by Jenn Stark
As I leaned forward to grab it, my glance dropped to the robes pulled tight over Dead Guy’s body. They were made of richly patterned silks, vivid greens flowing into an intricately worked chest patch of red and blue. Zee’s flashlight angled, and I froze, mesmerized by the image.
How was that possible? Staring out at me in full embroidered splendor was a blue dragon, its wings outstretched across a field of red. I knew that design. It’d been imprinted on my brain ten years ago on the worst day of my life. But what was it doing on a dead guy’s bathrobe?
More concerning, why did it seem so familiar? Like I’d seen it somewhere else, somewhere recent, somewhere…
“Princess,” Zee hissed.
Reflexively, my fingers closed on the crown, and I jerked it free from the corpse’s head.
Its eyes flicked open.
“Dammit!” Zee’s curse was drowned in the sound of a second massive gong strike, so loud it vibrated the walls. I jammed the helmet into my jacket while Zee thunked his flashlight into the now ex-corpse’s skull, which earned him a squawk of outrage. The creature started beating his frail arms against Zee, screaming in a language that sounded shockingly like French. Another slam of Zee’s light, and the guy fell back into his coffin, out cold.
Before we could clear the pedestal, however, the skies opened up—or the ceiling, more accurately—and a torrent of water crashed over us. Zee staggered under the deluge. “Son of a—”
“No!” I reached for Zee’s arm and yanked him back as he prepared to plunge into the already calf-deep water. “King of Cups—he rules from a platform on water. We need to stay here!”
“Well, it’s a popular destination.” Zee dashed water from his eyes and pointed, growling in disgust. “Fucking undead.”
I followed the direction of his hand. The corpses lining the walls were on the move. They’d sat up straight and were swinging their legs over their pallets. A few of them were already in the water, which was rising fast, cresting the short flight of stairs at the base of our pedestal. More splashes, and Zee cursed again. The walking undead were all heading toward us.
Water cascaded in from all sides, and the platform beneath our feet wobbled, lifting away. I squinted down, surprised at the fact that we were floating, then up again toward the ceiling. Zee squeezed off a few rounds, shooting into the cascade. “Some ideas, here, princess!”
“Working on it—” Then I saw it. “There! Hole!”
“Not going to—fuck!” Zee fired a round point-blank into a death mask that surged out of the water, and the creature spun away, going down beneath the surface. By now the flood was chest-deep, and the platform had broken away, spinning, turning—
“Get into the coffin!” I shouted. “The King rules over the water from his throne. No throne, so hit the coffin.”
Zee turned and stared at me, balancing on the shifting platform like a surfer. “What are you talking about?”
“Get in!” I threw myself into the coffin, right on top of the spindly former corpse, and Zee gave up trying to understand and clambered in on top of me. Icky White Guy stunk. As I shoved him deeper into the coffin, he woke up and hissed at me.
“Whoa! Check your privilege!” I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go and the old guy started beating at me. Zee’s roared curse overrode everything as our stone boat lifted farther, then banged with a gut-wrenching thump against the ceiling. The sound of rushing water pounded our eardrums, and we shifted and bounced along with the current, the rim of the coffin scraping against the ceiling until finally we hung—suspended.
For a long, queasy moment.
Even the ex-corpse shut up, his rheumy eyes going wide in the reflected beam from Zee’s flashlight, his mouth with its rotted teeth forming a startled O.
Then we tipped forward, careening out of the room and down what felt like a massive waterfall. Zee braced me while both of us battered the once-again screeching, screaming Skeletor, who grabbed at our arms, our faces, my jacket. One of his finger bones snapped like a twig in his desperate attempt to recapture the crown. He didn’t seem to notice.
“…Drop point!” howled Zee in my ear, delivering another punishing blow to the wish-you-were-dead-guy’s face.
“What?” I jolted to the side as we raced around another turn in the cavern, then my stomach bottomed out again. Above our coffin, the tunnel’s ceiling appeared to lift up and everything was brighter—shockingly so. “Oh—an exit! This must be the exit!”
