Outcast (Kat Dubois Chronicles Book 2)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I stopped at the window, appreciating a beautiful thing when I saw it. Even with the overcast sky and the shortened line of sight due to the rain, the Sound was still as stunning as ever. The loft’s view was a hell of a lot better than its interior, that was for damn sure. I stood there, admiring the Puget Sound in all of its gray, slightly gloomy glory, for what felt like eons.

  Until I heard the sound of a key being stuck into one of the locks I’d just picked.

  Snapping into action, I turned away from the window and rushed into the kitchen. The fridge was the nearest thing to the entryway, so I stood with my back to the slate door and listened as Carmichael unlocked the deadbolt. He was taking forever. Probably because he was also talking on the phone—something about a vote tomorrow. A coup, he called it.

  He opened the door, then shut and relocked it, and just like that, I had him trapped. The amount of time it would take him to unlock and open the door inward was about twice as long as it would take me to slam him face-first against it.

  I smiled to myself. I loved it when they made it so damn easy.

  Of course, I didn’t show myself right then and there. I didn’t slam him into the door, much as I might have enjoyed it. I couldn’t risk whoever was on the other end of the call getting suspicious, let alone Carmichael uttering a full-fledged plea for help. I’d have to threaten him into hanging up, if he didn’t do it on his own first. My sword wouldn’t work as a means to up the threat, since he couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Mercy was still on the table, sheathed in her scabbard. My eyes landed on the knife block on the massive island opposite me. Promising, but still too far away.

  Luckily, it never came to threats, because Carmichael is an oblivious boob. He brushed right past me and headed into the bedroom area, all the while talking on his phone about how excited he was for the meeting in the morning and how shocked he imagined she would look—whoever she was.

  “Listen, Scott, I gotta go. I’ve got squash at seven, and my instructor throws a fit if I’m late.” He toed off his shiny dress shoes and loosened his tie. “Yeah. Yeah, you too, buddy. See you tomorrow.” He tossed the phone onto the bed and headed into the bathroom. The way this was playing out, I couldn’t have choreographed the whole thing better myself.

  I listened as he continued to undress and turned on the shower, but I waited until I heard the shower’s glass door open and shut to follow him into the bathroom. I drew Mercy as I passed the table and picked up Carmichael’s phone and pocketed it before I stepped through the doorway into the slightly steamy room. Apparently the guy liked really hot showers.

  I sat on the bathroom counter between the double sinks and watched him, my head tilted to the side. He had his back to me.

  Mitch Carmichael wasn’t an unattractive man. I’d have placed him in his early sixties, and he was in pretty good shape—must’ve been all the squash he played. His tush was only a little saggy, and I figured he must tan—or fake tan or take a slew of fancy-pants vacations to the tropics—because a white dude like him doesn’t get a tan like that during a Seattle winter without some sort of assistance. He’s got a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and probably fits into the “silver fox” category.

  I watched him shampoo his hair and soap up his body, but I drew the line when he planted one hand on the shower wall and started to stroke himself.

  I cleared my throat, loudly.

  Carmichael froze.

  “Yep,” I said, “that wasn’t in your mind.”

  He spun around, nearly falling on the slick tile floor. His half-flaccid penis was more impressive than I’d expected, and I raised a single brow in acknowledgment of that fact. He stood frozen in place, the hot water hitting his back and his hand cupping his man bits. “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?”

  My eyebrows rose, and I hopped off the counter. “You don’t recognize me?” I approached the shower, stopping at the glass wall to stare at him up close and personal. “From what I understand, my picture’s all over the place right now.”

  Recognition dawned, and his eyes rounded. “You—you’re her—Katarina Dubois.”

  “Also known as . . .”

  He mouthed, “Ink Witch.”

  “Ding-ding-ding,” I sang, grinning. “I knew you’d get it eventually.” I gave him elevator eyes, the quick, disinterested version. “Why don’t you go ahead and rinse off, Mitch, and then we can get started.”

