Illusive (21 page)

K
it greets Eduardo Carson as if they are old friends. He hasn’t changed out of his cooking gear: his sleeves are still rolled up and his apron tied around his neck. “I’m sorry,” Eduardo Carson says, standing. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.”

Kit grins and offers Carson his hand. “Not at all. I’m Kit Copperfield, and I see you’ve already met my niece. I heard you have car trouble?”

“I’m staying with some friends across the street.” Carson waved a hand toward the front door. “They left for work and it wasn’t until a moment ago I realized my headlights were on, so now my battery is shot. Could you give me a jump?”

Kit’s smile never falters. “To be honest, I’m not sure where I left my cables. I know they’re in the garage somewhere, but it
could be a few minutes.” He touches the back of Ciere’s elbow. “I think the cables are somewhere near my power tools. Go look for them?”

Ciere slants a look at Carson before nodding. As she turns and makes her way to the hall, she hears Kit say, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

To an outsider, the exchange would seem casual. Normal.

But Kit has never owned power tools.

She doesn’t go to the garage. If that man is what she thinks he is, then there is one person who needs to know immediately. She breaks into a run and dashes up the stairs to Kit’s room. Her fingers, slick with sweat, fumble on the doorknob of his closet. It takes two tries to punch in the correct code to the basement.

She finds Alan on his bed; he is scribbling away in what looks like a journal.

“Ciere?” he says absentmindedly. When he sees her face, his manner changes. “What’s wrong?”

“Some guy showed up on our doorstep claiming his car needs a jump—but I don’t think so. I saw something under his left arm. I think he’s carrying. Maybe a fed.”

Alan slips off his bed, landing lightly on his feet. In one fluid motion, he shoves the journal into his backpack and slides it over one shoulder. “You think they’re here for me.”

Ciere nods.

“What will Copperfield do?” Alan says.

“I—I’m not sure. He knows that something is up.” Ciere wraps her arms around her roiling stomach. “You should be ready to move in case we need to run.”

Alan inclines his head. “So, Copperfield won’t sell me to them?”

Her jaw doesn’t drop, but it is only because she’s clenching her teeth. “What?”

“It’s a logical solution,” Alan says. “If the feds have finally come for me, your handler might cut a deal. Turn me over in exchange for his and your freedom. If he plays his cards right, he might even get a good amount of money out of it.”

“I don’t think he’d do that,” she says.

Alan’s lips press together, but he doesn’t argue.

“I’m going back upstairs,” she tells him. “You wait here for now. Okay?” She whirls, walking out of his room and bounding up the long flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. Suddenly, she’s afraid to leave Kit alone with that Eduardo Carson. She’s afraid of what Kit might do without anyone watching.

Apparently, he is serving coffee and chatting. When Ciere rushes back into the living room, she finds Carson perched on the couch while Kit reclines in his favorite chair. They’re talking about the neighborhood.

Kit looks up and blinks at Ciere. “You didn’t find those cables, did you?”

Oh. She’s forgotten her alibi. “Um. Not really.” She can feel Carson’s watchful gaze resting on her, and she forces herself to go still. “It’s been forever since you cleaned out that garage,” she says, and pitches her voice into a whine. “I mean, you can’t find anything in there.”

Kit is an expert liar. His expression is half fondness, half annoyance. “That’s because you were supposed to clean it out last summer, if I remember correctly.” The smile he gives Carson is conspiratorial. “Teenagers…” he says, standing. “I’ll look myself.”

Carson sets his coffee cup down. “I’ll help.” He rises and takes a step. He looks confused, like something is out of place and he cannot figure out what.

“Something wrong?” Kit asks.

Carson blinks and his eyes unfocus, his pupils staring in different directions. He takes another step and falters. A look of alarm flashes across his face, and his hand darts toward his jacket—where the telltale bulge of a sidearm is visible.

Kit’s hand gets there first. He snatches Carson’s wrist from the air and jerks it back, gripping it tight. “Now, now,” he says, in a soothing voice. “None of that.”

Carson makes a valiant effort to hit him, but Kit takes hold of both his wrists, rendering his arms useless. Carson makes a noise of protest, but his body seems to be folding in on itself.
Kit guides him backward onto the couch, where Carson tries to sit up and fails. His rolling eyes drift shut and his lips go still.

