Illusive (15 page)

Kit scowls at her, like he suspects this is one of the lectures Ciere dozed through.

“It’s not mind control. It’s hypnosis,” Kit explains. “Except on a massively powerful scale. The first command requires eye contact, but after that he could be standing behind you and tell you to jump into a river. You would do it without hesitating.”

Devon adds, “Rarest of the immunities—hell, dominuses
make us look common and useless.” He looks up, confusion chasing the fear from his face. “Wait, dominuses? Or would the plural be dominii?”

“I don’t think anyone truly knows or cares,” Kit replies, “since the plural has never been an issue.”

“And if one has Daniel,” Ciere says, suppressing a shiver, “then he has to do what this guy says. But—but, can’t we get him out?” Determination bubbles up in her chest. Maybe there’s some way to save the situation, to rescue a little piece of her old life. “We can get him out, right? We can rescue him.”

The look Magnus gives her is full of pity. “He’s not safe anymore,” he says, not without compassion. “This Daniel will already have been forced to listen to Aristeus’s commands. Even if you manage to get him back, there’s no telling what kind of orders Daniel will be carrying with him. He could spy on you—even try to kill you.”

Ciere tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “No.”

“He’s right,” Kit says coolly. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Ciere, but Magnus is right. Daniel’s gone, and even if we could retrieve him, I’m not sure we should try.” He takes a breath, wincing as his arm goes around his injured side. “Daniel should’ve known better. He didn’t think, and it got him caught by the feds. We can’t afford to associate with such carelessness.”

Ciere shifts, and the heavy silver bracelet settles more
closely around her wrist. A chill prickles its way up her arms. “So you’ll just leave him there?”

Kit regards her with his flattest stare. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Wait,” Devon interrupts. “Back up. How do you know this dominus bloke? You tangle with him before?”

Magnus and Kit exchange a look, and in that moment Ciere knows that neither is going to tell the truth. Something silent passes between them, an acknowledgement, before Kit turns on Devon, and says coolly, “That’s not important right now. The government knows about the will. They’re going to come after anyone they think might have had knowledge of it. I’ll have to burn a few aliases, but my information won’t be traceable. There’s no way the feds know we have the will, and that’s how things are going to stay.”

Ciere pushes a hand into her pocket, her fingers wrapping around Guntram’s card. “So the job’s over…?” She trails off, unsure.

Kit nods and shakily rises to his feet. He ignores Magnus’s proffered hand and says, “This information is too hot. We’re going to leave it, for now anyway. The feds will be trying to root out anyone who might have had contact with Fiacre or her will.

“This job is over. We’re done.”

Which means, Ciere thinks, they won’t be getting paid. And her only hope of freeing herself from Guntram is gone.

T
he drive back to Philadelphia eats up the rest of the afternoon. Kit takes care to avoid the highways and sticks to less populated areas. The sound of the wind blowing through the car makes conversation nearly impossible. Ciere doesn’t mind the silence. She spends most of the drive with her hand in her pocket, her fingers wrapped around Brandt Guntram’s business card.

They stop at a gas station on the fringes of Harrisburg. Kit chooses a location that looks a little too run-down for many people to frequent, and vanishes into the station to pay with cash. “I need to stretch my legs,” Ciere says. Magnus nods. He’s taken over driving from Kit and remains in the SUV, his hand resting on the steering wheel.

Ciere leads Devon around the corner and out of sight. The restroom door is rusty, and the faded picture of a woman
hangs from a single nail. “Charming,” Devon says. His face shifts—he seems to gather himself. “You all right?”

“Fine.” But she doesn’t put any effort into the lie.

“Of course,” Devon says blandly. “We just tried to deliver the world’s most dangerous weapon to a terrorist group and nearly got nabbed by the feds. Kit got shot and Magnus looks like an extra in a slasher flick. I thought I signed on with a crew of competent criminals.”

She considers reaching up and smacking him, but she’s too tired. She also considers making a cutting remark, but she can’t think of one. Sleep deprivation must be getting to her.

Before she can say anything, Devon leans down and wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her into a hug. It’s awkward for one or two heartbeats, but then Ciere leans into his warm chest and lets herself relax for the first time since Baltimore. He feels familiar and steady—it’s easy to close her eyes and pretend for just a second that nothing’s wrong. That it’s just the two of them hanging out in Manhattan again, sitting in a park and discussing how to pick someone’s pocket.

Devon breaks the hug first. “Thank you for not getting shot and saving me from a lifetime of therapy,” he says sincerely. He straightens his shoulders and takes a step toward the restroom.

“We’re not here to pee,” Ciere says.

“Speak for yourself,” Devon replies, poking at the door. It
swings open, and he makes a face. A horrible stench wafts out, and he takes a step back. “On second thought, you’re right.”

Ciere holds out her hand. “Cell phone, please.”

Still looking bewildered, Devon hands it over. She fumbles with the phone in one hand and Brandt Guntram’s card in the other. “Wait,” says Devon. “You’re calling him?”

