Illusive (4 page)

Devon seems to be making a conscious effort to appear even taller. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Ciere didn’t break into that Newark bank on her own. I was an accomplice to a felony.”

Kit huffs out a sigh. “Let me guess, you used your oh-so-special hacking skills to hijack the bank’s security cameras to run a loop while Ciere made herself look like one of the bank’s employees, using his keycard to enter the bank vault and walk out with the money. You were probably sitting in a coffee shop a block away, safe from the immediate fallout if anything had gone wrong.”

Devon and Ciere goggle at each other. “How the hell,” Devon says, “did he know that?”

“Oh, honestly, who do you think taught Ciere that trick?” Kit says contemptuously. “Now give me one good reason to include you on this job, Mr.
Lyre
.” He puts a less than subtle emphasis on Devon’s last name.

Devon hunches as he tries to come up with an answer. “I just—I just want to spend some time with people who aren’t telling me that I should shut up and do what I’m supposed to.” He fidgets with his teacup. “I may be a Lyre, but I’m loyal, I’m clever, and I’m willing to work for free.”

“Where does your family think you are right now?” Kit asks.

“On a bender in Hemsedal—some skiing resort in Norway,”
Devon admits. “I downloaded a free translation program so I can sound like I’m speaking the language. I also send my family some photo manips every few days. Usually it’s a picture of me sitting on a mountain, holding a bottle of vodka.”

“And they believe you?”

Devon’s smile is twisted. “Honestly, they don’t care. Dad’s got my older sister to inherit the company. I’m just the bad-boy younger-son stereotype. Boring.” He picks up his cup of tea again, studies it, and then sets it down.

Kit traces the line of his teacup with his fingernail. “Ciere, why did you decide to make him your partner now?”

“He’s technically an adult,” she says. “And he wouldn’t shut up until I agreed to let him tag along.”

“Why do I feel like the fat kid being picked last at football?” Devon mutters.

Kit smiles. “It’s not a bad analogy.”

“Simile,” Devon corrects.

Kit’s smile pulls tight. “If I didn’t have other things to worry about, I’d argue further. This isn’t a good idea, Ciere, but since you’re standing up for the boy, he can stay. And it’s on your head if anything goes wrong.”

“What else are you worrying about?” asks Ciere.

Kit purses his lips and says, “Daniel was the one to find this job. He put me in contact with our client.”

“And?”

“I haven’t heard from him since.”

She draws in a sharp breath. Daniel Burkhart. A seventeen-year-old eludere she’s known almost as long as she’s known Kit. He passed on tricks to evade cops, taught her how to cheat at poker, and stole beer when Kit wasn’t around. Daniel is crew, which means he’s as close to family as she’ll ever get. “H-how long?”

“Long enough,” Kit says quietly. “He called me about this job and then vanished.”

The word “vanished” is different when it comes from Kit’s lips. It doesn’t mean a person has gone missing. It means that a person has gone missing and
Kit can’t find them
. Ciere can only think of one place where Kit’s influence won’t reach.

“You think he’s been arrested,” Ciere says. Her hands tremble, and she clasps them over her knees.

“Perhaps.” Kit takes another sip of his tea. “He could be in hiding. Either way, we cannot reach him right now. Which means our crew is short a member.” He aims a sharp glance at Devon. “For the job I have in mind, we’ll need an eidos and a mentalist. An eludere would’ve been nice, but I guess we’ll have to do without.”

He’s already talking like Daniel’s a lost cause. It makes Ciere feel out of step, like the world has shifted and she’s still trying to adjust. A job without Daniel. Without his keen instincts and deadpan humor. It feels wrong.

Devon, who has never met Daniel, isn’t overly concerned. “Good luck finding a mentalist,” Devon snorts. “I may be new to this, but even I know how rare those lot are.”

“I know a man,” Kit says. “He is unaffiliated.”

Ciere can’t help but ask. “You sure he can be trusted?”

“I’d stake my reputation on it. Which is exactly what I’m going to do when I hire him.”

“Is he willing?” Ciere asks.

Kit shrugs. “I haven’t approached him yet. I thought I’d leave that little assignment to you.”

“Because I’m so charming?”

“Because we had a slight falling-out the last time we worked together,” Kit replies. “I figure he’ll be more amenable to you.”

“All right,” Ciere says, “so we’ll talk to him. Got it. But I expect a bonus for that.” She counts off on her fingers. “An eidos, an illusionist, a levitas, and a mentalist. This is a hell of a team.”

“It’s a hell of a gig.”

“What’s the target?” Devon asks, sounding impatient. “Where are we hitting?”

