Never Forgotten

by Stacey Nash

  What the heck? I stiffen because this is no time to be getting all touchy-feely. While I’m still trying to figure it out, a man rushes past us with his coat billowing behind him and fingering some kind of large coin. Will’s fingers press into my side and, damn, I recognize Manvyke: the square set of his shoulders, that red-brown hair the exact same color as Jax’s. My legs just about stop working. That man is responsible for so much, and now he’s close enough to touch I can’t even move.

  Barely taking my eyes off the councilor, I let Will guide me back to the truck. He pulls the door open and I climb inside while he hops up next to me and slams the door closed. “What the hell, Mae?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, averting my attention from both him and Lilly because, yeah, that was pretty stupid. But Manvyke could have recognized Will, too.

  “He just bought coffee,” Will says.

  Lilly starts the engine and pulls out onto the street. Looks like Manvyke’s on the move again. A few cars ahead of us, the SUV sticks to the speed limit and indicates to the left. As we peel away from central park and its newly blossoming elm trees, I remember—once again—the night I was there with Jax. The memory doesn’t linger though, I don’t allow it. Instead, I memorize the license plates on Manvyke’s car: CLM-0001. Typical to think he’s number one. The letters could be Councilor Manvyke, perhaps, but what does the L stand for?

  He drives through the city traffic with effortless ease. Way more smoothly than Beau’s old truck, which doesn’t weave between traffic at all. Lilly keeps a few cars between us and him, but boy, he’d better not be paying much attention to his rearview mirror. The old truck sure would stand out worse than a healthy finger next to a sore thumb.

  Finally, just as the buildings start shrinking in size, almost back down to suburban level, Manvyke’s car hooks a right into a driveway.

  “Shoot,” Lilly curses and there’s definitely a problem. The red taillights flick off as a metal door folds upward, allowing the SUV into an underground parking lot. No way will we be able to follow. I could curse too.

  “It’s an apartment block,” Will says.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Lilly spins the wheel and coasts the truck into a side street where she pulls on the brake and parks.

  Following him seems impossible, but giving up is not an option. It sure seems that wherever Manvyke is headed, it’s somewhere we don’t know about. Yet. And if he’s alone and skipping out on council meetings like Xane said, then no one knows he’s here. Maybe they don’t even know he’s offsite. Heck, maybe they don’t care.

  Will’s door creaks open and he takes his sweet time climbing out. I give his back a little shove, but it’s like pushing a brick wall, one that can throw filthy looks at you. I shuffle out after him then crane my head back to get a good look at the building a block over. It towers above the surrounding structures and seems to be at least a dozen stories high. Smooth walls interspersed with flat windows give it a modern look. That’s probably enhanced by the glary afternoon sun reflecting in those windows. At the very top an entire side is nothing but glass. The glass wall leaves no room for a balcony like the floors below, and looking up even higher, the roof is completely flat. Probably has a pool or one of those trendy rooftop gardens. Disappointment settles in the pit of my stomach at the lack of outside fire stairs. This sure won’t be easy. Manvyke could be visiting any of the apartments in that building. I heave out a sigh.

  Locking the car, Lilly comes around to meet us on the footpath. Her head falls back as she takes in our predicament too. “Sheesh, this is going to be a challenge.”

  “Uh-huh,” Will says.

  As we come around the corner, we hit a solid brick wall. Without a back entrance, that only leaves the back parking lot and even thinking about breaking into that makes my head pound. So maybe it’d be best to find the front door. I cross over and continue along the footpath, skirting the edge of the apartment complex. It seems like I picked the right side, because about halfway along a uniformed man with white gloves, and a look about him that marks him as a doorman, stands on the sidewalk. There’ll be no waltzing right on in.

  “Watch and learn.” Lilly tugs her ponytail loose and tips her head upside down, shaking out her hair. Then she straightens and sashays up to the doorman who turns at the sound of her footsteps. Much younger than I expected, he’s kind of cute in a clean-cut, perfectly groomed way. A wide smile spreads across his face as Lilly circles around him and he watches her move. He spins to face her, his back turned to Will and I. Gosh, the girl’s good. I grab Will’s hand and touch both the pendant and the brooch, knowing this works because Jax and I have done it before. A tiny zap through my body indicates we’re right to go.

