Dark Descendant

FIVE

Maggie brought the supplies she had promised. If I had been inclined to stick my head in the sand and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening, I might have been able to curl up on the cot in something resembling comfort and gotten some sleep. Of course, sleeping was the last thing on my mind; I kept thinking Anderson was going to come back to “question” me.

He never showed. Maybe Maggie convinced him that I was telling the truth. Or maybe he just thought the anticipation of pain would crack me faster than the pain itself.

Whatever the reason, no one came for me through the long hours of the night. For a while, I was treated to the comforting sound of Jamaal pounding on a door and yelling at the top of his lungs. Apparently, Anderson had locked him in one of these basement rooms, too, and he wasn’t shy about letting everyone know he was unhappy about it.

Every time I heard his voice, I found myself selfconsciously rubbing my throat, where I should have had bruises galore from his attempt to strangle me to death. I didn’t have a mirror, but as far as I could tell by touch, there wasn’t any bruising at all.

Of course, everything Maggie had told me had to be bullshit. Right? There was a perfectly rational explanation for everything that had happened tonight. Damned if I could figure out what it was, though.

Locked as I was in a room without windows, and wearing a broken watch, my internal clock was my only way to keep track of time. No matter how scared and freaked out I was, as the hours crept by, exhaustion sat more and more heavily on my shoulders. When the pillow started to look inviting, I forced myself to the sink and splashed some cold water on my face. It helped me feel more alert for all of about five seconds.

I never consciously made the decision to lie down and sleep, but when the door to my cell next cracked open, the sound of squealing hinges woke me up with a start. My heart instantly went on red alert, pounding adrenaline through my system. I leapt to my feet, wide awake. My side didn’t scream at me for the sudden movement, but I was too alarmed to be relieved.

Standing in the doorway, grinning as if my terror was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, was yet another one of Emmitt’s “cult members.” This one was Jack Gillespie, and he looked a bit like a transplanted surfer-dude. His curly, dark blond hair was streaked with lighter blond—an effect that was probably supposed to look like sun-bleaching, but was a little too even to be anything but man-made. His skin was a deep, skin-cancer tan, and in the handful of times I’d seen him, he’d always been wearing torn jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, despite the cold.

I shook off my fear and narrowed my eyes at him. “Has Anderson ordered you guys to take turns coming to see me, or what?” I asked. Unless there was another cultist I wasn’t aware of, I had now met all but one of the men Emmitt had had me “investigating.”

Jack’s grin didn’t falter. “If Anderson had ordered me to come down here and talk to you, I probably wouldn’t be here. I’m not too good with orders.”

I rubbed my eyes. Now that the first surge of adrenaline had faded, I remembered how utterly exhausted I was. I had no idea what time it was, or how long I’d been asleep, but I felt like I could sleep another six or eight hours, easy. I wasn’t in the mood for witty banter.

“Are you just here to stare at me like I’m an animal in a zoo, or is there something you want?”

He leaned casually against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over what his tight T-shirt advertised was a very nice chest. “I’ll go away if I’m interrupting your beauty sleep. But I thought you might sleep better in your own bed.”

My heart leapt at the thought, though my rational mind immediately proclaimed the suggestion too good to be true.

“So you’re letting me go?” I asked, making no attempt to mask my skepticism.

“I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to drive you home, seeing as what’s left of your car has been towed. And there’s not much in the way of public transportation out here even in the daytime.”

I examined his words for hidden nuances, but couldn’t find any. Still, there was something decidedly fishy going on. If Anderson had decided to release me, I was pretty sure I’d have been gone hours ago. Jack showing up here in what my body clock told me was the middle of the night or very early morning screamed of ulterior motives. Unfortunately, I had no idea what those motives could be.

“Why would you do that?” I asked suspiciously.

The grin came back full force. “Because it’ll make Jamaal shit bricks.” He rubbed the glyph on his forearm. “I’m of Loki’s line, so making trouble is in my blood. And Jamaal is the easiest target ever.”