Utter silence.

“What did you do?” Ciere says, aghast.

“I drugged that pot of coffee,” Kit says, like it should be obvious. He’s already at work, peeling Carson’s coat off. The first thing he finds is a gun tucked into a shoulder rig. Kit weighs the pistol in his hand. “A Glock,” he murmurs. “That means—damn.” He hisses the curse through gritted teeth, and his fingers dart into Carson’s pocket. He comes up with a leather badge. When he flips it open, a glimmer of gold catches Ciere’s eye.

The letters are clearly visible:
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION—ADVERSE EFFECTS DIVISION.

A nervous giggle rises up Ciere’s throat, and she cannot choke it back. She presses a hand to her mouth, but the laugh spills over. She tries to stifle it, her breaths coming quick and hard, each carrying another of those hysterical giggles. Her lungs are drawn tight with mirth. This is it. They’ve drugged a federal agent. This is the moment, the line, the threshold that they’ve all stepped over.

Kit regards her with narrowed eyes. “Nothing about this situation is funny.”

A loud crash makes them jump. Ciere has only enough
time to think,
What now?
before her feet carry her down the hall and into the kitchen. Her mind is already coming up with an explanation for the noise: other agents are breaking in from the back and it’s too late to run. She half expects to see the dancing red dots of laser sights and the black-garbed forms of a SWAT team when she skids into the kitchen.

Instead, she sees that Devon is sprawled on the floor, his barstool tipped over and lying on its side.

A cup of coffee rests on the counter.

“On the other hand,” Kit says after a pause. “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

It takes Devon a good hour to come around. He does so by degrees, his eyes flickering beneath their lids, muscles twitching in his face, and he finally manages to prop himself up on the couch. Ciere convinced Kit not to leave Devon lying where he fell, if only because his drooling might damage the floor. She sits beside him, watching Devon slowly come back to himself. All in all, the experience isn’t much different from the mornings they’ve spent hungover together.

The FBI agent, Carson, is dragged down to the basement. It seems the shelter will also double as a holding cell. When she sees Carson dangling between Kit and Magnus, she is torn between gratification and squirming guilt. She wants him out of sight, if only so she can pretend this isn’t happening.
As long as she doesn’t have to see the agent, it means he doesn’t exist.

This coping mechanism manages to distract her until Kit reemerges from the basement with Alan trailing behind. Alan casts a quick look at Ciere before sitting gingerly on the recliner.

Kit doesn’t speak at first. He pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales, as if he needs the moment to himself. “The basement is officially a no-minor zone,” he finally says.

“Whereweposedtego?” Devon mumbles. He hasn’t quite regained control of his tongue yet.

“You three stay up here for now. The adults will handle the agent.”

Devon blearily points a finger in Kit’s general direction. “Techcallyimadult.”

“True,” Kit agrees. “But as you can’t even focus your eyes on me, I think you’ll find navigating stairs a little difficult. As for the rest of you—stay.”

“Do you think we’re in danger here?” Alan asks, still keeping his head down.

“I don’t know,” Kit says grimly. “If an FBI agent is in here, odds are that his partner or a team is somewhere out there. That’s what Magnus and I are going to find out.”

Ciere swallows. Her throat feels tight with panic. This is her worst nightmare. Being trapped, most likely surrounded
by feds. Unable to escape for fear of what might be waiting for them. And the only place they might be able to hide is underground.

There’s a grim comfort in knowing that this situation really can’t get much worse.

As he strides out of the room, Kit pauses by the door and makes a vague gesture at them. “Oh—one more thing. Keep away from the windows.”

Three blank stares.

“In case of snipers,” Kit says, like it should be obvious.

In hindsight, Ciere thinks, she should have been expecting that.

I
n the end, the decision to disobey Kit isn’t a decision at all. Ciere always knew she was going to do it.

“Let me get this straight,” Alan says. “You’re going to sneak down to the basement? I thought you trusted Copperfield.”

Ciere shucks off her light robe—she’s still wearing her cami and boxer shorts, but she can’t be bothered to get dressed now. “I do trust him. But he’s got this bad habit of keeping information from the rest of us. It’s simpler to just illusion myself.”

