Lies & Omens: A Shadows Inquiries Novel (19 page)

She slashed the flashlight beam across his face, and he didn’t even flinch, blind to the real world, blind to the darkness around him. On his eyes, the frost crackled, and he leaped at her. She reversed the flashlight, caught him solidly in the head, and he dropped.

“Didn’t shoot him,” she muttered. “Hope you’re happy, Riordan.”

The stairs beckoned, and she started down them, the temperature plummeting with every step she took, raising goose bumps on her flesh.

Her shoes whispered on the edges of the stairs, the soft sandpaper guides warning her when to step, but they also woke rhythmic echoes of the babbling panic from the two affected agents.
Not my teeth. Can’t take them. I’m falling. You pushed me.
Bizarre. Disquieting.

Oddly familiar.

She ran her tongue over her own teeth, tasted the scent of blood in the air, and paused. Imagined tipping over a cliff and falling.

Nightmares,
her little dark voice had said.

Not nightmares. The
creator
of them. Sylvie fished through her memory banks, overstuffed due to Alex’s nonstop researching.
The Mora.

She tasted the words on her lips, realized she’d said it aloud, and felt the icy vapor pour up the stairs toward her. With one careless moment, she’d betrayed her presence to the monster.

As Demalion had said: Nothing got someone’s attention like the sound of their name.

“DO YOU COME TO CHALLENGE ME?”

The Mora’s voice, without even a shred of humanity in
it, evoked the sound of a creaking door in a dark house, a footstep where none should be, the last breath of a man who had just stepped off a cliff. It made Sylvie’s steps falter; she tasted fear, felt sweat spring up along her hairline.

She kept her mind focused, one step at a time, following the remembered beam of light downward. The Mora waited below with the deadly patience of a high-ranking predator.

When Sylvie reached the lobby, black vapor swirled away from her like smoke in a draft and bared marble floors to her dark-adjusted eyes. A pathway, leading directly to the monster. “Why do you face me?” the Mora asked. “What makes you think you can?”

“I want answers.” She forced bravado into her voice, made it harsh and rough and
vital
. Everything this creature wasn’t.

“I have no answers for you,” the Mora said in her cracked-ice voice. “Only fears.”

Between one step and the next, the vapor rose over Sylvie and her flashlight like a cresting wave, and dropped her into a carousel of horrifying images. Sylvie’s parents dead. Demalion dead. Riordan gutting Zoe on a dissection table. Erinya devouring her whole. Nightmare imagery circling her like a swarm of stinging insects.

As if they were stinging insects, Sylvie swatted them away and kept moving forward. “I’ve looked into a Fury’s eyes. Your nightmares don’t compare to that. Tell me who sent you here.”

“Sent me? This is my city, my home. I traveled here in frightened men’s minds, coming across the sea. I thrive here, feeding my dreams into human minds, eating their last breaths as their hearts give out.

“Everyone is weak in their nightmares,” the Mora said. “Even you.”

More images, closer to home. Less death, more trauma. Failing her clients, failing Lupe, watching the city crumble about her, while she stood powerless, her gun emptied.

Sylvie took those nightmares and used them to hone her
purpose. She wouldn’t fail. Her sister depended on her. “But you’re not feeding. You’re making a statement. It’s not your statement. Whose is it?”

“For all our kind,” the Mora said. “To show your world that they would do well to remember us.” The words whispered around Sylvie, brushed her skin like the first warning tingle of frostbite.

“No argument from me,” Sylvie said. “But why now? From what I understand—”

“You understand nothing—”

“—there’s not a lot of sharing and caring in the
Magicus Mundi
. A sand wraith, succubus, mermaids. You all get the same bee in your bonnet at the same time? No. Someone’s guiding you.” Her mouth and throat were sore, as if some part of her was shrieking under the constant bombardment of nightmare imagery. It was getting harder and harder to keep the Mora in focus. If she blinked, the real world, already hazy and dark as dreams, was replaced by the Mora’s questing imagery. Trying to find Sylvie’s weaknesses, the things that made her sick and mindless with terror.

“You’ll never know,” the Mora said, and the black wave of nightmare slammed over her, shoving her back physically, knocking her to the floor, pouring itself down her throat, through her eyes, and took her into dream hell. “You’ll die alone in your dreams.”

Unlike the mermaids and their killing waves, which wanted to crush the life out of her, this dark undertow took her out of herself and dropped her into the Mora’s turbid, icy darkness. Took away all the images that she had been bombarded with, all the mundane horrors of losing family and friends, of her failures. Sucked into the Mora’s empty heart.

Alone.

Disarmed.

Naked.

Helpless.

Pain lanced through her joints—shoulders and knees and elbows and ankles—spears of dragging agony, and she
jerked her head against the weight, trying to see. Trying to assess the threat, even as she tried to scream. Dreamlike, her voice was sucked away. Fine golden cables, slicked with her blood, jutted out from her body in a familiar pattern.

God’s little marionette,
the Mora whispered, and flicked one of the cables. Sylvie’s body jerked in helpless reaction.

You can fight but only so far as he allows you to do. You’re prideful. Useless. A puppet.

No,
Sylvie said. Silence throttled her, brutalized her throat.

All alone. Eternally alone.

Sylvie shuddered; the cables hissed and sang with her trembling.

You’ll kill or outlive them all.

You’ll be alone, and when he starts speaking to you, you’ll be grateful, so grateful for a voice that you’ll be obedient. A perfect killing machine, mindless, falsely rebellious … a lonely puppet.

