With a shrug, I clicked the start button and watched the navigation respond by bringing up a map of what I imagined was my current location. Figuring that was my cue, I started in reverse. As I was pulling out of the garage, the navigation advised me to travel west on Myrtle Street, which I presumed was the street Bram lived on.
At the end of Bram’s street, the navigation was suddenly interrupted midstream when the air popped and fizzed around me. In the blink of an eye, I was deposited onto a freeway onramp, thankfully going in the proper direction. Obviously, I had to have just traveled through a portal.
“Take the 101 South for twenty-two miles,” the navigation said, without missing a beat.
“Okay,” I answered and stepped on the gas, more than aware I’d already lost too much time by adjusting the seat and mirrors, as well as screwing around with the navigation.
The stars twinkled at me from the safety of the sky while I remembered being in High Prison in the Netherworld with Knight. More specifically, I recalled how I’d nearly been raped by one of the two guards. Cyclops, the guard in question, was incredibly determined, not to mention strong. Just when I thought my fight was at an end, Bram intervened. But that wasn’t the part that was causing my disquiet. It was the expression of the guards upon seeing Bram, how they’d both appeared to recognize him, even if they were also surprised to see him. At the time, I didn’t understand how either could have recognized him, since I was still under the mistaken assumption that Bram hadn’t been to the Netherworld in over one hundred years. But now the puzzle pieces were finally falling into place. No doubt, the guards recognized Bram because they’d dealt with him while in the employ of my father.
Well, shit, for all I knew, the guards could have been working for Bram! Furthermore, just how close was Bram to my father? Did Bram work for Melchior? Or were they partners, just as before, over one hundred years earlier? How much clout did Bram carry in the Netherworld?
“Take the next exit and then turn right,” the navigation announced. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was in the way before crossing the two lanes and finally veering onto the off-ramp. At the stop sign, I made my right and then another “pop” and “click” in the air signaled my crossing through another portal.
“Drive five hundred feet and your destination will be ahead on the left,” the navigation said as I hit the brakes, not wanting my arrival to be so obvious. Looking around myself, I found I was on another empty street, this one residential. Checking the clock on the dash, it was five minutes to midnight. I pulled the Porsche over and parked as I glanced down the street again and wondered how in the hell I was going to locate Culligan’s when I didn’t even have an address for it. Referring to the navigation screen, I noticed there wasn’t an address listed there either. Great, just great.
Remembering Bram telling me to disguise myself, I shook my hand until a mound of fairy dust appeared. Then I dumped the dust over myself, imagining my long hair suddenly short and black, with thick bangs to frame my face. Looking down at my outfit, I pictured a long-sleeved, black T-shirt and black jeans. Then, figuring I might need them, I pictured twin daggers strapped to the tops of each of my thighs. When I felt the cold metal against my skin, I grinned. Sometimes it was damned good to be a fairy. Yes, I could have tried for an Op 6 or 7 handgun, but I wasn’t convinced of my magic ability when it came to more complicated weapons. With one last look at myself in the mirror, I hoped no one would recognize me as I started for the door. Then, thinking longer on it, I imagined a ball cap, for good measure.
I secured the hat on my head and left the keys in the ignition since you never know when you’re going to need a quick getaway. Then I closed the door behind me and started down the street, checking the street numbers, while still trying to figure out where I was supposed to go. There was no one anywhere to be seen, which was good because the last thing I wanted was to be noticed or recognized. After passing the second house from where I’d parked the Porsche, I decided I was taking too big a chance by being out in the open and moved to the rear of the house.
My feet were nearly silent on the wet grass although I did come close to slipping. Hoisting myself against the rough stucco of the house, I peered around the corner and noticed a small graveyard right in front of me. It was adjacent to the house and at the end of the cul-de-sac. The graveyard was maybe twelve feet wide by fourteen feet long, and enclosed by a decrepit iron fence. There were maybe a dozen tombstones, all cracking with age.
