25. Akira

CHAPTER 25

Akira

H e found them in the alleyway behind Kyle's apartment. Five men, adorned with the same claw mark gang tattoos and hulking physiques as this morning's attackers. One had a set of handcuffs attached to his belt, another a length of rope, and at least two of them carried guns.

So this group of Carrions was prepared to let this get loud, unlike the ones from earlier this morning up on Level C. Because they'd learned from the mistake of arriving unarmed, or was it just the nature of Xerxes in getting rougher and more dangerous the further down you went?

One of the men glanced up at the building that was now bathed in false midday light. His gaze settled on a particular window on the third floor, and Akira didn't need to guess which apartment it belonged to. He'd stood in this exact spot often enough, staring up at the blurry pane of glass as if it would help him to feel closer to the man sleeping beyond it. He knew enough about the way regular people worked to understand that it wasn't something he should disclose – or even be doing in the first place – but when it came to Kyle, Akira had always been the moth drawn to the flame.

When the Carrion stroked the barrel of his gun, an anticipant smile on his tattooed face as he continued to watch the window for movement, fury rose like hot bile in Akira's throat. He took a long, deep breath in an effort to keep himself from trying to break each of their necks.

Retreating from the mouth of the alley, it didn't take much hunting around for him to find what he was looking for, especially now the power had returned and lit the city up in a pathetic mimicry of the true daylight outside. The ground was littered with rubbish, from discarded food wrappers to used condoms, and Akira had his pick of empty liquor bottles. He chose one with tinted glass to hide the fact that it held no liquid, checked that the runed dog tags around his neck were still working to prevent him from contracting disease, and brought the mouth of the bottle to his own.

He'd wrapped his lips around far more unsavoury things in his time, although at least that had been for money. But this was for Kyle , and so Akira ignored the putrid taste of cheap rum mixed with cigarette ash and stars knew what else in favour of stumbling back into the alley, barely catching himself before he hit the wall.

"Woah, man!" one of the Carrions said with disgust when he fell towards them.

He kept his body hunched and his head bowed. Akira's clothes weren't anything up to their usual standard after having been involved in the fight earlier and then unceremoniously crumpled on Kyle's floor, but the suit was still finer than what most of the level's inhabitants wore. It was designed to draw attention, to impress and respect, to prove that he'd risen above the drug addict's son he'd been born as: all things that Akira didn't want to convey at this particular moment.

"Sorry," he slurred, gesturing clumsily with the bottle in the hope of distracting them for another vital second with erratic movement and meaningless words. "Looking for me missus. Well, the worthless bitch's brother's cousin, cos his deadbeat son owes me a shit ton of-"

His mistake was in raising his head too early.

Just a quick glance to check how far away his target was, but he accidentally locked eyes with one of the Carrion gang members. It might have been his appearance or the intent on his face, or maybe just some sixth sense that all Lowers needed for survival, but the man seemed to realise Akira wasn't merely a harmless drunk and let out a shout of warning.

It came too late. Akira was close enough to already be within his defences, and he took advantage of it. He smashed the end of the bottle before bringing its jagged edge to the Carrion's neck, shoving him against the wall in a single fluid move.

The others realised what had happened well before his victim did, and Akira let the sharp slice of broken glass acquaint the blinking, open-mouthed man with the reality of his situation.

"Focus," Akira snapped, and then shot a disdainful look at the two gang members levelling guns at his head. "Put those down."

"You're gonna kill him, pretty boy?" one jeered.

Akira, whose lithe and elegant appearance had netted him many similar condescending comments over the years, drew on the coldness he felt inside and let it shine through into his smile.

The man faltered.

"We don't give a shit," snapped another. "Kill him or don't. Either way, we'll fuck you up for messing with the Carrion."

The man under Akira's hands winced. "Don't encourage him, Mike! We'll let you go, man, if you let me go, see? We can just call it a big misunderstanding."

"If I kill him," Akira said, ignoring his protests and rewarding the renewed struggle with another shallow cut to his neck, "you can't do what you've been sent here to do."

Mike gave a lazy, cocky grin. "And what's that?"

"Kyle Randall," answered Akira, icy fear stroking his spine when their lack of response proved his conclusion correct. Grins, shrugs, frowns...but not a single denial.

"Seems the little whore pissed someone off," Mike drawled, tilting his gun and closing one eye as if sighting Akira through it. "Kinda like you're doing now."

"Kyle's protected," Akira said shortly. "Three armed bodyguards. Why do you think the bounty on his capture is so high?"

