by Loren Walker
Phaira stared at him. Hurt struck her like an arrow. Personal and professional, her conscience reminded her. See what happens when you let them mix?
“I was threatened with jail time...” she began.
He slumped into his chair. “So you don’t deny it,” he muttered. “How could you?”
She ignored him, and continued. “… for assaulting the patrol in Liera. So I made a deal with Ozias to investigate the remaining NINE.”
Theron frowned, taken aback. “NINE?”
“Yes. I’ve been East and South for the past three months. I just got back to the Arazura yesterday.” She held his gaze. “And you know plenty of my secrets, so why would I ever share yours?”
Theron was silent. Watching him, her heart thumped. She had the sudden urge to step inside his knees, to slide her cheek against his. She could remember the sensation of his breath on her neck….
Then her vision blurred.
Phaira shook her head to clear it.
But the room was getting darker, the light tinted orange. Then pink, and even deeper as she blinked. Was she passing out?
Her memory sparked: maybe some kind of gas was being pumped into the ventilation systems, like Huma did so many months ago, trying to knock them out….
“Red.” She heard him gasp, heard his boots on the floor. "It's here."
He saw the colors too?
Then she remembered Jetsun’s warning. They were alone.
“Stay back,” she ordered, running to stand before him, her right hand drawing the katana, her left arm outstretched in a horizontal barrier as she swept the area. But her mind was slowing, and her stomach was in knots, and something was pulling her, every bit of her, towards the ground, like weights attached to every pore of her skin.
Phaira scoured the room again for signs of movement, for a third person’s breath, but the world was growing red, and her hands were ice, and there was an odd, creaking sound repeating itself in the back of her mind...
The door handle rattled.
Suddenly, Phaira’s vision went clear and bright again, as if someone turned up the lights.
Then the washroom door opened, revealing a slim metal pick, white hands, green braids and black satin. “What’s going on in here?” CaLarca hissed.
“Why are you breaking in?” Phaira shot back, lowering her blade.
Bodies loomed behind CaLarca; a crowd had gathered, little whispers filtering through.
“It’s gone,” came Theron’s voice, so quiet that only Phaira could hear.
“We need to leave,” Phaira announced.
CaLarca led them through the ballroom. Theron followed four steps behind Phaira. He didn’t break stride, even when she heard Jetsun’s protesting voice, growing fainter.
The night air was a release, soaked with the promise of rain. Phaira caught sight of a glimmer, one hundred feet away: the Arazura, and CaLarca, her pale skin highlighted by the moon, striding to the open entryway.
“Come on,” Phaira said to Theron over her shoulder. “It’s the best place for right now."
She could barely hear his soft response. “I’m sorry.”
Phaira didn’t know what to say to that, so she propelled forward. When she reached the Arazura, she stepped to the side and kept her eyes on the ground. CaLarca stood on the other side of the hatch.
Theron hesitated at the entryway, before ducking his head and pulling himself through. Inside, she heard Renzo greeting Theron, already asking questions.
“This is a bad idea,” Phaira muttered.
"Why's that?" came CaLarca's cool voice.
When Phaira glanced up, CaLarca was studying her with curiosity. Phaira lifted her chin. “Did you see the red, too?”
“You saw red?”
“We both did.”
CaLarca looked thoughtful. “I didn’t. That’s strange.”
“I just assumed that’s why you broke open the door.”
"It was locked,” CaLarca said dryly. “You were alone in there, and Jetsun was panicking. What were you two doing?”
“Making peace,” Phaira said.
“Peace,” CaLarca repeated.
Phaira scowled. “Get inside,” she ordered. “And take that stupid dress off.”
CaLarca’s bemused expression remained as she stepped into the Arazura, her cane clicking alongside her high heels.
IV.
“I saw lies. Everyone in the room had a sheen of grey. One of the most dismal sights I’ve ever seen."
“You can ‘see’ lies?” Theron broke in. He was wandering the perimeter of the Arazura's common space, running his hand over the walls. He hadn’t seen the end product, yet, Phaira realized, just the internal guts, when he was helping Renzo with construction.