“Here we go!” bellowed Zee, locking me in an iron grip.
The propulsion force of the water shot us out into blessed open sky. A blur of gray and green streaked past, too fast to identify. The crypt tipped and dropped away, carrying away the ex-corpse as Zee kicked him down again. Brutally cold air ripped through my sodden clothes in stark contrast to the warm body holding me close.
For a breath, all of time stood still, the world too bright and full, the sky too blue and stark, and there was nothing but light and air and the unnervingly close sound of someone screaming bloody murder…
Right before we plunged into the frigid waters of Lake Baikal.
Chapter Two
The trans-dimensional elevator ride up to the Magician’s magical lair was shorter than the plane trip to Vegas, but the jet lag sucked just as much.
“You’re late.” Armaeus Bertrand’s voice pushed against my brain.
My brain pushed back. And you have a stunted appreciation for sleep.
As my primary client, the Arcana Council had a lot to offer: they paid me well for finding them the magical artifacts they craved. Plus, they were immortal, which had seriously improved my long term cash-flow projections since I’d begun working with them a little over a year ago.
But my work detail with the Council had taken a decidedly nasty turn of late. My most recent assignments hadn’t been to find stuff via my traditional Tarot card reads, it’d been to find them via astral travel, a particularly gut-churning, nerve-shredding, head-exploding form of mental projection, for which I’d recently developed an unfortunate proficiency. And while it wasn’t this way for everyone I suspected, for me, astral travel hurt. It hurt a lot.
It hurt so much, in fact, that getting within two miles of Council headquarters liquefied my guts and made my heart seize up.
Yet here I was, crawling into the belly of the beast. Again.
Like I said, they paid well.
And after my stopover at Father Jerome’s makeshift Connected orphanage in Paris yesterday, I was ready to score more cash. The old priest was doing everything he could to protect the children on the front lines. The least I could do was my job.
With as much swagger as I could manage given that a thousand razor-beaked vultures were taking biggie-sized chomps out of my brain, I strode into the Magician’s palatial office. We were at the southern tip of the Strip, soaring above the Vegas skyline, and despite the harsh midmorning light, you could sense the magic in the air of the city, the whirling wheels and snapping cards and the metallic whoosh of slot machines.
It was the sound of madness, but strangely comforting too.
Inside the Magician’s office, though, the crazy was kicked up several notches, which was not doing me any favors. Every surface gleamed, glinted, or invited, from the plush couches to the oversized command desk Armaeus favored. Worse, everything vibrated with power, be it trinket, tech—or thaumaturge.
“Miss Wilde,” Armaeus greeted me, his voice low and resonant, demanding that I look at him. Bracing myself, I did.
Dark, enigmatic, and sinfully sensual, Armaeus Bertrand wrung the most out of his half-French, half-Egyptian birth, never mind that he’d been walking this Earth since the thirteenth century. His face, with its perfect angles and smooth lines, might as well have been a Renaissance masterpiece carved out of bronze. His blue-black hair drifted luxuriously to his shoulders, and his mouth curved in a soft, indulgent smile while his golden eyes swept over me, from my plane-tousled hair to my dusty boots.
He was dressed impeccably, of course, cool and unflappable in a linen suit with a jewel-blue shirt beneath, open at the neck. I, on the other hand, looked like I hadn’t showered in days. I was fine with that, though. I believed in truth in advertising.
I shook my head, trying to refocus. I’d had a lot of time to go over the Lake Baikal job as I’d gradually worked my way back to Vegas, after nearly beating Zee to death with the crown once we’d made it to shore and negotiating a postjob undead bonus with my satisfied client. The one piece I couldn’t quit thinking about wasn’t the Mongolian crown, however, nor the near-bout of hypothermia I’d contracted before we’d been scooped out of the ice bucket of Lake Baikal. It wasn’t even the relief on Father Jerome’s face when I’d given him the money from the job, cash he so desperately needed and deserved.
