Illusive (12 page)

C
iere runs. She doesn’t have time to think about Daniel or even Kit. She has a fed on her heels. It’s time to vanish. She ducks around a parked truck and a bike rack, hoping the roundabout route will trip up the fed. As she runs, she reaches out and yanks a trash can off balance. It teeters and crashes to the ground.

Ciere chances a look back.

The fed vaults over the bike rack and uses one hand to propel herself effortlessly over the fallen trash can. The fed’s eyes are wide, lips pulled back into a grin, and her movements are sinuous, graceful. She moves through the shadowy street like it is full day.

A fresh burst of adrenaline helps Ciere to scramble around another corner, and she skids into an alley. She’s lost track of
her direction and she probably won’t be able to find the car again, but that doesn’t matter. Not now. Now she just needs a few seconds of lead time.

She throws down another trash can and rushes around a corner. The fed is out of sight and Ciere slows her mad dash, skidding to a halt. She throws herself against a wall, trying to take in its rough texture.

She dredges up what little concentration she has left. Invisible. She needs to be invisible. Or at least she needs to blend into this wall as closely as she can. If her plan works, the fed will rush past her, chasing someone that isn’t running anymore. It’s an old trick, but with Ciere’s immunity it has a good chance of success. She turns her skin, her clothes, her hair—all of herself—into the dull gray color of the wall.

When the fed turns the corner, Ciere sucks in a breath and holds it. It’s hard; her breathing verges on panting and her chest aches.

The fed slows to a jog as she takes in the empty street. She isn’t even breathing hard, like that mad run was nothing. The woman’s eyes slide over the street, taking in the shadows, the nooks, and the crannies. She takes a step forward. “Come out,” she says softly. Her voice might be pleasant if it wasn’t edged with mockery. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Another step, and she is glancing from side to side, cocking her head in a distinctly doglike manner.

Ciere tries to inhale without making a sound.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the fed says. “Really, I promise I won’t. We only want to talk to you. You and all your other TATE friends… you have something we want.”

Tate?
Ciere has never heard the name before.

The fed takes another step. Ciere grits her teeth, feels her jaw ache, and tries to stay as still as possible. Her illusion holds.

The fed moves slowly, her head still tilted at that angle. She appears to be trying to draw in the entire street with her senses, to rake through the air until she finds her prey.

Ten feet.

Ciere stays utterly still, her breaths short and silent, her knees locked and fingers splayed on the wall. It feels solid and steady behind her, but she’s well aware that she can’t run.

And then the fed is even with Ciere’s hiding spot. She pauses, her gaze still scouring the street. Ciere tries not to move, not to think, not to do anything that could give her location away.
Move on,
she silently urges.
Just move on. Please.

To Ciere’s relief, the fed does. She takes another step, and another. She’s moving farther on, apparently unaware of the fact that her prey is behind her.

Ciere lets out the tiniest, shuddering breath.

The fed’s head whips around, her eyes scouring the cement
wall. Her teeth flash in a sharp grin, and then she’s moving in the direction of Ciere.

But surely the fed can’t see Ciere—she’s still hidden, still out of sight.

No one can see her.

Which apparently doesn’t matter.

The fed’s hand closes on Ciere’s shirt, yanking her free of the wall. The illusion breaks apart, and Ciere finds herself staring up into the fed’s face.

“There you are,” the woman murmurs.

Ciere can’t stop herself from gasping. Her breath comes in ragged jerks, and she is surprised to hear a slight vocalization when she inhales—it sounds a little like a tiny, suppressed sob. She wants to ask
how
. She can’t understand
how
this happened, how this woman was able to find Ciere when no normal person could—

When no normal person could.

Ciere finally notices the insignia attached to the fed’s vest. It doesn’t spell out FBI or any of the usual markers. Rather, it’s a simple symbol: two circles overlapping each other. Ciere would recognize it anywhere.

UAI. United American Immunities. And beneath the UAI’s symbol is a word embroidered into the fed’s vest:
MORANA
.

This fed is one of them—an immune person working for the UAI. A dauthus. Only a dauthus, with that freaky ability
to mess with her own body, to shut down all her senses but the one she needs, could have found Ciere this easily.