I wasn’t much of an expert on mythology, but if memory served, Loki was a Norse trickster-god. But since I didn’t buy this whole descended-from-the-gods bullshit, I didn’t buy Jack’s explanation, either. Still, letting him drive me home sounded like an excellent idea.

“Real nice of you to pick on someone whose best friend just died,” I said, deciding that even if he was letting me go, I didn’t much like him.

“Isn’t it, though?” he responded, unperturbed.

“And you’re not worried about what Anderson will do when he finds out?” Maggie had seemed awfully sympathetic to me, but she had categorically refused to defy Anderson’s orders.

“Descendant of Loki, remember? We tend not to trouble ourselves about consequences. If I didn’t piss Anderson off at least once a week, I’d feel like a disgrace to my divine ancestor.”

I looked at him like he was crazy. Even crazier than the rest of the crazies here, that is.

He straightened up and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Hey, no skin off my teeth if you’d rather stay locked up down here. Make yourself comfortable. Anderson’s going to come talk to you in the morning, and I’m sure that’ll be just loads of fun.”

I felt myself pale on cue, a hard knot of fear twisting in my gut.

“I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” I told Jack hurriedly, hoping I didn’t look as scared as I felt. I’d never thought of myself as a shrinking violet, but I’d been scared so many times over the last few hours I might have to reassess my own toughness.

Jack nodded briskly. “I thought you’d come to see it my way.” He reached behind him to pick something up from the floor. He held it out to me, and I saw that it was my pocketbook.

At least, it had been a pocketbook once upon a time. The tan leather was soaked through, turning it almost chocolate brown, there was a slash all the way across the front, and one of the straps was gone. I took a moment to mourn the loss—I love my bags, and this one had been my favorite—then took the ruined pocketbook from Jack.

“I couldn’t get your car key out of the ignition,” he told me, “but I got the rest of the keys off the ring and put them in the inside zipper compartment.”

Numbly, I checked the pocket in question and was glad to see that my apartment keys had survived the crash. I was tempted to check the rest of the contents of the purse, but decided that might be rude, implying that Jack might have taken something. I didn’t know why he was helping me—if that was really what he was doing—but if he was going to take me home, I didn’t want to do anything to risk pissing him off.

“Ready to go?” he asked, stepping away from the door.

Way more than ready, I hurried out of the cell and into the hallway beyond.

Jack drove me home in a surprisingly bland black BMW. I’d have figured him for the red sports car kind of guy, but maybe he didn’t like to be predictable. Or maybe he was “borrowing” someone else’s car. I wouldn’t have put it past him.

The clock on the dashboard informed me it was four A.M. I fought a yawn. God, I was tired! My body felt ridiculously good, considering the abuse it had taken, but if I really was now possessed of supernatural healing ability—a fact that I was going to have trouble continuing to deny—I must have burned extra energy to do it. I could hardly hold my head up.

The streets of Arlington were deserted at that time of night, and Jack made good time into Bethesda. He seemed to consider the speed limit merely a suggestion. Same with red lights and stop signs. If I weren’t exhausted down to my bones, I might have been alarmed.

The good news was that we didn’t get stopped by cops, and that Jack was blessedly quiet for the whole ride. I wasn’t up to either an encounter with the police or another conversation that would make my head hurt. The bad news was that Jack never bothered to ask me where I lived. He drove straight to my apartment building, barely even looking at street signs.

The obvious conclusion was that even if he hadn’t taken anything from my pocketbook, he’d obviously looked in it. My driver’s license would conveniently provide my address, which made the fact that he was willing to let me go a little less surprising. As long as he knew where I lived, he—and his crazy friends—could get to me. The smirk he gave me as I dragged myself out of the car made me wish I had the energy—and the guts—to smack him.

“Be seeing you around,” he said with a wave just before I slammed my door closed. The smile and the twinkle in his eye failed to hide the warning behind the words.

Moments later, I was safe inside my own home and could have wept in relief. My body still cried out for sleep, but I didn’t have time for it. I had no illusions that the folks at Nutso Central were going to leave me alone, and that meant I had some preparations to make.

