No Love for the Wicked (27 page)

Yeah, right.

Thank God for the Nordstrom girl. The personal shopper had walked me through the store, top to bottom, pointing out all the traditional presents that people bought for one another. Of course, once she realized that money was no object, my options became much broader. I’d never actually seen Heather carry a purse, but the girl had insisted that the Stuart Weitzman tote was
the
must-have of the season, and that Heather would absolutely die if she didn’t have it. Whatever.

An icy breeze shook the storm windows in the great room. The furnace moaned in protest. I reached over to snag another blanket off the ottoman and took another swig from my bottle of Beam. As I pulled on the blanket, papers fell to the floor.

What the—?
A thin file of photos and papers lay scattered on the hardwood floor. Oh, crap—Colin’s file. I’d completely forgotten to look over the stuff he and his team had gotten from Dr. Everett. Thirteen had called that afternoon about meeting again on Tuesday after Jon and Theo got back. He’d probably expect me to have at least opened the thing.

I shuffled the papers back together, settled under my mound of blankets, and used my mind to flick on another light. I glanced at the clock: 5:30 p.m. Night fell fast these days, and it was already growing dark outside. Still, it would be another few hours before Theo called to wish me sweet dreams and get me all excited with his phone talk—another not-a-boyfriend perk I’d discovered since he left. I might as well go through this stuff now and get it over with. Throwing back another gulp of whiskey, I began.

The first photo I saw stopped my heart. The second sent it plummeting to the floor. How had I not seen these? My mind flew as I flipped furiously through the rest of the photos, each page sending my stomach further into a free fall. Finally, I found the inventory list. The photos were of every confiscated artifact that Everett had smuggled into the country. Colin’s handwritten notes
pointed out those items that Everett’s partner had indicated as holding particular interest for their prospective client.

No shit, they held interest for their prospective client. These were my father’s tools. The ones that had left deep, burning impressions every time they’d been used. The tools in the pictures were cleaner, maybe a little newer, but they had the same handcrafted style. The same deadly purposes.

My God, I had had these things used on me. I even knew their proper names. The A-frame Sweeper’s Daughter—kind of a rack in reverse that locked the head, wrists, and ankles together in a compressed knot. Strappado cuffs and weights that hung victims by their locked hands behind their back and pulled them down with varying weights. My shoulders ached in memory of dislocation at just the sight of that one. Handsaws, awls, pliers—each one imprinted with the blackened double-
X
trademark that decorated everything Grandmother had passed down to her sons.

I dropped the file and raced to the bathroom. My stomach unloaded again and again. I closed my eyes, knowing that when I opened them again, everything would be red. I could feel the blood boiling inside me. Father had loved those tools. The humiliation of them, the pain they caused. Each time he pulled them out, a special gleam had shone in his eye. He hadn’t used them every day; he’d liked to test his powers and the more modern instruments during his daily experiments. But if he suspected I’d developed a new ability, or if he and Uncle Max wanted to elicit a specific kind of fear in me, they’d roll out those ancient relics. And I’d known the pain would be unlike anything else.

The tools themselves were important. Things to be locked away and protected. I remembered Uncle Max had been livid the times he’d found out Father had used them on me without telling him beforehand. Uncle Max would rant and rave about how
unworthy I was of their attention. As if the tools cared who they bled out.

I gripped the sides of the sink and focused on calming the throbbing in my head. When only a light-pink haze fuzzed my vision, I walked back to the living room. The file lay on the floor, the scattered images facedown on the rug.

Dragging my feet, I returned to my seat on the couch and stared down at the file. On the ottoman lay another paper. I could tell by the texture that it wasn’t a photograph. Hand shaking, I took it and laid it in my lap.

With a deep breath, I scanned Colin’s report. He’d first listed the details his team knew going into the mission. It wasn’t much, especially now that I knew how a real mission was supposed to work. Then he outlined what they’d learned after interrogating the pyro smuggler.

Dr. Everett had worked within different branches of the Aunre Institute for the past seven years. According to Colin’s notes, the Aunre Institute was a privately funded global foundation whose mission was to preserve the world’s most valuable historical resources and provide a cultural outlet to those nations who might not otherwise experience the joys of being creative.

You know, just in case the starving kids in some war-torn third-world nation wanted to express themselves with acrylics instead of killing insurgents to protect their families.

Initially, Everett had insisted that he was the only supernatural at the institute. Why advertise you’re a freak to your employer, he’d argued. After some time, however, and a little taste of Cordele’s new truth serum, he’d corrected that statement. Turned out that Everett’s partner, Ken Ward, as well as his direct supervisor at the institute, Dr. Mikel Grabowski, were both Network-known telekinetics. Once that little tidbit was revealed, Everett insisted that it was Ken Ward who’d set up the client meeting.
Everett had had no clue he was there to meet Senator Kelch. It was the only statement he never reneged on.

I skimmed through the rest of the interview notes and was about to toss the sheet back on the floor when the list of institute locations caught my eye. Among various other nations, Moldova, Ukraine, and Belarus came up. All three nations were listed as having Aunre Institute facilities.

OK, wait a minute.
Hadn’t Shane argued weeks ago that Father and Uncle Max would be stupid to build plants in all three nations because none of them had the money to support the industry? No way these countries had enough money to support some lame-ass cultural awareness program. Or to smuggle medieval torture tools across borders.

Unless…of course. They wouldn’t need to put a facility in all three countries. They could just put it in one location and have access to all three nations’ artifacts.

Bohlren.