At the sound of voices, I hung back in the shadows and watched two people walking into the graveyard to meet a third, who’d already been standing there. All three wore long, black cloaks that dragged in the dirt, their faces obscured by their hoods. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought they were a trio of monks.
Eyeing the entry to the graveyard, I noticed the wrought-iron fence stretched maybe ten feet high above the double iron gates at the entrance. It looked like cursive writing in the curlicues of the ironwork. Even though it was written in reverse, I could make out the name “Culligan” on the gate. So I was in the right place. Well, right place or not, I needed to get much closer, but I couldn’t find anything to hide behind. After watching a fourth hooded figure enter the graveyard and join the other three waiting at the rear, I realized time was slipping through my fingers.
I shook my palm until I felt my dust, then as I dumped the particles over my head, I imagined myself shrinking to the size of a pixie (or a baby carrot) and sprouting wings in the process. I suddenly felt light-headed as my magic did its job and transformed me into Thumbelina. I felt my wings catching on my shirt, so I simply imagined the shirt ripping in order to allow for them, and the fabric complied.
Once I was Mini-Me, I tried flapping my wings and felt myself lifting into the air before fluttering to a nearby tree branch. I was still too far away from what now appeared to be giants in the center of the graveyard, so I flew to the iron fence post closest to me, concealed in the shadows. Still not able to eavesdrop adequately, I took a deep breath (flying was damned hard exercise!) and fluttered to a tombstone. Not wanting to call attention to myself, even in my mini form, I drifted down to the base of the stone and hid behind it. Poking my head out, I could still see the goings on of the four cloaked people who were now only twelve feet from me.
“Mr. S, I presume?” one of the cloaked beings began. He reached out his hand to the other man, who refused to take it.
“Yes,” came Bram’s succinct reply. Hmm, he must have been Mr. S. Why? I had no clue, but I prepared myself for quite a few rude awakenings where Bram’s history was concerned.
“Thanks for comin’,” the other man responded. I didn’t recognize his voice. It was deep and sounded like he had a mild lisp.
“Where is O’Neil?” Bram asked. It was Bram’s voice like I’d never heard before—there was no trace of flirtation or levity. He was all seriousness—lethal and dangerous.
“He decided it wasn’t safe enough for him to come,” the man with the lisp responded. “He sent us instead.” He motioned to the taller of the two figures standing behind him.
Bram didn’t respond right away. I had the gut feeling that he wasn’t happy with this news because I guessed he was expecting my father.
“Is she with you?” Bram asked. I could tell by the way he inclined his head, that he was studying the smallest cloaked figure, who was standing just behind Mr. Lisp.
The taller figure, whom Mr. Lisp had referenced earlier, suddenly stepped forward. In the moonlight, I could only see the lower half of his face, his lips too narrow for his ample cheeks. I watched his mouth part into a smile, revealing uneven and yellowed teeth. He tugged the cloak of the smaller person who was beside him.
“She’s right here,” the man said in a raspy tone. It sounded like a voice subjected to too many years of cigarettes and alcohol.
The small woman in the cloak stumbled as she was tugged forward. The black cloak fell off her face, revealing long, dark hair and big, b
rown eyes that I would know anywhere. It was Christina.
Anger began gnawing at me.
Here she was, standing right in front of me, representing my father’s side. She’d lied to everyone! She’d somehow managed to maintain ties to my father even while she pretended to be completely invested in our cause.
Why? I had no clue. I just couldn’t understand how we’d never picked up on it, on something! As soon as the anger flared up inside of me, though, I focused on Christina’s face and felt my ire begin to subside.
Something was wrong with her. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like she was in a daze. Even though she was standing on solid ground, she kept wavering as if she were drunk, and staring straight ahead, but focusing on nothing. She looked as if she were sleepwalking.
“Since we’ve got her right here, we should just kill her and put an end to it,” the man who was standing closest to her said.
