Wilde Child 7

by Jenn Stark

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Armaeus didn’t bother responding. He simply disappeared. The limo driver exited the vehicle and came around to the side of the car where Martine sat. Opening the door, he handed the boy out.

  The door beside me opened as well, and a languid hand reached in, connected to a well-tanned forearm. The moment I put my hand in it, I knew whose it was.

  “I’m not taking a child to Mexico, Kreios,” I snapped as I let the Devil of the Arcana Council pull me out of the vehicle.

  “Not even if you could say the Devil made you do it?”

  Aleksander Kreios smiled at me with his usual devastating beauty—today he was modeling his preferred demeanor of Greek good looks—tawny hair lifting in the breeze, bronzed skin, green eyes deep set above impossibly perfect cheekbones. He was a walking cliché of what a god should look like, but he came by that honestly. He was as close to godlike as a human could get.

  Now, however, I could feel his compulsion in the air. I didn’t have to turn to know that Martine was being escorted aboard Armaeus’s private jet.

  “Why?” I demanded as Kreios ducked into the car behind me and collected the Gods’ Nails, now safely returned to their box. “Why is it so important that I put that child at risk? Armaeus can slip through his mind like water and tell me everything I need to know.”

  “He did enter the boy’s mind,” Kreios said, folding his arm into mine as if we were long-lost friends. And we were, after a fashion. The Devil and I had a curious respect for each other, as well as a carefully studied détente. There was something about him that I found endlessly elusive, and something about me he found endlessly challenging.

  More to the point, however, he told the truth. Granted, he did that because the truth was often far more devastating than a lie, but I still found it helpful. And refreshing.

  “And yet we’re still here.” I gestured to the plane.

  “We are, albeit briefly. The Magician hates to admit his defeat, but he knows I enjoy doing so a great deal more, so allow me to explain such epic failure on his behalf.” Kreios grinned down at me. “Armaeus could not, in fact, ferret out where the boy will be taking you. He tried everything, and the fact that he is not here to send you off is less about his hubris and more about his ongoing search for the reasons why. He is sending you into desperate danger, and he’s aware of that, but he can’t unravel a better way to get to the bottom of this mystery than for you to embark on this path. Much as it galls him.”

  I’d stopped at this point, never mind that the reflection of the sun on the tarmac was hot enough to cause even the Devil to break a sweat. But Kreios gamely paused as well and allowed me to stare at him. He was good like that.

  “He failed,” I repeated. “He doesn’t know how Gamon got the kid here, or where she’s located in Mexico.”

  “Or if she’s in Mexico.” Kreios nodded. “He’s pretty certain she is, mind you. And that she’s the one behind this—she’s never been a fan of children.” He glanced over to where Martine was delightedly skipping up the rolling stairway toward Armaeus’s plane. “They are exceptionally moist for the first few years.”

  “And yet, he’s putting the boy back in harm’s way.”

  “The boy will almost assuredly die from the drugs he’s ingested if Armaeus doesn’t.”

  I blinked. “What? But he calmed his heart. He’s showing no symptoms.”

  “No visible symptoms, no. And yes, he’s mastered the tachycardia of his heart, much as you were able to do with Detective Brody.” Kreios eyed me. “That was quite touching, I might add. Armaeus was a particular fan.”

  An unexpected shiver rolled through me. I’d had a crush on Brody a thousand years ago, and was still grappling with my emotions for Armaeus. The idea that the Magician might care one way or another to see me working to save Brody’s life was…unnerving. And not something I could fully process right now. “Serves you right for having Brody’s hospital room on closed-circuit TV.”

  “True, true. But at any rate, there are plenty of non-visible issues that are manifesting at an alarming rate in Martine, and in the children in Father Jerome’s care, we suspect. Now that Armaeus has had the opportunity to study the boy for himself, he’ll be getting in touch with the good priest to verify if the other children are facing the same issues.”

  “And Brody?”

  “His body reacted far sooner than the children’s, and he got one dose, albeit a heavy one. He’ll probably fail much sooner.” Kreios shrugged. “Perhaps in as little as a week.”