  His face was flushed from the heat in the shower, but even so, the color seemed to drain from his face. “Get started with what?”

  I blinked several times. “Why, finding the truth, of course.”

  “The truth about what?”

  “Aren’t you just the nosy Nellie.” I tapped the glass wall with the tip of my sword, watching his eyes search for the source of the noise and appreciating his confused expression when he found nothing. “Or would ‘eager beaver’ be more appropriate?”

  Carmichael backed away from the glass wall. “You’re insane.” He continued backing up until he hit the tile wall.

  “Maybe,” I said with a nod, not discouraging his conclusion one bit. It’s more fun when they think I’m unhinged. “But I’m also the one with an invisible sword, so . . . I’d do what I say, if I were you.”

  “I have money,” Carmichael blurted.

  I shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t want it.”

  “Cars . . . stock . . . property . . .”

  “I don’t want any of that,” I said, enunciating each word clearly.

  “Well what do you want from me, then?” Carmichael was panicking. I could see it in his wild eyes, hear it in the timbre of his voice. His entire body trembled. Fight-or-flight was kicking in, and he wanted to run. Good; survival mode was good. Right where I wanted him.

  I plastered on a plastic smile. “What I want, Mitch, is for you to rinse off and come out here so we can have a little chat.” I winked at him. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll take things slow. Who knows . . . you might even enjoy yourself.”

  Some people got off on the bite of pain. Hell, I wasn’t opposed to it, myself. It was entirely possible that Carmichael was one such person. It would be amusing for me, but it would be unfortunate for him. I’d have to use more extreme interrogation tactics. Pleasure from pain only stretched so far. Eventually, there was only pain.

  12

  As it turned out, Carmichael was not a fan of pain. He was about as far from a masochist as a person could be. I duct-taped him to one of those hideous red chairs and set him up near the windows with his back to the glorious view so the backdrop of the Seattle waterfront and the Puget Sound beyond would give me comfort and lend me strength. So it would remind me of why I was here—to protect my beloved city from people like Carmichael.

  I left him naked, not because I was overly fond of the sight of him, but because nudity creates insecurity. It’s one more barrier cast away, one more protective wall torn down. Being naked in front of others has the tendency to make a person feel exposed, no matter how comfortable they are in their own skin. Especially when those “others” have not-so-nice intentions. It had been Dom’s suggestion, and a damn good one at that.

  Carmichael cried out when I nicked his left pectoral with Mercy’s invisible tip. To be fair, I cut a smidgen deeper than I’d planned, but I was still getting used to the very strange lack of visibility of her sword blade. I knew the feel of her well, but it was becoming all too clear that my sword and I would have to become even more familiar with one another.

  “That was just so you’d know the blade is real,” I explained to Carmichael, standing a couple feet away from him. “Every time you lie to me, I’ll cut you again. And yes, I’ll be able to tell when you’re lying.” It was true enough; my heightened hearing allowed me to hone in on his heartbeat, and my eyesight was good enough that I could see the level of perspiration on his skin and gauge any change in his pupil size. “We’ll keep playing this game until you bleed out or I get all the information I need.
Understand?”

  Carmichael gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “Alright . . .” I flipped Mercy up and rested the flat of her blade against my right shoulder. “Did you know about the children your SoDo lab was abducting and experimenting on?” I watched him carefully, taking in every part of his response, verbal and otherwise.

  “No,” he rasped.

  “Lie.” I slashed a shallow nick across his cheekbone, and he yelped. I planted my hands on my hips and leaned over him. “I gave you fair warning—you lie, you get cut.” I gave him the look. “You did that to yourself. Now, did you know about the kids?”

  Again, Carmichael swallowed roughly, then licked his lips. “Yes, I—I knew about them.”

  “And did you know about all the research and experiments going on in that lab?”

  “Yes,” Carmichael admitted. “We all did—all of the board members.”

