Metal Angel: An Urban Fantasy Adventure (Rings of the Inconquo Book 3)

by A. L. Knorr

  I couldn’t help feeling that the bare, sterile aesthetic was because this was where they would be strapping me down to do invasive tests. The spartan decor was just to make sure nothing got in the way of my examination.

  Yet, no scalpel and probe armed legions had assailed me, only a thin Japanese man who’d offered me a seat and then some tea with gentle civility.

  “Is there something you would like to talk about?” he prompted, bringing me back to the moment.

  There was, but as nice as he seemed, I wasn’t sure Dr Emoto was the person I wanted to talk with. The two people who I’d usually go to with such things were currently indisposed: one in a coma, the other fused to a treacherous enemy. Even Uncle Iry, bless him, was still recovering and didn’t need any extra burdens.

  Though his expression had remained patient and his tea-sipping frightfully quiet, I felt the doctor’s eyes on me.

  “That picture,” I nodded toward a photograph on the wall. “I don’t recognise the desert. Is it Africa? The Middle East?”

  Dr Emoto looked at me over his cup of tea for a long second before giving his head the slightest shake.

  “No,” he answered, eyes never leaving me. “It is actually not a desert at all. It is a stretch of sand dunes outside the village of Higashidōri, where my father was born. The dunes are used almost exclusively by the Ministry of Defence, but many years ago, I was given the opportunity to assist them and had the good fortune to take that picture after a fresh snowfall.”

  I squinted and realised what I’d taken to be a foundation of white rock was actually drifted blankets of snow. The realisation made the photograph seem a little less sinister, if not any less alien.

  “You don’t keep much in your office,” I observed, to which the doctor nodded and gave a small smile. “So why that picture?”

  Dr Emoto’s eyebrows rose incrementally, then he set his teacup down.

  “I am happy to answer this question,” he said, somehow driving utter sincerity into every word. “But may I ask that after I do, you answer a question for me?”

  I gave the slight man a once over, a hundred and one different suspicions running through my mind before I gave a stiff nod of assent. I supposed if I didn’t like what he was asking, I could not answer or lie. I wouldn’t feel good about either and was terrible at the latter, but I supposed this was part of the whole dance; give and take.

  “I keep a copy of this photograph in all my offices,” he said, turning to look at the dunes. “Because it reminds me of that wonderful moment of beholding. As a young boy visiting relatives in the village, I was never allowed to go near the dunes. They filled me with a curious longing, and though I hardly spoke of it, the desire to see them, especially in the snow, never left me. Then through no intention of my own, I was there, seeing what as a child had been a fantasy. It was beautiful, terrible, and humbling, standing there shivering before what felt like a gate to an impossible world.”

  He turned back to me, his dark eyes glistening.

  “It is the same thing I felt when I began to work for The Nakesh Corporation and witnessed my first paranormal event. I’ve borne witness over and over again to a world most can’t imagine. I use this photograph to remind me of that, and to remind myself to be mindful and humble before that truth.”

  “That’s … an impressive answer,” I admitted lamely, acutely aware that my turn to give an answer was coming. “How many offices do you have?”

  “Altogether, three. This one here in London. Another in Sweden, and a field station in the wilds of North America which I’m not permitted to pinpoint.” Taking up his tea, he gave me a quick wink. “But we have a bargain, and that was two questions I answered.”

  I let out a breath and crossed my arms over my chest. “Alright, let me have it. What’s your question?”

  Dr Emoto nodded again, took out a small notepad and pen with one hand, before setting the tea down.

  “In reading the reports of the last mission, I noted that you took no direct action against the enemy combatants. You disabled their weapons or deflected their attacks, but I don’t see any report of actively using your abilities to attack hostiles. Is this how your powers operate?”

  “Not always,” I said, remembering with a degree of uncomfortable pride the times I’d put down men twice my size with a thought. “There have been several times I’ve knocked men out cold. I also dropped a refinery on top of a demon once. Didn’t work in the end, but it was one of my more aggressive uses of power.”

  Emoto nodded as he jotted notes on his pad. He looked up, his expression inscrutable.

  “May I ask then, if you are capable of using your powers more aggressively, why not compel the metal to kill those who were attempting to kill you and the team? It would have been more final. No?”

  I considered the question before recalling Uncle Iry’s words stinging my ears: You are no assassin, Ibby.

  “I suppose it’s because killing people, even bad people, is not what I want to use my powers for,” I shifted in my seat. “I guess it comes with being an Inconquo.”

  “Could you elaborate, please?” Emoto asked between further scribblings.

  “When I found out I was an Inconquo from Professor Lowe, he told me that I was part of a long line of guardians. That resonated with me and still does. Using my powers takes its toll, but when I am using them to protect others, I find I have more to give even when I feel used up. I’d like to believe that’s because of what it means to be Inconquo.”

  Emoto nodded and then looked up from his pad, and the smallest frown creased his features.

  “Very interesting, and I thank you for being transparent,” his eyes flicked down to his notes. “But would you allow me another question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emoto bobbed his head and smiled, but I could tell that there was a level of discomfort crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his smile brittle.

