Falling Light (A Game of Shadows Novel) (3 page)

ALMOST AN HOUR
after battling Michael and Mary at the cabin, he was still flying high on adrenaline and anger. The energy he had taken from the people he had killed at the country diner buzzed along his nerves. The sensation would fade after a few hours. Until then, it was better than any drug, and he should know. He had tried them all.

Heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, crack, LSD, ecstasy, PCP. Marijuana did nothing for him. Smoking it made him hungry and even more paranoid than usual. He just didn’t see the point, although he was rather fond of opium.

It was so easy to enjoy drugs when he had no lifelong commitment to any one body. Nicotine? He loved it. There was nothing quite like that first cigarette right after he took over a new body. Taking a drag of smoke into virgin lungs was better than sex.

When he experimented, he was always careful not to overdose. After all, for him, the point of using drugs was recreation, not a desire to escape his life. He didn’t want to accidentally die and have to start life all over again as a real baby, not knowing his own true identity. That would leave him too vulnerable to his enemies.

But none of the drugs, not even his favorite, coke, could hold a candle to the experience of taking human lives. He drank them down like they were the finest of liqueurs. If gold had a taste, he imagined that was what a soul tasted like.

Pure life force. It was the most valuable commodity in the universe. It was also the easiest resource to harvest, and the best goddamn high there ever was.

He wished he could drink down the life force of his old enemies the way that he had discovered he could do with humans. Imagine what kind of high that would be—revenge and sustenance all at once. He’d tried once or twice, the rare times he had been able to capture one of them. But he had never discovered the knack for it. Either their spirits were too strong or they were too like his, and his desire remained nothing more than a frustrated fantasy.

He was aware that he was rambling a bit and not with very much relevance or clarity. Making an effort to rein in his wandering thoughts, he ran through the list of what he had accomplished since he had fled from the cabin.

By now, the Michigan state patrol would have discovered the massacre at the Northside Restaurant. His drone at Quantico would have initiated contact with the state police to insure that the FBI would take over the homicide case. With his drone in position to target the search, by this evening, one of the most intensive manhunts in the history of the United States would be under way for Michael and Mary.

While the knowledge was very sweet indeed, he couldn’t afford to relax and wait to let the authorities bring in his prey. For a survivalist like Michael, there were a lot of places to hide in the countryside, and Michigan had so much freshwater coastline, it was going to be a nightmare to try to patrol the borders.

Also, he knew very well that Michael and Mary were working hard to join Astra in whatever hole that bitch was using as her current lair. They were stronger together than when they were apart. Even though there were now only three of his enemies left, as long as Astra joined anyone that came against him, he knew that even a small group could be enough to bring him down.

He had to try to stop the three from reuniting if he possibly could, otherwise he might spend the next several decades—the rest of this generation—on the run. If that happened, he knew from experience that the balance would only begin to swing in his favor again when Michael’s and Mary’s current human bodies grew old and frail.

Old age was not a friend to his enemies. Their spirits became trapped by the limitations of their failing meat. That was the drive behind his original search to find a way to leap from human host to host, so that he could stay forever youthful, forever strong.

Deep in thought, he drove to his latest temporary headquarters in a motel room in Grand Rapids. He had just unlocked the door and was entering his room when his cell phone rang.

He glanced at the number. It was his drone at Quantico. He kicked the door shut and answered it.

“Oversight for the case has moved to DC,” his drone said. “I’ve insisted that I want to remain involved, so headquarters complied by assigning me to head the task force.”

He twitched a shoulder impatiently. Sometimes working with drones was an exercise in irritation. They might be under his total control, but that control came at a cost. Drones lost a certain initiative or essential drive that independent people with souls retained.

But contracting jobs out to independent humans, or even partnering with them, meant that he could never be absolutely sure of their loyalty. It was always a judgment call which way to jump with a project.

“Martin, what did I tell you about bothering me with unimportant details?” he said. “You remained in charge of the case. That’s all that matters.”

“Well, yes and no,” Martin said, sounding apologetic. “My point is, I’ll be working with outsiders from DC. Some of them will be joining me in the field, so there will be witnesses to anything I do. It’s a complication and might slow things down. It’ll be harder for me to plant evidence and direct the search.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to introduce me to your coworkers,” he said. “You know how I love to meet people.”

One good handshake was all it took. If he met a human in person, he could turn him or her into one of his drones. The procedure took energy and depleted him for a while, but needs must be met. This mission was too important to allow any interference from outsiders. For this, he had to retain total control.

“Understood,” Martin said. “In the meantime, we’ve been discussing initial steps. Michigan is a logistical nightmare for a manhunt. Even if we enlist help from the National Guard, there is no way we can cover all of the state’s borders, especially the coastline.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he snapped.

“We have to prioritize the hunt somehow,” Martin told him. “Do you have any orders or preferences on how we do that?”

He tapped a front tooth with his thumbnail as he thought. Mary had lived in St. Joseph, which was located in southeastern Michigan. A few days ago, she had crossed the state border to go to Notre Dame, in northern Indiana, where two of his drones had tried and failed to kidnap her.

Then she and Michael had met up somehow, somewhere. It didn’t matter how the two had found each other. He knew that Michael and Astra had been searching for Mary just as he had been, and twinned souls had a knack for connecting with each other.

