by Angel Lawson
A gust of cold air blows off the river and Astrid draws on her senses. Mostly it’s smoggy, industrial air. Dirty, old grease seeped into the cement. The grit of bricks. But vibrations lead her to the warehouse, to the people working diligently inside. Her sharp eyes spot the corner of the building with a jutting edge to start her climb.
In the movies, climbing like this looks easy. The hero jumps from ledge to ledge like a cat. In real life, even with enhanced abilities Astrid relies on the gummy grip of her special gloves and the ridges Atticus built in the toes of her boots. It makes it easier, but she doesn’t look down—not even once—until she climbs to the upper ledge by the long row of windows that overlook the entire warehouse floor.
Astrid takes a moment to catch her breath and absorb the whole scene. “Holy shit. Wait ‘til you see this.”
“Adjust the camera.”
Astrid detaches the pin and holds it up where Atticus can get a good view. He’s silent on the other end, probably as overwhelmed as she is. “Their operation is massive. No wonder they’re willing to kill for it.”
The old warehouse is several stories high and wide open. Once used for tobacco sorting, it’s also the size of two football fields end-to-end. Astrid looks down on table after table of production. The shiny powder is piled at the end of each table, and down the row is packaged into clever little bags stamped with images of Tinkerbelle that make it look more like a child’s amusement than a deadly drug.
“Okay, that’s good. I’ll send this footage to Jensen and he can get his team organized.”
Astrid reattaches the camera and pauses when she spots sudden movement below. She leans forward to get a better view. What she finds is a tall man with a long beard and mustache—young, with a hipster look, striding down the aisles of the work tables. The workers duck their heads and get busy, obviously avoiding his notice. Astrid catches the glint of gold in his hand and mutters under her breath, “Who are you and what the hell is that?”
“What?” Atticus says.
Astrid ignores him and tries the windows, pushing and pulling until she finds one that will open easily, quietly. She’s met with loud, rocking music that spills out into the night.
“Echo, what is your status?”
There’s a ledge on the inside of the window, a sort of catwalk. A large ventilation fan lazily spins at the other end. She walks away from it, toward the stairs that lead down to the floor.
“Echo?”
“I’m checking something out.”
“Do not go in there. I repeat, do not go in the building. That is not your mission.” He mumbles something else and Astrid shuts off the com.
At the bottom of the stairs, in a corner partitioned off from the rest of the warehouse, she hears laughter even over the music and pauses on the metal steps. Peering over the rail, she sees a man with shiny blond hair and a green T-shirt perched on an old metal desk, holding court and telling jokes. The other men and a one woman lounge around on couches. Astrid catches the appealing tone and lilt of his voice, followed by the others’ laughter. Across the floor, the bearded hipster glances toward the make-shift office.
Astrid ducks at the sharp look on his face. Jesus, he’s scary looking. His eyes are beady—dark—holding secrets she never wants to know. He clenches his fist around the gold object and she narrows her eyes, trying to get a better look. It looks like a knob or something. A handle?
Astrid slowly moves over the railing, slipping across the bar to get off the steps. Using only her upper body strength and the grip of her gloves, she lowers herself level by level until she’s hovering just over the office. She positions herself at the same time the hipster opens the door, followed by the reek of his anger.
“James,” the ringleader of the crew in the office says when he sees the man with a beard. Lord, Astrid thinks. James actually has a handlebar mustache. What a douche. “Didn’t know you were coming in today.”
James assesses the group with his dark, creepy eyes. They’ve all adjusted from their lounging to a more alert position. The bitter tang of fear rolls off of everyone. Astrid tilts her head and sniffs. Well, everyone but the man telling jokes. He exudes a level of confidence and a predatory scent of his own.
“Is this what I pay you to do? Sit around goofing off?”
“No,” the girl says, already standing.
“Get your ass on the floor. That shipment has to go out tonight. My buyers aren’t the kind of people you mess with.” He glares at the man in the green shirt. “Maybe I should let you meet them tonight and you explain why we’re short.”
