Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “You are so judgmental,” Fred replied. “And completely wrong. My employers are about as far from being criminal masterminds as Anne of Green Gables.”

  “Aw,” Dean said. “I guess she carried sniper rifles, too, huh?”

  “You know your literature.”

  Blue twisted in his seat to look at Artur. “How, exactly, do you know him?”

  “He was in Russia. He and a woman shot an associate of Beatrix Weave, the woman who founded the Consortium—a criminal organization. This man also spied on us during our journey to Moscow.”

  “And we saved your lives. You could try to be a bit more gracious.”

  “Why don’t you try to shut the hell up,” Dean shot back. “Unless you’d like to explain what all this is about?”

  “Soon,” Fred agreed, and that was all he said until the helicopters entered the urban sprawl of Las Vegas, making a bee-line for the Strip.

  “Are you planning on taking us gambling?” Blue peered out the window. Iris looked, too. The city felt almost as big from above as it did below; the Strip was a tangle, a jungle of people and concrete. Only from this vantage point Iris felt the chaos even more keenly—finally, the forest instead of the trees—and she wondered briefly how she had managed to last even three months in such an overwhelming environment.

  And whether she would ever be able to return to that life. And her cats.

  You can’t leave them. No matter what happens, you need to make certain of that.

  The Miracle’s ivory spires loomed ahead of them; Iris spent a moment searching for the circus encampment, but the helicopter swerved left, heading directly to the tallest of the Miracle’s towers. An immense green landing pad waited for them as they descended.

  “You look disgruntled, Ms. McGillis,” Fred said.

  Iris studied his scent, which was not quite so calm or confident as his face. “This is the last place I expected you to take us.”

  “Small surprises are always the best.”

  She had a reply for that—a kick aimed specifically at his knee—but she held herself back and squeezed Blue’s hand. He pressed his lips against her hair, and she felt the contact shiver through her body.

  Easy affection, unembarrassed by the situation and the people around them. Possessive, even. Iris liked it. She didn’t think that made her a cavegirl wannabe. After everything she and Blue had been through together, it felt right. He liked her. Really liked her. Maybe even loved her. And Iris found that it was nice to belong to someone who cared about her. More than wonderful. No words were big enough for what was in her heart. Except that she’d rather be here with him at gunpoint than anywhere else in the world.

  The helicopter landed with a gentle thud, but no one moved or unbuckled themselves. Fred’s hands tightened around the stock and barrel of his weapon.

  “No matter how evil you might think my clutches are, please try to rein in those raging impulses to—thank you, Mr. Perrineau—kick in my skull, feed me my testicles, or do some very nasty things with my ass and this gun. You’ll thank me in the long run, I promise.” Fred gave Dean a rather disgruntled look. “And no chopsticks for you. Jesus, man.”

  Dean smirked. “That’s what you get for being a mind reader, you little prick.”

  Mind reader. Iris stared at Fred, at Blue—who was frowning so hard it was practically an invitation to set up tent poles at the corners of his mouth—and then turned to look at Dean and Artur. Clairvoyant, electrokinetic, telepathic …

  And one shape-shifter. God, you live in a bizarre world.

  “You’re not promising us much in return,” Blue said.

  “Not yet, anyway.” Fred looked at the man beside him, who wordlessly opened the helicopter door. The rotors were already winding down to a stop. No sign of the other aircraft that had tailed them.

  Fred’s companion stayed at the landing pad as Iris and the others were led through an access door down several flights of stairs, which emptied directly into a short, wide corridor decorated like a marble fetishist’s dream. Across from them was a pale door; Fred keyed in a sequence, the locks clicked, and through it they filed.

  Penthouse suite. The kind Iris had only heard of and never seen, though she had a feeling this was far nicer than anything that ended up in some magazine spread or television documentary. A large space, decorated in varying shades of pale blue, so that the room felt like part of the sky; the outer walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “There are women’s clothes in the back bedroom,” Fred said, still holding his rifle. “You, um, can change if you like.”