  “A week!”

  The Devil gestured lazily to the plane. “You do note that Armaeus is outfitting you with the fastest transportation money can buy, short of teleportation. He’s concerned about the effect of the drugs on the infected Connected communities. He also suspects that the vast majority of those exposed to the drug have, as yet, ingested small enough doses that the worst of the side effects won’t manifest.”

  I frowned. “What about the people in the lab on Lake Mead?”

  “We’ve looked into that. Nikki Dawes’ assessments of the complicit doctor’s memories were accurate. There are some survivors—the children of the woman you were tracking, though not the mother herself.” Kreios delivered this information dispassionately, but my heart twisted all the same. “The police will be given the information they need to recover all those who remain, and Dr. Sells will be on hand to minister to them.”

  He turned more fully to me, gazing at me with his piercing jade eyes. “But there’s absolutely no indication that Gamon is slowing down. Armaeus’s best conjecture is that she’s planning to simply eradicate a good portion of the drug-seeking world she’s grown tired of.

  That sounded exactly like something that sociopathic woman would do.

  Kreios allowed his sculptured lips to curl delicately. “The fact that Gamon plans to take out a few batches of Connecteds while she does that is apparently all to the good.”

  “How is that remotely good?”

  “Connecteds make terrible converts to her cause, as it happens.” Kreios placed a hand over his heart, feigning surprise. “She clearly doesn’t trust them to follow her while they still possess their own power, so better to simply stamp them out on an opportunistic basis.”

  “Starting with the Connected kids, then moving on to the elders,” I grumbled.

  “Once we ascertained that it was Gamon behind the killings, additional information came to light.” He shot me a sidelong glance. “She is a Revenant. Like all Revenants, she was fostered.”

  I froze, despite the heat. “Fostered.”

  That she was a Revenant didn’t surprise me. I’d guessed that back in Barcelona. Somehow, I’d missed the fostering link. Jonathan had said Revenant youths were fostered for fifty years. No matter how slowly someone aged, fifty years was plenty of time to develop a chip, a fair amount of baggage, and whole lot of hate.

  What had happened to Gamon during those years to make her the murderous abuser she was?

  “She spent her formative years in Barcelona, at Gotica. Many of the Revenants who perished in the club fire knew her—knew her and tried to restrain her darker tendencies.” Kreios shook his head in dismay.

  “So vengeance is hers.” I shook my head, but that wasn’t enough to get rid of the low-grade headache that was now buzzing through my skull. “No matter what I do, we’re doomed. She has outposts all over the planet. Even if I destroy one, there are a dozen more that could release the drug into the market.”

  “Armaeus doesn’t think so,” Kreios said, surprising me. “It would appear that Gamon’s had her drug cocktail at a standstill for, what, going on nine months now?” He clucked. “That’s multiple lifetimes in the drug trade. But she’s been stalled out until now. Armaeus assumes that she needs something else to complete the mixture, something she has not been able to gather on her own.”

  “Which would be?”

  But Kreios didn’t have to answer—and he didn’t deign to either. Inste
ad, he resumed walking me toward the plane, as my brain tried to wrap itself around the idea that I could somehow inadvertently help Gamon complete her mad recipe. The easiest answer would be my DNA—blood or organs or muscle tissue, but despite my best efforts, I was only one woman. How could I possible give her enough to make a viable solution more than once?

  At the bottom of the Jetway, Kreios handed the jade box to me. My wrists ached as my fingers scraped the box’s surface. Then he bowed.

  “The boy will innately know where to go. Follow him. He’s bugged to the gills, so try to stay close. Armaeus cannot penetrate his mind deeply enough to know more, and that is most vexing, as I’m sure you can imagine. But we will be able to track him. And, by extension, you.”

  “Look, I protect kids. I don’t put them in harm’s way. Taking Martine with me is beyond dangerous for him,” I argued. “I really don’t like him coming with me at all. My cards can tell me—”

  “Again, you’re doing it as the only way to keep him alive,” Kreios overrode me. “Armaeus was quite clear on that point. Detective Rooks is also depending on both of you getting an antidote in hand and returning with it in as close to one piece as possible.