  Pulling him along, I duck behind the man who’s nodding at Lilly telling him about her poor friend who lives on the second floor and is practically dying of the flu. Lil needs to get up there and check on her friend’s health, but of course said friend never gave advice about Lil’s arrival because, well, said friend is dying. The show’s so convincing I almost feel sorry for the poor person burning with fever in apartment 2b.

  Inside the lobby shiny tiles reflect the light of the glass chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling; not intricate ones like at Manvyke’s house, but ones with long cylinders that look like wind chimes. This place is top-notch, right down to the fancy leather lounges arranged in small groups, perfect for conversation. The place reeks of five-star luxury. There’s no reception desk to be seen, but two shiny silver elevator doors stand side by side at the back of the empty lobby.

  Empty, as in no sign of Manvyke.

  Still leading Will by the hand to maintain invisibility, I’m acutely aware that he hasn’t threaded our fingers together. Instead, my hand presses against the back of his in an extremely platonic way. We’ve always held hands, but never like this. Even when it was strictly friendship it never felt this forced. My pulse beats through my fingertips . . . heck, can he feel that? It’s like my heart has taken up residence in the place most likely to give my thoughts away.

  We head straight to the elevators where I reach out and press the button, smiling to myself when it lights up. Something about invisibility never grows old! It’d be pretty amusing if other people are in there. I’d love to ask Will how he thinks we should tackle this, but I’m not game to speak in case the doorman somehow overhears us. Another glance back to the doorway and reveals Lilly is no longer there, and Mr. Suave has gone back to his post as sentinel of the front doors.

  A ping indicates the elevator’s arrival and I spin back around. Will tugs on my hand and takes a step forward just as the doors slide open to reveal an empty mirror-lined lift car. As we enter, I issue up a silent prayer to the powers that be that we find Manvyke.

  The door closes behind us.

  “Now what?” Will drops my hand. I don’t want to overthink that, so I grab it again and squeeze my fingers around his.

  “Are you crazy? They’d have cameras in here. You can’t just reappear like that.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Oh yeah? My gosh, Will, think.” I draw in a deep breath. “We need to figure out where in this building he has gone.”

  “That’s easy. He’ll be in the penthouse.” He jabs his finger at the round button labeled 13—the highest number on the panel.

  I arch my brows. “Superstitious?”

  Will chuckles. “Not me, but . . .” He pauses for a moment and gives my hand a tiny tug. “Nothing stupid, okay? If we find him, we’re not doing anything right now, all right? We’ll just gather whatever info we can and come back fully prepared.” His long fingers twist through mine. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Besides—”

  The door slides open and I feel Will flinch. The surprise isn’t his alone though; my heart thuds so loudly I’m sure the couple walking in can hear it. Gripping his hand tighter, I shuffle out of their way. The woman’s pissed gaze lands on me, or at least it would if I was visible. Frick, fric
k, frick . . . can she see us? She stands only a few inches away, but then her glare swings to the guy who followed her. He stabs the G button and the doors close.

  He turns around to face her. “Honey, I’m—”

  “Don’t even talk to me,” she snaps. He takes a step forward and the woman jerks back, bumping into me. Holy, freaking . . . I bite down on my lip to stop from cursing aloud. She spins around, wide-eyed, then shakes her head. “Stay away from me.” She moves into the far corner, turning her back on both him and us. Is it me she’s telling to stay away or him?

  “Hell,” the man says, “this stupid thing is going up.”

  “You should’ve looked before we got in,” she snaps.

  “You’re the one who stormed into the first lift that stopped.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and firms her shoulders, all stiff and annoyed. The man takes her hint and our little elevator falls silent.

