Illusive (6 page)

Once Devon and Ciere enter the DC borders, it’s not long before they arrive at their destination, the Sun Horizons Hotel. It’s in an older part of the city, an area that still sports things like cobblestone streets. The hotel’s automatic glass doors glide open before Devon and Ciere when they approach. They stand in the air-conditioned lobby and get their bearings. To their left is the concierge and check-in; to their right is what looks like the restaurant and bar.

According to Kit’s instructions, they’re to meet the mentalist in the bar. “Magnus Fugaré,” Ciere reads aloud, then tucks the note card into her pocket.

Devon turns disbelieving eyes on her. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“That poor kid,” Devon says. “Imagine going to primary school with a name like Magnus.”

“It’s probably an alias,” Ciere replies.

Ciere is an alias. Ciere Giba in full. It’s just another false name, one created with a French dictionary and a laugh. Ciere wears this name like a comfortable old T-shirt; she can put on other identities with ease, but at the end of the day it’s nice to slip into something old and familiar. Now that Ciere thinks about it, she can name only a few people who still use their birth names. Most crooks end up ditching their old identities as soon as they pull off a job or move to a new location; those with immunities do so more frequently. It’s a matter of survival, of staying hidden and untraceable. Daniel Burkhart uses his real name, and Ciere has never figured out why. Birth names are a luxury none of them can afford.

Devon Lyre uses his real name. He hasn’t needed a false one.

Ciere and Devon find an open table near the hotel bar. It’s in the odd hours between lunch and dinner, and there is a lull in the customer flow. The empty room makes it easier for Kit’s contact to find them.

The contact turns out to be a woman in her mid-thirties. When she catches sight of Ciere and Devon, she glides to their table. “You must be Ms. Giba,” she says, offering a manicured
hand for Ciere to shake. “I’m Mr. Fugaré’s personal assistant, Bellevue.”

“Hi,” Devon says at the same moment Ciere says, “Heya.”

Bellevue’s eyes linger on Devon and her polite smile freezes in place. “I wasn’t informed there would be two of you,” she says.

Devon and Ciere exchange looks. Kit never explained what this Magnus does for a living. What they’re supposed to be meeting him for. Kit simply handed Ciere an envelope, rattled off the directions, and then waved them off.

Hesitantly, Ciere offers Bellevue the envelope. It bulges with twenties—Ciere never counted the bills, but she’s got a good instinct for money. She hazards a guess that she just paid about one grand for this meeting.

Bellevue glances inside the envelope and her smile becomes more genuine. “Thank you for your kind donation. This way, please.”

She leads them past reception and to the elevators. It’s a quick jaunt to the sixth floor, and Bellevue obviously knows her way around. She walks unerringly to room 615 and slides a card into the lock. Once inside, she retrieves two robes from the closet. “Why don’t you both enjoy a nice shower,” she says. “Magnus will be along soon.” Then she is smiling, pulling the door shut behind her.

Devon and Ciere stand in the hotel room, robes in hand, staring at each other.

“All right, I give up. What game are we playing?” says Devon.

Ciere looks from the robe to the hotel room, and then something in her mind clicks. She grins, relieved to finally understand what Kit sent them into. “Think about it,” she says. “What do people come to hotels for? And what job could a telepath do really well? What would pay the bills without linking this guy to a crime family or the feds?”

It takes Devon a moment. His fingers fumble, and he flings the robe away like it’s on fire. “He’s a tom,” he says, comprehension dawning on his face.

“Actually, I was thinking prostitute.” Ciere raises her eyebrows and gestures at the room. “And judging by the fact that we handed over a thousand dollars for a one-hour appointment, I’d say he’s a damn good one.”

Devon’s head whips back and forth. “Sod this. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Why do you always sound more British when you’re embarrassed?” Ciere plops down into one of the plush chairs. “Come on and sit.” She can’t help but laugh. Now that she knows what Magnus is, she feels at ease. “Calm down.”

“Copperfield,” Devon says, furious. “That bastard did this on purpose.”

“Probably,” Ciere agrees. She giggles. “Heh. Magnus.”

“Oh, dear lord.” Devon buries his face in his hands. “Stop talking. Stop thinking.”