“Chill,” he says, casually brushing back his disheveled hair. “We were just taking a little break. Your minions have it under control out there.”
James raises his clenched hand and Astrid finally sees that the object is a cane with a curved, gold hook at the end. Everyone but the man in green scurries from the room. The hook moves quickly, so fast that Astrid only sees the glint of the point as it slices through the air. And the man’s cheek.
She jumps in shock, her fingers slipping, leading to the rattle of the metal staircase. Both men look up, but she’s already on the move, dropping from her position. She lands a kick on James in the gut. His reflexes are fast and she only knocks him off balance—not to the floor like she’d hoped. Although the other man is bleeding from the gash on his cheek, he shouts, “Watch out,” in warning, pushing her out of the way—away from the deadly hook slicing toward her neck.
“Who the fuck are you?” James growls. He flips the cane. The other side is sharpened to a point. He spins it casually and narrows his eyes. “Are you the bitch that took out Tink?”
“Run,” she tells the bleeding man. Again, she senses no fear coming off of him, but does catch a strong scent of flowers. Roses?
He doesn’t move but the room rumbles, then tilts. Spins? Did she hit her head? An earthquake? James throws his arms out, as if balancing himself. What the hell is going on here? The floor slips under her feet and a dark crater opens in the floor. She reaches for the desk just as the lights flicker and the door bursts open.
A man in a dark hood shadowing his face barges in. Astrid doesn’t need to see his face to know who it is. Quinn.
The bastard obviously thought she needed help. Fuck him. And Atticus, too.
The man in the green shirt jumps on the desk when Quinn enters the room. He then leaps to the partition acting as a wall and swings his legs over. He looks down at Astrid just before he vanishes.
But not before he winks.
He and the smell of roses vanish.
The world adjusts and she’s back on her feet, although still off-kilter. Her brief distraction with the blond costs her and James regains his senses first. His blade slashes across her, grazing way too close to her throat. Quinn lunges at him, taking him out at the knees. He steps squarely on his back, pinning him to the floor. Footsteps rumble outside the office—lots of them. And there’s no mistaking the sound of automatic weapons as they’re shifted into position.
Quinn’s eyes meet mine, hard and pleading. “Come on.”
She stares down at James on the floor. His hand still clutches the cane. Astrid shakes her head but knows Quinn’s right. This suit isn’t bulletproof and he’s not wearing anything but a leather jacket. She bends over and pulls James by the ear. “Get out of my city, you psycho. Take your drugs and your garbage workers and don’t come back.”
He smiles even as his face presses into the ground. “Neverland is a state of mind, sweetheart. You can’t kill it. It’s too big. Too wide, and Pixie Dust is only the beginning. Cut off my head and five more will replace me.”
The first sound of a trigger pulling cuts through her rage and she jumps away from the bastard on the floor and into Quinn’s not-so-ready arms.
“Hold on,” she tells him. He wraps his arms around Astrid’s waist and she points her cuff upward, pressing the button that shoots hundred-gage cable out of the slot. The sticky residue at the end adheres to the top rung of the metal stairc
ase. Astrid yanks her arm back and the wire recoils, zipping her and Quinn upward, jarringly fast.
“Duck!” he shouts, pushing Astrid’s head into his chest. Bullets rain in their direction, pinging off the metal. His elbow slams into the window three times until the nearest glass window breaks, showering pieces below. “Come on.”
She nods and says, “One sec,” going back to her cuff and ejecting a handful of silver pellets. Impatiently, Quinn drags her out the window. Cool air meets her face and she tosses the pellets back through the window, down on the men below.
She turns away from the window and asks, “Can you jump?”
He nods confidently and she can’t help but wonder what else he can do. His strength and stamina. She’s never seen anyone else like it and damn, it’s a whole level of attractive she’s never experienced before.
Quinn waits for her to go first, probably not trusting her not to go back inside. Astrid takes the plunge, using the grips on her gloves and the toes of her boots against the side of the building to slow her decscent. Quinn lands safely next to her just as the first bombs explode inside the warehouse.
