Edie looked forward as Mercy, who had finished saying goodbye the others, came to a stop in front of her once again. She ran a hand through her bubblegum-pink mane, brows drawn. “When will you be back?”
“It shouldn’t be more than a couple weeks,” Edie promised, though she couldn’t be certain. She wasn’t planning on being gone for more than a couple weeks, but best-laid plans and all that.
If she was honest, there was a chance she wouldn’t be coming back at all. Not alive, anyway. They both knew it without having to say anything.
“Are you all packed?” Mercy asked, taking her friend’s hands and pulling her into a tight embrace.
Edie hugged her back. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure? You have everything?”
“Yep. It’s all there.”
Reluctantly, Mercy pulled back from the hug. But as she did, she grabbed Edie's forearms, keeping her from pulling away. "Stay safe," she said quietly, staring into her eyes.
Edie swallowed. "You, too. Don't take risks. And get your parents out of here as soon as you can."
"I know," Mercy responded with a nod. "They're already back in the Cape. With a little extra protection, thanks to the Reach."
There was a moment of silence, and the two embraced one last time, tighter and longer. When Edie finally pulled away, she couldn't look at her friend's face. Leaving Mercy went against every one of her instincts, but it just wasn't safe to bring her along. Thank god for Tilda and Fisk.
It wasn't until Edie had walked to Ghost that she glanced back at the people they were leaving behind. Please keep them alive, she prayed, to no one in particular. Whoever was willing to listen, at this point.
The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the backseat, watching out the rear window as they emerged from the parking garage.
Beside her, Marius was looking forward. But he caught her eye when she turned, and tilted his head. "They're safer staying than we are going."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I know."
That was part of what was scaring her.
Freezing rain was beating on the car by the time the group reached the safe house Klein had ended up going to. Klein stood just outside the doorway, scanning the street cautiously. On either side of them, men in dark tactical armor stood, keeping silent watch. The new Reach mercenaries, Edie guessed, finally in position. And it seemed like no one was giving them trouble yet.
Ever since the New Gloaming had appeared, seeing people battle-ready with armor and weapons had become an everyday thing. The human police didn't even bother to intervene anymore—they simply cleaned up the mess when the fighting was over. In fact, it seemed to Edie that most unattuned governing bodies were withdrawing from the city rather than buckling down and militarizing like she’d expected them to.
She didn't know which option was more terrifying. There were still unattuned humans living here, and the force she and her friends were trying to build wasn't yet big enough to contend with the full power of the Gloaming. They couldn't protect them all. It made her physically ill to think about.
A knock on her tiny window startled her, but she was relieved to look up and see Klein waving. Beside them stood one of the mercs. Cal climbed out of the front seat and chatted with him while Edie scooted to make room for Klein.
"Hello, fellow sardines," the wight said as they climbed behind the driver's seat and into the back.
Edie waved, squirming a bit. The middle seat wasn't the most comfortable place to be in an old Cadillac, especially considering there was no security, but Cal had made it abundantly clear that they were lucky to have seat belts in even the standard areas. It also meant she was now snuggled up to Marius. His thigh was tense against hers.
"This thing is a fucking yacht!" Klein remarked as they settled in, gazing around the car's interior. "How the hell do you even find anywhere to park it?"
Ghost growled rather sharply, and Klein raised a brow.
"Her name is Ghost,” Satara said from the front seat, looking up from her book with a small smirk. “She can hear you."
Klein's mouth turned into a little O, and they drew their hands away from the leather seat they had been caressing. "Sorry, ma'am." Then they looked down at Edie's lap and squinted behind their glasses. "Do you all wanna switch places? Musical chairs sucks, but I don't really need the seat belt, on account of the deathlessness."
"It's fine," Marius answered quickly.
Edie looked at him and smiled. It was nice to see him being polite to creatures of darkness or whatever. He smiled back uncertainly.