  Iris bit back a snippy reply and began moving in the direction he indicated. Chin up, posture good, relaxed, not scared at all. Oh, no. He was not going to see her hesitate.

  Still, when Blue joined her, she was not at all sorry.

  The pair of them left the main living room via a corridor that ran parallel to the windows; it felt like walking in the air above the city, which was disconcerting at first. Iris glanced down and saw the circus encampment in the distance, just beyond the manicured edges of the Miracle’s main resort.

  “Petro and the others will be freaking out by now,” she said to Blue.

  He draped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. “I hate to tell you, Iris, but I think it may be a while before you’re able to return to them.”

  “If I ever do.”

  “You will,” he said, turning her, running his fingers lightly over her cheeks. Warmth spread through her limbs; she wanted to shut her eyes and just feel him, be with him, and so she did. One moment, she told herself. Just one.

  “Come on,” he murmured, voice husky. “Let’s get you those clothes.”

  They entered the first bedroom they encountered. The closet was the size of Iris’s trailer, with a digitized system designed to bring clothes to her, rather than the other way around.

  Blue looked amused. “Colors?”

  She smiled. “Blue.”

  He laughed softly and punched the appropriate button. Gears whirred, and a stream of coordinated sets flowed along a rail. She took something soft and navy and form-fitting, found a bra and underwear in a drawer farther down, and picked out a pair of running shoes.

  Blue leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. He showed no sign of moving as she began to unbutton her shirt. Iris bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile.

  “You going to watch me?”

  “I’m a weak man,” he said. “No self-control.”

  “Sounds a bit dangerous.” Iris held the shirt closed, swaying toward Blue. His throat worked as she neared, his eyes growing hungry, dark. He did not reply; instead, his hands reached out, fingers pushing slowly beneath the collar of the shirt so that he touched her skin, rested his hands on her bare shoulders. His palms were large and hot, and she stood still as they traveled lower, tracing the open edges of the shirt, pulling the cloth from her hands. His fingers traced the inner edges of her breasts and moved even lower, pushing aside the shirt, pushing all the way so that it fell over her shoulders and off her arms, leaving her completely naked.

  And loving it.

  “You are so …” Blue murmured, his voice trailing off into a low rumble that was so sexy the ache between her legs pulsed.

  Iris leaned toward him. “So what?”

  His hands splayed over her waist, running down to her hips, tracing lines across her backside. “I was going to say beautiful, but it would have sounded trite.” His hands found her breasts and she stifled a moan. “I’ve got no words for you, Iris.”

  She laughed softly. “I can live with that.”

  He pressed his mouth against her neck. “Thank God you’re not fussy.”

  “With you, I try to be as easy as I can.”

  Blue laughed outright this time, and backed her up against the smooth closet wall. He kissed her lightly on the lips, but she pushed against him, and he answered back, turning his mouth into something hard and fierce, grinding into her naked body as h
e kissed the living hell out of her. Iris felt dizzy with it, as though her body were riding a hot, pulsing wave running from her heart to her groin, and she felt heavy there, wet, her thighs rubbing against his. She hooked a leg around his hips and drew him even tighter into her body. He groaned—deep throated, muted—and suddenly his mouth was no longer on her mouth, but on her neck, her shoulder, her breast. And while one of his hands stayed behind her head, the other trailed down her ribs to her hips, squeezing gently, before moving between her legs.

  And then everything shifted and Iris found herself on her back, resting on the floor with Blue between her legs, doing things to her that made her writhe so hard he had to hold her down. She swallowed her cries, but some still leaked through her gritted teeth. Blue chuckled softly when he heard her mewls.

  “Good,” he murmured, and then he did something with his fingers and tongue, drawing her in with lips to suck, and Iris felt the pressure inside her snap so hard she finally did cry out—a wordless gasp that only grew louder as Blue continued to work her past that first orgasm, helping her ride the edge of it into another that was even more powerful.

