“I’m sure they’re bastions of hope and wonder.” The car spit mud off its tires, plastering the roadside shantytown with an added layer of grime. I wondered if the cars were even programmed to slow down when one of the plebes ventured into the middle of the road.
“I didn’t make the rules.” But he sure as hell followed them. Kind of.
I watched a vampire dart across, narrowly avoiding a collision with our car. Instead of slowing down, the vehicle accelerated.
Glancing at the blur of sunken eyes looking out from rusted siding and ramshackle roofs, the truth began to click together. This was a sprawling supernatural ghetto. One where creatures of essence didn’t live by choice.
“What’s with the shirt?” I turned toward him, trying to get my mind off the slum.
His brow furrowed, well-kempt medium length hair bobbing as he shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Studying to be a professor?” I reached out and tugged on the short sleeves. “If I’m black ops, this is not what I’m picking out.”
“We’re not black ops.”
“Because the local cops can just pull rank down at the supernatural zoo and take home their very own tiger.” I gave him a dismissive look, like I wasn’t buying his story. “Black ops.”
“Extenuating circumstances.” Roark gave a final look at his shirt sleeves, bicep flexing slightly. “If you were listening.”
“Maybe I was listening and don’t believe your bullshit.”
“And yet here you are.”
“I don’t know how you expect me to help.”
“I know everything about you, Ruby Callaway.” His hand slid past his service weapon, to the car’s cup holder. “You’ve got skills.”
“Wouldn’t be bad to buy a girl a drink first before you go full-on creeper.”
“Credentials, Meredith.”
Before I could ask what the hell was going on, the same sultry voice from before answered in full surround sound. “Special Agent Roark is the FBI’s preeminent unidentified creatures expert. His role in the—”
“Thanks, Meredith. I’ll take it from here,” I said. I heard Roark sigh. “So you’re actually just a nerd.”
Roark bristled, his nostrils flaring wide. “I’m a field agent.”
“You sound more like a librarian.”
“I saw a way to cut up the ranks by building additional skills.”
“Cutting in line is naughty.” I raised my eyebrow. “Didn’t they teach you that at the seminar where they fed you the rest of this bullshit?”
“I bypassed the bureaucracy a little,” Roark said, correcting himself. Used to parsing his words, somehow my presence had already corrupted him. And the clock hadn’t even hit two.
Skills indeed. I could get under anyone’s skin, even where a total asshole like Warren failed. But then, that was part of being a Realmfarer: reading the light, a person’s aura, and pressing the right buttons to see where they’d crack.
“And why would wonderboy do that?”
“You have all the answers. Why even ask?”
Sometimes, though, you slammed on the button and it broke.
Before I could shoot back a smart response, the car’s navigational console flashed bright red. A small hologram, about the size of my fist, popped out from the screen as Roark accepted the communication.
“Special Agent Colton Roark, this is central dispatch.”
“I’m not a peacekeeper, dispatch.”
“We—I understand, sir. There’s an incident in progress near your vehicle.”
“Have you called the suppression units?”
“All in Tuscon, sir.”
“What about the Phoenix peacekeepers?”
There was a cough. “Rioting in Phoenix, sir.” The dispatcher cleared his throat. “Mild, but you understand.”
“So you want me to respond to a call in the middle of the Mud Belt without backup.”
Dispatch, apparently mulling this over, said in a chagrined voice, “There are, uh, feral vampires sir. Exhibiting strange behavior.” A tension hung in the air, the type you might endure at a dinner party where someone tells an off-color joke and everyone is waiting to see if it landed. “Your file says that you’re the go-to extermination expert for feral bloodsuckers. I’m sorry.”
The kid manning the dispatch radio needn’t have apologized, though. Upon hearing about the vampires, Roark’s aura changed considerably. A dark moodiness swept away any trace of conflict in his soul. The cruiser seemed to sense his urgency, accelerating forward. I’d have to ask him how he did that.
“Don’t give that case to anyone else,” Roark said, teeth gritted together. “It’s mine.”
A siren erupted as the car swerved, adjusting course toward its new destination.
“This what you sprung me for?” I asked, gripping the arm rest as the car pinwheeled through the dilapidated houses. “I’m not gonna be a whole lot of help with a bunch of fangs stuck in my neck.”
“I guess you’ll just have to try really hard and survive, then.” Roark’s sad blue eyes blazed angry as he turned to look at me. “But I don’t think staying alive has ever been a problem for you, has it?”
I kept my answer silent, thinking I liked the Roark from before a whole lot better.
5
Despite its manic velocity, the car came to a surprisingly graceful stop in what passed for open space in this supernatural slum. It didn’t demand my intuition to see that the creatures of essence who had avoided the internment camps hadn’t fared much better than the rest of us.
This was why we’d kept to the shadows for thousands of years. Looking back, maybe it would’ve been better to come out and play earlier. I mean, when your enemy has a flintlock pistol that misfires every third shot, and you can shoot flames from your hands, that gives you a considerable advantage, right?
Not so much when the guy on the other end can target you via satellite and drop a drone payload basically from orbit. Then it becomes a numbers game—and with billions of mortals against millions of us, the math didn’t favor magic.
