Pacific Fire (7 page)

The powerfully built man lay on his back, blue eyes open, lips only slightly chewed by fish and bugs. His face was white, washed clean by the sea. A red, dime-sized hole in his forehead looked like a third eye. An execution shot.

He took the man's cold, white hand in his own and spread two of his fingers. A membrane of shark skin stretched between them.

The man's face wasn't relevant to Gabriel's interests, but he found himself lingering over it. He didn't know this man, and few people did. He had no wife or known lover, no children, no living parents. His body would be incinerated and the ashes dumped in a landfill, ugly tasks that were merely small parts of an ugly business. He would never enjoy spending the very large sum of money Gabriel had paid him.

He tucked the sheet back over him.

“You know what to do?” he said to Tate.

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Max waited until they were halfway back across the broad beach before he spoke.

“How bad is this?”

So many ways to answer, but Gabriel chose to respond to the practical matters embedded in the question. “It's not bad at all,” he said.

“But now Otis knows you sent a spy.”

“He already knew. This just confirmed it for him.”

“You don't seem worried, either that Otis is on to you, or that you lost an asset.”

Gabriel didn't answer. Max was his most loyal servant, and the closest thing he had to a friend, and sometimes Gabriel just wished he'd shut his face.

Asset? He meant a person.

“I guess he didn't have a family,” Max said.

“He did. A sister. She's a sophomore at Loyola Marymount. Thinks her brother is a commercial diver. Scraping barnacles off boat hulls. That kind of thing.”

“Should I have someone arrange a payment?”

“No,” Gabriel said. “I'll take care of it.”

It was a little ridiculous that the LA's chief hydromancer handle a clerical task, but Max knew better than to argue with Gabriel about it.

Gabriel would type out the check himself. He'd put it in an envelope, and he would address it himself. He would lick the stamp.

It would be a very large check. Because that would solve everything, wouldn't it? It would make it okay that the girl lost her brother. It would assuage all of Gabriel's guilt.

And, yes, of course Otis would be suspicious of him. But he'd be even more suspicious if Gabriel hadn't sent a spy to Catalina.

And when Daniel Blackland got to Catalina Island, he'd need updated, current intel.

Which was why Gabriel had sent two spies.

 

FIVE

“You'll sleep here tonight.” The young Emma chaperoned Sam to a second-floor bedroom containing an oaken monstrosity with a mattress the size of a storm cloud and four towering posts that Sam imagined might be useful for hanging clothes or perhaps supporting a roof. There was a writing desk, a chair in the corner that served only to make sure the corner wasn't too lonely, and a four-drawer dresser. Sam dropped his duffel on the bed next to Daniel's.

“Here's your intel and money back,” the Emma said, handing him Gabriel's diplomatic pouch. “Snuck a peek when you weren't looking.”

Sam checked the pouch. Everything seemed intact.

“What name do you go by? Emma?” Most of the Emmas called themselves Emma, which Sam found hopelessly confusing.

“We don't need names among ourselves, but you can call me Em if that helps you.”

“Em.”

Strange how just giving her a semblance of a distinct name impelled him to look at her more closely, as an individual, not just as a variation on a theme. He may have overestimated her age before, fooled by something in her carriage. He revised her down to maybe a year or two older than him, eighteen or nineteen on the outside. Her hair was dyed blond, with typical-Emma chestnut at the roots. An effort to distinguish herself from the others? Or maybe something to do with one of their paramilitary operations. A very thin scar ran from her temple, along her sharp cheek, and down her neck.

“When you're ready, come down to the dining room and we'll put some food in you,” she said.

She left, and Sam stowed the pouch in his safe box, where he kept his papers for various identities. The box was lined with the vertebrae of a sint holo serpent, for the creature's properties of visual confusion. Open it, and it would appear to be empty.

After washing up, he took a circuitous route to the dining room. He counted the doors on the second floor, noted the locations of the covered windows.

Footsteps thudded overhead. Attic space, probably.