First, I had to get out of the apartment, much though it pained me to admit it. The feeling of safety that enveloped me when I stepped in the door was nothing but an illusion when Jack knew where I lived. He might or might not have been releasing me behind Anderson’s back, but either way, I knew he wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart. I also knew he wasn’t going to keep my address a secret.

I went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee—I was never going to stay awake otherwise—while I tried to figure out where to go. The light on my answering machine was blinking, and I hit it by reflex.

“Hey there, Nikki,” said Steph’s perky voice. “You know I hate it when you keep me in suspense. How’d it go tonight?”

I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. The Date from Hell seemed like it had happened in another lifetime. And any date Steph arranged for me came with a mandatory debriefing afterward, one that I could have done without in the best of times. In my current state of mind, I couldn’t bear to face it. The answering machine beeped, then moved on to the next message. Steph again. What a surprise.

“It’s midnight, and you haven’t called me back yet,” she scolded. “I promise to forgive you, but only if you’re not calling because you’re in the middle of some hot and heavy sex.”

I snorted, both at the ridiculousness of the idea of me having hot and heavy sex with Jim, and at the ridiculousness of my real reason for not having called.

“I wish,” I muttered.

I briefly considered going to stay with Steph for a while, just until I got things sorted out. Unlike me, she was willing to dip into her trust fund, and her house was more than big enough for the two of us. Not that my condo was a humble shack. My adoptive parents, the Glasses, had set up a trust fund for me at the same time they’d set up Steph’s. When I’d refused to touch it, they’d bought this condo and offered to rent it to me for a ridiculously small sum. I should have turned it down, but I’d fallen in love with the place. I assuaged my guilty conscience by paying them three times what they asked, although they didn’t need the money.

Mr. Glass had built a start-up company into a multinational corporation when he was young, and he had money to burn. I know it bothers him that I won’t use the trust fund—he’d grown up poor and always dreamed of giving his children a better life. But as much as I loved my adoptive family, I can’t help feeling like an interloper who doesn’t deserve a share of their wealth.

Frowning fiercely as I packed a small roll-aboard bag, I decided that although Steph had plenty of room, I didn’t dare stay at her place. It wouldn’t be hard for Anderson and crew to find her connection to me and to track me there. I didn’t want to put her in danger. Which meant I couldn’t stay at the Glasses’ house, either, even though they were away on a round the world cruise and I’d have had the place to myself. That left a hotel.

I took a long, hot shower before I left. Afterward, I stood naked in front of the foggy, full-length mirror. The wound was nothing but a faint red line. I couldn’t even find a bruise anywhere. I didn’t know whether to be thankful, or just freaked out.

Worse, the glyph was still there, despite my attempt to wash and exfoliate it away. Gone was my hope that it had all been a frighteningly realistic nightmare.

The sun was just beginning to rise when I cautiously set foot outside my apartment building, dragging the roll-aboard and carrying my laptop in a backpack. Along with the laptop, the backpack held my .38 Special and several boxes of ammo. I had never once needed to use it in my line of work, but I did sometimes have to venture into neighborhoods where I didn’t feel safe. Having a gun gave me a sense of security. I wasn’t a very good shot, and I wasn’t sure I’d actually be able to pull the trigger if I were pointing it at a human being, but it was comforting to know I had the option. Of course, since I was headed for D.C.—the better to lose myself in the crowds—carrying a handgun was risky. I had concealed carry permits for Maryland and Virginia, but there was no such thing available for a civilian in D.C. Still, given the mess I was in, I wasn’t leaving home without it.

I looked carefully up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone suspicious lurking around. I then headed for the closest Metro stop and took the train to Dupont Circle, where I took a room at the Holiday Inn. The fact that no one on the train or in the hotel gave me a second glance suggested that Maggie had been telling the truth and ordinary people couldn’t see the glyph. I refused to allow myself to speculate about which of the other outlandish things she’d said might be true.

