Illusive (19 page)

T
he Bolsover house has seen its fair share of criminals. Kit has used it as a halfway house before. When he finds immune youths on the street, he takes them in—like he did Ciere—and gives them a place to stay. He offers them a bed in the basement, a plate of warm food, and clean clothes. He talks to his associates and finds the kids work. It’s how Kit has built up his network—there are young criminals indebted to him nearly everywhere along the Eastern Seaboard.

Fiacre is led to the basement. It’s a better deal than it sounds—the basement is one of Kit’s most secure bolt-holes. It’s not accessible by any visible doors. A person has to go through a walk-in closet in Kit’s room and hit a hidden button underneath one of the loose floorboards to find the basement stairs. Once down the stairs, the basement itself isn’t too
bad. The cement floor is covered by many throw rugs. There are five tiny bedrooms, each with two bunk beds and a desk, and one small shared bathroom at the end of the hall. A final, locked room houses canned food, bottled water, and some of Kit’s more sensitive acquisitions. Devon once commented that the whole place looked like a boarding school dormitory, that is, if one was getting an education from mole people.

Ciere can’t argue with that. Despite Kit’s attempts to make the basement habitable, the air is still cold, the walls are still gray, and there is a sense of heaviness about the place, as if the weight of the whole house presses down upon it. It’s a place for the hunted to run and hide.

Fiacre takes a bedroom on the left. He tosses his backpack onto one of the top bunks. “May I use the shower?” he asks quietly.

Kit gestures down the hall. “All the way back. Towels are under the sink.”

Kit then taps Ciere on the shoulder, and she follows him out of the room. The stairs are tall—it’s two floors to Kit’s room, and by the time they reach that point, Ciere’s legs burn. She wants to sit, to fall backward onto her own bed and maybe stare at the familiar ceiling for a few hours. Kit steps into her path, and suddenly she’s staring into the shiny buttons on his waistcoat.

“I want you to move some of your things to one of the basement rooms,” he says.

Ciere gawks at him, uncomprehending.

“I want you to stay down there for a couple of nights—or however long we have our houseguest.” Kit gestures vaguely in the direction of the closet. “Pick the room closest to the door, just in case.”

“Just in case… what?” His meaning finally sinks in. She says, “You want me to stay in the basement? With him?”

“Take Lyre with you if you think you need a bodyguard,” Kit says. “But Fiacre looks like a lightweight. I think even you could take him, if you had to.”

Ciere feels her face twist into a scowl. “Oh, that’s comforting. Why do you want me down there?”

“Two reasons.” Kit turns on his heel and Ciere is forced to scurry after him to keep up. “First, I don’t trust him. And I’d rather he didn’t have access to the sensitive materials in the basement.”

By “sensitive” Kit means valuable or dangerous. There are things in the basement that have to be kept out of the public eye—like that creepy painting by a guy called Bacon and those two antique Kalashnikovs. But Ciere still cringes at the plan—she hates sleeping in the basement. There is only one way out, and that door is heavy, bulletproof, and difficult to open. “Why can’t he stay in a guest bedroom?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to see him, even by accident.
I know he’s supposed to be dead, but taking unnecessary risks is idiotic.”

This argument would be simpler if Kit weren’t making so much sense. Ciere tries to formulate another line of reasoning, but he has already moved back on to the original topic.

“Second,” he says as he strides into the kitchen, “it was your brilliant plan to go to Endicott. So you get to babysit our score.”

Magnus stands next to the fridge, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. There is something in the way he holds the glass that makes Ciere think that he could easily shatter it and use its edge as a weapon. But then the moment slips by and Magnus’s expression is mild again. He says, “The boy is not a score, Kit.”

Kit reaches out and takes the full glass from Magnus, leaning against the counter like this is nothing out of the ordinary. Magnus silently reaches into the cupboard for another glass. Kit says, “Yes, yes. You don’t have to keep watching me, you know. The way you’re acting, you’d think I was going to start an online bidding auction for Fiacre.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Magnus says, frowning. “But there’s another thing we need to discuss. You do realize that I was only supposed to join this crew for a couple of days. The agency thinks I’m out on a family emergency, but I’m missing work.”

“Oh, yes,” Kit says. “Work.”

