“There are eight talents being used at this time.”
“You can sense all of them?”
“It’s like a tangled ball of yarn.” Toneless. “I can see all the colors but I’m not sure where one stops and the other begins.”
“How does that impact your tracking?”
“If more than twenty power up at once, I pass out.” Still no reaction. She gave no sign the revelation bothered her. “I can’t handle that much information.”
“But you can track one particular person’s ability.”
“It’s intermittent. I get a sense of where they are, and the closer we get in physical proximity, the more I home in. It works as long as they don’t bombard me.”
“Bombard?”
“A bunch of them powering up at once to incapacitate me. I think they do it on purpose.”
“Fuckers. Are either of the ones we’re looking for active at this time?” Cale started the motor and put the car in gear.
She cocked her head, probably sorting through the signals, but it gave her an oddly birdlike air. “No.”
Then he didn’t care who the other weirdoes were. He wasn’t being paid to track them down. “I guess we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way for now.”
She turned away in complete disinterest. Her eyes closed. He’d seen prisoners in war-torn countries behave the same way. Shut out the jailors, fly away from the torment. But he hadn’t done a damn thing to her. It rankled. Generally when somebody treated him like this, he’d fucking well earned it. But there was no telling what the Foundation had done to her, and that bothered him. He’d expected a colleague, not a prisoner.
As he drove, the phone rang. “Dunn.”
“I’ve got some news for you.” Hausen’s voice sounded crystal clear despite the distance, a wonder of modern technology.
“Go.”
“Your boy’s named Tyler Golden. Born in Miami. He’s been picked up on multiple charges of vagrancy, loitering, drunk and disorderly, one count of public indecency. Did eighteen months for assault and battery. He dropped off the grid about five years ago.”
Christ.
“Did you find his next of kin for me?”
“Of course.” Hausen gave the name and address, which Cale scrawled in the notebook he kept in the dashboard of his car. He glanced at his silent passenger. “Wanna go on a road trip?”
Didn’t matter how she answered, of course. They had a job to do. And he might learn something about this Tyler Golden from talking to his family. Cale understood he had to learn his prey inside and out before he could run it to ground.
Not surprisingly, she didn’t respond. He tapped the city name into the GPS and made a U-turn as soon as he could. Nothing dramatic. No squealing of tires or near collision. Yet she cried out. Pain etched her features, two blue veins throbbing at either side of her temples. Her lips were so pale they looked gray, and though she took great sucking breaths, she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen.
“What’s wrong?”
Kestrel turned her head, regarding him with a blasted expression. He thought he’d witnessed every bad thing known to man, every horror, all possible types of damage. But in her hazel eyes, he saw hell.
“I feel them all.”
“Who?” Despite himself, he knew pity for her, and something like kindness. It didn’t seem right, what they were doing to her.
“The ones you want me to find. They’re in my head. Along with so many more.”
“Can’t you turn the others off, focus on the two we need?”
“No.” Tears welled from the corners of her eyes, but he felt sure it was wholly unconscious. She wasn’t looking at him to see how he was taking her display. Instead her hands came up to cover her face, and she hunched over. “I’m up to nineteen now. I can’t—”
Before she could complete the sentence, Kestrel slumped to the side, her face gone slack.
Christ.
Her agony made him glad he had human capabilities and limitations. Cale grabbed a jacket from the back, balled it up for her to use as a pillow, and tucked it beneath her head.
For her sake, he hoped she stayed out. Even if she could give him an edge in his search, he didn’t like seeing women in pain, something of an Achilles’ heel—one that had gotten him in trouble more than once.
Don’t be stupid, mate. Not with this one. She’s part of the job . . . and you can’t save her.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, he stepped on the gas.
Tanager eyed Finch.
He was the oldest of the agents, in his mid-forties at least. Short, dumpy, and balding, he was the closest thing to invisible without actually having it as a superpower. He always dressed in gray or brown, enhancing his low profile. She figured he had to hate meeting up with her because she was anathema to going unnoticed.
He gave her the once-over in turn. She grinned and struck a pose, hand on hip. Today she wore a plaid miniskirt, tall striped socks, combat boots, a white blouse, and a black tie. Her red tailored coat hung on the hook near the door. A rundown bar full of drunks and losers was the last place anybody would expect to find important business taking place; those same patrons would also never be able to give a credible description of either of them. That was why she’d chosen this place.
“I’m supposed to wipe the last forty-eight hours,” he said.
“I know.” Truthfully, she was a little sorry about that. She’d enjoyed shopping with Cardinal. The kid clearly never had so much fun, which was pretty sad. But it was far safer if Tan couldn’t remember where she was. Anyone who spent recovery time with her would get a visit from Finch. It was the only way to maintain privacy. The only way to make sure what happened to Ginnie didn’t happen to anybody else. That had been before the code names, before the privacy, before all the rules. Shit, that had been before Mockingbird went into his bubble.
