She squirmed on her stool, wondering how long it had been since she made love to anyone other than herself. A long time, she knew, since before she had mustered out.
The arousal was as thick as the smoke in the air, and men getting lap dances yelled at others to wait their turn when they came too close. There weren't enough strippers to go around. Jesus, she thought, someone's gonna get knifed. Sweat glistened over the faces of the men and the women, and even Angie felt the heat pooling in her genitals—and she understood exactly what was going on. Soon enough, hurried transactions took place, wads of C-creds slipped into the hands of the strippers, who then led the men to dimly lit stairs in the back and up to the second level.
And then Angie saw her—the Fey.
A diminutive woman, shorter than her, with bright-blue hair sat alone at a table near the stairs at the back. Two huge bouncers stood on either side of her, their muscular arms crossed and glaring dangerously at any drunk that came too close. She was a nymph; Angie was certain of it. If she had to guess, she'd go with forest nymph—unlike the other kinds, they could easily pass for human, although once you knew what they were, there was no way you could ever see them and not think Fey. Their eyes were too large, their ears just a tad too sharp—although this one wore her hair long and over her ears. It was hard to tell from this far away, but she looked to be in her late teens. For all Angie knew, she might have been two hundred.
She wore silver short shorts, showing off her stunningly shapely legs, a blue hoodie, and a faded, sleeveless jean jacket over the hoodie. The jacket and hoodie hid the wings, Angie knew. They might even be strapped to her sides; despite how fragile they looked, the insect-like nymph wings were remarkably tough.
Like the strippers, she wore glitter on her face and neck. Char would rather eat crushed glass than admit it, but nymphs were distant cousins to succubi, sharing the same sex pheromones. Someone had sneaked this nymph into the city just to get the customers all horned up. That was a hell of a chance to take. If they were caught, the Fey would be executed and the ones responsible for bringing her here banished. Why take such a stupid risk? When two more customers were led up the stairs, Angie understood—money.
She felt the bartender's presence behind her and turned to look up at a huge bald man with a face even the kindest grandmother would find too much. His body odor almost pushed her off her stool. "Now you have to be a Kale."
"You're a funny one," he growled without even a hint of amusement in his bulbous eyes. A six-inch scar, white with age, ran from the end of his right ear to within a fraction of his jugular vein. Knife, broken bottle, or bicycle accident, that cut had almost killed him. 'Ware men with scars was another of Char's maxims. "What do you want?"
"Mateo told me to ask for you. Says he arranged a meeting with Mads."
Kale snorted. "Wait." Without another word, he walked away, stopping to pour himself a beer and drink it with the other bartender at the far end of the bar. Underworld affairs seemed to move at their own unprofessional pace, nothing like the military, where even basic tasks were completed yesterday. How did these clowns stay in business?
The answer was obvious: nymph magic.
She left her beer untouched, and not just because of Mateo's warning. Alcohol made her problems infinitely worse. The Other was gone, but she could still sense and draw ambient magic—if only trace amounts. And while the small amount of mana she could draw into her body probably wouldn't kill her if she cast a spell, it would twist her insides into a knot and make her wish she were dead. Losing control because she was drunk was a very bad idea without a shade to eat the harmful side effects of magic use.
When she spun about on her stool once more, the nymph was gone, as was Angie’s need to get laid.
A middle-aged black woman, lean and hard, with her hair tightly bound behind her, was approaching Angie. Unlike the strippers, she wore jeans, cowboy boots, a wide studded leather belt with a foot-long Bowie knife in an embroidered leather sheath, and a bright-blue, buttoned-up, long-sleeved cowboy shirt with a bolo tie. She stopped before Angie.
"I'm Jester. Follow me." Without waiting for a reply, she spun away and stormed back across the bar toward the stairs where the nymph had been sitting.
Angie shrugged then followed, her mouth dry. Here we go.