Kit rises to his feet; it isn’t an angry gesture but a smooth one. He strides to the center of the room. And then he simply
lifts
into the air.

It looks like a trick—like there should be wires attached
to his body, or a platform under his feet. But there isn’t. Gravity and Kit have an understanding of sorts—Kit can ignore it when he likes. He can’t fly—not really. That’s what it means to be a levitas.

Kit touches the ceiling fan, which is at least thirty feet high. He reaches up and pulls something free. A file. He must have taped the file to the upper portion of the fan, where it would be out of sight of anyone who wasn’t a levitas or wasn’t using a very tall ladder.

When his feet touch the ground again, Kit returns to the couch. He holds out the file, and as he does so, his sleeve rides up on his right arm. Ciere catches a glimpse of ink on pale skin. It’s a strange tattoo, a series of roman numerals etched into the smooth skin of his inner wrist. Kit usually keeps it covered, and Ciere has never had the courage to ask about it.

She takes the file and opens it. The first page is that of a copied blueprint, complete with the builder’s notes. It takes her a moment to find the title scribbled in the left-hand corner.

“We’re breaking into a lawyer’s office?” she asks.

Kit’s only answer is a wicked smile.

D
aniel Burkhart sits in a room with blank white walls, no windows, and furniture that is bolted to the floor. He can’t see the cameras, but he knows he’s being watched. The cameras’ gaze registers as a buzzing itch along his skin. He can easily imagine what the cameras see—a seventeen-year-old with dirty brown hair and a crooked nose. He shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, but his handcuff clinks and the chain prevents him from standing.

He runs a hand over the table—long, rectangular, and steel. Whoever designed this room didn’t have its occupant’s comfort (physical or mental) in mind.

He has visited this room seven times—one for each day of his captivity. It’s how he keeps track of the time; there are no windows to track the sun, and so far the FBI agents haven’t
offered him a watch.
A week
, Daniel thinks. It’s long enough for the FBI to let their guard down. They think he’s been beaten.

Daniel rests his forehead on his arm. To an observer, he simply looks like a criminal who is trying to take a nap. But rest is the last thing on his mind.

They searched him, of course. But since no one bothered to wrench his jaw open and point a flashlight inside his mouth, he still has the bobby pin tucked into the space between his teeth and lip. An old trick, but it’s proved useful again and again. Under the guise of rest, with his arm blocking the camera’s sight, he reaches into his mouth with his other hand and takes hold of the pin. It’s warm and sticky with saliva, and he has to dry it on his sleeve—a tricky matter without lifting his head—and then he slips one end into the handcuff’s lock. The pin’s tip is bent at a ninety-degree angle, and it’s a simple matter to twist and… there.

At once the pressure on his right wrist lets up. They only used the single lock, Daniel thinks scornfully. It is almost a professional insult.

As an eludere, Daniel can escape anything.

Freed, he cocks an ear and listens for footfalls in the hallway.
One man
, his instincts whisper. Then the lock clicks and the door opens. Sure enough, a single man steps into the room, his hand lingering on the door handle.

It’s one of the FBI agents who arrested Daniel—Special Agent Something-or-Other Carson. He’s just shy of his forties,
with black hair, a clean jaw, and faintly Latino coloring. He also has a sour expression, which is par for the course.

“You’ve got some visitors,” Carson says when a loud
ding a ling ling, a ling ling ling
reverberates through the small room, interrupting him. Daniel recognizes the sound as a default ringtone. Honestly, who keeps a phone’s ringtone set at default?

Carson lets go of the doorknob and raises his phone to his ear. That’s when Daniel moves.

He lashes out, swinging the now unlocked cuffs at Carson’s eyes. The blow connects and there is the sound of metal slapping flesh, followed by a cry of pain. Daniel doesn’t wait to see how badly he hurt the agent; he grabs the door before it can click shut, before the automatic lock can slide into place. He darts through and pulls the heavy door shut behind him. That door cannot be unlocked from the inside; it’s one of the clever security arrangements meant to keep crooks from escaping. Even so, it’s not soundproof. Carson’s furious yell is the sweetest sound Daniel has heard in days.

One fed down.

Daniel takes stock of his surroundings. The hallways are dimly lit—it’s night after all—and he can easily see into numerous interrogation rooms. Some are empty. Most are not.

For a moment, he pauses. He considers finding a way to free the others—a desire that is half mercy and half calculation. If the feds are occupied with a group of escapees, it will
be easier for one lone eludere to slip away. But the door controls are probably locked away in the heart of this building, which would undoubtedly be heavily guarded. There’s not enough time.

