Illusive (5 page)

A
hand seizes her shoulder, and Ciere comes awake with a start.

Two brown eyes, set in a wrinkled face, glare down at her. Ciere recoils and kicks the blankets free, ready to run if necessary. It takes her a moment to calm down, even after she realizes that the so-called threat is an old woman holding a broom. “Crap,” Ciere groans, flopping back onto her bed. “Liz, I was busted by NYPD at seven in the morning and
that
was less terrifying than your wake-up call.”

Lizaveta’s lips pinch together. “You,” the old woman says in a reedy voice thick with a Russian accent. “Copperfield wants you.” Her worn hands tighten on the broom handle.

Ciere scrambles out of the bed. She’s had that broom aimed at her more than once.

Lizaveta Elstov is yet another occupant of the Bolsover house. She rents a room on the third story, and Kit’s rationale is that she has no family to take care of her and she wants to live in the safety of an elsec. Ciere can’t blame her; the elsecs are one of the few places where the feds won’t meddle—if only not to anger their constituents.

Nearly sixteen years ago, after Praevenir’s adverse effects were formally acknowledged by both the public and the medical community, the world was stunned. So many expectations subverted, so many theories dashed, and so many lives irrevocably altered. Humanity reeled, at a loss for what to do.

The US government couldn’t decide how to classify this new minority group—it was calculated that hundreds of thousands of Americans were affected. The government scrambled to react, and the first course of action was a massive identification program. They needed a way to single out people who had been vaccinated.

Things improved once the seven immunities were categorized and named: dauthus, eidos, levitas, eludere, mentalist, illusionist, and dominus.

Although there was no way to test for adverse effects, testing for Praevenir was another matter. The antibody titer was a quick blood sample that could determine exactly who had been vaccinated. If the blood had MK antibodies, then that person had been vaccinated and there was a chance they
could be immune. The titer test, as it soon became known, helped narrow things down, and was systematically and methodically administered at schools, hospitals, pharmacies, and clinics. After testing, individuals were required to wear identification tags at all times.

Testing became mandatory. Civilians who avoided it found their bank accounts frozen, their social security checks withheld. The government claimed testing was in society’s best interests. Kit says they were recruiting. Within a matter of months, many who identified as immune were snapped up for government work. The military scrambled to collect as many dauthus as possible, while mentalists joined up with the TSA. Eludere and eidos went to any number of agencies. Illusionists were considered a rare commodity and could be siphoned into the more elite intelligence teams.

Only two groups of people escaped the rampant recruitment.

The first were the criminals.

Criminals didn’t worry about things like tax returns or social security checks. An underground market for counterfeit tags sprang up, allowing the crooked to circulate in normal society. Even people who had previously obeyed the law suddenly found themselves on the other side of it, unwilling to become pawns of the government.

The second group were those rich enough to bribe their way into normalcy. They banded together, moved into prosperous
neighborhoods, and blended into elite communities. Neighborhood organizations formed that were supposed to “improve” their communities, but in reality were meant to keep the neighborhoods privileged. Anyone with an annual income that wasn’t at least three hundred grand need not apply. These elite sectors petitioned the government, requesting their own security forces. To protect themselves, they said. And so the elsecs were born.

Picking a house in an elsec was a risky move, but Kit had enough fake IDs and money to pull it off. And once he’d established himself here, the neighbors hadn’t questioned him. Kit Copperfield, his niece Ciere, and their Russian housekeeper were just a few more rich eccentrics in the neighborhood.

Lizaveta’s guise as a housekeeper is half-true. While Kit is perfectly fine doing his own cooking, cleaning, and gardening—actually, he’s rather possessive of his house in general—Liz picks up some of the slack. Her English is limited, her disapproval of Ciere high, and if Liz knows anything about her landlord’s criminal activities, Ciere hasn’t heard about it. Not that she could, since Ciere never learned Russian.

Ciere thuds down the stairs and into the kitchen. This particular room is the house’s one nod to modernity. Marble counters frame two stainless-steel sinks, and a large refrigerator hums contentedly in the background. Ciere settles onto
one of the stools at the large breakfast bar and rests her chin on the counter.

Kit is already at work. A skillet warms on the stove and a carton of eggs rests beside it. Ciere plucks a strip of bacon from a plate covered by a layer of greasy napkins. Kit has propped a tablet up against a napkin holder; Ciere glances at it and sees a video of men in suits.

