Sofia entered into talks with Italy, Greece, Russia, and Spain to establish similar facilities, based on her success.
My hands clenched the wheel as my phone spit out her melodic voice. “I want nothing more than a safe world for my children, and unregistered Elementals are dangerous,” she told the reporter from the New York Times. “If you abide by the law, you have nothing to fear. But if you don’t…” Her polished voice took on darker undertones. “If you fail to register, you will pay the price. I consider this my life’s work, and I won’t be satisfied until every country in the world is protected from the threat of unregulated magic.”
I’d listened to this particular interview more times than was healthy, and every single time, all I could think of was how much I hated this woman for what she’d done.
11
Hours later, I was looking at Sophia’s nightmarish dream come to fruition.
Twenty-foot, barbed-wire fences and banks of halogen lighting replaced oak trees and mountain streams. Armed guards and vicious dogs replaced deer and owls, and no one, ever, came here by choice.
Except for me, apparently, as I lay flattened on a small rise above the complex, my stomach aching from hunger. As far as I could see, the well-lit DMZ zone outside the fences was surveilled by a roaming laser system, motion activated and highly sensitive to living matter, as I watched an errant rabbit get obliterated for nibbling clover.
The fencing stretched as far as I could see, the glow of lights miles off, giving me a good estimation of just how big this place was. It was huge, but not huge enough. By last count, fifty thousand people were interred in this prison. I did a quick mental calculation. If twenty thousand people were locked up every year, there should be two hundred thousand. Their numbers were just slightly off.
Above the prison, the suppression dome was visible in the rain, the droplets turning to steam as soon as they made contact. Even from here, I heard the faint sizzle as they vaporized. The thing was huge, stretching as far as I could see, the edges slightly bent where the dome’s energy met the brightness of the halogens. Even from here, it was affecting me, making my magic crawl.
The rain turned the grass into mud. Crab crawling backwards, I edged down the knoll to my car as the prison glow lit up the low clouds. I still had a choice. I could disappear into the heart of mid-America, never to be seen again. “Which would clearly be the smart choice,” I grumbled, hoofing it to the vehicle.
Except guilt had worked its magic on me, and now I was half-convinced Lincoln watched me from above, judging my every move. Or I could be delirious from hunger, having last eaten a candy bar from the rest-area vending machine this morning. Whatever my problem was, I did a sloppy three-point turn, then sat there, deliberating.
For a moment, I toyed with the unthinkable.
Drive by my family home in Long Island and see who was there. Would it look the same? Dredge up the same lurking anxiety and fear? Would it feel like a punch to the gut, to see my parents who’d tried to exterminate me, just so my unregistered magic didn’t screw up their precious status quo?
Morbid curiosity drove people to make stupid decisions. I’d seen it enough in my work, and I wasn’t about to make the same mistake.
As dearly as I’d love to see the old homestead, I headed to Brooklyn instead, where I just couldn’t wait to meet Dawson and see what life had in store for me next.
Nostrand Avenue was filled with a mix of small businesses, aging apartments, sycamore trees, and lots of construction. Pretty typical for New York, but after Seattle’s calm atmosphere, the bustle slapped me in the face. As did the constant yelling. And the honking.
“Gone for fifteen years, and yet, it feels like I never left.”
I made two passes by the low brick and concrete apartment building, finally caving to my guilty conscious and parking in front of the tax office across the street. Lights from a construction zone blinked a sickly yellow in the near-dark. It was raining so hard I could barely see as I dialed the number on Mac’s note. I wasn’t surprised when it went straight to voicemail.
“Hi there, this is a friend of Lincoln’s. Mac gave me your number. Call me back.”
Without a clue who I was leaving a message for, I figured the shorter the better. I’d barely hit the end button, and my cell rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Dawson, who’s this?” The voice was female and edged with a Brooklyn accent. My PI skills truly were getting rusty, because I’d totally pictured Dawson as a man.
“A friend of Lincoln’s.”
