“It’s from the original Doom Town,” he said, returning to his seat. “I found it buried closer to ground zero than any other artifact to date. I want you to have it.”
How sweet. He was proving his loyalty to me with radioactive rubble. I could practically feel the ions banging against my palm. It was like the entire city of Whoville was jammed together in a metal mosh pit. Yet looking back up at the three men, I found their expressions as open as I could expect on people I’d known for fewer than twenty-four hours.
“And I want you to have these,” Gareth added, lifting a small duffel bag over the seat.
“Nah, man!” Vincent came to life then, making a grab for the bag. “I wasn’t done with the last issue!”
Showing his quickness in spite of-or because of-his size, Gareth dodged, ending up next to me before the larger man could swipe again. “She needs them more than you, bro. More than that stupid fucking cancer spoon too.”
Not a fork, then.
The van rocked as Roland lunged.
“I love the cancer spoon!” I yelled, wanting to prevent being squashed by an errant fist while trapped in a moving vehicle. I held out my hand for the manuals. “And I’ll read the issues backward, and return them as I go, okay?”
That calmed everyone sufficiently…except for me. Now I had a bag full of manuals detailing what the troop had been doing since my absence. I swallowed hard, and tucked the bag beneath my feet. Truthfully, I didn’t know when I’d get to them. My feelings were too raw where the troop was concerned. Seeing them on the pages of a comic book-even if the action no longer lifted from the page, coming to life before my eyes-might pull the scab from that mental injury before it’d fully healed.
Still, glancing over at Carlos, I found Alex, Fletcher, and Milo all smiling at me from behind him. He inclined his head, like he’d known all along they’d accept me. I turned back in my seat, and found that despite the day ahead of me, I was smiling too.
Yet, just like the clouds that’d once dotted Frenchman’s Flat, another worry immediately mushroomed. Harlan Tripp. Unnervingly silent since learning of Carlos’s plan, he was gnawing on one of those strange brown cigarettes he’d brought back with him from Midheaven, running his tongue along his teeth as he stared out the window of our stolen van. Carlos had paired us up, so while the other rogues were to observe and protect me from afar, Tripp had instructions to never leave my side. If spotted, we’d act in tandem to make either Shadow or Light believe we were together against my will.
“Is this it?” Oliver, in the driver’s seat, pulled me from my thoughts, and I leaned forward to see around Tripp’s bulk. The building was immediately recognizable, and I instinctively glanced around for signs of the Light.
“Yes.” I answered softly, and the vehicle fell oddly silent. I’d just told a band of rogue agents what building the Light used to fashion weapons and train for battle against the Shadows.
Buttersnap and Tripp flanked me as we disembarked from the stolen van, looking less for signs of the proprietors of the building than for Mackie and his unstoppable knife. That, after all, was what had made me think of the warehouse. Inside was a compound Micah had created for the Light, which effectively acted as a barrier to any conduit’s blow. A spray solution that adhered to the skin, the defen sive preservative only lasted against one strike, but the time it would buy the rogues from a first strike to a second might make the difference between life and death…and God knew we needed every advantage we could get.
The only problem? The warehouse was booby-trapped to the teeth.
“Sure you ’membered all the obstacles?” Tripp asked as we skirted the building, kicking rubber strips and broken bottles and concrete from our path.
“No,” I said honestly, blowing out a breath, and rearranging Gareth’s duffel over my shoulder. He’d handed it to me again when I’d oh-so-subtly tried to leave it in the van. “But you only need to dodge the poisoned bullets to get to the alarm panel, and I remember the pass code.”
“They coulda changed it.”
“I don’t think so.” Hunter had set up the alarm system and the lethal backup methods, and told the code to no one but me. My bet was the warehouse hadn’t been used in the weeks since his disappearance, which meant the defensive preservative was still tucked safely inside.
“A smidge more certainty would be nice,” Tripp muttered. “Since it ain’t you who’s gotta run the gauntlet.”
What could I say? He had a point. I wasn’t fast enough to dodge the poisonous missiles on the way to the panel, which left it up to my surly southern wingman. The bullets weren’t the only issue either. If he failed to disarm the system within a minute of gaining access, the place would blow. And wouldn’t
Alas, the perky local newscasters would have to fixate on another headline. Tripp picked the lock, and raced inside amidst the whiz of two-dozen bullets striking concrete. Buttersnap’s gaze fixed on the darkened doorway, ears pricked, and it was only when her tongue lolled from her mouth and those great, humping shoulders relaxed that I knew the alarm had been deactivated. Tripp appeared a moment later.
I waved backward, and a moment later the van, idling behind the warehouse block, ambled away. They’d canvass the perimeter by vehicle-with Fletcher and Milo on foot-while I showed Tripp where the protectant was.
“There should be a giant tool chest in the room’s center,” I told him, ducking past to take the lead. It wasn’t real power, but pretending made me feel better. “The solvent is in there.”
And it was so easily found I half expected a trap. Yet why would the troop hide it? It wasn’t a weapon, and until now no one else knew the warehouse’s location. This had been the safe spot when all true safe zones were inaccessible, though because of what I’d just revealed, it would never be that again.
Snatching up the canister and its spares, I whirled to find Tripp examining a template of a weapon Hunter had recently designed. It had a long slim chain with an attached leather wrist loop, though it was tied to a foam dagger-a most lethal lasso. Tripp was comparing it to the sketches laid out atop the drawing board. “Put it down,” I ordered sharply.
He did…and immediately picked up another.
“Stop it! Let’s just grab the protectant and get out of here.”
“No.” He sounded like a school kid with a new toy. “I’m curious.”
And the chances of convincing a curious former Shadow to leave a refuge of Light unexplored was next to nil. I rolled my eyes. “You’re smearing your scent all over the place,” I protested.
He responded by picking up a foam cross section of a four-headed axe, and I made a warning noise in the back of my throat. He looked at me like I was a gnat and he was tempted to swat. “Why don’t you git. Go check on Buttersnap. Make sure she don’t eat nothing.”
“They’re waiting for us.”
He turned the template over in his hand, then began searching for its drawings. “They’d do the same.”
So much for taking the lead.
I glanced around, then wandered a bit. Other than its purpose as a martial headquarters for a troop of paranor mal beings, the warehouse was unremarkable. I poked my head into the panic room, which was as utilitarian as a librarian’s desk, cabinets pressed against the wall, fluorescent lights off, doors closed. I touched nothing, knowing it would leave prints.
I slipped around a floor-to-ceiling plastic partition separating the combat area and shooting range from Hunter’s workshop to find Buttersnap inspecting the wide-open area like she was on patrol. I sniffed but smelled nothing, though if I closed my eyes I could imagine the martial dance of the agents of Light the last time we’d trained for war.
Which brought my mind around to what else I’d done with Hunter in this room. My gaze swept right, to where he’d had me pinned to the wall. Granted, I deserved it, as I’d just thrown him across the space moments before. What lay between us had always been charged, our joining elemental, like planets banging together to create a scalding eclipse. I closed my eyes and could still picture our silhouettes, sharply edged. I could hear the frenetic need of our undressing. I could taste his breath. It didn’t matter that he’d been planning to betray me even then, not in my heart’s memory. Just because a love was made up didn’t make it any less real. Illusion had its own reality.
“The weapons, Joanna. Think about the weapons.” My voice, though low, was like water splashed in my face, and just what I needed to banish the past. Because not only could I still touch another agent’s conduit, I could also