Look at me. Already thinking us and them. But clear lines in the sand made it difficult not to.
I wondered how long it’d take before the humans decided we were too troublesome to keep around at all. Riot in Phoenix? Doubt that was over a delayed orange shipment. You could only take so much dissent before washing your hands of the matter.
Roark’s eyes were glued to his phone as we walked, the coordinates from dispatch transferred seamlessly over. His service weapon was locked and loaded, ready to fire. For my part, I had the shotgun. But Administrator Warren hadn’t exactly handed me a gift basket filled with ammunition upon cutting me loose.
And all of Roark’s attention was on the vamps, like a dog after a rotten bone.
“Hey,” I called. I didn’t even have to stick close to Roark. The agent’s aura had turned so dark that it trailed behind him like a noose, portending doom for all who crossed his path. I could’ve picked him up from a quarter mile away.
He didn’t stop or respond.
I scanned the open fields beyond the last row of houses. Rubbing the nearest plant, the bitter scent of nightshade overwhelmed my senses. Peering into the dim moonlight, I noticed that the green space was cut into precise plots. One could determine each owner by the plants within.
This one likely belonged to a witch, growing herbs for potions and castings. I couldn’t feel the effects of any dampeners or other magic-altering technology. Anything went in the supernatural slums.
Welcome to the Wild West. Better not show up unarmed. Guess I didn’t get that memo.
“I’ve got no fucking bullets.”
Roark finally answered, “Then stay out of sight.”
Whatever this call was, it’d triggered a full-on transformation in Roark’s demeanor.
I silently weighed the consequences of running off, then decided that I had no choice but to follow him. Cursing to myself, I wove through a prickly plot of berries—fox shifter, most likely—and tried to keep up with his brisk pace.
Maybe my senses were off, but I couldn’t hear any feral vamps. Could also be they’d learned the virtues of silence, since running around howling and hissing was a good way to buy yourself a dirt nap in this world.
Could feral vamps learn to do that? I argued with myself over how much you could tame a wild creature, distracting myself from the fact that I might be entering a death trap. Roark, for his part, seemed only to grow more resolute, despite the grim odds.
Just him and his MagiTekk pistol. Sure, he’d get a couple vamps. Maybe even a half dozen.
Then they’d rip both of our faces off and use our entrails as hats.
At least I’d be useful in death. Fertilize a hungry werewolf’s garden. Then again, if I believed all that return to the earth crap, I’d have struggled way less trying to stay alive all these years.
Roark’s phone chimed, indicating that we’d reached our destination. Nothing but short grass waved in a mild breeze. We’d left even the modest farm plots far behind.
No sign of vampires—feral or otherwise.
And then I heard it—the sound of death rising from below.
Strained gurgles rumbled through the soil, the grass swaying ominously with the vocal rhythms. A boney finger clasped at the toe of my boot.
I kicked, hearing the snap of an ancient hand. My attacker let out a pained groan that was soon drowned out by the rest of his waking companions. Sacks of rotting, barely sentient flesh growled in unison, shambling upward through the grass.
“Roark?” I wondered why I hadn’t heard a shot. Wonderboy had been gung-ho thirty seconds ago, and now couldn’t be bothered to even shoot back with the undead army ready to forcibly enlist us. Their smell told me they weren’t zombies, though—which was a little disappointing.
Zombies are stupid and easy to kill. Entirely useless, in fact, which is why they were almost as rare as Realmfarers. Darwinism at is finest. Not to imply I was useless. Far from it. I was rare for different reasons, like a prized peacock.
Humility will get you nowhere in this world.
Looking around, I realized Roark was gone and I was all alone.
As the first creature wobbled its way fully upright, the flashing moonlight and aura signature flitting about its sallow arms told the story. Here were the feral vampires.
Returning from the dead.
Putting two and two together, I whispered the word, “Necromancer.”
As if hearing his name, a voice flitted on the wind. “You didn’t tell me you brought a friend, Colton.” The reanimated vampires stiffened upon hearing their master’s voice. “Such an aggressive name.”
The necromancer tried it on in different tones, trying to strike the right one. A dozen Coltons whispered on the breeze around me, from all directions.
My fingers dug into the shotgun’s stock as I backed away from the rising army. The flesh slowly regenerated around the skeletal faces, like a computer animation filling in the missing parts.
Except this was real, and the magic, even to someone like me, was disconcerting.
You wanna know about rare? Necromancers are rare. Mainly because they freak everyone else the fuck out, which tends to make it hard to keep friends—and avoid the wrong side of a blade. The mortals didn’t even bother to keep them around, if the internment camp population was anything to go by. I hadn’t met one in years.
Instead of advancing, the army of undead minions backed away, dutifully forming two lines. My heart thumped against my ribs like an unhinged metronome. If I reached the shantytown, I had a chance. There were places to hide amidst the rusted tin siding.
Just keep putting distance down, Ruby.
“No, no,” the necromancer yelled. “You cannot leave our little soirée so soon, strange one.”
A vamp stumbled forward, its feet moving too fast for its current levels of coordination. Lacking ammo, I swung the shotgun like a bat, connecting with its head. The grass rustled as it dropped to the ground.
