Nyx (NINE Series, Book #4)

by Loren Walker

  "You're right. That was dumb of me."

  Phaira studied her older brother: how there were new lines on his already-wrinkled forehead, how loose his clothes were. How broken he seemed.

  “I don’t even know if Cohen will show tonight,” she blurted out. “Or Theron, or any of them. It could be a trick.”

  The way Renzo took in a sharp breath, like he was getting a knife in the gut, gave her the answer. She couldn’t read her older brother’s face, or thoughts.

  This was bad. The severing was bad this time.

  "Ren, I have to go," she finally said. "It's almost midnight.”

  She turned to leave, but hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, running down the cool metal. Familiar.

  Then she looked over her shoulder at her brother. “Will you watch remotely? From here?"

  Renzo glanced up at her.

  Phaira tried to give him a smile, but her mouth wouldn't work. "You can find some cameras to hack into by the bridge, I'm sure."

  Renzo frowned. "What are you asking me, really?"

  Scenarios flashed through her head. Death, Chaos. All likely. She needed a tether.

  "If I call you for help, will you come?"

  Renzo pressed his mouth together.

  "Will you come if I call?" Phaira asked again, emphasizing each word.

  Renzo got up from the bed, balancing on one foot. Holding on the edge of the wall, he hopped to a crate in the corner, buried under clothes and tools that clanged against the ground as he shoved them aside. He rustled through the contents and pulled something free. White and rippling. Familiar.

  "Did you stabilize it?" she asked, stung by his silence. She was on her own, she knew that now.

  Renzo tossed it to her. Then he inched his way back to the bed and flopped on his back with a grunt.

  Finally, Renzo spoke: "You were sleeping with Theron this whole time?"

  In this moment, she hated her brother and everything he represented, every way in which he brought out her worst parts.

  In her silence, Renzo snorted, in a way that made her temper flare.

  Words pushed at the inside of her mouth: insults, accusations.

  A new path. A new direction, she reminded herself. Away from drugs, and pettiness, and letting emotions get the better of me.

  He is who he is. And so am I.

  She turned away from her brother, balling the stealthsuit under one arm.

  But Phaira paused mid-step, looking over her shoulder. “I care more than you think,” she announced. A final fling of a knife.

  Then Phaira exited the cabin, heading to the Arazura's lower level.

  V.

  When the twin moons were overhead, and the purple night was starless, Phaira stood before the East-West Lea bridge. Construction warnings had removed all traffic from the bridge; false signs to ensure that this tenuous, momentous meeting was not interrupted.

  The wind cut through the stealthsuit as Phaira walked with the lightest stride, no sound against the ground as she checked for signs of surveillance. Not that she could be seen on video, if there was. Her assumptions had been correct; Renzo had stabilized the old white stealthsuit, and it sprang to life the moment she activated it, to her pleasure. Now it remained humming, and her invisibility was constant, as she wove through downtown Lea, and made her way past the construction warnings onto the bridge, past the support frames, heavily bolted, triangles in every configuration. There were so many different nooks that she could duck into, but she was hesitant; she didn’t want her legs to grow numb, and inactive from waiting.

  It was strange to be on the asphalt, so high above the river. The river drowned the sounds of the city out, the further she walked along. She'd never been on this particular bridge, but she had stared at one like it, in one of many North industrial cities she'd lived in, wondering what it would be like to throw herself off. If it would hurt. If it wouldn’t work, and she'd be left broken forever.

  To ground herself, Phaira felt the weapons on her frame: the katana down the length of her spine, the knife at her hip, and the Compact firearm that Ozias had given her, all strapped down, so she could move, but easily accessible, in case she couldn’t. And she wore a HALO, dug out from the Arazura; still active, she hoped, as she looped it around the back of her head.

  Midnight was approaching. Phaira paced along the center of the bridge, walking heel to toe to avoid any sound. The wind grew louder, making strange sounds through the metal beams.

  Then, movement.

  Barely perceptible, but Phaira caught it, and froze in mid-step, instinctively checking to make sure the suit was still activated. She was still invisible.

  But shadows were moving on both ends of the bridge.

