Eye of the Storm (33 page)

"Have you heard from Wane?" I ask. I need her to talk to me. I'm not usually one for small talk, but silence is worse. I wish I could see inside her head.

"A couple days ago. They were still fine."

Eight words.
 

Even though I shouldn't be thinking about my relationship status right now, my brain kicks into overdrive. Maybe I was supposed to fight what she said, tell her it doesn't matter if the world ends, that we can still cling to each other. Maybe I was supposed to get emotional and cry and tell her I can't do without her.
 

But I'm not really without her, and nothing's really changed. We weren't together when we took that shower, and we're not together now.
 

I'm not sure I've ever been this confused.

The next two points go easily. The city's silence gnaws at me. I wish there were something I could do about it. I'd blast Skynyrd from a PA system if I needed to, but I don't think Sweet Home Alabama is something we need to be reminded of right now when there is no Alabama left.
 

We venture out farther from the eastern point, skirting closer to the ward line where again nothing has changed.
 

It's strange. Even though Mira and I are both wearing tension like a static field, I still know that if anything were to change, she'd have my back. No matter what, she's got my back. And I've got hers.

But nothing jumps out at us.

The southern and final point Gryfflet's coordinates point to is on the edge of Vanderbilt, close to the Summit and the refugee camps. We find it, dust it, and I tuck the baggie of bone dust back into my pocket, sending Gryfflet a text to let him know it's done.

I almost don't see the faces coming toward us until Mira nudges me and I look up from hitting send on my text.

Norms. A lot of them. Heading straight for us, and they're all armed.

Even though they should be armed — no one should be without swords right now — even Mira and I together are no match for fifty people with sharp blades.

I don't see Alison or Jocelyn among them, but I do see a couple vaguely familiar faces. One has a black and blue nose, and I recognize him on sight. Ray. The man we saved from harkasts in the roundabout in Music Row.

"Can we help you?" I ask. Then I murmur low enough for only Mira to hear, "Watch our six."

At the very least, we can outrun them if we're surrounded. Even carrying Mira, I could outrun an Olympic sprinter. I think.

"We're hearing rumors," says one of the women. She's a tall black woman with natural hair cropped close to her scalp. Her fingers dart to the hilt of her sword, and from the clumsy grip she has on it, she's not someone used to wielding it.
 

"There are a lot of those going around," I say, choosing my words carefully.

"They're saying that if you and the other half-demons die, we'll get our city back."

"Who is they, exactly?" I ask. I don't expect an answer.

Sure enough, the woman closes her mouth tight.
 

"If you chop off someone's hand, does it cure them of leukemia?" I look around at the group as I ask the question, trying to gauge the doubt in their faces. It works, a little. I see a few people — including Ray with his healing broken nose — shift their weight uncomfortably.

"Got a few trying to circle around behind us," Mira whispers to me, moving to stand in a stance most of these norms won't recognize as anything.
 

"Give me a second, then we'll run," I whisper back. I know the norms can see our mouths moving, but they won't be able to hear us. To them, I raise my voice. "We've got a witch at the Summit doing his best to figure out how to fix what's in the marrow instead of just chopping shit off to see if it works."

"They're going to track down those shades," a white woman in the crowd says. "They're going to kill them all and we'll be safe."

Apparently my cancer metaphor didn't quite work with that one. "Look, I'm not sure any of you quite understand what you're up against here. Except maybe Ray back there."
 

Okay, it's a dick move to publicly remind the guy I saved his ass from being eaten. But if I could go a day without the people I'm trying to save trying to make me dead, it would marginally improve the shittiness factor of my life.

Ray looks at me, considering. He doesn't look very threatening with the giant bruise in the middle of his schnozzle, but I remember him appreciating candor before.
 

I guess I'll try that tactic again. "Killing me might work. If you can track all the shades as well."

"Ayala," Mira hisses, and this time it's not about anyone crowding our six and trying to block our escape.

I ignore her. "But if it doesn't, then you've just eliminated a handful people who are each on their own a match for at least ten to twenty demons at once. That's a hefty chunk of a horde right there."

"No way you could fight that many at once," the white woman scoffs. A few men in the crowd snort as well.

I almost want to laugh. Then again, this summer three was a lot for me. Now thirty would be a correlative challenge.
 

"She can. I've seen her." To my surprise, Ray pipes up. That's all he says, but it's enough to make a couple of the norms slip through the crowd with looks over their shoulders at me and vanish off toward the camp again. It's kind of adorable, because when it comes to my abilities, Ray ain't seen nothin', but it seems to help.

With the group dwindling, a bit of the ire goes out of the group. Mira nudges me.
 

"Just think about it," I say. "Focus on the things that aren't going to stand around and have a chat with you."

With that, I poke Mira and the two of us break into a run at the same time, easily evading the norms as they close in on us. The ones trying to flank us are morphs, faster than the average witch or straight human, but we're both faster.
 

We don't stop until we reach the Summit, and even then, I feel like maybe we were safer surrounded by refugees.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Maybe it's the fact that everyone but the demons seem to want me dead, but I decide to drag a swivel chair out of one of the ground floor offices and plunk it right in the middle of the supply piles in the lobby and sit in it.
 

At least if someone attacks me here, it'll be on camera.

