In the Shadow of Dragons (Aftermagic Book 1) Page 12

  But she couldn’t help her reaction. Yes, he’d saved her. By throwing around raw magic. That bothered her more than anything else, because she’d seen up close and personal the horrible, bloody mess caused by just blasting away with something you didn’t understand, couldn’t control.

  Maybe he hadn’t killed the gang leader — or missed and hit someone else — but he’d just gotten lucky. Magic never acted the same way twice.

  She’d finished her second drink standing by the small crowd around the dartboards, failing to engage a pair of men waiting for their turn to play in any conversation beyond whether the rusting mechanical bull on the other side of the room still worked. The answer was no, with an unspoken side of fuck off. Fresh out of conversation-starters, she headed for the bar at the back.

  There were three empty stools at the end of the line. Teague took the center one and set her glass on the bar. While she waited for the bartender, a fifty-something woman with hard eyes and a leather sap stuck in the waistband of her apron who called everyone ‘honey,’ she took another look around the place. The interior was all knotwood and rafters, the décor a combination of cheesy old Western and random Mardi Gras. Casual table seating in the center, dartboards and a warbling neon jukebox to her right, dead mechanical bull on a raised platform with the entrance to the restrooms on the left.

  And of course, the subdued and tight-lipped people of the Warrens.

  “Need a refill?”

  She flinched a little when the bartender spoke behind her. Another sour, mistrustful face prepared to offer only the bare minimal interaction. With an abrupt sigh, she pushed the empty glass a few inches. “I guess,” she said. “Forgot what I was drinking, though.”

  “You don’t look like you’ve had that many.” The bartender actually smiled. “What’s wrong, honey? Somebody in here giving you a hard time?”

  The small kindness filled her with relief, and she managed to smile back. “No. They’d have to actually talk to me to do that,” she said. “I’m kind of new here.”

  The bartender leaned forward and winked. “I kind of figured that.”

  “Obvious, right?”

  “Just a bit.” The woman collected the glass, stowed it beneath the bar with a rattling clink, and wiped the counter with a stained rag, all in one fluid motion. “Selby Block,” she said, propping an elbow on the bar to extend a hand. “You?”

  She took it. “Teague,” she said a little more breathlessly than she wanted. Her and Julian had discussed this, using her real first name and not giving a last name. No one knew her, and she’d get too flustered and arouse suspicious if she tried to answer to a fake name. Still, she half-expected the bartender to jump onto the counter, point at her and start screaming Knight! We’ve got a Knight in here!

  But Selby just smiled. “Isn’t that a pretty name,” she said. “Never heard it before.”

  “Thank you. Yours is, too.”

  “Well, Teague. Now you know somebody around here.” The bartender nodded and stepped back. “As for your drink—”

  “Hey, Selby!” a male voice bellowed from the other end of the bar. “That pitcher ain’t gonna pour itself, woman. Where’d you go?”

  Selby flashed a good-natured smirk. “Christ, Hank, hold your panties,” she hollered back. “I’m comin’.” She glanced at Teague, rapped her knuckles on the bar and pointed. “Tell you what. I’ll surprise you,” she said. “Back in a minute.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  When the bartender headed down the counter, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Having just one person talk to her and not recognize her name was a very small step in a long and complex line leading to the end of this mission, but at least it was a step. Maybe some of the people in here had seen Selby being friendly with her. Hopefully they’d treat her with a little less suspicion now.

  Before she could test that theory, a familiar figure in a dirty yellow coat popped loose from the crowd and headed in her direction.

  Goddard clambered onto the stool beside her, grinning his fangy grin. “I see you found the place all right,” he said. “How’s that medallion working out for ya?”

  She snorted. “It’s not. A bunch of guys tried to jump me on the way here, so, you know. Thanks for that.”

  “It works.” The hunched man drew himself up and managed to look indignant. “All my products are one hundred per-cent guaranteed, I tell you. Let’s see the thing.”