Ciere’s heart thumps at her rib cage, a prisoner screaming to get out. The UAI doesn’t go after mobs. Their job is to deal with “threats to national and foreign security.”

“An illusionist,” Morana, says. She barks out an incredulous laugh. “I didn’t know you guys recruited so well.”

Ciere wants to tell this fed that she isn’t supposed to be here. Whatever’s happening, she isn’t part of it.

“Let’s go,” Morana says. “Aristeus will want to talk with you.”

The dauthus takes hold of Ciere’s arm, but she pauses. Her brow creases and she angles herself onto the balls of her feet, like she has heard something no normal human can. Then Ciere hears it, too.

It’s a whistling sound, like the hum of a Frisbee, and then a
freaking hubcap
flies out of nowhere and nearly brains Morana. But her dauthus reactions kick in and she springs out of the hubcap’s path. Ciere goes flying and hits the pavement, rolling several times. The hubcap slams into the side of a wall with a loud
clang
and rattles to a halt on the ground.

For a second, all Ciere can do to stare. She’s never believed in any kind of divinity, but this might be enough to convert her. But… what kind of god drops hubcaps from the sky?

The sound of feet hitting the pavement brings Ciere back
to herself. A figure charges down the street, his long legs eating up the distance. Without hesitation, he draws his arm back and throws a punch at Morana’s face.

Ciere doesn’t recognize him immediately. He moves differently—his comfortable, poised posture is replaced with a predatory tension. In the dim light, she sees the dark hair, pale skin, and long neck.

Magnus.

Magnus is attacking a dauthus.

The sheer idiocy staggers Ciere. A dauthus’s immunity allows her to consciously alter her body—muscles can be strengthened, senses heightened, extra adrenaline pumped into the body; organs can even be moved slightly out of alignment, making lethal blows nearly impossible to deliver. A single dauthus can take down multiple attackers in a fight.

Morana reacts to the attack with inhuman speed, sizing up her opponent with narrowed eyes and a flash of teeth. Her hands flex and she springs forward, loose and easy, as she takes a return swing.

Ciere rises to her feet. She stands, frozen in half step, unsure if she wants to help. She teeters on the edge of action, paralyzed by her own uselessness.

Magnus dodges the blow with ease; Ciere expects to see anger on his face, but his tranquil expression is untouched by the violence.

He fights like the moves are more familiar to him than his own name—like the punches and the kicks are instinctive. He knows what he’s doing; every move is both calculated and graceful. Morana is faster, so he does not let her use that speed. His arms wrap around her, in a parody of an embrace, while his knee flies up and plows into her gut, her groin, her thighs. Over and over, until she’s gasping and writhing, wriggling out of his embrace and flitting backward. Magnus pushes forward, keeping himself between Morana and Ciere. Morana’s hand moves, twitches to her belt, and Magnus lunges at her.

Morana is quicker. Her hand flashes out, a glint of silver between her fingers, and Magnus staggers. Red blossoms along his hairline. Blood streams into his left eye and he struggles to wipe it away.

Morana isn’t smiling anymore. She dances from side to side, her eyes fixed on Magnus as she readjusts her grip on the knife. She swings around, lunging at Magnus, the tip of the blade aimed for his gut. A cry lodges in Ciere’s throat—he can’t see, not with blood leaking into his eye. With a hiss of expelled air, Magnus’s arm lashes out and deflects the knife; at the same moment, his other fist hits Morana squarely in the collarbone.

The knife skitters along the pavement, far out of Morana’s reach. She doesn’t so much as blink. With Magnus so close, she presses her advantage.

Her arm coils around his throat, but he falls to his knees,
his hand clamping down on her arm. He angles his weight forward and throws her over his shoulder. She flips over, and any normal person would’ve hit the ground on her back. But Morana isn’t normal; she manages to catch herself on her heels, her whole torso bucking free of Magnus’s grip. She’s on her feet in less than a second.

Magnus has yet to stand.

Her leg flashes around, singing through the air with the kind of force only a dauthus can manage. It’s a blow meant to shatter bones.

Magnus slides one foot backward, easing into a sprinter’s stance. The kick slams into his forearms and before Morana can react he wraps one arm around that leg, holding it in place. He twists it hard and she’s off balance, trying to hop backward to escape his grip. But it’s too late.