  I hated taking the kid with me. Nothing Kreios could say would make me like the idea. However, if the most powerful forces on this side of the veil were resolute that Martine and I were the package deal required to save Connecteds and those mortals on the fringes of their communities alike…I…I’d be an idiot to ignore them.

  Maybe in Mexico, I could get one of those kid harnesses with a leash, just to keep the boy close enough to run like hell alongside me once things went to crap. It was worth a shot.

  “Sara,” Kreios said softly, almost sympathetically, “if you can determine what specific element of your physical form is needed to synthesize the drug more effectively—without donating that element, ideally—that would also be quite helpful. It’s likely your heart will be required, based on the harvesting Gamon’s agents undertook.”

  “So keep my heart inside my chest. Got it.” This wasn’t helping my headache. “And you’ll tell the others I’ve got the kid in tow? Nikki and Nigel…”

  “Ma-Singh has already been informed. He’ll take on the task of informing the others. In return, Armaeus has promised to keep him in the loop on your whereabouts.”

  “How civil of him.” I glanced back to Kreios one last time.

  I’d spoken to empty air. Both the Magician and the Devil were skilled in the art of illusion, but the Devil usually needed to be in the same physical location as his better halves, or taking over some other hapless human with his features. Since he had done the poof routine, chances were good he was lurking back in the limo, and I gave the vehicle a halfhearted wave. Its lights flashed, and I shook my head. I should have known he wouldn’t subject himself to this heat willingly, even if he was the Devil.

  By the time I boarded the plane, Martine was already in his seat and blessedly dozing. I suspected Armaeus had a hand in that, but the truth was, I needed the sleep too. The next few hours would be the last time I’d have the chance for a while.

  We traveled in silence accordingly. Even when I had the chance to ask Martine questions, he remained unhelpfully vague. As the Magician had learned before me, the boy truly didn’t know where we were heading. Or what we’d find when we got there.

  The landing in Mexico City went predictably well, with the exception that the limo waiting at the edge of the private airstrip was very definitely not Council property. I recognized the seal of the House of Swords immediately and collared a bouncing Martine, shoving him in that direction. Armaeus must have told Ma-Singh our destination after all. That made me feel better, at least.

  “Yes, yes!” Martine announced. “A car will be much faster than feet. Much faster.”

  I couldn’t argue that logic, and within a few minutes, we were settled comfortably in the back of the limo. It was well past midnight, but neither Martine nor I would be sleeping anytime soon, I suspected. The limo driver turned and smiled at Martine before nodding deferentially to me.

  “Madam Wilde, your destination?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  Martine spoke up first. “La Merced. The Birdhouse is there. We must go there.”

  I scowled. I’d half suspected this, since it was very near the location of the arcane black market, but the boy had insisted he had no idea where we were heading or where specifically this mysterious Birdhouse was located. When I’d asked Armaeus about it, he’d confirmed there was no specific location in the Mexico City black market for the Birdhouse—it was a movable feast, apparently. And it looked like we’d be dining late night at La Merced.

  But enough was enough of the cloak-and-dagger stuff. I turned to Martine, prepared to grill him—

  And stopped.

  The boy’s eyes had changed, going from the color of mulled bourbon to all white, as if he’d been possessed. I’d seen this look before, of course, but usually only on Starz.

  “Um, Martine?”

  “Birdhouse,” he said again, more urgently this time. “Where the women are all like birds, and there are many guns. We must start there. It’s the only way I know.”

  “Yeah, but…” As I frowned, Martine’s eyes cleared and so did the expression on his face. He was once again the happy, bouncing boy of ten I’d met a day ago, chattering about everything he saw.

  “Where are we going after the Birdhouse?” I tried anyway, but Martine merely laughed.

  “The Birdhouse,” he insisted. “Yes. We must go there first.”

  “Got it.” I indicated to the driver to proceed to La Merced. “Let everyone know as well. Ma-Singh no doubt left instructions.”

  “Of course, Madam Wilde.”

