Division Zero: Thrall (62 page)

“Dorian? Come on, where are you? Wake up.” Kirsten pounded her hand at the center console. “Did you try to come after me when I was stuck in his basement? Where the hell are you?”

A dotted line led in an arc off the hood, plunging to the ground some miles ahead amid the city of pixilated gold. From this altitude, the West City Archives complex resembled a pile of hatboxes mashed together and linked by archways and elevated, enclosed bridges. She nudged forward on the right stick, diving into a thinner portion of the smog layer. The glow of silvery glass in the afternoon sun filled in between the amber lines. The lower she got, the less mist there was and the less like a video game the world outside the car appeared.

Well below the smog at forty feet, the digital assistance was unnoticeable as she brought the car to rest in the central courtyard of the complex. Kirsten leapt out of the car, worry and fury in her eyes daring anyone to give her crap for landing there. Two steps later, she faced the car and closed her eyes. Beaconing for Dorian, she spent a minute projecting the want for him to come to her into the astral realm, with no luck.

William Arris was a security guard here. One of the dead men. Konstantin used him in some ritual. There has got to be a connection.
She stormed through the nearest door, past a handful of security guards that backed off with raised hands. Holographic signs led her through an atrium, two hallways, and up a flight of stairs to the office of the curator.

Kirsten shoved her way through the door, ignoring the security station in the antechamber. A slender middle-aged man with touches of grey hair half-stood up, tilted his head and was about to say something when she unfurled the astral lash with a twitch of her arm. The scintillating cord of light sent harsh shadows skittering over the wall as she waved her forearm guard at the interior lock panel. The guard pursed his lips, shook his head, and sat back down as if she had not been there.

“I’m sorry, the Curator has asked that―” A thirty-something man of Indian descent stood up from behind the executive assistant’s desk in the next room, his protest cut off by a lash through the chest.

Her strike found no resistance; all it destroyed was the man’s ability to speak. She paid him no further attention and stepped up to a run. Growling, she smashed through a set of carved wooden double doors. As the shocked curator began to scream, she thrust her arm forward and whipped the ethereal tendril through him.

The tall, thin man sailed to the right from the force of the hit as if weightless, landing in a heap. A baritone wail of pain startled her for only an instant as he fought to crawl forward. She tapped into the shame and anger from what Konstantin did to her, and brought the spectral whip down on top of him a second time.

His assistant, and two security guards, ran in just as a blast of jet ichor flew from his mouth, nose, and ears. Some of the liquid coalesced into a legless humanoid shape that flopped its arms at the floor in a series of splats. Kirsten coiled the whip and attacked again, blasting the apparition into a cloud of fine mist that settled over the new arrivals, staining them.

Kirsten shot a glance at the desk, specifically the nameplate, and crouched over the shuddering man. “Mr. Annan, are you okay?”

He convulsed once, vomiting more inky water. After a few heavy breaths, he wiped a line of drool from his lower lip and sat up on his heels. “Please explain what in God’s name just happened to me.”

She tried not to look at the dark stains on his pants. “You may want to change. There was a paranormal entity inside you. I have reason to believe it may have been used to influence your decisions.” Kirsten helped him up. “Sorry to barge in on you. The last one of these I tried to destroy ran off when I gave it the time to do so.”

“A paranormal…” He stared at the ceiling.

Kirsten looked up at him, trying not to let the height disparity intimidate her. “Paranormal entity. Ghost. Maybe even a demon. Doesn’t matter what you call it, it’s gone now. Mr. Annan, can you please look back over the past few weeks. Any decision you made in that time is suspect.”

He wiped his face with a burgundy silk handkerchief. The tool proved inadequate for the amount of sweat and post-possession slime. “Please, call me Kwadwó, Miss…”

“Wren. Agent Kirsten Wren, Division Zero.”

Kwadwó Annan excused himself to a small, attached bathroom. Kirsten paced in an anxious circle. The security officers wandered over, more casual now after realizing she had come to help the curator. Her brain flew on autopilot, navigating the small talk the men made while she waited for Kwadwó to emerge. Some minutes later he did, now wearing different pants and a sleeveless undershirt. After draping his suit jacket over the back of his chair, he took a seat at the desk and opened his terminal. Kirsten went to his side, gazing at the dozen grey holographic panels that unfolded in midair. A few holo bars projected still images of a younger Kwadwó: sitting among pyramids, a camp in a jungle, a red stone cave somewhere on Mars, a barely-recognizable man encased in a heavy coat at a place covered in snow. He looked like a globetrotting archaeologist.

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here, Agent.” Kwadwó scratched at a salt and pepper goatee. Most of the past two weeks feels like a disembodied dream.” He looked over at her; even seated, he was close to eye level. “As though I watched myself from the outside.”

