Illusive (11 page)

Ciere pulls herself into the car and slumps against her seat. Her fingers scrabble at the ski mask and she yanks it off, tossing it on the floor. Her freed skin is damp and cold, and she presses the back of her hand to one cheek, trying to rub some feeling into it. She’ll explain about the guard tomorrow, when things have settled down. The wires remain a cold lump in her pocket.

Ciere spends most of the drive staring out her window, fingers touching the cool glass as she watches the lights of other cars. The others’ chatter barely registers in her ears.

“You know, this actually wasn’t that different from the time I broke into the headmistress’s office at my third school,” says Devon. “Only that time, I had a friend give me a boost through the window.”

“And I’m sure you didn’t kick that friend in the groin,” says Kit.

“For the last time,” says Devon, “that was an accident.”

Magnus chuckles. “Count your blessings, Kit. I would’ve done it on purpose.”

Once they’re done bickering, Devon dictates the will’s words to Kit, whose nimble fingers sketch the will anew on
a fresh piece of paper. Magnus guides the SUV through back roads, avoiding the highway. Highways are too easily watched. Going through smaller neighborhoods and winding streets may take longer and use more gas, but there is less chance of being tailed. By now, the night is slowly creeping toward morning. Kit assures them that their contact, Frieda Fuller, will be awake at this hour.

It takes about half an hour to get to their destination. Magnus finds an empty parking lot beside a warehouse. Many of the lampposts are unlit, casting the entire area into darkness. Magnus parks the car underneath a couple of scraggly trees on the edge of the lot.

“We’re meeting Frieda Fuller in a park about half a mile away,” Kit says, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Too bad I left my hiking gear at home,” Devon says dryly.

“Don’t strain yourself. Magnus and I will go—you can stay and watch the car.” Kit pushes open the passenger-side door. The smell is the first thing that Ciere notices. It smells like the Fourth of July—fireworks and smoke. There’s the distant sound of something popping.

“It’s a bit early for Fourth celebrations,” Magnus observes.

“Holidays,” Kit says sourly. “They keep getting pushed forward. We’ll be seeing Christmas decorations any day now.” He gives Ciere a stern look. “Stay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says wearily.

Kit and Magnus stride away from the car. They fall into a synchronous step and vanish around the street corner.

Devon squirms in his seat. “I know Copperfield said to stay put, but can we please at least sit outside of the car? I’ve been stuck in this bloody thing all day.”

Ciere gives him a tired grin. “If you want to live the crooked life, you’ve got to get used to it.” But she pushes the door open and leads the way out of the car. She knows exactly how he feels—stifled and constricted.

They lean against the side of the SUV. Ciere tilts her head back and watches the wispy clouds pass overhead, ghostly white in the moonlight. “Bit burnt out here,” Devon says, and Ciere has to agree. Smoke drifts through the air, smudging the sharp lines of the city. Another series of pops echoes off a nearby building, and human voices follow the noise.

“Who sets off fireworks a week before your Independence Day?” Devon asks.

Another crackle and a shout. Lights flicker in the distance, oranges and yellows blinking on the horizon. Ciere takes a step forward, her eyes squinting to find the source of the light.
Crack. Crack, crack.
The noises get louder. One of the booms seems to resonate in her chest, like an overly loud bass from a speaker. More smoke rolls along the street. From somewhere behind her, Devon says, “Wait… what’s that?”

There are other noises now. Screams. Another series of snaps that echo off the warehouse walls.

Ciere understands before Devon does. Those are not fireworks; the smoke is not from a bonfire or cookout or any kind of celebration. And those are not the kind of sounds people make when they are having fun.

The city is burning.

And before she can say a word, an explosion of gunfire shatters the SUV’s windows.

M
ost crooks tangle with the cops eventually. It’s inevitable—breaking the law repeatedly means attracting the attention of those who uphold the law. The first encounter is often seen by fellow crooks as a rite of passage—a person isn’t truly a crook until they’ve looked the enemy in the eye and walked away (preferably with their wallet). First encounters are often talked about in the crooked community. They’re trotted out in bars or at parties. Ciere’s heard many “firsts.” According to Daniel, he was nearly caught by a cop in Detroit when he was fourteen. Even Kit, who never talks about his own past, will admit that his “first” involved a fed, a cliff, and a bulletproof vest disguised as a waistcoat.

Ciere never talks about her past, because she’s sure most
people wouldn’t believe it. Her first encounter with the law was when an entire SWAT team came for her.

She was eleven years old.

When Ciere was eleven, her mother taught her The Game.