“Yeah, I got that from your enlightening message. Do you mind telling me how you got my number, and why you’re calling me?” The woman sounded gruff but savvy, not what I’d expected, but exactly like someone who Lincoln would know.
“Lincoln’s dead. Mac gave me your name as a contact. I’m contacting you.” If she thought I was going to spill my identity, as well as my problems out onto the airwaves, she was an idiot. I waited through several rounds of heavy breathing before she finally sighed.
“Come on up. You the brunette in the BMW?”
“Yup. You the blond peeking out the second-story window?”
A short hesitation. “That’s me. I’ll buzz you in, make sure to lock the gate behind you.”
Figuring the accountant’s office was as safe as any place on this street, I jogged through the downpour to the aging building and waited until I heard the high-pitched buzz, pushed open the gate, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I rapped on Dawson’s door, observing her satellite dish hanging precariously from its rusted mounting. Everything about this place was sketchy, from the rotten safety rails to the taped-together windows. One thing was for certain, my confidence in Lincoln’s stellar recommendation was fading fast.
The door swung open, and Dawson gave me a thorough up and down, finally offering me a reluctant, “I guess you’d better come on in, then.” I stepped inside. Her hair wasn’t blonde, it was a mix of blond and gray, and she might have the biggest nose I’d ever seen on a woman in my life.
“This is nice.” My surprise must have been apparent, because Dawson muttered something about not living in a barn while she shuffled to the kitchen. I noted the walker pushed over in the corner. “Really nice. Not at all what I expected.”
“Appearances are everything.”
“That’s something Lincoln would have said,” I murmured, casing the joint. Not literally, just out of curiosity. Dawson’s inside was the antithesis of the outside. Her spacious apartment could have been any room in the Biltmore, for all the antiques and expensive-looking artwork it contained. “Is this Turkish?”
She took one look at my wet shoes on her rug, and I backed away slowly. “Borlou, antique, hand-knotted, and quite expensive.”
I slid my shoes off and curled my toes into the wool. Soft, very, very soft.
Regarding me with a dead eye stare I figured was her go-to, she handed me a can of Coke before popping open her own. “Before we get down to business, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.” I took a slow sip of the Coke before I answered. It tasted divine.
“Miranda McHale.” I took another delicious sip. “Private Investigator.” I wasn’t sure why I tacked that on, except out of habit and a bit of pride. “Mac—not sure if he has a last name—told me to find you. Here I am.” The painting over her shoulder was vaguely familiar, a jewel-toned still life in a massive gold frame.
“On the phone, you said Lincoln Amherst is dead, is that true?” Dawson had such a slow, precise way of speaking, it made you pay attention, as if every word that came out of her mouth was important. “Never thought I’d see the day he passed. Thought that fool would live forever.”
Well, so did I. But it was not to be.
“How do you know Lincoln?” I was genuinely curious. Except for the artwork, I didn’t see any obvious connection. Dawson took a delicate sip of her soda, then reached out and scooped a piece of cinnamon candy from the overflowing dish in front of me. She was a tiny woman, dressed
in silky gold flowing pants and a matching top, with a heavy, gaudy gold necklace encircling her thin neck. The jeweled loafers on her feet looked like real alligator. She dressed like Lincoln, but in all my years with him, I’d never heard her name.
“You first.”
“He was my… guardian. Since I was ten, he practically raised me.” Except when I raised myself. “I’ve known Mac for about fifteen years as well. But they never spoke of you.”
“Ah.” She leaned in, her eyes glimmering behind heavily mascaraed lashes. “That’s who you are. I wondered, when I saw you in the car. You might not know me, but I’ve heard plenty about you, Andy.” Her laugh was a mix of derision and scorn, and my hackles went up immediately.
I winced at the nickname. Only my fellow underworld cronies called me that. “You can call me Miranda, please.”
“I could, but I like Andy better. Andy McHale, PI. It has a certain ring, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t,” I sniped, setting the soda down on a mahogany table. Dawson hastily slid a coaster beneath it. “Look, me coming here was a mistake. I don’t think you can help me after all.” I made for the door, figuring I’d sleep in the car, then head out tomorrow.