More than one of them frowned at that, confirming his second guess of the day. Benedict Mackenroth certainly had the money to throw around, and with so many mercenaries mobilised only a matter of hours after his visit to the House just last night, he had to have made the incentive worthwhile. How much had he promised Xerxes' lowlifes in exchange for bringing him Kyle? All the money the mayor had been willing to pay House Epsilon to sell him as if he was nothing more than a toy?

"So you're going to need more men than you have," Akira continued, trying to keep his voice even, "or if you're willing to die for credits you'll never see, at least your full complement. If I kill this one, perhaps injure another before you take me down, your odds aren't looking so good."

They regarded him coolly. Blood from the other man's neck trickled down the outside of the bottle and onto his fingers.

"Or you can call your boss," he offered. "Get her dialled up on a runepad and let me speak to her."

One laughed, a seemingly genuine chortle that made the muzzle of his gun waver. "And you think that'll help you? She'll tear you apart."

"Let that be my problem. Make calling her be yours."

The others glanced at Mike, who raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. He holstered his gun, slipped a runepad from his pocket that may have been a newer design but looked as equally battered as Kyle's, and slid his fingers over its display.

The remainder of the Carrions glared at Akira, who returned their attention dispassionately. He ignored the whispered threats, the ominous gesture of a finger drawn across a throat, and the way the blood had run down his hand and was seeping into the cuff of his jacket. Damn it.

Mike exchanged furtive mutterings with his device for a few seconds before he turned the screen towards Akira. The face on it – round and beaming, surrounded by frizzy chestnut hair and the very picture of a kindly mother figure – lit up in recognition.

"Ah, Master Epsilon! What an unexpected delight!"

"Sinead," Akira acknowledged.

"Put him on, Mike."

Akira reached out for the runepad, only for Mike to flap the fingers of his other hand in insistent demand. So Akira drew the broken bottle from the neck of the other man and handed it over for the runepad in a wordless exchange.

"You killed two of my men earlier this morning, Epsilon," Sinead said casually. Her tone was light, her smile still in place, and her friendly appearance gave the impression that she was about to offer him a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Ones laced with poison, naturally. Because if there was ever a person less likely to do something for another out of the goodness of their heart, it was Sinead Gallagher, leader of the Carrion and known for her willingness to take on jobs that even the other gangs found distasteful. Murdering family members in front of their loved ones, shooting up Xerxes' few remaining hospitals, those types of innocent pastimes.

He had hoped that Mackenroth had engaged one of the rival gangs run by an old acquaintance from Akira's wayward childhood, as he'd have had significantly more bargaining power. Favours had been passed between the two of them for years. But the moment he saw the distinctive facial tattoos on the two men he'd fought on the catwalks outside the city, three claw scratches that also adorned the left cheeks of his current company, he'd known that fortune was being its usual capricious self.

"I appreciate that it may have seemed like I killed them," Akira said carefully to the woman who held both his and Kyle's fates in her chubby, ring-adorned hands, "but I give you my word that they fell without my interference."

Sinead ran a finger along the tattoos on her own face in a gesture that seemed innocent yet was anything but. Akira had met her while she was still a lieutenant in the gang, young and vicious and working her way up quickly through its ranks. People tended to underestimate the woman by her appearance and demeanour despite all the things they knew she'd done, and it had eased the way for all the backstabbing and killing. Of both the Carrion's enemies and its members themselves, at least those who stood between her and the top.

And now, no one did.

But despite her ruthlessness, Sinead did have one indomitable spark of loyalty, and it was to her wife. There was nothing she wouldn't do for the woman – although those who had attempted to use that against her had quickly and agonisingly regretted it – and Akira could only hope to draw on that devotion to save Kyle.

And himself. The men around him were shifting eagerly with vengeful anticipation and Akira knew that if he failed to secure a deal with their boss, there was nothing to stop them from putting a bullet in his head or a blade through his gut. What would Kyle think upon waking to an empty bed, finding House Epsilon absent its Master?

If this had all been for smaller stakes than the life of the man he loved, Akira would have done it far more carefully, ensuring he had the appropriate leverage before throwing himself into danger like this.

"What do you want, Epsilon?"

"Kyle Randall," he said, letting his voice soften on the precious name. It would have been suicide to show such weakness in front of many of Xerxes' other inhabitants, but it was the card he'd chosen to play for Sinead. "He's mine."

She sucked thoughtfully on a tooth. "I see."

"Are the Carrion the only organisation to hold the contract for his capture?"

Never call them a gang, not to their faces.