  “Of primary concern is defeating the entity known as Ninurta, the progenitor of the Inconquo. Does the threat he poses in any way alter your perception or the application of your abilities as a member of his bloodline?”

  My mouth opened, a sharp rebuttal halfway up my throat before I snapped my teeth together and choked the words back down. The question was a fair one, but the implications lifted my hackles.

  “I … I don’t know.” I retreated against the back of my chair.

  Emoto studied me a moment longer and then was about to say something when there was a knock on the door. Emoto’s brow furrowed, but before he could respond, the door opened. I turned to see Marcus at the door, his face flushed.

  “Ibby,” he gasped, pointing back down the hallway toward the elevator as he panted. “You need to come with me.”

  My gaze whipped to Emoto, who was doing an admirable job concealing his irritation at the intrusion. His attention shifted from Marcus to me, as if to say your call.

  “Can it wait?” I asked Marcus. “Marks told me to meet with Dr Emoto, we’re in the middle of things.”

  “Ibby,” he growled, “you need to get up there now. It’s Jackie!”

  Eight

  She’d started breathing on her own shortly after I’d left and had woken up about an hour before I’d arrived back with the security team, but they’d neglected to let me know – on top of not letting Uncle Iry and Marcus know that I’d returned. Marcus had spied Stewart on the medical floor and realised I was back. His flushed and agitated appearance in Dr Emoto’s office was the result of trying to find me.

  We’d practically flown without touching the ground from Dr.Emoto’s office to the elevator.

  “How is she?” I forced aside my frustration at having not been told immediately to focus on Jackie.

  “She’s weak,” he said leaning against the elevator wall. “They still have her on oxygen, and IV fluids. She’s not in pain, but she fades in and out some from the medications.”

  I nodded, my heart pounding with reli
ef among other things. Two days ago they weren’t sure if she would ever wake up. This was a gift, a miracle.

  “Ibby.” Marcus lowered his voice.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, assuming he was worried about me. I shook my head and straightened from the slumped lean I’d adopted. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head. “There’s something else …”

  His tone caught my attention like a sharp hook, and I looked at him, eyes narrowing at his pained expression. A lurching, primitive sense ignited my nerves, forcing exhaustion to the back of my mind.

  “What?” My voice was sharp and high, my throat closing painfully around the word.

  “Jackie,” he paused, “she can’t feel anything below the middle of her back. The doctors don’t know if it’s a piece of the weapon still lodged in there or just the trauma, but …”

  His face fell as he watched the impact this had on me, unable to bear his burdensome news.

  Cold flooded my gut and my breath hitched as my words tumbled from numb lips. I braced a hand against the elevator’s wall as it lurched to a stop and the world seemed to spin.

  “Jackie’s paralysed.”

  ---

  We walked to Jackie’s room, determined to stay calm and in control. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I took a breath before stepping inside.

  Jackie reclined against pillows, her features swollen with fluids and ghostly pale. Uncle Iry was beside her, sitting in his wheelchair, his weathered skin hung around his gaunt face. His eyes were focused on her, and her hand was in his.

  Neither noticed me as I hung there in the doorway, Marcus at my back, my body locked into place as I beheld the two dearest people in the world to me in their wounded grace.

  They were smiling as they chatted; Jackie’s brilliant smile undiminished by discoloured lips. But the smiles were haunted, ethereal things.

  The truth stole around my neck like a strangling cord and kept me from moving – even breathing. It was me and all the trouble that had come with me which had left them wounded like this. How could this be worth it? How could all this pain be justified, especially visited on people who’d done nothing to deserve it?

  The overwhelming urge to flee, to run and hide shivered through me. My rebellious limbs twitched fitfully, but I managed an unsteady lurch backward before a strong pair of arms braced me.

  “In you go,” Marcus whispered, his voice sad and unyielding. “You both need this.”

  The urge to flee melted, but Marcus had to guide me a few steps into the room.

  Jackie’s head turned. Her eyes widened. “Ibby?”

  The voice was so paper-thin I wouldn’t have recognised it as my darling, bubbly friend if I hadn’t seen her mouth move. It was all I could do to look in those soft doe eyes, my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth.

  Marcus let go of but still had a hand on my back as I staggered a few steps closer. All I saw were IV and oxygen tubes: reminders of her inescapable infirmity, the cost of being my best friend. A lump grew in my throat.

  “Oh come now, luv.” She chuckled weakly, one unsteady arm reaching out. “I’ve looked worse.”

  I reached her on unsteady legs and took her cold fingers in mine. Gone was the strong, warm grip of the party girl who’d grown into a warrior woman. In its place was a limp collection of frail bones and wasted flesh wrapped in the thinnest of skin. I felt the trembling in her hand and knew the effort taxed her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, hot tears racing down my cheeks. “I’m just so sorry.”

  Jackie looked up at me, confusion crinkling her smooth brow.

  “What?” She studied my face through glazed eyes. “Why?”

  My knees gave way as another sob tore its way out of my chest, and I knelt next to her bed. My forehead pressed against the mattress, the smells of rubbing alcohol and detergent assaulting my nose. I wanted to curl into myself with grief and pain, a brittle ball of misery.

