Outcast (Kat Dubois Chronicles Book 2)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  Nik watched me through the doorway, his head cocked to the side, and Dorman was craning his neck to see. Both looked as confused as I felt.

  “Damn it,” I grumbled, scowling. It looked like my gateways only worked one way. I hadn’t been expecting that. Now, I’d have to draw another to get back. I knew it had seemed too easy. I stomped back into the smaller sick room and huffed out a breath. “I need a wall and a marker,” I said. “Or some paint.”

  Dorman looked at Nik. “You can finish up here on your own?”

  Nik nodded.

  “Alright.” Dorman headed to the not-a-gateway doorway. “Come with me, Kat. You can use my office.”

  I glanced at Nik, meeting his eye and offering him a weak smile before following Dorman. He didn’t return it. He just stared back at me, his face blank. But his pale blue eyes . . . they were filled with something deep and dark, with something I couldn’t identify. Or something I didn’t want to identify.

  I turned away from him and jogged to catch up to Dorman.

  ***

  It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time I felt that surge of power bringing the second gateway to life.

  Dorman whistled. “That’s quite a trick.” He was behind me, leaning on his desk as he watched me work. His office was at the base of what had once been an air traffic control tower—back when there’d been way more air traffic to control.

  I looked at him. “You swear you’ll paint over this as soon as I’m through it?” I felt pretty sure that would destroy the gateway.

  He nodded, a sly, shy grin curving his lips. “Been meaning to redecorate, anyway.”

  I laughed under my breath.

  The door to his office burst open and Nik strode in, his eyes honing in on me. “Good, you’re still here.” A long, black sport bag was slung across his shoulder, probably now filled with countless vials of blood.

  “For about two more seconds,” I said, nodding to the active gateway to Garth’s condo on the wall adjacent to the door.

  Nik studied it for a moment, scanning the area through the gateway and frowning, then looked at Dorman. “Can you give us a minute?”

  After a nod, Dorman left the office.

  I raised my eyebrows and planted my hands on my hips. “What’s up?”

  “I have something for you,” Nik said, moving forward and placing his bag on the chairs in front of the desk. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the leather shoulder harness that was usually attached to my sword’s scabbard. Except right now there was no scabbard or sword in sight. He held the harness out to me.

  I took a step toward him and reached for the harness, not quite understanding. “Um . . . thanks, but—” My eyes widened when my fingers closed around more than the worn straps of leather. The scabbard—I could feel it in my hand, and from the weight of it, I knew that Mercy, my sword, was sheathed within. I shook my head. “How . . .”

  Nik stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders, looking adorably bashful. It was all an act, of course, but it was still cute. Or as cute as Nik could ever get. “I transformed the whole thing, scabbard and all, into At, then made it invisible.”

  My mouth fell open. I’d known that Lex’s sheut enabled her to imbue At with various properties, like glowing or appearing invisible, but I’d had no idea that Nik could do it, too. I eyed him, wondering what other powers he’d been hiding from the rest of us.

  “You left your sword behind because it would draw attention.” Nik shrugged. “Now it won’t.”

  Eyes stinging, I found the invisible hilt with my right hand and drew the sword. Mercy’s blade slid free with a pristine ring. The entire thing, pommel to blade, was completely invisible.

  Nik flashed me a devilish grin. “Now the trick is re-sheathing it . . .”

  “This is incredible.” I stared at, well, nothing with wide eyes, absolutely awed.

  “Just don’t drop it.”

  I glanced at Nik, frowning. What if I did drop it? I’d have to grope around until I stumbled over the damn thing.

  “But just in case you do manage to lose it,” Nik said, seeming to read my thoughts, “I can always find it again, you know, because I can sense anything made of At.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Anything?”

  He nodded.

  “Even my ink?” I flashed him the Eye of Horus on my palm.

  “When you’re close enough.” He shrugged. “It’s a pretty small amount.”

