Now this was where the untouchables festered at society’s fringes.
As we headed toward the outskirts of Aaron’s courtyard, the pathways got ever so slightly wider. It was subtle to an outsider, but to those who walked these streets frequently, it served as a clear signal.
“Nine minutes.”
“What’d I tell you about the fucking countdown?”
“You haven’t met my father.” The words contained years of untold stories. I wondered if Malcolm Roark was the kind of fellow who locked his kid up in the basement, toughened him up with a few lashes a day.
Certainly didn’t seem like the sit in the stands and cheer during the ball game type.
But people surprised you sometimes.
I caught a glimpse of the courtyard. The second floor window, usually illuminated by faint candlelight, was completely dark. But the rest of the courtyard buzzed with activity—groups of armed men, milling around out in the open.
I pulled Roark into an abandoned metal-plated wood shed as a patrol marched past. No one had seen us; I’d made damn sure of that on the way over.
But unless Malcolm Roark planned on bringing an army, this presented a serious obstacle.
After their footsteps trudged away, I gave him a look and said, “We’ve got a problem.”
“Two dozen of them, actually,” he said, eyes shining.
“Don’t get cute.”
“You’re the one who can see into the future.” Roark squinted through the gaps in the wooden slats, surveying the courtyard. “Or so you say.”
“I never said that, dipshit.”
“I’d be angry if I were a liar, too.” But he said it with a cool indifference that made it hard to tell whether he was screwing with me. Roark backed away from the slats. “There’s too many of them.”
“Then we let your father do his job. Just like we agreed.”
“There’s too many for a strike team,” Roark said, confirming what I already feared.
“Goddamnit.”
I racked my brain, trying to work out all the permutations and consequences. It dawned on me that I hadn’t adjusted for the time: those extra minutes—maybe an hour, really—that this morning’s extra administrative hoops had cost me.
Or it could simply be the butterfly effect at work: the necromancer’s changes rippling across the world. You never witnessed the consequences of tiny shifts, because time moved only forward. But I suppose it was possible that delaying me was all it took to change the world.
Although that might’ve been overestimating my importance. Because Roark and I had done a lot more dramatic things over the past three weeks, and the events had always played back like a tape reel.
Guess I just needed to get used to not knowing again.
Fun.
Although it made my heart beat a little faster. Especially with a small army outside.
Roark checked his watch, mouthing the words to himself. He shook his head and reached for the creaky door, free hand on his pistol.
“You wanna die?”
“I never asked for that son of a bitch’s help,” Roark said. “Except once.”
“Today?”
“Twice.” His blue eyes flashed with anger as he looked back. But at least he wasn’t charging into the middle of the courtyard, screaming get down or whatever FBI agents did these days. I’d have to get reacquainted with procedure. I doubted it involved Miranda Rights.
“What was the other time?”
“After Sam died.” Roark swallowed hard, his ramrod straight posture tensing like a livewire was running through it. “I…”
“That’s why you’re on the fast track.”
“I wanted to make a difference, you know?” He jabbed his pistol toward the door. “Not—not this fucking shit.”
“I don’t think Malcolm tilted the needle,” I said. “You’re good at what you do.”
Look at me. Little miss cheerleader. I should’ve been writing self-help books.
Roark grimaced, but didn’t respond.
A silence passed through the tight space before I said, “Well, what do we do?”
“We—” The courtyard erupted in gunfire and explosions. Roark didn’t look back or flinch.
Instead, his eyes met mine and he said, “Bastard came early.” He shook his head, like he should’ve known his old man better.
“Thought you said they wouldn’t come with the added firepower.”
His face told me a different story. That he’d had second thoughts. Because when you made a deal with the devil, it was hard to wash the fire and brimstone off your own hands.
“That’s nothing.” Screams punctuated the statement, driving it home. “I just didn’t want him to.”
“You made the call.”
“And now we’ll deal with the consequences.” A not-too-distant grenade shook dust from the ceiling. “Because MagiTekk owns it all.”
“They don’t own us.”
“Don’t be so sure about that, Ruby.”
And Roark and I just stared at one another until there was no sound but the lonely, distant howls of the Mud Belt.
38
Roark led the way through the smoldering wreckage. Only the small fires marked it as different than the rest of the Mud Belt. The blackened char and bullet holes scarring the siding were nothing new.
Though there was one other change: empty space. The courtyard had grown to about twice its regular size, courtesy of the fifty or so leveled shacks. Guess Malcolm Roark brought out the big guns for his son. Maybe we’d both receive gold watches for our loyal service.
A strike team bearing no uniform markings rushed from Aaron Daniels’s two story structure. It’d been spared, suggesting a targeted strike. My money would’ve been on drones, but all the gunshots and yelling had suggested a firefight. But as I walked further into the smoking ash, the aura of a magical spell simmered beneath the wreckage.
Not quite what I expected.
