Illusive (10 page)

W
hen Daniel was fourteen, he met Kit Copperfield for the first time.

Daniel had been hanging around a bus station—he was new to Philadelphia and looking for a few easy marks. Picking pockets was easy when you could sense things other people couldn’t, and it wouldn’t take Daniel long to collect enough cash to stay at a local hostel.

A girl walked into the station. She looked about Daniel’s age. Five feet tall, with short blonde hair and small, sharp features. Kind of pretty, in a mousy way. She wore a white sundress with no pockets. Not a good mark. Daniel would’ve dismissed her completely if she hadn’t been carrying an awkward, rectangular-shaped package. Her hands trembled slightly, and her steps were quick. Daniel’s instincts whispered
a silent warning, and for the briefest second, his gaze found that of the girl. Their eyes locked, and Daniel felt a surge of recognition. It wasn’t anything physical, but something familiar in the way this girl carried herself. Then the girl looked away, staggered up to the counter, and said, “I’m sorry, but can I set this thing here for a second?”

The clerk blinked at her. He was a man firmly ensconced in middle age, with jowls and an unamused stare.

The girl took his silence as an affirmative and heaved the package onto the counter. “Thank you,” she said, undaunted. She bought a ticket to some station in the city center, and then confided, “I bought this thing at a garage sale for Father’s Day, but it’s a pain to carry around.”

The clerk grunted and handed back her change.

“Want to see?” the girl said brightly, and before the man could wave her off, she pulled something out of the package. It was a painting. The whole thing was a mass of scribbles and blotches. Not worth stealing.

“Pretty, right?” the girl said. “My dad loves art.”

The clerk grunted again.

The girl’s smile faded as she scanned the small building. Her knees squeezed together and her expression pinched. “I need to use the restroom,” the girl said, turning back to the clerk. “Can I leave this here, just for a second?”

The clerk waved her off.

“Thank you!” The girl grinned and hurried in the direction of the ladies’ room.

The whole exchange wouldn’t have caught Daniel’s interest if another man hadn’t entered the bus stop. He was out of place in this grungy building; his red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore clean slacks and a pressed shirt. Daniel just caught a glimpse of a black tattoo on the man’s wrist, but it wasn’t jail ink. The letters were stylized, printed in deepest black, and obviously professionally done. Everything about the man screamed money. Now
that
was a mark. The man brushed past Daniel—close enough to pick his pocket, but a flicker of uneasiness made Daniel hesitate. Why would someone who was loaded be taking a bus?

The man glided up to the counter and pulled out an antique money clip. He spoke in a light, clear voice, asking for tickets to some downtown location. But he cut off in mid-sentence when his eyes settled on the painting that the girl left behind.

“What is this?” the man said, setting a pale hand on the frame.

The clerk grunted. “Painting.”

The man’s eyes brightened. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The man picked up the painting and studied it with undisguised delight. “Oh my goodness,” the man murmured. He carefully slid a finger over the paint. “This can’t—but I’m sure
it is.” He looked up, and when he spoke, his voice shook with excitement. “This is an original Pollock. See the signature?”

“A what?” the clerk said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Pollock, Pollock,” the man said, like this should mean something. It certainly didn’t mean anything to Daniel. “One of the greatest modern artists of all time! Jackson Pollock! If I’m not mistaken, this is his ‘Number Thirty-Three’! It’s been missing—where did you find it?”

The clerk finally began to perk up. He uncoiled himself from his seat and leaned over the counter to really look at the painting. “S’not mine. Belongs to a girl.”

“To have a real Pollock in my collection,” the man said reverently. “Goodness. If I can find this girl… but, damn,” he looked at his watch. “Damn, if the bus didn’t leave now… I really have to go.” He focused all his attention on the clerk. “This is my card. If you could ask the girl to get in touch with me, tell her that I will pay anything she wants.”

Then he flounced out of the bus stop, striding so close to Daniel that he felt a whisper of cotton brush his left arm and smelled woodsy cologne. Then the man was gone.

The teenage girl emerged from the restroom and skipped back over to the counter. “Thank you for watching this, sir!” she beamed, reaching for the painting.

The clerk put a hand down on the frame. “Wait,” he said slowly.

The girl stopped and blinked up at him.

“This is a really pretty painting,” said the clerk. “What… what do you want for it?”