The two bouncers were still controlling access to the upper levels, but they stepped aside for the women. Jester led Angie up the stairs, past what looked like a series of hotel rooms on the second floor, to the uppermost level. A guard waited atop the landing carrying a pump-action shotgun, very illegal but also very lethal, especially in the enclosed space. Clearly, they weren't too concerned the Horse Cops would raid them.
The woman stopped near the guard and faced Angie. "You carrying?"
Angie nodded, removing the tactical baton and handing it to the woman.
Jester placed it on a nearby countertop. "That it?"
"That's it," Angie answered, her voice surprisingly weak.
"Okay. You can pick it up again on the way out. Turn around, lift your arms to the sides, and spread your legs for me."
Angie did as she was told.
"More," Jester said, roughly kicking her ankles farther apart.
Angie bit down any thoughts of an angry retort. These people were more professional than she had first judged, idiot bartenders notwithstanding. Mateo had been right. Coming here was stupid and dangerous. Her skin flushed with embarrassment as Jester ran her hands expertly over her body—not patting her down but firmly sliding her fingers up and down her torso and limbs. Jester knelt and yanked up the ends of her jeans, exposing Angie's calves, and ran her fingers inside Angie's socks. She stood, running her hands over Angie's legs. Then her hands slid under Angie's T-shirt and up over her bra, the fingers rudely probing for anything that wasn't bra or breast.
Without warning, Jester's hands slid back down Angie's stomach, and Angie gasped as the other woman undid the button and zipper on her jeans and yanked the fabric down several inches, exposing her hips and panties. Angie's face burned as the other woman slid her fingers under the elastic waistband of her panties, running them from front to back in her search for weapons. It wasn't remotely sexual, but it was terrifyingly thorough. If she had gone through with her earlier consideration to hide the knife... Angie stared forward, unable to stop herself from trembling. It wasn't the groping; it wasn't the shotgun; it was the no-bullshit professionalism.
The guard with the shotgun didn't leer, didn't even glance at her with her ass hanging out. Instead, he kept his gaze on the stairs, doing his job. Neither Jester nor the guard seemed to give a shit that Angie could run to the Horse Cops and report the unauthorized firearm, which meant the rumors were true and Mads had the police in his pocket.
I'm in over my head.
"'Kay," Jester said, stepping back. "Do up your pants and follow me."
Jester led Angie down the hall and to an ornate wooden door. She entered an electronic code, a series of random digits, on the keypad, and the door clicked open. That was when Angie noticed all the lights were electric—no candles, no gas lamps. They keep the generator going twenty-four seven.
They went through the door, and Jester closed it firmly behind them, cutting off all noise from the band below. Her anxiety raced. They could do whatever they wanted to her, and no one would ever know. Her mind drifted back to the Horse Cop's comment about pulling bodies from the sewer. She never should have come here. She knew that now.
But what choice do you have, Angie?
None.
If she couldn't beat this thing, if she couldn't get back in the unit, sooner or later, she'd end up throwing herself over the wall anyway. If she couldn't be a mage anymore, being a soldier was all she had left. Damn you, Nathan. You must have known that.
The decor in the chamber on the other side was richly furnished, with plush carpets and fine wooden paneling, nothing at all like the seedy bar two floors below. Another guard stood beside an ornate oak door, a bullpup
assault rifle with an under-barrel grenade launcher held ready. This guard wore body armor, a Kevlar jacket with ceramic plate, and an old U.S. Army helmet. He even wore ballistic glasses. Even the Seagraves might have their hands full with this one. Who were these people?
Jester led her past the guard and rapped softly on the door. It opened a moment later to reveal the same young nymph who had been sitting at the table downstairs. Up close, Angie knew she had been correct. While forest nymphs could pass for human, they remained too ... perfect. No one was that doll-like, that beautiful. The nymph looked past Jester at Angie, her large purple eyes flashing with amusement as she stepped aside, pulling the door wide for them.
"After you, honey," Jester said.
Angie entered the room, a richly decorated study lined with bookshelves, oak cabinets, and what looked like art pieces liberated from one of the abandoned museums in the cities, a dangerous practice. A thick carpet covered the floor, with lush furniture arranged to form a sitting area around a silver and dark-glass coffee table.