“Do you wish to test me?” CaLarca asked. She was back in one of her regular tunics, her braids loose down her back, her SCKAFO leggings shimmering under the light.
“Focus, please,” Phaira said from the end of the table. She’d removed the borrowed jacket to get some air over her arms and clear her head. “What did you sense?”
“A definite sense of foreboding,” CaLarca said. “And some fear.”
Theron huffed. Phaira wondered why. “What about anger?” she asked. “Hatred? Evil plotting?”
“Nothing so unusual,” CaLarca said. “Everyone was varying levels of intoxicated. Alcohol tends to stir up emotions. Nothing violent directed at Theron, or -
"Any animosity towards me?” Phaira interjected.
“Just curiosity. A few people knew your name and seemed impressed. Can’t imagine why.” CaLarca shrugged. “There is the question, however,” she added, “of the red vision you and Theron experienced. How did it make you feel?”
Phaira and Theron exchanged looks.
“Like a filter,” Phaira said, passing her hand over her face. “Everything went deep red, like blood. And everything felt heavy, like gravity had increased."
“Did you feel that too?” CaLarca asked Theron. “Visual distortion and pressure?”
The man gave the slightest nod.
“And?” CaLarca pressed. “More than that?”
Phaira heard a faint squeak; it was his right hand, tightening on the edge of his seat. “Some kind of repeating noise," Theron muttered. "A hiss, or a word or - something - inside my head.”
So they had experienced the same thing.
“Sounds like an Eko,” came Renzo’s voice from the doorway. He’d finally left the cockpit and stood at an angle, surveying the group in the common room.
“You think it’s NINE?” Phaira asked her brother.
Renzo jerked his chin at CaLarca. “Sounds like she thinks it is.”
CaLarca held up her hand. “Not necessarily from my original group,” she corrected. “But someone with enhanced abilities, it’s very possible. Though I would have sensed it, I’m sure.”
“Well, who's left?” Phaira pushed. “Who is still out there and alive?”
“Zarek Voss,” CaLarca listed. “Shantou Lyung.”
She went to speak another name, but closed her mouth.
A call came in, then. Renzo waved his hand at the console to make the connection. A woman's rushed whisper floated through the space. “We’ve got bodies downstairs: a man and a woman. The same as the others. It’s a mess, and everyone is still here. If they find out, the media will be everywhere, and law, and my reputation - ”
Jetsun, Phaira realized. She opened her mouth to call out to the woman, but Theron beat her to it. “Jet, who made the discovery?”
“One of ours. He had the sense of mind to get me right away”
“Make an announcement,” Theron ordered, his voice surprisingly calm. "Tell the guests that there is a plumbing issue. They’ll all find excuses to leave, no one will want to take the risk in any of the washrooms. Offer refunds, as requested. If the building owner is present, pay him off. Then secure the area, lock down the cameras and any other security devices. If you suspect any other witnesses, isolate them.�
�
Phaira couldn’t help but stare at him as he talked. “Theron,” she said.
He glanced at her, his black eyebrows knitted together.
“Can we get in and look before the - the clean-up?” She forced the last word out, resisting the urge to wince. Her mind was spinning. They were getting into dangerous territory. Delaying the law. Bribing witnesses. Was it worth it, just to find a murderer? She wasn’t sure.
Still, Theron nodded. “We're on our way back, Jet," he announced. "No one from outside until we get there.”
Phaira caught Renzo’s eye. Is that okay? she asked with her expression.
He had a sick look on his face, but he nodded.
“Everyone wears a HALO,” he told the group as he headed back to the Arazura cockpit. “No exceptions.”
* * *
Jetsun was wrapped in a thick gray coat, but visibly shivering. Her blonde hair was falling from its bouffant, her make-up smeared under her eyes, her mouth drawn in a tight line. On exiting the Arazura, Phaira caught the silent exchange between her and Theron. Then Jetsun ducked her head and led them back inside the hotel, her head turning left and right the whole while. Phaira did the same, as did CaLarca. She knew Renzo was doing the same, inside the safety of the Arazura, scanning for any signs of danger.