  “Huh.” I sheathed the invisible sword after only two tries and hugged the whole thing to my chest, feeling a little less alone. Nik had done this for me, and now it would be like I carried a little piece of him around with me, wherever I went. That mattered more to me than I was willing to admit, even just to myself.

  “Thank you,” I said, meeting his eyes and hoping he couldn’t see how intensely his gift was affecting me. I cleared my throat. “Really, Nik. Thank you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, and he breathed out a laugh. It was the only “You’re welcome” I would get. He pointed to the gateway with his chin. “Go on. Do your thing. I’ve got a ferry to catch.”

  I stared at him for a moment longer, then took a deep breath, held my head high, and turned my back to him. And stepped through the new gateway.

  11

  By the time I’d returned to Garth’s condo and checked his cell phone, I had a series of texts from him, each with the name and home address of one of the Ouroboros board members. He’d sent them within the past half hour, and his timing was impeccable. Any longer and I’d have made a straight shot for Constance. And despite my renewed motivation to do what had to be done, no matter the cost, I wasn’t ready to go after her. Even after the reading that morning, after her appearance on the Queen of Swords card with Mercy shoved through her chest. Even though I now held the sword that had impaled her in my hands, I wasn’t ready to go after her to get the cure.

  Sure, if push came to shove, I’d do it. But I didn’t want to, and I knew I’d regret whatever I ended up doing to her for the rest of my potentially very long life.

  I did a quick Internet search on Garth’s phone, running down the list of names he’d sent me. I was hoping for a sign, some tidbit of information that would point me in the right direction. Or, at least, in the least guilt-ridden direction. I was fully committed to the cause, ready and willing to use lethal force if necessary. I would find a way to stop the spread of the disease and save those unfortunate enough to already be infected. At least, those who weren’t already too far gone. It was too late for Sammy, but it wasn’t too late for the others. Not yet.

  I found my target as soon as I hit enter on the third name—Mitch Carmichael. The list of links included several news articles from the past year reporting allegations that Carmichael’s name had been linked to an illegal human trafficking ring, one that specialized in young women and children. It looked like his name had been cleared and the matter had been swept under the rug, as almost anything could be if enough money was thrown at it, but things like that don’t just disappear. Not now, in the age of the Internet. Nowadays, things like that live forever.

  However guiltless Carmichael appeared in the eyes of the law, I couldn’t ignore the reality of the situation—Ouroboros had abducted children to use as test subjects. It seemed an awful big coincidence that one of the leaders of that corporation had potential ties to another child-abducting organization. It even crossed my mind that the idea to take the street kids could’ve come from Carmichael originally. If so, I thought it would be pretty easy to get over my aversion to taking human lives. Easy as breathing. But a hell of a lot more gratifying.

  I tried creating a gateway to someplace closer to the downtown high-rise Carmichael called home—I even went so far as to draw a likeness of one of the cluttered basements I’d ducked out in a night or two on the wall beside the original gateway, which would’ve left me just a few blocks from Carmichael’s place—but no matter how hard I tried to focus, I couldn’t get the m
agic to work. I couldn’t even get a spark of the increasingly familiar current of otherworldly energy to hum through me. My magical batteries were well and truly dead, and I had no clue how long it would take them to recharge. I’d have to go the long way.

  It would’ve been safer to wait until dark to leave Garth’s building, but I had a narrow window of opportunity to get into Carmichael’s home while he was out—assuming he held anything close to normal work hours. He was on the Ouroboros board of directors, but unlike Constance, he didn’t hold an additional position at the corporation. So far as I could tell, he’d made his money elsewhere, or he’d fallen into it by way of inheritance, and that was how he’d ended up at the top of the corporate ladder at Ouroboros.

  At least it was drizzling out, and a thick layer of storm clouds darkened the sky, threatening worse. Nobody would toss me a second glance for keeping my hood up. That was almost as good as moving through the city in the dark of night.

