The Fire King Read online

  Ku-Ku slithered from the rear, coiling sinuously in the passenger seat like a pink snake tattooed with white cats. Graceful, flexible. No sign of knives or headphones. The girl braced her pink tennis shoes against the dashboard, and smacked her chewing gum. Robert peered around her at Soria.

  “Some advice,” he said, in Icelandic. “Don’t think about the arm so much.”

  It took a moment for Soria’s mind to translate, which meant that—unlike the other languages Robert had spoken earlier—he was not fluent in this one. Not that it mattered.

  “It’s none of your business,” she replied.

  “Not yet,” he said enigmatically—and Ku-Ku, with a knowing smile, slammed shut the door. Soria watched the Audi accelerate back into traffic, cutting off several other cars that braked hard, blaring their horns. She stood there until its taillights disappeared at the intersection, feeling a bit like an alien marooned in a strange world, and then shook herself, clenched her teeth, and stooped to pick up her belongings.

  The restaurants were the only public areas of the office building. No alleyway doors, no kitchen entrances. Concrete embedded with steel and lead sheeting lined the walls dividing the public from private, which was accessible only from one narrow street-side door lined with old-fashioned copper and leaded glass.

  Soria stepped inside the alcove and pulled free her key. Despite removing herself from the agency, it had never occurred to her to cut all ties. Certainly not this key. Which, now that she was standing here, told Soria a lot about how much she had missed the place and its people. Enough to drop everything and follow a stranger.

  This better be good, she thought, irritated at herself. Better be damn good.

  Soria jammed the key into a copper faceplate set in the stone blocks of the alcove, unlocking the small compartment. A keypad and biometrics scanner was inside. She pressed her thumb to the screen, and then typed in the six-digit code. The front door unlocked. She kicked through her carry-on bag, and shut everything tightly behind her.

  The lobby was quiet, the marble floors dark and shining. Only one elevator. Soria keyed in another code, and rode all the way up to the ninth floor.

  She heard screams before she reached the penthouse. A man’s voice cut straight through the elevator shaft into her bones. Doors opened. Soria ran into a warm foyer, across scuffed and battered oak floors. Screams continued to fill the air, and then cut off into abrupt, terrible silence. Soria hesitated, heart pounding—and then continued down the long hall, slower now, more careful, blinded by a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows through which the afternoon sun was shining. She glimpsed low tables sagging with books, and soft overstuffed sofas piled high with papers. Nothing she could use as a weapon.

  She entered the living room and immediately sensed movement on her left. A hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

  “Soria,” Roland growled, holding her steady as she stumbled. It had been a long time since she had heard his voice, and it cut through her, more painfully than she could have imagined. For a moment she could not look at him; she could just stare at his feet, in socks, with those familiar holes in the toes.

  But that hurt, too, and she forced her chin up, thinking, Brave girl. Be brave.

  Little had changed. Roland was still a big man, scruffy and unshaved, with a hard-knocks face and brown hair that needed a cut. But a year had deepened the lines in his brow, and his blue eyes squinted at her with weariness. He looked terrible.

  “So, you came,” he said gruffly, after a long moment of tense silence.

  “You asked,” she replied, pulling away. “Who did I hear dying?”

  Roland’s jaw tightened, and without a word he turned and walked across the room toward a flight of stairs that disappeared downward. Except for the first level, which was owned but not used by Dirk & Steele, all the floors of the building were part of the penthouse, but the only entrance was on the ninth. Soria jogged after him.

  For as long as she could remember, the eighth floor had been part of a massive kitchen and dining area, large enough to accommodate a small army of loud and messy eaters. But the dining tables and couches had been removed, and now a thick glass wall blocked off the entire right side of the room. Smooth polished concrete covered what had been a hardwood floor, and concrete blocks covered the walls and windows. Clothing had been tossed on the floor outside the glass.