Taking the stock, I bashed it right in the chin, blood pouring from its mouth. The eyes went blank, the rest of the pack hissing in displeasure.
“A fighter.” The wind whistled. “Your aura is most fascinating. Exquisite.”
“Listen, Roark, if you don’t shoot this fuck—”
“Colton is a little indisposed at the moment.” There was a high-pitched laugh that seemed to override the wind itself. “So eager and dedicated. It is almost too simple grabbing his attention. Pavlovian.”
Before I could continue my retreat, three vampires burst forward. The extra seconds had granted them enough motor control to sprint. I hit the first in the gut with the shotgun, but the others pinned my arms and whisked me across the grass as my feet kicked above the dirt.
They threw me down at the base of a large tree. Looking over my shoulder, I found that we’d covered about two hundred yards in under seven seconds.
“Training an Olympic relay team?”
“Oh, I do like this one Colton,” the necromancer said. “She likes old things, too. The past was a better time for us all.”
I didn’t know when the Olympics started qualifying as old, but apparently the world had passed me further by than I’d thought over the last twenty years.
Teetering to my feet, I stumbled backward at the sight before me. Roark dangled well off the ground, shoulders nailed to the knotty bark with long railroad spikes. Blood dripped down his arms, staining the moonlit grass an unnatural shade of crimson.
Regaining my wits, I rushed forward and shook him.
“Roark. Wake up.” Behind me, the feral vampires groaned, smelling blood. “Wake up, you bastard.” Only the necromancer’s will held them back from tearing us both apart. I patted his holster, finding it empty. His pockets yielded nothing but his leather FBI badge holder, the data cube, car keys, a money clip containing hundreds of dollars in paper currency and a crumpled, faded photograph.
I let it flutter to the ground and Roark stirred.
“Give it…give it back.”
“That’s what wakes you up? Fuck, man, priorities.” I glanced at the spikes. They must’ve been driven almost through the other side of the thick trunk.
“It’s…all…I have.” Blood dribbled from his straight white teeth.
I picked up the photo and placed it in his shaking palm. His weak fingers grasped the slick paper. A little kid with the same eyes—happy, not sad—sat next to a big, broad shouldered young man.
“Brother?” I asked.
He nodded, fighting to keep his eyes open.
“I’ll get you down. Just wait.” I spied a leather sheath at his hip. I’d missed it because of the shadows. But when I reached for it, it too was empty.
“I gave Colton that knife,” a sinister voice said from nowhere. “It is not for you.”
“It’d look a lot better jammed in your throat.”
“You are a most magnificent creature.” The necromancer’s tone carried an undercurrent of lust with its curiosity. “I regret not meeting you sooner.”
“That makes one of us.” I looked around the tree, seeing nothing but empty space. A tap on my shoulder sent me to the ground, paralyzed from some sort of curse.
Barely able to breathe, I couldn’t move away as the necromancer’s face loomed closer, one bright yellow eye looking down at me from behind a black ski mask. Its opposite was dark, scar tissue spiraling out around the ruined socket. Long, silver hair cascaded down his shoulders.
“Planning a robbery?” I asked, voice little more than a rasping whisper.
“There are cameras everywhere, strange one.” He extracted a long, curved blade from a scabbard
on his back. “They seek to silence the truth.”
I would have shivered, but whatever spell he’d cast stifled the response. “Look who you’re calling strange.”
The necromancer unleashed a high-pitched laugh.
“It is such a shame that neither of you will remember this moment,” the man said. “Understand my work’s true beauty. Its necessity and elegance.”
“I don’t like politicians, either. I’m not against you.” A voice screamed survive. “I like your work.”
“Lies!” Spit sprayed down on my face, through the mask, from the force of the word. “But perhaps…you might prove otherwise.”
The necromancer peered at me, trying to divine my allegiances.
I tried to make sense of the aura and essence carving through the air, but the combination was confusing. The blackest of motivations should have radiated around him in a dark cloud, like staring into the center of a burnt-out sun.
But wisps of all hues danced together, painting a complex picture. Light battled the dark for supremacy, a Jekyll and Hyde ordeal transpiring behind the mask. None of the wisps, unfortunately, suggested an escape route.
“How many times have I killed you now, Colton?”
Roark mumbled something unintelligible.
“Am I mad?” A blade slashed through the air, sweeping through flesh. “That is merely what they call all misunderstood geniuses and revolutionaries before their master works are unveiled.”
I closed my eyes, feeling blood trickle down the bark onto my forehead. Roark choked for a moment, then went silent. The necromancer wiped the curved sword on his faded jacket.
“Twenty-three times, I have killed you, Colton.” He stopped drying the blade. “I must admit, sometimes it is only for entertainment. Such as tonight. But that is the nature of luck, is it not? For never has he returned from that camp with you.”
He uttered the word camp with a hard c worthy of the foulest curse.
“I’ve never met him,” I said.
“If a man knows his enemy before the heat of battle, he cannot lose.” The necromancer bowed without irony. “Thank you for this gift.”
Lightning Blade (Ruby Callaway Book 1) Page 3