A tall, athletic man with a closely trimmed beard, his hair also cut short but most likely to hide what was clearly premature balding, stood near a window, glancing out through the bars at the dark city. Mads Johansen. She had never met him but knew who he was immediately. He was a prominent figure in the city's criminal element and a constant thorn in Marshal's rear. He wore expensive clothing—pants, a white silk shirt with the top buttons undone to expose a hairy chest, and a dark vest, the buttons also undone. He held a glass of something in his hand—whiskey, she guessed from the smell. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the ice cubes in his glass, actual ice.
He turned, crossing the room and offering his hand to her, a generous smile on his handsome features. He reminded her of what a pirate must have looked like hundreds of years ago. "Captain Angela Harriet Ritter," he said warmly, shaking her hand. "The infamous Angel de la Muerte, bane of the Norties."
She matched his smile with a forced one of her own, tamping down her sudden flash of anger. "I'm not a captain anymore, and I actually don't like that name."
His smile faltered for only a moment before it was back again. He doesn't like being corrected, she realized, or he's just not used to it.
"Then I shall never use it again." He motioned toward a comfortable armchair on his right. "Please, sit. Can I get you something? We have some lovely Glenfiddich, 55, I believe?"
She sat. "Thank you, no. I don't drink." She also didn’t know what Glenfiddich 55 was, but she guessed whiskey.
"Ah," he nodded, seating himself again. "A far wiser person than I am."
She folded her hands atop one another on her lap, her back straight. This might have been the most comfortable chair she had ever sat in.
The nymph lay upon a couch against the wall, the trace of an amused smile on her beautiful features, and examined Angie brazenly. Jester moved behind Mads, one hand on the back of his chair, her unfriendly gaze fixed on Angie, her posture ready for action.
This one is dangerous, she knew. Hell, they're all dangerous. And how did he hire a nymph? They're more racist than elves.
"I can understand your distaste for nicknames," Mads said. "I've collected a few of my own that I don't much care for, not that they weren't at least somewhat appropriate at the time. Still, we aren't just the bad things we've done, are we, those things we'd like to forget? I like to think there's more to the human spirit than that."
She kept her smile on her face, waiting as he stared at her—too long, almost possessively. She knew men found her attractive, had known since she was twelve, but why would a man with his own harem of professionals—hell, with his own nymph—show any interest in her? She had made no attempt to be attractive this night, but his gaze still made her uneasy. It was the blank stare of a man who could have any woman he wanted.
How far am I willing to go to get those pills? That far?
She didn't want to pull on that thread.
Mads sat back, slapped his palms against his pants. "So, our mutual acquaintance tells me there's something you're interested in."
Acquaintance—not friend. She decided to get right to it. "Cloridine."
He watched her in silence; only a glint of avarice in his dark-brown eyes giving away his sudden interest. "Cloridine," he repeated softly, stressing each syllable. "Not easy to obtain. Do we have a source for Cloridine, Jester?"
"We do not," the black woman answered, her expression sphinxlike.
"Even before the Awakening, that was an experimental drug, not yet approved for use by the FDA. What about something else? Prozac, Zoloft? We'll have those easily enough."
"We have them," Jester said in her deadpan manner.
Angie shook her head. "Tried them. Tried Paroxetine as well. Didn't help."
"What about something a bit more ... lucid?" Mads offered. "I heard some of your kind used Ecstasy with some success back in the day."
My kind? Does he mean mages or soldiers? "I can't take psychedelic drugs, not with ... I just can't take them. Same reason I stay away from alcohol."
"Yes." He inclined his head. "I've heard tales of what goes down when you folk lose it. Heard of a young man in Mexicana, one of the Brujas Fantasmas, who got wasted on the local psychedelic juice and let loose on some locals in a bar, painted the walls with their guts. Ain't that so, Jester?"
"Exactly so," Jester answered.