Ciere ignores him and punches in the number. Swallowing hard, she tries to clear her throat. Confident. She needs to sound confident.

The phone rings once. Then a deep, accented voice says, “This is Conrad.”

It takes her a moment to remember him—Conrad. Guntram’s bodyguard. When she speaks, she tries to infuse her voice with a breezy boredom. “I need to talk to Guntram.”

“Who is this?”

She hesitates. She hasn’t told Guntram her name, and she wants to keep it that way. If he does turn her in to the feds, that’s one more bit of information he’d have on her. Then she remembers Kit’s words about the bank robbery. “The Kitty Burglar,” she says.

A deep-throated laugh crackles over the line. “Ah,” Conrad says. “Yes. Hold on a second.” There is some shuffling, a moment of static, and then a new voice speaks.

“Good timing,” Guntram says. “I just finished eating a late lunch. So where would you like to meet?”

He thinks she has the forty grand. He thinks their business is about to be concluded.

If only.

“Um, yeah,” she says, and her confident facade crumbles. “I don’t have your money yet.”

Silence.

“Then why are you calling me?”

Because according to their deal, she has only two days to get forty thousand dollars. She’s a good thief, but she’s not that good.

She considers several possibilities: she could tell Kit about Guntram and let him handle it. But the thought of telling him sends a cold chill through her whole body. She’s not sure how he’d react to her predicament, and to the fact she’s been keeping this situation a secret. She’s already lost Daniel. She can’t risk losing Kit, too.

She resists the urge to pull at the tracker bracelet. Her skin crawls, and even if it’s just her imagination, her whole right arm feels contaminated by its very presence. As long as she’s wearing it, she’s a danger to everyone around her. Any moment, the cops could come swooping down on her. All it would take would be for Guntram to make one phone call.

Leaving the country is a last resort; there are mentalists at every international airport just waiting to catch immune criminals. She might not make it out. If she did, she could
never come back. And what if Guntram has international contacts?

“I—I need more time,” she says. “I’ll get you the money, I swear, but I need more time.”

Guntram makes a thoughtful sound. “Ah. You see, that’s where we have a problem, Ms. Kitty. The Gyr Syndicate has a reputation to uphold. We don’t give extensions.”

“But—”

“I suggest you check the papers,” Guntram interrupts. “Look over some of today’s headlines. Go home. Think it over. It’ll give you some perspective.”

Before she can argue further, the call ends. Ciere stares at the cell phone’s screen as it fades to black. The bracelet slides along her wrist and she has the sudden—and unwise—urge to smash it against the restroom door.

Devon touches her shoulder. “Not good?”

“Not good,” she says grimly. “We need today’s newspapers.”

In addition to gasoline, the station also sells out-of-date snack food, boxes of beer, some emergency car equipment, and other odds and ends. Kit is handing several bills to the clerk when Ciere steps inside. There’s a rack of newspapers to the right of the counter and Ciere picks up one of each. “These, too,” she says.

Kit takes them without a word and pays. When they step out of the station, Kit says, “Good idea. We need to know what the press is saying about the raid.”

“Exactly what we were thinking,” replies Devon, without missing a beat.

Back in the car, Magnus forces Kit to drink half a bottle of water. Kit quietly argues with him about eating a donut, while Devon and Ciere try to remain unnoticed in the backseat. Ciere opens the newspaper and begins scanning headlines.

Devon finds the right one. Silently, he points a finger to it.

ALLEGED MOB BOSS BEHIND BARS.
The article that follows details how the head of a New York crime family was recently caught red-handed in a drug bust, thanks to an anonymous tip.

The headline below reads
ACCUSED MURDERER’S BODY FOUND NEAR FORT WADSWORTH.

And below that:
POLICE LOCATE CACHE OF GANG WEAPONS.

“They’re taking out their enemies,” Ciere whispers. “One by one. Anonymous tips. Assassinations. Cutting off resources.”

Devon folds the paper shut, obviously trying to cover up their conversation with the crackle of the newsprint. “You really think they’re behind all of this? But—but they’re using the feds. I mean, literally using them.” Devon jabs a finger at the paper. “It’s like in DC—they’re letting the feds do their dirty work. I thought criminals didn’t do that.”

Guntram’s words come back to her.
I’ll be entirely honest. I hate the feds. I just happen to hate poachers more.

“The Syndicate isn’t playing by the rules,” she says. “That’s why they’re winning this war. By calling in anonymous tips and using these trackers. Without ever getting their hands bloody.”

“The enemy of my enemy,” Devon says. “It means, either way, we’re royally screwed.”

They ditch the SUV at a junkyard on the outskirts of Philadelphia. What’s left of the car would draw too much attention in an elsec, so they leave it, and Kit calls for a taxi. Someone will come by later to tow the SUV and quietly repair the damage, no questions asked.

The taxi driver doesn’t comment on Kit’s bloody shirt, Magnus’s appearance, or the smell of smoke. Ciere isn’t sure, but she thinks she sees Kit slip him a few extra bills.