“Let me guess, Lincoln sent you but now that you’re here, you have cold feet. Am I close?”
My magic gathered into a tight knot my chest, like a panic attack waiting to happen.
Dawson must have sensed the sizzle of magic in the air because she pushed the can of Coke back toward me, along with an understanding smile. “I’ve known Lincoln Davis Amherst for most of his life. He’s told me all about you, Andy. Your powers, your capacity to get yourself into trouble, which means it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you’re here.”
“Well, that sounds like you almost know me.” I stalked to the table and took my chair and another gulp of bubbly sugar. “Except I hardly ever get into trouble, that’s a lie.”
“The Ming vase, the blind pug, and the mob boss.” Her smile was good-natured as my magic settled down. “Need I say more?”
“Okay, fine, that was one time. It never happened again.”
“Couldn’t find another blind pug?”
“Whatever.” But I had to admit it, I liked her. Kind of like a well-dressed grandmother who was sweet and scary at the same time, and you hoped she didn’t try to kiss your cheek. “You know about me. I don’t know a thing about you. How are you connected to Lincoln?”
“I first ran into Lincoln when he lived in Manhattan. I was one of his best forgers.” I looked around at the paintings covering the walls and raised my eyebrows. “Those are real, I’m not a heathen,” she insisted defensively. “I’d never hang a fake on my walls. But I do excellent work, and Lincoln and I had a good thing going here, or at least, we did before he left for Seattle.”
Now I was interested. I knew virtually nothing of Lincoln before he’d landed in Seattle, and I’d never asked, respecting his privacy. I figured if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. But he never had. “Why didn’t you follow him to the west coast?”
“I didn’t have a choice. I had family here, and I couldn’t leave them behind. I’d still do the odd jobs for him, though—complicated forgeries, the occasional authentication, providing proof of provenance, things like that.”
Her explanation made sense; Lincoln always called his mansion the house that art built.
“I was the one who painted the Cezanne, the still life from eight years ago.” She gestured to the painting behind her. “This is the real one.” I looked over her shoulder at the bowl of oranges in a blue bowl. “But Lincoln needed one for a con, so I re-created it for him. That was a lovely piece of work, if I do say so myself.”
“That painting hangs in the foyer of the Seattle Art Institute.”
“Yes, it does,” Dawson said without a shred of remorse. “I should stop by and see it sometime, I heard it’s on permanent display.”
I shook my head. “I remember that painting. Lincoln was giddy when he took delivery of it. He kept it propped up on the mantle for a month before selling it to the Institute. But he never mentioned you.”
“God, I should hope not. Which is why I’m curious as to why you’re here. I assume you have the burial and all that out of the way? Sorry I missed it, the funeral was probably something to behold.”
Oh shit, she thought Lincoln died of natural causes, not something I’d considered.
“Yeah, about that…” I began, “Lincoln didn’t die… peacefully. He was murdered.”
Dawson dropped her soda on the rug, the foam splattering across the wool as I dove to pick it up. “Tell me that’s not true,” she whispered, her hand clutching her necklace, not even looking as I set the dripping can up on the table. “Murdered. Really? There’s no way he went out like that.”
“It’s how I ended up here,” I explained, heading for the kitchen. “Mac stayed behind to buy me some time. He must have been successful because I made it here with no trouble.” The kitchen was a long, thin alley, and I grabbed a towel and two more sodas from the fridge. At least I’d be hydrated and sugared up. “Look, all I know is someone shot Lincoln, and a crooked cop tried to frame me for it.”
Dawson numbly took the proffered beverage while I explained. “There were a lot of places I could have ended up, but Mac wanted me here. Believe me, New York is the last place I want to be. For a lot of reasons.” I popped the tab on my own can and took a sip. “I don’t have answers, or an explanation. All I can tell you is I’d never hurt Lincoln. But someone sure did.”