Her back slams into the pavement. Magnus drives a fist into her gut the moment she falls, his arm drawing back and repeating the blow a good five times. There is a sharp cry of pain, but it is cut off, swallowed up by the sound of fist hitting flesh. Morana’s flailing arms and legs go still.

Ciere stands there, paralyzed. When Magnus rises to his full height, she finds herself shrinking back. He’s changed—that demure, well-mannered man has vanished and in his place is a soldier with eyes like granite and blood staining his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Ciere forces herself to nod.

Magnus squats down to pick up the fallen knife and tests its edge with his thumb. “Military grade,” he says. “She’s wearing a vest. And that insignia…” He trails off as he stares down at the symbol on the woman’s vest.

“Damn,” Magnus says quietly. “She’s UAI.” Fresh blood spills over from the cut above his eye, dripping down his face and settling into the faint lines around his mouth. He wipes at it irritably as he strides back to Ciere.

“We need to get out of here,” he says.

Ciere falls into step behind him. The night’s events are changing too quickly for her to process. Honestly, she’s a little grateful for the orders—it means less chance of her getting something else wrong.

“W-what are you doing here?” Her voice trembles and she clears her throat, trying to sound steady. “Where’s Kit?”

“Back at the car. We realized something was wrong and returned, only to find you gone.” Magnus stops at the corner, pausing to glance both ways before gesturing at Ciere to keep close.

Ciere glances over her shoulder. “Is she…?”

Magnus strides ahead, his eyes scanning the street. “She’s a dauthus; she’ll live.”

“You can fight.” It’s a ridiculous understatement.

Magnus wipes at his cut again, and fresh blood stains his hand. “Kit wasn’t always an art fence. I wasn’t always an escort. Some skills stay with you.”

Ciere gapes at him. “You threw a hubcap at her.”

“Found a parked car. Sometimes you have to scrounge for weapons,” Magnus says, then suddenly he blinks and his hand clamps down over her mouth.

He spins around, dragging Ciere backward. He ducks behind a pair of trash cans and drops to a crouch.

A car trundles down the street. The windows are rolled down and the man in the passenger’s seat is clearly visible. All Ciere catches is a glimpse of black hair and male features before the car turns a corner.

Ciere pulls away from Magnus, and this time he lets her. “Aristeus,” he says, his face gone pale.

Ciere recognizes it as the same name Morana mentioned earlier. “Who?”

A muscle works in Magnus’s throat. “Not now.” He slowly rises from his crouch, taking hold of Ciere’s wrist. “Come on.” He begins to run, forsaking silence for speed. With his grip on her wrist, Ciere has little choice but to keep up. For a second, it’s all too familiar—she’s eleven again and her mother is pulling her through the forest.

The parking lot swings into view as they veer around a corner and Ciere realizes they’re coming at it from the opposite
end. She ran farther than she thought when trying to get away from Morana.

The SUV is a mess. Half its windows are shambles of broken glass and one of the headlights is gone.

Devon stands beside the car. When he sees Ciere, his face breaks into an anxious smile. “You’re okay. Christ, what happened to Magnus’s face?”

“Not now,” Magnus says tightly, getting into the passenger’s seat. Ciere barely has time to climb in herself before Kit turns the key in the ignition and hits the gas.

The car flies forward, rolls over the sidewalk and onto the street. They careen through a red light, and Kit wrenches the car into a wild turn, going for one of the side roads.

Magnus’s knuckles stretch tight around his seat belt. “Aristeus.”

“Aristeus?” Kit says the name with a simmering undercurrent of heat.

“I saw him,” Magnus says. “He’s here.”

Kit presses hard on the gas, and the car spins around another corner. Ciere fumbles for her seat belt; the bouncing car ride seems like it’s only going to get worse. Devon yelps and makes a grab for the armrest as Kit throws the car into another turn, skidding onto a path that is certainly not a road.

“Pretty sure this is a park,” Devon says grimly, grabbing his own seat belt.

“Pretty sure they’ll be setting up barricades on every major road right about now,” Kit shoots back. “Ciere?”

Ciere feels disconnected from this scene, like she’s watching everything happen from a distance. Her mouth takes a moment to respond. “What?”