Kirsten put a hand on his dark shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner. It’s important. I need to know what Konstantin did here.”

“Konstantin…” Kwadwó grabbed at icons and swiped them through the light panels. When the face of a hard-eyed man in his later seventies appeared, Kirsten looked away and blushed. “Let me see… the only thing. That son of a bitch.” He slapped his desk. “I remember telling him we did not have the resources to give him an entire wing for his exhibit, yet here is my signed approval for it.”

She could not look at the terminal, not with Konstantin there. Her hand wanted to go south, to wipe the memory of his touch from her body, but she instead covered her mouth. Two hours in an autoshower would do the job, but she could not think about that now. Kirsten closed her eyes and thanked the Seraphim for sending him a vid call before he had gone all the way. His hand there was bad enough. Even if they had nothing to do with it, she was grateful anyway.

Kirsten shook off the memory. “What did he put in the wing?”

“There’s no inventory in the catalog. It should be empty.” Kwadwó stood, throwing his blazer on. “Let us go.”

It took about six minutes to walk from the curator’s office to the private wing. A holographic panel, six feet tall and two wide, advertised a one-of-a-kind display of ancient Sumerian artifacts and old, forgotten cults. The color of the walls changed as it cycled from blue to desert brown to red with different versions of the same advertisement.

Kwadwó swiped his ID at the door, and it buzzed. “Damn. My pass should open everything here.”

Kirsten’s police ID got the same buzz. She squinted, drawing the E-90. “Take a step back, Mr. Annan.”

“But…” He sighed, seeing no room for negotiation in her face.

On the lowest setting, a pip from the weapon burned through the locking bar and lit the marble floor behind it aglow. Kirsten stomped the ornate doors open, sending a slam echoing through an open chamber beyond. Dozens of crates littered the room, copious amounts of pulverized soy shell and dust smeared in whorls on the ground.

In the center of it all, surrounded by velvet ropes, a clear cube contained a black pillow with a fist-sized dent. Whatever had been on display was gone. She stepped over the barrier and put her hands on the bullet-resistant plastic box. A strong wave of paranormal energy leapt forth and filled her mind with a dozen screaming voices. Terrified women, frightened men, and one angry roar. The angry one sounded familiar. She had heard that exact sound before.

Dorian.

“Your little friend is the last piece I need.” Konstantin’s voice, now withered and old, rasped at the back of her consciousness with the sense of skeletal fingers raking down her spine.

Kwadwó’s hand on her shoulder made her realize she had slumped to her knees. “Are you alright, Kirsten?”

She let him help her up, wanting to back away from the touch of a man in his later fifties. Dark brown eyes beheld her with a look of a concerned father, calming her. “What… what was in there?”

“Terminal,” said Kwadwó, reaching up to enter his password on a transparent white slab of hologram that appeared next to him. A few finger swipes later, he pointed. “That. Looks like some manner of gemstone.”

While the curator opened a second panel and sifted through reams of text, Kirsten moved up to the first screen. Security camera images of the case from two days ago showed a violet jewel set in the hollow spot on the pillow. A decorative cut shaped like a frozen fireball, it pulsed with amethyst light in a way that conjured the sense of a heartbeat.

“The Heart of Eannatum,” said Kwadwó. “It was recovered from a dig site in Iraq years ago, but stolen before it made it out of the country. There are all manner of rumors about what happened: cultists objecting to it being unearthed, mercenaries, even the local government was purported to be involved.”

Kirsten poked a finger at the screen. “I think cultists came closest, though I doubt they were motivated by protecting cultural heritage.” She took a step toward the door, remembering Brooke’s vision: the glowing crystal in Konstantin’s hand, the wisps of energy drawn into it.

It’s some kind of soul trap.
She bit her knuckles, fighting the urge to cry.
It can’t devour them, it’s gotta be a trap.
Her eyes widened. “He didn’t need to kill people, he needed
spirits!
I destroyed his harvester, so he had to start making new ghosts, weak enough for him to catch himself. Shit!” She spun, holding the curator’s hand. “Thank you, Kwadwó. Sorry for the mess. I need to go.”

He’s not after Evan at all. I’m coming, Dorian.

lectronic thrumming flooded the cabin. The noise verged out of the realm of pure sound into something tangible―a vibration teasing at Kirsten’s presence. Silence from the passenger seat seemed more vacuous now that she knew Dorian was gone.
Stay professional.
The words rang through her mind in his voice. She picked at the control sticks with her thumbnails. Captain Eze had not received any updates about where Konstantin ran off to, and Division 9 had all the starports and shuttle terminals under tight surveillance.