As far as Ciere could tell, it was a modified combination of tag and hide-and-go-seek. The rules were simple:

1. Using her immunity, Ciere had to either make herself invisible or camouflage into the background.

2. Mom would attempt to find her.

3. If found, Ciere would run and find a better hiding place.

Back in those days, Ciere and her mother lived in Washington State, on the northwest coast. The woods were thick, tall strands of red cedar and hemlock, towering giants that threw the world into shade. Not much sunlight escaped the near constant cloud cover. They lived far beyond the reach of the nearest city, their house tucked away in the woods with the ocean in view. The years drifted by with variations on the moderate temperatures and overcast skies, punctuated by the occasional rainstorm. The forests were the perfect place to play The Game. Ciere wasn’t allowed near the sea cliffs, so she would turn inland and find a tree or some thick undergrowth. There, she’d try to make herself disappear.

She didn’t try hard. What was the point? She liked it when
her mom found her, liked being hugged and told to go hide again.

The forest had other uses. The huge trees were clotted with moss and ideal for making forts. Ciere found a particularly large one and slowly, methodically piled rocks around the trunk and called it her castle. One by one, she stacked them one on top of another until they formed a stone wall that reached her waist. She fashioned a table out of fallen branches and used old, broken mugs taken from the kitchen for tea parties. Her illusions came easier to her in those days; she could conjure new friends easily.

She hadn’t gone to school since… well, Ciere couldn’t ever remember going to school. She had dim memories of living in a crowded city—her mother said they originally were from Seattle—but these forests were all she’d ever known.

She was playing in those woods the day the feds came for her.

On that day, Ciere heard the the sound of cars on the gravel road. It was a far-off noise, but there were so few visitors that she immediately scrambled out of her castle, leaving behind the remnants of a peanut butter sandwich and apple juice.

The house stood at the bottom of a hill, and the driveway wound around for half a mile from the main road. As Ciere peeked through the trees, she saw two black cars kicking up dust on the road. They weren’t to the house yet—not even close.

Ciere’s mother was outside. She wasn’t running to meet the cars, Ciere realized, but was sprinting away from the house and toward Ciere. It was only then she noticed the rifle clamped under her mother’s arm. She stared at it in confusion; the rifle was meant to scare off coyotes and raccoons and she couldn’t imagine why her mother would need it now.

Ciere tentatively started down the hill. A strange scent caught her attention. It smelled like barbecue, like a bonfire, like the times Mom accidentally burned their toast.

Something was wrong with the house. The windows were shattered, and there were lights flickering inside. It wasn’t until she saw the flames that she realized the house was burning. Great rolls of smoke billowed through the broken windows.

She stood in slack-jawed astonishment for a second, paralyzed by the sight of her home in flames.

By that time, Ciere’s mother was at her side. “Mom?” she said, her eyes fixed on the house. It came out as a question, a quivering entreaty. Her heartbeat picked up; something was wrong. Fear took hold in her stomach, her chest, drew tight around her throat.

Her mother called her name. It wasn’t “Ciere,” because that wasn’t what she was called then. “Come on,” her mother said, her voice sharp. Her hand clamped down on Ciere’s wrist, and then she was running. Ciere stumbled and then was forced to pump her short legs to keep up.

“The house—” she started to say, but she was cut off by the sound of cars screeching to halt and the grinding of gravel under tires. She looked back. Their house was nearly consumed by the fire, collapsing in on itself, pieces of the roof caving in. Ciere nearly stopped running then—she had toys and books in that house.

“Not now,” Mom said, yanking hard on Ciere’s arm. She ran faster, her feet barely touching the ground in an attempt to keep up.

The trees rose up all around them and the house vanished from sight. The pair tore through the forest, heedless of the scratches and cuts accumulated from the underbrush. Mom’s hand remained clamped around Ciere’s wrist, and without it, she was sure she couldn’t have kept up. Her feet tangled with the ferns and fallen branches, and Mom kept that tight grip on her. Soon Ciere’s lungs ached, her tiny chest heaving.

She wasn’t sure how far or how long they ran. The forest flew by in flashes of green and brown. Terror kept her moving as much as her mother’s hand. Something horrible was chasing them, that much Ciere knew. Something was coming for them.

They ran until Ciere stumbled and nearly fell. Her mother was sweating, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and then she skidded to a halt. Her eyes swept over Ciere, and something in her face hardened. She dropped the rifle and pulled a pink backpack off her shoulder. It was the one with the kitty on it.

She knelt and forced the backpack’s straps over Ciere’s arms and shoulders. “Take it,” Mom said. Her fingers dug into Ciere’s arms so hard that she later found tiny bruises.

“Now listen,” her mother said, adjusting the backpack’s straps. “We’re going to play The Game, all right? But this time, you can’t wait for me to find you.” She threw a glance over her shoulder, and her fingers tightened on Ciere’s shoulders.

Then Ciere was being crushed against her mother’s chest, and it was only then she realized that her mother was trembling. She was held there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of clean clothes and fresh air, and then Mom pulled back.

