Illusive (8 page)

So she brings to mind the last memory of Kit as he showed them out the door that morning.
“Tell him that I’m sorry,”
Kit said, and there was something in his voice that Ciere had never heard before.
“Tell him I did it for his own good.”

Magnus jerks backward, out of her grasp. He turns away, but not before she sees the flash of hurt in his eyes. “Damn,” Magnus says. “Damn him.” He presses his thumb into the crease between his brows. He looks tired and limp, like all the emotion has been wrung out of him.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, and Bellevue nods. Together, they stride out of the graveyard and disappear around a corner, vanishing from sight. Devon remains sitting on the headstone, leaning over his own knees like they’re all he can depend on.

Ciere sits down, curling her legs beneath her. She can feel the grass on her bare skin, the prickle of a ladybug as it crawls over her ankle, and hear the whisper of wind through the overhanging branches. It’s an idyllic scene—a summer day in an old graveyard. She shivers.

They wait another hour before returning to the hotel parking lot for their car. There is no sign of the earlier chaos, but Ciere can still see the marks where the old man’s feet dragged.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Ciere says, just to say something.

It’s a quiet drive home.

W
hen Ciere was twelve, she robbed the Lyre residence.

The Lyres were the perfect mark. They were obscenely wealthy, and they’d just relocated from England “to pursue new business opportunities”—or so the press release had said. Kit’s contacts indicated that tax evasion might have played a role. So Mr. Lyre migrated across the Atlantic and took up residence in an elsec in Boston.

A week after the Lyres relocated, Kit and Ciere made their move. They slipped into the elsec under the guise of a gardener and his young niece. Nobody gave them a second glance, not when they were sweeping the sidewalks and pruning the hedges.

“Mr. Lyre is leaving,” Kit murmured, and Ciere glanced up from her broom. Sure enough, a tall, dark-skinned man was
climbing into a Bentley. He was followed by a slim, doe-eyed girl wearing a designer jacket.

“Is that all of them?” she said quietly.

Kit nodded. “My sources report seeing only his daughter. And they haven’t had time to settle in or hire maids yet.” He gave her a small smile. “You can do this.”

Ciere smiled back, grateful for the praise.

Her ability to conjure illusions had faded since her mother died. Ciere found that her illusions were like cobwebs—fragile, unable to hold any real weight. But Kit had her practicing regularly, trying to help her regain some of the talent she had lost. Standing beside their rented truck, Ciere used her immunity to draw the world in around her. She wasn’t invisible; it was more of a chameleon effect. Colors washed over her skin until she blended in with the greenery. When she crossed the street and darted over the picketed fence, no one noticed.

There was an unlocked window on the first floor. Honestly, these people were asking to be robbed, she thought. Ciere squirmed through the small space and found herself standing in a hallway. The decor was nearly nonexistent: bare gray walls, wooden floors, and very little furniture. Boxes were piled everywhere; it was obvious the Lyres hadn’t yet settled into their new home.

She began silently moving from room to room, trying to find anything that looked valuable. Most of the boxes had
labels like
GOOD DISHES
or
COMPUTER CORDS
. She paused for a moment next to a box labeled
SILVER
, but moved on. If she didn’t find anything better, she’d come back to it.

The master bedroom was tucked away in the northern corner of the house. Ciere knew it had to be the master bedroom, because the bed alone was bigger than Kit’s whole living room. And there was a safe resting in the open closet.

Jackpot.

Illusion still up, she crossed the room and studied the safe. She knew how to crack it. But that would take time and… and the safe was already open.

Hesitantly, her fingers found the knob and pulled. The safe’s door swung open, and she peered inside.

Empty. No stacks of money or expensive jewels. There was only a sheet of paper.

Curious, Ciere reached in and picked up the sheet. It had been clumsily folded over several times, and when she managed to pry the edges apart, she saw there were only a few words scrawled onto it.

A soft thud made Ciere whirl around.

A boy stood in the doorway. He looked about Ciere’s age, and he had the same clean good looks as Mr. Lyre—even
teeth, brown eyes, dark skin, and curly hair. The noise had been when he’d dropped a canvas bag onto the floor.

“Y-you’re…” he said.

She knew how this must look—a sheet of paper floating in the air. She wondered for the briefest second if she could pretend to be a ghost. Fear lanced through her, and she released the paper, turning to run. There was a window she might be able to squeeze out of—

“Wait,” the boy said, surging into the room. But it wasn’t the movement that stopped her. It was his voice, which was thick with tears and unexpectedly fragile. She froze.

“Please don’t go,” he said. “Please. I won’t hurt you.” He fumbled blindly ahead with one hand, and out of sheer luck he ended up grabbing Ciere’s shoulder. The moment he touched her skin, the illusion broke apart.

Ciere watched several emotions play out on his face: shock, fear, dawning comprehension, and then… elation?

“Hi,” he whispered.