Magnus straightens, his mouth drawn tight, and he takes a step toward Kit. They’re about the same height, but Magnus is more heavily muscled. If this comes down to a physical confrontation, Ciere will put money on the mentalist.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Magnus says. “How do you earn your living again? Conning and thieving? Selling stolen property? Between my job and yours, which is really more despicable?”

Ciere begins to edge out of the kitchen.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kit says, and without another word he reaches out and grabs Magnus’s bare wrist. A shudder runs through Magnus. When Kit releases him a second later, Magnus turns away and rests both hands on the counter.

Ciere slips out of the room and goes back up the stairs. All she wants is to curl up on her bed for a while. But when she steps into her room, she finds that her bed is already occupied.

“Your bed smells like dog,” Devon comments. Sure enough, Tulip is sitting next to him. Liz must have brushed out his fur; he looks fluffier. He’s trying to nip at Devon’s waggling fingers. “Everything settled?”

Ciere nods and slumps into her desk chair. “Fiacre’s in the basement and Kit and Magnus are in the kitchen.”

“They having a row?” Devon asks, jerking his hand back as Tulip leaps at him.

“Yup.”

“Christ, it’s like living with both of my parents again.”
Devon tickles Tulip’s ear. “So, what’s to be done with Anastasia?”

“Anastasia?”

“You know—the Romanovs. Big powerful family that came to a bad end… and this metaphor is completely lost on you.” Devon rolls his eyes. “Your history knowledge blows.”

“Tell you what: I’ll learn history when you learn German.”

“Point taken.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Devon playing with Tulip while Ciere stares out the window, not really seeing anything. “We screwed up, didn’t we?” she finally says.

Devon squeaks as Tulip manages to clamp his jaws around his index finger. “What’s this ‘we’ business? Going after Pandora was entirely your idea. I just went along with it.”

“Well, I didn’t think Pandora was going to lead us to a
dead guy
.”

“Not so dead,” Devon corrects.

Isn’t that the problem?
Ciere almost says it, but manages to bite down before the words escape her. She would never truly want someone dead, but she has to admit that her life would be a lot less complicated if Alan Fiacre had perished along with the rest of his family.

“Well, what now?” Devon asks.

“Kit says he’s going to see if he can get into contact with anyone from TATE.”

“So we’re pretty much done with Fiacre, then.”

Ciere forces herself to stand. She needs to collect fresh blankets and pillows to bring to the basement. “Not exactly. We’re rooming with him while he’s here.”

Devon looks alarmed. “What? You mean we’re sleeping with the mole people?”

Ciere nods. Well, technically Devon wasn’t ordered to sleep in the basement, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Kit doesn’t want to leave Fiacre alone downstairs with the valuables and the automatic rifles.”

Devon looks torn between grim acceptance and apprehension. Before he can say anything, his phone clamors to life.

Ding a ling ling, a ling ling ling…

“Brilliant,” Devon says grimly. “Time to see if that translation program is any good.” He flips open his phone and slurs, “
Kan jeg få en flaske vodka
? Oh, heeeey, Dad. Din’t see the caller ID. Howaroo?”

Ciere rises to her feet. Kit keeps extra blankets in a linen closet nearby, and this is the perfect excuse to get away before Devon wrangles her into pretending she is a Norwegian bartender.

She gathers several sets of fresh sheets, pillows, and an armful of blankets. By the time she carries them back to her room, Devon is trying to describe snow-capped mountains and milkmaids.

“Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to go,” Devon says distractedly when he sees Ciere. She promptly dumps the armful of blankets into his lap and he lets out a small
“oompf.”

“Let’s go,” she says. “Anastasia awaits.”

The voice on the other end of the line blares,
“Devon? Who was that? What was that? You’re rooming with a girl called—”

Devon snaps his phone shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Now my dad not only thinks I’m drinking my way through a ski resort, but also that I’m probably shagging a local girl. Two girls, if he heard your voice. Thanks ever so much.”

“You know you love me,” Ciere calls over her shoulder.

She barely hears his muttered response of “God, life would be easier if—” before she shuts the door, cutting him off.

N
ighttime in the basement feels like sleeping in a prison cell.