  “It’s all my fault,” I groaned, unable to look at her but keeping her frail hand clutched in mine. “I did this to you. I’m so sorry, Jackie.”

  Jackie tugged weakly to free her hand, and though my heart broke in two I released my hold. I couldn’t blame her. The conviction of that thought beat more sobs out of me and I wept into the edge of the mattress: too ashamed to do anything useful, too broken to flee.

  Then I felt shivering fingers cradle my head. “Ibby. Look at me.”

  I shook my head softly, but her hand stroked my hair until, through tear blurred eyes, I looked up into my best friend’s face.

  Her voice was a caress of gentle reproof. “You saved me. I would have died if you hadn’t carried me out.”

  “But you wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for me. It’s my fault. All of this is my fault.”

  Jackie’s smile spread like the dawn.

  “Your fault that you answered the call in your blood to protect others? Your fault that you saved me from the worst of guys like you’ve always done? Your fault that you inspired me to be a better, stronger woman than I ever thought possible? You have to take credit for the good, too.

  “I-I, oh, Jackie!” I rose and pressed myself into her weak but willing embrace. “I just want you to be okay.”

  Jackie’s arms folded around me, and her fingers, light as breeze ran across my shoulders and the back of my head.

  “I’m with you luv,” she whispered softly. “That’s halfway, isn’t it?”

  ---

  “Ibby.”

  I groaned and shifted in my sleep.

  “Ibby, wake up.”

  The voice, masculine but soft, had a note of urgency that dug at my sleeping mind, demanding attention.

  “What?” The word slurred into an irritated groan, as I refused to open my eyes.

  “Ibby, you need to get up, now.”

  That urgency again, a little sharper this time.

  Stifling a growl of frustration, I blinked the last murky mercies of sleep away. I’d fallen asleep in the chair next to Jackie’s bed again. As I forced myself to focus, I saw Jackie sleeping soundly before me. If not for the even rise and fall of her chest, she might have been a wax figure in a museum exhibit. The familiar pangs of guilt threatened to distract me from the voice that had awoken me, but a large hand on my shoulder drew my attention.

  “Ibby, you need to come.”

  I turned my head to see my uncle leaning forward in his wheelchair. A completely different guilt at my grouchiness snapped me into sharp wakefulness. I stood and followed Uncle Iry as he rolled himself to the door.

  “Best ‘it the bog,” Hadlynne began as soon as I stepped into the hallway. He looked me up and down before giving a despairing shake of his head. “We’re off.”

  His Yorkshire accent was hard enough to decipher, but with so little to work with, I was stumped. I looked at Uncle Iry for help, but he sat staring up at the man as though he were not sure what Hadlynne was much less what had been said.

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “Fresh ’teligence, fresh target, Yer a might bit bogeyed, eh? F’gured you’d be chuffed.”

  Now I understood why Hadlynne hardly ever talked: there was no point.

  “Fresh … what?”

  “I heard the word target,” Uncle Iry offered helpfully still studying the freckled soldier like he belonged in a lab somewhere.

  “Bloody faffin’ eejits.” Hadlynne growled then crossed his arms and scowled at us so fiercely his freckles turned three shades darker.

  “We’ve got a new target,” I parrotted as the pieces fell into place. “We have a new target, and I need to get ready.”

  Uncle Iry nodded sagely, then squinted in studious inquiry at Hadlynne.

  “Bah!” Hadlynne snarled and turned on his heels, lapsing into his natural silence as he stomped toward the elevator.

  “Best follow him,” Uncle Iry advised, adding “Marcus and I will keep her company. Don’t worry. Jackie is in good
hands.” He squeezed my arm.

  I swallowed the lump in the back of my throat and nodded. With a kiss on the top of Uncle Iry’s head, I followed the fuming Yorkshireman.

  Nine

  “Whose plan was this?” I growled as bullets peppered the stone wall I hunkered behind with Hadlynne. The dust and chips of stone sparkled in the Spanish sun.

  Behind our position a steep slope – two degrees from a cliff – plunged to a beautiful Mediterranean shoreline some ten or fifteen metres below. If it hadn’t been for the screams, curses, and discharging firearms, I would have described the little fishing hamlet south of Calpe as idyllic. True, the dilapidated fish cannery we’d come to “reconnoitre” was a sore spot with its peeling paint and industrial-grade stink, but the weather was mild, the surrounding mountains majestic, and the sea a brilliant blue.

  As we approached, nearly a third of the industrial compound had erupted into a mass of splinters and shrapnel seconds before the shooting started. Stewart, to his credit, had barked orders almost immediately. While I was still pulling my jaw off the floor, point squad advanced along the opposite flank of the eruption while the central squad moved to secure the seemingly unmanned front entrance. Hadlynne had practically dragged me as the rear-guard moved to cover the ruins of the cannery that had been nearest the tightly wound road.

  Shots rang out from the ruins when we tried to cross the road, and everyone had scrambled for cover.

  Our mission had turned from reconnaissance with a potential raid, to a full-blown gun battle in mere seconds.

  The profanity-laden reports to Stewart from team members suggested their return-fire wasn’t having much success.