As soon as it was late enough for businesses to open, I located the nearest shooting range—which, of course, was outside the D.C. city limits, making me thankful for our efficient public transportation. I had a feeling that with Anderson and his crazies potentially after me, I might need to use the gun whether I wanted to or not, and it wouldn’t hurt to try to upgrade my shooting ability from “poor” to “okay.”

I picked up a new cell phone to replace the one that was destroyed in the accident. Then I showed up at the shooting range by ten o’clock, my nerves taut with one hell of a caffeine buzz even while I found myself yawning every two point five seconds. There were three other people shooting—all men—and even through the earplugs, the sound of all those gunshots made me jumpy. Probably just the caffeine. Or the fact that the guy standing nearest to me was firing an assault rifle, which sounded rather like a cannon.

I figured with the exhaustion, the caffeine, and the way I jumped every time the assault rifle fired, I was going to have one of my worst shooting performances ever. I took aim at the target, taking a few slow, deep breaths in hopes that it would soothe my frazzled nerves. The guy with the cannon fired off a shot right as I was squeezing the trigger. My attempt to go Zen notwithstanding, my arms jerked as I jumped at the noise.

I almost laughed when I saw that my shot had hit the bull’s-eye. Maybe I should take target practice while exhausted and jumpy more often. I took another couple of deep breaths to dispel the remainder of the adrenaline, then fired again. This time, my hands were steady.

And I hit the bull’s-eye again.

Luck, I told myself. Even a bad shot had to hit the bull’s-eye occasionally. That I’d just done it two times in a row was nothing more than a freaky coincidence. I lowered the gun so I could roll my shoulders a little bit to work out the tension. Then I took my shooter’s stance again and squeezed the trigger.

I swallowed a yelp when I saw that for the third time, I’d hit the bull’s-eye. If two times in a row was a freaky coincidence, what was three times in a row?

I lowered the gun again, this time looking it over as though I might find some magical can’t-go-wrong gizmo had been attached while I wasn’t looking. Of course, there was nothing different about the gun. I couldn’t help remembering Maggie telling me that my glyph meant I was a descendant of Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt. Crazy talk, right? But if it was crazy talk, then it seemed like an awfully strange coincidence that suddenly I seemed to have become a sharpshooter.

Telling myself three bull’s-eyes in a row was statistically within the realm of possibility even for a lousy shot like me, I raised my shaking hands and took aim again.

I was considerably less surprised this time when I hit dead center.

I took about twenty shots after that, experimenting. I tried aiming at things other than the bull’s-eye. Being nowhere close to ambidextrous, I tried firing with my left hand. I even tried shooting with my eyes closed.

Whatever I aimed at, whatever crappy technique I used, I hit my target one hundred percent of the time, once and for all dismissing the statistical realm of possibility.

There was no more denying that I’d become a supernaturally good shot.

I headed back to the hotel in a daze, spaced out enough that I missed my stop on the Metro. I decided to walk the rest of the way, figuring the fresh air might do me good. I’m generally pretty good at denial, but the evidence was piling up too high. I might have been able to talk myself out of believing the things I’d seen the cultists do last night. They could have been tricks, after all, though who would go through such elaborate lengths to pull a trick like that on me? But it was much harder to explain away the glyph on my face, or the way my body had healed overnight, or the way I had suddenly become an expert marksman.

What am I talking about, “much harder”? It was impossible to explain away.

Much as I tried to convince myself that there had to be a rational explanation that didn’t involve woowoo, I failed. I didn’t know where that left me—except with an aching head and an urge to give in to hysteria—but I’d had to learn to accept some very unpalatable truths in my life, so I would eventually find a way to accept this one.

I was in too much of a stupor to pay attention to what was going on around me, so at first I didn’t notice the black Mercedes with the tinted windows that was pacing me. Even when the car behind it started honking indignantly, it barely registered on my conscious mind. Then, the Mercedes sped up a little, getting ahead of me and pulling into what would have been a parking space if it weren’t for the fire hydrant.

The Mercedes’s door opened and a man in an expensive charcoal gray suit got out. I froze in my tracks when I saw the stylized lightning-bolt glyph on the back of his hand.