The offices of Hawk Enterprises took up the front quarter of a warehouse, with the rest of the building left open for real-time modeling of X-stunts using VR suits and the semipermanent half-pipes and ramps they’d built with some of the early money. At the moment, most of the pending projects were either in the conception phase or final testing, so the stunt area was deserted. That was a relief, because it could get damn loud back there when the adrenaline junkies got the music blasting and started trying to outdo one another.
Bypassing the break room—no way he was offering his uninvited guest coffee until he knew what the guy wanted—Nate headed down a short corridor to the conference room.
Whereas the developers had each done up their own offices—ranging from Nate’s all-black to Glitch’s ode to Battlestar Galactica—the conference room looked pretty normal. The same could not be said for the man who stood staring through the floor-length windows overlooking the half-pipe in the warehouse beyond. He was six-five if he was an inch, with long black hair dropping to his massive shoulders and features that looked like they belonged in Viking Warrior 5: Odin’s Return. He was wearing black cargo pants, scarred lace-up boots, and a wide webbed utility belt, with a white button-down shirt that saved the look from being straight out of military-surplus -goes-Goth. Barely.
The stranger turned and took a long look that made Nate feel as though he were being judged, or maybe weighed. ‘‘You’re Nathan Blackhawk,’’ the guy said. It wasn’t a question.
‘‘And you’re trespassing,’’ Nate replied, more or less pleasantly. ‘‘Lucky for you I’m in a good mood. You’ve got five minutes.’’
‘‘That’ll do.’’ The stranger shot his cuffs, unbuttoned one, and bared his right forearm to reveal four black-ink tattoos: a stylized leopard’s head of some sort, along with three unfamiliar symbols that stirred something deep inside Nate.
‘‘Nice ink,’’ he said casually, wondering if he should call Denjie in, or maybe the cops. This guy was registering pretty high on the freak-o-meter.
‘‘Ever seen anything like it?’’
‘‘Should I have?’’
‘‘Where’d you get the chain?’’ the stranger asked, jerking his chin at Nate’s chest. ‘‘The hawk medallion.’’
‘‘None of your goddamn business,’’ Nate said, trying to keep it on the level, though the pucker factor was rising quickly. ‘‘You’re down to four minutes and you’re bugging me. I’d suggest you state your business or go away.’’
‘‘I need to talk to you about your parents.’’
The single sentence, the dream of so many kids in the foster system, shot through him on a sizzle of anger. He pointed to the door. ‘‘Get. Out.’’
‘‘Or not.’’ The stranger moved suddenly, grabbing Nate’s wrist.
The battle rage of Nate’s youth rose fast and hard, and he twisted away and swung a punch. The stranger dodged, got his wrist again, and barked out a word.
And everything went gray-green.
Nate howled and flailed, and suddenly they were outside on the warehouse roof. Scratch that; they were five feet above the warehouse roof for a second before they fell, slamming down in a heap. The stranger recovered first, mostly because Nate felt like he was about to barf up a lung. The guy dragged Nate up, got him halfway over the edge of the roof, and held him there by the front of his shirt. ‘‘Are you ready to listen to me yet?’’
Nate didn’t answer. He gaped. ‘‘How . . . what . . . ?’’ The stranger nodded, cobalt blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something else, something that glittered gold for a moment, then was gone. He reached into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt, withdrew a card, and tucked it into Nate’s shirt pocket. ‘‘Call this number when you’re ready to hear what I have to say. Better yet, just show up at that address. We’ll explain, and we’ll show you how to use the power that’s in your blood.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Bad luck, you losing your protector so young. We’ve got someone lined up for you, a man named Carlos. He’ll get you up to speed.’’
‘‘Screw you,’’ Nate snapped. ‘‘I have a business to run.’’
Okay, so maybe that was just about the dumbest possible response to being teleported and hung halfway off the side of his own roof, but he was pretty rattled.
‘‘Your games won’t matter worth shit four years from now unless you help us out.’’ The stranger cocked his head. ‘‘You want to save the world? You’re not going to do it with history lectures disguised as video games.’’