“That you?” he asks as they run away from the heat.
“Yeah.”
“Atticus won’t like that.” He slows. “I’m not sure I do, either.”
“Well,” she says, slipping into the shadows on the way back to the van. “Atticus and I don’t always see eye to eye. I have no doubt we may have the same problem.”
“That was fucking risky, Astrid. Engaging that psycho on your own? Taking on a whole group? What the hell were you thinking?”
She turns and stands toe-to-toe with the larger man. “I was thinking I don’t want another college girl to die trying to save her friends. I was thinking we shouldn’t let another package of Pixie Dust out of that warehouse for some kid to pick up and think is candy. What were you thinking? That I needed your help? Because I didn’t.”
He snorts. “Yeah sure. Tell yourself that. Now I know why it’s taken so long for you to get in the field.”
She bites back a sharp retort. Twenty-four isn’t old, but she could have been doing this at eighteen if Atticus would have let her. “I’ll deal with Atticus, and then when we get home we’re going to have to talk about you showing up on my mission like this.”
Her heart is racing and there’s no mistaking the adrenaline pumping in Quinn’s veins. She pushes past him but he grabs her, tugging her back to his chest. They don’t exchange words but there’s no mistaking the natural chemistry running between them. Her fingers clench his jacket and his reach for her face. Their mouths collide, fueled on nothing more than the energy of the moment before.
He tastes good, better than she would have thought, and she tightens her grip to pull him closer. They stay that way, releasing tension and adrenaline into one another until the wail of sirens cut through the night.
They break apart and whatever transpired between them shifts back into business even though she still feels him on her lips.
“Come on,” she says in a low voice, walking to the corner. She looks both ways to make sure their path is clear. Once she spots the windowless black van, she turns back on her com. “Hey, we’re coming in. Sorry for shutting you off like that. Things obviously didn’t go as planned.” She cuts her eyes at Quinn, letting him know he was one of those things. There’s no reply and she presses the on button again.
“Atticus?”
A light breeze blows off the river and she’s struck by two distinct scents beyond the marshy water.
Copper and gunpowder.
She breaks into a run.
“Hey,” Quinn calls. “What is it?”
Astrid sees the glass before she’s halfway there, glinting off the dark pavement. The spray of blood, splattered across the windshield and side of the door. The scream builds in her chest, tearing at her throat as she reaches the passenger seat. Atticus’ head tilts back on the seat. The gunshot is a dark circle in the center of his head.
“No!” she screams. She chokes, gripping her chest. Oh god, the pain. The pain…the feeling of her heart ripping out of her chest. The smell of his blood. She tears off her gloves, feeling his face, his hands his throat—searching for something a flash—a feeling—the faintest echo. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this. Tell me what happened! Who did it?”
She screams at his body, refusing to believe it’s too late.
“Hey,” Quinn says, pulling her away. She lashes out with bloody hands, slapping him in the face.
“Fuck you. You were supposed to be with him. Here. You could have stopped it.” She knows it’s a lie. Quinn isn’t part of this. Part of her and what she had with Atticus. He loved her. When no one else did. He loved her.
Quinn doesn’t stop and tries to pull her from the body but she fights back, teeth bared like an injured animal. “Don’t touch me. Ever.”
He drops his hands.
“There has to be some kind of clue here. Was it James? Did he know all along? Was it someone else? Whoever killed Holden?” The questions roll off her tongue because if she doesn’t fill the moment with something, she’s going to crack.
“We’ll figure it out.”
She spins on her heel. “There is no we, McCrae. Well, there was,” she says glancing at the body. “But it never included you.”
“You want to hang around for the police or not? Your call,” he says. If he’s hurt by her statement, he doesn’t show it. Too bad, because Astrid wants someone in as much pain as she is.
The warehouse burns blocks away, lighting up the whole area with a hazy, yellow glow. Emergency lights flash and sirens fill the air. Astrid has been involved in enough crime scenes to know she only has a minute left. Only a small chance before everything shifts, turning this away from the man who raised her and onto something else.