  On one side, a familiar silhouette, next to a smaller, thinner one. Phaira held her breath. Cohen and Sydel. They were walking out into the bridge, holding hands. No one followed them. Phaira craned her neck, searching for signs of Ozias, or any of the patrol. They had to be out there somewhere, waiting and watching. Wouldn’t they?

  Just because they said they went with patrol doesn’t mean they were telling the truth.

  Panic strangled her throat, and she tilted her head back to stretch it out, to breathe and compose herself. She had just assumed that patrol would be there. What if they weren’t? What if Cohen and Sydel had stolen away on their own, and Ozias had no idea?

  She had to get a signal out to the detective, somehow. Phaira pressed her lips together, feeling the sweat at her brow and in the small of her back. Maybe she could activate her Lissome, steal a quick message, and no one would see. But it would mean pulling the device out, and activating it, and sending out a signal that could be tracked, could pinpoint her location on the bridge.

  Did she dare, when she was already in the perfect place to observe, and react?

  The back of her neck prickled. Without turning her head, Phaira slid her gaze to the opposite side of the bridge.

  Pale silhouettes walking in sync, men, and women, wearing white, surprisingly, white so blinding that they radiated. Their dark shadows crept behind them, stretching across the length of the bridge, like bodyguards to be flung as needed.

  The one in the front, she knew that man. She flashed back to Anandi’s party, so many weeks ago in Honorwell, when chaos erupted, and Theron’s grandfather was there, making threats. The man lumbering down the bridge had been there, whispering into the grandfather’s ear.

  Bianco Sava.

  Staring at his approach, Phaira took little sips of air, and consciously flexed each of her calf muscles, then leg muscles, then shoulders, biceps and forearms in a steady pattern. In her peripheral vision, she saw that Cohen and Sydel were in the center of the bridge, ten feet. Could they sense her? Could Sydel, even with Phaira wearing the HALO? She watched for any sense that her brother and her friend could tell that she was crouched, invisible, and watching.

  As Bianco drew closer, Cohen put his hand on the small of Sydel’s back, as if to steady her. Did he notice how ashen she was? Phaira longed to reveal herself, to turn off the HALO and reach out to Sydel, but she grit her teeth and remained still.

  Neither turned their heads in her direction, but both watched as Bianco and his followers drew closer. Ten in all, behind him. Phaira didn’t recognize any of the faces, but she could smell them: the cologne, the sweat, the low-level anxiety, along with the stink of the river below. Briefly, she wondered whether she emitted any kind of odor, or if Bianco was watching with heat-signature. Suddenly, her plan to be invisible on the bridge seemed incredibly silly.

  Bianco took the lead then.

  He looks ridiculous in white, Phaira thought. In the color, he was pale and sour, and smug, his stomach stretching the lapels of his jacket.

  Sydel tensed, gripping Cohen’s hand tighter the closer Bianco came.

  He stopped six feet from her, his arms behind his back, looking her up and down.

  "My daughter," was his only remark. “Hmph.”

  "I'm nothing of your
s," Sydel said, her voice higher-pitched, but with a bite in her words.

  “All right, no-daughter-of-mine,” Bianco said smoothly. “Why are you here? You were not invited.”

  Sydel lifted her chin. “I'm here to tell you to stop."

  Bianco barked out a laugh. "Stop what? You'll have to be more specific."

  Sydel spoke through her teeth, her voice half-carried away by the wind. "You might think that you're untouchable, but you're not."

  Bianco's men oohed and laughed, but their leader held up a hand. Phaira's eyes went to the sleeve of his jacket, the stiffness of his right arm. There was something about it that set off suspicion. Artificial? A weapon concealed?

  "Are you challenging your father to a fight?" Bianco asked, much quieter, and with far more interest.

  Phaira’s stomach rolled. What did that mean?

  Cohen glanced at Sydel. Bianco caught it too. “Your boyfriend isn’t fond of that idea.”

  "I make my own decisions," Sydel said.

  Bianco cocked his head, peering at Sydel with such intensity that it made Phaira squirm. There was sweat on her upper lip, and she longed to wipe it away. Cohen's hand tightened at the small of Sydel's back.