“You are a fool,” Bram responded. “She has much more value to us alive.”
I felt a sigh of relief hearing Bram’s words. I wasn’t sure what I could do if they tried to kill Christina right here and now. I’d definitely blow my cover, of that much, I was sure. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about it, at least not yet.
“There are many questions she can answer for us,” Bram said as he approached Christina. He held out his hand, taking hers. As soon as their skin touched, she faced him, her eyes still hollow and nearly lifeless. She stared up at him, with no sign of recognition in her deep brown eyes, just continued to study him as if she’d never seen him before.
“How was the Netherworld informed of a war between O’Neil and The Resistance?” Bram asked her, his voice soft.
Christina didn’t respond right away, but when she did, her voice was flat. “The Netherworlder Today,” she said. “I contacted them to run the article.” Her voice was almost unrecognizable. There was no inflection at all—it sounded robotic.
“Bitch!” the man closest to her yelled out as he held his hand up as if to strike her.
“Watch yourself!” Bram growled and the man dropped his hand, but the grimace on his face remained, the upper half still concealed by his hood.
“Why don’t you tell Mr. S what happened with the car explosion,” the man continued, obviously mocking her. “Why don’t you tell him how you can’t do one fucking thing right!”
At the mention of the Denali explosion, I felt myself stiffen. Was Christina responsible for it?
Christina didn’t shift her almost sightless eyes from Bram. She just continued to stand there, wavering, opening her mouth and answering in a monotone. “I obeyed my orders.”
Bram glanced at the man beside her. “Explain this explosion.” His lips were tight, and his posture even more rigid than usual.
“O’Neil told me to get rid of Vander. So I gave this little bitch the Maegon and told her exactly what to do with it. ‘Course the little idiot just fucked the whole thing up.”
Christina didn’t respond, but continued staring straight ahead. She seemed oblivious to everything going on around her.
“Why was I not informed of this?” Bram demanded, his voice suddenly furious. He frowned and his fangs lengthened, the moonlight reflecting against them.
The man shrugged but took a step back, holding his hands up in surrender. Apparently, he’d detected Bram’s fangs as well. I noticed the other man also taking a step back.
“Ask O’Neil. He tells me to shit an’ all I say is, ‘where, boss?’”
“This is between you and O’Neil,” the other man said. “We just follow orders.”
“I brought the fairy to you as you instructed,” Christina suddenly piped up, as though programmed to announce it. She didn’t address anyone, though, so I wasn’t sure who the statement was aimed at, although I imagined it must have been Bram. I also guessed she was talking about me.
“Very good,” Bram said with a nod as he offered Christina a slight smile.
“You got O’Neil’s daughter?” Mr. Lisp piped up.
“I do,” Bram answered. “And unless O’Neil prefers I drain her lovely, little body of all its blood, he better start playing by my rules.”
“I ain’t gettin’ in the middle o’ this,” Mr. Lisp responded. “All I was told ta do was get this bitch on the Blueliss, and tell her what the hell ta do with the Maegon. An’ that was it! The rest is between you and O’Neil.”
Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. Blueliss was an illegal narcotic, which I hadn’t seen nor heard of in the past five years, at least. I actually thought we’d wiped it out of existence, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. Blueliss was incredibly dangerous because it basically cleaned the user’s brain of all of her memories. Victims had no idea who they were, where they lived, whom they knew, nothing. The biggest kicker, though, was that whoever provided the potion to the victim could imprint his or her will upon the victim. The effects usually took about an hour or two to wear off, allowing the victims to return to being themselves again. Except they’d have no idea they’d ever been drugged in the first place.
So somehow, Melchior was able to track Christina down, but rather than killing her, he’d decided to turn her against herself. By forcing the Blueliss on her, he could also force her to tell him everything The Resistance was planning. As to the Denali explosion, even though Christina had been the one responsible for attempting to kill Knight and me, she’d been drugged into doing it and, furthermore, had no memory of it. And when she’d forced all of us to take the tests which would confirm or deny our loyalty to The Resistance, the only person she hadn’t tested had been herself, for obvious reasons.