"Don't believe everything you've heard about us. Most of it is nonsense. Besides, my situation is ... unique. I need the Cloridine. Studies before the Awakening indicate it was more effective than all the other medications at treating PTSD. Cabraxis Biotechnologies in Los Angeles was a major hub for testing, and I've heard you—"
"Don't believe everything you've heard about me," Mads said coldly.
"Word is your people cleaned out Cabraxis."
"Who told you this?"
"I've done my research. It's what I do—what I did in the Home Guard."
He nodded, watching her carefully, considering her. "So I've heard. I hear things too. Heard you were intelligence, right? The unit's S2 and security officer?"
"What I was doesn't matter. What matters is that the Cloridine can help me deal with this ... this thing."
Mads sighed and sat back, resting his ankle on his knee. His loafers were deeply buffed leather. Italian, she imagined, probably worth more C-creds than she made in a month. He scratched the back of his neck as he considered her. She could tell he was well put together, lanky but athletic, not the kind of man to sit back and count on others. What she had heard was that he had personally led the expedition to Cabraxis Biotechnologies, a very dangerous hunting trip.
"Okay, here's the thing, Angie. Do you mind if I call you Angie?"
"Go right ahead."
"Angie, I might have some Cloridine, right, Jester?"
"Maybe," the other woman drawled.
"But there isn't much, which makes the price high—way higher than you can afford working at the canning plant."
She had no idea if Mateo had told him where she worked, but if Mads had investigated her background enough to know about the Home Guard, he'd know where she worked. And probably where I live. That was a disturbing thought. On the other hand, he wasn't doing anything she hadn't done, just with more resources and contacts than she had. She didn't have access to the Bunker's files, computer terminals, and collection assets anymore. He probably knew way more about her than she did about him.
"Just give me a price. I'll find a way to pay it."
"Well, you might, Angie. You might. But to be honest, it's not just the C-creds. I'm not entirely comfortable with your connections to important people, people like First Councilor Marshal—friend of the family, right? Or his magical attack dog, that righteous asshat Nathan Case." Mads's eyes hardened. "Your old boyfriend has been a world-class pain since he's taken command of the Home Guard. My expeditions, while not legal, are necessary for everyone, you included, it seems."
She licked her lips, her mouth dry
. "Look, I haven't spoken to the colonel—to First Councilor Marshal since mustering out. He's too busy to care about me. And Nathan Case is not my boyfriend. Anything between us was a long time ago, and lots of different women have come and gone since. Trust me, Nathan Case doesn't care about me. In fact, it was Nathan who insisted on my resignation, said I made the other mages uneasy."
"So I heard, but it still makes me uncomfortable. Does it make you uncomfortable, Jester?"
"Very," the other woman said. "I'm not sure I like our Angie."
"I like her," the nymph said, speaking for the first time. "She smells nice. Give her what she wants." Her voice was soft and feminine, filled with childlike amusement but laced with boredom. She reclined on the couch, one shapely leg resting on the back of it as she examined her fingernails.
"Thank you, Astris," Mads said, sighing. "But we're not debating her smell, which I'm sure is wonderful." He bent down and picked up his glass of whiskey and took a sip before meeting Angie's gaze again. "We're discussing supply and demand. My business."
"What do you need?" she asked.
"What can you do? I'm told your specialty was divining magic, locating enemies, that sort of thing. Might be useful."
She shook her head. "You were told wrong, or at least your information is old. I can't do any of that anymore. That's why they let me go. I no longer have a shade. It's been exorcised. Technically, I'm still a mage, but..."
"Really?" he asked, surprise in his voice. "You can do that, exorcise a shade, like Catholic priests and demons?"
She didn't answer.
"Well," he sniffed. "That kind of changes things, doesn't it?"
"Look." She leaned forward. "Just name a price and let me figure it out. You're a businessman, right?"
He pursed his lips and shrugged. "I don't need C-creds, but you must have had a hexed blade or access to one."
He said it in a matter-of-fact manner, but she knew right then that was what he must have been after since agreeing to this meet—Nightfall. She held her breath, feeling the room constrict about her.
The Awakened World Boxed Set Page 5