Of course, Ciere has never been in a prison. There’s only one for immune criminals: Blanchard Penitentiary, an offshore detention camp meant specifically for people like her. She imagines this must be what Blanchard is like, though—exposed concrete, dim lighting, utterly still air, and a sense of gloom and heaviness.

Devon took the room next to hers. He claimed he wanted to see if he could tap out messages through the walls, but since she hasn’t heard any tapping, he must be asleep by now. It’s well after eleven. Ciere’s own body aches with weariness, but her mind won’t shut off.

She sprawls on her bunk bed, the bulky wool blankets
pressing down on her. Despite the warm summer heat, it’s cool enough down here to merit a heavy comforter. She draws the wool up to her chin and forces her eyelids shut. She draws in a breath and tries to settle down.

But it’s too quiet.

She’s used to the sounds of the neighborhood. They aren’t loud—elsecs never are—but she misses the sounds of distant cars, of the occasional bark of a dog, of neighbors getting up in the morning. Down here, it’s all heavy silence.

Like a grave.

Like being buried alive.

She needs to stop thinking like that. Maybe a glass of water will help.

The rooms have a system of lamps run by a generator—but Kit turns off the generator at night. The darkness is complete. No windows, no moonlight, not even the dim glow of nearby streetlights. All that’s left to illuminate the basement are portable battery-powered lamps. One sits on the desk, and Ciere fumbles for it. Her fingers find the knob, and she twists. Light springs to life within the bulb, and she blinks at it gratefully. The light doesn’t do much to relieve the general feeling of entrapment, but it’s better than the utter blackness.

The bathroom is at the end of the hall, opposite the basement entrance. Ciere pads down the hall on her bare feet,
grateful for the scratchy rugs Kit thought to arrange. The light flickers in her hand, and she gives it a nervous shake. It would be her luck for the batteries to die.

She is so intent on her light that she doesn’t notice the figure standing in the bathroom doorway. They collide, and she lets out a small gasp. Her trembling hand lifts the lamp, the illumination spilling over Fiacre. “Crap,” Ciere gasps out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She presses a hand to her chest and sucks in a deep breath. “What the hell are you doing up?”

Fiacre nods his head in the direction of the sink. “Water.”

“Ah. Same here.”

She follows him into the bathroom and rests her lamp on the counter. There are several cupboards, and one holds glasses. Ciere fishes out two and hands one to Fiacre. He accepts it with a murmur of thanks before filling it from the sink. He takes a step back, leaning against a concrete wall while he sips his water.

Ciere looks away and tries to pretend she wasn’t watching. She reaches out and twists the faucet back to life, filling her own cup. The water isn’t cold and tastes vaguely metallic, but she forces herself to drink it all.

“Good night,” she says, reaching for her light. She is so focused on not looking at Fiacre that her elbow hits the lamp,
knocking it from the counter. She makes a grab, but it’s too late, and the lamp crashes into the floor. She leaps back, conscious of her bare feet and the glass skittering across the cement.

Hands fall on her bare arms and she realizes that she has moved far closer to Fiacre than she meant to. She can feel the heat of him through his shirt and her own cami, and his hands steady her, keeping her upright. He’s surprisingly strong—he supports her with little effort.

“Sorry,” she says.

Fiacre’s hands drop, but he doesn’t recoil from their proximity. “Is there a broom down here?” he asks.

She nods, grateful for the excuse to leave the bathroom. The closeness bothers her, although it’s different from before. Little jolts of adrenaline keep sparking through her, and she can still feel the places where he touched her.

She finds the storage cupboard by touch, her fingers fumbling through the cleaning supplies until she retrieves the broom and dustpan. When she steps into the bathroom, she finds Fiacre kneeling on a towel. His own lamp rests on the floor, casting enough light for her to see his fingers dart among the shadows, coming up with tiny shards of glass. His quick, graceful movements remind Ciere of the way a bird picks for food amid blades of grass.

She hands him the broom and he goes to work, slanting
the dustpan so that he can sweep up the remaining pieces. When Fiacre speaks, it’s so abrupt that it makes her flinch.

“Are you afraid of me?” He doesn’t sound offended. If Ciere had to guess, he sounds curious.

“W-what do you mean?” she says.

