Lightning Blade (Ruby Callaway Book 1) Read online

  “The laws are better now,” Roark said, not taking the bait. His tone was almost apologetic. “It was anarchy, then.”

  “You were what, ten?” I didn’t bother to hide the bitterness. My eyes caught the highlights. Robbery. Homicide. Nothing about the setup. How I’d been essentially sold out for testing.

  Maybe I already was a lab rat. It’d been a while, though. Even Stevens got bored of the dark room when you didn’t break.

  “And the three left?” Roark nodded at the list sitting on the opposite end of the table.

  “Miles to go before I sleep,” I said.

  “My brother liked Robert Frost.” His sad eyes didn’t leave the video. “Never could get into it.”

  “Maybe it’s a generational thing.”

  He smiled wistfully. “You don’t strike me as the nostalgic type.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Like how you surprised Dewitt?” His expression didn’t change as his sad blue eyes bore deep into my soul. “Fucked her, killed her. Planned for who knows how long.”

  “When you say it like that, it makes me sound like a sociopath.”

  “Catching bad people requires doing bad things.” Roark walked back around to the other end of the room and placed his hands on the table, staring out at the mess of the digital data. “I’m sure you know I have bigger problems than a couple dead assholes.”

  “Why creatures of essence?” I stared at the booking report. “Feds have plenty of resources. Seems like a lot of trouble.”

  Roark snapped his fingers, bringing up a different file. This one was sparse, full of gaping informational holes. They didn’t even have a picture of the guy’s face—just flowing silver hair and a ski mask with a single, glowing eye peering out.

  Hello, necromancer.

  “Seven kills,” he said. “One a year, always on the same day.”

  The crime scene photos blurred by. I noted that there were videos, too. Killed on a live broadcast. A date blinked in the middle of the virtual files. June 7, 2039. Seeing it in writing made me realize just how much time had passed.

  Even if I’d aged barely a year, two decades was a long time.

  It also made me realize why Roark had decided to show up—or even take Stevens’s call.

  “Today’s the eighth anniversary,” I said, comparing the dates on the little folders. “And you’d prefer not to have a repeat performance.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “Must be desperate,” I said, trying to use a little leverage. “You assholes don’t even know my name.”

  “Your name is of far less use to me than what you are.” He made a circle in the air, flinging a holographic image of my bloodwork into the middle of the plain room. “And what you can do.”

  His sad blue eyes told me he knew what I was, even when the file did not. My mind screamed fuck. If I thought I’d been poked and prodded and tested before, I was in for a lifetime of servile misery when they all found out. I was likely the only Realmfarer left alive—and being unique wasn’t a good thing in this world.

  “So you know.”

  “Why do you think I answered that prick’s call?” For a brief moment, the dark strands overtook all the others above his head, strangling the light. It dissipated quickly, but I knew Roark better in that moment than I’d known anyone in a long time. “Had to call in a couple favors just to come here.”

  He tugged in the air, miming a puppeteer pulling strings. Like it’d been a pain in the ass just getting in the same room.

  That made me warm and fuzzy, feeling wanted.

  “Fresh air,” he said. “Amnesty.” With a shrug—eyes hinting at another, more vengeful benefit—he said, “Think about it.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  His hand flicked through the ether, bringing up an official government agreement. I watched as the wisps circled around it, practically enveloping the hologram.

  I ignored my intuition and said, “You don’t even know who I am.”

  “I know everything I need to,” Roark said with a quiet confidence.

  Reaching into nothingness to sign the form, I said, “What do you need me to do?”

  Roark watched as I signed my name on the virtual dotted line. “Isn’t it obvious, Ruby Callaway?”

  There was a long pause before he said, “I need help putting this son of a bitch in the ground.”

  Words from two hundred years past echoed in my mind as the completed form streamed into the data cube.

  You’re a hunter, Rebecca Callaway.

  A killer.

  3

  As far as I was concerned, Special Agent Colton Roark had found himself a mercenary. A simple transaction: freedom for a little help taking out the trash. Bury the necromancer, sign a couple more sheets of digital paper, and I’d be on my way.

  Of course, the feeling in my gut told me it wouldn’t be that simple.

  The personnel in the operations center stared on in stunned silence as I walked alongside Roark through the lobby. After seeing me woozily dragged up the stairs in cuffs only an hour before, it was clearly quite the shock. Creatures didn’t come waltzing down these corridors without restraints. If you were here, there was only one kind of interview being performed.

  An exit interview.

  I relished being the exception, giving them smug nods. Most turned away, although a few of the bolder ones deigned to glare back.

  Roark stopped at the front desk and rang the bell. I took in the structure as we waited: the tall ceiling, thirty feet high. The thick concrete columns lining the entrance that held everything up.

  A hunched elderly woman appeared from the back. Her eyes blinked behind thick spectacles.

  “Oh my,” she said, reading Roark’s badge. “Roark like the—”

  “Yes.” Roark’s sad blue eyes flashed with brief embarrassment. They had the dampeners turned up to max down in the lobby, so the wisps were dormant. Luckily for me, his expression told the story.