When the door opens, Devon looks like he wants to either run or scurry under the bed; he settles for perching on the edge of the other chair. Ciere straightens and eyes the newcomer with interest.

This must be Magnus Fugaré. He’s muscular, but not in a bulky way. His lips are full and his brown eyes large, balancing out his prominent nose. His dark brown hair contrasts with his light skin, and his brows are long and closely set over his eyes. Underneath his beauty there is something gaunt about his face. He looks haunted, like some of the veterans Ciere has known.

“You must be Ciere,” Magnus says, and a smile chases the grimness from his eyes.

Ciere jabs an elbow into Devon’s side. “Yep. This is Devon. Say hi, honey,” she adds, making her voice sound artificially sweet.

Devon jumps as if Ciere’s elbow is live with electricity. “What?” he says.

“He’s so shy,” Ciere tells Magnus confidentially, wrapping an arm around Devon’s waist.

“I’m Magnus Fugaré,” Magnus says, holding out a hand. She takes Magnus’s fingers in her own and squeezes lightly.

The moment Ciere touches him, Magnus goes rigid. His shoulders draw forward, and his eyelids flutter shut.

He retreats and sinks onto a corner of the bed. When he rests his elbows on his knees, Ciere sees how pale he’s gone. He reaches into a pocket and withdraws a small box. A cigarette appears between two of his trembling fingers. In a moment, the cigarette is alight, and Magnus closes his eyes on the first pull, savoring it. Only after he’s exhaled does he give Ciere a calculating look.

“Kit Copperfield sent you,” he says.

Devon sits up straighter. “It’s true. He’s really a mentalist, then.” He presses his palms to the sides of his face and begins humming, as if trying to block out an annoying noise. “Lalalalalalalalala—stay out of my sodding brain—lalalalalalala.”

Magnus stares at Devon doubtfully. “What exactly is he? I know you’re a thief, but what is he?”

“Eidos,” Devon says, sounding annoyed. “And I’m right here.”

“Ah.” Magnus nods. “I wasn’t referring to your immunity, Mr. Eidos. I wanted to know
what
you are. Your expensive clothing would make me think you’re a thief, but you don’t move like one.”

Devon’s jaw sets. “Rotting hell. I was just an accomplice to a
felony
. What do I have to do to get into your crooked club?”

“For one thing,” Magnus says, looking amused, “we don’t use terms like ‘accomplice to a felony.’ ”

Ciere rests a hand on Devon’s arm. “He’s one of us,” she
says, and Magnus leaves it at that. “Like you said, I’m here representing Kit Copperfield. He mentioned you’d worked together before.”

All the humor vanishes from Magnus’s eyes, leaving behind a man with a controlled expression. “You can tell Kit that I’m done,” he says. “I’m done with all of it. I’m out of the game.”

“But it’s just a—”

“Jobs are never simple,” Magnus interrupts her. “And they’re never just jobs.”

Ciere rocks back, startled by his vehemence. She’s never dealt with a mentalist before, so she’s not sure how to convince him.

“Tell Copperfield I’m not his mentalist,” Magnus says curtly. “Now leave. Please.”

Ciere wavers, uncertain. She’d suspected they might have to convince the mentalist—after all, Kit said he and Magnus hadn’t parted on good terms—but she didn’t expect this kind of open hostility. Magnus, who is strangling his cigarette between two fingers, clearly wants nothing to do with them.

Before Ciere can string together a new argument, there is a pounding on the door. It swings open and Bellevue stands there, her knuckles gone white as she grips the doorknob.

“A SWAT team just pulled up in front of the hotel,” she says, breathless.

D
aniel sits inside his interrogation chamber and tries to look nonchalant. Like there aren’t four feds, all staring at him like he’s a deer and they’re wolves. Like they’re already divvying up who gets the finest hunk of meat.

Of the three men, the first is FBI Agent Carson. With a sharp jaw and black hair, he might be good-looking. If not for that cut above his right eyebrow and the bruise. His youth and clean-cut good looks are a stark contrast to his partner. Special Agent Avery Gervais is a man with craggy, worn features. He’s older than Carson, with peppery gray hair. They stand a few feet from the metal table, angled away from the two new feds.