‘‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me how I am?’’
‘‘You bet your ass.’’ The stranger tapped the card. ‘‘Call me.’’ Then he pulled Nate in, away from the edge, and sent him stumbling across the roof.
When Nate turned back, the other man was gone.
Exhausted and nursing the beginnings of a hell of a postmagic hangover—though the shock value had been way worth it—Strike headed for the parking lot outside Blackhawk’s converted warehouse, where he’d parked the lame-ass minivan he’d rented rather than risking a series of teleports he was nowhere near ready to navigate.
He was getting better at ’porting, which required him to picture either a person or a place as a destination. If he thought of a person, the travel thread would appear and take him to their location. If he thought of a place, the thread took him there. He could zap someplace he’d never been based on a photo, but had to be careful about being seen. More, he had to be absolutely certain that he pictured his destination accurately, or he could get his ass stuck halfway between, or worse. Ergo, he was being stingy with his teleports . . . except that the stunt he’d just pulled with Blackhawk, thinking ‘‘roof’’ and getting there, suggested the power stretched farther than any of them suspected.
He wasn’t ready to see how far he could push it, though. Thus, the minivan. Once he was in the car, he phoned home.
Jox picked up the call on the fourth ring, and after they’d done the hey, how are you thing, asked, ‘‘How’d it go with Blackhawk?’’
‘‘We’ll see. He’s going to be tough. Wanted nothing to do with me at first.’’ Strike popped on his cell phone’s headset, cranked the engine, and headed for his next appointment, which was in a seriously seedy part of the city.
Carter had finally tracked down the last winikin, servant to the serpent bloodline . . . in a mental institution. Through him, the investigator had managed to find the grown Nightkeeper child, also in Denver. The coincidence of two survivors both winding up in the same city had given Strike a bad vibe, as had Snake Mendez himself when he’d gotten the guy on the phone.
Seriously bad vibes. Like pack a MAC and some jade-tips bad. Which might’ve had something to do with Carter’s mentioning an outstanding arrest warrant for assault and battery.
‘‘You change his mind?’’ Jox asked about Blackhawk.
‘‘Either that or I scared the ever-living shit out of him,’’ Strike admitted. ‘‘I sort of zapped him onto the roof and dangled him over the side.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, he’ll show. The hawk bloodline has too much magic and ego for him to blow it off.’’ The doorbell chimed in the background, and Jox said, ‘‘Hang on; someone’s here. Let me just—’’ He broke off, and then said, ‘‘Hannah.’’
And the line went dead.
Jox saw her through the wiggly glass panel beside the front door—just a glimpse, then gone as she reached for the doorbell and rang it a second time. It might’ve been anyone—anyone female, at least—but he knew it was her. Maybe it was the way she moved, maybe the bright colors she was wearing—strong purples and reds and greens. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. But there wasn’t an iota of doubt in his brain. Hannah had come.
So why, exactly, was he still standing there like he’d grown roots?
‘‘No real reason,’’ he muttered, and forced his feet to unstick. He crossed the foyer and opened the door as she was aiming for doorbell ring number three. ‘‘Why are you ringin
g?’’ Jox said. ‘‘This is your home as much as—’’
He broke off as she turned to him, and he saw that the jade green scarf she wore tied around her head was more necessity than fashion statement, dipping across her forehead at an angle and covering her left eye and ear. From beneath the lower edge of the scarf, parallel scars trailed across her cheek and the side of her neck. Six of them.
‘‘Hullo, Jox,’’ she said.
‘‘Hannah.’’ Those damn roots were at it again; he couldn’t move. He told himself to just step up, and hug her, for gods’ sake. They’d been friends. Hell, he’d kissed her. Twenty-four years ago, but it still counted, right?