“Give me a moment,” Kit says, “and everything will be ready. And don’t touch that bacon—you’ll only ruin your appetite.” He nimbly picks up an egg in each hand and cracks them.

Ciere chews on her piece of bacon. “What’re you watching?”

“The EU conference.” Kit’s arm is a blur as he whips the eggs with a fork. “Europe is annoyed with us.”

“Same old, then.”

Devon strides into the kitchen, sees the bacon in Ciere’s hand, and follows her line of sight to the plate. “Leave the bacon alone,” Kit says, taking a cutting board down from its hook. He pulls a bundle of freshly washed parsley from the sink. “There’s supposed to be a broadcast of the Republic’s newest speech later.”

Devon slides into the seat next to Ciere. “Really?” He sounds interested—then again, he’s always been able to muster more enthusiasm for politics than Ciere. She settles on stealing another slice of bacon. “What about?”

“The newest treaties,” Kit says. He reaches into a drawer
and selects a long knife. He tests the edge with his thumb. “I can already guess what they’ll say. China’s going to say that it would never use immune individuals as weapons—”

“Ha!” Devon snorts.

“—and would do so only if America did first,” Kit says.

“But America already has,” Devon points out.

“Exactly.” Kit goes to work on the parsley. “It’s all empty reassurances. But we world powers have to at least pretend to not despise one another.”

Devon beams. “Speaking of which.” He reaches out and takes a slice of the forbidden bacon. He eyes Kit, as if in challenge. “I have to say—nice apron. Ever consider leaving the crime business and becoming someone’s manservant?”

Kit also smiles—it’s a rather scary expression. He rinses off the wooden cutting board and hangs it back on its hook. The knife also goes under the running water and he dries it off with a napkin. Then Kit turns on his heel, tosses the knife into the air, catches it by the hilt, and throws it. The knife spins and slams into the cutting board. The knife shivers, its blade sunk deep into the wood.

Devon puts his slice of bacon down.

Fellow criminals have seen Kit’s domestic habits and deemed him harmless. All they see is a man who fusses over plate garnishes and prunes rosebushes. But Kit’s domesticity is carefully arranged over previously existing, deadlier habits.

He sprinkles the parsley onto two omelets and slides the plates across the counter to Ciere and Devon.

“Lizaveta says her knees haven’t been feeling well,” Kit says brightly. “So I’ll deliver breakfast to her room. You two enjoy the bacon.”

Devon stares at him until he disappears. “Mental,” he says. “That man is completely mental. And,” he adds hastily, seeing Ciere open her mouth, “don’t you dare try some horrible pun about him ‘making a point.’ ”

Ciere closes her mouth.

The knife remains stuck in place.

A gig always requires certain steps. Whether it’s a robbery, a con, forgery, or smuggling, there are always routines that must be followed. First, the gig must be found. Either a client will come to them, or else Kit will spot an opening in the market and exploit it. Second, Kit plans things. Kit always plans things—that’s his role. Once he has found a gig, he decides which players are best for the job. If Ciere, Daniel, or another one of Kit’s usual crew is not available (or qualified), he will go recruiting.

Recruiting is always risky.

Bringing in freelancers means trusting them with information best kept hidden. Most good crooks like Kit have built up a network, relying on the same individuals for certain skills. It minimizes the chances of information being leaked;
also, it lends to building bonds between those individuals, discouraging deliberate betrayal.

But for all of Kit’s contacts, he doesn’t have a mentalist on retainer. Mentalists are scarce, and most of them are snapped up by the government or by the various mobs.

Around eleven in the morning, Ciere and Devon climb into Kit’s oldest car—a 2030 Dodge Journey. “Take the SUV. I don’t want you relying on public transportation for this,” Kit says, pressing the keys into Ciere’s hand. “And don’t go into downtown DC today. I heard that Aditi Sen woman is heading up another protest, and the last thing I want is to retrieve you from a riot.”

Ciere lets Devon drive; she has many skills, but she’s never been all that good with cars. Devon sits behind the wheel comfortably, resting one hand on the window and using the other to steer. He guides the car past the elsec fences and out into the normal world.

Devon makes a disgruntled noise. His eyes drift to the car’s dashboard, where there is a small hole. It looks like a cavity in a healthy mouth. “Did someone steal Copperfield’s stereo?”