Downstairs, as he passed from room to room, Emmas gave him furtive glances. They knew he was the Hierarch's golem.

The Emmas were an industrious bunch, loading first-aid supplies into backpacks, examining maps spread over tables, cleaning rifles.

“Looks like you guys are getting ready for war,” he said to an Emma replacing a radio's batteries.

“Just a little raid in Palm Springs. There's a baron trafficking golems across the border.”

“Routine stuff for you?”

“Pretty much.”

He found Em in the dining room, behind a massive, scarred oak table. The doctor was with her. Sam's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he asked about Daniel.

“He's still alive,” the doctor said.

Not “He's going to make it.” Just “He's still alive.”

She was a shade paler than her sisters and stooped, as if she'd endured years of hard labor. Knowing the fate of most golems, Sam wouldn't have been surprised if she had.

“I've never seen the kind of osteomancy that was used on him,” the doctor said. “It's a toxin with elements of tsuchigumo. That's a shape-shifting magic, and it's been altered to make it even more complex. As soon as Daniel's defenses key in on it, it changes shape and begins a new attack.” The doctor took a sip of tea. “Now, don't lose hope. He was born strong and raised strong. He's the man who ate half the Hierarch's heart. He has a chance.”

A chance of life meant also a chance of death. Sam felt all the blood in his arms and legs drain, a fear response to a world that didn't have Daniel in it. He would gladly surrender his own heart to avoid that.

“Can I see him?”

“Not for a few hours. I want to be certain he's not venting poison before anyone else comes near him.”

“Think you can eat?” Em asked.

Eat when you can,
Daniel always said.

“Sure.”

Bowls of chili were brought from the kitchen. The smells made him salivate, but he raked his fork through his bowl, cautious.

“It's vegetarian,” Em said. “No meat here, no eggs.”

Sam took a spicy, succulent forkful and closed his eyes in bliss.

They were joined by a couple more Emmas, one in her midthirties and obviously pregnant, and a slightly younger one with, of all things, an eye patch. Sam liked the eye patch, a considerate piece of equipment to help tell them apart. The doctor asked that the door be closed, and Sam understood this wasn't lunch. This was a meeting. Maybe an interrogation.

The questions bypassed the general and went straight for detail, in fine enough grain that it was clear Em had done a thorough reading from her little “peek” inside the diplomatic pouch.

Sam told them everything he knew.

The dragon was being built on Catalina Island, twenty-two miles off the coast of Los Angeles. Previously, the island had been used for ranching, smuggling, and tourism. And, for a time, it had been the Hierarch's island fortress.

The plan, as worked out by Gabriel Argent, called for a small team to take out the facility's power transfer station to create confusion and shut down the pumps delivering osteomantic fluids to the dragon. The team would then travel through the large pipes to the dragon-assembly hangar, neutralize the guards, and destroy the dragon.

“I imagine Daniel's team would be Moth, Cassandra Morales, perhaps Josephine Alverado and the Bautistas,” the doctor said.

“He didn't mention any Bautistas,” Sam said.

“They're alfalfa farmers, not too far from here. They have a plane they can use for water landings. Mostly they're smugglers working the Baja circuit, but they've done some work with us, too. Lovely couple.”

Sam would have to take her word for it.

“Where was Daniel going to acquire munitions?” she asked him.

Again, Sam was at a loss.

“Firedrake scales are nearly indestructible,” the pregnant Emma said. “Pacific firedrake scales will be even more so.”

Sam wanted to become more of a participant in his own interrogation. “Do you think it's feasible? To sabotage the firedrake?”

Eye-patch Emma took this one up, addressing her answer to the old doctor. “Blackland has the skill set for it. He knows how to break into secure complexes. He's the only person to ever breach the Hierarch's Ossuary and come out alive.”

Barely alive,
thought Sam.

“And his crew is experienced and skilled, individually and as a team. There's a good chance Blackland might have been able to do it.”