Only that’d been before. After, they’d said that night, and dared to make plans. Except now it was after, and nothing had gone as they’d hoped. He wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to tell her he still sometimes dreamed about that night, when he’d heard her scream and ran the other way. He wanted to let her know that he’d cried when he’d realized she’d made it out with the baby. He wanted to tell her that he’d carried her address with him for nearly a decade before finally acknowledging that he was never going to call. But the roots had spread up to his tongue, and he couldn’t get the words out. Just stood there staring like a moron.
Her good eye, which had been soft and hopeful when he’d opened the door, slowly darkened with disappointment. Her lips turned down, farther on one side than the other because of the scars. She glanced back toward the parking area, like she might head back to her car and take off, but then she squared her shoulders beneath her brightly printed floral shirt and stared him down. ‘‘Awful, isn’t it?’’
‘‘No,’’ he said, but it came out too weak. ‘‘Hannah, no. Never.’’ He moved toward her, but it was too late.
She stepped back on the pretext of bending to pick up her duffel—it was black with turquoise and pink flowers—and slung the strap over her shoulder. ‘‘Where to?’’
‘‘You’re the first to arrive,’’ he said, finally getting his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth. ‘‘Where’s . . . I guess calling her ‘the baby’ doesn’t work anymore.’’
That got a smile out of her. ‘‘She’d kick your butt for trying. My Patience teaches martial arts. She’s a real warrior.’’
‘‘Now that’s good news. Where is she?’’
‘‘She’ll be here.’’ Hannah sagged a little under the weight of the duffel, but when he moved to take it she shook her head. ‘‘I’m fine. Just point me to a bedroom and I’ll unload.’’
He waved to the mansion at large. ‘‘Take your pick. We stripped the rooms and redid the walls and floors, so you’ve got your choice between drywall and carpet or drywall and hardwood, but you can tap the fund for paint and whatever. Just grab a room and have at it.’’
‘‘Are you in your father’s quarters?’’
‘‘Yeah, I . . . yeah.’’ It’d been beyond difficult to move into the three-room apartment, but it made the most sense, given its proximity to the royal suite. Of course, that was before Strike moved into the pool house, unable to stay in his parents’ quarters—or anywhere else in the mansion, for that matter. Which had made Jox’s room choice sort of pointless.
Hannah gave an of course you did nod. ‘‘Then I’ll take one of the singles in the winikin’s wing.’’
‘‘You don’t have to,’’ he protested. ‘‘There’s room for all of us in the main building.’’
‘‘It wouldn’t feel right. You, of all people, should know that.’’
‘‘What’s that supposed to mean?’’
‘‘Nothing bad.’’ She closed the distance between them and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. She smiled at him, and the expression was a touch sad, but it stripped away the years and the scars, and he could see the girl he’d known. ‘‘Only that your sense of propriety was too bone-deep to have changed, even after all this time.’’ Without waiting for an answer, she brushed past him and headed for the hall leading to the winikin’s wing.
Jox cursed under his breath. That had so not gone the way he’d planned. He should follow her. He should ask for a do-over, ask if he could give her a hug, a kiss— hell, a kidney. He was halfway across the sunken great room, headed to do just that, when the phone rang.
He hesitated. Told himself to ignore it, to do what he wanted for a change rather than what he was supposed to do. He made it two more steps. . . .
Then he cursed, detoured to the kitchen, and grabbed the ringing phone. ‘‘Jox here.’’
‘‘It’s Carver,’’ the PI said. ‘‘I found the last two.’’
Jox closed his eyes. He’d found the twins. Thank the gods. ‘‘Where are they?’’
‘‘Dead.’’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Strike navigated the minivan through a twisty series of increasingly narrow streets made narrower by strategic piles of trash. The slow summer dusk had caught up with him, and he flicked on the rental’s headlights. The yellow beams picked out the last landmark he’d been given— the freshly burned-out shell of an apartment building, with the busted-out windows and debris that went with such an event.
According to Carter, the fire had broken out the night of the solstice. Strike hoped to hell that was a coincidence.
The buildings on either side didn’t look much better than the torched wreck. Their windows were blank, broken, or boarded up—sometimes a mix of all three— indicating that they were empty . . . or at least not occupied by tenants of the paying variety.
