The Fire King (2 page)

But that old curiosity kept her silent, as well as nostalgia … and loneliness. She sensed that slip of a teen girl swaying closer, and stepped sideways so that she could keep both her and the man in sight. Cold amusement flickered through his eyes.

“My name is Robert,” he said. “My associate is Ku-Ku.”

“Bitter,” Soria replied, translating the girl’s name from Mandarin. “Appropriate, I assume.”

“In so many ways,” replied the man.

Soria did not want to know. “How can I be certain Roland sent you?”

Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered silver bracelet: thick, scarred, and tarnished with age. A chunk of turquoise, like an eye, had been embedded in the cuff. Soria’s breath caught when she saw it.

He held out the bracelet. “He thought you would stay long enough for him to return this. Or at least, that’s what he told me.”

It was not proof, exactly, but Soria had no doubt that the piece of antique jewelry had come from her former boss. She took it from Robert, half expecting him to pull back at the last moment. The bracelet was cool in her left palm, and the old habit of slipping it over her right wrist was so strong that for a moment she felt the echo of silver sliding over her ghost skin.

“Roland can have my time,” Soria said hoarsely. “But he better make it good.”

“That’s up to you,” Robert replied, tearing her plane ticket in half. “But you know it will be interesting.”

Indeed,
thought Soria, ignoring the phantom ache of her missing arm. With Roland and the other agents of Dirk & Steele, life was always a bit
too
interesting.

Roland had chartered a private plane to San Francisco. Soria spent the four-hour flight nursing her orange juice, which soon turned warm and tasteless. She did not care, just wet her tongue on the drink here and there.

Asking Robert questions was useless. She gave up after the first thirty minutes. He stayed at the back of the plane, reading an archaeology magazine and occasionally shaking his head. Ku-Ku sat beside him, gigantic headphones jammed over her ears, seat back, eyes closed.

Soria, after some careful maneuvering, managed to slide the bracelet over her left wrist. The silver felt cold and uncomfortable. She had not worn jewelry in a long time, but she did not remove it. She stared at the turquoise rock embedded in silver, swallowed some ibuprofen to dull the first tingle of a headache, and spent the flight trying not to think of much at all.

It had been over a year. San Francisco had not changed. It was early summer and still cold. Crooked streets, steep hills, crowded sidewalks. Business suits were mixed with chains and Mohawks; Victorian architecture crammed between modern office buildings and Art Deco landmarks. Soria had always thought that Bay Area neighborhoods felt like people: unique, constantly evolving, but with certain essential personalities that at all times stayed the same. She missed that—but not enough to move back. She liked her small condo in downtown Stillwater, with her view of the St. Croix River, even if she was considering jobs in New York City. Quiet had served her well for the past year, but she wanted to be useful again.

Robert drove a red Audi. Ku-Ku sat in the backseat. Soria glanced over her shoulder, and found the girl still listening to her headphones and cleaning under her nails with a rather large knife that looked better suited for a military commando than some kid.

Soria said, “Roland’s recruiting them kind of young, don’t you think?”

Robert glanced at her. “I never said we worked for Dirk and Steele.”

He spoke in Russian. Soria gripped her seat belt as he accelerated around a tight corner. “Roland wouldn’t send an outsider.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “You assume too much.”

The edge of a cool blade grazed the side of her throat. Soria twisted, heart hammering, but Ku-Ku was still cleaning her nails. Looking like a bored teen, glued to her seat. She glanced up, though—just for a split second—and her eyes were cold and dead.

“Here we are.” Robert pulled off the road, parking in front of a familiar stout office building constructed from dark stone blocks and decorated with modernized elements of a Grecian and Gothic flair: stone pillars and rounded corners, smooth carved faces perched on top of the pedestals, gazing down at the street. Nine stories tall. Restaurants lined the first floor: a Starbucks, a small Italian deli and pizzeria, a little café specializing in gourmet chocolates.

Soria scrambled out, almost falling on her knees. She half expected to get stabbed or shot in the back, and hopped a few feet from the car before turning to gaze at Robert. He tossed her purse at her, and then leaned out to dump her carry-on suitcase onto the sidewalk. She paid no attention to her belongings, but instead watched him. Hands back on the wheel. No visible weapons. Cold green eyes.

