Illusive (18 page)

Kit’s face hardens. “Because that’s how Magnus and I taught him to function. It’s a story that I’m not going into now. And I’m sorry about Daniel, I truly am. But there’s an enormous difference between the head of the UAI and some new Syndicate enforcer. Guntram we can deal with.” Kit’s hand falls on her shoulder, and he squeezes tight. “I will stop him if I have to.”

Ciere closes her eyes, lets out a small breath, and tries to steady herself. “Thank you.”

That is when Devon pipes up. “Um, guys? I understand this is a touching mentor/student moment and I hate to interrupt, but I think I’m stuck.”

Ciere turns back to the closet. Sure enough, Devon’s legs are tangled in a coat. She bends over Devon and surveys the damage—he’s sprawled on top of several shoes, and the coat looks as if it is trying to strangle the life out of his legs.

“Can we leave him like this?” Kit asks.

Getting Devon out of the closet is a matter of angling him sideways and yanking hard. He yelps as a stiletto heel digs into his thigh. When he rises to his full height, he tries to brush the dust from his jeans, and scowls at the coat still tangled around one leg.

Trying to hide her grin, Ciere ducks her head and yanks the coat free. She turns back to the closet and throws the coat inside when something catches her eye. In her haste to hide, she didn’t see that something is out of place. The wall leading into the closet is ordinary: wood-paneled and obviously cheap. But the far wall of the closet is different. The color matches the dark wood, but there is no paneling and the surface is oddly reflective. She reaches past the coats and runs her fingertips over the wall. It’s cold. Metallic.

“Out of curiosity,” Ciere says, “why does the closet have a metal wall?”

The others quickly examine her findings. “Interesting,” Kit says. He takes an armful of coats and dumps them onto the floor. Ciere ducks down and scoops out the piles of shoes—and really, why is there a coat closet in an office, anyway? The careless way things were tossed about in the closet seems like a calculated effort to appear chaotic.

When all the clothes are piled on the floor, the metal wall is plainly visible. In the farthest, darkest corner, Ciere sees a panel with a keypad and screen.

“If this is a safe, then it’s huge,” Kit remarks.

“Whoever stripped the house didn’t find this,” Ciere says eagerly.

Even Kit doesn’t try to discourage her excitement; she can see it mirrored in his eyes. He taps Devon on the shoulder and says, “Get Magnus—there should be a flashlight in the car. I’ll look for a crowbar or something we can use to get this open.” In a moment, the two of them are gone, thudding down the stairs, stealth utterly forgotten.

Ciere slides into the closet, for once glad she’s so small. Devon or Kit could never have managed this. She eyes the panel. Gently, she reaches down and brushes a finger over the keypad. Part of her expects to hear a siren go off. Something this heavily guarded should have a security system. Or maybe she’ll get an electric shock if she tries to open it.

The panel flares to life, and in the dim light of the closet, the flickering illumination is blinding. Words form on the screen:

She bites her lip, her hand frozen over the panel. There is security. A password. But what would…?

The answer comes to her before she fully realizes the question.

The whole situation has an air of inevitability about it, like everything has been leading up to this moment. Ciere only hesitates a fraction of a second before typing in a single word:

She hits the Enter key and braces herself for an alarm or shock. If she’s wrong, who knows what the security will do to her. The screen flickers again, and there is the sound of mechanized bolts sliding into place. Before she has time to flinch, the door comes free with a hiss of expelled air.

Her heart in her throat, Ciere reaches for the door and pushes. It opens on silent hinges, and she sucks in a breath, a surprised cry hovering on her lips.

This is what Richelle Fiacre was hiding.

It’s not the formula.

It looks like a miniature bedroom—but only if the decorator was into panic-room chic. The walls are all obviously bulletproof, windowless, and the only source of light is a small camping lantern. There is a cot on the floor and a portable toilet in the corner.

And a young man stands in the middle of the room.

C
iere reaches out a hand to steady herself. She’s used to upheaval during a job. You can never tell which way a gig will go, and uncertainty has taught her to be flexible—to respond quickly to change, recalculate plans, and justify losses.

But nothing could have prepared her for this.

It’s not the formula.

It’s a guy about her age with slick black hair, coppery skin, dark eyes, and full lips. He’s lean, angular. He looks to be maybe seventeen or eighteen. Panic flashes across his face.

She slowly raises both hands, her empty palms out in an attempt to reassure him. “It’s all right,” she says. Her voice cracks and she swallows, trying to wet her dry tongue. “I—I’m not armed.”

His eyes flick over her, looking for places she could stash
a weapon. Then his gaze falls to the floor, and he angles his face to one side, his hair falling into his eyes. But even with his hair in the way, Ciere can see the expression on his face. It shifts from fear to something softer. When he speaks, his voice sounds hopeful. Yearning, almost.

“Are you Frieda Fuller?” he asks. His voice is startlingly resonant.