Strike parked nose-out in case he had to make a quick exit, and made sure the night dwellers got a look at the autopistol when he climbed out of the mom-mobile. He set the alarm, and the minivan gave an ineffective-sounding beep-beep and blinked its lights twice, like an obedient poodle sit-staying in the middle of a minefield. The lights did that delayed-off thing, lighting Strike’s way to what used to be the front door of the burned-out wreck.
When he heard the slide of footsteps and the clink of metal-on-metal behind him, he said, ‘‘You don’t want to mess with me. It’s been a long damn day and I just want to do my business and get out of here.’’
He didn’t expect a response, so it was a surprise when a shadow detached itself from a doorway and sauntered toward him. It was even more of a surprise to see that it was a woman, and a hell of a sexy one at that.
She was long and lean, her face sharp enough to be interesting instead of pretty. Her hair was blue-black and slicked away from her face, and she wore a white halter top along with tight black leather pants and tall boots, an outfit that would’ve gotten her in trouble in this sort of neighborhood if she hadn’t accessorized it with a Beretta nine-millimeter on one side and a cute little .22 chick gun on the other.
By the time she reached him the minivan headlights had clicked off. In the reflected moonlight, he saw her tilt her head and give him an up-and-down. ‘‘What sort of business?’’
‘‘My own.’’
‘‘Try again.’’
‘‘Don’t have to.’’
He thought she’d insist. Instead, she curved her lips in a sweet smile and melted back into the darkness, until all that was left of her was a faint, mocking chuckle. ‘‘Well, then, Strike. Have at it.’’
Which meant either she worked for Snake Mendez, or she was prescient. With the general dearth of actual magic among humankind, Strike was betting on the former as he headed into the damaged building, kicking in the door when the knob jammed.
It wasn’t like he was going for stealth. He just wanted the meeting over with.
Cinders crunched underfoot when he strode into the building, damning himself for a fool for not having brought the basics, like night-vision goggles or—duh— a flashlight.
‘‘Sloppy,’’ he said to himself, and halfway thought of trying a quick light spell. But although teleporting came naturally, he’d been struggling with some of the other basics and didn’t want to risk a misfire. So he worked by moonlight, moving farther into the building, trying to ma
ke out the shapes of what had once been walls and doorways.
‘‘You Strike?’’ a deep voice said without warning, seeming to come from all around him.
Strike raised the MAC, though there was nothing to shoot at but dark and more dark. ‘‘You’re a hard guy to track down, Mendez.’’
‘‘A smart man would’ve taken the hint.’’
A roadside flare hissed to cherry red life, sputtering as it was tossed in a spinning arc. It landed on a pile of fire debris off to Strike’s right, bathing the scene in an eerie red glow. In the blood-colored illumination, a tall figure materialized out of the shadows, staying close to what looked like a door, or maybe a busted-out window. An escape route. Which made sense, given that Mendez had a warrant outstanding on him.
‘‘I need you to come back to New Mexico with me,’’ Strike said. He lowered the pistol. ‘‘I can tell you about your family.’’
‘‘I know everything I need to know.’’ But Mendez moved forward into the light. The flare showed a big, towering man with a shaved-bald head, sharp features, and pale, intelligent eyes. None of that was a surprise— all of the Nightkeepers were larger than average and practically oozed charisma. The other man’s loose gray long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and skids weren’t surprising, either, though they were tamer than Strike would’ve expected, given the setting. What was surprising were the tattoos, both because the narrow cuffs of arcane symbols at his wrists were vaguely familiar, and because it was one of the rules the winikin had been charged with upholding: The young Nightkeepers weren’t supposed to mark their skin. The skin was sacred to the gods, as was blood.
The big man followed Strike’s gaze. His eyes flashed as he lifted his hands, crossing his wrists so the tattooed cuffs formed a world cross, the ancestor’s icon for the ceiba tree. ‘‘You don’t approve, Nochem?’’
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