Ashes Reborn

by Keri Arthur

  As we drew closer, the musical splash of water began to break the silence, but not the tension gathering within me. I clenched my fists tighter, fighting not only my desire to become fire, but the beating pulse of Jackson’s heat as well. And yet, there was no sign of fire. Not even a spark. He was containing it, but now the question was, for how long?

  “Stop,” a gruff, decidedly male voice said.

  It was coming from the fountain, from the presence I could feel but not see.

  And it wasn’t Rinaldo.

  More fucking magic, Jackson said as we both stopped. But I guess it’s confirmation that Rinaldo has a witch working for him.

  And that’s something I really don’t want confirmed. Out loud, I said, “Reveal yourself, witch. Or would you prefer I call you Frederick?”

  “You can call me whatever you like, but using my name is always preferable.” Amusement edged the gravelly tone. “As to revealing myself—why would I give you that sort of advantage since you know nothing more than my first name?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we’ve also seen your face, when you were running for the helicopter.” I paused. “Which we subsequently blew up. How the hell did you escape?”

  “Luck and good planning, my dear—both of which I think you need more of.” The amusement was deeper now. “But that is neither here nor there. I’m here to deliver a message.”

  “We’ve already got Rinaldo’s message,” Jackson growled. “We don’t need another.”

  “Ah, but I’m afraid he begs to differ. It would appear you have learned nothing, as you went against orders and called in PIT.”

  “We could hardly do anything else,” I said, “given we’re PIT operatives.”

  Surprise rippled across the night. “Are you now?”

  “Yes, and we have the goddamn badges to prove it.” Flames shot out from Jackson’s hands as he spoke, reaching with eager fingers for our unseen foe. They hit the barrier the witch was using to conceal himself, and flared across its surface, briefly revealing a thin, shadowed form inside a domelike structure before fading away.

  “Interesting,” Frederick said. “As is the fact your flames are not contained.”

  Jackson’s grin flashed, though it held little in the way of humor. “No, they’re not. But then, I’m a fire fae. A spell designed to contain Emberly will do little to me.”

  “I didn’t think fire fae were capable of creating fire.”

  “Then you do not know as much as you thought.”

  “Evidently.” His gaze came to me, something I felt rather than saw. “I’m gathering, then, that my magic has had a similar lack of effect on you?”

  “Why don’t you drop that shield and find out?”

  He laughed. “Thanks, but no. I’ve seen what you’re capable of; I have no wish to feel it.”

  “You’re presuming that little bubble of yours will actually stop me. That could be a big mistake.”

  “It stopped you in Brooklyn when it was protecting Luke—at least until he foolishly stepped on metal—and that spell had half the strength of this. But by all means, test away.”

  I didn’t, if only because he wanted me to.

  “However,” he continued, “all that is an aside, and it does not change the purpose of this meeting.”

  “Why are you delivering the message?” I said. “Why isn’t your boss here?”

  “Who says he isn’t?”

  I resisted the urge to look around me. “Because while Rinaldo may be many things, stupid isn’t one of them. He wouldn’t risk appearing when you cannot absolutely guarantee your magic will restrain my flames.”

  “True, especially since he can be present without being here physically.”

  “What is it with witches speaking in goddamn riddles?” Jackson growled. “Tell us what he wants, and then get the fuck on with whatever else is planned.”

  “He wants De Luca’s notes when you find them, and he wants the satchel notes you found—”

  “He could have already had those,” I cut in. “He just needed to get to our office before the sindicati.”

  “Yes, except that was nothing more than a trap. As you said, he is not stupid.” The amusement was stronger this time. “You have twenty-four hours to provide those notes.”

  “Or what?” Jackson said.

  “Or,” the witch said blithely, “we will unleash red plague hell on this city.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jackson snorted. “I do so love dramatic statements, especially when the person behind them can’t back them up.”

