Codename: Night Witch (21 page)

Nuria looked at her uncertainly, as if not sure what to say. "Thank you, Lady Sigrid—"

"Sigrid, Nuria! For goodness' sake, just Sigrid!"

"Good night…Sigrid."

Nuria rose and walked to the door. With her hand on the light switch, she took one look back before flicking it off and closing the door behind her.

~ - ~

After Nuria left, Sigrid tossed and turned for a good twenty minutes. Glancing at the window, she saw it was already growing light. If she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd be useless on the road. Accessing her PCM, she instructed it to deliver a potent cocktail of benzodiazepines. She even went so far as to disable her safeties and ramp up the dosage well past the red line. It would knock her out all right, but it would also take a full dose of stimulants to wake her in the morning; she instructed her PCM to take care of that too.

Sleep came hard and fast.

Part Two
The Night Witch

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Betrayer

She was standing in the chairman's inner chambers. The chairman, who was quite dead, lay at her feet, along with four of his cronies. The body of the hapless security guard lay close by. The Council for Trade and Finance would not be reborn this night. The Federation would crumble. Her mistress would be pleased. She hoped.

Her work wasn't over. Not yet. For her mistress was demanding, and if she failed her, her punishment would be savage.

Bending to retrieve the security man's sidearm, she stepped over the bodies as she reentered the hall. Music could be heard from the floor below. The festivities continued, the guests blissfully unaware of the carnage in the chambers above. She wondered if they would even care. There was a frenzy in the air, the heady promise of food, drink and drugs, even pleasures of the flesh. The guests were all too eager to indulge in everything their dead host had to offer. All their lusts would be fulfilled tonight.

Or so they thought.

The hulking sidearm weighed heavy in her hand.

From the landing above, she stared down at the guests and dignitaries. She wondered what they might think if they knew what was to come. "No witnesses." That was the directive of her mistress.

There were never any witnesses.

"You hesitate. Have you forgotten yourself?"

She whirled around and saw her. Her mistress, here? She might as well have appeared out of thin air. Perhaps she had. Her mistress was powerful.

She stood before her dressed in a long, black evening dress. The wide sleeves draped nearly as low as the long hemline of her gown, reaching down to the floor. She stepped toward her. The thin, gauzy material of the dress flowed with her movements, giving her a ghostly appearance. The silver streaks in her shoulder-length hair caught the light, shining nearly as bright as the crystal chandeliers above. The eyes that met hers were firm and commanding.

When her mistress raised her hand to her, the girl shrank back. She had learned to fear her mistress, and for good reason. But the hand that fell upon her simply brushed the hair back from her face. A gentle gesture of kindness or a hidden warning?

"You feel sorry for them," her mistress said. "They are not deserving of your mercy."

Mercy? Could she still feel mercy for anything or anyone?

"The chairman is dead, mistress. I've done what you asked."

"Yet his compatriots still live."

"But those people…" She glanced down at the guests as they sipped their champagne, marveled at their couture, congratulated themselves for their greatness, and for the simple fact of not being anything but what they were: privileged. Lucky. Not poor. "They can't help what they are. They've done nothing."

"Nothing? Is that what you think?"

"They are innocent."

"We are none of us innocent."

"Then why—?"

"What do you think will happen if you let them live? Do you suppose they will feel humbled? That they will give back everything they've stolen? Build rather than tear down? Do you think they'll change their ways? No, my dearest. All they will do is laugh. Can't you hear them? They're laughing at us now. They think they've gotten away with it, and they would be right to think so."

The girl stared at the weapon in her hand, heavy, powerful. Her mistress nodded her approval.

"You, my dear, have the power. You can be the force of change."

"By murdering?"

"Is it murder to stop a serial killer from killing again? A rapist from stalking more victims? A tyrant from committing genocide? Those people you call innocent would enslave a generation."