I suddenly felt nauseous as I wondered how long my father had been using Christina as his puppet. It didn’t seem like Bram knew anything at all about The Netherworlder Today running Christina’s article. Maybe that meant she hadn’t been under my father’s influence for very long? Or maybe Bram just wasn’t as much in the know as he purported to be?
As to Bram being the mastermind responsible for keeping me under his roof, he must have thought it was the safest place for me to go, after realizing that Christina had become a well-planted bomb that could go off anytime. In bringing me to his home, Bram had been looking out for me, just like he promised he always would. But he’d also had another purpose—to provide me with the clues that would eventually lead me here, so that I could understand exactly what was going on.
“What the hell do you want us ta do with her now?” Mr. Lisp suddenly piped up, facing Bram.
Bram approached Christina and took her by the arm, pulling her closer to him. “Leave her with me. I will inform O’Neil of our subsequent steps.”
“You hopin’ for a threesome or what?” the other guy spat out, laughing. “Lucky bastard’s got O’Neil’s hot ass daughter an’ now this hot one. Maybe we should invite ourselves, Donahue.”
“You will not be invited,” Bram replied coolly.
Then he simply started forward, with Christina right beside him. I watched him walk through the gates of the cemetery to the sidewalk where a black limo suddenly pulled up. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I recognized the goblin driver. Bram seated Christina in the back before spotting the two men who still remained in the middle of the cemetery. He said nothing to them as he removed his hood and sat down before closing the door behind him. I watched the limo as it rolled down the street, and the red taillights disappeared into the darkness.
I wasn’t worried for Christina any longer. I knew Bram would keep her safe. Now, I had to worry about my own neck.
SIXTEEN
After my father’s stooges left the graveyard, I super-sized myself from Mini-Me and hurried back to Bram’s Porsche. Once inside, I magicked my hair from bobbed and black to its natural honey-gold. I knew I was back to myself as soon as I could feel the soft tendrils tickling my elbows. Then I turned on the engine, all the while figuring out a plan to move forward.
Shock still consumed me as I considered the fact that my father w
as aware of what was going on in The Resistance for Hades only knew how long. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t that long. The more I thought about it, though, the more convinced I was that my father couldn’t have known for very long. Why? Because I had to imagine he would’ve acted on whatever information he’d mind-picked from Christina much sooner than he had. For example, he never would’ve allowed the article in The Netherworlder Today to run if he’d known in advance such was her intention.
The other thing of which I was convinced was that my father would have waged an attack against us by now if he’d been in the know longer than I imagined he was. Really, with only a bit of choice information coerced from Christina, Melchior could have easily wiped out whatever threat Christina, Knight, and I might have posed, and basically shut down The Resistance, at least temporarily.
’Course, I guess, Melchior did try to off Knight and me with the detonation of the Denali; but considering how it failed, my father must have become more desperate to dispose of us. That meant things were probably about to get very ugly. Along those same lines, it would only be a matter of time before word got back to my father that Bram was AWOL and had taken Christina with him.
Recalling Bram’s warning not to return to his home because it wouldn’t be “safe,” I could only hope he would also follow his own advice. Knowing how smart Bram was, though, I figured he probably had a secret lair somewhere in which he and Christina could lay low. Either way, I couldn’t concern myself with Bram or Christina any longer. I had too much to worry about now where the entire future of The Resistance was concerned as well as The Netherworld and Melchior O’Neil.
And, yes, I was repulsed by how my father could so easily try to kill his own biological daughter without blinking an eye. But as soon as that feeling tried to rear its unwanted head, I silenced it. I refused, under any circumstances, to bemoan my father’s wish that I were dead because I wouldn’t so much as flutter an eyelash if the tables were turned. Just as much as he wanted me dead, I wanted him dead. Guess we did have something in common, after all.