“Don’t let anyone see what you are, understand?” she whispered, rising to her feet with the rifle in hand.

Ciere couldn’t run; her legs wouldn’t respond. She simply stared at her mother, uncomprehending. Only when her mother gave her a hard shove did she respond, staggering backward. “Now!” Mom said urgently, her voice sharp.

Ciere took one more step backward. She heard it now: the sounds of other voices. Male voices. People crashing through the undergrowth, coming after them.

She took one last look at her mother, who had raised the rifle to her shoulder.

Ciere ran. The Game meant she had to hide. She had to disappear.

She found a nearby tree; its roots were huge, coiled and raised above the ground. Ciere threw herself beneath them, her fingers sinking into the damp moss and dirt as she burrowed into the dirt and roots.

Then she reached into her mind and
yanked
. She took the colors of the leaves, the texture of the bark, the softness of the moss, and she enfolded those images around her own skin. She huddled as close to the tree trunk as she could, hoping her illusion would be enough to make her invisible.

By now, there were other sounds. Unfamiliar raised voices.

“Put the weapon on the ground and your hands behind your head—”

CRACKCRACK.

A hoarse shout.

“PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN!” Someone else now, a man’s voice pitched in a scream.

Ciere closed her eyes, turned her face to press into the bark. Her cold fingers tightened around the branch.

“PUT YOUR WEAP—”

Another gun went off. A different gun. The sound was lower and more controlled, and the silence that followed it seemed to flood Ciere’s ears. The echo of the shot bounced through the forest, replaying over and over again. It was so loud that Ciere didn’t even hear her own lips form the word.

Mom?

G
lass bounces off the pavement. The tiny, glimmering shards remind Ciere of hail. Part of her strains to hear the tinkling sound, but her ears are torn apart by the sound of gunfire.

It takes her a moment to realize that while she has dropped to the ground, Devon remains upright. He appears frozen, mouth still open in a soundless question, pupils blown wide. She slams her fist into the back of Devon’s knee and he crumples, catching himself on his palms. His mouth snaps shut and he turns huge eyes on her, annoyance kindling to life. She jams a finger to her lips and gestures at the car. Without a sound, she presses herself to the pavement and worms her way under the vehicle. Devon follows.

They’re lucky Kit drives an SUV—they wouldn’t fit under
any other car. Even so, Ciere can feel the car’s underbelly scratching at her hair, tiny metal bits catching on her shirt, the heavy scent of gasoline all around them.

Another two shots. One hits the SUV, and the car rocks. All she can see is the few inches of space between the car and where the ground rushes up in the horizon. It’s enough, though, to catch a glimpse of moving shadows. Two people rush out of the shadows.

One figure carries what can only be a gun. Two more shots ring out, and there is answering fire from somewhere in the distance.

“What the hell?” Devon whispers.

“Shut up,” Ciere hisses. She presses herself closer to the ground and cranes her head. The angle allows her to see what is going on.

The two runners rush past the SUV—a woman and a man. The man fires several shots over his shoulder with a handgun, aiming carelessly at their pursuers.

Two new figures sprint along the sidewalk. They are dressed all in black, complete with masks and night-vision goggles.

The letters
FBI
stand out on their jackets.

One of the feds fires, and Ciere hears the skid of gravel and the sickening impact of a human body slamming into the pavement. The man cries out, but he pauses for only a fraction of a second. Then he’s sprinting away.

Ciere can see the outline of the body—it is utterly still, its limbs splayed along the pavement. It reminds her of a fallen bird, of something that belonged in the air brought crashing down to earth.

One fed runs past the car without giving it a second glance. The other pauses beside the fallen body, probably searching for a pulse. The fed’s hand falls away from the figure’s neck and he moves on, apparently satisfied.

A raid. That’s what this is. And judging from the smoke and the sound of guns off in the distance, it’s a massive one. The voice of the security guard back at the lawyer’s office comes back to her:
“BPD will take at least fifteen minutes. They said something about a raid. Just… keep her there, right?”

“They must be taking down a crime family,” Ciere breathes.
Let it be the Gyr Syndicate, let it be the Gyr Syndicate.
The thought makes her whole body clench, the desire so strong it’s almost a physical ache. She yearns for it to be true, for these feds to be taking down Guntram. It would make things so much easier.

She turns to look at Devon. “Can you call the others?”

Devon stares at her.

“Devon!” she snaps. No reaction. “Devon?” Still no reaction.

Gritting her teeth, Ciere adjusts her weight so that she can strike out with a leg.

That snaps Devon to life. “What the hell?”

“Call the others now!” Ciere says sharply.

The anger vanishes from Devon’s face, replaced by fear. His fingers fumble on his cell phone, but he manages to dial a number. A second later, he is swearing and snapping the phone shut, only to reopen it. “What’s wrong?” Ciere asks.

“There’s no signal,” he says.