The third man is the analyst. He stands with his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on Daniel. The woman—the dauthus who dragged Daniel away from freedom—leans
against the far wall. She has crossed her arms behind her head like she’s in a lounge rather than an interrogation chamber.

Carson holds a strip of cloth to his forehead, but it’s done little to stanch the bleeding. “Head wounds are a bitch, aren’t they?” Daniel says, unable to hide his grin. Carson takes a step forward, looking like he wants to pummel Daniel.

The analyst darts into his path. “Agent,” he says, his voice a quiet rebuke.

Gervais says, “He attacked two federal agents while trying to escape; whatever deal you were going to cut him is void.”

The analyst raises his hand in entreaty. “I still haven’t had my meeting.”

“Screw your meeting,” Carson snarls.

“No. If it wasn’t for Morana, Burkhart would already be gone,” the analyst says. “You owe us.”

Color pools in Carson’s cheeks. With obvious effort, he reins in his temper. “Five minutes,” he grates out.

Something has changed within the room; something’s missing. Daniel rolls his shoulders, as if trying to work out kinks, but he’s reaching out with that sense of his. His eyelids fall partly closed, and he
listens
. His immunity doesn’t have anything to do with hearing, but
listening
is the closest word Daniel has for what he does. He
listens
for sirens, for the hum of a silent alarm, for the footfall of a pursuing cop, for a soft
inhalation that means someone is waiting out of sight, for a heartbeat, for the click of a lock’s tumblers.

The eludere immunity is the hardest one for scientists to quantify. It’s been called clairvoyance, increased intuition, even the sixth sense. Eludere sense things others can’t—sometimes even before they happen—and they use that knowledge to their advantage. It’s nearly impossible to catch someone who can sense the waiting trap or feel the pinprick of crosshairs.

His immunity is how Daniel knows something has changed. It’s not what he hears, but what he
doesn’t.
He doesn’t hear the security cameras. They’ve been turned off. Before Daniel can process that fact, the analyst sits in the chair across the table and offers him a brief smile.

“You have an interesting file,” the analyst says. “Quite the varied career for one so young. I look forward to hearing about it.” He folds his fingers together, and Daniel catches a glimpse of ink along the analyst’s wrist.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Daniel says. He leans back in his seat, trying to convey nonchalance. In reality, his every instinct is screaming to put distance between himself and the feds. He’s still keyed up from his escape attempt.

“You will talk to us.”

Daniel snorts out a bitter laugh. “I know the US military has free rein to hold anyone they think is a terrorist. Too bad you’re not military and I’m not a terrorist.”

The man tilts his head. “How did you know?”

“You’re too skinny—no muscle, and your hair isn’t buzzed. And you’re not FBI, because you’ve got that visitor’s badge.”

A frown. “That’s correct,” the man says.

That’s when Daniel suddenly understands. His mouth goes dry.

“UAI.” The word springs to Daniel’s lips of its own accord. “You’re with the UAI.”

The man inclines his head. “Call me Aristeus. My partner, Morana, was the one who prevented your escape.” The dauthus woman holds up a hand and waggles her fingers in silent greeting. Aristeus points at the two FBI agents lurking in the corner. “You, of course, already know Special Agent Avery Gervais and his partner, Eduardo Carson. They were the ones who apprehended you.”

The animosity between the UAI agents and the FBI agents is palpable. Daniel hears it when Gervais flexes a fist inside his pocket and pops his knuckles, in the whisper of silk over metal when the dauthus woman shifts her stance; he hears the barely-there curse that Eduardo Carson exhales, his eyes fastened on Aristeus’s back. Daniel tucks this information away for later.

Aristeus picks up a piece of paper from the folder and glances over it. “Mr. Burkhart, you should know that I’m not interested in you personally.”

“That’s a relief,” Daniel says dryly.

Aristeus continues, “You’ve worked for many employers, including the group known as TATE. I know one of their agents contacted you—a Frieda Fuller. She wanted you to steal something for her. I’d like you to tell me about it.”