No. I couldn’t get that blasted blue dragon off my mind, the one embroidered into the ex-corpse’s robes. I’d seen something like it ten years ago. More importantly, I’d seen something like it two weeks ago—an almost identical design on one of Armaeus’s planes. And I was almost sure I’d seen a similarly shaped dragon sitting on one of his shelves, too. In this room.
“Where is it,” I growled, peering around. “You’ve got it here, don’t you?”
“You forget, I don’t have the luxury of knowing your innermost thoughts, Miss Wilde.” Armaeus’s clipped voice pulled my attention back to the present with a hard thump.
I’d been in business long enough to recognize the sound of pissed-off client. And though I liked to push Armaeus’s buttons, I liked getting paid more. “You should not have left Las Vegas,” he continued.
“Couldn’t be helped.”
“I see. Then shall we discuss your experience in Siberia? Or shall I rely on my contacts to give me the full report?”
I regarded my broken-off nails. “Nothing much to discuss.”
“I beg to differ. You could have been injured—or, worse, arrested. A minor Mongolian crown wasn’t worth the risk.”
He gestured to a case, and I frowned at him. “What?”
“I assume that’s what you wanted to find?”
I followed the direction of his long, elegant finger. And all other thoughts flew out of my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I groaned. “They put these things in Cracker Jack boxes or something?”
“So that wasn’t what you sought?” Amusement laced his words.
I stalked over to the case. On the third shelf, gleaming with polished stones and burnished bronze inlays, sat a near replica of the Mongolian helmet I’d wrenched off some hapless not-quite-a-corpse’s head before plunging into the iciest waters this side of Hell. “Does this do the same thing—the long-life business?” I quirked a glance back at him. “Do not tell me that’s what’s kept you kicking around for so long.”
Armaeus lifted a contemptuous brow. He could do that better than anyone I knew. “I do not keep the crown for personal use. I have it here for study.” His golden eyes tracked me, cataloging my every move. “Who was your client?”
“Some guy with a lot of money jonesing to dig up his family tree.” I shrugged. “No one you need to care about.”
“It isn’t that difficult to learn what I wish to know.”
“So why bother asking?”
The rustle of silks was my only warning, then a fresh wave of panic seized me as the High Priestess spoke from another of the room’s four entrances.
“Oh, good. The prodigal daughter returns.”
Terror blanked my thoughts for the barest moment, but it was apparently long enough for the High Priestess to see my expression. She smiled with satisfaction, and her wide, intelligent eyes mocked me. Today Eshe was rocking the whole Greco-Roman goddess motif, from the tips of her dangle earrings to the toes of her gilded sandals. Her hair fell long and lustrous around her shoulders, framing her perfectly proportioned olive-toned face, and her body practically shimmered in a deep purple robe. “Don’t worry, Sara,” she cooed. “This won’t hurt much. And it’s for such a good cause.”
I glared at Armaeus. “You didn’t tell me she was going to be here.”
“You didn’t ask.” The Magician’s voice had also hardened another notch or six, and I fought to keep my stance easy, my shoulders square. I had to play this carefully. A pissed-off Armaeus was a good day’s work. A furious Armaeus was dangerous. “If I cannot see your thoughts, I cannot gauge your pain.”
“My pain?” An unexpected surge of outrage welled up, bolstering and fierce. I stalked forward, jabbing my finger at Armaeus to punctuate my words. “You don’t get the right to discuss my pain. I’ve already played that game with you, remember? That was you, wasn’t it? In my hotel room two weeks ago? Telling me that it ‘didn’t have to be like this’? Or am I getting my Council members confused?”
“Tsk, tsk, Sara, so much anger.” Eshe was enjoying this. Then again, she probably enjoyed pulling the wings off dragonflies too. ”It was your choice to protect the twins from Kavala. They are the natural oracles, not you. Serving me is what they were born to do.”
“No, they were born to be gifted, Eshe. No obligation required.”
“Yet you feel obligated to them?”
My own anger flared hotter, treating my brain vultures to a barbeque. “Gee, I don’t know. Fifteen years old, kidnapped, and sold to that scum-sucking Jerry Fitz, who pumped their lungs full of gas so they could see visions more clearly? Forgive me if I thought I should cut them a break.”