  Inside, on the floor, curled a naked young man. All Soria could see was his long, lean back and dark hair, but she would have known him anywhere. The air around his body shimmered with heat.

  “Eddie,” Soria breathed, and might have fallen on her knees in front of the glass had Roland not grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the stairs.

  “Go,” he whispered roughly. “The kid’ll be embarrassed for you to see him like this.” Weak. Exposed. Helpless.

  Soria stumbled backward, staring through the glass at Eddie. She thought she must be losing her mind. Lights danced in her vision. Roland shoved her again, and she scrambled up the stairs.

  He joined her, moments later. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, staring out the tinted windows. Soria glimpsed the blue edge of the bay, but it meant nothing to her. All she could see was the young man behind the glass, and then her own reflection: long black hair framing an olive-toned face and brown serious eyes.

  “There was an accident,” Roland said quietly, his voice little more than a growl. “Happened in Africa. Kid got sick. Affected his control. Been like this for a little under six months. He’ll be fine for a while, then … fire. Fuckload of fire.”

  You should have called me, she almost said, before remembering that she had no telephone. “So you keep him in a cage?”

  Roland shot her an angry look. “He can come out whenever the hell he wants. Eddie knows when he’s losing it. That’s the only safe room in this goddamn place.”

  Soria closed her eyes. Her head ached, and a tingle ran down the ghost of her missing arm, a feeling so real and substantial she could almost believe, truly, that she was still whole. “If you’re not careful, Roland, he’ll never leave this building. He’ll become just like you.”

  Or me, she thought at him, knowing he could hear her thoughts if she wanted him to.

  Roland stiffened. “You know it’s different. A missing arm doesn’t kill people.”

  Soria turned on him, and shoved her finger hard against his chest. “Eddie is only twenty years old. You let him start down this road, and he’ll spend his entire life too afraid to do anything meaningful. You’ll kill him.”

  Roland grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard. “I didn’t bring you here for this.”

  “Well, you got it,” she snapped, trying to remain unmoved by the anger and grief in his eyes. “Do his mom and grandmother know?”

  “They think he’s overseas. He calls them every week. Writes postcards, and I have the others send them.” Roland released her slowly, almost wistfully; then he turned and threw himself down on the nearest couch, covering his eyes with one raw-knuckled hand. His stomach bulged slightly against his shirt. “He’s a good kid.”

  Soria forced herself to breathe. Eddie was more than good. He was sweet, a genuine golden heart. And, it just so happened, a pyrokinetic. Able to start fires with his mind.

  Dirk & Steele. To the public it was nothing but an elite, internationally respected detective agency—and that was the truth. But it was just one truth. Because the men and women who were part of the agency, Soria included, were not entirely human.

  Psychics, shape-shifters, creatures out of legend. The world was a strange place. Got stranger every day. Soria’s personal library was filled with books on evolution, mutation, mythology—anything that could shed light on the how and why of those differences that separated the men and women of the agency from other humans. Soria still had no answers. But being part of Dirk & Steele allowed its employees the most basic opportunities to hide and work in plain sight, to do good under the auspices and protection of a legitimate, respected organization
. Because even though almost no one in this world believed in magic—like, that a man could start fires with his mind, or read thoughts—such things were real, and did happen.

  And, it was good to be useful. It was good not to be alone. To have friends who knew the truth.

  We are family, she thought to herself, plucking at the wrist of her empty sleeve. One crazy, messed-up family.

  Soria looked up and found Roland watching her. Reading her mind, perhaps. Or not. He had some morals. Soft heart, rough exterior. Like a big grizzly bear. Boss of them all, even though he was not the ultimate last word at the agency. That was a privilege retained by its elderly founders.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice little more than a quiet rumble. “About everything. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

  “You wouldn’t leave this building to come to the hospital,” she reminded him.

  Roland’s gaze hardened. “That’s not why you left the agency.”

  Soria sat down on the couch, opposite him. “So why am I here now? Why did you send a stranger to track me down?”