“But we’re surrounded by cities!”

Devon nods, his face drawn tight. “Which means it’s deliberate.”

Ciere lets out a growl. “Stay here,” she says, making a snap decision. Squirming out from under the car isn’t easy, but she manages it. Devon’s hand clamps down on her ankle.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m going to find Kit and Magnus.” Ciere shakes him off. “We can’t leave them out there, especially if they don’t know what’s going on.”

“You can’t go out there!”

Ciere pulls her lips back into what she hopes is a confident smile. “Yes, I can.” She rises to her feet.

“But you saw—they’re
killing
people—”

Ciere closes her eyes, focusing in on herself. “They can’t kill,” she says, “what they can’t see.” Enfolding the night in around herself, Ciere skips back a few steps and turns on her heel, jogging in the direction she saw Kit and Magnus go.

Despite her brave words, her pulse races and she can feel
clammy sweat break out on her forehead. If those officers have infrared goggles, they’ll see her. Illusions can’t hide things like body heat.

The wind carries the chokingly thick smell of burning rubber and plastic. She covers her nose with her sleeve in a futile attempt to block it out. Her shoes slap the pavement as she runs past the warehouse doors and deserted crates. The alley remains unlit, and Ciere welcomes the darkness, using it to mask her movements.

At the end of the alley, the street breaks in two directions. Ciere slows and glances both ways: one leads to what looks like the town’s edge. There are trees and fences, and fewer buildings. The other way appears to lead back into town. The sounds of gunfire and human terror drift in from that direction, carried on a humid summer breeze.

She is so focused on finding Kit that she doesn’t immediately notice the young man standing only forty feet away.

He stands on a street corner. His arms are crossed, and his face is turned toward her. He steps into the lamplight. He’s young—seventeen, to be exact—with brown hair, a crooked nose, and very green eyes. A shock of recognition goes through Ciere, and when she drops her illusion, her disbelief is mirrored on his face.

“Ciere?” he says, aghast.

“Daniel,” Ciere says. Relief courses through her, and she’s
suddenly warm, a little giddy, and she finds herself laughing. She hasn’t let herself think about him. She’s pushed him out of her mind, tried to forget that he ever existed, so that she wouldn’t have to acknowledge his absence. But he’s here. Before he can say anything, Ciere runs to him on unsteady legs and throws her arms around his neck. He feels steady and familiar.

Daniel is stiff at first, but then relaxes into the embrace. “You ass,” she says into his ear. “You scared us. We thought something happened to you.” She satisfies herself with studying his uninjured face.

“What happened?” says Ciere. “Where’ve you been?”

Daniel licks his lips. “What—why are you here?”

“We’re delivering a package to Frieda Fuller—you know, the job you told Kit about. Where have you been? Kit’s been calling you for days.” She vaguely waves her hand around, trying to encompass the smoke and the chaos in the gesture. “What the hell is going on?”

Daniel’s mouth works silently, like he’s trying to bring up words and failing. “Oh god,” he says softly. “Kit went through with the job. I thought—I thought he wouldn’t take it after I vanished.” His throat convulses and he gags, coughing wildly, like he’s inhaled something rotten.

Ciere takes a step forward. “What? What are you talking about?”

Pain flares in Daniel’s eyes, and when he speaks, each word sounds like it’s tearing up his throat. “I—I—It is not safe,” he croaks.

“Well, obviously,” Ciere retorts. “That’s why I’m looking for Kit—we need to get out of here. We’ve got a car, in case you don’t have one. We should—”

“Run.” The word is spoken so quietly that Ciere doesn’t hear it at first. When it sinks in, she looks up again. “Run.” His voice cracks. “Not safe. I—not safe. Run.” His throat seems to close up on the last word.

Ciere stares at him, uncomprehending. She turns in a circle, expecting to see a squadron of soldiers or something equally horrible. But there’s nothing. Just Daniel. Just her and Daniel and—

“Burkhart! What are you doing?” A voice rends the air, sharp and female. Before Ciere can react, a woman strides around the street corner. In the dim light, all Ciere can make out is that the woman is tall and has wildly curly hair. The woman freezes, mid-step, when she sees Daniel and Ciere.

“You caught one,” the woman says, a small smile flitting across her mouth. She turns that smile on Ciere.

One second, the woman is standing on the street corner; the next, she is sprinting toward Ciere.

Ciere’s vision seems to narrow, and, for a second, all she
can see is the government-issue vest, the holstered gun, the baton, and the handcuffs on the woman’s belt. Ciere knows what she is. A fed. She’s a fed—and she’s coming for her.

Ciere turns to Daniel and she finally recognizes the look on his face. Grief. Regret. Guilt.

That’s when she gets it.

Daniel isn’t here because of a job or simple coincidence. He isn’t running from the feds. He’s working with them.