  La Merced was an enormous outdoor market. It had been in operation since colonial times, and looked it. Sprawling rows of colorful tents and stalls extended in all directions, offering any number of foods, drinks, goods, and services that extended from the traditional to the flagrantly unusual. At this hour, none of the goods and services vendors were still active, but all the food and alcohol vendors were, plying their trade with frantic gaiety. Colors and sounds assaulted us, and as we approached, the driver slowed.

  “Where exactly?” the driver asked. “We need to inform the spotters.”

  “Here is as good a place as any.” Warily, I double-checked my hoodie for my trusty Tarot deck and my bag for the nails. I still didn’t like any part of this. I especially didn’t like having the boy in tow.

  Spotters wouldn’t last a heartbeat in this place—it was thronged with people, locals and tourists alike, and the trade was brisk today. I’d be lucky to keep ahold of Martine if I held him in my own arms.

  “Wait until I move off and the spotter is in place, Madam Wilde,” the driver instructed.

  “Of course,” I murmured. But I was looking at Martine. “You okay, big guy?”

  “Birdhouse,” the boy breathed, his head turning to look over my shoulder, into the chaos of the market. His eyes had gone milk white again. “Birdhouse.”

  “Yep, we’re going to get you there.”

  I didn’t understand the physical manifestation overtaking Martine, but the magic that was affecting the boy was deep, seriously deep. Unlike in Vegas, I could now feel the filth of it radiating off him in waves. It had taken someone a lot of time and effort to implant this map so deeply in his mind that even he could not access it, and when I found whoever did it, I’d make sure she never did it again.

  I clicked open the box and removed the Gods’ Nails still in their silk wrappings, sliding them into a deep interior pocket of my jacket. They thrummed there, giving me a confidence I didn’t fully embrace. Still, every little bit helped.

  The limo pulled marginally over out of traffic. Martine and I hopped out, the boy holding firmly on to my hand. I’d been half afraid that he would go rabbiting off into the crowd, but I realized I was the bigger prize here. It would do no good for him to reach the Bird
house if I wasn’t with him when he did.

  That said, I didn’t look around for our House trackers, but moved off smartly into the crowd, Martine pulling me along. I opened my mind as we wound ourselves into the web of intensely aromatic corridors—redolent of the smells of meat, animals, and spices too numerous to be identified. The market was suffocating under an oppressive blanket of nighttime heat and humidity, but Martine didn’t seem to notice. He darted down aisles and around turns, through stalls and beneath tent flaps. He seemed to be moving in a more or less straight direction. Anything that stood in his way was merely something else to be skirted or moved through.

  I mentally reached for Armaeus, gratified more than I would have expected to feel his touch. Nothing like a little Arcana Roadside Assistance when you needed it.

  Any ideas?

  “You’re heading toward the black market, as you expected. It’s the space between the Mercado de Sonora and La Merced, and it’s crowded.”

  Everything here is.

  The Mercado de Sonora was familiar territory for me, at least, the city’s go-to market for all things occult. When I’d had artifact-hunting jobs in Mexico, more than a few times they’d originated here, where the rumors of the mystical and the profane mingled with the air of too much sweat, too much perfume, and too many high-end drugs. The arcane black market that thrived here operated, as usual, by hiding in plain sight. With a market this old, nothing was as it seemed. And when magic and illusion was your stock-in-trade, that axiom held true more than usual.

  We turned, then turned again, and finally Martine broke into a run, bursting through a long butcher’s shop of cuts of meat I’d never seen before and never wanted to see again. His breath coming in great, hiccuping gulps, he pushed aside the rear flap of the shop’s tent, pulling me through.

  Two steps later we entered a second tent so enormous, I staggered to a stop. Multicolored cloth walls, ceilings and floor-coverings greeted us, with additional strips of cloth forming makeshift walls that separated rooms within the structure. There were platforms and even stairs and a secondary floor. Through the fluttering edges of the fabric walls, I could see women of every shape and description—all of them wearing great feathered costumes, as if a bevy of Vegas showgirls had suddenly taken their boas on the road.