“I’d like a more comfortable chair,” Daniel retorts. “And a warm meal. Oh, and a pony while you’re at it.”

“I’m willing to make you a deal,” Aristeus says.

A deal. Yeah, right. Deals are less than worthless; the moment a person finds himself or herself with an immunity, they lose all their rights. Daniel knows that better than anyone. It’s why he ran away from home, leaving his family with nothing more than a scribbled note. It’s why he has ten different fake tags, why he steals, why he cons, why he’s become the perfect escape artist.

Too bad it was all for nothing.

The bitterness gives Daniel bravery. Or maybe it’s just recklessness. He hasn’t got a lot to lose at this point. “Go fuck yourself. I know what kind of deals you feds make.”

Aristeus doesn’t so much as blink. “If you tell us everything about your job,” he says, “I’ll unlock that door and give you an hour.” He leans forward. “Exactly one hour before I report your escape.”

It’s a lie. It has to be. No fed would simply let Daniel walk out of here.

Carson makes a noise—it sounds like a curse has caught in his throat. “What—
no!
You don’t have that kind of authority—”

“Actually,” Aristeus says coldly, “I do.”

Carson’s heavy jaw bulges as he grinds his teeth. “The UAI can’t—” He is cut off by his partner, who seizes his arm and squeezes. It’s a silent warning.

The UAI woman, Morana, straightens. Her posture is deceptively loose and relaxed, but the facade is wasted on Daniel. A dauthus could take down these two in a matter of seconds.

Aristeus raises a palm to Morana, and she slouches back against the wall. “Do not tell me what the UAI can and cannot do,” Aristeus says. “We hold as much authority as the federal bureau.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Agent,” Carson says. The last word is tangled up with a bitter laugh. “You’ve got as much authority as the president gives you. He’s enamored with what you freaks can do for him.” Gervais moves to grab at Carson again, but Carson steps out of his reach. “The moment we get someone sane in office, you and your agency will be the first ones rounded up and—”

Aristeus turns on Carson and his words drop to a low hiss.
“Shut up.”
Something in his voice changes. Daniel hears it,
hears
it, the way normal people can’t. That voice is poison,
cold and creeping—a silent hand that reaches and chokes the voice out of Carson.

Carson’s mouth clamps shut and he staggers backward. Daniel can’t see Aristeus’s expression but it must be something to behold, because the look on Carson’s face is close to panic.

Together, Gervais and Carson take several more steps backward, until they are—literally—backed into a corner. Gervais moves in front of Carson, and there is nothing subtle about the way his hand rests on the gun at his belt.

Aristeus simply turns away, as if the two agents are no longer worthy of his attention. “Damn FBI,” he mutters.

Morana speaks up. “I think they’re cute,” she says, as if Gervais and Carson have gone deaf as well as mute.

“You would.” Aristeus hooks a finger through the knot of his tie and loosens it, trying to gather himself. He returns to the seat across from Daniel. “Now,” he says, “where were we?”

“You were making him a deal,” Morana says.

“Ah, right. The deal.” Aristeus folds his hand on the table. “Mr. Burkhart, I am not like those agents,” he nods to the corner, “who would lock you away until you rot. You’ve made them look incompetent. Of course, they’re part of the Adverse Effects Division, so they should be used to that sort of thing.”

Daniel smiles.

Aristeus continues, “To them, you’re just a criminal
eludere. They know what that means intellectually, of course, but they’ve never experienced adverse effects themselves. That’s why you were able to escape. As much as the FBI thinks they can deal with our kind, they can’t.”

“Our kind?” Daniel scoffs, but it’s a bluff. If this Aristeus is with the UAI, it’s certain. He’s immune, too.

Aristeus looks as if he knows what Daniel is thinking. “We’re all equals here. We’re all on the same side. Please.” He leans forward, his expression surprisingly earnest. His voice goes low, pleading,
reasonable
—that’s the word Daniel settles on. It’s disarming how
reasonable
this man is, with his dark eyes and youthful face. He’s not much older than Daniel—probably in his mid-twenties.

“You think I’m that naive?” Daniel says. “That I’m going to give up any leverage I have for a deal I know you won’t honor?”