  Below them, at the bottom of the stairs, she heard clicking sounds, glass rattling. Roland rubbed his face, grimacing. “There’s a situation. We … found someone. He doesn’t speak English, or anything else that’s comprehensible. In fact, we don’t even think his language exists anymore.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Cocky woman. Trust me, it’s possible.”

  She made a rude gesture. “In remote areas where native tongues are going extinct, outside influences are almost always to blame. But that does create some kind of universal commonality. Are you saying that this … person … has been so totally isolated that there’s nothing he understands? Not in any language?”

  “Yes,” Roland replied, covering his eyes again. “Fuck, yes.”

  Soria leaned backward, staring. “Is he a child?”

  Roland shook his head, still not looking at her. Uneasiness made her stomach ache, and she twisted her empty sleeve in her fist. “Then who is this man?”

  “We don’t know. But he’s not human. Not quite. And not being able to talk to him has limited some of what we can do. I need you to go and … speak his language. Evaluate whether he’s a danger to us.”

  “To the agency,” she asked slowly, “or everyone?”

  “Both,” Roland replied. “I wouldn’t have interrupted your new life if it wasn’t important. You’re the only one who can do this. The only one who can do it right. I promise … I promise it’ll be safe.”

  “I’m not worried about safe,” she muttered, still fussing with her sleeve. “I’m just not certain I want to do this anymore.”

  “Your mind works, doesn’t it?” he shot back. “You can still speak any language in the world, can’t you?”

  Soria gave him a sharp look. “That’s not the point. I killed a person. I murdered a man in cold blood.”

  Roland laughed bitterly, a familiar reaction that angered her now as much as it had a year ago. “Yeah. But he deserved it.”

  Chapter Two

  Death offered no respite from Karr’s nightmares, and resurrection was little better. Not that he had expected tranquility—not while alive, and certainly not while dead. Actions made echoes, from birth into eternity, and he had known very little peace in his life.

  Karr was in a small room. Not a tent, not a wagon. Four solid walls and stone beneath him. He had been here for a long time, and while he had no clear recollection of how he had arrived, the presence of a pure-blooded shape-shifter did not bode well. He had not yet seen her face, but he could smell her. Every time the door to the room opened, her scent lingered.

  Close. She was very close. Which only made Karr wonder why she had not yet cut his throat. It was no less than he expected. No less than what had been done to others of his kind. No less than what his own hands had done.

  A single white light burned overhead with an uncannily steady flame. It was not fire but something different, perhaps born of magic or some arcane tinkering, such as those fast-moving wagons. This was a new world, he had decided, and one he was ill prepared to confront. Though if shape-shifters were still declaring war on the chimeras, then some things had stayed the same.

  We must kill them first, Tau had told him often. We must destroy them.

  And Karr still remembered, so clearly, what he had always said in return. They fear us. For good reason. So we will kill, but we will not destroy. We will have mercy. We will not be like them.

  But he had, in the end. His worst fears had come true.

  And he was alive again. Despite his friends burying him, despite bleeding to death in the catacomb.

  The wound was fatal, Karr thought, feeling his side itch as it had, unmercifully, for what felt like days.

  He could not move to scratch himself, or to feel for a scar. He could not move at all, not one inch. Iron surrounded his body. His arms and legs were pinned in place by a series of cold, thick bars, and his hands and feet had been wrapped in a heavy cloth made of linked iron ribbons. An iron collar bound his throat to the stone floor he lay upon, and every time he breathed, his chest expanded against yet more cold metal.

  A soft sheet covered his loins, but nothing else. Sores were forming on his hips, but the pain was no worse than the boredom. There was very little to look at but the shining light and smooth stone walls. Nothing else was visible beyond the confines of the iron hood that had been placed over his head.