Devon appears vaguely horrified. “Wha…?” He looks at Alan and then back at Ciere, unable to come up with the right words. She understands.

“I told him about me,” she says dismissively. “Alan knows about the illusions.”

“Dan—danjur,” Devon slurs, looks annoyed, and then amends his response to “Bad.”

“He’s not dangerous.” Ciere shakes out her arms and legs, trying to focus her attention. She needs to get this right; Kit will see through anything other than a perfect illusion.

“If you’re going to do this,” Alan says, “I want to come with you.”

Ciere shakes her head. “I can only vanish myself. Remember what I said about me being a crappy illusionist?”

“Then I’ll hide while you do your thing,” Alan replies. “That way I’ll still be able to eavesdrop.” He hesitates, and then lifts his head and briefly meets her eyes.

It’s Ciere who looks away first. “Fine. But if you get us caught, I’ll say this was your idea.”

Alan grins, and the smile transforms his face. “One scapegoat, coming up.”

“Me, too.” Devon wobbles upright and tries to steady himself by placing his fists on his knees.

This time it’s Alan who shoots him down. “You can’t help her if you’re too drugged to stand.”

Devon struggles to sit up straight. “Yeah, Ana? And what would you know about helping criminals?”

Alan’s eyes quickly glide over Devon’s slouched form. “Probably more than you,” he says, but without malice.

Devon looks to Ciere, expectation in his face. Probably
waiting for her to come to his defense. But the sight of him, splayed out on a couch, defenseless and useless, gives her pause. She can’t honestly come up with a reason for him to accompany her.

Devon glares at them both.

She has imagined this scenario a thousand times: waking up in a daze, sitting in a stark room, handcuffed to a chair, surrounded by armed men, and facing an interrogation. She has imagined the bite of metal around her wrists, the mirrored walls, and the locks on the doors between her and freedom. She’s imagined it so many times that she’s not surprised to see that it plays out the way she thought it would.

Only she never expected to be on the side of the interrogators.

She creeps down the basement steps with Alan at her back. There are sounds coming from one of the rooms on the left—harsh light spills through the darkness and the grating noise of metal on cement fills Ciere’s ears. A silhouette appears in the doorway and she begins backing up, desperate to get into the shadows. In her haste, she feels her back collide with Alan’s chest, and the two of them reverse into a wall.

She throws up her hands and sucks in a sharp breath.
Darkness
, she thinks. She draws the shadows in around herself and Alan.

Not a moment too soon. Kit strides into the hallway. “It’s fine,” he is saying. “He’s not going anywhere.” He turns, continuing down the hall away from Ciere and Alan, ducking into one of the far-off rooms. Ciere remains still, holding the illusion in place. Fresh pain surges through her temples.

“Fascinating,” Alan whispers. His hand falls on her shoulder. “You’re still there, but I can’t see you all that well. And I suspect I’m just as difficult to see at the moment.” His thumb moves, stroking the nape of her neck as if to check whether she’s solid. The touch sends a hot flush through her skin and into her spine.

“Trying to concentrate here,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Sorry.”

She chokes back the wild urge to laugh. “Okay, so you’re not willing to look most people in the eye, but you’ll grope them from behind—good to know.”

“I—I was not,” Alan says, sounding horrified, but the reemergence of Kit cuts him off. Kit strolls toward them this time, and Ciere is careful to hold the illusion of darkness up.
Don’t see us
, she thinks.
Don’t see us. We’re not here.

Then she sees what Kit is carrying. A pair of handcuffs.

A chill goes through her. She hasn’t let herself think about what this interrogation will consist of. Part of her still doesn’t
want to know—she wants to flee upstairs and crack jokes with Devon.

But she can’t.

She leaves Alan in one of the bedrooms—it’s close enough that he will be able to hear what’s going on, but he keeps the lights out and presses himself against the wall and out of sight. It’s a relief to drop the illusion from around him. She coils it around herself, letting her skin drink in her surroundings. She is shadow and cement when she tiptoes into the room and presses herself to the wall nearest the door.