The car rocked as Cal settled back in, and Satara traded her book for her cell phone, into which she plugged the address of Tilda’s apartment. Edie took a deep breath and one last look at Anster as they sped toward the interstate.
It was time to go after Indriði, stop the Gloaming, and find the other hellerune. Sink or swim.
Chapter Three
As Scarlet stepped out of Indriði's limousine and into the noise of Midtown Manhattan, her spirits lifted. After spending a week underground, helping her new boss store the contents of her raided townhouse and formulating plans for her Watchers, she was eager to see the place where they would actually be living while here. She took a deep breath of night air and looked up at the glittering shafts of the Baccarat Hotel's crystal windows.
“Home sweet home,” Indriði said from in front of her, having stepped out first. “For now.” Bedecked in sapphire jewelry and a dress of soft white leather, the Norn looked like a natural fixture outside of this grand building. She smiled at Scarlet and gestured for her to follow her past the chic outdoor fireplace and through the main entryway.
A dark vestibule of slate and marble enveloped them. To one side, an art piece made of crystal glasses was illuminated by a spotlight, twinkling in the dim room. After a short elevator ride up to the second floor, they bypassed the front desk without a glance, though Scarlet could feel the concierge watching them. There was no doubt that they were expected.
As they entered the grand salon, Scarlet tried not to stare in awe like some kind of rube, but it was difficult. Every inch of the place shone bright and clean, from the silk-covered walls stretching over twenty feet above them to the polished parquet floors. Large globes of red roses dotted the space, breaking up the white like vibrant rubies. Within the intimate nooks of the salons, a few guests—all dressed to the nines despite the late hour—shared nightcaps. Even the furniture looked cliquish, gathered into little groups. And all this dripping with millions of dollars’ worth of French crystal.
Such excess was considered almost profane in New England; the people here made it seem natural.
The clicking of Indriði's heels against the parquet called Scarlet to attention again, and she walked faster to keep up with her boss. She liked Indriði. She didn't want the Norn to think less of her because the lavishness didn't yet come as naturally as it should. She was used to being excessive, of course ... just not like this.
Although she looked forward to being like these people, truth be told, she found herself almost hiding behind Indriði as they passed through the grand salon. But that was fine—in any case, she was relieved to be free of Zaedicus and his leering. If he thought he was being subtle with his attraction, or obsession, or whatever it was, he was even more foolish than he acted.
He had thrown an unholy hissy fit before she’d left, but really, he should be the one who was relieved. Treating Scarlet like a pet had been the last mistake of many a male wight, high and human both. And her patience for Zaedicus in particular had been wearing deadly thin.
He was old and arrogant, and hopefully, someone would end him soon. Perhaps the Wounded would regret the decision to make him Gloaming Lord and get rid of him. Scarlet felt a jolt of glee go through her at the thought of Zaedicus’s body hanging from the spire of his own manor.
As she and Indriði entered the adjacent room, the lighting and the mood of their setting changed, darker once again. This must be the fam
ous Baccarat bar, though it looked different from the pictures she'd seen—the lights were mostly off, and it was curiously empty, with only one bartender at his station. The merlot walls arched into a high ceiling and gave the illusion of walking into the heart of some great beast.
It was beautiful. It dawned on her that this was what Nocturnem was trying to be. Not even the Ash Wyrm Club could hold a candle to the style brimming in this comparatively small room.
Scarlet scanned the dim area, and quickly, her gaze caught on the only other people there. Two tall figures in crimson coats and hoods stood nearly shoulder to shoulder about twenty feet from them, guarding one of the small tables. Their faces were sheet-white and gaunt, and for a moment, Scarlet thought that they were undead—but no, they were just wearing masks. Skull masks that seemed to have the detail and texture of real bone, with bold silver filigree on the jaw, under the cheekbones, and crawling up the temples.
Scarlet approached, following Indriði. Walking across the checkerboard floor made her feel like a chess piece. Which piece she was, exactly, remained to be seen.