  Clever, thought Karr coldly, forcing himself to be careful as he breathed. A small hole had been left for his nose and mouth, but the hood was already moist from his sweat, and hot. He could shape-shift, but his body would be too large for the restraints—he’d be risking impalement or a crushed skull. He had been lucky in that wagon; wood and leather could be broken or snapped, and nothing had covered his face. Here, now, a full shift would surely kill him.

  Probably. Maybe. Death, apparently, was not so easy to come by. Karr wanted to know why.

  So, patience, he told himself. Waiting, in utter stillness, for just the right opportunity. Little different than hunting, really. Less painful than his other brief incarcerations before and during the war.

  But always, always, he felt the shape-shifter close by.

  That female. She stirred all kinds of unpleasant memories the longer he remained confined.

  Until finally, again, something changed.

  He had just been fed. Like a baby, fed, swallowing the mashed, tasteless food placed in his mouth, careful not to let any dribble past his lips because he knew his face would not be cleaned, his itches not scratched, his tears not wiped away when he slept, briefly, and dreamed.

  Karr heard the door open and a tingle rode over his skin. With it, a familiar scent. Shape-shifter.

  She moved slowly into the room. Quiet. He imagined the lashing of her tail, though he knew she walked on two feet. He could taste the feline in her scent, wild and musky.

  Something else, too. Sunlight. Heat. She had been outside recently, or near someone who had. The new scent tasted sweeter than water, and he drank it in with restrained, careful greed.

  The shape-shifter spoke to him. Her language was sly like her voice, and he understood none of her words. He did not need to. Karr found nothing reassuring in her tone, and when she finally stepped into view, allowing him to see her for the first time—and blocking out the light—her face was just as he had imagined: sharp and bony, and hard with a cold beauty that Karr suspected might frighten weaker men into instant obedience. Her hair was short and blonde, and a black patch covered one of her eyes. The other iris was golden but disfigured: the pupil was a slit, like a cat.

  Caught between skins in a bad shift. Karr had suffered several of those himself, but had healed, in time. Time healed all, he had been told.

  But not the heart, he thought. Nor that.

  The shape-shifter was not young … but not old, either. Well aged, Tau might have said. Karr watched her carefully, tensio
n finally pushing through his tight control. She reminded him too much of the old queens of the southern clans—unpredictable in their rage and disdain, and pleased to have a chimera as their slave and plaything.

  Her clothes were odd. That she wore anything at all was strange enough, but she was covered from neck to ankle in tight black cloth, the weave so fine it could hardly have been made by human fingers. Her feet were bare.

  She stood above him, and for one brief moment he saw raw flickering tension in her eyes. Fear. She hid it well, but he knew what to look for. He had seen it often enough in her kind.

  Her right hand flared with golden light. Spotted fur rippled over her skin, her fingers lengthening into claws. Razor sharp. She flexed each one of them, slowly. Watching him. Tension still twisting through her.

  Karr braced himself, but instead of attacking him she said another word. Somewhere on his left the door opened. He smelled that fresh scent again, stronger now, as though a slice of the sun and wind had been cut for him and braided into flesh. Human flesh. He could taste that, too, now. A woman.

  Her footsteps were slow but almost as light as the shape-shifter’s. Careful movements. Cautious. Or just curious. He had suffered idle eyes enough in his life. Anger curled through him, but he swallowed it down. Not yet. Now was not the moment to lose himself. He had done that in the wagon and failed to escape. Strategy was the key now. Strategy and deception.

  Karr’s gaze ticked sideways as the human woman finally entered his line of sight. The hole in the iron hood framed her face for him, as did two long black braids, frayed and unkempt. A similar rugged wildness was in her eyes, which only enhanced the delicate beauty of her features. High cheekbones, a small mouth, long throat.

  She wore a man’s clothes, as all the women did in this place: black leggings, skintight, and a long, shapeless tunic made of blazing white cloth. Around her neck hung loops of lapis chunks, resting heavily against her olive-toned skin, a color that marked her as a woman of the desert or sea.