But the strike team shoved a half-naked man at our feet. The leader stepped forward, giving us the once over. His suit was sleek and form-fitted, revealing impressive musculature.
“Elite Guard?” I asked, recalling the man at the Fallout Zone gate. The one who’d cut me down in a hail of turreted gunfire. This guy had no giant metal exo-skeleton, nor the crazed, pinned eyes of a stimulant-addled psycho.
So no, probably not the Elite Guard. But it was scary to consider MagiTekk’s unseen hierarchy: all the soldiers and programs hidden from view that were more frightening than the mayhem out in the open.
From behind the visor, his lips barely visible, he gave a smile. “Ghosts, ma’am.”
At least he was polite. Aaron Daniels coughed in the dirt, looking dazed. I didn’t blame him. One minute you’re banging your hot—if unstable—girlfriend, on top of the slum world. Next you’re knocked out cold.
“Where’s the old man,” Roark asked.
“You’ll deal with me, sir.” The soldier gave a perfunctory nod. “There was a trade?”
Roark nudged me, and I told the man everything about Sylvia and Diane’s little reverse-engineering lab. How Daniels was keen to reactivate his suppressed or vanished lupine genes.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the soldier said. “That’s very helpful.”
“Glad to be of service,” I said. “Where the hell is the woman?”
“Mr. Roark said you were to receive ten minutes alone with the prisoner.” The soldier took a step back, and then cocked his head toward Roark. “You, uh, you his kid, sir?”
“Still waiting on the DNA test,” Roark replied drily.
“There’s a spot with us waiting, you ever want it.” He saluted and went to rejoin his men. It was hard to tell whether he was the leader or not.
I gave Roark an eyebrow. “And you’re worried that daddy’s f
avors got you everything?”
“Not now, Ruby.”
I shrugged, letting it go. Aaron groaned, and I picked up his dirty arm roughly.
“Remember me?”
His eyes, still faintly lupine, stared up at me. “Should I?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, dragging him upright. “I remember you.”
I pushed him back toward his house. “This is all a mistake, right?”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to help you, Aaron.”
We went through the flimsy door, Roark following behind. I nodded at my partner, and Roark shut the door behind us.
Some quality private time.
The kind only hooks with Malcolm Roark could buy.
“The Arcana of Temporal Manipulation,” I said, pushing Aaron toward the bookshelf. “Grab it.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Nothing.” Roark took a step forward, gun raised.
“Those don’t work in here,” I said, pointing at the ceiling. “Wards.”
Roark nodded, but kept the gun out. I didn’t blame him. Made for a good blunt force weapon in case of emergency.
I walked toward the cramped kitchen, my steps taking me there in about four strides. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I called, “Tea, anyone?”
I could sense the shift in Aaron’s demeanor. Putting the pieces together: why I was asking for the book. Knowing him without him knowing me.
“Holy shit,” Aaron said. “A loop.”
I ransacked the cupboard until I found some green tea. Setting the water to boil, I crossed my arms and turned to look at him.
“This time you’re not going to slit me open.”
He grinned, still wolfish. “First thought that crossed my mind, Realmfarer.”
“Nothing personal, though, right?”
“We all just want to survive.” He jerked his head toward Roark. “Get one over on the man.”
“Fighting the good fight, I’m sure,” Roark said. “Let’s look over this book.”
The kettle whistled, indicating the water was ready. It was clear our time was beginning to wind down. I returned with two cups, setting one down before Aaron. The Arcana of Temporal Manipulation sat next to him, in all its lo-fi, photo-copied splendor. He crossed his lean legs on the ground and sipped, staring at me intently.
“You understand that only—”
“Sure, only your girlfriend can figure this out.” I placed my tea down without drinking it. “Lucky for us, she’s gonna help.”
“Like hell she will,” Aaron said with a light growl.
“Give me the book.”
Eyes flashing with whatever remnants of werewolf remained, he handed me the book. I nodded toward Roark, who exited the structure to go get Xeno. Aaron and I shared a long, intense staring contest until Roark returned.
Aaron’s gaze flitted toward his beloved. I could sense the betrayal and anger, the wisps surrounding him glowing deep red.
“You’re—”
“It’s not like that,” Xeno said.
“Nicolette, you’re working for these bastards?”
“Her name’s not Nicolette,” I said, leaning back in the lumpy chair. “But we really don’t have time for this.”
“No, we don’t,” Roark said.
I tossed him the manual, which he handed to Xeno. MagiTekk’s secret agent thumbed through the text, her expression growing sour. I saw the conflict writ large across her face, her emotions battling her logic.
My hand rested on the rifle, even though it was useless inside the house. More from force of habit. Xeno had all the signs of someone who would make a bad decision.
But instead of trying something rash, she said, “What can of temporal magic are we dealing with?”
“A loop.”
“The Möbius Curse,” she said, allowing the book to slip from her fingers. “I cannot help you.”
I stood up straight, knocking over my cup of tea. “You don’t have that option.”