The girl scratched at the back of her neck. “I dunno. I was planning to give it to my dad.” She started to turn away, but the clerk spoke more quickly, his voice sharp with urgency.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it!”

The girl froze. “What?”

“A hundred dollars,” the clerk said. “You can buy your father another present. And you’ll still have some money left over.”

The girl bit her lip. “I don’t know.…” Something in her face made Daniel think that the nervousness wasn’t false—her fingers twisted together and she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“Two hundred.”

Her face broke into a smile. “Okay!”

There was an exchange—the clerk handed over several rumpled twenties, and the girl gave him the painting. “Thanks,” the girl said brightly as she pocketed the money. She turned and skipped out of the bus station. The clerk stroked his thumb over the painting’s frame and smiled to himself.

It was perfect. A perfectly executed little drama for anyone gullible enough to believe it. And for all his flaws, Daniel had never been gullible. He finally understood what his
immunity had been telling him—that flash of understanding when he’d met the girl’s eyes. It was the recognition of two predators among a herd of sheep.

He stole out of the station and after the girl. He caught a glimpse of a white sundress and followed it around the corner.

There stood the man, arms crossed and expression cool, all his flamboyance gone. The girl hastened to his side and pulled out the handful of worn bills. “Two hundred,” she said.

“Not bad,” the man sighed. “At least that damn forgery is good for something. There’s a back door. Retrieve the painting when that idiot goes on break. There’s an art collector in King of Prussia we’ll hit next.”

The girl grinned, and it caught Daniel off balance. This girl looked nothing like his sister, but the wicked glee in her face reminded him of the times Bethany would poke his shoulder and plan a prank on the neighbors. She carried herself with the same mixture of hesitancy and defiance—a young immune criminal in the making. It made Daniel want to pick up the phone, to call home, but he knew that wasn’t an option. It wasn’t safe. So Daniel did the next best thing.

When the two walked past him, Daniel took care to brush against the man. Daniel slipped two fingers into a silk-lined pocket and found the antique money clip. He left something in return—a note with his phone number and the message:
Call me if you’re looking for a new employee.

Daniel was a member of Kit’s crew for three years, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Jobs come and go. It was only a matter of time until he’d be forced to move on. But he hadn’t thought it would happen so soon, and he hadn’t anticipated trading in his thieving crew for a pack of feds.

And he
really
hadn’t anticipated becoming some dominus’s lapdog. Aristeus’s words still ring in his ears. Each was a command that Daniel can’t break—and if he does, he’ll have the nice little side effect of not breathing.

You will answer my questions truthfully.

You will not try to escape.

You will not harm my allies or myself.

You will go no farther than a three-mile radius from me without express permission.

You will not warn any of your former criminal allies about us.

You will aid the UAI in our cause.

You are one of us now.

That was it. No place to sign, no papers to initial, no legalese to sort through. Aristeus looked Daniel in the eye and laid down the law. Each order wrapped around Daniel’s insides, tight and unyielding. He can still feel the words inside his brain, like worms infesting an apple. “My team is lacking an eludere,” Aristeus said, which made both FBI agents goggle at
Daniel. “And we’ll need him to identify Frieda Fuller when we find her.”

That was how Daniel became part of Aristeus’s team as a confidential informant. To the feds, he’s an invaluable source of information. To his fellow crooks, Daniel is a traitor.

He feels like a turncoat, sitting in the back of an FBI van headed for Baltimore in the middle of the night. “For the love of all things holy, can’t you guys ever do anything at a decent hour?” he says.

Gervais and Carson don’t spare him a glance. They are both on their cell phones, busy talking with the other FBI agents and the local Baltimore police department. Looks like organizing a raid isn’t an easy feat.

It’s the dauthus woman, Morana, who speaks up. She’s traded in the office-wear for a bulletproof vest. “Daylight is overrated,” she says, clapping the shoulder of a distracted FBI agent. He jumps visibly, and Morana laughs. When he turns to glare, she winks. “Besides, if you’re going to get the drop on a terrorist group, it’s best to do it at night.”

Daniel swallows whatever he might have said. It’s no longer relevant. “T-terrorist?” he says, and the slight stutter gives him away. He’s worked for Frieda before, and he can’t reconcile the word “terrorist” with the comfortably plump woman he knows who has silvery blonde hair and can hack a government server without so much as blinking.