It takes her a moment to understand the question. This guy thinks she’s Frieda Fuller. Which means… which means that Fuller was in on this somehow. Getting the will must have been what she wanted all along. Maybe Richelle Fiacre meant for Fuller to have it, but something went wrong. Maybe she died before she could get a copy to Fuller. Maybe Fuller, seeing no other options, hired a crew of thieves to steal the information she needed that would lead her to this.

“No,” Ciere says, uncertain of how to respond. She takes several steps back, until she’s free of the closet.

A voice rings out from behind her and she jumps.

“Fuller’s not coming,” Kit says. He is frozen in the office doorway, his freckled fingers splayed on the frame as if he needs something to hold on to. “She’s probably in government custody.”

Ciere turns to look at Kit, grateful for his presence. He steps into the room, Magnus and Devon at his back. Magnus holds a crowbar, while Devon clings to a flashlight.

The guy’s gaze roams over all of them in turn, coming to rest on Ciere. “You’re not cops,” he says. “Are you part of TATE?”

“No,” Kit replies, and he appears to be regaining his usual calm. The momentary shock of seeing a boy in this abandoned house has passed. “We’re not affiliated with TATE—we’re freelancers.”

The guy rakes his fingers through his black hair in a gesture that’s more resigned than annoyed. “Criminals.”

A beat of silence before Kit says simply, “Yes.”

He glances back at his panic room, and says, “How did you find this place?”

Magnus speaks. “Richelle Fiacre’s will. We thought—”

Kit lets out a small laugh, more bitter than amused. “That’s not important. Who are you?”

The guy’s eyes narrow, as if he is surprised that Kit doesn’t already know. A cold, creeping certainty takes hold in Ciere. She knows who he is. At least, she knows his last name.

“Fiacre,” she says, and waits for a denial. Because there must be a denial. This guy can’t be—he just can’t—

The stranger’s eyes fall to the floor, and he doesn’t say a word.

The silence that fills the room is heavy, and it seeps into her lungs, choking off anything she might say.

Devon has no such problem: “Holy shit.”

T
he Fiacres are dead.

Or they’re supposed to be. This is how the story goes: Brenton Fiacre killed himself along with his wife and son; extremists shot his younger sister and brother; his grandparents were arrested, and vanished from public knowledge. The only Fiacre who escaped the backlash of the Praevenir vaccine was Richelle Fiacre, the oldest sister. And now she’s dead, too.

“Hell,” Devon says desperately. “Rotting hell.” He’s taken to pacing back and forth, uttering a long stream of never-ending curses. Part of Ciere itches to hit him upside the head, but she can clearly see the panic in his face. They’re all dealing in their own way. Devon’s way just happens to be louder than most.

“Pandora,” Magnus says softly. “The message that Brenton Fiacre posted on his website. It didn’t refer to the formula at
all. He must have been trying to get a message to his sister that his son was alive.” He squints, as if delving into old memories. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your name is Alan Fiacre.”

Alan Fiacre—if that is his name—glances up quickly before looking down again. This close up, Ciere can see that he must have spent days inside that room: he needs a shower, and his clothes are stained with wear. He’s taller than she first thought—outside of the room, Fiacre stands with his shoulders hunched and head ducked.

Kit turns and opens the office’s window, presumably to let some fresh air in. The panic room was obviously a last resort, a secret place to stash Fiacre until someone could retrieve him.
Retrieve
, Ciere repeats the word to herself. Like he was another object in Richelle Fiacre’s will, to be passed along to a new owner.

The more Ciere stares at him, the more she wants to look away. Fiacre is dangerous, a magnet for attention. The feds will stop at nothing to find him—hell, every government on the planet would pay a hefty sum for him.

They need to get out of here. They need to leave Alan Fiacre behind, get back to Philadelphia, and forget about the whole gig. While Ciere wouldn’t be proud of leaving Fiacre on his own, if it comes down to her skin or his—well, it’s an easy decision.

“I need to talk to you,” Ciere says to Kit, hoping that Fiacre will not hear.

“Stay here a moment,” Kit calls to Fiacre.

He shrugs as if to ask:
Where would I go?

“Stay with him,” Kit adds to Devon.

“What?” Devon asks, breaking the rhythm of his profanity-laden chant. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the most expendable,” Kit replies. He nods at Magnus to join them. Silently, Magnus hands Devon his crowbar—which only makes Devon look more freaked. Kit leads the way out of the office and down the hall. The bathroom is a less-than-dignified spot for a chat, but it has a door and a lock, and that’s all they need for a private meeting. It’s a tiny room, with barely enough space to fit a narrow bath and toilet. Everything is decorated in shades of faded yellow and blue, and the scent of lemon wafts from an air freshener.

Kit shuts the door before turning to Magnus and Ciere. “Well, this changes things.”

“Understatement,” Magnus replies, unsmiling.

“We should leave,” Ciere says. “Now.”

Magnus leans against the sink and crosses his arms, his gaze focused on something faraway. “You think he’s truly a Fiacre?”

“Definitely,” Kit replies. “He looks like Brenton Fiacre. If he’s not the son, then he’s related somehow. And what would he have to gain by lying? No. The real question is what we do with him.”