Sinead just smiled. Information like that wasn't free, and he'd offered nothing but amusement to her so far. Its value would soon run out.

"I'll put it plainly," growled Akira, batting away the muzzle of a gun that had wavered too close to his ear. "Kyle is not to be touched."

The men around him laughed. Sinead didn't.

"That's going to cost you an awful lot," she said mildly. "Is he really that important to you?"

"Yes."

She didn't question him further. Didn't bluster or threaten or toy with him, and he appreciated that. Sinead was a mercenary through and through, with credits not only her currency, but her language.

"Two million," she said.

Akira didn't blink, even though the number was staggeringly huge. "Deal."

"And all of it upfront."

"No," he said. He might have agreed to pay her more money than he held in his account, but that didn't mean he had to be stupid about it. "Half upfront. You'll get the remainder in a week, once I've confirmed you're not playing both sides."

Sinead lifted a vexed eyebrow as if she found the accusation insulting. As if it hadn't crossed her devious mind at all. "You still owe me for two deaths."

"I didn't kill them."

"You really should come visit me, Epsilon," she said, inspecting her manicured nails with the kind of overt nonchalance that meant she had an acute interest in the offer. "It's been so long since I last enjoyed your company. Bring one of those nice whips of yours."

Akira had sold his body more often than he could count: first for food, and then for credits, but never for a price as high as the lives of two human beings. It was almost flattering.

"It would be my pleasure," he said evenly, despite knowing it likely wouldn't. Sinead had made use of his services a handful of times while he'd been working at House Theta, and although she'd been far from the cruellest of his clients, she wasn't the type to give a fuck about her partners' enjoyment or comfort. Akira could only hope that the woman's wife saw more reciprocation than the whores Sinead apparently still liked to indulge in.

"When this is all over, make sure you wander on down to Level G."

Considering each level of Xerxes could easily be described as an entire city in itself, wide and dense, that was unhelpfully vague. "How do I find you? Which sector?"

"Level G," she repeated. "And what do you expect me to tell my client about your man's sudden unavailability?"

It was one thing for Epsilon to have clients. A harmless, albeit technically illegal profession where client meant nothing more than the person who'd rented him to fuck or be fucked. But Sinead's clients were murderers. Terrorists. Drug peddlers.

Fury rose in him, hot and raging.

"You can tell Mackenroth, " Akira snarled, "that he can go fuck himself in whatever combination of words you'd care to use."

"No," he corrected bitterly a breath later, forcing himself to calm and rationalise. "Tell him you're having difficulty bringing Kyle in because of his protective detail, and you need more time. Don't let him offer the contract to anyone else."

"We'll see," said Sinead, and when the call abruptly ended on him, Akira realised that was as much of a promise as he'd be getting.

He handed the runepad back to Mike, trying not to glower. But when he made to push past the men, a hand shoved at his shoulder to keep him in place between them and the wall.

"Not so fast, Master E," Mike said with a flash of yellowing teeth. "You're gonna send the boss her payment before you walk away. Wouldn't want it to slip your mind or anything."

Akira gave a faint, humourless smile to convey how hilarious he found the comment, and then shucked off his bloodied jacket before drawing his own runepad from the pocket of his trousers. One of the Carrions gave a long, low whistle when he saw the model, and Akira hoped that they weren't going to try to rob him once he'd transferred the credits.

But after Mike had watched the transaction over his shoulder, muttering the codes for the relevant account – Akira sincerely hoped it was actually Sinead's and he wasn't about to facilitate a windfall for this random thug and be executed for it – he was waved away without incident.

His feet drew him back into the building and up the stairs without conscious thought.

He let himself pause outside Kyle's apartment door for a moment of incredulous reflection on all the times in the past he'd dared to stand there and imagine an alternative reality where he was invited inside, welcomed and greeted instead of stared at like the suspicious, pathetic stalker he was. And now that fantasy had become his reality, one where Akira let himself in with the apartment passcard he'd taken from Kyle's pocket, discarded his clothes and slipped into bed, only to be immediately nestled into by a warm body that murmured sleepily against his chest. Akira ran his fingers through Kyle's soft blonde hair, marvelling at his luck.

So what if he had to make another million credits appear out of thin air after emptying his account with that first payment? So what if he had to ensure Sinead didn't double-cross him, and thwart any other thugs Mayor Mackenroth might send after Kyle? Keep the House afloat, and his staff happy, and even if he somehow achieved all of those miracles, Xerxes would crash into the Earth in six years anyway?

None of that mattered. Because Akira had Kyle in his arms, and that meant everything was going to be alright.