It was early morning, barely after eight, and the desert beneath them was already fully lit by the glowing morning sun. Eron craned his neck to take in everything that passed below them. The signs of life that had been closed off to him for many long months. Lorhurst. Something about the name niggled at him. The helicopter skirted around Pryden and headed east.
‘Sir,’ the pilot interrupted Eron’s attempt to source his unease, ‘I’m getting information that there’s been an incident in Pryden. At the Wheel and Barrow.’ He hesitated. ‘Kira Beckworth owns the –’
‘I’m aware.’ Eron pressed the mouthpiece closer. ‘What is the issue?’
‘Patching you through to a secure frequency. Stand by.’
A click, a hum, and then a new and unfamiliar voice. ‘Sir, information relay. Dwayne Rossiter was intercepted at the Wheel and Barrow while attempting to extract a man who has sustained significant life-threatening injuries. You are advised that evidence suggests utukku are involved. You are to be aware of the increased presence of supermundanes. End secure transmission.’
Another click, two this time, and a high-pitched buzz as the radio reconnected him with the pilot.
‘Sir, advising we will reach destination in ten minutes.’
‘Very good,’ Eron said absently.
Supermundanes were commonplace on Syrana due to Lahar’s divine presence. Utukku, possession spirits, certainly caused issues every now and then. But this was Earth, a world devoid of its deities for thousands of years. The preternatural survivors here would have been in hibernation all that time and weakened to the very edge of existence. Certainly, with the arrival of the Waters, and the Four, on Earth, it was expected that any entities that had survived in this godless world might stir. But for an uttuku to be strong enough already to cause near-fatal injuries was perplexing. Azrael was no god. It could not be his presence alone that had fuelled such a rise.
The helicopter descended, and as Eron stared down at the layout of the small town, the niggle returned. A sense of familiarity gripped him at the sight of the clock tower at the town’s heart. The pilot lowered them a mile from the tower in an industrial area. Touching down, the others waited for Eron’s directive, placing themselves at a discreet distance, using protocol, he suspected, as an excuse to keep from his immediate vicinity.
He stood in the middle of the road, a patchwork of asphalt and faded line markings. The disused lot they had landed in was one of several on this stretch of road, peppered with old warehouses that clearly had not been frequented in some time, weeds growing high in cracks in the parking lots, and unrepaired holes dotting roofs.
Now he understood what it was that had disquieted him. He had been to this place. Lorhurst. With Kira. She had declared it a shithole, and they had driven through it at a speed that had alarmed him, heading for somewhere brighter and bigger. Full of those crowded, loud places she loved to frequent.
‘Bore-hurst’. Was the name Kira had bestowed on this town. Refusing to stop even when he professed a desire to view the clock tower more closely.
‘Sir, the vehicle is just over there.’ A guard pointed to a great pile of old tyres.
But Eron did not move.
Kira was not here. She had never been here. The Lesser had played her denigrators as masterfully as the goddess Inanna herself. And Eron could not suppress the smile that rose to his lips.
Kira - 14
Wheels hit runway just after eight in the morning. The bumpy landing jerked Kira awake. Bankston Regional Airport, a glorious stark-white tin shed in the middle of a field. Kira stepped out of the aircraft.
‘Doesn’t get more glam than this.’ She stretched her arms over her head, the armadillo hidden beneath the dreaded sheath, and waited till Az joined her before she headed down the stairs. She was bleary-eyed, and definitely had bad breath but surprisingly chipper despite the number of whiskies consumed. There was an advantage to buying the good stuff to knock yourself unconscious. She wore a baseball cap, a pair of rose-gold-coloured shades that probably cost as much as a small country, and a bob-cut blonde wig.
Blake had gone full super spy. And it was kind of awesome. Though it would have been nice if she’d also packed a toothbrush and deodorant, clean knickers. Instead it was a disguise and cash. Lots and lots of green notes. Kira herded a docile Azrael into a taxi and threw the duffel bag in alongside him. Their driver looked as though he wanted to kiss her when Kira asked for the ride. Business was slow apparently. He was old enough to be her grandfather, wore the proverbial Coke-bottle glasses, and clearly had no clue who she was, so he was perfect. They were invisible.
She gave him directions to Melgrove, but had no intention of reaching the place. There were a couple of smaller, even lamer towns before it that would do nicely. Fifteen minutes later she got the driver to pull over in a place called Shallow River, made all the more amusing by the utterly dry riverbed circling the town. Then into another taxi and heading south, where she repeated the exercise once more. Blake wasn’t the only one who’d watched a Bond movie or two. Good luck to anyone trying to trace them.
She hit pay dirt in a town called Eaglemont, where she homed in on a taxi driver who sported
