Vengeance (2 page)

My fogged brain barely processed her words. Her fingers were like warm little animals that I held captive. Memories, emotions, longing--I was inundated by
humanness
, as though my past had been returned, as though I hadn't been infected.

She withdrew her hand and I was left alone, bereft and cold again. "Lucinda?" I managed to croak around the shock that grabbed my throat.

Picking up her foolish moose, she started to the end of the counter. "A family name. It means--"

"Bringer of light," I said. "It's a pretty name."

"It's better than my middle name." She toddled the moose along the small ledge that rimmed the counter, making its antlers dance merrily. "Nico is unusual. Greek? Or is it short for Nicolas?" The moose slipped out of her hand.

I caught the moose before it could touch the floor, made gritty with sand tracked in by customers from the icy sidewalk outside. Her hand closed around mine and once again
sensation
flooded me. It reminded me of that telepathic touching I used to experience with Persa, my beloved shapeshifting Companion, before she died defending me from Robert Meyer in New York City in 1790.

"Greek?" Lucinda asked again.

"Nicodemus." I released the moose and straightened. "My last name is a variation of Hades." I waited for her reaction. I didn't often use my real last name. For some reason, in this latest re-creation of identity, I decided to return to it.

"The god of the underworld." She tucked the moose securely into her bag.

I was surprised. "Most people associate Hades with a place, not a person. Have you read the classics?" I researched my family name thoroughly as a youth, using the computers at the History Center in the 2180s. But it wasn't until I was stranded in time in 19th century America that I finally learned Greek and read the sources in the original. When one is immortal, one has time to do useless things, like learn extinct languages and practice careers that take lifetimes to master. Landscape artist. Musician. Computer designer.

Assassin.

"I've read them," she said. "And yes, you can join me. I'm waiting for a friend."

Our drinks arrived and she added a dash of cream and a packet of sugar to hers. We took two seats in front of a blazing fireplace near two elderly men playing chess in front of the window. As she settled on the low sofa she set her bag on the floor, the moose's paw waving as though seeking attention. "What brings you to Minneapolis, Nico?" she asked, sipping the hot liquid.

I paused as I raised my cup. I need very little nourishment because my cellular degeneration is slow, but I enjoy a good coffee now and again. "I beg your pardon?"

She set her paper cup on the pine coffee table as she shrugged out of her navy blue coat, revealing a blue striped turtleneck and dark jeans. "You're from England, right? You're not from Minnesota." She said this in a singsong voice, a caricature like that heard in the film
Fargo
.

 "You're right. I'm originally from England." I was from an England far in the future, but I arrived in America via a New York City centuries in the past. "Yorkshire."

"I spent a week there," she said. "A few years ago. I did a B&B tour of England."

The England of my memory didn't have B&Bs. They vanished in the Alien Wars and the Blue Plague. "It's beautiful there." I sipped my drink, eyeing the man who came in the door and was making a beeline for us.

"Yes. I especially liked the pubs and--"

"Hey, Slayer." The man put a casual hand on the back of her neck.

Lucinda peered up at him, thus missing my stunned look. "Slayer?" I asked with what I thought was commendable poise.

The man winked at me. He was in his forties or fifties, tall and stocky with thinning brown hair and an oval face with a prominent chin, reminding me of Jay Leno. His dark topcoat, tailored suit and leather gloves were a sharp contrast to the cabin-themed décor of the coffee shop. "She's our Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Can I get you anything?"

Before we could answer he went to the counter. Lucinda gestured to him. "That's my half-brother, John Fairchild. John, this is Nico Haidess."

Fairchild waved to me even as he talked to the counter clerk. "Buffy?" I asked. "You slay vampires? I didn't realize there were any in Minnesota."

"It's just a nickname. I help with animal rescue groups and we ran across a guy once who was--well, you know--doing weird things to animals."

"Really?" I was mistaken for a vampire in the 19th century and it had been an unpleasant experience. I occasionally wondered if Meyer had infected any others, which might account for the vampire myths that periodically resurfaced. Some of the current vampire writers had captured the nuances of the life I led, but no one could fully understand the despair. I often felt like Rod Taylor in the old movie,
The Time Machine
, as decades rushed by me, crumbling into dust.

"So Buffy there goes on a raid with some other animal activists, spots these poor puppies, gets mad and decks the guy." Fairchild called this out gleefully from across the room. The two old men near us looked up and smiled approvingly at Lucinda, who appeared flustered.

"I didn't really deck him," she explained. "I took a swing at him. I managed to hit him then he sort of stumbled and fell."

"Right out of the hayloft," Fairchild added. "Broke his leg. And all because of the Slayer there." He took his coffee from the clerk and joined us, taking the seat next to Lucinda on the couch, his brown eyes assessing me. I was sure in that brief glance he had correctly evaluated my bank account based on my clothing, just as I had done with him. My tailored Lagerfeld jacket, Armani jeans and hand-stitched boots no doubt spoke volumes.

"John is in the finance department at my company," Lucinda said.

Her company. My attention sharpened. I could get access to Robert Meyer through her company. And once I found Robert Meyer, I could murder him. "Your company?"

"The company I work for," she corrected.

"You're a bit more than a worker bee," Fairchild said. "You're head of Research and Development."

This confirmed my facts. Delacroix Labs was small but had several government contracts for genetic research. It was precisely the sort of company that would attract Robert Meyer, who was probably one of the 'worker bees' at Delacroix Labs and perhaps a close associate of Lucinda Delacroix. Her death could flush him out, into my hands. It had taken me years to get into this position, but I was careful not to let my eagerness show.