  “Which is a reasonable enough presumption, given you are not in possession of all the pertinent facts.” Once again, Frederick’s voice was annoyingly smug.

  I had to clench my fists against the desire to batter his shield with flame. “How about getting to the point if you actually have one? We’ve got other things we need to be doing.”

  “That is indeed true,” Frederick said, and then added in a flat tone, “We control the cloaks. If you don’t do as we want, they’ll swarm into this city and infect as many people as possible.”

  “Luke was the only one who could control the cloaks,” Jackson said, “and he’s dead.”

  “Luke is certainly dead,” the witch replied, “but the rest of that sentence doesn’t really apply. Luke, I’m afraid, was always destined to burn bright and die fast. He was neither a good strategist nor planner.”

  With that, I had to agree. “None of which negates the fact that if the infected didn’t swarm when he died, they’re unlikely to do it now.”

  “A statement that reveals just how little you truly understand about the virus.” Though I still couldn’t see him, it wasn’t hard to imagine the smug, satisfied smile tugging his lips. It was evident enough in his voice. “Not all of those infected were of the insane variety.”

  “Which still doesn’t alter the fact Luke was the only one who could control any of them.”

  “You forget there are various levels of infection. Those with the scythe marking on their cheeks would certainly have been either wiped out or reduced to mindless, inoperable flesh. But we’re talking about those who retained full brain function yet remained bound to the word of the hive.” He paused. “But not, of course, the ones who are infected but not connected, such as the PIT operatives.”

  “And how would you know PIT has infected operatives?” Jackson asked.

  “Come now, don’t pretend naïveté. I was Luke’s trusted servant for many, many months. I’m well aware of his connection to his brother and the other fae.”

  It was a statement that made me frown. Luke had, by nature, been suspicious of everyone. He wouldn’t have trusted such a powerful witch unless he truly believed that power was his to command—and there was only one way he’d ever believe that.

  “You’re one of the infected, aren’t you?” And the fact that this witch would go that far to achieve Rinaldo’s orders was chilling.

  Jackson glanced at me sharply, but the only reaction from our unseen opponent was a sharpening of amusement.

  “Yes, I am,” Frederick replied. “And because of that, I provide Rinaldo with the required connection to those who are like me.”

  Meaning this witch was like Sam—infected but not bound to the hive? But if that was the case, how could he be the conduit through which Rinaldo could control the cloaks? As far as I was aware, Sam had no such connection. Though, in truth, it wasn’t like he’d tell me if he had. Hell, for all I knew, such a connection was the reason why he’d been so good at hunting down the scythe-marked cloaks.

  And as much as I wanted to tell Rinaldo to prove his claim, we really couldn’t risk it. There were enough infected in this city already, and we didn’t even know the full extent of the spread. We dared not risk it by going any further—a fact Rinaldo was no doubt banking on.

  “Let’s pr
esume you’re telling the truth,” Jackson said. “Why drag us out here? Why couldn’t your boss have said all this when we were talking to him earlier?”

  “Because he needed you to witness the results of disobedience. If he makes a threat, he will follow through.”

  As he spoke, there was a shift in the tension surrounding us. Something was happening out there in the shadows that hugged the century-old trees. Jackson must have felt it, too, because his inner fires flared brighter, and flames were now flickering across his torso and hands. It was tempting to reach out and help him, to dampen his heat and, at the same time, refuel my own, but I resisted. There was really only one way he would find true control, and that was through practice.

  “A message we’ve got,” I said, my voice sharp. “So what else does he want?”

  Because it was hardly likely he’d dragged us into the city merely to emphasize his desire for the satchel notes.

  “What he needs,” Frederick said, “is for you to go into Brooklyn and retrieve some information left there.”

  “What sort of information?” Jackson asked.

  “Research matter, of course.”

  If there was research in Brooklyn, it could have only one source—the two missing scientists. And I really, really, hoped that Rinaldo wasn’t now in control of the pair of them. “Even if we can retrieve the material, what good will it do you? I’m betting neither you nor Rinaldo will be able to understand it.”