The girl swallowed. "I know what you desire, mistress—"

"My desire is irrelevant. I cannot force you. No one can. But whether by action or inaction, the role you choose to play tonight will have consequences. Billions will suffer. Or they will be set free. You must do what you feel is right, of course."

"What I feel…?" The girl turned back, but her mistress was gone. Vanished? Or had she ever been there at all?

Was her mistress even real?

The weapon in her hand was real enough, as were the guests in attendance on the floor below. As was the choice that lay before her.

By action or inaction…

Holding the weapon tight, the girl walked slowly down the stairs. The security guard saw her and smiled, but that smile vanished as he saw the weapon raised and her knuckle white on the trigger. He reached for the comm unit on his collar. She shot him first, then two more men who rushed toward her. The guards by the door fell next, then the security squad that barged in from the kitchens.

Women screamed at the sight of her. Men whimpered, soiling themselves. She heard their pleas and their cries of terror even as they trampled one another in their haste to escape. A husband held his wife before him, shielding himself even as she screamed her horror. A woman tackled another so she could reach the exit first.

They
were
pitiful. Perhaps they didn't deserve her mercy. It didn't matter, as she had no mercy to give.

She emptied the remainder of the magazine, all twenty-seven rounds. The dead security man at her feet provided three fresh clips. It only took a second to reload.

The help, she spared. The footmen and women, the valets, the comfort girls. They were innocent in this. Only their masters fell.

"Sigrid, stop!"

The name hit her like a breaching charge. She spun around and saw a woman standing there. Her long hair was as black as night; her figure, slender and strong. And she was by far the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. She held a gleaming
katana
in her hand, raised and ready to strike. But this was done in defense, not to kill or strike her down.

"Sigrid, don't do this!"

There was that name again. Sigrid. It was a name from long ago, from another time. Another life. But it wasn't her life. It didn't belong to her. Not anymore. She wasn't permitted to think of that life. Her mistress forbade it. To remember—even to hear the name—was to bring pain. Terrible pain.

"Sigrid—"

"Stop calling me that!"

"It's your name. It's who you are."

"No, it's not." She shook her head, but that only made the pain worse. "That person is dead."

"You're wrong. She's alive. I know you, Sigrid Novak. I love you." Lowering the sword, the girl extended her hand. "Come back with me. Let me take you home."

"Home?" The pain was crippling. It drove her to her knees. "We…we can go home?"

"Yes!" The girl knelt beside her, the sword forgotten. She gathered her in, holding her in her arms. "Of course we can. I can help you. Sigrid, I love you so much. I can save you."

Lies!

She pushed her away. There was only one person who could save her now. Only one person who could end the pain. And that was her mistress. "No," she said, and she pressed the gun firmly into the girl's chest. "You can't."

The blast of the fifty-caliber round sent the black-haired girl hurtling backward. She landed a good five meters distant. Her body looked broken, splayed at an unlikely angle; a smoking, charred hole burned in her chest.

But the pain was gone.

~ - ~

"Suko!"

Sigrid's eyes shot wide open, and she bolted upright, fully awake.

The dream—the nightmare—had returned, this time more terrifying than the last.

Soaked in sweat, Sigrid sat panting, sucking in short breaths. Her head throbbed. The pain had returned, much sharper this time, as if lingering from the dream. It was that same warning pain: that spike driven deep into her skull. That, along with the sleeping drugs she'd taken, left her reeling, the room spinning about.

But the pain was nothing, not when compared to the memory of what she'd done.

Suko. I killed her. I shot her!

Certain she'd be sick, Sigrid lay back down, holding tight to the edge of the bed.

It was a dream. Just a dream. That was all. It wasn't real.

Unlike the last time, the nightmare images stayed with her much longer. She was able to see things now. The gala. The guests. The chairman. The dozens of dead, murdered, killed by her own hand. It didn't feel like a dream at all. The stench of gore and filth lingered in her nose, though not nearly as much as the dread of what she'd done.

Suko.