"Head of research?" I sipped my coffee. "That sounds important."

"I'm not head of projects." She crossed her legs and wiggled one sneakered foot. "Just head of people."

"What kind of research?" I leaned back, affecting a casualness I didn't feel. Better and better. She would definitely have access to Meyer if he were, indeed, at the company.

Her posture changed. My years of study with Tibetan masters, assassins and police personnel alerted me. It was subtle but there--tension in the set of her shoulders, her foot pausing in its rhythmic tapping, her fingers shifting position on the cup. "Medical." The dismissal in her voice was obvious. She nudged John Fairchild. "How did your meeting go?"

"Fine. The talks are set for the first week in May." He smiled briefly at me. "Sorry. Business."

"No problem. I invited myself to this little party when I almost ran down Lucinda here."

Fairchild quirked an eyebrow at me but didn't comment. Lucinda said, "Did you talk to Cara? Did she approve it?"

"I told you she would." Fairchild sipped his drink, looking smug. "It's a great deal. Cara's not an idiot."

"No, she's just a--" Lucinda glanced at me. "Shrewd businesswoman. Well, good. I'm glad it's a go." She sounded uncertain, though.

"It's great for the company." Fairchild looked at me. "What do you do, Nico?"

I considered telling them the truth.
I work for a clandestine government agency, killing people here and abroad.
"I used to be in computer design. I'm semi-retired now and work for a travel agency. Maybe you've heard of us? TATA? Travel And Tours Associated?" The acronym, of course, served a dual purpose, also representing my real line of work with the Tactical Anti-Terrorist Agency. And the computer part wasn't a lie. I went into computer development when I realized it would be essential to help me find Meyer. I designed several computers in the past, as well as made a fortune on software.

"Really?" Lucinda's small foot bobbed, reminding me of the toddling moose. "I used to work for a computer company. Was it here in town? Maybe we know some of the same people."

"Most of it was on the East Coast." Unless she had known Grace Hopper and Seymour Cray, I doubted we had anyone in common. "I've been out of that business for a while now." I smiled easily. "I got out before the dot-com bubble burst."

"Nice." Fairchild nudged Lucinda. "Did you get your shopping done?"

"No." Her disappointment was evident. "I couldn't find it. I don't know what I'll do." She saw my confused look. "I went to that gallery down the street to see if they had a necklace. My niece saw work by the artist and I was told they had some of his jewelry here."

That explained why she'd ventured into this trendy Uptown shopping district. Her company was located in a western suburb and she lived even further west, in the small town of Burnsville. When she left her office I wondered why she came into this congested, aggressively chic neighborhood. It didn't seem her style.

She sighed. "Time is running out."

For a panicked moment I wondered if she knew her death was imminent. I raised my eyebrows in question.

"Kat has a birthday soon," she clarified. "She's been living out of state for the last few years and she's just come back home. I'd like to get her something special."

"Ah. Maybe I can help. I have a friend who runs several galleries. Perhaps she can contact the artist for you."

Lucinda shook her head. The lamp near the couch highlighted white strands mixed among her black curls. "The owner said the artist doesn't like to be contacted except through galleries. Apparently he's out of the country or on vacation." Lucinda's shoulders slumped. "I'll have to think of something else."

"Please. Let me help you. Give me the information about the artist and I'll see what I can do." I had contacts that Lucinda could only dream about. I could find the damn artist.

"I'd appreciate that." She looked so grateful I felt momentarily guilty. I squashed the unfamiliar emotion.

"I have to get going, Slayer," Fairchild said, setting down his coffee cup. "Can I put that table I brought for you in your car?"

"Oh, sure." She chugged the last of her coffee, then put her coat on. By the time she turned to me, my business card was in my hand.

"Please call me. I'll see what I can do."

She glanced at the card then put it into her M&Ms wallet. "Thank you."

I took her outstretched hand. I had put on my gloves so felt nothing as we touched. "It was a pleasure."

We left the warm shop. Misty snow was falling, tiny crystals that shone in the streetlights like confetti. Fairchild angled away from us, saying over one shoulder, "I'll drive over here so we can put it in your trunk."

Hey
.

I looked around. The word was spoken very softly, as though someone was by my side, whispering in my ear.

Hey. Down here.

I looked down. The disgustingly ugly dog stared up at me from where he stood near a potted tree, twinkling Easter egg lights shining on his matted fur. The dog's mouth opened and his tongue lolled out.
Yeah. Me
.

Damn. I was going to have to talk to him after all.

I stepped back. I've always avoided conversing with animals. It's an innate ability in 22nd century humans, but it's one I've never cared to practice. It reminded me too much of Persa. As a Companion, she had only been able to assume animal form and we communicated telepathically. It was too painful to relive that past.

I tried to edge by the beast on the crowded sidewalk. The pavement was slippery with newly fallen snow, making the footing dicey. The dog followed me
. Listen, we need to talk.

I hurried forward. It might have fleas or some other equally unpleasant byproduct of filth. He trotted behind me, easily keeping pace. "Is that your dog?" Lucinda asked as the animal followed us into the parking lot.

Pretty lady
, the dog commented.
Friend of yours?

"No, it's a stray." I gestured to the animal. "Go. Go home."

The creature wagged his tail enthusiastically.
Okay. Let's go home
. He was almost as large as Lucinda and for one panicked moment I thought he might knock her into the oncoming traffic that was trolling around the lot, looking for a parking space.

What are you worried about? That would be the perfect accident
. The dog snuffled around Lucinda's knees as she touched his head.
Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Kill her in an accident?