  I tutted, tapping the flat of the sword against the side of his face. He flinched at each touch of the smooth, invisible At blade. “Don’t try to deflect the blame onto them. They’re not here. You are. I’ll get to them later.” I returned the sword to my shoulder. “Tell me, Mitch, do you remember a boy named Sammy?”

  Carmichael’s heart rate leapt, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  I crouched before him, intrigued by his severe reaction. “Answer the question.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. For whatever reason, Sammy meant something to Carmichael. Something big.

  “Do you know what was done to Sammy?”

  His heart rate spiked again, but it leveled out when he finally answered. “We—they infected him with a—” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “Not a disease, but something worse.”

  “Worse, how?”

  Again, he shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t involved much in that project, I swear.” Carmichael hesitated for a moment, then his heart rate elevated and he blurted, “Constance.” His heart rate remained at that higher level as he continued, “Just her. It was her idea . . . all of it.”

  With a sigh, I lifted Mercy from my shoulder and rested her tip against Carmichael’s ribcage, angling it so the blade pressed in between his fifth and sixth ribs, right below his nipple. Just a little more pressure and I’d break the skin. I gave it that small amount of pressure.

  Carmichael yelped.

  “Here’s the deal, Mitch. I’m going to keep pushing on Mercy here—that’s my sword’s name—until you tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I gave it a moment for the words to sink in. “Who was involved in the project?” He didn’t answer right away, and I started to push the blade in deeper. “How long until I puncture your lung, I wonder?”

  “All of us,” he said. “We all knew about it. Everyone was involved to some degree, but Constance really was project lead on this.” He wasn’t lying.

  “How do I get the cure?” I exerted a little more pressure. “Who has it?”

  “I—” Carmichael shook his head vehemently. “I swear I don’t know anything about a cure.” The truth in his words turned my heart to lead.

  I withdrew the blade. A deal was a deal, after all. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Ask him more about the children,” Dom said. “There’s something there. When you brought up Sammy—his reaction was too strong.”

  I frowned, tilting my head from side to side and tapping Mercy’s blade against the outside of my boot as I considered Dom’s suggestion. I wanted to get my hands on Constance and the others before anyone caught wind that I was hunting Ouroboros board members, but a few extra questions couldn’t hurt. Besides, if Dom thought this was important . . .

  I fixed my stare on Carmichael and stopped the rhythmic tapping. “Let’s talk more about Sammy.”

  Again, the bastard’s heart rate spiked. Dom was onto something.

  “Cute kid, though when I saw him, he was a little under the weather.” Understatement of the year. When I’d seen Sammy, the eight-year-old had been unconscious, his breathing labored and his temperature dangerously high. Now, well . . . at least he wasn’t suffering anymore. “Did you spend much time with him?” I asked.

  “I—” Carmichael turned his face away from me. “I only met him once.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I don’t know. Monday of last week? Tuesday, maybe? It was before they infected him.”

  “Why?” I narrowed my eyes. “Why is that important?”

  “Because I—when we . . . I didn’t want to get infected too,” Carmichael said through a moan. His shoulders were hunched, and his body shook with the force of his sobs.

  “When you what?” My hand shot out, and I gripped Carmichael’s throat with clawlike fingers, bringing my face centimeters from his. “What did you do to Sammy?” I recalled the headlines about the human trafficking allegations, about the women and children purportedly sold into slavery, and my grip tightened. “Tell me!”

  “If—if I do, you—you’ll kill me.”

  Oh, dear gods, no . . .

  I clenched my jaw, fingernails digging into his throat. I could feel the tendons and muscles in his neck tensing, the hard tube that was his windpipe straining against my hold. It would be all too easy to crush. Blood oozed from the cuts caused by my nails, and I only squeezed harder. “You deserve to die,” I said, tearing up with the force of my rage. “I wish there was a hell, so you could burn in it for the rest of eternity.” I sucked in a shaky breath. “But there’s not.”

  I released him and straightened, raising my boot to the seat of the chair between his thighs. I moved his flaccid penis out of the way with the toe of my boot and slammed the sword blade home.