  I shed my leather coat, strapped the sword harness on, buckling it across my chest, then put the jacket back on over the invisible sword. Mercy was slender enough that she didn’t cause the jacket to bulge or bunch uncomfortably, even if she did warp the line of my back a little. I dug through my backpack next, pulling out a device about the size of a deck of playing cards—a rechargeable handheld electromagnetic pulse generator strong enough to knock out all electronics within a hundred-foot radius. It was one of the few gadgets I had left over from my days as one of the Senate’s pet assassins. I’d brought it with me for my time as a rogue in case of an emergency. Well, guess what—this was a god damn emergency.

  Hood up, I left the condo, locking the door behind me. I used the stairs, figuring they’d be less traveled, and once I reached the bottom floor, I ducked out through a side entrance, pleased I’d been able to get out of the building without running into a single person. Not even Dom chastised me for breaking my word about leaving the condo the conventional way. It was a good start to the mission.

  According to the information from Garth, Carmichael lived in a multimillion-dollar loft on the twenty-second floor of a tower on First Street, downtown. He probably had an insane view of the Puget Sound. A view like that would be wasted on a scumbag like him.

  Sneaking up to Carmichael’s loft was easy enough. The building was part upscale hotel, part condominium, which meant it had maids and room service. I strolled into the employee area like I belonged there, nabbed a room service uniform that consisted of black trousers, a maroon chef’s coat, and a stupid little maroon hat off a rack of identical uniforms, and ducked into the employee locker room to slip everything on over my clothes. I ended up looking a little husky, but otherwise pretty nondescript.

  I took the service elevator up, keeping my head down to keep my face off of any security cameras, and was on the twenty-second floor in no time. I knocked on Carmichael’s door, the last at the end of a windowless hall, hoping he wasn’t home, and waited for a minute. When nobody answered, I unbuttoned my chef’s coat and reached into the pocket of my leather jacket, pressing the switch that would activate the EMP generator. I counted down in my mind.

  Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

  The lights in the hallway flickered, then went out, leaving me in not complete darkness, but something that would seem so to human eyes. There was just enough light coming in through a window around the corner and sneaking out under the four other doorways along the hallway that I could see well enough. Barely.

  The lights and security systems would be down for a couple minutes. I had to work fast.

  I knelt before Carmichael’s door and pulled out the only other thing in that pocket—an invisible-ink marker, the kind that only shows up under a black light. I didn’t want to tip anyone off to the extent of the magic I could work. If I did that, I could say adios to my biggest advantage.

  I uncapped the marker and wrote on the door, just below the handle: UNLOCK. It was a shot in the dark. Literally. BURN had worked on the Ouroboros scientist last week, but that had also been a basic matter of heat. This was another area of physics entirely, and I had no clue if my brand of magic held any power over movement or mechanics at all, let alone whether or not I had enough juice to accomplish something as small as unlocking a door.

  I wrote “UNLOCK” all around the handle, over and over, and then I held my breath. “Come on,” I whispered. “Work, damn it!”

  I twisted the door handle. It was still locked. I wasn’t surprised; there’d been no zing of primal electricity. No hint of that energy that could only be called magic.

  With a faint groan, I rested my forehead against the door. I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way. Which I sucked at, because back in my Senate-condoned breaking-and-entering days, I’d always been able to rely on Mari to create a key out of anti-At.

  “I might need your help here, Dom,” I said as I pulled a lock-picking kit from my sweatshirt pocket. Doubling up on outerwear has its perks—extra storage being number one on the list.

  “You know what to do,” my big brother said. “Just remember, it’s all about feel. Locate each of the pins first, then get started.”

  I inserted a small, metal tension wrench into the lock on the handle, then added the lock pick and held my breath. I pushed the farthest pin up, feeling it click into place, and turned the wrench in the lock, then went to work on the next pin. I was sweating by the time I’d worked through the final three and had the thing unlocked, and I wasn’t even done. There was still the deadbolt to deal with.