Carson has been handcuffed to a metal folding chair. He lists to one side, his bound arms keeping him upright.

Kit stands in front of the FBI agent. “About time,” he says. “Can’t keep the party waiting.”

Carson’s breathing is ragged, and a sheet of sweat covers his tanned skin. When he speaks, his voice is in tatters. “Y-you drugged me.” A growl escapes his teeth. “You are all dead. You’ve kidnapped a federal agent—”

Kit cuts him off. “I’d love to hear all your incredibly clichéd attempts to intimidate me, but we don’t have the time.”

“You going to torture me?” Carson asks. His eyes have begun to wander around the room. Ciere recognizes the look; it’s the same way a hunted animal’s eyes roll, looking for escape routes.

“Torture?” Kit grins, and it’s something she has never seen
before. When Kit smiles, it’s usually a thin-lipped smirk. This new grin is wide, baring all his teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the grin of a wolf, not a fox.

“Torture?” Kit repeats. “What kind of barbarians do you take us for? There are much cleaner ways to retrieve information.”

Magnus takes a step forward.

Kit moves so suddenly that Carson doesn’t have time to react; Kit grabs a handful of Carson’s short hair and wrenches his head back, exposing the vulnerable skin of his throat. It’s been a while since he shaved—Ciere can see the dark stubble peppering his jaw. His Adam’s apple flinches in a convulsive swallow.

Magnus kneels and rests his bare hand on the agent’s throat.

“Now,” Kit says, “who sent you?”

There is silence, only broken by Carson’s hoarse breathing.

“Dammit,”
Magnus says, and Ciere jumps.
“What’s that—why are they doing this?”

“Who sent you?” Kit says again.

“W-what are you doing? What—why?”
says Magnus. His voice has changed—it’s no longer mild and soft, but clipped and altogether different.

That’s when Ciere realizes that it isn’t Magnus speaking.
Not really. He’s translating Carson’s thoughts into audible words.

Kit’s grip on Carson tightens. “Who sent you?”

Something flickers over Magnus’s face, and it reminds Ciere of the way dogs sometimes twitch in their sleep, like they’re seeing and hearing things no one else can.
“Jesus Christ, no. A mentalist. I will not—you cannot—I’ll think of something else. They’ve got a mentalist, they’ve got a mentalist—”

“Who sent you?” Kit never raises his voice; he simply repeats the same question over and over.

Magnus’s mouth moves so quickly, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t trip over the words.
“No one. Not supposed to be here—Aristeus and Gervais—didn’t wait for backup, dammit, I’ve got to stop thinking! Get off of me!”

“Why did you come here?” Kit asks.

Magnus’s lips form more soundless curses before he says,
“Saw you leave with him in Endicott. Was watching the house. That boy. Shit, he looks like Brenton Fiacre. Is he a Fiacre? No wonder the UAI was so eager.”

“Then why were you watching that house?”

Magnus shudders.
“F-formula,”
he says, face twitching.
“We were looking for the formula. Thought it was supposed to be hidden somewhere in that house—searched it. Aristeus took all the data. Left behind—bastard left me to stake out the
house. This means—there is no formula, is there? Just a kid. This was all for nothing.”

Kit pauses before asking, “Who will look for you?”

Magnus’s eyes roam beneath their closed lids. His lips fall open, and it’s then Ciere realizes that he’s panting, his breath coming in gasps. The fear that twists Carson’s expression is mirrored on Magnus’s face. It’s not only Carson’s thoughts that Magnus hears—it’s his emotions, too.

Ciere stares incredulously at Magnus. She knows how it feels to be pinned down by an enemy. The terror is sickening, all-consuming. She cannot imagine willingly going through that for the sake of information.

“No one,”
Magnus says, and it comes out as a whisper.

She feels some of the tension leak out of her body—she hadn’t even realized she was holding herself so tightly, her own fear wrapped around her like a vise. There’s no one coming for Carson. There is no trap, no snipers, and no SWAT team waiting outside.

They’re safe.

“All right,” Kit says. “That’s all we need to know for now.” He doesn’t release his grip on Carson’s hair, but he moves so that the man’s head is no longer held at that painful angle. “You can let go now, Magnus.”