  “We have no need to when we control the two men who have been working on finding a cure—or at least a vaccine—for this virus from the beginning.”

  So much for hope. And while I had no idea why Luke had wanted Baltimore and Wilson, given he’d been intent on infecting the world rather than providing a cure, when it came to Rinaldo . . . I shivered. His intentions were undoubtedly very similar, but he was a far bigger threat than Luke would ever have been. Rinaldo was a calm, cool killer—the type who acted only after plenty of planning and forethought. Luke had a habit of lashing out when angry, and that, in many ways, had led to his downfall. We would not have that sort of break with Rinaldo.

  “If you have the scientists, you don’t need anything else,” Jackson said, then silently added, And I don’t believe the bastard has them. I think it’s a bluff.

  Possibly, but it’s not a bluff we can call, I said. If he has got them, how did he get them out of Brooklyn? The army and PIT were monitoring all the exits, both before and after the dry moat was created around it.

  Meaning maybe the research matter he wants isn’t the notes, but the scientists themselves.

  I doubt it. Even if they are there, Rinaldo knows PIT is monitoring our movements. He wouldn’t risk the scientists being taken from us.

  “If we wish to start at the beginning yet again,” Frederick was saying, “that would of course be true. But we don’t, and until both the satchel notes and the notes De Luca hid are found, we require what was left in Brooklyn.”

  “So order the damn cloaks in to get them,” I said.

  “We would if we could, but things are not that simple. Besides, you forget that PIT has the entire area cordoned off.”

  “As have you,” I said. “Or is that fiery, magic-enhanced wall that covers part of Brooklyn not yours?”

  “That dome was created to keep the information secure until retrieval arrangements could be made.”

  There was an odd edge to his voice that had me frowning. “You could have used a shield to hide your presence and walked in, so why didn’t you?”

  “Because it didn’t suit us to.”

  Which meant there was something else going on—something he wasn’t about to tell us. Air brushed past my neck, its touch cold and filled with threat. I briefly studied the shadows clinging to the trunks of the old trees, but I still couldn’t see anything.

  I flexed my fingers. It was tempting, so damn tempting, to send a river of fire through those shadows and reveal whatever might be hiding there. It was even more tempting to smite Frederick’s shield with both flame and the mother’s energy, but a full assault on his barrier would not only drain me, but leave me vulnerable to whatever—whoever—was waiting out there in the darkness.

  Something he was probably hoping for.

  “I get why you’re using us to get into Brooklyn,” I said, “but since you’ve spent a great deal of time boasting what great strategists you and Rinaldo are, why haven’t you already got a line on the location of De Luca’s notes?”

  “Because he was canny, and because Rinaldo couldn’t read him.”

  Meaning Rinaldo wasn’t all-powerful; he still had his restrictions, and that at least meant we had some hope of beating the bastard.

  “The notes we left at our office weren’t De Luca’s,” I said.

  “No, but they’re a good start,” the witch said. “You have twenty-four hours to get into Brooklyn and get the research matter left there. We also wish to receive the satchel notes within that time frame. If you don’t succeed . . .”

  He didn’t finish, but then, he didn’t need to. “Fine,” I ground out. “When and where do we meet again?”

  “Your office will do. Call first—and don’t inform anyone else.”

  He’d barely finished speaking when something sharp hit my neck. I swept a hand up and pulled something thin and metallic from my skin even as Jackson jerked violently, then said, “A dart? What the fuck?”

  “I believe you’re already familiar with the N41A drug,” Frederick continued blithely. His voice was farther away. The bastard was leaving us. “It will achieve what my spell failed to. Don’t follow me, don’t use fire on me, and both of you stay where you are until I’ve left the area.”

