Chapter 9

NINE

Asha

On the eve of the final operation, we’ve traded up from motels to a small house. Its three stories rise above the surrounding forest with the aid of a hill beneath it, as though the earth is lifting the structure so that it can peer over the wall of its neighbor. Which would make the land itself our ally, because that’s exactly what we intend to do.

Standing in the master bedroom, I gaze through the sliding glass door that leads out onto the balcony. Beyond its railing lies the ominous compound, a swath of land bounded by a tall fence topped with spiraled razor wire. In its middle stands the mansion itself, gothic and menacing, adorned with dark spires that extend like spears into the gathering night. The last light of dusk colors the tip of each spire red, giving the impression they’ve stabbed at the belly of the heavens and drawn its blood.

It’s strange to think that in that building, Blood Mages, and likely the rest of my pack, wait. I don’t know if they’re working together as friends, if they’re prisoners, or if they’re some uncontrollable violent force like the rest of my pack. And maybe I won’t know until we get in there.

I just hope I can save some of them , I think as I stare at the miserable structure.

“Looks nice,” I say glibly, making fun in an effort to combat the chill worming down my spine.

“Looks like a hotbed of magical activity,” says Orson, seated at the vanity. An assortment of cosmetic products have been shoved to its perimeter to clear a space for his computer.

Braxton slaps a hand against his back. “Nice workstation. When you’re done, you can powder up.”

“I don’t think I could be any prettier,” Orson rejoins. He looks up at Braxton. “You, on the other hand…”

Braxton smirks. “Smartass.”

Orson returns his focus to his computer again, agile digits tap-dancing over the keys. “That’s what got me here. Intelligence.”

“Speaking of,” says Max, retrieving a pair of binoculars from his bag, “what sort of intel have you been able to gather?” He tosses the binoculars to his brother and nods at the balcony.

As Braxton slides back the door, inviting a cool breeze into the bedroom, Orson replies, “Suboptimal.”

What can we really know when we can’t see in the damn place? I have a number of powers, but seeing through walls isn’t among them.

“Have they got some sort of magic blocker around the place?” Max asks, joining Braxton on the balcony. Braxton lifts the binoculars to his eyes and slowly surveys the compound.

“The substance of the intel,” says Orson, “I should have specified. I’m able to review the signatures with remarkable clarity. In fact, the tool’s never been clearer.” Giddiness seeps into his voice. “I actually managed to fine tune the aperture so that it eliminates excess noise often misinterpreted as the fading edges of magic use, thereby making each figure distinct both from one another and the historical background. In other words, a pristine live image. Even now, I’m watching the inhabitants of that mansion move about in real time.”

“Numbers, Orson,” Max demands impatiently.

This sours Orson’s mood. Not because of the curtness of Max’s request, but for the answer he’s about to give. “Still waiting on an exact count, but…dozens.” I watch over his shoulder while he runs a few programs on the live map, returning data I have no clue how to interpret. After scanning the information, Orson relays its bottom line. “They’re powerful.”

I could have told them that . “How powerful?” Max inquires.

Orson puts it into context, coining a new unit of measurement. “Collectively, about three and a half Simons.”

Three and a half? Shit. It’s worse than I thought.

“Splendid,” I say, drifting over towards the balcony. “Less than a Simon for us each to tackle.”

“But spread across several structures,” says Braxton. “Not a tactical nightmare, but not exactly an ideal situation.”

“Lemme see,” I say, reaching for the binoculars.

He narrates while I peer through their magnifying lenses. “You’ve got the main building, sittin’ pretty in the middle, but then surrounding it are about a half-dozen others. Likely housing support staff, maybe rooms for guest spillover. Then, of course, they’re keeping their hostages, your pack members, somewhere on the compound.”

“Where would be your guess?” Max asks.

“In the basement,” I suggest easily, recalling the dark, damp confines of my own imprisonment.

Braxton nods. “Valuable assets you keep close to the chest, stow them in the most fortified position.”

I don’t exactly like the idea of calling my pack members assets, but I guess they are here. And, I guess, I can’t exactly be too sensitive when we’re in the middle of a life-or-death mission.

“So, in order to free them, we have to penetrate deep into enemy territory,” Max states.

“ After we get through my brother and a pack of Blood Mages,” I add.

“Sounds easy enough,” says Orson, shutting his computer.

Trouble suddenly races into the bedroom, having busied himself with the smells of every room in the rented house, and leaps onto the bed. He stares at his owner and barks once, as if delivering a brief missive. I stiffen. By now I’ve realized that Trouble isn’t like a normal dog. Everything he does is for a reason.

Braxton straightens his back, apparently having understood with perfect clarity the intention behind Trouble’s bark. “Someone’s here,” he says, his voice low.

Tension grips the room. In the silence that follows, we perk our lupine ears to foreign sounds, picking out the noises that don’t belong. When the doorbell rings, it might as well be a heavy metal pot clattering on the tile floor of the kitchen downstairs. I jump, then immediately clear my throat and don a scowl in an effort to conceal my skittishness.