He dumps the dustpan into the garbage can before kneeling again and angling the broom around the base of the toilet, searching for any missed shards. “You were shaking when I touched you. You’re also sweating, and if I had to guess, your pulse is racing.”

Ciere’s hand flutters to her neck. Sure enough, she can feel her heart jumping beneath her skin. “I’m not scared of you.”

Even with his back to her, Ciere can imagine she sees Fiacre’s skepticism. His voice is saturated with it. “Right.”

She shouldn’t have to explain herself to him. But the idea that he thinks she’s scared of him makes her both embarrassed and strangely defiant. “It’s not you,” she says. “It’s—uh, this place.”

Fiacre finishes sweeping and shakes the dustpan over the garbage. “This shelter?”

“Yeah.”

He rises from his crouch, and holds out the broom and dustpan. She takes them with a tense smile, and replaces the broom in the cupboard. He pauses in the hallway, hand on the wall, and studies Ciere. It’s an odd stare, with his head angled
to one side, peering at her through the corner of one eye. It reminds Ciere of a raven cocking its head.

“You’re claustrophobic,” he says.

“No.” Ciere finds herself rubbing her arms. “I just don’t like it down here. It feels… I don’t know. Like I’m trapped. Like if something went wrong, I couldn’t get out of here on my own.” She half expects him to smile or laugh, but a frown line appears between his brows.

“You’re claustrophobic,” he repeats. “Yet you’re down here.”

“Orders,” Ciere says shortly.

Fiacre looks puzzled. “That Copperfield isn’t your father, is he?”

“He’s my…” Ciere searches for the right word. Not an adoptive father—more like an older brother, but not quite. There is no shared blood, no piece of paper binding them together. “Handler” is the word she settles on. “And he’s head of our crew.”

“You’re all thieves.” Fiacre’s eyes wander to something beyond Ciere, and she realizes that one of the stolen paintings is stored behind her, propped up against the wall. In the dim light of Alan’s lamp, the stark contrasts between the whites and darks, and the streaky paint, make the whole thing look even more eerie than usual. “Thomas Cole,” Fiacre says. “From
The Course of Empire
series. I heard that it went missing a few
years ago… I guess this is where it ended up.” He takes a step toward the painting—this particular one depicts an ancient city in chaos. Ships burn, people throw themselves off docks, a bridge falls, people kill one another, and a statue leans precariously over the whole scene. Fiacre’s hand comes up and his fingers hover reverentially over the tiny figures.

“I still don’t know your name,” Fiacre says, eyes on the painting. “I overheard the others talking in the car, though—you’re Ciara?”

“Ciere,” she corrects. “Take off the
a
at the end. Ciere Giba.”

A smile flits across Fiacre’s mouth. “Oh, I get it. Gibeciere.”

Ciere jerks in surprise. No one has ever guessed the source of her name. “You know what that is?” she asks.

Fiacre’s smile fades. “Magicians used them—back when there were stage magicians. A gibeciere was a bag they’d use to hide things in. I’m guessing that’s not your real name.”

Ciere tenses, feeling uncomfortably defensive. “It’s my real name. It’s just… not the one I was born with.”

Fiacre’s amusement fades. “I’m sorry. I—I’m not judging you. Names can be dangerous.” Still ducking his head, he holds out his free hand, and Ciere hesitates, unsure of what he’s doing. “I’m Alan,” he says formally. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ciere Giba.”

Slowly, hesitantly, she extends her own hand. Fiacre takes her fingers in his own. The gesture is awkward, like he’s not
sure how firm his grip should be or how to move his hand. His skin is warm, a spot of heat in the chilled underground. Ciere expects him to let go, but Alan’s hand lingers in hers and then he slowly shifts his grip so that he cradles the back of her hand in his palm.

Ciere might have been shocked or pulled away, but she waits, poised on the balls of her feet. He cradles her hand in his palm, his eyes raking over it, lifting the lantern with his other hand as if to get a better look. She glances down, trying to see what he sees. Her skin is much lighter than his, with a light dusting of blonde hair and a few bluish veins beneath her skin.

Alan releases her, and Ciere’s arm drops. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she scratches at her wrist.

“You have a thing for hands?”