Daniel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He balances on the balls of his feet, waiting for the old senses to kick in. He spins around, like a compass finding north, and then he sprints down the hallway to his left.

A fed is emerging from one of the interrogation rooms. The fed hears the clatter of footsteps and glances up, his expression almost bored. He must think it’s another agent, so when he sees Daniel his jaw goes slack and there is the slightest moment of pause.

Daniel reaches out and
listens
.

The man’s shoe squeaks on the linoleum floor. He is shifting to his left, preparing to throw his weight into a tackle.
Ex–football player
, Daniel thinks, seeing the man’s heavy muscle and bristling haircut. It takes Daniel back to when he played backyard football with his friends after school. He pretends he doesn’t notice the fed’s impending move; he continues to barrel to the left. At the last second, he spins to the right, those handcuffs swinging up. There are places you can hit a man, no matter his size or weight, and the strike will always be effective. Daniel goes for the eyes.

The blow doesn’t have to blind the fed—but there will be
enough pain to temporarily put him out of the game. The cuff hits the man across his brow and he lets out a bellow. Daniel darts past, barely catching a glimpse of the man mashing his hand against his right eye, trying to see through the pain and the tears.

Daniel isn’t in the habit of injuring people. He’s a con artist and a thief, not a thug. A distant part of him knows he should feel bad for nearly blinding two men, but here’s another thing Daniel has learned from years of conning people: empathy will get a person killed.

As Daniel sprints down the hallway, an instinct howls at him to lift his feet. He hears the slight buzz and leaps into the air, catching the briefest glimpse of a near invisible laser trip wire. Then he’s moving again, charging for an emergency exit. There will be alarms, but he’ll be gone before anyone can investigate them.

Daniel listens as he charges down the hall. There is no sign of a general pursuit. Not yet. He hurtles forward, throwing himself through another set of doors. He’s almost out. He can feel the outside beckoning, hear the wind and the sky. He can hear freedom.

There. The exit is in view now—a large door with a red handle and the words
ALARM WILL SOUND
painted on it. It’s his ticket out of here. The only other doors are slightly ajar, with the words
VENDING MACHINES
flaking off. Daniel grins.

That’s when the woman walks out of the last room.

She’s dressed in a gray pencil skirt and blouse—not ideal for chasing criminals. Her sandy hair is curly and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Even without makeup, she has pretty features. She looks fresh, youthful, and untested. She is unwrapping a candy bar when she sees Daniel. Her thin brows draw together in confusion. When her eyes alight on the half-open cuffs still looped around one of his wrists, a smile breaks across her face.

It’s not the reaction Daniel is expecting. He tilts his head and listens.

The world is silent for a long second, and then he hears the soft thud of a racing heart. His own.

All of Daniel’s senses scream at him to turn around, to back up, to get out of there. His immunity tells him that she’s not benign, and he needs to get out of there before she—

She springs forward, quicker than he could have imagined, and her fingers tangle in his shirt. She yanks him forward, and he staggers in an attempt to keep his balance. Her right leg sweeps sideways, her foot hooking around his ankle and pulling it out from under him.

His back slams into the linoleum floor, and the shock jostles his whole body. He blinks and realizes the woman is on top of him, her hands fisted in his shirt. Her knee is poised between his legs; any struggle, and he’ll definitely come off on the worse end of things.

He’s pinned.

The woman gives him a shake, the way a dog might shake a rabbit in its jaws. “And to think, all I wanted was a candy bar,” she says.

Now he understands what his instincts knew first. She is immune. More specifically, she’s a dauthus. Only a dauthus could lift Daniel so easily into the air, setting him easily on his feet.

“Eludere,” she says. “Your type always tries to run. Ever thought of fighting back?” She yanks him down the hallway, retracing his wild rush to freedom. She moves confidently through the building; she’s obviously been here before.

Back at the interrogation room, she gives him a push, and he stumbles through the door, bracing himself for a blow. But it never comes; the woman remains standing in the doorway—a human barrier between Daniel and freedom—with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Her gaze flicks up, and Daniel realizes that he’s not alone.

There’s a man standing in the middle of the room. He has a right-angle chin, and the rest of his features are equally sharp. His black hair is carefully clipped. He’s not FBI. That’s made evident by the
VISITOR
badge the man has clipped to his lapel. He isn’t carrying—there’s no telltale bulge at his ankle, hip, or shoulder. An analyst, then? But why would the feds bring in an analyst?

“Ah, Mr. Burkhart,” the man says warmly. “I was hoping we could have a talk.”