Morana picks up a knife and tucks it into her sleeve. “Turns out that your employer happens to work for some unsavory people.”

One of the FBI agents snorts. “I want to know why you’d steal a will for her. I mean, really—a will? Usually it’s jewels or bonds or something valuable.”

The FBI doesn’t know. Which means the UAI hasn’t told them.

Daniel tries to keep his face impassive. “I don’t ask—I just get paid.”

Morana twists her curly hair back into a ponytail. “I guess that’s understandable.” She flashes a grin. “You’ve got some shady friends, don’t you?”

Daniel glances around the interior of the van, at the feds strapping on riot gear. “Yeah. I really do.”

R
obberies happen late at night for a couple of reasons: fewer people and the cover of darkness. Even if they spot something, witnesses out at three in the morning are usually doing something unsavory themselves and are less likely to go to the police. Crooks revel in the night, while the straights stay inside and keep their doors locked.

Ciere greets the night like an old friend as she steps out of the SUV. The fresh air is welcome, even if it’s still heavy with humidity and heat. Devon all but falls out of the car in his haste to get outside. He staggers, grabs a lamppost to catch himself, and then straightens, obviously trying to give the impression the fall was on purpose.

“Keep the car running,” Kit says.

Magnus slides into the driver’s seat, his fingers curling
around the steering wheel. “Go get your score. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Kit, Devon, and Ciere make their way down the sidewalk, keeping out of the lamplight. Ciere is wearing her usual work outfit—black shirt, black leggings, worn black tennis shoes, and a ski mask clutched in her left hand. Kit is dressed a little more conservatively in dark slacks and a black shirt, his long hair pulled back. He looks strange without the waistcoat. Devon tried his best, but his designer tee and stylishly ripped jeans stand out. He’s dressed like a model of rebellious youth, not an experienced thief. All he needs is a can of spray paint and a pierced eyebrow to complete the image. He catches Ciere staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says automatically, turning to look at their quarry. The office building is tall and silent, its windows opaque. The whole scene looks deceptively benign, like it wouldn’t take a single broken window to summon every nearby cop.

Kit leads them into a neighboring alley. The good news is that the alley is situated with Cole’s office above. The bad news is that the alley also houses the trash.

“This is disgusting,” Devon mutters, pressing his sleeve to his nose.

“Thieving isn’t always stolen diamonds and cocktail parties,” Kit replies.

Devon glowers at the garbage cans. “Right. Sometimes it’s garbage and dead people.”

“As long as we get paid,” Ciere says, “who cares?”

Kit turns to face Devon. “All right. You remember the plan?”

“Eidos, right?”

“Humor me.”

“Fine. We go up to the fourth floor, and I bust in through the window. Ciere provides the distraction while I open the safe. I find the will of some bird called Marie Louis and memorize it. Then I pop it back in the safe, and we all run.”

Kit aims a glare skyward. “Two hours of intricate planning condensed into four sentences. If only I had your razor intellect.” He heaves a sigh and holds out both arms, as if inviting Devon to embrace him.

Devon flinches, taking a step backward.

Kit cocks his head. “How did you
think
you were going to get to a fourth-story window? Climb?”

Devon understands. “Oh, hell. I’m riding the human elevator, aren’t I?”

“Believe me,” Kit says vehemently, “I’m not looking forward to this any more than you.”

Reluctantly, Devon steps into Kit’s personal space. He starts to put his arms around Kit’s neck, then recoils and tries again. It’s like watching two children trying to hug but
too afraid to actually make contact. Ciere places her palm between Devon’s shoulder blades and pushes. Devon stumbles into Kit, instinctively grabbing at the older man’s shirt to keep his balance. Before Devon can let go, Kit shoots into the air and hovers at about ten feet.

Devon swallows a shriek and wraps both arms around Kit’s neck, his legs hooking around Kit’s waist. “Why do I always end up as the pack mule?” says Kit, straining under his burden.

“Don’t drop him,” Ciere calls, keeping her tone quiet.

“Two minutes,” Kit mouths. His face smoothes out and he relaxes, a faint smile on his lips. He turns his gaze to the dark sky, as if welcoming the open air, and he soars upward.

Devon’s squeak of terror vanishes into the night.

Ciere reaches down and presses the timer on her watch. Numbers begin to slide by, seconds blinking past. She closes her eyes and concentrates, illusioning herself into a homeless man with dirty jeans and worn shoes. Smudged skin, haunted eyes, broken fingernails.