Daniel catches the flicker of unhappiness in Aristeus’s eyes, and he barks out a laugh. He’s scored a hit. “Or maybe,” he says, “it’s you that’s naive. You think the government’s going to support you for long?” He nods in the direction of Gervais and Carson. “Those feds have it right. Us immune—we’re criminals. The only difference between you and me is that you’re willing to whore whatever talents you’ve got out to the people who’re trying to hunt us.”

Aristeus’s face shuts down. “I’m working to help people like us.”

Daniel gestures at the interrogation room and then at the places on his wrists where the handcuffs chafed. “Great job you’re doing.”

There are few lines that Daniel won’t cross. He’s conned innocents, stolen plenty of valuables, and even let blame be pinned on others. But he won’t betray people he cares about. Kit Copperfield and Ciere Giba are the closest thing he still has to family. If his choices come down to rotting in a cell or selling them out—he’ll choose the cell.

“You were right before.” Aristeus folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. “Legally, the UAI can’t touch you. We cannot conduct interrogations under the Allegiant Act. We are not military.” He inclines his head, as if conceding a point in a duel. “So, I won’t touch you. But here’s the rub—I don’t need to.” He shifts his attention to the dauthus in the corner. “Morana, would you mind watching the door? I would rather not have anyone walk in on this.”

Morana nods and steps outside. The lock clicks into place, and something about it makes Daniel shiver.

Aristeus’s voice rings out in a sharp command. “Look at me,” he says, and reflexively Daniel meets Aristeus’s eyes.

“You will not use your immunity,”
Aristeus says, and his voice is different. Softer and ice cold.

The world around Daniel goes silent.

It’s like he’s slipped underwater—he feels as if every sound
is muffled, muddied. He doesn’t realize what’s happened until Aristeus’s earlier words sink in: his immunity is gone.

It’s gone.

Just… gone.

This has never happened before. His senses have never failed him. They’ve always been there, whispering to him, telling him where the lock is weakest, which wire will start the car, the direction the security camera is facing. He’s been relying on his instincts for so long that having them taken away is crippling.

“It feels odd, doesn’t it?” Aristeus says. “It’s like your sense of smell. You never notice it until it’s gone.”

“W-what did you do to me?” Daniel says, and each word is carried on a shaky exhalation.

“Oh, that’s a parlor trick.” A smile lifts the corner of Aristeus’s mouth. “Want to see something much more interesting?” His voice takes on that tone again—cold and soft.
“Stop breathing.”

Daniel’s lungs freeze in mid-exhalation. His whole chest seizes up and he cannot draw breath. He tries—oh god, he tries. At first it’s just uncomfortable, a tightness around his throat and nose. But then his chest begins to burn. He needs to breathe. He chokes on the effort, wants to gag, but he can’t. He’s scrabbling at his own collar, trying to open something. There is a pounding in his head, nausea in his stomach. Under
normal circumstances, a person cannot hold his breath until unconsciousness. The body will not allow it. But these circumstances are anything but normal. Gray spots begin to dance at the edges of his vision. His fingers tingle like they’ve fallen asleep.

Then Aristeus says,
“Breathe.”

Daniel’s breath hitches in his throat, and he has trouble restarting his lungs. He cannot suck in enough air; he presses his fists to the table to keep himself upright while he pants.

Aristeus’s smile widens.

Daniel has heard of this. There have always been rumors, but Daniel thought of the most rare immunities the way people do about albinos—sure, they exist, but what are the odds of ever meeting one? Mentalists and illusionists are unusual enough, but even they are considered common next to… It takes Daniel a moment to remember the name.
Dominus.

The implications make Daniel reel. The US government has a dominus. This information has to be top secret. If other governments find out—if the Republic or the Union find out—who knows what it could trigger. That’s why the cameras are turned off. There can’t be a record of this.

The fact that Daniel has been allowed to see Aristeus, to understand what this man is… It means they have no intention of letting Daniel out of here. Not alive. Not carrying this knowledge. Which means, he realizes, that this is no simple
interrogation. If the UAI is desperate enough to unleash a dominus, it means they know exactly what Daniel was sent to steal. They know about his job.