Cheat the Grave (32 page)

His nostrils flared, but all he said was, “They're using you for your knowledge of the troop, and the tools you can provide in combating us.”

“I don't have any tools.”

“What about the defensive compound protecting them last night?” he said, expression dead and tight. “The one you're probably wearing now?”

Oh, yeah. That. “I have a right to protect myself, Warren. Besides, maybe I had some protectant in reserve.”

“I went to the warehouse, Joanna. It was unarmed, and your scent was all over it. Yours and
Tripp's
.”

He spat the man's name out like it'd gone bad in his mouth, and I lifted my chin. I wasn't going to talk to Warren about Tripp…a man he thought of as an enemy, but one who'd died saving me. The urge to pull out the quirley and blow venomous smoke in this man's face was almost overwhelming. I refrained, but only because I was expecting a far greater threat than Warren. “The defensive protectant is not an offensive weapon. Again, I have a right to my own defense.”

He shook his head in disgust, and I realized he was right; this was futile. Despite my ejection from the troop, Warren believed I'd betrayed him, and nothing was going to sway him from the belief.

I turned to walk away.

He raised his voice. “What I'm most concerned with is the other weapon you've so generously handed them. You.”

I turned slowly, disbelief oozing from every pore. “How do you figure?”

“You can still touch the conduits, Joanna. You shouldn't be able to, not as a mortal. And not as a rogue.”

“So how?”

Another look overtook his features, one both softer…and harder. “Come back into the troop, and we'll figure it out together.”

“
Now
you want me back?” Like being thrust underwater, I could see his mouth moving, but his voice was distorted, the words that unreal.

“I'm holding out an olive branch, Joanna,” he said, a tight smirk stretched over his weathered face. “You should take it.”

I laughed so loudly a small clump of wait staff turned to stare. “You've found another use for me. Is that it?”

“You're making a scene,” he said, jaw clenching so tightly I knew I was kicking off some potently bitter emotion. But I was just trying to figure out what about me would be so useful to him. I mentally ticked through everything he'd learned lately—the grays, their hideout at the
Test Site—but only one thing truly clicked as a matter of urgency. I laughed again. “Oh…I see. You know there's a child in Midheaven, and Hunter—a man you also discarded—is your link to that child. And I'm your link to him. Because we share the aureole.”

“You don't share the aureole,” he snapped so quickly I knew he wasn't entirely sure. “That's impossible with a mortal.”

I'd done a lot of things in the past year previously thought impossible. Pursing my lips, I watched him another few seconds. “And I suppose my return to the troop is conditioned upon telling you everything I know about the cell?”

“Of course.”

Wow.
I shook my head at the hubris. This man wanted it all his way. “Not going to play out that way, Warren.”

“Really?”

“Hell, no,” I snapped, so angry I was shaking. “I might not be an agent, you arrogant prick, but I'm human and I have my rights. Primary among them? Freedom. Choice.” I spat the words at him, remembering the ones Hunter had given me too. “The ability to create the world as I want it to be.”

He lunged, his nostrils flaring wide, and tugged on my arm. “Not this one.”

I jerked from his touch, but it was too late. A sharp pain pierced my palm, and he scored my hand all the way down to the newly printed tip of my middle finger, giving an especially hard yank. The print didn't come off as the blood welled, but my defensive protectant did.

“You wanna live by your own rules?” he said as the fine netting rippled, then dissipated. “Then you'll die by them too. Good-bye, Joanna.”

And he left me defenseless in an open-air venue I was sure Sleepy Mac would find before the ceremony was over. Holding my palm closed, I winced and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. I told myself the wound was so shallow it wouldn't make a difference. Not when it came
time to grab a weapon. I'd even almost convinced myself of it.

And that's when the Tulpa arrived.

 

He paused as he spotted me inside the entry of the pool area, then angled his wheelchair my way. You still have weapons, I thought, trying not to panic. But as the mechanical whirring of the Tulpa's chair grew closer, every aging conduit seemed so far away. It was impossible to be in this being's presence and not wish for protection—full-body armor would do nicely—and I wasn't the only one who felt that way. Even the mortals he passed straightened, then slumped, his power making them squirm without precisely knowing why. The instinct of prey caught under a predator's stare had been bred out of the mostly urban population, but it still flickered beneath the cool, sophisticated veneer, like a carp's tail catching the sun before diving lower.