  "I hear you're sick,” Bianco announced. “Perhaps even dying?"

  Sydel gasped. Cohen jolted hard. Phaira felt the rip in his heart as if it were her own. Cohen, she lamented. I’m sorry.

  Observing their reactions, Bianco sighed. "So it’s true? What a waste.”

  Phaira’s temper flared at that, and she had to push her fingernails into her palms to calm her anger. Cohen wasn’t holding it back much better; Phaira could feel the tension rippling off Cohen, how he clenched his jaw under his beard. She heard the men behind Bianco, chortling. They enjoyed the tension, it seemed. Phaira found the jugular vein in each of their necks, marking them with an invisible X.

  Sydel was the first to speak, throwing out her first accusation: "Did you hold CaLarca, in the time between the Kings Canyon massacre, and when we found her at the bottom of that crevice? Those two weeks?"

  Bianco didn't blink. "I did."

  "Why?" Cohen burst out, surprising them all.

  "Curiosity," Bianco said. "First, to see what she was capable of. Then to ensure that she could be controlled as needed, so she could remain close to you and determine your potential."

  Phaira shuddered at the terminology. And Sydel was equally disgusted, given the look on her face. "You've been controlling her? From afar?"

  "Keeping watch," Bianco corrected. "Ensuring she does what I want. Reacts as I wish, and tests your limits, Sydel."

  Phaira's brow furrowed. So, the CaLarca on the ship, that wasn't the real CaLarca? She had been unconsciously prodded to behave a certain way? Somehow, Phaira had a hard time believing that the sour, combative woman was any other way.

  "If you have been with the Savas all this time," Sydel began slowly. "You knew about Kings Canyon, and Keller Sava. You knew they were hunting the rest of the NINE down, and they were working with Huma and other NINE. You must have known. "

  "Of course I knew," Bianco corrected. "I gave Keller Sava the inspiration. Told him about Huma. I was curious to see what he would do with it, and all the information I left in the underground base. It went further than I thought it would, though they were all a disappointment in the end."

  Sydel took a step forward. Phaira watched Cohen’s hand move to take hold of Sydel’s elbow. She saw how his throat rippled with a swallow. But there was more: there was tension through his right side, to a focal point on his thigh. He was armed, Phaira realized. He was activating something. She swiveled her head, searching for any signs in the darkness, on the river bank, in the windows, so far away on the skyline.

  “That's enough talk, no-daughter,” Binaco said finally. “I have an appointment to keep, and I would suggest you get off this bridge. One stay of execution is all I can offer.”

  “This is my business,” Sydel said. “You, and Theron Sava, all the destruction you are causing and the people you’ve hurt. It stops tonight.”

  More laughter from the group behind Bianco, but there were some wary expressions as well, and hands sliding under jackets.

  “What are you going to do, Sydel?” Bianco murmured, so quietly that Phaira had to strain to hear. “Do you have the courage to reach inside my brain and kill me?”

  She could do that? Phaira stared at the girl’s profile, both aghast and curious. What a power to have, if that were true. And why wouldn’t it be? After everything that Phaira had seen, anything was possible when it came to Sydel. If she were to do such a thing as reach into someone's brain and shut off life, what would it be like? A snap, a fall, like a row of dominos?

  Her interest turned to dread. Sydel's health was on the brink. If she tried to use her NINE abilities in any way, she might die. Bianco didn’t know that, but Phaira did. Would she dare?

  “Do you think you can do it before I can?” Bianco continued to whisper. “Are you certain of that?”

  Don’t, Sydel, Phaira begged in her mind. It’s not who you are, even if he’s horrible and deserves it. Let me do it. She felt the fire in her hands, the muscles and the tense joints, and saw all the places she could strike at that fat, old man. Her focus was cooling and narrowing, blue swimming through her body. The element of surprise, the exposure of arteries, the folds of his neck, begging to be cut. Her head lowered, and adrenaline pulsed through her limbs.

  Now.

  Phaira reached back to remove the blade from her back.

  Her hand stopped when she heard a whine.

  It came from somewhere behind Bianco; he seemed annoyed as he turned to speak over his shoulder. Phaira lowered her hand, confused, hoping the swish of her movement had been masked by the wind and river.