  Blue crawled over her body. Iris, feeling remarkably warm and lazy, reached down and touched his groin. He closed his eyes, sucked in his breath.

  “You next,” she whispered.

  “No time,” he said. “The others are waiting.”

  She smiled, running her tongue over her lips, loving how he watched, how he moistened his already damp mouth. Her fingers traced circles over the hard line inside his jeans.

  “I’ll work fast,” she said. “Unless you can make that go away just by thinking about it.”

  “Right,” he muttered. “Though one of these days we’re going to find the perfect moment and I’m going to come inside you.”

  The idea made her breathless. “You almost make that sound like a threat.”

  “Depends on your definition of danger.”

  “You’re my definition,” Iris said, as he unbuttoned his jeans. “Only you.”

  “And if I feel the same about you?”

  Iris sat up, pushing Blue onto his back, and wasted no time moving low, putting her mouth on him. She wasn’t quite certain what she was doing, but practice, she figured, made perfect.

  “I’d say that’s entirely appropriate,” Iris told him, and smiled when he called out her name.

  “Did you enjoy the closet?” Fred asked Iris when she and Blue returned to the main sitting room. The men had scattered; Artur stood by the window—with a shirt—Dean had a seat near the door, and Fred was at the bar pouring himself a shot. his rifle lay on the polished countertop in front of him.

  “It was a remarkable experience,” Iris said. Fred smiled. Mind reader, indeed.

  Blue wrapped an arm around her waist. “Enough bullshit. We’re here; we’re ready. What is going on?”

  Fred held up his hand and knocked back the whiskey. He made a face and rubbed his chest. “Anyone want some?”

  “No,” they all said.

  “In stereo. Very nice.” Fred set down the shot glass and leaned against the counter. “So, business. First of all, I am not working with Santoso, and I was not responsible for the explosion that took out that facility. The little man ordered that himself.”

  Iris could still feel the explosion in her bones, the acrid scent of smoke in her nose. “There were women inside that place. God only knows who else. Did he take them out of there?”

  “I doubt it. It would be cheaper to find more girls than to transport them. And he was in a rush.”

  “You have a spy on the inside?” Blue asked.

  “We did. Two of them, actually. One is dead and the other … incommunicado.”

  Iris leaned against the counter. “So why all the subterfuge? Why all the attention on me? And how do you know so much about Santoso?”

  Fred’s gaze turned sharp. “Because I work with your mother. And your mother, Ms. McGillis, was one of those spies.”

  Everything inside Iris stopped; her heart, her lungs, her mind. All she could do was stare. Blue’s arm tightened; she was dimly aware of Artur and Dean drawing close, but inside her head all she could see was her mother—her mother holding her, her mother cooking, her mother shifting and laughing and running and teaching her how to fight with that cold glint in her eye, and then nothing, a note, two years gone until last night, and it was not true, it could not be true—

  Iris did not feel herself move, but Fred was suddenly on the ground and she was on his back, grinding his face into the hardwood floor. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said softly, feeling something cold and hard snap into place. “Tell me how you know my mother.”

  “Mr. Perrineau,” Fred said, his voice muffled. “I would appreciate some help here.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of looking for some popcorn. Guys?”

  “Pretzels and beer,” Dean said. “Maybe a video camera. What do you think, Artur?”

  “I think I want to help,” the Russian rumbled, and sat down on Fred’s legs. He pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth.

  “Hey,” Fred said, a hint of desperation entering his voice. “Don’t you dare.”

  Artur ignored him. He pushed up the hem of Fred’s pants and placed his palm against the man’s skin. Fred swore at him, thrashing. Iris held him down. Fear entered his scent.

  “What’s going on?” Iris asked Blue, who crouched to help.

  “Artur is a psychometrist. Probably the most powerful in the world. And right now, he’s getting to know our friend just a little bit better.”