  “Forget it. Just keep the ten.” She really didn’t want to waste any more time with this guy. The charm-selling wacko with the grimy pink slippers wasn’t going to get her any closer to the Darkspawn, and she still had the strangest feeling he could read her somehow.

  But the man was dedicated to his delusions of real magic charms. “Come on, give it over,” he said. “It does what I said. Absolutely.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Fine,” she sighed, digging the medallion from her pocket to drop it on the bar with a ringing clank. “See? It doesn’t work. It’s not telling me you’re trouble.”

  “Me. Trouble.” He made a cheerful snuffling sound, then picked up the disc and peered at it for a few seconds. “Well, there you go,” he said. “You didn’t even prime the thing, did you? That’s your problem right there.”

  Prime? She had no idea what that meant. But she had a feeling if she said that, she’d mark herself as even more of an outsider than she already was. “Yeah, that must be it,” she said as she took the medallion back. “Thanks.”

  Goddard’s brow furrowed. Whatever he was going to say, it was interrupted when Selby came up and set a frosted glass tumbler half-filled with ice and amber liquid on the bar. “Jameson on the rocks, twist of lime,” the bartender said. “Goddard, are you bothering my friend Teague here?”

  “Course not,” he said in that same indignant tone. “I was just verifyin’ my merchandise. Taking care of my customers, like … Teague.” He turned toward her, smiling again. “Lemme buy you that drink?”

  “With my money? No, thanks.”

  Selby let out a booming laugh. “She’s onto you already. Better luck next time, Mister Smooth.”

  Just then, there was a minor commotion at the front door that escalated into shouts. Teague caught the tight expression on Selby’s face just before she looked toward the noise — and saw four BiCo patrol officers in riot gear pushing through the place, headed for the bar.

  “Oh no, they are not raiding my place,” Selby snarled, reaching under the counter.

  Somehow Teague knew the bartender was going for a weapon. At the same time, she understood this was a chance to ‘prove’ she was one of them — anti-BiCo rebel, Darkspawn material. But it seemed awfully damned convenient that the patrols, who never came into the Warrens without extreme pressure, would show up here, tonight.

  She stood, ready to go after the officers and take them on. And her phone buzzed in her pocket. Suspicion surged through her again as she took it out and read the text. From Julian.

  Change of plans. Patrol raid. Put up a fight, but let them arrest you.

  Goddamn it. Julian didn’t have to worry about the Darkspawn trying to kill him, because she was going to do it herself.

  She jammed the phone back and tossed a look at Selby. The butt of a shotgun was visible behind the bar. “Hey, I’ve got this,” she said to the older woman. “You’re right. Those assholes don’t belong in here.”

  Both Selby and Goddard gaped at her. She shrugged, gave a quick smile and headed for the officers.

  “There she is!” one of them shouted through a shifting gap in the crowd. “Take her down. Any means necessary.”

  Son of a bitch. Okay, now she was going to kill Julian twice.

  The fight didn’t last long, but Teague didn’t bother holding back. Four of them, one of her. Screw that. She had two on the ground, writhing in pain, and was close to dropping the third when the last one tackled her. Her head smacked the hard ground, momentarily stunning her, and the third one jolted her with a Taser before s
he could shake loose.

  He landed a savage kick to her side. She gasped, curled inward. Two more kicks robbed her completely of breath — and then he zapped her again.

  While she was still twitching, he leaned down, close to her ear. “How do you like that, you slutty little bitch?” he murmured. “I’ve got something else for you, too. Next time I see you, I’m breaking out the big guns.”

  A hand groped her, twisted. When she tried to bat it away, the sick bastard hammered a fist in her stomach. And whispered, in graphic detail, exactly what he planned to do to her when he got her alone.

  If she could move, she would have killed him on the spot. How the hell did a man like this get assigned to the patrols?

  Finally, he let go and stood. “You’re under arrest. Attempted murder and suspected terrorism,” he said, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. One of his buddies cuffed her hands behind her back, and she was hauled up and dragged through dead silence toward the door.