“Leave him here,” Ciere puts in.

“You’d do that?” Magnus asks. “Leave him here?”

Ciere moves toward the toilet, sitting down on its closed lid. She runs her hands up and down over her bare arms, trying to rub some heat back into her chilled skin. Everything is too close, too tight—the bathroom walls seem to creep in on her. The smell of old lemon air freshener turns her stomach and she clasps her cold fingers together, leaning over her knees in an attempt to block out her sudden nausea.

“We were supposed to find the formula,” she says. “We weren’t supposed to find a person!”

She came to this house to fix a problem, and instead found a whole new one. In Ciere’s experience, there’s a single solution to problems you can’t solve: leave them behind. Run. Get far away, and then cover your tracks. It’s a strategy that’s kept her alive, and she sees no reason to alter it now. She rises to her feet and angles herself toward the door.

Magnus’s hand falls upon the doorknob, blocking Ciere’s escape. “We’re not leaving him,” he says.

Kit nods once. “I agree. He could be valuable.”

Color floods Magnus’s cheeks in a hot flush. “That’s not what I meant,” he snarls. “For fuck’s sake, Kit, show a little humanity. If a clean-up crew arrives, they’ll find the boy. I won’t leave him to that.” He leans closer to Kit and his voice softens into a hiss. “I—don’t—abandon—people.”

Kit looks as if he would like to have taken a step back, but there’s no room. His hand goes to one of the yellow walls and
he leans up against it. His jaw flexes, as if he is readying himself for an argument, but then his head drops and he remains silent. Ciere looks to him, waits for him to make things right, to get them out of here, but Kit doesn’t make a move. Another surge of terrified anger burns through her. Why doesn’t anyone understand how dangerous this is? Why is she the only one clamoring to get out of here? She turns her attention to Magnus, frantic for a way to get him to agree.

She tries to muster up an argument, but all she can come up with is: “He’s a Fiacre.”

There has to be a way to convince Magnus that this is too dangerous. He probably doesn’t realize the risks. He isn’t a crook like Ciere or Kit. He’s just a whore, how would he know—

“He’s a human being,” Magnus says.

For Ciere, shame manifests as an uncomfortable prickling sensation on the back of her arms and legs.

“If you won’t offer him any protection, I will,” Magnus says. “I’ll be damned before I let an innocent child get hurt for things his family did.”

Kit exhales slowly. “Magnus…”

“Kit,” Magnus says sharply, but Kit is already shaking his head.

“I know.” He steps away from the wall and his hand goes to the doorknob, covering Magnus’s fingers with his own. “I know.”

When they return to the office, Devon is chanting in something that is definitely not English. “If he’s started speaking in tongues, we’re leaving him behind,” Kit says.

“I think he’s run out of English swearwords,” says Magnus.

“It’s Greek. I can translate, if you like,” Alan Fiacre says. All eyes go to him, and he looks uncomfortable with the attention.

“Looks like we’re taking you with us,” Kit says.

Fiacre takes a step back. “And tell me,” he says quietly, “why I’d go along with that?” He looks up for a fraction of a second, his gaze sliding over each of them in turn before returning to the floor. It’s odd, the way he won’t make eye contact. “You’re thieves. You’re probably going to sell me to whatever government can pay the most.”

Magnus clears his throat. “Some people would,” he says, “but we won’t.”

Ciere can almost see the escape plans working themselves out in Fiacre’s brain—everything from jumping out the window to relocking himself in the panic room. She knows, because it’s exactly what she’d be considering if she were in his place.

“I can’t trust you,” says Fiacre.

“You don’t have a lot of choice.” Impatience creeps into Kit’s voice. “You stay here and it’s only a matter of time until the feds show up. TATE was compromised.”

“Maybe I want to go with the federal agents,” says Fiacre.

“If you wanted the feds to find you, you’d be in one of
their
safe houses,” replies Kit. “You’re running from them. Now, we can do this two ways: either you come with us or you don’t. We have a place in Philadelphia that’s relatively safe until you figure out a plan. Or you can try your luck on your own.”

Thick silence settles between them.

Devon inches toward the door. “Oh, just come with us. And can we please leave now, because I really don’t want to explain to my dad why I’m in jail for harboring a supposedly dead guy.”

Kit throws Devon an exasperated look, but somehow Devon’s outburst seems to reassure Fiacre.

“You give me your word?” Fiacre says, and directs the question to Kit. “You won’t let anyone else take me?”

Kit raises one palm level with his heart. “If you’re taken into government custody, it’s because someone is signing my death certificate. Happy now?”

Slowly, Fiacre nods. He picks his way back into the panic room and emerges a moment later with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He follows Devon out of the room. Ciere waits until the sound of their footsteps has faded into silence.

“That’s a big promise you just made,” she says.

Kit reaches out and tucks one of Ciere’s stray curls behind her ear. “No, it wasn’t,” Magnus says, scowling. “I have a copy of his last death certificate taped to my fridge.”