Voice,
Sylvie thought. There was already a voice in her head. One that never left her. One that even now swarmed up through her blood, through the dark backbrain in her mind, growling, flashing feral teeth. The cables pinning her shoulders snapped, lashed out into the darkness like striking snakes.

The Mora’s whispered torment stopped.

Sylvie felt her little dark voice, that bitter, angry piece of Lilith, clawing its way through her throat, bursting through that dream silence.

“The thing is,” Sylvie gasped, and her words birthed themselves physically, fell into her hands, each of them a gleaming silver bullet, “I’m not sure I’m alone in my head.”

A full clip of bullets, slammed into a gun created out of the dream-darkness, aimed unerringly at the darkest spot, the black-hole heart of the Mora. Sylvie pulled the trigger and filled the monster full of gun flare and silver light. The darkness spiderwebbed and dissolved like ink under bleach. The Mora shrieked, and Sylvie rolled to her feet,
slipping on the wet marble, rubbing blood away from her ears, the corners of her eyes.

The darkness in the bank lobby changed, tinted toward a more regular darkness, one being slowly thinned by the false dawn penetrating through the glass facade of the building.

The Mora was gone; only a black stain and cracked marble showed where she had stood. Sylvie crouched, touched the floor, her fingertips mapping holes where imaginary bullets had had real impacts.

Sylvie backtracked, found the flashlight and her gun, both dropped when the Mora had attacked her.

In the Mora’s absence, the building seemed racked with silence, that hush after a disaster. It wouldn’t last long, and in fact, as soon as Sylvie thought that, she heard screaming—not the desperate shouts she had heard earlier, men and women reeling under the Mora’s manipulation—but true horror. Sylvie wondered bleakly how many agents were coming back to themselves with spent clips and dead colleagues at their feet.

Sylvie hated the ISI but could still spare a brief spurt of sympathy for that type of awakening. Then a woman’s voice rose sharp and shrill over the rest, echoing through the open spaces, and Sylvie thought,
Zoe
.

Her sympathy fled.

Hallways stretched off the lobby, dark holes in the world, and Sylvie tried to orient herself. The cells were near the garage.
Which way is the garage?

Sylvie turned on the flashlight, wincing as it took out her dark-adapted eyes, hoped she wasn’t making herself a clear target, and chose a hallway.

Even with the flashlight’s beam, the hallways had dark edges. She juggled the gun and the flashlight, trying to keep the light far enough away from her body that a shooter couldn’t use it as a crosshairs.

Some part of her brain made a note: Buy tac light for gun. Too many of the things she hunted prowled the darkness.

Sound up ahead, almost animal. Rasping breaths, a low whine. Sounds that were entirely human. The rasp of fabric,
the scrabble of hands on a hard surface. At least one agent, more likely two, still fighting, trapped in the darkness.

Or one agent and Zoe, trying to tear each other’s throat out.

Sylvie hastened into the dark more quickly than was wise.

THE FLOOR BENEATH HER WAS HARD AND SLICK, GREASED WITH what she hoped was recent waxing, a spilled drink, anything but the lake of blood she imagined. If it were blood, she’d expect to smell it, strong as sun-warmed pennies, but with the Mora-induced fighting, the entire building stank of blood and desperation. This was just more of the same.

A sudden sharp gasp, a pained groan, and a man’s curse—Sylvie hastened her steps. She recognized that groan, that curse, breathless with effort and pain—
Demalion
.

God, she wanted lights!

For once, something in the world went her way. An angry mechanical grinding started, a motor revving up, then the emergency generator kicked in and set amber lights flickering throughout the building. Riordan had finally come through.

After the Mora’s darkness, it seemed as bright as sunlight and made her blink tears away. She found herself about to walk into a wall, thanked the lights for coming back at just the right moment, and made the hard jog to the right.

Demalion and an agent were a tangled knot half on the floor, half against the wall, both of them grimacing in pain. Demalion’s face showed a grim determination, while the agent’s showed confusion—coming out of the Mora’s spell, the realization there was no enemy. His grip slackened and Demalion lunged forward, head-butted him, and sent him to unconsciousness. Demalion rose, swayed dizzily, and said, “Bastard’s got a hard head.”

As if to prove it, the man started groaning and twitching again, fighting his way back to awareness. His gun holster
was empty, and Sylvie sought the gun first, just in case. She found it, unfired, full clip, beneath a narrow, decorative table. When she turned, she realized she was leaving bloody footprints on the pale marble. Guess it hadn’t been a spilled drink after all.

“Where’s Zoe?” Sylvie said. “I thought you were being held with her.”

“Yeah. Your sister’s not real big on keeping her mouth shut, is she? Riordan’s guys drag her in, and before I can even start thinking of a way to get her out, she starts bitching at me, calling me by name.”

“You were going to get her out?”

Demalion shot her an ugly look. “Jesus Christ, Sylvie. Of course I was. She might be a pain in the ass, and a witch wannabe, but she’s your sister, and more importantly? She hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“Where is she?” Sylvie repeated. She didn’t have time to apologize, didn’t have time to explore the warmth that bloomed—he was choosing her.

Of course, his cover’s been blown,
the little dark voice said, purveyor of all things cynical.
Choosing you is just sensible.

Sylvie stifled a wild giggle. Choosing her was many things. Sensible wasn’t one of them. No one sane threw his lot in with her.

“This way,” Demalion said. He paused. “Grab his legs, would you? We’ll throw him in a cell. See how he likes it.”