Inside, the ballroom was deserted, littered with confetti and napkins. The candles had burnt down to almost nothing, the tablecloths half-hanging off the tables. Phaira felt the soles of her boots sticking to spots on the wooden floor. Things must have gotten crazy after we left, she mused. Who knew philanthropists were so wild?
Jetsun led them down a marble staircase, where there was more activity in the lower level; the wait staff cleaning up, cracks of light seeping through closed doors. Next to her, CaLarca had a strange look on her face, her head tilted as she looked around. Theron lingered at the rear of the group, but Phaira couldn’t read his expression.
Jetsun stopped in front of a door. From her coat pocket, she produced a skeleton key, brass and intricate, and fit it into the lock. Then Jetsun leaned back, checking to see that no new eyes were watching them, before she opened the door.
Inside, two bodies were sprawled across the floor, a young man and woman. Blood soaked the floor. There were spatters on the wall, too.
Phaira was the first to enter. She knelt down, breathing through the side of her mouth to avoid the copper stink, to get a closer look. Both victims' faces had been slashed, four jagged lines across, eyes sagging, lips torn. Then the throat, hitting the jugular vein. And finally the belly, purple, ropy intestines peeking through the sequined dress and cummerbund. Also jagged. Same weapon? What kind?
When she glanced at their faces again, a jolt of recognition coursed through her. The jeweled comb in the woman’s hair. The cufflinks on the man.
The lovers in the washroom, the ones scrambling to redress, who ran out at Phaira’s command.
She’d sent the two in search of another hiding place. Downstairs, away from the guests, they were easy targets in this closet, with so much noise from the kitchen, the music and the ballroom. No one would hear them screaming….
“Is this….” Her voice sounded so odd in the silence. “Is this like the others?” she finally managed, turning to search for Theron.
His silhouette filled the doorframe. One hand was in his suit pocket. One hand, however, was in constant motion, his fingertips touching, again and again, as though he were trying to conjure something.
“Faces, no,” Theron said. “Throats, yes.”
Next to him, Jetsun’s hand covered her mouth, like she was stifling vomit. Was she that sensitive? Then again, it was a different matter to see death in front of you, already decomposing….
“But they weren’t your protection detail,” CaLarca broke in. “They were just guests, right? Do you know them?”
Theron shook his head. When he glanced over at Jetsun, she lifted one shoulder. “I recall their faces, I think,” she said weakly. “I don’t know their names. I haven’t looked for identification yet.”
Her face scrunched up suddenly. “Wait - is that a heart on the wall?”
Theron stiffened, as if shot.
Catching his surprise, Phaira turned to peer where Jetsun was pointing. CaLarca had already crouched down, one hand on the far wall to steady herself, the other gripping her cane. Phaira squinted; there it was, just as Jetsun said, the shape of a heart, drawn in blood and already dry. It had been done in a quick swipe, no drips, Phaira noted. She could make out a thin line in the center of the trail. Someone used their finger to do this?
“Have you seen this before?” she asked over her shoulder. “Theron?”
Theron’s mouth moved, but he didn’t make any sound. Finally, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Jetsun went to follow, but Phaira stopped her. “Tell the truth,” she ordered. “Is this some kind of girlfriend’s sick revenge?”
“I can’t imagine, ” Jetsun sputtered. “The ones he's been with, they don’t have the capacity to do such a thing.”
“But they could hire someone,” Phaira pointed out.
“I suppose, yes, but we’ve searched in the network, there’s no contract listing, no trace of any kind of transaction that suggests - and it’s so risky, given his position - who would ever consider this kind of aggressive action, knowing who he is?”
Everyone was silent, considering her words.
“What will you do now?” CaLarca was the first to speak as she wobbled up to her feet. “Will you allow these two to be claimed by their families?”
“That’s up to Theron,” Jetsun said.
