearted cliché.
I gagged at the thought. But it might have just been the wine coming back to taunt me.
“Was it a good dream?” Roark asked. The background noise on his end sounded like wind whipping past a car’s open window.
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, Ruby.”
“You promised you’d come.” Again, not what I was going for—more angsty teenager than two hundred year old bounty hunter. I dragged myself into the bathroom, where a little holographic diagram on the mirror cheerily told me I was intoxicated and dehydrated.
“Tell me something I didn’t know.” I slapped at the display, which did nothing.
“What?” Roark sounded confused.
“I’m talking to the mirror.” I splashed water on my numb cheeks, trying to restore brain function. “So tell me, Roark, what’s better than a night with me?”
“Someone offered me the truth.” There was a long sigh. “About what happened to Sam.”
“You were supposed to say nothing’s better.”
“Have you been drinking?”
I sidestepped the question and said, “You already know what happened to your brother.”
“I know that Solomon Marshall killed him. But who created Solomon Marshall?”
“You’re chasing ghosts.” I rubbed the red rings around my mascara-streaked eyes. That only made the situation worse. “Let it go, man.”
“Someone had to arrange for Marshall’s return from the Underworld.” Roark’s calm voice had a diamond-hard edge. Reason wouldn’t cut through his singular determination. “Someone made him.”
“You agreed,” I said quietly, staring back at the lonely bed and the faint neon glow seeping through the drawn curtains, “we’d fight MagiTekk. This is our war. We’d end it together.”
“I thought of all people…you’d understand, Ruby. Why I had to do this.”
“Tonight?”
“You know what it’s like. Time-sensitive information. I had no choice.”
I’d spent more than twenty years wreaking revenge on those responsible for Pearl’s death. But, upon my release from lockup three weeks ago, the spirit of vengeance had died—with three names still remaining on the list. I’d found a true purpose with Roark—something bigger than myself.
Or maybe time softened the edges of hatred. I wouldn’t quite call it forgiveness.
But it was something.
“Well, I don’t understand.” I scooped cold water into my mouth from the faucet. Finishing, I gave a pat to my red, tingling cheeks and walked unsteadily back to the bed. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“I just have to know the truth.” Roark gave a long sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to put you in danger.”
“So you’re calling as you’re running away?”
“I’m not running from anything. I never wanted to answer to my father, anyway.” There was more to that statement. A lifetime of distrust and missed opportunities for familial bonding. But I didn’t dig deeper.
“And this is how you honor Sam?” From recently anointed FBI Supervisor of the Phoenix Field Office to explorer of unsubstantiated rumors regarding his brother’s demise. “We can get Malcolm from the inside. That was the damn plan. We’re this close.”
I held my fingers up just a sliver apart, even though he couldn’t see me.
“We’ll make a new plan, Ruby. It’ll just have to wait.”
“Unbelievable.” The words came out as a bitter hiss. “Who told you about this rumor?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if you’re just going to leave me again.”
“I—I care about you.” Roark coughed, searching for the right words, but finding none of them. But what do you say to the girl you just stood up? That’s a sticky trap the likes of which Casanova would have trouble escaping from. Roark had charm in spades, but I wasn’t exactly feeling it currently. “I only had one shot. And it’ll be closed by this time tomorrow.”
“You should’ve called four fucking hours ago with your lame excuses.”
“If I don’t return…” Roark’s voice was swallowed by the windy background hum. “I’m getting out of range. Everything’s in my office. What I’ve learned.”
“Then I’m headed over right now.” I rose from the bed and almost face-planted.
Heels and red wine were a deadly combination. I was going to burn all the evidence from tonight. Silly me for going out and even buying this outfit. Whatever. The little black dress look wasn’t really my style.
Although I did look good. Or had, four hours ago. Now? More like I’d slept in a particularly prickly and inhospitable bush.
“My office is locked for two weeks,” Roark said. “Don’t look for me until then.”
“Where are you even going?” I asked, kicking my legs against the edge of the bed. The dull blur of drunkenness was wearing off, replaced by a raft of other emotions that had been buried deep over the past two hundred years.
“The Tributary.” The rest of Roark’s words crackled off before the call ended with three sharp beeps.