  She’d never been this furious in her life. No doubt Julian had reasons for pulling this stunt, but whatever they were, it wasn’t good enough.

  She would still save him. But she’d never forgive him for this.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Badlands

  August 9, 12:44 a.m.

  Noah lay on the sleeping pad in his room — really just a hole in the rock wall with a ladder to reach it, but he didn’t need a lot of space. As long as it was his. He’d hung a blanket over the opening, run an extension cord in, and furnished it with the pad and a small table where he kept candles, whatever book he was currently reading, and his phone.

  Not that the phone worked out here. Even if they got a signal, they couldn’t risk having any devices with tracking potential. He’d long since removed the SIM card and destroyed it. But the phone still had uses. Alarm clock, calculator, radio … photo album.

  A few candles flickered on the table beside him. He stared at the ceiling, knowing he should be asleep, unable to get there. He’d scheduled himself to take over the watch for Isaac at four. If he didn’t sleep, the next three hours until his watch started would be long ones.

  But his mind wouldn’t stop going over today. Failure after failure.

  The run into the city had been the cap on a long parade of bullshit. After the encounter with the Vultures and saving the rude girl who wouldn’t be saved, he’d spoken briefly with Goddard, who’d been heading up to the bar. No recruit candidates, no chatter on what Julian was planning. Then he’d only managed to get half the supplies they needed, and returned to camp to find Silas at Blake’s throat, ready to kill him for some crack he’d made about Indigo’s wings.

  Noah didn’t recall signing on to be the camp mediator.

  There was everything before that, too. Blake and Diesel arguing over his apparently useless vision. Peyton’s headaches, which were really starting to worry him. Indigo turning into a liability.

  And of course, his personal highlight of the day — being face-to-face with the man who’d killed his wife.

  No one wanted Julian Bishop dead more than Noah Delaney, former investment banker in charge of BiCo’s corporate accounts. And widower.

  They’d lived in what was now the city of Bishop, before the company’s organ-cloning empire got rolling, he and Helen. Back when it was just Bishop Pharmaceuticals. Noah had been on a first-name basis with Royce Bishop, so when his wife was diagnosed with Sjogren’s syndrome — an immune system disorder, developed in conjunction with the advance of the rheumatoid arthritis she already suffered from — Royce had been a sympathetic ear. In fact, he’d been more than sympathetic. He’d offered to bring Helen into clinical trials for a stronger form of the immunosuppressive methotrexate they were producing under a new brand name.

  At first the effects had been nothing short of miraculous. Her Sjogren’s symptoms cleared up, and even her arthritis improved, to the point where she had more pain-free days than not. But then she started developing new symptoms. Muscle cramps. Nausea. Swollen feet. Frequent urination.

  Turned out the treatments had led to drug-induced interstitial nephritis. Her kidneys were failing.

  Even now he remembered all the names of all the drugs, the endless procession of medical terms, the daily dialysis, the fear of waiting on a donor list and watching Helen die a little more every day. He would’ve gladly given his own kidney — hell, both of them — but they were incompatible. He’d actually wept at BiCo’s announcement when they successfully cloned a kidney. And he assumed Royce would help him out, make sure Helen was given a top spot on the recipient list. By this point her doctors had given her a matter of weeks to live without a transplant.

  But when he met with Royce, the man seemed like an entirely different person. Cold, indifferent, barely listening to anything he said. The success of his company must’ve gone to his head in a big, nasty way. He’d agreed to move Helen up — for a massive bribe. One that involved Noah emptying his checking and savings account, selling off his investment portfolio. Selling their home and moving to a singlewide trailer, where they faced increasing harassment from richer people to move out of the rapidly developing ‘Bishop community’. But he’d paid it, and she’d lived.

  At least until August 8, Year One. That was when his lovely, frail Helen suddenly transformed into a red-eyed slavering troll and ran out into the Eclipse, nearly killing him in the process. He’d gone after her, desperate to believe she would un-change, or at least calm down, when the sun came back. But she hadn’t. One minute of Eclipse, thirty minutes of chasing Helen through chaos and screams and blood, people and no-longer people, everyone attacking or shooting wildly at everything, cops and citizens alike.