  Four, five, six . . . the light moves across the numbers indicating our climb, which feels like it’s taking for-freaking-ever. It’s probably made worse by my clammy hand in Will’s, thoughts of Manvyke chilling my blood, and holding in each breath so they don’t hear me.

  Nine, ten, eleven. When we reach the thirteenth floor, Will and I need to get out, but these people are in the way. How the heck will we manage it?

  “Stop looking at me.” The woman’s whine makes me jump. Pity the guy’s not looking at her. In fact, he looks peeved now, too—his back to her as he stares straight ahead with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

  “Wouldn’t dare,” he says.

  “I know you are. I can feel it.”

  “I’m not looking at you, Elizabeth.”

  I glance away like that will help because crap, she’s sensing us. She somehow knows we’re here.

  Ping.

  Thirteen, thank all things holy. Holding my breath I squeeze past him, but he turns, his focus snagging on the woman. His shoulder jams into mine.

  “What the hell?” His scowl burns into me, stalling my breath in my throat. The dude somehow knows that we’re here. With my hand still clamped around Will’s, I dash out of the elevator hoping it closes and descends before the angry man has time to analyze what he did or didn’t feel.

  It closes and my breath whooshes out like I’ve held it to within an inch of my life.

  It’s weird that when you’re holding someone’s hand you can sense the change in their mood or stance without seeing them. Right now, I’m sensing that with Will. He was alert in the elevator, but now it’s multiplied by a million.

  “Not a soul?” It’s Manvyke.

  “As you ordered. Not a soul.”

  My chest tightens and it’s near impossible to draw another breath. I’m almost too scared to look toward the voices because I know who I’ll see. The cover-up better be working. My heart races and despite the heat burning the backs of my eyes, I spin around and, disappearing into another elevator, is the man I hate. The back of his broad shoulders practically have a target painted on them, that’s how badly my hand twitches to grab for a weapon.

  The other voice belongs to a man—perhaps security—sitting behind a desk. This one does look kind of like a hotel check-in. But why would there be something like that on the top floor and with another elevator across the way? With only one door here the rest of the space seems pretty small, so this must be the penthouse and we must be in a private foyer.

  I tug Will over to the door and spy a gold plaque above a peephole that reads: Angora Suite. Not helpful at all, and since that’s not where Manvyke went it’s probably not our destination. Will leads me this time, over to the other elevator. It sports just one button, no down, only up. And the plaque above it reads: Penthouse Suite. We can’t exactly push it with that guard so close. He’s probably got orders to report anything out of the ordinary. Anything that reeks of tech use. Besides we’re not covered by a hide-all on Collective territory. CRAP!

  Will pulls me back toward the elevator we rode up in. My hip brushes a potted plant and the guard’s head snaps up. We can’t stop. We’ve got to get this cover-up off as quickly as possible and high-tail it out of here. I catch a glimpse of the tray of disposable cups on his desk. I’ve seen that logo before . . . must be the coffee that was in Manvyke’s hand on the street.

  By the time we reach the elevator the guard’s attention has gone back to whatever game he was playing on his cellphone, but I can’t stop looking at those cups. Will presses the button while the man’s distracted with his game and long minutes roll by.

  As we step into the elevator it hits me. CityBoy. Those are the very same cups, I saw every weekend until I was nine. Unchanged after all these years, it was my mother’s favorite coffee house.

  She’s here.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jax

  Checking up on her wasn’t a good idea. Now I can’t get her out of my mind and my thoughts keep circling back to Sam’s words: She’s up to something. Mae’s always up to something, but I feel antsy not knowing exactly what that something is. What if she’s planning to go after Nik, or worse Manvyke? She knows how to look out for herself, but she’d be in over her head. And after what Nik said—“I’m coming for your pretty little girlfriend”—that urge to move, to do something like chase down my brother, is impossible to ignore.

  That’s what led me to this moment. And I can’t leave Cynnie here alone.