I pulled the phone down slowly from my ear.
And then, like a totally sane person, I threw the device into the open bathroom. It collided with the shower door. That had predictable results, as both phone and door shattered into thousands of little plastic shards. I leaned back inside the bathroom, surveying the damage.
A bad pop songwriter would’ve used that as a metaphor for my heart. But I wasn’t feeling broken-hearted. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I loved Roark.
No, I felt something else.
Anger.
My reflection in the mirror adequately covered every cliché you’ve ever heard about a woman scorned. My eyes were lit by a fierce red glow at the edges; my hair was tussled from sleeping in a ball; my mascara left oil slick streaks running down my rosy cheeks.
The tight dress itched. I adjusted the thong burrowing its way uncomfortably into my ass and breathed deep, focusing on the situation at hand.
Roark had left me alone while MagiTekk was still standing.
I sighed, staring at the worn-down woman in the mirror. My bones ached, and I felt defeated.
“Tomorrow’s a big day, Ruby Callaway,” I said, feeling fatigue rush over my body. “But tonight…”
Well, tonight had just sucked. Promising start, but it had crashed and burned right after takeoff. No need to sugarcoat matters.
With an exasperated groan, I shuffled back to bed. After wriggling out of the tight dress, I ducked beneath the makeup-streaked covers and curled into a tight ball.
Today hadn’t been my day.
But tomorrow, I was going to kick some real ass.
3
Hour 0
Thud. Thud.
Two loud knocks at the apartment door woke me from my deep sleep. I snapped to attention, senses quickly returning. Rather mercifully, I’d avoided a wicked hangover. Some dead god had to be keeping watch from afar. Red wine usually didn’t bestow such kindnesses upon me.
The knocking intensified. I checked the clock, finding it was a little past eight.
Who the hell was visiting me so early in the morning?
I reached into the nightstand’s drawer, taking out the lightning blade Roark had given me. The carbon hunting knife with nano-augmented electric steel had once belonged to his brother Sam. Roark had insisted I take it upon breaking me loose from the camp. Having used Lightning Blade as his FBI call sign, giving me the blade had been no empty gesture. A symbol of our partnership.
Gripping the knife rubbed salt on still open wounds. But, after last night, at least I knew exactly where I stood on Roark’s list of priorities.
Well below first.
The blade might have stirred up unpleasant memories, but it was still less noisy than the alternative—which was my shotgun. Naked, I slipped into the living room. A gray, overcast light seeped through the open curtains, glinting across the glass table that doubled as a supercomputer.
There was one final, truncated knock.
I gripped the hilt tighter, straining to listen outside. I wasn’t expecting any friendly visits. Allies were in short supply in this new world. Outside of Pearl, I’d never been one for making friends. Always wandering from one place to another. No one had been waiting for me when I’d gotten out.
Which meant there were three possibilities lurking on the other side of that door: MagiTekk, the FBI—or something unknown. Which was probably the worst of the three scenarios.
Footfalls silent against the cool hardwood, I edged up to the peephole. A cursory peek showed that no one was in the hall.
Or they were hiding, waiting to pounce.
I flicked the blade’s electric energy on. Its blue glow washed over the bottom half of the wall. With a deep breath, I hurled the door open and spun into the hallway, ready to stab any would-be attackers.
But the long, carpeted hall was empty—save for a single card propped against the paint-chipped baseboard. I furrowed my brow. Ruby was written in an elegant, sprawling hand on the cream envelope’s front.
With skepticism, I opened the envelope flap.
Then I groaned, my dismay echoing down the long hallway.
If I’d been annoyed last night, that was nothing in comparison to the emotional churn running roughshod over me now. Because this note was from the only mark who had ever evaded my grasp. That failure still burned, more than thirty years later.
It didn’t help that he was one of the worst creatures I’d ever encountered. He gave Malcolm Roark a real run for his money.
I read the note twice.
Dearest Ruby—I have information that you shall find useful. You have a mere twelve hours before it becomes useless. But first, to earn my audience and hear what I have learned, you must cause a little chaos. – HL
P.S. I already have spoken with your friend Colton. I must say, I do like him. Don’t let him get too far ahead, however, for the path he’s taking might be dangerous alone…
Knowing his tricks, I sniffed the paper to make sure it wouldn’t explode or burn down the entire building. I got a head rush from the perfume, but didn’t suffer any other side effects.