Ciere forces herself not to snort. “It’s where Kit dug out the GPS.”

Devon casts a glance toward the bracelet. “If he managed to do that… you think…?”

“No,” she says after a moment’s thought. “It took Kit hours to fix the car so it couldn’t be tracked. I don’t think he could take the bracelet off.” She tucks her hands into her lap, trying to look anywhere but down.

Something in her face must give Devon pause, because he changes the subject. “So, no GPS. We’re using written directions. It’s like we’re back in the Stone Age.” He’s used to being able to simply plug in an address and rely on a tinny voice to tell him when to turn.

“When you’re crooked,” Ciere reminds him, “you operate off the grid.”

Devon doesn’t look happy, but he follows her instructions and guides the car to an on-ramp.

“I tried yanking it out,” Devon says after a minute or so of companionable silence.

“What?” she says, bewildered, wondering if he’s still talking about the GPS.

“The knife,” says Devon. “After breakfast, when Kit was still in the shower. And you were changing clothes. I tried yanking the knife out of that cutting board.”

“And you couldn’t?”

Devon glances over one shoulder and eases the car into the left lane. “What do you know about him?”

“Who?”

“Copperfield.”

Ciere taps her fingers on her bare knee. She wears another loose sundress, since Kit assured her this meeting wouldn’t require business clothes. Otherwise, she’d be dressed in black, with a mask shoved in her pocket. “He’s sort of a crooked agent,” she says. “You know, handling the careers of us criminals who don’t care about things like contacts. He’s in charge of our crew.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that.” Devon fiddles with the steering wheel. “But what do we really
know
about him?”

Involuntarily, Ciere is drawn into her own memories. She met Kit when she was eleven years old and on the verge of starvation. She remembers the ache in her middle, the gnawing hunger. Dirt crusted her face and hands, her curly hair a mess. She stood in an alley, clutching the pink backpack her mother had forced into her hands. (
“Don’t let anyone see what you are, understand?”
) Then he was there, a stranger asking if she needed help. She ran from him, just like she ran from everyone else. Running was what she did—it was the only way to stay alive. Then the stranger lifted into the air, and she saw he was floating. “It’s all right. I’m like you,” he said.

She never found out how he knew. She assumes he must have seen her use an illusion to pick someone’s pocket.

Looking back, Ciere knows how lucky she was. Kit could have been anyone: a murderer, someone looking to sell her to the highest bidder, or worse. But Kit simply took her to his
apartment and fixed her the first hot meal she’d had in weeks. After a long shower, she put on one of his shirts, which fit her like an oversized dress. She slept on the bed he made up on the couch, and when she asked him why he would take her in, like some sort of stray cat, he said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Six months later, when he moved to the East Coast to expand his business, Ciere went with him. She’s been with him ever since.

Ciere frowns. “I know he’s a good person,” she says, fighting back a surge of annoyance. “He’s helped people like us stay off the government radar.”

“He’s our very own Fagin,” Devon mutters.

This close to the country’s capital, the signs of the government crop up everywhere. Billboards proudly display federally funded messages along with their usual commercials. The animated scripts blink over and over, trying to draw attention to themselves.

“TRUE AMERICANS WEAR THEIR TAGS WITH PRIDE.”

“HE HAS STOOD STRONG FOR FOUR YEARS—LET HIM STAND FOR YOU AGAIN. REELECT ROBERTS FOR PRESIDENT. (I am Edward Roberts, and I approve this message.)”

“USING SMUGGLED GOODS IS A CRIME.”

“SUPPORT YOUR COUNTRY—BUY ALLEGIANT BONDS.”

“OUR FAMILY VALUES ARE IN JEOPARDY; LET A FAMILY MAN REPRESENT OUR COUNTRY. ELECT JOHNSON FOR PRESIDENT. (I am William Johnson, and I approve this message.)”

“YOUR VIGILANCE PROTECTS YOUR FELLOW CITIZENS—REPORT ADVERSE EFFECTS.”

“Adverse effects” is the technical term for immunities. According to Kit, the government’s PR team had a tough time coming up with a name for the powers introduced to the population. The widely used term “immune” was considered, but ultimately thrown away in favor of “adverse effects.” After all, that’s what the immunities are—bad side effects. It makes those with powers sound like an unfortunate accident.