  I rose up on my knees and fit the tools into the upper lock. I worked through the first three pins pretty quickly, but even so, the florescent lights flickered when I was on the fourth pin. I turned the lock with the tension wrench and allowed myself a deep breath. One more pin to go.

  I stiffened when I heard the snick of someone unlocking one of the doors farther up the hallway. “Shit!” I redoubled my efforts on the deadbolt.

  The lights flickered again, working up the courage to shine on. As soon as they were back online, it would be only a matter of seconds until the cameras followed.

  The final pin clicked into place, and I turned the wrench, exhaling in relief when the deadbolt slid free. I twisted the door handle and pushed the door open, slipping into the loft just as the door up the hallway opened. I snagged the case for my lock-picking kit, pulled my arm in through the crack, and shut the door. I sat on the ashy hardwood floor in the entryway to Carmichael’s loft, breathing hard and sweating like I’d just sprinted all the way up here using the stairs.

  “That was way too close,” I said to Dom.

  “You made it . . .”

  I snorted in reply. While I waited for my breathing and heartbeat to slow, I fished Garth’s phone out of my right pocket and checked the time. It was a quarter till five. I had no clue when Carmichael would be home—assuming he truly wasn’t here already. But I figured I was safe; if he’d been home, the sound of the door opening should’ve drawn him out, if my knock hadn’t. Best to make sure, though.

  I hoisted myself up off the ground and moved as quietly as possible into the loft. Considering my rubber soles and that I was naturally light-footed, my footsteps were almost silent despite my combat boots.

  The loft was very open concept, the kitchen, dining area, and living space all blending together, much like in Garth’s condo, only on a grander scale. Carmichael had at least four times as much space as Garth, and plenty of furniture and decor to fill it. How he’d managed to find so much stuff that was both modern and tacky was beyond me, but—shiny, cherry-red plastic S-shaped dining room chairs? And a refrigerator door that doubled as a chalkboard? Really?

  My lip curled, and I moved on to the master suite, a space that was sectioned off not by walls, but by three stairs leading up to a raised platform. I checked the master bathroom and the closet, then headed down a short hallway that led to a powder room, a guest room with another full bath, a study, and a utility room with laundry machines that looked
like they’d never been used. Like, literally, they still had the stickers sealing the doors shut.

  Nobody was home, that much was clear, so I headed back into the main living area to prepare for Carmichael’s arrival. I lost the polyester room service garb, then took off my coat, sword harness, and sweatshirt, laying it all out on the kitchen table. I wasn’t too worried about Carmichael seeing my stuff and bolting. By the time he was in the door, it would already be too late for him. I set Garth’s phone on the table beside my jacket, then tucked the lock-picking tools back into their little case and returned it to my sweatshirt pocket.

  I gave the loft a slow scan and exhaled heavily. “Nothing to do now but wait,” I said, both to myself and to Dom. I was already bored. “Gah . . . this is the worst part.”

  “I always enjoyed the waiting,” Dom said. “It gave me a chance to collect my thoughts, to center myself. To come to peace within myself with the fact that I was about to take a life, so the guilt wouldn’t crush me once the deed was done.”

  Have I mentioned that Dom spent centuries as Heru’s go-to assassin? Where those darker arts were concerned, he was the best of the best. But he’d had his fill of killing long ago, and he’d given it up in exchange for assisting Heru in other ways, namely by interrogating and torturing his enemies. Dom’s well-known distaste for killing was one of the things that made him such an effective interrogator. His subjects could always be certain that death wouldn’t end the pain, not while Dom was still in the room.

  I was lucky enough to be one of the few he’d taken under his wing. He’d invested a shit-ton of time and energy in me, teaching me everything he knew. I wasn’t quite as good as him—or as good as he’d been when he was still technically alive—but I was close.

  “At least Carmichael’s got a killer view,” I said, crossing the living room between a couch that I thought might actually be made of a solid piece of wood and a zebra-striped bearskin rug. The general shape gave away the fact that it wasn’t an actual zebra. So did the bear head. “This place is practically waterfront.”