If you were watching the scene from a distance—or, more likely these days, on a reality show—the knee-jerk flinch would be hard to understand. The Tulpa looked weaker than ever. He was confined to that chair, devoid of the power he'd exhibited in Xavier's office, and the first two fingers of his gloved left hand were unnaturally stiff.

Still, just like a cockroach, the menacing fucker just wouldn't die. Afraid of telegraphing my intent to stomp him in the very near future, I smiled like I was happy to see him.

“Olivia dear,” he said, holding out one gloved hand as he pulled to a stop before me. “I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. I read the news reports about the unfortunate events in your home last night. I hope you weren't too badly injured?”

“I—I bumped my head at some point, I think. I don't remember anything at all.” Lindy had no doubt already told him that, but his gaze still sharpened fractionally, and the softest mental probe whispered over me.

“But you're fine now?” he asked, all concern and sweetness beneath the soft, and hard, pulse.

I smiled. “Perfectly. Ready for a wedding!”

His brows winged down and his gaze narrowed on my palms. “Then why are you bleeding?”

He inched closer, nostrils flaring. My heart jumped as he reached again for my palm, and a quick glance up revealed Warren smiling smugly over the Tulpa's left shoulder. Agents, including the Tulpa, could scent out their enemies through blood, though they all had olfactory blind spots when it came to their own. I had the Tulpa's blood running in my veins, so I was safe. Thus, my nervousness curdled into bile. “Thorns,” I said, meeting the Tulpa's darkly inquisitive gaze. “The rose bouquets are enormous, and the florist accidentally left some of the thorns on mine, so I had to pull them off myself. See?” I made sure he got another good glimpse of my fingertips—printed, mortal, obviously harmless despite anything else he may or may not be smelling—and had the pleasure of watching Warren's face fall when the Tulpa released my palm.

“You should wash up quickly, my dear,” he said, angling his chair away. “The ceremony's about to begin.”

“Yes, but first…” But first I had an idea. Furrowing my brow, I let my gaze soften again as I stared into his eyes. It was easy to bring back the feeling I'd had last night in Xavier's office, and in the conference room when the board of directors had fallen so completely under his spell. I swayed, blinked slowly, and repeated his demand to tell him anything I remembered about “…the Serpent Bearer.”

His expression shifted, skin thinning over the sharp bone. Even his vocal cords tightened. “What about it?”

Another pulse of thought energy had me swaying for real, and I swallowed hard before flattening my voice into a liquid roll. “A man…he gave me the photo of that symbol. He was so strange, talking in riddles…”

“What exactly did he say?”

“I didn't understand…but he said he planted the treas
ure chest for me. The bachelorette party was his opportunity…” I frowned, like the thought was escaping me. My next words slurred. “Because I'm an Archer…Xavier's daughter, which makes me somehow special.” I tilted my head and let my gaze slide from his face.

The Tulpa squeezed my arm until I refocused. “What man, Olivia?”

Keeping my gaze liquid, I smiled softly, then pointed over his shoulder. “Why…him.”

The Tulpa whirled in his chair. Warren's eyes widened and he visibly jolted and started backing toward the exit, but they'd shut the glass doors leading back into the hotel to keep the photographers and gawkers out…and the rest of us in. Warren licked his lips, considering his options. He finally settled against a faux pillar lining the groom's side of the pool. As if on cue, the preceremony music swelled.

“Well, I guess it's time,” I said brightly, shaking my head as if coming out of a daydream. I smiled down at the Tulpa, who was overly still as he considered his own next move. I made it for him. “Oh, don't look so worried. I'm going to make sure you have the best seat in the house.”

And before he could object, I motioned to one of the attendants. “Center aisle, front row, closest to me,” I instructed, and while the Tulpa paused, what could he really say? I was smiling sweetly. Warren was in the same room, though he didn't know why. And as he was supposed to be Olivia Archer's advisor, appearances had to be upheld.

