Word and Breath (14 page)

He was in such a fond, foolish mood that he might have even kissed her. He actually leaned down, unable to resist the appeal of her sleepy face.

Then everything changed as she asked, her voice still thick with sleep, “Were you ever going to tell me you’re a Soul-Breather?”

Captain Largan found a seat at the back of the train, in a corner next to an overweight woman with shopping bags full of vegetables and French bread. He accidentally brushed against her thigh as he sat down, and she jerked away as if he’d made an unwanted advance.

He resisted rolling his eyes and squashed himself up against the corner to leave a half-inch of space in between them.

Even though he was late leaving work today, the train was as crowded as ever.

As he felt the train’s jerky acceleration, he closed his eyes against the florescent lights and tried to relax as much as he could. He had an earpiece so he could listen to the radio and he also had a newspaper—although it was full of images he’d already seen. He didn’t feel like doing any of those things.

He just wanted a little quiet, a few minutes when he didn’t have to think at all.

Sometimes, the ride to and from work were the only hours of the day when he could find peace.

Three years ago, Largan had given up his car. He’d loved his old truck, but it guzzled gas and contributed unnecessarily to pollution and city traffic. Public transportation in Newtown was excellent and relatively convenient. So he’d done the right thing and given the car up.

When he heard someone across the train car raise her voice, Largan opened his eyes in curiosity.

Nothing. Just a squabbling young couple who evidently didn’t mind if the entire world heard about their problems regarding the woman’s excessive shopping and the man’s insensitivity. Largan couldn’t remember the last time he’d argued with his wife like that. It seemed so immature and predictable he just shrugged and closed his eyes again.

He kept thinking about Riana Cole.

Things were not going the way he’d planned.

He needed certain information from her, and now she’d disappeared completely. He’d already spent a lot of the Union’s money on the project, hiring Mikel and doing his own background research. Now he’d have to spend even more—and he’d already heard from the General Director that the leaders in the capital were not at all pleased with the way his office had handled the situation.

He’d taken steps to make sure they weren’t blamed for the shooting. The last thing he wanted was for Riana Cole to die or disappear.

But he should have gotten farther by now. He should have already learned what her grandfather had taught her so they could proceed with the next steps.

Instead, they were scouring the neighborhoods for one lone woman who shouldn’t be so hard to find. He was being harassed by everyone from Smyde to the General Director of Union Security for not finding her fast enough.

All he’d ever wanted was to do something meaningful, and all he got were a lot of political hassles.

When his phone rang from his pocket, he groaned out loud, causing the woman beside him to tense up and scoot away from him as much as she could.

Largan ignored her and pulled out the phone. After glancing at the caller ID, he flipped it open.

He usually turned his phone off on the ride home—so he could enjoy his forty-five minutes of peace—but today wasn’t a normal day.

And he had to talk to the Deputy General Director of Union Security.

“Largan,” he said, hoping he wasn’t going to have to deal with yet another crisis.

“Any news?” the man barked, without greeting or ceremony.

“Nothing new. The search is in process. I’ll alert you as soon as we find her. And, as I told you earlier, there’s not much evidence from the scene of the shooting. Finding the culprit is going to take a little more time. What we really need is an informant.”

“Any ideas on how we can find one?”

“We’re working on it.” Largan let out a breath, forcing his impatience not to make its way into his tone.

“The Union can’t be held responsible for this. We need someone to blame.”

“We’ll have one. Just give us time to find the right one.” Largan paused, considering his next words. Then he figured he might as well risk them. “If you’re thinking about creating a scapegoat, I’d appreciate being kept in the loop.”

“We’re considering everything at the moment.”

Which wasn’t a real answer at all.

The Union powers-that-be were more than capable of blaming the shooting on an entirely innocent party, just to balance out political issues and appease the populace. But they’d rather find the real guilty party. At least, Largan was pretty sure that’s what they were after now. After almost forty years of working for the Union, he was pretty good at distinguishing between real pressure and posturing.

He was getting real pressure here.

“I’ll keep you informed,” Largan said, hoping the other man would recognize that as a concluding remark. He really wanted to get back to his thoughtless ride home.

“What’s going on in your city? You’re supposed to be in control of things there.”

“I have things under control. I can’t predict everything, though. There are rogue forces at work.”

“Rogue forces. Is that what you call them?’

“That’s what they are.” Largan took a conscious breath to keep his tone level. “My office was not responsible for the shooting. Obviously, we have nothing to gain and everything to lose from Riana Cole’s death. I informed you of her situation two days ago.”

“And the kidnapping of her sister? That’s another sloppy incident with no good explanation.”

Largan made a face, but his frustration wasn’t evident in his voice. “My office was not responsible for the kidnapping of the Cole girl. There are rogue forces who must know why we’re interested in the young woman. You know as well as I do that little is truly classified.”

The Deputy General Director had paused thoughtfully, and now he made a noise—as if he were truly thinking about these possibilities. Hopefully, he’d get distracted by them and leave Largan alone for a few minutes.

“What are your theories? Someone else is looking for the answers we want and so they kidnapped the sister as a play to get to Cole?”

“That would be my guess,” Largan responded. “It’s the only theory that makes any sense.”

“And the shooting?”