I flipped open my laptop and accessed one of the sites that Heather had shown me how to use. Jon had homed in on the museums, but I’d thought he was just being a pain in my ass, interrupting my report. I pulled up the city’s statistics, and there it was, like a flashing neon light:
YAKIVIY і AUNRE МУЗЕЙ ГІСТОРЬІІ
(
THE YAKIVIY AND AUNRE MUSEUM OF HISTORY
).

I threw back a long swig of whiskey and stared at the computer screen. I couldn’t imagine how in the world Everett’s connection to Bohlren and my father’s ancient tools fit in with Kelch Inc. manufacturing facilities and whatever Jon and Theo were doing in Europe, but surely this was a coincidence Thirteen would want to know about.

An image of my twin flashed in my mind. Her soft, pretty face frowning in the bloody reflection of the lake. She’d wanted me to see the emblem burned onto her palm. The tools were important.
I didn’t know why, but she’d needed me to recognize that symbol. And since she was a part of me,
I
needed me to make this connection.

A strange urgency churned in my stomach. I needed to go. Now. I wouldn’t wait for Thirteen’s call in the morning. I needed to get this new information to him right now.

Without looking at the photos again, I swept them back into the file folder, then quickly shoved my feet in my boots. Keys in one hand and file folder in the other, I’d just reached for the front door when the quiet alarm announced a car turning into my drive. My power went on vibrate. I reached out to the driver, and even though I recognized her, my instincts still screamed at me that something wasn’t right.

I stepped out onto the front porch and waited while Cordele parked along the side of the house. Engine off, she sat behind the wheel and gave herself a serious pep talk. She had to convince me, get me to understand. It was the only way. With a deep breath, she heaved herself from the car. As she moved around the house with purpose, she focused her thoughts. Over and over, she recited some silly poem about Henry the Eighth.
Second verse, same as the first.

Power lit at my fingertips, my instincts on full defense mode. I had to stay calm. Cordele wasn’t a threat. She was my teammate. Whatever had my power flaring, I had to stay in control.

I hadn’t bothered turning on the porch light. Clouds hid the bright moon, but the fresh snow lit up the yard. I didn’t make a sound. No breath, no shift of weight. When Cordele reached the porch, she skipped the first two cement steps and nearly ran right into me. Like a stone wall, I didn’t budge.

“Oh!” she yelped. “I didn’t see you, Magnolia.” She stumbled backward into the yard.

My instincts had been raw the night of the gala, but I couldn’t remember the last time they were ever this loud. Everything inside me screamed for me to attack. Right now, before it was too late. But I had absolutely no idea why.

“Why are you here, Cordele?”

Her eyes looked to the tree line, to the sky, to the ground—anywhere but me. “I, er, haven’t seen you forever. Not since the night of the gala. I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”

Right.

“I—well.” She cleared her throat. “Chang and I have been working hard to find connections between the data we got from your father’s PC and the stuff we already had. You know, the flight information from Captain Bennett and all that. I thought maybe you’d want to know everything we’d found out.”

“We already had that update meeting. You weren’t there.” And why was that? Thirteen had said she was meeting with an informant. Informing her of what?

“Yeah, I had another meeting…another Network team…”

“Thirteen said it was an informant.”

“It was. An informant with information for another team’s mission.”

I felt the burn behind my eyes as my vision began turning red. My fingers itched, and I could feel the pull of my nails wanting to grow longer. Something was causing my powers to react just as they had when I’d first arrived at the gala.
Stay calm, just stay calm.
I couldn’t control my instincts, but I could control my reactions. Isn’t that what Theo had said?

“I was just about to leave,” I replied coolly. “If you’re just looking to visit, why don’t you come with me and we can catch up in the car.”

She didn’t move. I narrowed my eyes.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Cordele. What are you doing here?”

Her face went pale behind the haze of red clouding my vision. Her mouth opened and shut, but no noise came out. For the first time since she’d arrived, I really looked at her. She didn’t wear a coat or even a jacket. She wore a bow-neck sweater that showed her shoulders. Her hair was down, her makeup applied perfectly, lips outlined in a full, pouty look. Tight jeans, heeled boots—she was dressed for going out.

“Where’s the party?” I asked drily and moved forward down the steps. She stepped back.

“What? There’s no party.” She laughed humorlessly. Her hand moved toward the gun at her back—her own instincts kicking in.

“You know I’m going to find out why you’re here, Cordele. You might as well just tell me. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

Her jaw lifted as her resolve set. Her lips thinned into a tight line. I’d warned her.

With a quick, sudden burst, I pushed my power into her mind. I tried to be gentle, but she cried out and fell to her knees, her fists clasped against either side of her head. In her mind, the last hours played out for me like a rewinding movie. She’d spent hours getting ready for tonight. Eager to come here, to get me on her side. She’d discovered something, something no one else would ever believe. She knew the real reason why the Kelches were so interested in Eastern Europe—and she had known for weeks. But she had to be careful. Play her cards right, or no one would ever take her seriously again. They’d call her a traitor, probably lock her up. But that was bullshit. After all, they believed in me, right? And I was a Kelch myself. Why shouldn’t they believe her too?

The images in her mind shifted to an earlier date. Instead of jeans and boots, she wore capri pants and a lightweight cardigan sweater. In her hand, she examined one of the tools confiscated
from Everett. Turning it side to side, she examined the trademark imprint burned into the steel.

But wait a minute. We’d just gotten those tools. How was she studying them in a memory? I focused more closely on the blade she held. Ancient in style with jagged, razor-sharp teeth on both sides, the foot-long knife weighed heavily in her hand. It was different from the tools I’d seen in Colin’s file. The weapons Dr. Everett brought over had glistened with polish—the edges sharp, the handles clean. The one Cordele examined was covered in a thick coat of dried blood. The metal of the blade was rusted in some places, and cleaned at the hinges for continued use.