Ku-Ku slithered from the rear, coiling sinuously in the passenger seat like a pink snake tattooed with white cats. Graceful, flexible. No sign of knives or headphones. The girl braced her pink tennis shoes against the dashboard, and smacked her chewing gum. Robert peered around her at Soria.

“Some advice,” he said, in Icelandic. “Don’t think about the arm so much.”

It took a moment for Soria’s mind to translate, which meant that—unlike the other languages Robert had spoken earlier—he was not fluent in this one. Not that it mattered.

“It’s none of your business,” she replied.

“Not yet,” he said enigmatically—and Ku-Ku, with a knowing smile, slammed shut the door. Soria watched the Audi accelerate back into traffic, cutting off several other cars that braked hard, blaring their horns. She stood there until its taillights disappeared at the intersection, feeling a bit like an alien marooned in a strange world, and then shook herself, clenched her teeth, and stooped to pick up her belongings.

The restaurants were the only public areas of the office building. No alleyway doors, no kitchen entrances. Concrete embedded with steel and lead sheeting lined the walls dividing the public from private, which was accessible only from one narrow street-side door lined with old-fashioned copper and leaded glass.

Soria stepped inside the alcove and pulled free her key. Despite removing herself from the agency, it had never occurred to her to cut all ties. Certainly not this key. Which, now that she was standing here, told Soria a lot about how much she had missed the place and its people. Enough to drop everything and follow a stranger.

This better be good,
she thought, irritated at herself.
Better be damn good.

Soria jammed the key into a copper faceplate set in the stone blocks of the alcove, unlocking the small compartment. A keypad and biometrics scanner was inside. She pressed her thumb to the screen, and then typed in the six-digit code. The front door unlocked. She kicked through her carry-on bag, and shut everything tightly behind her.

The lobby was quiet, the marble floors dark and shining. Only one elevator. Soria keyed in another code, and rode all the way up to the ninth floor.

She heard screams before she reached the penthouse. A man’s voice cut straight through the elevator shaft into her bones. Doors opened. Soria ran into a warm foyer, across scuffed and battered oak floors. Screams continued to fill the air, and then cut off into abrupt, terrible silence. Soria hesitated, heart pounding—and then continued down the long hall, slower now, more careful, blinded by a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows through which the afternoon sun was shining. She glimpsed low tables sagging with books, and soft overstuffed sofas piled high with papers. Nothing she could use as a weapon.

She entered the living room and immediately sensed movement on her left. A hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

“Soria,” Roland growled, holding her steady as she stumbled. It had been a long time since she had heard his voice, and it cut through her, more painfully than she could have imagined. For a moment she could not look at him; she could just stare at his feet, in socks, with those familiar holes in the toes.

But that hurt, too, and she forced her chin up, thinking,
Brave girl. Be brave.

Little had changed. Roland was still a big man, scruffy and unshaved, with a hard-knocks face and brown hair that needed a cut. But a year had deepened the lines in his brow, and his blue eyes squinted at her with weariness. He looked terrible.

“So, you came,” he said gruffly, after a long moment of tense silence.

“You asked,” she replied, pulling away. “Who did I hear dying?”

Roland’s jaw tightened, and without a word he turned and walked across the room toward a flight of stairs that disappeared downward. Except for the first level, which was owned but not used by Dirk & Steele, all the floors of the building were part of the penthouse, but the only entrance was on the ninth. Soria jogged after him.

For as long as she could remember, the eighth floor had been part of a massive kitchen and dining area, large enough to accommodate a small army of loud and messy eaters. But the dining tables and couches had been removed, and now a thick glass wall blocked off the entire right side of the room. Smooth polished concrete covered what had been a hardwood floor, and concrete blocks covered the walls and windows. Clothing had been tossed on the floor outside the glass.

Inside, on the floor, curled a naked young man. All Soria could see was his long, lean back and dark hair, but she would have known him anywhere. The air around his body shimmered with heat.