  The woman stood straighter, like she was in the presence of royalty. “It’s an honor to have the FBI come. You boys do such a good job keeping things safe out there.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” Roark replied with a charming smile. “I need help with Miss…my friend’s containment chip.”

  I appreciated the discretion.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “But you can help me?” Roark’s handsome jaw held the grin.

  “I certainly can.”

  “You invented them here,” Roark said. Jesus Christ, laying it on thick, buddy. “The chips.”

  “They’re going into wide release soon,” the gray-haired woman said. “Took the rest of them long enough to catch up.”

  “Government bureaucracy.” Roark leaned over, like he was sharing a secret. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to modify its parameters, then, would you?”

  The lady’s mouth almost dropped to the floor. “Modification?” She glanced at me as if I was some sort of filthy beast. “You mean…let her out?”

  “Not without my supervision, ma’am.” Roark winked, and the receptionist breathed an audible sigh of relief. Then she about had a heart attack when he added, “And I’ll need her personal effects as well.”

  “I—that’s never happened as long as I’ve worked here.”

  “She’s important, ma’am.”

  “I’ll have to check with Administrator Warren.”

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” Roark flashed a big smile and leaned against the faux-marble counter. Behind it, the woman tapped through a series of holograms, muttering about dangers and slippery slopes in between her frustrations about the “new system.”

  I scratched my gray, threadbare cotton sleeves, wondering what it would be like outside. But after being in here for two decades,
my imagination lacked the pieces necessary to extrapolate a reasonable future.

  I’d just have to wait and see. I wasn’t holding my breath for a friendly world.

  Call it a gut instinct.

  As the receptionist’s terminal buzzed, I looked out at the cavernous lobby. The metal and essence detectors were silent this late at night, one sleepy guard keeping non-diligent watch nearby. The US flag was etched into the granite floor next to the insignia for the Federal Supernatural Corrections System.

  That seemed like a misnomer. There were no corrections going on, only permanent internment. Indefinite, in government parlance.

  But then, wasn’t it at least a little refreshing that some things stayed the same?

  The rotating glass doors spun in a fury as Administrator Warren—who must not have slept, or had time for anything but jamming his boot up the ass of every supernatural creature in sight—stomped inside. His beady eyes latched on to me from afar, and he moved so fast that he left his cadre of accompanying guards halfway behind.

  I saw that Stevens was part of the contingent, hanging in the back with a smug look of satisfaction. Dust from the earlier raid trailed from his combat boots.

  Now I understood the kind of promotion he had in mind.

  “What is this travesty I’m hearing about?” Administrator Warren’s fat neck rippled as spittle rained down his tie.

  “I’m getting released,” I said cheerfully. “Fresh pass.”

  “This little bitch killed one of my best lieutenants.” Oh, Warren was as delightful as his friendly personnel. It was clear where they got their marching orders.

  “Seduced and killed,” I said, for the sake of accuracy. Not the right move, because Warren let out a guttural growl and stomped past, to the desk.

  “This one ain’t gettin’ out.” He barely glanced at Roark. “Request denied.”

  “Sir,” the old woman said in a small voice. “The system says you have to. It’s the FBI. Special request. From Colton Roark.”

  She leaned on the last name like it carried weight. Guess he was more of a hotshot than I thought. Apparently the FBI was as close to a god as they had in this brave new world. Hat tip to Roark for backing the winning horse and carving out a reputation for himself.

  “Call the damn governor.” Nonplussed and defiant, the administrator crossed his arms. Then he finally turned to face Roark, like he had him dead to rights. “And tell him to kick this piss ant off my base.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Roark extended his hand. “Colton Roark.”

  Warren didn’t acknowledge the greeting. His nostrils flared, like a bull being taunted by a matador.

  “You’ve been doing this for all of three months, and you think you can come in and steal from me?” Warren roared so loudly that he startled the rotund, sleepy guard across the lobby awake.

  “Four months, actually,” Roark said, putting his hand down with a shrug. “Or was it five?”

  “I’ll get your damn boss down here. You know what this place does?”

  “I’ve seen your work, Administrator.”

  “Oh yeah?” Warren’s eyes lit up in anticipation.

  “You catch more flies with honey.” Roark prodded him with a cool smile. “Or so I’ve heard. I’m new, you know.”

  Warren’s face turned beet red. “I’m not taking this shit from you.” He rapped loudly on the desk. “And you’re not taking one of my prisoners.”

  “Didn’t know I was property,” I said.

  “She’s whatever I say she is,” Warren said, jowls flapping with manic determination. No one escaped under his watch.

  I wasn’t going to be the first.

  “This release is happening, Administrator,” Roark said.

  “Like hell it is.” Warren slammed on the desk, and the receptionist jumped about a mile. “Get the goddamn governor!”

  The gray haired woman mumbled something, terror in her bespectacled eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you read, Mr. Warren.” Roark’s eyes narrowed, looking at the huge man without moving. “No, you’re a man of action.”