“It’s in question?" CaLarca spat, surprising Phaira. "These two are barely adults. Their families will be devastated.”
Jetsun lifted her chin. “Consider the world you’re in right now, whatever your name is. The family comes first. Always. And that applies to outside employees.”
A warning, Phaira thought wearily. Always a warning. For the thousandth time, she wondered why she had agreed to be involved.
A scream carried like a shockwave from outside the room.
Then the lights shorted out.
The door slammed shut, and the storage room plunged into darkness.
“No!” Jetsun gasped.
Phaira's heart thudded, one hand gripping the katana at her hip, one hand in front of her to feel. They were the only ones in the space. She felt CaLarca’s cool form to her right, and Jetsun’s shuddering one to her left.
But Theron is outside.
“Stay with Jetsun,” she ordered CaLarca’s shadow. “Don’t let anyone in.”
When Phaira burst outside, the hallway was dark. Next door, the kitchen was silent. But there were shadows moving, the sound of breathing, the smell of sweat. And the color red, floating in front of her eyes.
Twenty feet down the corridor, two bodies struggled against the wall. A flash of metal. Then a gurgling sound, and an exhalation. A giant silhouette slumped to the floor, his head flopped back, his legs folded under him. The other stood over Theron's body, unmoving, swathed in darkness from head to toe.
Theron, she realized. I'm too late.
The blood roared in Phaira’s ears, and her muscles felt like they would explode, but her mind was slowing down, settling into focus.
Another glint in the darkness: metal again, where the assailant's hands lay at their thighs. Metal tips. Yes, that made sense; right to left, swiping motions to kill and maim. Was it an animal before her? There was something on the ground between them, something glimmering. A handgun, a gold one. Theron’s? Had he snuck one in, after all?
Then, with a crackle, the figure vanished.
Stunned, Phaira swiveled in place, hunting.
The sound of skittering, like tiny metal taps, rattled over her head.
A thump behind her.
Phaira swung her blade in an arc, and caught resistance, fabric, maybe skin.
The world shimmered, the crackling sound returned,
and the assassin was suddenly in front of her, its hot, rotten breath overpowering, metal mask, metal claws in sharp focus, body and head swathed in deep red, attacking.
Phaira slid out of the way, rolling to grab the handgun on the floor, prime it and fire at the beast. But the trigger wouldn’t budge. She smacked it with the side of her hand. Jammed?
Didn’t matter. When the assailant leapt, she defended, deflecting every swipe of the metal claws, trying to keep it at a distance as she searched for soft spots. But there was no time to collect details; the creature was fast. A horizontal swipe almost connected with her face, had Phaira not anticipated and arched back, the swish of air in front of her.
Then a boot suddenly connected with Phaira’s knee and her leg collapsed, leaving her left ribs exposed. In the split second of vulnerability, she braced for the white flash of pain. She was dead. She was bleeding out. She had failed.
But the red assassin didn't advance. Phaira could hear its breath rattling through the metal mask. Was it looking at her, as she stumbled?
Then the red assailant shimmered out of sight, the crackling sound overwhelmed by the sound of sirens.
“No!” Phaira yelled, stumbling to her feet, swiping with her katana, searching desperately.
She ran down one hallway, and then to the other end. Gone.
Theron was still slumped against the wall, his hands splayed, his face awash with blood. Phaira threw aside her blade and ran her hands over his body, his legs, his arms, his torso, searching for gaping wounds, for hot blood or compound fractures. But, miraculously, he seemed intact. And he breathed; she could hear the ragged intake and exhale.
“You’re alive!”
The voice came from Jetsun, who had emerged from the closet, while CaLarca hobbled behind. Then Jetsun let out a cry as she caught sight of Theron on the floor.
“He’s okay, I think,” Phaira told the woman, holding up a hand, hoping it didn't shake. “It’s over.”
“You didn’t die.” Jetsun kept repeating, as if disbelieving.
No, Phaira admitted to herself, working to calm her breath. Not this time.