A break. I guess you could call it that. Because after I’d freed the girls from Fitz’s hellhole, after I’d also been exposed to his freak show Pythene gas, I’d pledged myself to the High Priestess in place of the girls. Her abilities were specific and needed a prism. She could interpret and even direct present and future events, but she needed someone to see those events first. For the moment, that someone was me.
So now, whenever Eshe called, I reported for duty, ready to exercise my gas-enhanced skills of astral travel. Wherever she directed, I went. Whatever she needed to see, I saw. Saw and reported…then slunk off with my handy metaphysical barf bag, a parting gift for flying the not so friendly skies.
Just thinking about it made me wobble a little on my feet.
“Sit down, Miss Wilde.”
Armaeus’s voice seemed to be coming from too far away, but I couldn’t deny that his idea was a good one. I shambled toward the nearest chair, which had somehow gotten…nearer to me than it had been.
I scowled down, testing it with my foot. One thing about the Arcanans, you never could tell what was real with them and what was simply powerful illusion.
Still, the chair felt real enough. Throwing caution to the wind, I sank down into it. The plush leather gave easily beneath my weight, surrounding me with comfort.
To his credit, Armaeus let my relaxation last for another full thirty seconds before ruining it with his voice again. “She’s ready.”
I stiffened. “No, I’m—”
I didn’t have time to complete my sentence. Eshe spoke the ancient words and the thrall of her control held me fast. By the time she stood beside me, I was already fading from this plane, could barely feel her touch on my forehead.
“SANCTUS,” she murmured.
I shot out eastward, muscle and sinew shattering apart so that my mind might stretch before me, the visual effect like a hundred satellites all orienting on the same stretch of geography, offering up a multifaceted view. But at least this was a search I wanted to make. SANCTUS was a big reason all the money was so necessary for Father Jerome. A quasi-religious, quasi-military society dedicated to destroying all things magic, SANCTUS had erupted like a napalm strafe across the Connected community…and they were targeting the children first. Children had always been at risk from dark practitioners. Now they were an endangered species. Under the careful direction of Cardinal Rene Ventre, bestie of the pope and closeted zealot against all things magical, SANCTUS had become Connected Enemy Number One, and Ventre the embodiment of everything wron
g in the world.
With Eshe’s request, I expected to head straight to Vatican City, Rome, to find the group. Instead, my searching mind angled farther east, to Istanbul, where the enormous spires of the Hagia Sophia beckoned me to enter its hallowed dome.
Without consideration for stone or glass or steel, I hurtled into the building, each barrier an unnerving shock to my system. Crashing through physical structures didn’t immediately hurt though, not really. The pain always came later.
Down, down, down, I went. Until I finally found my quarry, holed up in a room deep within the bowels of the onetime Church of Holy Wisdom.
Nothing holy was going on here now.
A young woman barely more than a child lay stretched out on a metal table, surrounded by monitors all registering electrical activity that was completely off the charts. I stared, horrified, as men and women in surgical gowns moved industriously around the girl. Finally, through a break in the gowns, I could see more: the young woman’s blank eyes, her slack expression.
She was dead. But death offered no repose for her.
Chatter erupted in the room as energy readings jumped and jangled, the Connected’s brain waves still responding to God only knew what stimulants they’d pumped into her. The words of the doctors were Italian, Greek, Arabic—a flood of excited babble, while monitors glittered and fingers pounded on keyboards.
Through all of it, I knew I was speaking, reporting what I saw to Eshe and Armaeus, every detail, every nuance. But my attention could not stay focused on the machines, the doctors. Not with a child in the room. A perfect, precious Connected child, who had done nothing to deserve this treatment other than to be born special. Unique.
Gifted.
I heard new voices, arguing voices, but I could not spare them my focus. I drifted closer, down toward the dead girl. No breath would ever pass her lips again; no smile would light her face. No impossible fancy would ever make her hug herself with delight and possibility.