Might have
. Past tense. Because Daniel might die. And if he lived, he'd be in no shape for adventure.

The pregnant Emma took a thoughtful bite of chili. “I think we should move up the Palm Springs operation. We need transportation infrastructure intact, and who knows what Otis Roth and his collaborators will do if they deploy their firedrake.”

The conversation switched to various contingencies and alterations of strategies, all predicated on the idea that the power structure of the kingdom was about to take a major shift, and that instability and possible widespread destruction might result. This all had to do with rescuing golems from various places. No one was talking about a mission to Catalina. No one was talking about sabotaging the firedrake.

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “About the dragon?”

The doctor gave Sam a nod of assurance. “As long as you are in our care, no matter who or what Otis sends for you, we will not let you get within three hundred miles of Catalina. You have our word.”

“I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about the
dragon
. Who's going to take over for Daniel?”

The doctor poured some more tea for herself. Her movements were deliberate and precise, a wordless lesson in control, in contrast to the disorder Sam had brought to her house. He felt rebuked. The old Emma could
really
pour tea.

“Even with Daniel's background and skills, his chances of succeeding were never more than dismal. If he were caught, they would drill holes in him and drain his blood and lymph and bile. They would strip off his skin and carve away his fat and muscle. They'd wring out all his organs and grind his bones to fine dust. He's a treasure chest of magic. And if you were caught, they'd do the same to you, only they wouldn't let you die. You are exactly what they need for their project, Sam. And as much as I'd hate for that to happen to you, I'd hate it even more if they used you to bring the firedrake to life.”

“I'm their best source of magic,” Sam said. “But if it's not me, they'll find another.”

Her eyes fixed on his over the rim of her cup. “Don't go to Catalina. You'll fail, and you'll die. That's not a prediction.”

It felt cowardly to admit it, but she was right. He wasn't the Hierarch, or Daniel Blackland, or even a competent osteomancer. He was just a resource.

“If it's not going to be Daniel or me, then the ball's in your court.”

“Daniel's mission is outside the scope of our interests,” the doctor Emma said flatly.

“There are golems in Los Angeles. They're as much at risk as anyone if Otis gets a firedrake.”

“We'll step up our efforts to liberate as many of them as we can. We'll contact our other cells to do the same. And then we'll evacuate our safe houses in high-population and high-value target areas. This one as well.”

“We'd have to do that anyway,” Em explained. “You and Daniel being here puts us at risk.”

Sam was having a hard time caring very much about the Emmas and their problems.

The doctor Emma finished her tea. “We'll be relocating to the Sierras. It's not as comfortable as this, but it's secure, and we'll be able to take care of you and Daniel there.”

Assuming Daniel survived.

Em patted him lightly on the shoulder, like a big sister. “It's really the best option, Sam.”

“Sure, thanks,” Sam said. “I'm sure that's what Daniel would want.”

*   *   *

Sam went back to his room. He took an inventory of his duffel, as well as Daniel's, and transferred things of use from Daniel's bag to his own. He took Daniel's osteomancer's kit, a leather wallet containing a bone crucible, a few envelopes and vials of magic, and Daniel's mechanical torch, a gift from his father. He took Daniel's knife, which was keener than his own. And he checked his sint holo box.

It looked empty, as it was supposed to. But when he reached inside, his fingers landed on nothing. Because it actually
was
empty.

“Okay,” he said. “So it's going to be like that.”

He spent the next several hours volunteering around the house doing laundry, sweeping, peeling potatoes. While he did, he tried to notice everything. Which doors required keys. Which rooms made people nervous when he neared them. How postures and expressions changed when he spent a long time in a particular corner, pretending to examine a painting, or looking at the ceiling, sniffing. For the most part, nobody seemed to care very much where he poked his nose. The house was secure to the outside, but it wasn't a prison or a bank. The Emmas all trusted one another. They also seemed to have a good relationship with Daniel, which was useful.

After sundown, the old doctor told Sam he could see Daniel.