A buzzing sets up around her temples, but it’s nothing like the sharp, blinding flash of pain when she tries to illusion anything beyond herself. She tugs the mask into place, pushing her curls back as the rough wool slides over her face. There—if a camera catches her now, all they’ll see is a tiny figure dressed all in black. Nothing to ID her.

A quick glance at her watch tells her she still has a minute. The front of the office building is heavy with shadow, and Ciere takes up residence next to a row of potted plants. A cement bench provides a place to sit while she watches the seconds tick past. Forty seconds.

Her heartbeat picks up, her pulse fluttering through her neck and wrists. She loves this part, loves the moment before she pulls off a job—the heat, the cold, the rush. It’s terrifying and delicious, like teetering out over the edge of a building, her fingers tight on the safety railing. She can see how everything could go horribly wrong, but that rational part of her is tamped down, silenced by the beauty of the fall.

Thirty seconds.

She glances around. The potted plants aren’t bolted down, and they’ll work well for what she has in mind. She squats and grabs the rim of a particularly heavy pot. It creaks as she lifts, dry dirt crumbling over the edge. She staggers under its weight.

Ten seconds.

Each step is a struggle, and soon her arms are screaming in protest, her joints straining under the load. She uses the weight to add to her momentum as she jogs toward the windows.

Five seconds.

Ciere spins around once, twice, like an Olympic shot-putter, and then, as dizziness begins to swirl the edges of her vision, she slams the potted plant through the window.

The alarm kicks to life. Beyond the sound, she hears a male voice snarling out a stream of curses.

Ciere has played her role—the alarm she’s created will cover the sound of the second break-in, the one at the fourth-floor window. Devon should be inside by now, already at work on the safe. It’s time for her to escape.

A silhouette appears in the lobby—large and roundish, probably an underpaid mall cop who was never supposed to deal with a break-in. Ciere grins, skipping backward, still in the illusioned body of the homeless man. She revels in the sound and the chaos. This is the part she loves best. She laughs and turns, readying herself for the sprint back to the car.

Something slams into her.

Her chest is set ablaze and her muscles seize. The pavement rushes up to meet her and she crashes into it, unable to catch herself. Her legs tangle beneath her, useless and unresponsive.

She’s not sure how many seconds pass before the sensation abruptly vanishes. She goes limp, slumping against the ground. She only registers the rough texture of the pavement on her cheek and the taste of copper in her mouth. Her arm is twisted awkwardly beneath her, and the tracker bracelet digs into her ribs. She rolls over, trying to see what the hell just happened, and she finds a black form blocking out the lamplight. A man stands a few feet away.

A second security guard.

There can’t be a second guard. Devon researched this. There is supposed to be a single guard who is middle-aged, with a paunch, and whose most dangerous weapon is a flashlight. This lean young man isn’t supposed to be here.

He holds something in both hands; it looks like a gun, but the shape is off. Ciere finally feels the twin pinpricks of pain in her chest, and her fingers come up, touching cold barbs of metal embedded in her skin. Lines of wire trail from the gun’s barrel to her chest and that’s when she realizes that it’s a Taser.

“You basta—” she starts to croak. The guard’s thumb moves, and her muscles are set on fire. She wants to scream; her lips are pulled tight over her teeth, and fuck it all—she can’t move.

The searing pain fades and she gasps, able to breathe again. She blinks several times, trying to see through the haze and the tears.

The guard looks like a college student—maybe someone taking a few classes while working part-time. He stares down at Ciere, disbelief reflected in his eyes. His mouth slackens and the Taser trembles in his grip.

For a moment, Ciere is confused. Her mind moves sluggishly, trying to work out why a security guard would be terrified of a downed homeless man. As the paralysis begins to wear off, she realizes something is missing—that pressure around her skull, that comforting hum through her temples.

Her illusion is gone.

The guard electrocuted an old homeless man and ended up with a masked criminal. He knows. He knows.

Don’t let anyone see what you are, understand?

It’s a little late for that. She’s prone on the ground with a man twice her size standing over her. In a moment, the Taser will recharge and she’ll be in for another shock. Ciere doesn’t fool herself into thinking he will take mercy on her because of her youth or gender.