Closer now, she could smell that the masked guards were human. She couldn't even sense any magic on them. Odd. Conviction and fear and hatred rolled from them in waves—not a bad snack, but strange nonetheless. The men glared but parted to let the Norn and vampire pass.
The woman sitting at the table behind them was not what Scarlet had expected at all, considering who she was. She had peachy white skin with a healthful complexion, long, carefully maintained waves of blond hair, and greenish hazel eyes. She was pretty but rather nondescript and wore carefully applied daytime makeup. Her finely tailored blue dress spoke of an elegance that far exceeded her years—barely thirty, Scarlet guessed.
When Indriði approached, the woman stood and hugged her warmly, like one might hug a mother. They exchanged words under their breath, then Indriði turned and gestured to Scarlet.
"Daschla, Scarlet."
The vampire hesitated before holding a hand out to shake and was surprised to find the young woman's grip quite strong. Now that she looked again, she noticed that her dress carefully concealed what were probably muscular shoulders.
The three slid into the sumptuous white leather chairs surrounding the small table. Something about the way Daschla kept glancing at her impassively made Scarlet squirm in her painted-on leather pants and cropped feather coat. The young woman exuded an air of harsh judgment, and the fact that she was almost exclusively addressing Indriði didn't escape Scarlet's notice.
"It's been too long since I saw you in person," she said. Her voice was soft, almost girlish. "What exactly happened in Anster? He only gave me some of the story."
Indriði groaned. "Some losers calling themselves the Reach decided to raid my home. They ran off like rabbits, but it was just better I pull out, you know? Figured the Aurora would be right behind them. I did everything I needed to do in Anster, anyway."
"I heard about Astrid." Daschla smiled. "Good. It was a long time coming."
"That it was, my dear, that it was."
Without any of them asking, one of the masked guards appeared with three espresso cups, comically small in his hands. As he leaned over Scarlet, he whispered in a breath, "Enjoy, beautiful," and she felt her hackles rise.
Hanging from the spire. Just imagine him hanging from the spire.
"And these are your Blood Eagles, I assume?" Indriði asked, raising her espresso cup to her lips.
"Two of them." Daschla gestured with her chin, addressing them. "I'll be fine from here. Go wait at the door."
The men bowed their heads, turned in unison, and stalked away.
Scarlet raised her brows. Eating out of the palm of her hand, they were. She looked back at Daschla, feeling a sudden yearning for the much younger woman's favor. "They're rather well trained," she said, finally breaking her silence.
"Oh, I didn't train them to do all that. They just like the drama."
Indriði looked from the men to Daschla. "How are things going?"
"Well, we've been largely unchallenged. A few protests here and there, but the unattuned police keep them at bay."
"That's fascinating," Indriði remarked genuinely.
"It's definitely helpful. So nothing has really happened to us at demonstrations beyond a few fistfights."
Scarlet quickly found herself lost in the conversation. Her briefing had been incomplete—the Gloaming were protective of their secrets, and she'd been assured everything would be explained once she was on-site. She spoke up again, drawing a long-suffering glance from Daschla that made her heart twinge. "What are you demonstrating? It can't be safe to recruit people to the Gloaming right out in the open."
"Officially, I'm not," Daschla replied. "The Blood Eagles are a human organization. A little project I've been working on for a couple of years now. A lot of them don't even know the Gloaming exists. Yet."
"I thought they were going to be foot soldiers." Scarlet frowned. "Shouldn't we induct them as soon as possible, so they can start doing work for us?"
"Oh, they are doing work for us.” The young woman looked at her pointedly now. “They're helping your Watchers more than you'd think."
Scarlet schooled her expression and abandoned her espresso, pushing it away from her. The china squealed against the table.
"I'll induct them eventually," Daschla continued, "and I'm sure most of them will be all for it."
"If they're part of the operation, I need to know their movements. I can't coordinate patrols if I don't know where our people are at any given time."