  And out there in the streets, he’d watched Julian Bishop run a broadsword through her heart with no more emotion than skewering a hot dog to roast over a fire.

  In a sense, two Bishops had tried to kill his wife. One of them succeeded.

  He reached for his phone, hesitated, and pulled his arm back. He couldn’t look at Helen’s face tonight. Not when he’d been so close to her killer and failed on every level. He’d known they wouldn’t be able to kill the man, but he wanted to hurt him. Really hurt him. That didn’t happen.

  Now he couldn’t even be sure his vision would come to pass.

  Just as he decided to try closing his eyes and lay sleepless in the dark, the center of the blanket draped over his room started to glow a dirty yellow. He frowned, shifted to raise the edge.

  A small, misshapen yellow will-o’-wisp drifted inside and hovered above him.

  “What now?” he nearly groaned. He’d already talked to his informant tonight, and the man had nothing. He reached up and floated the orb on his palm. “Goddard.”

  At least his password made sense.

  The will-o’-wisp spun. It took longer for the message to load, since Goddard didn’t have access to the level of magic Jaeger Storm hoarded for himself. After two or three minutes, the orb spit out flickering beams of light that formed the hunched man in washed shades of gray.

  “Hey, Prophet. I found you a new one, and oh boy, can she fight. I pers’nally watched her take out two and a half patrols with no weapons. They arrested her for terrorism, ain’t that perfect? And I didn’t smell a whiff of HeMo on her. They brought her down the county jail. Send word if you want me to spring her and set up a meet-greet.”

  Noah frowned as the message ended abruptly and the image flickered out. She did sound like a good candidate, but Goddard hadn’t given a name. That meant no one knew her. Recruiting an unknown was always a risk.

  But they couldn’t exactly afford to be picky right now. Any enemy of BiCo, and all that.

  He shifted and sat up, preparing to reprogram the will-o’-wisp and send it back. He’d have Goddard bail her out — not spring her. They didn’t need the attention of a breakout, and Goddard Klein had money to spare. Even if he didn’t look like it. He’d send Sledge and Darby out to Five Cowboys tomorrow night to interview her, and if they were
satisfied, they could bring her to camp.

  Too bad he couldn’t count this as one bright spot in a shitty day. Technically, it was already tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 22

  Natrona County Jail; Casper, Wyoming

  August 9, 8:57 a.m.

  Teague didn’t want to wake up. She knew she’d already slept far longer than she should, and there was a reason she didn’t like. Something about last night. Involving Julian. She was close to conscious, and it sounded like there was someone shouting. Did she leave the TV on or something?

  “Last call. You want breakfast? Get the hell up.”

  She remembered. The voice was talking to her, because she was in jail.

  Julian had her arrested.

  “Fine. Starve then,” the voice said.

  “I’m up.” She forced her eyes open, sat up too fast and groaned. Everything ached. The patrol officers who brought her in hadn’t exactly been gentle, even after the brutal one with the nasty mouth had already subdued her. They’d used the Taser a few more times, and there might’ve been Mace at some point.

  Obviously, Julian hadn’t told them who she really was.

  There was a rattling sound. “Ten seconds until breakfast disappears.”

  She blinked toward the sound. A Natrona County sheriff stood at the door of the holding cell she had to herself at the moment, with a metal tray of food shoved halfway through a slot in the middle. “All right,” she mumbled. Pushing to her feet was a dizzying effort, walking a stiff exercise in pain. She’d no sooner grabbed the tray when the sheriff let go, and she almost dropped it.

  “This isn’t a restaurant, and I’m not your waiter,” he said.

  She declined to comment as she pulled the tray through. The sheriff snorted and walked away.

  By the time she walked back to the flat, stained bunk and sat down, some of the muzziness had started to clear. The anger that drove her through last night resurged. Whatever made Julian do this to her, she couldn’t even blame it on Carola. The woman wasn’t smart enough to think of something like this.