  Artur looked rather unhappy. He replaced his glove. “It will take time to sift through my impressions, but I believe he can be trusted. For now.”

  “Fuck you,” Fred muttered. Iris relaxed her hold on his shoulders. She could feel him trembling, and tried to stifle any and all of the little shreds of sympathy she felt for him. It was difficult. She understood what it was like to have secrets violated. She did not wish it on anyone.

  “Tell me how you know my mother,” she said again.

  “Daniel, too,” Blue added. “You obviously know about him.”

  “And while you’re at it, you can tell us if Elvis is still alive.” Dean nudged Fred with his boot.

  He squeezed shut his eyes. “As far as I know, Daniel is fine. As for Serena, I already told you. I work with her.”

  “My mother is a circus performer.”

  “No, she’s not. At least, not just that. Ask Blue if you don’t believe me.”

  Iris remembered asking him. She remembered the discomfort in his eyes, his refusal to say anything at all. But she looked at him again, searching his gaze, and this time he simply appeared resigned.

  Which scared the hell out of her.

  Iris rolled off Fred’s back; Artur freed his legs. The man rolled onto his side, wincing, and touched his nose.

  “I should have just shot you all when I had the chance,” he muttered.

  “Why didn’t you?” Blue asked.

  “I have my orders. And then there’s Serena. I don’t want to think about what she’ll do to me if her daughter gets hurt.”

  Iris forced herself to breathe. “I don’t understand. Why … why is my mother working with you? How did this happen?”

  Fred sighed, pushing his sleeve up against his bleeding nose. Dean fetched a towel from behind the bar and tossed it to him.

  “I don’t know the details,” he said, his voice muffled. “You’ll have to get those from your mother. Suffice to say, she’s been at this work since before you were born, but she left when she got pregnant. Stayed away for twenty-two years until she got the call.”

  The call. A note. I need to run; I need to let the wild take over.

  Lies, lies, lies. “You make it sound like the CIA.”

  “More like a corporation. Unlike the organization Mr. Perrineau and his friends work for, our interests are a bit more … monetary. But we basically have the sam
e goals. We want to be left alone, and we want to do good work.”

  “Liar,” Artur said, with a vehemence that surprised Iris—and, to look at Blue and Dean, his friends, as well.

  Fred smiled. “Pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

  Artur moved; Dean caught him across the chest. Blue gave both his friends a hard look and said, “So, what’s your employer’s interest in this? What is there to be gained?”

  “A clean conscience. Santoso didn’t start his empire all on his own. It was grown and consolidated by another group that I think you know.”

  “The Consortium,” Artur whispered. “Beatrix Weave.”

  It got very quiet. Iris stared at the men, searching their faces—which were suddenly way too thoughtful for her comfort—and held up her hand. “For the new girl? An explanation would be nice.”

  “The Consortium is a criminal organization,” Blue said quietly. “Mafia types, if you like. It’s run by people like us. Psychics.”

  Iris bit back a laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wish it were so,” Artur murmured. “They took me from my home. They kidnapped my wife. They ran terrible experiments on humans and on members of your kind, and for nothing more than idle curiosity—and a drive to exploit those gifts for power and wealth. We killed their leader, but I have suspected for some time that another took her place. Power like that leaves a vacuum that must be filled.”

  “And it was,” Fred said softly. “But we don’t know by whom. What we do know is that the men and women who were under Beatrix’s original mind control are working together, answering to someone new. And this individual, we’re afraid, is even worse.”

  “Beatrix was small potatoes,” Artur said distantly, as though speaking from memory. Fred looked startled but, after a moment, nodded.

  “Maybe. But if that’s the case, then we’re all in a lot of trouble. Because she was bad as they come.” Fred shook his head. “No one was surprised when they discovered what she had done. Spoiled, rotten—”

  He caught himself. Iris smelled his unease. “I get the feeling this woman used to be one of you. Is that what you meant by a clean conscience?”