  A cowed older man appeared, dressed all in brown, holding a toddler boy in his arms. The man had heavy lines in his face, and held the boy tightly. The boy had dark brown hair, and golden skin, and his face had the chubbiness of infancy. He was the source of the whine, rubbing his eyes and clutching a stuffed rabbit. When his eyes opened fully to look around the bridge, Phaira could see that they were wide and black.

  Phaira's insides froze. The video of the assault, of Theron and CaLarca. The boy in the video, passed over to CaLarca. Covered in blood and dirt.

  CaLarca's son. This was CaLarca’s son.

  Phaira wasn’t the only one who made the connection. Sydel’s jaw had dropped at the sight. Cohen’s brow furrowed, looking from Sydel to Bianco. Then realization came over him. "That’s CaLarca’s kid. Why do you have CaLarca’s kid?”

  Bianco reached out for the boy, who shrank away from the man’s meaty hands. Bianco pointed his finger into the boy’s face, staring the child down until he cowered and allowed himself to be taken. The older man let him, keeping his eyes on the ground.

  “I made a mistake, Sydel,” Bianco announced, hoisting the boy against his shoulder. “I should have raised you myself. Taught you to develop your skills properly, instead of wasting your life in some country commune.”

  This time, Cohen did reach out and hold Sydel back.

  “Instead, I placed my care and attention into unworthy children,” Bianco said, gazing into the boy’s frightened face, “who grow up to be disappointing men."

  He's talking about Theron, Phaira realized with a start.

  "Now a new chapter begins,” Bianco continued, holding the boy tighter. “A chance to get the experiment right this time, from the start.”

  “No.” Sydel’s voice carried across the bridge. “No, you won’t. I won’t let you.”

  “Unless you’d like to come with me, and ensure the boy’s safe upbringing,” Bianco said smoothly. “Show him everything you wish you’d learned.”

  Phaira saw the temptation cross Sydel’s face; the notion to self-sacrifice, to help someone in the little time she had left. Presenting a good role model of a NINE, like she had always wanted.

  Bianco caressed the boy's face with
his hand. When he did, the boy dropped his stuffed rabbit.

  The man in brown stooped down, as Bianco continued to speak: "So, Sydel, I - "

  A flash of metal. A pearl-handled knife swung in and out of Bianco’s side.

  Five rapid strikes, making loud puncture noises.

  Hitting major organs, Phaira knew immediately, as she held back her scream of surprise.

  The man in brown snatched the boy from Bianco’s surprised hands. His clothes were now sprayed with blood, but his head was different: not dark-haired and male, but braided and female.

  CaLarca.

  And before Phaira could react, CaLarca and her son vanished, as if someone had pulled a shade down over them. There was no trace, or movement, or breath of either of them, despite the frantic henchmen and their panicked yells to grab her and find her. Phaira craned her neck, searching. How could she just disappear like that? How did she turn into that man?

  In the center of the bridge, Bianco stood, trying to hold in his insides.

  Human, Phaira thought with a sneer. Mind control all you want, but you bleed like everyone else.

  Ten feet away, Sydel held onto Cohen, tears on her bird-thin face.

  “Daughter,” Bianco rasped, reaching out a bloodied palm. “Heal me.”

  Sydel stared at her father, her fist pressed against her breastbone as if to hold in her heart.

  Syd, don’t! Phaira pleaded with her mind, tempted to rip off her HALO and try to project.

  “Heal me,” Bianco repeated, desperation in his voice.

  Slowly, Sydel shook her head back and forth.

  Bianco fell to his knees.

  Behind him, ten gold pistols were drawn in unison, glinting in the moonlight, directed at Cohen and Sydel.

  Phaira sprinted forward and leapt on Bianco’s back. The man squawked with surprise, flailing at the sudden pressure. The Savas lowered their guns, dumbfounded at what was going on, until Phaira deactivated the suit, pressing the barrel of her Compact firearm into his temple.

  “He's going to die now, or in ten minutes,” she announced to the group. “If you lower your weapons, you have time to get him the medical attention he needs.”