A Sea of Purple Ink (7 page)

POLICE DISPATCH

via Burner 11

City to Reader Division

Stryker, I heard a rumor that some of your readers are out tonight, chasing through the streets again. What’s your excuse this time?

- Fielding

POLICE DISPATCH

via Burner 6

Reader Division to City

Fielding, we thought we may have found Brandon’s killer. We were wrong. No harm done. I’ll report in soon.

- Stryker

PRIVATE

via Burner 6

City to Reader Division

Rotate the room lights and keep the doors locked. We lost Talbot in the raid, and I’ve been shot. Somehow she knew we were coming. Call in Arrow. I have questions for him. Grahm says he knows where this woman might be, so I’m taking my crew out there. Maybe now we’ll make some progress.

- S.

11

Hours later, a hand touched Reese’s arm. The same hand that had helped her out of the water, although she hadn’t caught the owner’s name. Reese opened her eyes.

A shaggy boatman crouched before her. The motion of the barge sent flickering lamplight across his tense face. “We’re coming up on a checkpoint,” he whispered. “Keep quiet.”

Reese nodded, too tired to worry. A few faltering calculations stumbled through her aching head, but they hurt too much to pursue.

The boatman rose to his feet with an agility born of long practice, the tail of his long, striped hat bobbing and dangling at the motion. He grabbed the edge of a large barrel. “Keep your head down.”

Reese obeyed. The enormous cask rolled over, a hollow space fitting perfectly over the niche Reese lay in. Darkness.

She stayed there, unmoving. Above her, liquid sloshed in the barrel, a dizzying array of data. Reese winced and tried to ignore the maddening irregularity of it.
Checkpoint,
she told herself. W
hich one would it be?

She had been asleep for six hours, by her count. Where were all the security checkpoints? It was one of the few things she couldn’t remember ever studying.

The prow of the barge struck a hard, unyielding mass.

Reese closed her eyes.
That would be the pier.

Voices, masked by the sound of the water, moved back and forth in the outer world. They could wait. Reese felt herself falling asleep again. If they found her, she would worry about it then.

Nero.

Reese’s eyes flew open, every muscle in her body tense at the realization.
I told Grahm where to meet us.
Possibilities raced through her mind. The musty wooden boards beneath her pushed like an unyielding hand.
It will only be a few hours before the police track the others down—if they haven’t already.
Reese stared up into the darkness, trying to blot out all the horrifying possibilities.

There was nothing she could do until the barge left the pier. Nothing. And even then…

More voices and footsteps. Reese fought back the rising tide of thoughts.
Just wait,
she repeated.
Wait.

The boat lurched. One end bumped against the pier. Wet rope hit the deck a few feet away, and they were off.

Reese slid around to lie on her stomach.
Come move the cask,
she willed.
Hurry.
With so little time left, there wasn’t much she could do. Even in the dark she could picture the fog stains covering her in great purple smears. She couldn’t go herself. Reese bit her lower lip. But she didn’t have a choice.
Tyrone.
An angry heat suffused her neck at the thought.
He could send someone.

Heavy footsteps approached the barrel. Reese mentally assigned the sound to the barge’s owner and kept picking through the plan.
The police had an injured reader to deal with, and it might take them awhile to find Nero’s…
The chances played through her mind in a sharp-edged stream.
If I can get through to Tyrone, he might be able to reach the tavern in time.

The barrel creaked.

Or at least help me pick up the pieces.

With a loud groan, the giant cask rolled back, revealing the shaggy boatman.

Reese locked gazes with the man. “I need to get to the shipping yards. Now.”

---

Reese peered up through the floor grating of the warehouse vestibule. The man behind the reception desk had been sitting there for almost an hour, and she didn’t dare risk popping up in front of him. From the sounds filtering downward, she felt pretty sure he was Tyrone’s secretary. Or chief of staff. Or top henchman. However they chose to phrase it.
I need you to move. Go.

She shivered. Her clothes were almost dry, but the deep violet splotches covered her.
I’m going to have to do something about these.
Reese rested her throbbing forehead in her hands.

A heavy knock sounded on the front doors. The man behind the desk got up and crossed the floor. Silence fell for a moment, then a creaking door opened.

Muttered conversation drifted down to the venting tunnel. Reese mentally filed away what seemed to be passwords and counter-passwords. Then the door closed and the two men crossed the lobby and disappeared into the warehouse.