So he rolled away, and I headed back to the bridal chamber. This could all go very, very wrong. But the new seating arrangement would definitely keep the Zodiac leaders busy. Maybe, I thought as I headed back to the scrolled staircase, they'd be so busy watching each other that I would be a mere, and deadly, afterthought.

 

My foot had just struck the bottom stair when the gilt door opposite me opened to reveal Arun Brahma, looking handsome and rich and imposing in silhouette. He looked…
well, like a prince. Flanked by two bodyguards, one holding the door, the other at his back, he also looked nervous.

My mind winged back to all the home videos I'd seen of brides bursting into giggles and grooms falling into faints. If I had to put money on it, I'd bet the pot on Arun Brahma going down.

Maybe I'd get lucky, I thought, shooting him a smile, and he'd even do it before the vows.

Then a scream shattered my thoughts. It broke off as I whirled, turning into a series of thumps before ending in one hard crack. It took a moment for me to recognize Cher, half airborne, tumbling down the marble stairs like a helpless rag doll, but I was running before she even stopped.

“God. Cher, you okay?” I cradled her face as Suzanne wailed from the top of the staircase and began her dangerously hurried descent. She was covered in so much gold tulle it would be miraculous if she didn't join Cher in a crumpled heap. “Someone call an ambulance!”

“My arm…” Cher wailed, squeezing her eyes shut as she turned in to herself, hugging her right arm to her chest.

“You, back in your room,” I ordered Arun. He frowned, probably some aristocratic response to being accosted by a plebeian. “You're not supposed to see her,” I said, jerking my head at his bride, now crouched next to Cher, murmuring and stroking her stepdaughter's cheek.

Suzanne lifted her head, caught his eye, tears in her own. “Just go, Arun.”

He hesitated, his desire to be by her side apparent even despite the circumstances, before turning mutely. I inched closer to Cher, now rocking and wailing in sharp staccato breaths. We were beginning to draw a crowd, and I scanned the faces, worried about Mackie, but it was all hotel personnel and, moments later, medical staff.

“She fell down the stairs,” Suzanne was saying as we moved aside, her own sobs warring with Cher's for the limited airspace. “She was right next to me, but when I turned
to check my reflection one last time at the top of the stairs, she was gone.”

“No,” argued Cher, wincing. “I didn't fall! I was pushed.”

I stilled. “Pushed?”

Suzanne leaned closer, smoothing the hair back from Cher's beautiful, red, pained face. “Darlin', there was no one near us.”

“I know when I've been pushed, Mother!” Cher snapped. “I did not fall down those stairs.”

Then she moaned, leaning over herself, and the paramedic edged Suzanne back. We gazed at each other over Cher's head, before I broke to canvass the top of the staircase. Anyone could be up there. Just because Suzanne hadn't seen someone push Cher didn't mean it hadn't happened. Agents could cover the entire pool area in a blink. But to a mortal mind, one used to making sense only of that which they could see and touch and sense, there had to be some other explanation. Suzanne searched for one now.

“Maybe it was my dress,” she fretted, running her hands along the full skirt. “Maybe it pushed you with the force of its layered tulle, beads, and endless beauty.”

Cher's head shot up, eyes hot. “Or maybe it was the hands planted on my back!”

Suzanne began to weep openly. “Somebody tell Arun the wedding's off.”

“No!” Cher's anger evaporated as she lunged toward Suzanne, crying out when the movement jarred her broken arm. The attendants moved in closer, but she shooed them away. “You can't do that! You have to get married.”

“But my baby is injured.”

“No, Momma. I won't be responsible for ruining the happiest day of your life. So much planning went into it. And all these people are here—”

“All these people,” I interrupted, “will be happy to come back.”

But Cher wasn't hearing it. She grabbed Suzanne's arm, her face etched with pain, but her voice pleading. “Momma,
Arun is the love of your life. He is a prince. And I am going to call him Daddy. Please, please, don't call it off.”