Please don’t let it be them. It can’t be them. We’ve done nothing to give our position away. I need to calm down. I need to be logical, like my men.

Max’s gaze connects with each of ours before he moves into the hallway. We all fall in line behind him and descend quietly to the first floor. Max approaches the front door and the rest of us fan out like a squad of black ops soldiers.

Which, I suppose, is what we are, isn’t it?

A quiet growl emits from Trouble’s throat as he and his owner watch Max raise his hand to the lock. Orson stands beside me, his even breaths gently puffing against my neck. If we weren’t all expecting some kind of saboteur right now, I’d probably be turned on.

Alright, I’m a little turned on, anyway.

Sometimes the division between fear and arousal thins to the width of a razorblade.

“It’s just our contact,” Max says, peering through the opaque, diamond-shaped window in the top third of the door. “I’d recognize that frame anywhere.” He swings open the door and greets the man on the other side. “Thomas, come in.”

Thomas, the big, bald Enforcer with the booming voice, strides into the rented house and nods to each of us. “Evening,” he says.

Just the image of him takes me back to the day we’d come to that town. To the day when my brother had created that web around the town, filling the whole space with darkness. Bodies littered the ground. He nearly killed Max, and I learned that he was lost forever.

Braxton squeezes the back of my arm gently, and I refocus on the present, realizing that not only has my breathing grown ragged, but Trouble’s staring, sitting at attention in front of me. I reach down and pet the dog, grateful for the grounding presence of both him and my men.

Max invites Thomas into the living room with the sweep of his arm. Thomas plods from the foyer to the couch, taking up half of it when he sits down. “Wasn’t easy securing this place,” he says, as though we, the crew on a suicide mission, should be grateful for the accommodations.

I bet it’d cost you more if you were sending your men to die in that mansion. The Blood Mages are quietly causing problems all over our country, as an illegal cult that doesn’t fall into the bounds of any other group. These men should be kissing our feet for taking the bastards on for them.

But I don’t say any of that. It won’t do any good. Besides, I know that’s not why he’s here.

We follow him into the living room, all of us too uneasy to take seats. “What news have you got for us, Thomas?” says Max, cutting the bullshit.

Thomas swivels his head, passing his gaze between the four of us. Once he’s read the room and found no quarter for his cheery facade, he lets his features sag into an appropriately dour expression. After relaying a brief report on Enforcer actions in the last town, he retrieves from his pocket a white envelope. “I have here four tickets to the hottest ball in town.”

I look across at Max, then Braxton. Both twins wear an identical expression of bemusement. It’s one of those moments where their relationship sticks out like a sore thumb, if I ever had any doubts. Orson looks almost delighted, as though this sudden turn means an escape from our duty into a frilly social engagement. For his part, Trouble looks merely hungry and curious when he might be served dinner, yet he’s still behaving as the good boy he is.

Max snatches the envelope from Thomas’s hand and fishes out several black tickets featuring silver embossed letters. “What is this?” he asks.

“Quite literally your ticket into the lion’s den,” says Thomas. “I assume this is the little party the Blood Mage you’ve been tracking referenced in his, erm, message .” I recall the note stabbed into the corpse of a gruesomely murdered Blood Pack member, Simon’s sickeningly gleeful invitation to a slaughter. “Next door they’re hosting a party. All the well-to-do magical inhabitants of North Rapids and the broader Royal Creek area received those.” With his broad reach, he taps his index to the four strips of black cardstock fanned like a poker hand in Max’s grip. “We’ve got a few supernatural allies in the region who passed theirs off to us.”

“We’re going to just…walk right in there?” I ask, shocked.

I’d pictured so many different ways this would go. None of them involved being invited right in. It sounded better. Easier. So why do I still feel so uneasy?

Thomas rises from the couch with an exaggerated grunt, like an old man struggling out of his recliner. Then he turns to me and replies, “Yep, you’ll walk right in. Nice, huh?” He walks halfway to the door, pauses, then whirls back. The angle of his face suggests guilt as he says, “The Enforcers have been given the order to stand down until you’re through with your part.” He sighs through flared nostrils, then adds, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but, well, dammit, Max, you’ve been a helluva agent. Word is we’re cleanup detail.” He bows his head, then ducks out.

Been a helluva agent. Past tense. That sticks with me. Like Thomas thought he was already speaking with ghosts.

“Cleanup detail?” Orson questions.

Staring at the tickets in Max’s hand, or perhaps through them into a hopeless future, he explains, “They’ll sweep up the bodies when the killing’s through.”

Tension sings between us as his words sink in.

I force a smile. “A lot of people have counted me out, and I’ve proved them wrong.”

Braxton smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Me too.”

Orson and Max exchange a look, and Max says, “Enforcers are dumbasses.”

And we all laugh, even if deep down we’re terrified.