The images were fading now, vanishing. Sigrid clawed her way through the fog, grasping at the memory. Suko
had tried to save
her, and Sigrid had killed her.

Murderer.

Sigrid clamped her eyes shut. She refused to believe it. The dream was a lie.

Jones.

He had done this to her. Perhaps this was his parting gift: a false memory in the guise of a dream sent to torment her.

Slowly, Sigrid opened her eyes. It was over. The dream was over and she was home, back in her suite in the magistrate's villa. But she wasn't alone. A dark shape loomed above her, the silhouette of a girl moving toward her in the moonlight. She came to sit at her side. Her long black hair fell down over her shoulders, falling next to Sigrid's face. Delicate hands held her shoulders.

Sigrid sat up, gathering her into her arms. "Suko!" Tears welled in her eyes.

The bedside light flicked on. "It's me. It's Nuria."

Sigrid pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, blinking. It
was
Nuria. She was sitting beside her and dressed in a pale blue nightgown.

Sigrid blinked twice and shook her head, as if to clear it. Her sleeping drugs had left her in a heavy fog. In the dark, she could have sworn…

"Nuria? What are you—"

"I heard you call out. I was worried. I came to see if you were all right."

The alarm triggered instantly in Sigrid's PCM.

Nuria was lying!

Sigrid saw it, but too late—the large syringe in Nuria's hand and the four-centimeter needle stuck in her thigh. The cylinder was empty.

Sigrid reached for it, grabbing hold of Nuria's wrist. Nuria screamed and leapt back. The syringe fell to the floor, shattering. Sigrid caught the scent: Poison. A highly modified curare derivative. Incredibly potent. Definitely unstable, and thoroughly and completely deadly.

The room was spinning, though no longer as the result of any nightmare. This time it was real.

"Nuria, what have you done?"

Sigrid struggled to rise, but the paralytic was already taking hold. Her limbs felt like wood taking root. Breathing was impossible. Unable to control herself, she rolled to the floor, smacking her head against the nightstand for her troubles.

Nuria screamed again and ran to the corner, where she stood trembling.

The poison tightened its grip on Sigrid. She would be dead in moments—if she were anyone else. But the poison, as powerful as it was, was already losing its hold. Alerted to the danger, her PCM unleashed the nano-swarms on the invading toxin. Thousands of microscopic robots threw themselves at the poison, breaking the deadly molecules down, feasting on them and consuming them whole.

Sigrid flexed one finger, then another. The feeling was already returning. She still couldn't breathe, but that didn't stop her from climbing to her hands and knees. Straining, she reached out, grabbing hold of the hem of Nuria's nightdress, and Nuria screamed her terror.

"I'm…not…going to hurt you, Nuria—"

It took all her effort—she was certain her spine would split in two—but Sigrid managed to straighten. On her knees, gasping for air, she stared at the girl. "Why?"

"I'm—I'm so sorry. I had no choice. They said they'd kill him."

"Who, Nuria? Who's—"

Sigrid didn't get the chance to finish the sentence. The bedroom door burst open. Five figures rushed forward. Each of them held a thick stun baton in their hands. Seeing her on her knees, they froze. It was obvious they expected to find her incapacitated. Finding her awake, and very much alive, had thrown a wrench into their plans.

Sigrid cursed. Like the fool she was, she'd left all her weapons in the vestibule. All she had was the single
tantō
, the short blade she kept under her pillow. She dived for it, but the last traces of the paralytic slowed her. The five men fell on her at once. They drove the burning prods into her sides, her chest and her thighs. Sigrid felt each and every one of the electrified charges, but it only served to fuel her rage.

When the nearest of the men, the largest and fattest of the lot, raised his baton to strike her again, she grabbed hold of the weapon, turning it about and driving the prod into his stomach. He took the full force of the 450-kilovolt charge. His eyes rolled fully back and he shuddered violently in what Sigrid found to be a most satisfying fashion.