Daschla laughed, but frustration crept into her voice. "That's the thing; I don't know where they are at any given time. Most of them have families and jobs occupying their life."
There was a pause as Scarlet digested this. Finally, she spat, "What kind of soldiers participate in their free time?"
"They're not soldiers," Daschla replied. Her voice hadn't raised a bit, but it dripped with a condescension that made Scarlet's head spin. "Well, some of them were military once. They're just ... private citizens with certain ... concerns. They're unsatisfied with current affairs, and we're offering them something big to be a part of."
Indriði laughed. "You give them a lot of credit. You remember the chickens, babe?"
Daschla nodded solemnly. "I remember, don't worry."
Scarlet had no idea what the Norn was talking about, but she was slowly beginning to realize just what was happening here—what these Blood Eagles were. She glanced behind her at the crimson-clad pair guarding the door, the wheels in her head spinning a hundred miles an hour. In their attempts to gain power, the Gloaming had aligned themselves with nefarious human forces before, but...
"Are we sure this is a good idea?" she asked Indriði as she turned back, holding the Norn's gaze.
Indriði smiled. "Don’t worry about it, sweetie. They're just a tiny stepping stone. And not going to be involved in making decisions, obviously. I mean, come on, they're human.”
Scarlet looked back at the Eagles. What did she care? Even if they were involved, was it really a problem? A bit uncomfortable, perhaps, but she'd subjected herself to plenty of discomfort before to get ahead. The benefits always eventually outweighed whatever minor objection she had. This was no different.
She turned back and relaxed in her seat. The other two had already resumed their conversation.
"How are you coping with the transition?" Indriði asked.
"It was ... I can't describe it.” Daschla's expression became even more serious. “All I can say is that securing Astrid's warhorn should have been our first priority."
Indriði sat back, considering this. "It's not too late. She and the Izem girl took it back, but that doesn't mean we can't go after it again. I'll see what I can get arranged." She paused before adding, "Is the change really that profound?"
"Yes. And it would be even more so for the fledgling ... considering my circumstances."
Scarlet watched Daschla's jaw clench
—so tight that it was a wonder she didn't shatter her teeth—but the vampire had lost the thread of the conversation. Whatever they were talking about now, she had no knowledge of it, and it made her blood boil. Had she really left Zaedicus's one-man show for more of this bullshit?
"Have you predicted whether or not the Reach will follow you from Anster?" Daschla asked.
"I’m sure they will." The Norn sighed. "We’ll have to get to the other hellerune before they realize he’s here. Which will be annoying."
"But it also means they've left their friends, and a defensible position," the younger woman responded. Her lips curved in a smile. "They're divided. Now, we conquer."
Chapter Four
The first half of the drive to New York went relatively smoothly.
While Edie and Klein caught up, Marius listened to music on Edie's smartphone. He finally had the opportunity to listen to the ’80s and ’90s bands he seemed strangely familiar with, and was clearly pleased. Edie hadn't yet asked exactly how he was familiar with them, but it was pretty adorable nonetheless. Up front, Satara was trying painstakingly to explain the plot of Inception to Cal, but he was more focused on the merits of Cillian Murphy's androgynous good looks.
Then the snow started to fall.
Edie's prediction came true—they hadn't missed the blizzard that was supposed to hit the city but were driving through it, and even with Ghost's preternatural grace on the road, they had to slow down to a snail's pace. Marius took out his headphones; Cal and Satara stopped talking. They all watched silently out the windows, horror mounting as the blizzard in July whited out the road.
When all was said and done, the last half of the trip took three hours instead of an hour and a half.
When Edie and the others finally drove into the Sutton Place neighborhood of Manhattan, they were road-weary, and shivering despite Ghost's heaters blasting. Anster had had some strange snowfall, but it hadn't been cold like it was here.
Edie was surprised to see that the city dwellers were much more prepared than she was—most of the people walking along the sidewalks wore coats and boots and bored expressions, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Typical New Yorkers.
Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3) Page 3