This one, Largan had been mulling over all afternoon, and he had an answer to it now. “One of the Zealots, perhaps. Or a loosely organized group of them. You know better than I do that they’re hiding under rocks throughout the Union. Perhaps they don’t want us—or anyone—to get the kinds of answers we seek.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that—but it makes sense. I’ll run it by the General Director. There’s that group on the west coast that blew up the Western Regional Archives last year—remember?—we lost years worth of texts. Do you think it could be that same group of Zealots?”

“Who knows? Them or someone similar. There are those who don’t want anyone alive who knows how to read the Old Language. If you add to that what Riana Cole might have learned from her grandfather, she might be target number one.”

“Find them. They must have informants in your office—if not Zealots themselves. Root them out. These kinds of extremists are as dangerous to the Union as the Underground is.”

Largan had no arguments with that. “As I said, we’re working on it. You’ll be the first to know when we find out anything.”

This time, he didn’t try to hide the finality in his words.

“We’ll be expecting news first thing in the morning. Don’t disappoint the General Director again.”

Largan rolled his eyes but gave the man a polite farewell before he hung up.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only official in the Union who used his brain and could see a larger picture beyond each narrow event. Zealots groups—particularly extremists opposed to reading—were always popping up. The core values of the Union could easily be perverted into fanaticism.

That kind of extremism—and the way it so often turned to violence—made Largan sick. There was too much value to be had in reading, in history, in preserving the past to let movements like that continue.

He wasn’t a Reader himself, but he knew better than anyone that the Union needed them.

They’d lost one this afternoon. A good one. One of the best. And Talon had known the Old Language as well.

They shouldn’t have lost him that way. Talon’s death was a blow to them all—despite, as Smyde had been quick to point out—his potentially treasonous tendencies.

They couldn’t afford to lose Riana Cole.

With a sigh, Largan flipped his phone open and called his assistant, but there had been no news in the last half-hour.

He tried to clear his mind for the rest of the ride home, but he wasn’t successful.

So, when he stepped onto the platform and trudged the mile to his row house in one of the suburbs of Newtown, he was exhausted and just as stressed as he’d been when he’d left work.

It wasn’t a good way to come home.

When he stepped into the entryway, the nurse was waiting for him. “Sorry I’m late,” he told her. “I’m sure you saw the news. I got here as soon as I could. How is she?”

“Not bad. She had a lot of pain this morning, but she’s been sleeping most of the afternoon.”

Which meant she’d probably be awake most of the evening. He thanked the nurse and closed the door as she left.

Then he went into the den which they’d turned into a bedroom last year after his wife was diagnosed.

His wife’s eyes were open, and she gave him a weak smile. They’d married forty years ago, before the Union had started strongly discouraging marriage. He loved her so much he might have married her anyway.

He smiled back and sank into the chair next to her bed. “You’re awake. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Of course you did. Your voice booms.” Her tone was teasing.

“I’ll work on that.”

Her shoulders shook and she huffed out some breathy laughter. “Hopeless case.” Then her face changed as she studied him. “You look tired.”

For some reason, the mild comment—the aching irony of her saying such a thing to him—made his throat hurt so much he couldn’t immediately speak.

Then he finally let out a long breath and admitted, “It’s been a long day.”

***

Riana wasn’t sure how she’d come to the realization.

It never would have occurred to her if she hadn’t met Tava and learned more about what Soul-Breathers could do. All evening, she’d been noticing hints and clues about Mikel’s true identity, and as she drifted to sleep she’d unconsciously put the pieces together in her mind.

She’d fallen asleep in much the same way she had the night before—with the most urgent of her anxieties being lifted away from her conscious mind.

It all made sense. The knowledge came to her with the weight of truth, instinctive and unshakeable.

It wasn’t a frightening truth or a horrifying one. It just was.

Mikel must be a Soul-Breather. It would explain why there had always been depths to him that were mysterious and unnamable. And perhaps why she’d grown attached to him so quickly—why she felt she’d known him much longer than she had.

So when she’d woken up to the feel of his presence and seen him standing across the room—handsome and quietly powerful, his startlingly black eyes soft as he watched her sleep—she hadn’t been afraid at all.

She’d just smiled at him groggily and said his name. Then saw the shift in his expression as he knelt beside her and touched her hair.

He might be a Soul-Breather, but he was fond of her. And she didn’t have anything to fear from him.

She knew it. On the edge of sleep and before her conscious mind could take over. She
knew
it. So she’d asked him the next question, genuinely expecting him to answer.

Instead, Mikel jerked—as if he’d just been struck—and stumbled to his feet without his typical ease and grace. “What?”

His reaction shoved Riana into full awareness. She sat up on the couch, wincing as her sore muscles and injured arm resisted the move. “You’re a Soul-Breather, aren’t you? I asked if you were going to tell me.”

There was no sense in backing down now, although Riana was already starting to regret the blunt question. Her soft sleepiness had entirely dispelled, and her stomach felt heavy.

Mikel just stared at her for a long minute, his hands clenched at his side and his face unreadable. She assumed he was thinking things through, trying to decide what to admit to her.

Finally, he let out a hoarse breath and lowered himself slowly into the straight chair next to the sofa. “How did you know?”

His matter-of-fact tone was a relief. At least he was telling her the truth. “I recognized what it felt like when you…you did whatever you did to help me sleep. The other Breather I met—I told you about her—did the same thing last night. And there were other things…” Her voice trailed off and she felt her cheeks reddening. How was she supposed to explain the kinds of feelings his presence had evoked in her? “Anyway,” she concluded lamely, “It just suddenly made sense to me.”