Her arms shake as she pushes herself to a half-sitting position. The guard’s hands tighten on his weapon and his mouth opens in a shout. If Ciere is scared, this man is terrified.

“Charles,” the second guard says, speaking for the first time. It takes Ciere a moment to realize that he isn’t speaking to her but to the other guard. “Get over here!”

The first guard, the paunchy one, waddles out of the building. He aims a flashlight at Ciere and his eyes widen. “What the hell?”

“She’s one of them,” the second guard says. “She’s got adverse effects.”

The first guard, Charles or whatever the hell his name is, gapes at Ciere. “What do we do?”

“Radio the cops,” the second guard snaps. “They should already be on the way, but they’ll haul ass if they know we’ve got some adverse effects Mafia assassin.”

The first guard turns away, his hand going to the radio at his belt. There is a hiss of static and the man begins rattling off a code.

“Dammit, how long until the cops get here?” the second guard snaps.

Ciere rolls over onto her side, trying to rise to her elbows. Her voice is little more than a ragged exhalation. “Wait,” she says, and her mind scrambles for a lie, for an illusion—for anything that can get her out of this.

“Shut up,” the younger man snarls. His grip on the Taser wavers and Ciere sees the wires glinting in the lamplight. The wires run from the barbs embedded in her skin to the gun itself, binding her to the weapon.

“BPD will take at least fifteen minutes,” the first guard says. “They said something about a raid. Just… keep her there, right?”

They’re both so afraid, it would be funny under other circumstances. Ciere is just an illusionist—it’s not like she can fly into the air like a levitas, read their thoughts like a mentalist, fight them like a dauthus, or escape like an eludere. She might be able to disappear, but her head is throbbing and her concentration shot.

Her eyes flick over both security guards. They’re not armed beyond the Tasers and flashlights, and that thought gives her an idea.

Ciere brings to mind a gun. She imagines a heavy black pistol and pushes the thought out of her mind and into reality.

The pain spikes through her brain, as sharp and bright as a lightning strike. The pistol forms in her right fist. It’s clumsily done, lacking the form and detail she would need to fool more rational men. But the guards are already on edge, making them easy marks.

When she swings her arm up and aims the false weapon at the second guard, his eyes go wide and he falls to one side, trying to put something between himself and the bullet he thinks is coming. The first guard screams and scurries backward.

Ciere rolls. The wires on a Taser aren’t easily broken, but the guard’s retreat and her own momentum snap the cables. She darts to her feet and rushes away. The older one is screaming into his radio, the young man desperately fiddling with the Taser. When Ciere looks over her shoulder, she catches his eye, and for a moment they lock gazes. Despite the layers of wool on her face, she feels naked. He stares into her with abject terror, like he is the hunted and she is the hunter. She catches the silent word on his lips: “Immune.”

The ground feels unsteady beneath her sneakers and she nearly falls going down the steps to the sidewalk. The world tips sideways and she catches herself on a bench.

Her panicked breaths drag through her lungs and throat, but it still feels like she isn’t getting enough air. The mask is
suffocating her, the heavy wool catching the sweat from her hairline and holding the moisture against her skin, an uncomfortable presence she wants to rip away. But she can’t—not yet.

The shadows beckon, and Ciere follows them into an alley. It’s not the way she came, but it’s dark and gloriously empty. She pauses, a hand on the brick wall to steady herself, as she glances over her shoulder. She can still hear the guards’ shouts and the building’s alarm, but there is no sign of the cops.

Going back the way she came might draw attention to the others, so she takes a roundabout route to the car—through a parking lot and behind another office building. In the flash of illumination from a lamp, Ciere sees wires ghosting through the air near her chest, trailing behind her as she moves. She grabs at the wires. They are a cold, alien presence beneath her collarbone, their tiny spikes fixed in her skin. She tangles the wires around her fist—a good yank, a blaze of pain, and the barbs come free.

The SUV sits where it should be, engine running and exhaust drifting around the tires. Ciere fumbles with the back door and it swings open from the inside, nearly smacking her in the face. Devon is perched there, his grin lighting up the inside of the car. “What took you?” he says, and he is obviously riding the high from the job, still gleeful and triumphant.

She can’t bear to ruin his moment of victory. With his shining eyes and grin, she can tell he’s still infatuated with
being a crook. And the thought of explaining herself to Kit—explaining how she was nearly caught—is almost too daunting to contemplate.