“Eddie,” Soria breathed, and might have fallen on her knees in front of the glass had Roland not grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the stairs.

“Go,” he whispered roughly. “The kid’ll be embarrassed for you to see him like this.”
Weak. Exposed. Helpless.

Soria stumbled backward, staring through the glass at Eddie. She thought she must be losing her mind. Lights danced in her vision. Roland shoved her again, and she scrambled up the stairs.

He joined her, moments later. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, staring out the tinted windows. Soria glimpsed the blue edge of the bay, but it meant nothing to her. All she could see was the young man behind the glass, and then her own reflection: long black hair framing an olive-toned face and brown serious eyes.

“There was an accident,” Roland said quietly, his voice little more than a growl. “Happened in Africa. Kid got sick. Affected his control. Been like this for a little under six months. He’ll be fine for a while, then … fire. Fuckload of fire.”

You should have called me,
she almost said, before remembering that she had no telephone. “So you keep him in a cage?”

Roland shot her an angry look. “He can come out whenever the hell he wants. Eddie knows when he’s losing it. That’s the only safe room in this goddamn place.”

Soria closed her eyes. Her head ached, and a tingle ran down the ghost of her missing arm, a feeling so real and substantial she could almost believe, truly, that she was still whole. “If you’re not careful, Roland, he’ll never leave this building. He’ll become just like you.”

Or me,
she thought at him, knowing he could hear her thoughts if she wanted him to.

Roland stiffened. “You know it’s different. A missing arm doesn’t kill people.”

Soria turned on him, and shoved her finger hard against his chest. “Eddie is only twenty years old. You let him start down this road, and he’ll spend his entire life too afraid to do anything meaningful. You’ll
kill
him.”

Roland grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard. “I didn’t bring you here for this.”

“Well, you got it,” she snapped, trying to remain unmoved by the anger and grief in his eyes. “Do his mom and grandmother know?”

“They think he’s overseas. He calls them every week. Writes postcards, and I have the others send them.” Roland released her slowly, almost wistfully; then he turned and threw himself down on the nearest couch, covering his eyes with one raw-knuckled hand. His stomach bulged slightly against his shirt. “He’s a good kid.”

Soria forced herself to breathe. Eddie was more than good. He was
sweet,
a genuine golden heart. And, it just so happened, a pyrokinetic. Able to start fires with his mind.

Dirk & Steele.
To the public it was nothing but an elite, internationally respected detective agency—and that was the truth. But it was just one truth. Because the men and women who were part of the agency, Soria included, were not entirely human.

Psychics, shape-shifters, creatures out of legend. The world was a strange place. Got stranger every day. Soria’s personal library was filled with books on evolution, mutation, mythology—anything that could shed light on the how and why of those differences that separated the men and women of the agency from other humans. Soria still had no answers. But being part of Dirk & Steele allowed its employees the most basic opportunities to hide and work in plain sight, to do good under the auspices and protection of a legitimate, respected organization. Because even though almost no one in this world believed in magic—like, that a man could start fires with his mind, or read thoughts—such things were real, and did happen.

And, it was good to be useful. It was good not to be alone. To have friends who knew the truth.

We are family,
she thought to herself, plucking at the wrist of her empty sleeve.
One crazy, messed-up family.

Soria looked up and found Roland watching her. Reading her mind, perhaps. Or not. He had some morals. Soft heart, rough exterior. Like a big grizzly bear. Boss of them all, even though he was not the ultimate last word at the agency. That was a privilege retained by its elderly founders.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice little more than a quiet rumble. “About everything. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

“You wouldn’t leave this building to come to the hospital,” she reminded him.

Roland’s gaze hardened. “That’s not why you left the agency.”

Soria sat down on the couch, opposite him. “So why am I here now? Why did you send a stranger to track me down?”

Below them, at the bottom of the stairs, she heard clicking sounds, glass rattling. Roland rubbed his face, grimacing. “There’s a situation. We … found someone. He doesn’t speak English, or anything else that’s comprehensible. In fact, we don’t even think his language exists anymore.”