Magnus steps up to the gate and flashes his tags before the alarm sensor. Ciere hurries forward to tell him that Kit’s security will probably shoot lasers or grenades at him if he tries to get through. Then the tiny light blinks from red to green and the lock comes undone. Magnus pushes the gate open like it’s nothing, and Ciere is left standing there, hand still outstretched, wondering how Magnus has access to Kit’s stringent security.

“Kit’s careful to ensure that certain people always have access to him,” Magnus says, and Ciere jumps. She didn’t notice him watching her. “And then there are those who would flash their tags and trigger a few anti-personnel mines.”

Ciere honestly doesn’t know if that statement is comforting or terrifying. Maybe both. “And if that dominus, Aristeus, walked up to the gates…?” she says tentatively.

Magnus turns away so quickly Ciere only catches the briefest gimpse of his expression—a twisted, jagged smile. “Kit’s always been fond of his protégés,” he says, so quietly that Ciere almost doesn’t make out the words. “Aristeus is no exception.” Before Ciere can reply, Magnus leaves her side to go help Kit.

Ciere pushes the gate open and steps into the front yard. A day ago, she would’ve scoffed at the sight of the pristine lawn and carefully tended gardens.

As she steps onto the cobblestone path, a crinkling noise catches her attention. She glances down; her foot has landed on a crumpled paper airplane. She picks it up, smoothing the paper between her fingers. This elsec is full of families, so it’s not uncommon for things like baseballs or Frisbees to find their way into Kit’s yard. Sometimes he even tosses them back.

The paper is crisp, and she almost throws it away, but the letterhead catches her eye. It’s not an address or even a name—it’s a picture of a falcon in flight.

Her fingers begin to tremble. She unwraps the rest of the airplane and finds two handwritten words.

She crumples the paper before anyone can see it, shoving it deep into a pocket. She doesn’t look back; she can’t let the others see her face. She can’t imagine what expression she’s wearing. When she steps into the house, she barely notices that Lizaveta is sitting in the living room, her knobby hands clutching knitting needles. What looks like the beginnings of a scarf is draped over the couch. Tulip sits next to her, his head resting on her knee and his eyes fixed on the yarn ball. “You are back now?” Liz asks.

Ciere doesn’t even try to answer. She sweeps past the living room and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Only after she’s safe in her room does she dig out the flyer. She uncrumples the page and sets it on her bed before digging out Guntram’s business card.

The falcons on the card and the flyer are identical.

They were here. The Gyr Syndicate was here. At her home—at the Bolsover house.

Guntram’s words come back to her, making her feel physically sick.
Go home. Think it over. It’ll give you some perspective.

This shouldn’t come as such a shock. They’ve got a tracker on her, and Guntram must have at least one operative in every major city on the East Coast.

That’s when it hits her.

There’s no place she can hide. Someone got close, close enough to slip a note under the gate. What if someone else had
found the note—what if Kit or Magnus had found it? They’d abandon her just like they did Daniel.

When Devon enters the room, Ciere is sitting on the floor, her legs folded up beneath her. Concern flashes over his face and he kneels next to her. “What is it?”

Her eyes wander to the flyer and he snatches it up.

“Shit,” he says.

For a long minute, they both sit like that—on the floor, with the flyer between them. Devon traces the outline of the falcon with a finger, his expression gone hard with thought. “I could ask my dad for access to my trust fund,” he finally says.

“Would he actually give it to you?”

A shake of his head. “No. And even if he would, he still thinks I’m in Norway.” He chews on his lip, as if trying to hold something back, and then blurts out, “Why don’t we just ask Copperfield for help? You know he would.”

Ciere’s throat draws tight. “ ‘We can’t afford to associate with such carelessness,’ ” she says softly. “That’s what he said. If one of us gets caught, it’s our own fault. He’s letting Daniel rot with the feds—what makes you think I’m any different?”

“Well,” Devon retorts, “for one thing, you haven’t stupidly tried to acquire the will of perhaps the most infamous person alive. From what I can tell, that Daniel bloke had it coming. You’d never…” His voice trails off in the wake of her expression.

Because it’s dawning on her. Sudden hope, hot and desperate, flares to life in her chest. They do have one valuable thing. If they could find it, it’d definitely be worth forty thousand dollars.

“Oh, no,” Devon says. “The last time I saw that face, we went and robbed a bank. Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

Ciere forces a confident smile onto her lips. “You’ve got the will. We’re going to use it and find that formula. And then we sell it to Guntram, get the Gyr Syndicate off our backs, and no one will ever know.”

Devon stares at Ciere like he’s never truly seen her before. “Are you serious? You want to find the formula? The one that the FBI and the UAI are hunting?”

Ciere forces herself to nod.

“You want to find the formula that the entire world has been trying to re-create for nearly sixteen bleeding years?” says Devon. “You want to find the formula that could potentially turn normal people into preternaturally powered soldiers. And then you want to sell it to a bloodthirsty mobster?”

Well, when he puts it like that… “Yeah. That’s pretty much the plan,” Ciere mumbles.

Devon presses a hand against his eyes. “The next time my dad says I have no ambition, I might have to tell him about this.”