  Carmichael howled in pain. He didn’t stop howling until I was finished and his family jewels lay in a bloody mess on the hardwood floor. He’d never touch another kid again.

  “Enjoy your hell, you ball-less sack of shit,” I said, then spat on him. I turned away and stalked into the kitchen, where I started to pace. “Dom, can you let the Bainbridge folks know to expect a prisoner? I’m going to send him to the dungeon.” It was under the massive garage in the Heru compound, a separate building from the main house where Lex, Heru, and some of the others lived, and it was about as stereotypical as a dungeon could get with all the stone and iron and generally dank atmosphere. I didn’t want to risk the possibility that this sick fucker might cross paths with Reni, Lex and Heru’s three-year-old girl. “And let them know everything we learned about him, will you? I’m sure they can get more useful info out of him.”

  “Of course,” Dom said. “But are certain you’ll be able to create a gateway?”

  I heaved a breath, then another. I could practically feel the magical energy gathering strength within my sheut. “Oh, yeah.” I shook out my hands and cracked my neck. “I got this.”

  “Very well. When should they expect him?”

  I was quiet for a moment, estimating how long it would take me to draw the dungeon. “About an hour,” I said finally. I grabbed a canister of chalk from the counter beside the fridge—seriously, who the fuck has a chalkboard for a fridge door, anyway—and stalked back into the living room area. I shoved the coffee table and ridiculous zebra-striped bearskin rug out of the way and knelt on the hardwood floor to get to work.

  Once I was finished drawing the dismal dungeon and felt the telltale spike of otherworldly energy, I stood and moved behind Carmichael’s chair. I raised my foot and planted my boot on the back of his chair, kicking hard and savoring his scream as he fell through the gateway. All that was left of him was a puddle of blood and his now-useless balls.

  I considered cleaning up the mess for all of two seconds, opting instead to use the hideous rug to smear blood onto the drawing, rendering it inert. I didn’t give two shits whether or not someone found the mess. Carmichael got what he deserved. Better than he deserved, because he was still alive.

  “I should’ve killed him,” I whispered. I
shook my head and stared up at the exposed ceiling beams to keep myself from crying under the force of my regret. I was suddenly more disappointed in myself than I’d ever been in my entire life. It didn’t matter that Carmichael likely had a wealth of useful information about the Ouroboros Corporation’s other nefarious projects, not after what he’d done.

  I balled my hands into fists and squeezed my eyes shut. “I should have killed him!” It wasn’t a scream or a yell or a shout. It was a roar.

  13

  It was maybe six by the time I left Carmichael’s building. I didn’t even attempt to draw another gateway; creating the gateway to Bainbridge had left me completely drained. The sun had set, dusk had come and gone, and the moon was blocked by a thick layer of clouds, leaving behind a darkness better suited to the middle of the night. Which was well enough, because I looked like I’d just murdered someone. Which was extra frustrating, considering the knot in my stomach was there because I hadn’t killed Carmichael. It was there because I’d let him live.

  The trip back to Garth’s was a rain-soaked blur. I walked a few blocks, then hot-wired a little crotch rocket and rode the bike up slick streets to Capitol Hill. I ditched the bike in an alleyway a few blocks from Garth’s condo and skulked the rest of the way there through the puddles, sticking to the shadows between streetlights.

  I pulled up short when I reached the glass double doors marking the entrance to the building. “Shit,” I hissed, backstepping a few yards. I’d totally forgotten about the doorman sitting behind the little reception desk. This was the only exterior door I had a key for, and I couldn’t exactly tromp through the lobby with blood smeared all over my clothes.

  I couldn’t break in the same way I’d left, either—that door was exit only; no keyhole at all, so picking the lock wasn’t even an option, and Garth wouldn’t be home for another hour or two, so I couldn’t call him to come down and open that door from the inside. There was a garage underneath the building. It had a roll-down steel and glass door at street level that opened only when the condo residents came and went. I’d never been down there, but I didn’t see that I had any other choice.