Soon after the two had reunited, he had found them through a little dark spirit who brought him news of their location, for a blood price. They had gone to ground in a cabin that was not far from Michigan’s western coast, and it was significantly north—almost halfway up the Lower Peninsula.

Perhaps Michael and Mary had only gone in that direction because that was where the safe house was located. But if Astra’s location were somewhere entirely different, say for example further south, would they have risked adding so much more mileage to their trip by going in the opposite direction—especially when they knew he was hunting for them?

He didn’t think so. That meant they were traveling north for a reason. And with him so close on their heels, they would have only one overriding reason. Astra.

He said, “Concentrate your resources along the western and northern coastline of the Lower Peninsula. Set up a roadblock at the Mackinac Bridge. We don’t want them to cross over to the Upper Peninsula if we can avoid it. If they reach the national forest up there, it will be even harder to ferret them out. And make sure the state patrol understands they need to maintain an aggressive search on all the main highways.”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin.

His mind switched gears, and he remembered another avenue of research he wanted to pursue.

Nicholas Crow had shown himself to be an adept in things of spirit that most people knew nothing about. That was why he’d had Crow assassinated.

He had done it to clear his way to meeting the President—and shaking the President’s hand was a goal that remained near and dear to his heart. Ironically, though, now that Crow was no longer an obstacle, he didn’t have time to orchestrate a way to meet the President and either turn him into a drone or take over his body. He would just have to conquer the Commander in Chief some other time.

But Crow still interested him, after the fact of his death. How had the man learned the things he had learned? And why had Crow chosen such a targeted career path that led him to head the Secret Service detail that protected the President? Who Crow was, the totality of the man, seemed so . . . specific.

Long ago, Astra had scattered her teachings throughout the First Nations, sowing knowledge of the spirit realm throughout all the peoples who migrated over continents and multiplied like rabbits. Ever since that time, he never knew when something might pop up to plague him.

Had Crow learned what he had known from one of his elders? Or was it just possible that Astra herself had a hand in teaching him?

“One more thing,” he said. “I want you to dig into Nicholas Crow’s background.”

At least there was one good thing about his drones. When he gave an order, they never asked why. They simply did as they were told.

Martin said, “Certainly. There will already be a couple of detailed dossiers of him on file. Not only did he have the highest level of security clearance, but his murder is getting an aggressive investigation. What level of information are you looking for?”

“I want to know everything,” he said. “I want to know what Crow liked to eat for breakfast. I want to know where he was born, where he grew up, and where he went to school. I want to know who he fucked when he was a teenager, and every lover he’s had since then. I want names of friends and family members, all the important people in his life, and where they live.”

He had learned a long time ago to leave no stone unturned. As busy as he was these days, it still might be very productive to interrogate a few of the people from Crow’s life.

Martin said, “I’ll have my staff compile the available data, and I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

“Excellent.” It was a good start. If the information currently on file didn’t have enough detail to satisfy him, he would have Martin’s people dig further. “When are you coming to Michigan?”

“I’ll fly into Grand Rapids this evening.”

“Contact me when you get here.” He punched the disconnect button.

That was when he looked down at his hands, really looked at them for the first time since the cabin, where Mary had killed his former host by inducing a heart attack and forced him to leap into the body of his nearest soldier drone. Even though he was in an entirely different body, just remembering the battle caused a phantom pain to ghost through his chest.

He ignored it and turned the hands over. They were broad and callused, with thick wrists and chunky finger joints. Wiry ginger hair coated the back of the hands and arms.

His lip curled as he inspected them. This was not at all the type of body he preferred to inhabit. He typically chose young, handsome hosts with well-toned bodies, and he had a particular preference for blue eyes. People responded so well to blue-eyed handsome young men.

There might be a certain brute strength sewn into this meat, but there was no style or elegance at all to it. Oh, look, there was even more of that awful wiry ginger shit coating the backs of the fingers.

Dirt crusted the edge of the fingernails.

Surprise and revulsion held him frozen.

He had put that filthy thumbnail in his mouth. Actually his mouth was part of the new body attached to that filthy thumb. He ran the tongue over the teeth. They felt crusted and dirty.

The last of the floating high from the restaurant murders left him abruptly. He crashed and became completely aware of his connection to this disgusting flesh.

Growling, he threw the phone on the bed and stormed into the bathroom to confront his image in the mirror.

Muddy green eyes looked back at him out of a boxy face that had a lumpy nose shaped like a potato. It had clearly been broken at least once before. His host had a short buzz cut that did nothing to disguise the fact that his hairline was receding. He bared his teeth. They were prominent and yellow.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

He punched the mirror. A starburst of cracks shot across the surface, destroying the reflection. Then he snatched up toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed the body’s teeth furiously until the gums bled. When he had finally finished, he tore off all the clothes and showered in water so hot it made the body’s skin redden.

He ignored the discomfort, just as he ignored the pain from his—
NOT HIS
—the body’s cut and bleeding knuckles. He didn’t have any drones with him. He didn’t have the time to search for a suitable candidate to use as a replacement. He also couldn’t afford to expend any energy on migrating to yet another new host. For the moment he would have to suck it up and suffer some time in this monkey suit.

“I owe you for this one, cookie,” he whispered to Mary.