Finally.
She unlatched the grate and slid up into the lobby.
Here’s hoping Tyrone is by himself.
Reese closed the grating, then tiptoed across the floor and up a narrow flight of well-worn steps. As she neared the hallway, her aching head tried a few sputtering calculations.
Please, not now.
The six-hour rest earlier had helped reset her abilities, but the strain of getting here without being caught had taken its toll.

Three doors stood in the tiny upper hall. One for an official meeting room, one for a sham records room—more commonly used to hide questionable workers during inspections—and the third an office. His office. Reese’s stomach flip-flopped. If Tyrone put up any of his usual excuses… She listened outside the door for a moment. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room.

Taking a deep breath, Reese turned the handle and stepped inside.

The smuggling merchant lay half-sprawled in a tipped-back chair, his fashionable boots propped up on the edge of his desk.

Reese pulled the door shut behind her. “Tyrone. Wake up.”

The lanky, handsome man sat bolt upright. “Reese? What are you doing here?” He swung his feet off the desk and stood, staring. “And dripping purple ink all over the floor.”

Reese squared her shoulders. “It’s not dripping anymore.” She rifled through different ways to bring up the problem at hand. “I need a favor.”

Tyrone sank back into his chair and raised a dark eyebrow. “This ought to be good.” He looked her up and down in his usual seemingly careless manner. “Need a new gun? No. A new coat. What happened to the one I gave you?”

There. The opening she needed. “I had to leave it behind,” she said. “In Darrencote.”

The merchant’s mouth fell open. “Darrencote? What on earth were you doing back there?”

Reese strode to the desk. “Trying to save the hide of a very powerful shifter who was just as dedicated to getting me arrested.” She stared down at her one-time friend. “He found out where our meeting place is. I need to know what’s going on down there. They could have found the place. Arrested or killed everyone. Be laying a trap, or—”

“Or still be on their way there,” Tyrone interrupted. “Pick a more positive ending and stick with it.”

“That was over seven hours ago, Tyrone.”

The merchant raised his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll send someone down to find out.” He pretended to study the ruffles on his linen sleeve. “Now, where would ‘there’ be, again?”

Reese struggled to calm the rising wave of frustration. “Nero’s tavern,” she said, enunciating each syllable. The strain on her brain was getting more than she could bear. Grahm’s face rose in her mind —the traitor.

“And where’s that?” Tyrone asked.

Reese exploded. “Don’t play coy with me. He buys your smuggled grain.”

Tyrone looked up, the foppish mask gone. “Reese?”

She shook her head, trying to hold back tears.

Tyrone leaned forward and peered up at her face. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

The words forced themselves out of Reese’s mouth with a gasp. “Keller’s dead. Niela’s almost completely drained. We had to force a doctor to come, the police are on their way, and… and… I can’t do anything!” She grabbed her head in both hands as a new wave of computations threatened to engulf her senses.

The chair legs scraped on the floor, a desk drawer rattled, and Tyrone’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Here,” he said, pulling one of her hands free and pressing a small pill into it. “Swallow this, quick.”

Reese obeyed before she could think through all the possibilities. The capsule tasted vaguely metallic.
Cillian sleep tablets. Thank goodness.
Ability suppressants. “You’ll send someone?” A haze surrounded her, shutting down the outermost edges of her mind.

“Right away,” Tyrone replied. “I’ll hide you somewhere, and we’ll talk later.”

The haze tightened, reminding Reese of the night fog. A tattered remnant of fear from the chase flashed through her thoughts, then nothing. Blessed nothing.

Hours later, a gentle knock sounded close by Reese’s head. She tensed, replaying past events.
No trace of headache. The Cillian’s worn off. And my brain seems to be functioning normally.
She sat up in the darkness.
Better not do anything too complicated, though.

The knock came again, from the floor beside her.

“Reese?” Tyrone’s hoarse whisper came through the closed trapdoor. “Are you awake?”

Reese ran her hands through her hair. “I am now.” She blinked, trying to see through the gloom. “Did you find out anything?”

“Yes.”

Reese frowned at the tense note in the merchant’s voice.

“Change clothes and come on down for some supper.” Tyrone forced a laugh. “I couldn’t go buy you new things, but we found some odds and ends. I left a coat there, too. As a loan. Don’t get it all stained.” His footsteps creaked away down the hall below.