  “Psst,” I whisper just loud enough for Cynnie to hear. “You awake?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She rolls onto her back and I jolt out of the way just as her arm slams into my chest. She rolls again, this time onto her side, facing me. Without opening her eyes she grabs the blanket and pulls it up under her chin. She certainly doesn’t look awake.

  “You need to wake up, we’re going.”

  At that her eyes shoot open and green iris’s focus on me. She doesn’t ask any questions, just peels the blankets back and stands up. Not making a sound, even though she wobbles on her toes like she can’t find her balance. No one stirs in the bunk room as I pad out and into the main warehouse, where it sure looks like Frank’s had a few tonight. Slumped amongst a mess of bottles—not the usual whiskey tonight, but beer—he seems to have passed out. I cross to the computer and repeat my last search: past week, global.

  Right at the top of the list and registering at only an hour ago is Alexandria—another tie to ancient cultures. Nik must think he’s onto something. I click to set our coordinates and look around for the port bands. But, damn it, they’re circling Frank’s wrists. That he’s bothered to wear them now, when he usually never cares, is insane. Frustrated, I pull my fingers through my hair and sweep another look around the porting area. The second set have to be here somewhere.

  Cynnie makes a tiny throat clearing noise and I spin to face her, because hell, we need to keep quiet. She’s smiling like she doesn’t realize this is serious. And as if that’s not enough absurdity, she raises her eyebrows, then her hand, waving her wrist at me.

  The other set of bands circle her thin wrists.

  I drag a deep breath through my nose and exhale out my mouth, then cross to the port mat. Cynnie steps on beside me, and takes my hand in hers. Why girls always want to hold hands when porting is beyond me. It only requires physical contact.

  She taps the bands and I close my eyes a second before we fall. It’s somehow easier not seeing the nothing; doesn’t help that gut-in-mouth sensation just before we land though.

  I open my eyes and drop Cynnie’s hand as I survey our surroundings. The scanner said Alexandria, but wherever we are, it’s not the city I was expecting. We’re in some sort of tunnel, standing on a wooden plank that spans a flooded floor, somewhere underground. Human-sized images carved out of the wall itself stand guard over the entrance from this room to the next. Egyptian gods—one with a dog’s head and one with a bird’s—both holding some sort of staff, stand barely visible in the dull artificial light.

  “Where are we?” Cynnie’s voice is lo
w, almost reverent.

  “In an Indiana Jones movie.”

  “Who?”

  Damn sheltered Collective life. What a waste of a good joke. I sigh. “Alexandria.”

  “Why?”

  Cynnie takes a few steps along the plank, her footsteps echoing through the tunnel. If Nik’s still here, he isn’t nearby, because the area is deserted. The chamber feels completely hollow and empty. I take a deep breath; time to trust her.

  Cynnie glances back at me, her eyes steady when she speaks before I have a chance. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

  That wasn’t what I was expecting. “So asking me to get you out wasn’t a spur of the moment decision? I was worried you might regret it.”

  “No,” she shakes her head, “best thing I ever did. Fighting from the inside wasn’t working and I just . . . I couldn’t do it anymore. Pretending to work with them and seeing people get hurt, when on the inside I was screaming for it to stop was horrible.”

  She shakes her head, twisting her mouth to the side as she glances away. I follow the line of her gaze to the tunnel walls carved as straight and square as if they were built out of bricks and mortar.

  “So what are we doing here?” she asks.

  Not telling her means we can’t move forward with this, but I need to be certain she’s trustworthy with knowledge of the keys. After what she just said, it seems likely, but . . . time to test the waters. “The founders’ ideals . . .”

  She scoffs. “Yeah, right. Ideal for who . . . the patriarchs? That’s about all.”

  That’s the only confirmation I need.

  “What are you smirking at?” she says.

  She certainly isn’t Collective at heart, and if she was fighting for civilian rights then she isn’t power hungry either. Hopefully this is the right choice. “How do you feel about the Keys of the Patriarchs?”

  She takes a tiny step back and her foot almost slips off the edge of the plank. “By the founders, Joshua Manvyke, we’re not chasing that stupid old myth, are we?”