Xeno didn’t look at me, her dark black eyes burning with unspoken loathing. “It’s not by choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“It’s unbreakable.”
My heart thumped inside my chest. “Bullshit.”
“What I mean is it is unbreakable by magic.” Her eyes remained focused on Aaron. “Such a disruption would require more essence than a man could hold within his veins.”
“And yet, here we are,” I said. “You’re telling me a loop materialized from thin air?”
“How long has this loop transpired?”
“About a year,” Roark said.
“The original casting might last a day. Perhaps a week. It is so powerful that it could not last longer.” Her gaze didn’t leave her beloved. It would have been touching, if it weren’t for the darkness hovering around her face. “And that is only in the most skilled of users.”
“So we’re dealing with the most powerful magical creature alive,” I said.
“No,” Xeno said, finally glancing at me. I could see what would happen next in her eyes. “It is amplified by hatred. Vengeance.”
She drew her service weapon—presumably given to her by one of the soldiers securing the outer courtyard—and fired twice at Aaron.
There wasn’t even a yelp.
He slumped forward, like he was taking a nap.
Guess someone had decided to remove the firearm wards.
Tears tugged at the edges of Xeno’s eyes, her stoic lip trembling almost imperceptibly.
“Break his thirst for vengeance and you break the loop.” Xeno turned around and pressed against the door. “That is the only way.” She hung in the open doorway, sounds of the Mud Belt filtering through the crack. “But be careful.”
“Careful?” I asked. It seemed strange that this woman would be concerned about our sympathy.
“For the longer hatred grows, the harder it is to stop.”
Then she slipped outside, into the cool morning, leaving Roark and I alone.
To ponder the consequences of our actions.
And to wonder just how the hell we could stop the hatred in Solomon Marshall’s heart.
39
Roark piloted the cruiser straight to Kendrick’s bar, mild rioting be damned. After a circuitous route through the city—which was also on lockdown due to the terroristic threat to the R&D building—we found ourselves walking through the hoppy bar, headed toward the back room.
We hadn’t spoken much on the ride. Both of us were probably wondering what kind of beast we’d unleashed, working with Malcolm Roark. One could only presume that MagiTekk’s strike against Sylvia and Diane had been an efficient success.
“Lesser of two evils,” I said as Roark pressed his fingers against the yellowing tile.
“You heard what she said about hatred.”
The fridge moved aside, revealing the secret room. “We’re not the same as Marshall.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Ruby.”
Roark had a point. I watched silently as he placed the data cube on the glass table. Holographic imagery flooded through the air as he ran off a message to Alice Conway, the half-vampire hacker from the Fallout Zone. We’d have messaged her from Roark’s FBI issue phone, but we couldn’t trust MagiTekk’s prying eyes. The data cube offered encryption and extra safety for sending sensitive messages.
And this qualified as classified: we needed anything that might help trace Marshall’s whereabouts. Of course, there was a second, unspoken question: whether Alice Conway remained alive. Whether our warnings had worked—whether we’d successfully changed our side of the game board.
I tugged on the rifle, running my hands over the unfamiliar ridges. It wasn’t the shotgun, but it’d have to do. After the message zoomed off into digital hyperspace, the data stream sett
led on an FBI briefing. Genetics laboratory in the Fallout Zone destroyed. The rest of it was redacted.
Roark gave me a look, his sad blue eyes filled with regret. “We’d better find Marshall.”
“We will,” I said. “Did Alice respond?”
“Still waiting,” Roark said, raising his eyebrow at my impatience. “I have a question.”
“Now’s not really the time.” I heard a little electronic whoosh, indicating a message had been received.
“Now’s the perfect time,” Roark said, ignoring the message despite our time crunch.
“Alice is waiting.”
“Then she can wait,” Roark said, placing his boot up against the false wall. His arms were crossed, but he looked relaxed.
“Shoot, then.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Excuse me?”
By way of response, he opened his palm up. The images floating in the midst of the room shuffled and spread, my file popping to the forefront.
“What you’re doing doesn’t fit your pattern.”
“I’m a bounty hunter,” I said. “This is how you smoke out an asshole.”
“What you’re doing isn’t in the interest of your own survival.”
“Maybe I’ve got my own reasons.”
Roark shook his head, like he wasn’t buying my selfish act. “You want to catch him almost as bad as me. I can see it on your face. Even if it’s gonna kill us both.” He gave an easy shrug. “Which it might.”
“You don’t know everything,” I said.
“I know enough.”
“I don’t want to be like him.” The words came out before I could stop them. “I can’t end up like Marshall. Consumed by hatred.”
“Got it.” That was all the explanation necessary. A million words and stories and emotions conveyed in the span of less than fifteen words.
There was a chime as Roark opened Alice’s message.
“She’s actually alive.” Even though we’d both heard the message come in, it was still a shock confirming it. “Holy shit.”
Lightning Blade (Ruby Callaway Book 1) Page 17