This can’t be good.
Reese shoved the growing list of potential disasters to the side of her mind and felt across the floor. Her fingers brushed a pile of fabric, then bumped into a candlestick. She pried a match from the base of the holder and lit the tiny wick.

A flame sprang up, enough to illuminate a patch of floor and the small heap of clothing.

The pale glow of a second light glinted in the corner of Reese’s eye. She flinched and turned to see a piece of polished silver stuck in the wall.
A mirror.
Reese crawled to the wall, keeping her head down to avoid the low ceiling. The motion made her feel dizzy.
Maybe I’m not as rested as I thought.

A small pouch dangled beside the mirror. Reese opened it one-handed.
Masking paints.
She set the candlestick on the floor.
Tyrone has certainly gotten better about preparation.
Glad of something else to focus on, she hurried through changing her stained clothes for the worn trader’s garb and covering the stains on her face, neck, and hands.

When she finished, she picked up the coat and began to put it on, then she smelled the scent.
This is Tyrone’s.
She took the coat off. Her old coat, while a gift from him, hadn’t been this strong. Reese folded the heavy garment and laid it on the floor. There were few scents that bothered her, but this was at the forefront. It smelled of aftershave, smoke, and blind purpose.
I’m not wearing that.

Reese blew out the candle, slid the trapdoor back, and dropped to the hallway floor. The trapdoor sprung shut behind her with a gentle “snick.”

Reese looked down at her ruffled shirt, deep blue vest, and caramel-colored pants. The pants were a little baggy, but everything else seemed to fit. At least she could still wear her own boots. The dunking had only dyed them a deeper shade of brown.
So I’m all right for the moment. What about everyone else?
Panic began to rise. Reese breathed hard.
Calm down. This won’t help.
She clenched and unclenched her hands, trying to let the calculations melt away.
Just get the facts.
She felt far too fragile to do this. Too close to another collapse.
But if I don’t keep fighting, who will?

Voices came from the lobby below. Reese listened for a moment, identifying the voices of Tyrone and his secretary, then she took a deep breath.
I can do this.

Slowly, she descended the stairs.
Better to hear the worst at once. Then I can go sleep on it and maybe think of some way out.

Tyrone and his henchman looked up from the desk as she reached the floor. “There you are,” Tyrone said. He waved a paper toward the tense, bald-headed man beside him. “This is Daro.” The man gave a curt nod.

Reese nodded back.
Is this a man to trust?
She studied his stony eyes.

Tyrone scooped up a handful of written sheets from the desk and straightened them. “Daro is my right-hand man. He knows pretty much everything about everything.” He handed the man the papers. “So don’t worry. And don’t go probing him for information about me. Daro and I have an understanding about that.”

Something akin to amusement flashed across Daro’s face.

Tyrone stepped forward and swept a gallant bow. “May I escort you in to dinner?” he asked, offering Reese an arm.

Reese narrowed her eyes. There was something hiding behind that smile. She could tell.
Don’t you dare bring up that old quarrel again.
“I’m all right, thank you,” she said. “And I’m not going to discuss overthrowing the king.”

Tyrone straightened, one hand clapped theatrically to his heart. “Who said I was going to ask, mind reader?”

Daro cleared his throat. “Your dinner is getting cold, Tyrone.” He walked between them, giving the merchant a hard look as he passed. “I’m going to go check on the new shipments.”

“Go then,” Tyrone snapped. “And while you’re at it, see if you can find out where that last batch of guns went.” He turned toward Reese. “Dinner’s in here.”

Reese followed him through the warehouse doors and around a stack of new packing crates. There, in a small alcove created by stacked goods, stood a wooden table covered in food. Two candelabras adorned the white cloth and filled the space with a warm glow.

Reese halted. “Do you always eat like this?”

Tyrone crossed to the table and pulled one of the chairs back. “Actually, no. I tend to have to cram odd mouthfuls in between urgent matters of business.” His smile faded. “And we both know that things have been urgent for quite some time.”

A few calculations ticked through Reese’s mind. She folded her arms. “At least you’re not trying to soften me up for something.”

Her one-time friend gave her a disgusted look. “Pull out your own chair, then.” He stalked around the table and plopped down in the other seat. “I was just trying to be nice.”