But Magnus isn’t letting go. His lips are still shaping silent words, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” Kit says sharply.

A shudder runs through Magnus’s whole body.

Kit releases Carson, and in one swift movement, grabs Magnus by the collar and drags him back. Magnus skitters to the floor and remains there for a moment, panting. Still trembling, he manages to rise to his feet on his own. When he staggers from the room, Ciere quickly ducks to one side to make sure they won’t accidentally touch.

Kit follows Magnus out of the room. Ciere scurries after him and manages to get through the door before it closes on her. The thought of being left alone in there with Carson makes her feel ill.

Magnus backs into a wall. He sinks to the floor, and Kit follows.

“It’s okay,” Kit says in a voice Ciere hasn’t heard in years. It’s the way Kit would speak to her when she was a kid and her dreams were riddled with nightmares. “You’re not that man. You’re not him. Remember your name.”

Magnus lets out a shaky exhale. “Well,” he finally manages to say. “Haven’t done that in a few years. Hoped I’d never have to again.”

Kit frowns. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

The silence stretches out again.

“You think he was telling the truth?” Kit asks.

Magnus wraps an arm around himself. “Yes. No one knows where he is. When he thought about it, all I got was, ‘Going to show that son of a bitch, Aristeus.’ ”

Kit lets out a startled laugh. “Good to see that Aristeus hasn’t lost his charm.”

For a moment, neither speaks. They simply sit there until Magnus looks up. “What now?”

Kit retreats a few inches, and Ciere catches a glimpse of his face. His mouth is a thin line. “We deal with that man.”

Ciere doesn’t understand what he means—not at first. Then understanding slams into her, and it’s all she can do to keep her illusion in place. Kill him. Kit means to kill the FBI agent.

Magnus shifts, straightening, but his arm remained firmly wrapped around himself. “Carson’s daughter’s birthday is in four weeks,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, and Ciere has to strain to hear it. “He’s been fighting for the right to come to the party—his ex-wife is rather vindictive about it. His partner’s name is Gervais, and he’s bound to be worried about Carson. He’s always tried to restrain Carson, to keep him from doing something stupid. Something like this. Carson’s father was from Scotland and his mother from Chile. Both of them died in the first wave of the MK plague. Carson misses them both.”

“What are you doing?” Kit asks, his voice equally quiet.

Magnus’s steady expression never changes. “I’m telling
you all the little bits and pieces I heard while I was listening to Carson’s thoughts.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Magnus says, “when you look at him, you see a fed. There’s more to him than that.”

Kit turns so that he faces Magnus head-on, and Ciere sees the subtle change in his posture—his rigid shoulders go slack and his head bows. “They kill our kind all the time. You remember what we are to them: Tools. Weapons. We’re not people to them, Magnus.”

Magnus doesn’t look away. “And that’s exactly why we’re not going to kill him. We’re not like them. I won’t let us be like them. Not again.”

“Damn,” Kit murmurs, and runs a hand over his face. “You always have to do things the hard way, don’t you?”

Magnus smiles faintly. “We’ll figure something out. We always do. In the meantime,” he rises to his feet, “I should check on the kids.” Ciere silently fumes at the term.
Kids?

Only after Magnus is gone does Kit return to Carson’s room. He opens the door. “You still alive?” It doesn’t sound as if Kit would be all too bothered by Carson’s death.

“How’s your friend?” Carson says hoarsely. Ciere flinches; she almost forgot he could speak for himself. He huffs out a dry laugh. “Mentalists. They all crack in the end.”

Kit doesn’t answer aloud. Instead, he regards Carson with
a flat stare. Then he kicks Carson’s chair out from under him. The movement is swift, violent, and Ciere gasps. The sound is swallowed up as the chair screeches in protest, slamming into the cement floor. Handcuffed as he is, Carson can’t get up; he can’t even shift to a less awkward sprawl. All he can do is lie there and glare up at Kit with murder in his eyes.

Ciere claps a hand to her mouth to stifle another involuntary sound. Kit steps over Carson like he isn’t there, slams the bedroom door, and stalks out of the basement.

The lamps power down, and Ciere is suddenly plunged into darkness. Great—she forgot that he’d shut off all the lights. She mutters a curse.