“Mac gave you my name?” She hadn’t let go of the necklace, and there was a slight tremble in her voice. “After a murder, one you’re a suspect in, he was stupid enough to send you here?” The tremble turned into more of a growl.
“I don’t want to be here either, trust me. I should have disappeared into some shitty town in Ohio and put everything behind me. But before he was killed, Lincoln asked me to go to New York, and he said you’d hide me. But I see now that won’t work.” I met Dawson’s heavily mascaraed eyes. “Look, I promised him I’d come. I kept that promise, and now I’m leaving.” I set the drink on the table, careful to use the coaster this time.
“Murdered,” she said again, like she was in some kind of dream. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Believe it.” I kept my voice firm, even though I wanted to curl into a ball and sob for days. “I found him in his library. It looked like he was reading, and someone put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”
“Lincoln was always so careful. Everybody loved him.” Dawson’s expression turned thoughtful. “He must have gotten in over his head, somehow. Caught up in a job that went bad. Although that wasn’t like him, because he never took stupid chances.”
I fingered the disc in my pocket. Lincoln didn’t take stupid chances. But I did.
“Anything else you’d like to dump on me before you go?” Her voice sounded exhausted, but her clever eyes were like Lincoln’s. They missed nothing. It was then I realized her appearance was just like the outside of this place, a façade meant to mask what was inside.
“I crossed the Sheltons, and it’s possible they, or rather someone they hired, killed Lincoln. It’s also possible they might be after me.”
“Oh, is that all?” She laughed, still toying with the necklace before she leaned in, her face turning hard. “You aren’t from around here. You know nothing about the Sheltons. Do you know how I know that?”
I shook my head. She was so, so wrong, but I wasn’t about to tell her so.
“Because if you had the slightest idea, you never would have come. You’d have disappeared yourself, just like you said, into the middle of nowhere, praying they never caught up with you. Otherwise, you must have a death wish, to come here.”
I didn’t have a death wish, and Dawson wasn’t about to help me disappear, which was fine with me. Detouring here had only been a gesture toward doing the right thing by Lincoln. I’d kept my word, and now
I could move on with my life, my conscious clear. I had a feeling that would be okay with Dawson too.
“Well.” She raised her soda in salute, with a longing look at the artwork plastering the walls. “I suppose my salad days of forging are over. It sure was good while it lasted.”
Figuring that was my brush-off, I took it. It had been a mistake coming here. But now that I’d hit a dead end, I was walking away.
I was almost to the door, my hand reaching for the knob, when Dawson asked, “Just out of curiosity, where are you planning to go?”
“Midwest seems like a good choice.” Truthfully, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t willing to give her any more than that. Trust issues and everything.
“You’ll have to careful in the Midwest. Lots of curious neighbors and prying eyes. Hard for a level five to stay hidden for too long.”
“I’m not a…” I rubbed my forehead as sugar buzzed in my brain. “Look, thanks for the drinks, but I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.” I took another step toward the door.
“Not a level five, was that what you were going to say?”
“I’m not anything, and you should probably pretend you never met me.”
“How many level fives have you come across in your lifetime?”
Shit. She really needed to shut up. “None. Which is an even bigger indicator Lincoln was wrong about me. Level fives, generally, are unicorns. Everyone’s heard of them, but no one has ever actually met one.”
“Did you know that when Elementals were new, and the government was paranoid, a small group of doctors out of a large, well-respected university did a study. It was unethical, inhumane, and privately funded by the Department of Defense. The results, however, are still used today to rank an Elemental’s powers.”
“Yes, I’m well-acquainted with the government’s rating system for magic.”
“Ones are lightweights. A level one Cronus could blow a piece of paper off a table with a thought, but not much more than that. A level two could float the paper up into the air and hold it there for a few minutes, while a level three might fly it around the room for an hour. A level four is able to form enough of a gust to fly a hundred paper airplanes. Or a brief drizzle, enough to water the garden.” She paused.
Betrayed by Blood: The Shelton Family Legacy : 1 Page 7