In point of fact, I wave at the cameras that surround the Summit lobby. The Mittens behind the front desk don't quite seem to know what to do with me sitting here, and I don't care. Mira hovers near me for a few minutes, but once she decides I'm safe-ish where I am, she tells me she's going to go visit Gryfflet and heads up the stairs.
 

Sal walks in the front door with a patrol group not long after I've settled in with a reading app on my phone, and I look up when she comes my way.

"Howdy," I tell her.

"You've got some serious guts," Sal says. I'm not sure that's a compliment.
 

She waves off the patrol group, most of whom look at me like I'm a skunk instead of a person as they make their ways upstairs.
 

"I'm sorry about Hardy," I say. Even though I know it's not my fault he died, he died guarding me. And I was just starting to like the guy.
 

Sal shrugs, but I know the gesture is just to avoid me seeing the sheen of tears in her eyes. "He was a brat kid who grew up to be a good Mediator. Some brat kids apparently grow up to be shit Mediators."

She says it loud enough that a couple people stacking supplies and reorganizing boxes look up, their expressions not quite in the realm of friendly.

Appearing to ponder, Sal looks around at the folks in the lobby, then down at the muddy symbol in the center of the floor.
 

"Some folks forget what that means," she mutters. "Damn shame, since it might lead to the rest of us dying."

She doesn't make any effort to lower her volume at that, either. I nod along, not sure if she just wants to vent or if she came over to me just to tell me I'm reckless. Pretty sure that's what she meant with the guts remark.

"Storme," she says. "There are plenty of Mediators what want you dead right now. I know you know that. But I'm sure as hell not one of them. And I think anyone who counts themself among that crowd has had their brains eaten away by markat venom."

"Thanks, Sal."

"This ain't a pep talk, Storme. Shut up. I'm not done."

I nod in lieu of the
yes, ma'am
.
 

"I think if any of these stupid coots end up killing you, it's gonna be the blood of the whole world on their hands when it ends, because I think you and your family might just be the only thing standing between us and that dark night." Sal kicks the marble floor, leaving a rubber scuff. "Bunch of ungrateful assholes. Weren't for you, we'd probably all be dead already."

"Thanks, Sal."

"Ain't nothing to thank me for, kid. I've trained a lot of Mediators in my day, and I'm ashamed to have trained some of the ones who're trying to do you in. We've got an enemy to fight, and it sure ain't you."

Maybe sitting in the middle of the lobby wasn't one of my better ideas, because I'm feeling the decided danger of tears.
 

When Sal saunters away a few minutes later, I start to feel like maybe I've opened up office hours in the Summit lobby, because Ben Wheedle is the next person to drop by my not-a-desk.

"Hey, Storme," he says.

"Ben."

"Thought you should know there are some refugees who've heard all the news around here and think you should be in the next incineration block."

"I sort of figured that out when Mira and I ran into a bunch of them." I look around. There are definitely people listening.

"You and Mira went out?"

"Better than sitting around here waiting for a sword in the back." I smile brightly at the Mediators in the lobby, most of whom suddenly look much busier.

"Did any of the norms get hurt?" Ben asks, looking concerned.
 

"We ran away."

"You what?"

I scowl. "I try to keep deaths to a minimum, especially when we're all on the chopping block together."

"I'm going to see if I can find out who started the chatter over at Vanderbilt."

"Thanks?"

Ben shifts his shoulders and won't meet my eyes. When he leaves, I sit in my chair watching the other Mediators in the lobby. I can tell I'm making them all uncomfortable. But in my defense, I don't have any way of knowing which ones want me dead. My grand plan of staying put lasts about two hours, and I finally decide to go up and join Gryfflet and Mira.

Mira's moved on by the time I get there, but Gryfflet looks happy to see me. He looks up from his work and everything.

"Thanks for doing what you did," he says. "It's going to help."

"What kinds of bones were they?" I ask. "Don't be coy this time."

"Mediator bones," he says. "And demon bones. One shade."

Well, I asked for that.

"Which shade?" My fingertips don't look dusty anymore, but I imagine that dust could have included Harkan's or Holden's bones, and I can't help the shudder.

Gryfflet blinks at me. "Don't worry. No one you knew."

That doesn't make me feel much better. I remember the shade who attacked me in a park, trying to get me to kill him when he was already almost dead at the claws of a jeeling. I wonder if it was him.

"What do the bones do?"
 

"They act as a focus, and using Mediators, shades, and demons, it should give me a better idea of what's going on with this imbalance."

"There's always been an imbalance though."

"I'm trying to find the source of that."

This time it's me who blinks. "The original source of the imbalance is demons," I say automatically. That's lesson one.
 

"Maybe."

My spine feels like it's been turned to sand. "You're saying you think it's not?"

"I'm saying that spell shouldn't have gone wonky at the end if it was."

"Gryfflet," I say. I don't know what other words should come after his name, though.
 

"I know."

For a while I just sit and watch him work. He doesn't seem to mind. He paws through stacks of papers and parchments and books — some big and dusty enough to qualify as tomes — and sometimes he scribbles on the walls. I'm not sure if anything he's doing is particularly witchy.

"Have you talked to Alamea about your suspicion?" I ask.
 

"No. And I won't until I know for sure." The way he says it makes the peach fuzz on my arms tingly.

I watch him again for a few minutes. "When you figure it out, make sure you tell a few people who aren't you or me."

He looks up from scrawling on the wall in red marker and slowly turns to face me, his eyes grave.
 

I know he knows exactly why I'm telling him that.