This wasn’t what Ciere had expected. He should’ve been afraid of her; he should’ve been calling the police; he should’ve been doing anything but stare at her like she was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

Her own gaze darted around the room and landed on the canvas bag. The boy saw what she was staring at, and said, “This what you’re looking for?” He picked up the bag and held
it open. Inside were stacks and stacks of cash. More than Ciere had ever hoped for. No wonder the safe was empty; it had already been raided, by Lyre’s own son.

“You’re—” she said, her voice coming to a shuddering halt. “You’re—not supposed to be here.”

Kit had said the house was supposed to be empty.

“Yeah,” the boy said, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. “My dad keeps me hidden. At least until he can find a boarding school for me.

“You’re one of them, though, aren’t you?” he said, almost desperately. “One of those immune criminals?”

Unsure of what to say, Ciere nodded.

The boy smiled, and for the first time Ciere saw something of herself in him—a quiet yearning, a desperation that she felt when looking at whole families. He looked hungry, even though he probably had never experienced the empty gnaw of physical starvation.

The boy inhaled. “Take me with you. I can’t—I can’t say here.”

Shock made Ciere’s voice sharper than she intended. “I just met you,” she said incredulously.

He recoiled a few inches, realization settling over his face. “Yeah. Right. Sorry—I—It’s just, I’ve never met another…”

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be fighting some internal battle. Then he picked up the fallen sheet of paper
and drew a pen from his pocket. He scribbled on the back and crammed it into the bag.

“Take this,” he said, hurriedly shoving the canvas bag—cash and all—into her hands. “We don’t need it. Honestly, I don’t even know why my dad keeps so much cash around.”

She stared at him. He couldn’t be serious.

“My e-mail is inside,” he said. “It’s untraceable. Please—I won’t turn you in. I just… please. I can’t be the only person like this.”

She opened the bag after she’d clambered through the window and hidden herself behind a large tree. With unsteady hands, she touched the bundles of cash before her fingers alighted on the paper.

Sure enough, there was an e-mail address. And beneath it:

T
hat night Ciere dreams. Flashes of white-hot fire, the taste of ashes on her tongue, the rip-roar of automatic rifle fire, and a child’s wobbly voice repeating the same word over and over again. She jolts awake, half expecting to find herself barefoot and standing on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But she’s in her bed, in the Bolsover house, and she’s as safe as she’ll ever be. She wonders if it’s time to get up, if she can drown the nightmares—
memories, really
—in a cup of coffee.

Her digital clock says it’s four in the morning.

Ciere flops back onto her bed, eyes wandering to the spackled ceiling. Her throbbing heart begins to slow, and her limbs feel cold.

Her room hasn’t changed much, not since she and Kit first
moved here. It’s still patterned in pink-and-white wallpaper, with frilly curtains and a closet full of sundresses.

Ciere reaches out, flicks on a lamp, and picks up the business card sitting on her bedside table. It’s plain white with a single image embossed on it—a bird in flight, its wings stretching from one corner to the other. Centered are the words
BRANDT GUNTRAM
written in all caps and, underneath it, a phone number.

The Gyr Syndicate was responsible for the raid in DC. They tagged that man and then called the authorities. She’s heard horror stories of what mobs do to people who don’t pay debts. Mobs have been known to collect interest by taking fingers. And when they run out of digits, bodies start turning up.

But as gruesome as that sounds, what Guntram can do—what Ciere just witnessed—is scarier.

She’ll be hunted down like the valuable commodity she is. Taken into custody just like that man. Given a choice: recruitment or imprisonment. She could run, smash the bracelet and try to make a break for it. But all her emergency cash is stored overseas, and she doesn’t have time to arrange for safe—by which she means, illegal—travel to Europe. Her only course would be to take a commercial flight, but there are far too many mentalists working for the TSA. It would be the ultimate gamble.

Yesterday, when Ciere told Kit about the raid, he was less
than pleased. “I entrusted you with a simple task: recruit a freelancer. Apparently that was too difficult.”

“But why do we need a mentalist?” Ciere asked, honestly curious.

Kit grimaced. “When dealing with lawyers, you need someone who can tell what’s going through their twisty little minds.”

Ciere spent the rest of the day in the backyard, trying to teach her new dog to play fetch. Devon tried to help, but when his phone blared that
ding a ling ling, a ling ling ling
ringtone, he panicked. “Here,” he said, shoving the phone at her. “Answer it with an accent.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Your family knows you’re not in Norway.”

“They have no proof, and as long as they can pretend I’m pissing my way through some ski resort, they won’t come looking for me,” Devon said. “Now repeat after me: ‘
norsken min er dårlig
.’ ”

After a subdued dinner, they all went their separate ways. Ciere retreated to her own room, hoping an early bedtime would calm her nerves. Obviously, it didn’t work, because she’s staring at the ceiling at four in the morning, wondering how prison food would taste.

Ciere swings her legs over the side of her bed and scans her room. This house is large, with its three stories, six bedrooms,
and four baths. It’s a picture of what an elsec home should be—expensive, safe. It should make her feel secure.