  Jackson tried to take a step, and failed. He swore and raised a hand, but his fire did little more than splutter across his fingertips. It certainly didn’t chase after Frederick, as he’d no doubt intended. N41A was the fast-acting drug used by PIT to restrict those with talents such as telekinesis and pyrokinesis. Sam had used it on us both when he’d dragged us down to PIT’s headquarters for questioning. And it had certainly worked—up to a point, anyway. It did restrict my flames, but only because I’d been so low in energy that I hadn’t dared risk returning to my natural fire form. Though I’d never actually witnessed an occurrence, I’d certainly heard enough tales of phoenixes’ lives being snuffed out simply because they’d risked such a shift.

  That wasn’t the case now. I might be bone tired, but that wasn’t exhaustion. I flamed, becoming spirit rather than flesh, and instantly burned the drug from my system.

  Jackson had grabbed the gun from his belt and was now firing in Frederick’s direction. The bullets pinged off the dome, protecting him in much the same manner as the flames had earlier.

  Jackson cursed and shoved the gun back into its holster. “Go get the bastard for me. I’ll head back to the—” He broke the sentence off and frowned.

  I instantly regained human form. “What?”

  He hesitated, then waved a hand. “It’s probably nothing. Go, before the bastard gets away.”

  I shifted back to spirit form and raced after Frederick, moving so fast, flames trailed behind me like a comet’s tail. But the night around me was gaining form and coming to life.

  That presence I’d felt—the presence that had felt so wrong—was red cloaks. They surged out of the shadows, a howling mass of putrid, rotting flesh and hair. Some of them came at me—dove through me—and ran on, not seeming to care, their skin and hair and clothes on fire.

  They weren’t after me. They were after Frederick.

  There was a squeak of surprise from up ahead; then magic surged. An instant later, a howling wind hit us. It battered my flames, forcing me to slow, and sent the cloaks tumbling. Bits of flesh and blood and god knows what else went flying, and I realized then that they didn’t just smell rotten, they were rotting.

 
The wind got stronger, slowing me even further, until it felt like I was battering up against a solid but invisible wall. I swore and gave up the fight. I couldn’t feel Frederick’s presence anyway, even if the force of his magic continued to whip us. That he could do so from such a distance and on the run only emphasized his strength.

  The cloaks were having no more luck against the wind than I was, but they nevertheless kept trying. Maybe they had no other option. Maybe Luke’s very last order had been one aimed at his so-called trusted lieutenant—and if that was the case, then maybe Rinaldo’s boast of controlling the cloaks was little more than hot air.

  I called to the mother again. Her energy surged through me as sweetly as a kiss, then fanned outward, seeming to know what I wanted. As fingers of multicolored flame wrapped around each of the cloaks and incinerated them, a weaker source of fire washed across my senses.

  I spun around. Jackson was running, at least a dozen cloaks on his tail. I swore again and sent the mother’s fire racing forward even as I followed her. As the cinders of the cloaks began to rain across the ground, Jackson spun around and pointed to the Nicholson Street side of the Royal Exhibition Building. “There’re other people in the park,” he said, shouting against the howling wind. “They’re also under attack.”

  I altered direction and raced past the old fountain. The wind abruptly fell silent, and screams filled the void. As I neared the corner, I shifted back to human form. No matter how much I wanted to help whoever was being attacked, I wasn’t about to out myself. Far too many people already knew about my existence—any more, and we’d have to leave. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Melbourne just yet.

  Around the corner, I discovered chaos.

  There were a dozen red cloaks and five humans—three men and two women. Two of the men and one of the women were already down, their clothes torn and bodies bloodied. Several red cloaks knelt beside each of them, but they weren’t feeding. They were dragging their claws deep into their skin, cutting them open. Infecting them.

  A shudder that was part fury, part horror, went through me, and fire exploded from my body—fire that was both mine and the mother’s. Flaming arrows that burned with all the colors of creation hit each of the cloaks, and as their ashes rained across the pavement, the remaining woman dropped to her knees and started crying. Her companion knelt beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders, but his gaze sought mine.