She can’t be sure in this darkness, but it looks like Alan is flushed. He tucks his chin and cants his head to one side. “Sorry. It’s just—hands can tell you a lot about a person. I’m in the habit of noticing them.”

“Huh?”

Alan gives her a sidelong glance. “You know I’ve been on the run for my whole life. My aunt told me… well, I was never supposed to look anyone in the eye. There was always a chance someone could recognize me. Aunt Richelle used to say I look like my dad.” He speaks more quickly, as if in a rush to get the
words out. “When I was a kid, I’d always just look at people’s hands. It was something to focus on instead of looking at their faces. Eventually, it just became habit. Now I…” He trails off, and she doesn’t need him to finish. Now he can’t look anyone in the eye. It’s too ingrained in him. And suddenly Ciere understands why he hasn’t really looked at her—why she’s only seen his eyes in darting little glances. Why he’s always angled to one side, bangs hanging over his brow, head tilted downward. It’s not that he’s shy—it’s a survival technique.

“You probably think I’m insane or something,” Alan says quietly, turning away. But Ciere reaches out and grabs his wrist, holding him in place.

“No, it’s fine,” she says. And it is fine. She gets it.

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

“My mother used to teach me a game,” she says. “A messed-up hide-and-go-seek where I’d have to hide again and again. Years later I realized it wasn’t really a game.” She forces a smile, and says, “So how does my hand measure up?”

Alan’s mouth twitches. “You have broken nails.”

“Comes from lock picking,” she says. She glances at the painting again, wishing for something to look at. “Damn, it’s dark down here.”

“I’ve got another lantern in my room if you want it.”

Ciere feels a rush of gratitude as Alan leads the way back to his room—it’s not that she’s afraid of the darkness, but
she can feel it pressing in around her. His bedroom is identical to hers—raw concrete walls and minimal decor. Alan bends down under his bed and gropes for something. When he comes back up, he has another lantern in his hand. She reaches out for it, her fingers closing over its wire handle, but Alan doesn’t let go. The lantern quivers, the wire drawn taut between both their hands, and Ciere realizes that she is still shaking. She grits her teeth and forces her arm to still.

Alan releases the lantern and sits on the lower bunk. “You sure you’re not claustrophobic?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps.

He lifts his chin and says, “You know, it would be all right. If you weren’t fine, I mean. Everyone has something they deal with.”

Ciere squirms. Part of her yearns for this conversation to end—as interesting as Alan is, all she really wants to do is vanish. Maybe if she became invisible, she could sneak upstairs and leave the basement behind. Kit would never know. Probably. Maybe.

“You—” Alan says abruptly, and Ciere’s attention snaps back to him. “What are you…?” His voice trails off, and a thrill of horror goes through her.

She hadn’t realized she was beginning to illusion herself. It wasn’t even conscious; the desire to leave was so strong that she instinctively grasped for her immunity. She feels the
blood draining from her face. She’s never had to hide what she is—not here. This is home.

Alan is staring at her with a mixture of apprehension and wonder. “You’re an…”

Ciere fumbles for something to say. Anything. “I’m an illusionist.”

Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have said that. The less people know, the better. But this boy is already carrying so many secrets—hell, the kid
is
a secret—what’s one more? Who could he possibly tell?

He doesn’t look at her, not really, but she sees a flash of teeth as he grins. “Really?”

She shrugs. “I’m not a very good one, so don’t get excited.”

Alan shifts on the mattress, edging closer to the wall. At first it looks like he is drawing away from Ciere, but she realizes he is making room for her to sit. She hesitates, her fingers still wrapped around the lantern handle.
He’s not going to bite you
, she reassures herself.

“I’ve never met someone with an immunity,” he says. “It’s kind of amazing.”

She feels her lips compress and her hands curl into fists, which she places beneath her legs. “You’re… not…?”

His shrug somehow looks rueful. “Completely normal. Well, as normal as someone like me could be.”

“So why do you want to go to TATE?” she asks. “Why would the last Fiacre hand himself over to a terrorist group?”

“You don’t know anything about TATE.” Alan’s fingers twist together. “They’re not a terrorist group.”

“Freedom fighters?” Ciere suggests. “Rebels?” When he looks at her, she shrugs and says, “I know, I know. Semantics.” She studies him and says, “Why’re you talking to me?”