It doesn’t.

Ciere isn’t the only one to have a bad night. When Devon comes downstairs for breakfast, Ciere nearly spits out her mouthful of coffee. Devon’s hair, previously curly and dark, is buzzed short in one, long strip. It looks like a reverse Mohawk.

“Wha—?” she begins to say, but is cut off by an incensed Devon relating the story of how he was attacked in the dead of night by a madman with a razor.

“It was seven in the morning,” Kit says. “Hardly the dead of night.”

“Oh,” Ciere says, relieved, “so Kit just tried to shave you. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

Devon gapes at her. “Please repeat that sentence and realize just how ridiculous you sound.”

Lizaveta sputters when she sees Devon’s half-buzzed hair and makes a concerned clucking noise. “Trust me,” Devon tells her, “this wasn’t a deliberate fashion statement.”

“Oh, calm down,” Ciere says.

Devon rounds on her. “Are you mad?”

“Kit’s, uh—I don’t know the word. Hazing?” Ciere explains. Her fingers wrap around her cup of coffee and she holds it close, savoring the warmth.

Devon’s brow furrows. “Indoctrinating?”

“Yeah, that sounds better. The whole hair-cutting thing is standard. Less chance of a hair being left at a scene, less chance someone could grab a fistful—that sort of thing.” She lifts a hand to her own hair—curly and blonde, it probably would be striking if she’d let it grow out. But it’s cropped short around her ears. “Kit cut my hair when I went out on my first job.”

Ciere remembers sitting in the wooden chair, facing the mirror, as Kit’s nimble fingers parted her wet hair. The cool steel of the scissors sent chills down her neck as he snip-snipped away at her curls. His hand brushed the stray hairs from her shoulders and nose, the touches light and quick.

Kit spends the day attached to his phone, making all sorts of calls. From what Ciere can tell, he’s trying to find a new mentalist. But like Devon said, mentalists are rare and valuable commodities. Known mentalists are either recruited by the government or various mobs. And inviting a mentalist with conflicting loyalties onto a job could be disastrous.

Ciere ghosts through the house, wandering in search of something to do. She ends up giving the dog a bath and brushing its matted fur.

“It’s male,” she says, sure this time.

Devon is eying his hair in the bathroom mirror. “You ever going to name the thing?”

Ciere yanks a knot of fur out of the brush and goes back
to work on the dog’s back. Luckily, he doesn’t seem bothered by all the fuss. He sits on Ciere’s lap, tongue lolling and eyes bright. “Tulip,” Ciere says.

“But you said he’s a bloke.” Devon’s brow wrinkles. “Why not take the final step and call him Pretty Flower Daisy? Might as well strip him of all masculinity while you’re at it.”

Ciere pats the dog’s head. “We need another tulip around here, because this little guy dug up all the tulip bulbs in Kit’s garden. Kit doesn’t know yet—I sort of shoved them all back in the ground.”

Devon eyes the dog with new fondness. “All right, then. We’re calling him the Great Tulip Destroyer. Tulip for short.”

A bell rings out, echoing through the hallway. A moment later Kit’s voice follows.

“Someone at the gate!” he calls.

Ciere shuts the bathroom door behind her—no sense in incurring Kit’s wrath by letting a wet Tulip loose on the antique furniture—and thuds down the stairs with Devon at her heels. When she drags the door open, her jaw goes slack.

Magnus Fugaré stands on the porch.

“Um, hi,” Ciere says. After their encounter, she was sure he would never join them. Yet here he is, duffel bag in hand. She tries to make sense of his arrival, but her brain seems to have short-circuited. “How’d you know where to find us?” is all she can come up with.

“Kit always did like ostentatious houses,” Magnus says.

“Well,” Devon says. “Thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Magnus’s lips thin out. “Circumstances change.”

Kit comes into the foyer, his phone still cradled between ear and shoulder, a folder in his hands. “Yes, I understand,” he is saying, until he catches sight of the three people standing in the doorway. The folder slips from his hand and the papers scatter. “I’ll call you back,” Kit says vaguely, and snaps the phone shut. Ciere has never seen him look so startled. It’s as if his usual mask has cracked open, giving her a glimpse of someone young and hopeful.

Magnus goes still. A shadow passes behind his eyes, and he sets his duffel bag on the floor.

“Magnus,” Kit says. His steps lengthen and he rushes to the door, a tentative smile breaking across his face.

And that is when Magnus’s gloved fist connects with Kit’s jaw. It happens so fast that Ciere’s eyes don’t register the movement—all she sees is Magnus’s arm draw backward, and then Kit is on the foyer floor, gingerly touching a spot on his jaw. Magnus doesn’t say a word. He picks up his bag and steps over Kit’s fallen form, his long strides carrying him into the house and out of sight. It takes Kit a second to recover. When he rises to his feet, Ciere cannot decipher the look on his face.

“Well,” Devon says, suddenly cheerful, “we have our mentalist. Let’s rob some lawyers.”