She takes a final moment and walks back to the van, back to the body, and tries one more time to feel the soul of her only friend.
She only hopes Quinn can’t feel the level of despair that crashes over her when there’s nothing left.
Chapter Twelve
Before
The first time Astrid read an echo, she knew her life would never be the same. With a bowl of milk in her hands, she walked out to the porch to feed Harry. She heard him under the decking, hunting moles, but with a call of his name and the sound of the dish hitting the boards he left his games and ran up the back steps. He purred like a racecar when he saw her and stuck his sandpaper rough tongue in the milk to drink.
Carefully Astrid removed her gloves, something she only did a few times a day. In the bathroom, like when she washed her hands or brushed her teeth, and out here with Harry. He was so soft and a comfort under her hands.
Whatever the doctors were doing to heighten her sensitivity only made Harry seem softer, more loveable. His purrs rumbled, ricocheting in her chest like a lions roar. Being with Harry was like a moment of heaven in an increasing life of hell.
“Shut up.”
The screen door opened with an ear-splitting whine. The voice belonged to Devin, the fire-starter. The second set of footsteps belonged to Owen, an overly pretty boy with white-blonde hair. Rosalie didn’t like how long it was in the back but he refused to cut it. Astrid didn’t know what made Owen special, but he walked like a newborn deer. Like he was never sure on his feet. But he was quick with a smile and something about him made the older girls giggle.
Even Astrid had a hard time taking her eyes off of him.
Even so, she turned away when they walked out of the house, protecting Harry from the boys. Her arm hurt from the shot yesterday—her muscles sore from where the needle stabbed in her arm.
“It’s true,” Owen said. The door slams behind him, causing her to wince.
“Bullshit. There is no way you can do it.”
“I’ve done it before.”
Astrid focused on her cat. On keeping her eyes away from the boys. She didn’t want anything to do with them.
The boys mo
ved to the yard. They carried the scent of sulfur and ozone. “Do it.” There was a pause. “Use her, or better yet, use the cat.”
Owen replied with a grunt and his heartbeat kicked into gear. Apprehension. Agitation. She wasn’t sure which was which yet, but after a moment of hesitation the boy walked back up the steps.
“Hey, let me see that cat for a minute.” He flashed her a friendly grin and for an inconceivable moment she considered it. How did he do that?
“No,” she said. Her voice was a whisper from never being used.
Owen snatched Harry off the ground. He meowed in protest from being pulled away from his dinner. Astrid jumped up from the ground. She was only nine and wasn’t very big compared to the larger boys, who always seemed to be growing out of their skin. Even so, she wasn’t afraid of them, although she was afraid for Harry being so near the boy who could start fires.
“Give me my cat,” she said, but he was already moving down the steps. He struggled with the wiggling kitten. “Give me my cat—now.”
Near panic, Astrid lunged for Harry, and Devin grabbed her arms, laughing. His hands were hot, even through the layer of clothes. She jabbed with her elbows, doing little but making him clamp his hands down harder. “We’re just doing a magic trick. Stop freaking out.”
She didn’t stop though, stomping her foot down on Devin’s, hard enough that he let go for just enough time that she could reach for Harry. The kitten panicked, hissing at the activity. His claws extend, gashing Owen’s arm. Astrid fell forward, landing on the boy. He used his hands to hold them both up.
And that was when it happened.
Their fingers brushed, her bare, un-gloved fingers—and Astrid felt a slam of power. Her basic senses flooded in a way she’d never experienced. Colors, images…feelings consumed her.
Owen as a kid, white hair. Chubby cheeks. The ground shifting from underneath him. A black hole—hands slipping into the darkness. Flickering images of people—family—screaming and crying. Fear. Fear. Fear.
She snatched back her hand. Their eyes were wide at one another. He felt the connection and there was no doubt he knew that she knew his secret. Her face grew hot and she ran back to the safety of the porch, kicking over the milk bowl. The ceramic shattered against the wall. Astrid grabbed her gloves and stuffed her shaking hands inside before running into the house.