But that didn’t make me feel better. There was no doubt: Harcourt had definitely returned after thirty years. A thousand would’ve been too soon.
“Bastard,” I said under my breath. Harcourt Leblanc had planted that nonsense about the Tributary and the “truth” about Sam’s demise in Roark’s ear. The Tributary was a mythical ninth Realm, long rumored to exist, but never seen by anyone I’d met.
Harcourt must’ve whispered to Roark that all the answers lay within. And were well worth dropping everything for. Even me.
So much for better days—because this morning wasn’t off to a rip-roaring start.
I heard the elevator ding, and I wheeled around. Still empty. Just a final taunt from Harcourt. I contemplated running downstairs naked, chasing after him in the streets. But the psychotic Fae was slippery, and already in the wind. I’d only make a fool of myself and wind up in jail. So, with a reluctant deep breath, I slipped back inside my apartment.
Flipping the note over as the door shut, I found no additional instructions on the back. No allusions to what information he might have—or how he might define chaos.
Twelve hours. Roark had mentioned that his intel had been time-sensitive. I wasn’t sure I believed Harcourt for a goddamn second—but I needed to know where he’d sent Roark. I doubted it was to the land of lollipops, unicorns, and rainbows.
I headed into the kitchen and leaned against the countertop, scanning my memory for clues.
Harcourt Leblanc and I had shared a brief—but eventful—twenty-four-hour stretch together. One that neither of us was likely to forget. Clearly, it’d made enough of an impression on him to return three decades after the fact.
The job had been simple. I’d been contracted to kill Harcourt—but he’d had other plans. After taking an entire restaurant hostage in downtown LA, he’d forced me to agree to sign a Blood Oath promising to return him to his home Realm.
For the uninitiated, a Blood Oath is a standard legal agreement—with one key difference. If the consenting party fails to completely discharge their duties, they remain bound to the other individual. And suffer a consequence written into the contract.
In this case, I had one day to deliver Harcourt to the Fae Plains. Normally, any Fae is welcome to use the standard exits and entry points into the Realm. Being a constant troublemaker, however, he’d been banished by the prince. The Fae didn’t believe in capital punishment, so the worst the prince could do was send Harcourt to Earth and bar him ree
ntry via the conventional entry points.
Enter my involvement: as a Realmfarer, I could bring Harcourt home through a back door. And if I didn’t, I’d turn into a pile of smoldering ash. Shoot him in the head? Well, if he died, then I died.
Why help a murdering nutjob evade police custody? It had been the only way to save the hostages within the restaurant. Although save might have been a bit generous: Harcourt had pitted them in gladiatorial combat against one another, cutting to the heart of their worst fears.
Living after that might have been a fate worse than death.
Nonetheless, after a little too much excitement, I had managed to get him back to the Fae Plains, thus fulfilling the terms of the Blood Oath. I’d planned on shooting him in the head the instant he crossed the threshold. But Harcourt was nothing if not slippery, and he’d escaped in the ensuing firefight. That failure would gnaw at me occasionally over the ensuing thirty years.
The only blemish on an otherwise perfect bounty hunting record. And now Harcourt had returned, eager to taunt me with dubious promises of “useful information.”
No clues lurked in the past, other than what I already knew. Harcourt was a dangerous, psychotic asshole. And he needed to be stopped.
But he wasn’t exactly giving me a lot to work with.
After putting on fresh clothes—tossing the heels and little black dress in a shadowy corner of the bedroom, where they belonged—and having a cup of coffee, I checked the news stream using the glass table. Holographic images and ultra-high definition videos rotated through the air, painting a clear story.
MagiTekk had taken a brutal beating as a direct result of my recent efforts. Their once-bulletproof stock was circling the drain, thanks to billions in product going up in a puff of dragon smoke. There were murmurs of improprieties: overstepping into law enforcement, illegal research pushing the boundaries of decency.
Outside, the day seemed to become more overcast. If I had to guess, a rare summer storm was bearing down on Phoenix. Appropriate, given the confluence of events on the ground.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 40