  “Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Section IIIA of the Supernatural Containment & Suppression Act.” Roark’s gaze didn’t leave the administrator’s face as he drove the stake through. “In times of great national crisis or domestic threat, the Federal Bureau of Investigation may, at its own discretion, utilize the resources of essence-based creatures in pursuit of justice, so as to benefit the greater good.”

  No small feat. The law said we couldn’t hold real jobs without a slew of permits and vaccinations that were so expensive they effectively barred us from work. And anything law enforcement related was strictly off limits. I had no idea how the necromancer qualified as a “domestic threat,” but the Bureau had to be shitting bricks to even consider releasing me into the wild.

  After twenty-one years of suck, I was due for a break.

  “Sir?” The old woman sounded like she’d swallowed a barrel of crickets. “I have Governor Cowden on the line.”

  “Transfer the call to my neural,” Warren said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Warren brought his fingers to his ear, having a one-sided conversation with himself. A lot of cut-off, yes, buts, and I understand that sirs. I gauged how badly he was getting his ass handed to him by the way his jowls bulged.

  Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and said in a strained tone, “You let one of these freaks out of the asylum, and pretty soon they’ll be running the place.”

  The governor screamed so loudly that Warren’s cochlear implant could be heard by all. “You know what goddamn day it is today, right?”

  “Sir—”

  “We have a fucking necromancer killing public officials and painting murals with their intestines, making them dance like reanimated puppets. The whole goddamn world is gonna be an asylum if we don’t try something different.”

  Administrator Warren winced, but still wasn’t ready to let things go. “But sir…”

  Governor Cowden’s response was less spirited, meaning none of us could hear it. But it seemed to get through, because Warren ended the call with, “Yes, right away sir. They’ll be on the road in five minutes.”

  He looked around at the group, flushing slightly when he realized everyone was staring. “Well goddamnit, just bring up the files.”

  With a flick of his sausage fingers, he signed his name. Shooting a glare toward Roark, he said, “Hundred percent clearance rate, huh wonderboy? I hope this little cunt ends your career.”

  “I’ll end yours, you keep talking to the lady like that.” Roark rested his hand on his holster.

  Warren slunk away, but stopped in the middle of the lobby to turn around. With a venomous growl he said, “I’ll be seeing you back here soon enough. I got a space in the dark room waiting.”

  I gave him a jovial wave, which pissed him off more. Inside, my stomach did a few belly flops. If I lived for a thousand more years, that would still be too soon to revisit the dark room. Roark had been right to call my flip bluff up in the interrogation room. Going back wasn’t an option. The dark room had been a staple of my early time here, as they’d tried to pry me open like a crowbar. I resisted less out of internal strength than spite.

  We waited two minutes before the old woman returned with my personal effects. “Her containment chip has been adjusted. You’ll be able to track her via your neural—”

  “All natural,” Roark said, holding up a thin phone.

  “Oh, there must be a lucky lady out there for you, young man.” She shot me a glance, like I would ruin Roark’s chances at holy matrimony forever by mere association. “This is one of the woman’s belongings.”

  With a grunt, she hoisted a single-barreled shotgun up onto the counter. She trundled into the back, muttering.
/>   Blinking, hardly able to believe my eyes, I reached out and touched the stock, faintly sensing the magical augments coursing through the heavily modified firearm. Its perfect craftsmanship still felt right against my fingers, even after more than two decades.

  I rubbed my thumb along the inscription, brushing away dust as I traced the letters that I knew by heart. The old woman returned, putting down a pewter compass, its dial spinning listlessly. Dozens of ancient symbols graced its face.

  Next to it she placed the clothes I’d been wearing when I entered. Oxford shirt, dark denim and ankle boots. All accounted for.

  I touched the fabric, then the aimless compass. The Realmpiece was as lost as I was. But perhaps not for long.

  Because today, I was getting to walk in the light again. With the mortals.

  At least for a little while.

  4

  I wasn’t allowed to drive. Neither of us were. Sometime in the intervening twenty years, it had become illegal—except under extenuating circumstances—to engage in what Roark called “manual navigation.” I remained unsure whether this was a mark of fascism or progress.

  “You clean up nicely.” Roark sat in the “driver’s” seat, in case his intervention would be required. We were going a buck thirty down terrible roads with no sign of slowing down.

  “That your game,” I said, staring at the landscape, drinking it in. “Trawling the jails for dates?”

  I heard a snort.

  I shifted in the leather seat, feeling fabric other than gray cotton rub against my skin for the first time in decades. They still fit after twenty years. Then again, a Realmfarer didn’t age like a human. And I had no desire to let myself go, considering I had a mission.

  “World’s a little different than when you went inside,” Roark said.

  I watched the world stream by, unsure how to respond. Time moves on. Someone who saw the steam engine replaced by the airplane understands the inexorable march of progress. But seeing a leap like that so fast and so suddenly, like someone had suddenly skipped a hundred pages in a book, was disconcerting.

  “The cities aren’t like this,” Roark said, as if to answer my unspoken question.