“It might get messy. It’s hard to be precise about such a short time.” He had a gravelly voice, that of a chain smoker. To her ears, he talked like Lou Reed sang. If she was a blind woman, she could get down with him.
“I’m ready.”
Finch cupped her face in his hands and leaned in like he would give her a kiss. Instead he laid his head against hers. She didn’t know if he needed contact to work his mental mojo, or if that was just his way of getting close to women he’d never otherwise touch. There was nobody like him on the planet. The Foundation had nobody who could implant suggestion and make a target forget. They’d come close to snatching him in Ecuador; Mockingbird took even greater precautions with him now.
The music throbbed low, John Lee Hooker crooning in the background, and the world wavered. A metal spike slammed into her brain.
Distortion. Reverb. Finch’s face loomed.
Red lights. Wailing metal.
Ginnie was onstage, making love to the mic. To her baby sister, she was the coolest thing on two legs. Great voice, great bod. Everything she needed to be a rock star. Ginnie had an advantage, though, and it was gonna make her a million dollars. When she sang the words to “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me,” a classic rebooted with raw power and a punk edge, the crowd fell for her. Every one of them wanted to take her home—male, female, or other—it didn’t matter. Ginnie held them all in the palm of her hand.
Possibly because of their close blood ties, she didn’t feel the same maddened pull. She did swell with pride, bouncing in the pit with her arms in the air. She’d dropped out of high school to follow her sister. With a fake ID, nobody cared she was fourteen, and Ginnie watched out for her. In fact, her sister kept a switchblade in her boot at all times. She was a total badass; it wasn’t just show for the music. She had real ink and real attitude. It was the only way she’d kept the two of them safe over the years.
Their parents had died when she was twelve and Ginnie sixteen. She’d said the foster system was for suckers—they’d wind up separated, and there was no way in hell that they were letting that happen. Using her mother’s license, they’d rented a shitty apartment and made do for a year with her babysitting money and what Ginnie could earn at minimum wage. But clearly they were meant for better things. Her sister sang like an angry angel, and she got in with a band. The next year was better—no more dead-end job. They’d traveled and partied and skirted the edge of bad, bad trouble.
Now raw talent—and that extra push—was paying off. The shithole clubs were scaling up. She’d heard of this place called the Rat, and groupies told her that acts got famous playing here. She fucking hoped so; she’d been all around putting up fliers for Dead Girls Dance.
One day, she and Ginnie would rule the world. With her brains and Ginnie’s sexy-raw voice, they were going places. No doubt. No stopping them.
That night, she sang along in the audience, drinking in the energy—the sweat and the adulation. It carried an irresistible high. But to her surprise, Ginnie leaned down and hauled her up on stage.
Shit. She’s never done that before.
She could sing and play a little bass, but Ginnie had never wanted her drawing the public eye. Protective shit.
But she leaned in, belting out the words to “Wrecking Ball,” one of their originals. They covered a lot of the punk greats, but Ginnie wrote her own stuff, too:
You came, you saw, you conquered
Didn’t you, motherfucker
Open my arms, open my thighs
You’d think I’d be goddamn wise
To a man like you/Swinging through
Like a . . .
Wrecking ball!/Wrecking ball!
The audience went wild at the rage in the lyrics, but she cut a look at her sister, who gave her an encouraging nod. She sang on.
The mood turned. A flip of the coin—love to hate. Maybe this wasn’t the right song for the end of the set. Fear gripped her. Something was happening to her voice as she sang; it wasn’t good. Not like Ginnie. It didn’t inspire love. This was dark, dark—metal spike through the brain. It all went black. Past pain receded into the distance.
“Welcome back,” Finch said.
“Christ. I
hate
that.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I never was very good at Operation.”
“I’d have more sympathy if you hadn’t just made such a fucking mess in my skull.”
“Bad one this time?”
“Yeah.” She said no more. Too private. Too personal. That memory belonged to a different version of herself, one who had a real name, not just Tanager.
“I didn’t erase anything I wasn’t supposed to, did I?” Back in the early days, Finch would sometimes wipe too much, as if he were pruning roses with a machete.
“No.” The ache was perfect and fresh. Maybe in a way, she owed him thanks for that. Time had a way of healing wounds over, leaving only the echo of phantom pain. Now she remembered why she was doing this, why the fight would never end as long as she drew breath.
“Can you tell me where you were yesterday?”
Blank wall. She shook her head and pushed off the bar stool. To the other patrons, they had shared an intimate moment—that was all. She snagged her coat and walked out the door, unable to speak for the tears tightening her throat. She still couldn’t make people love her with her voice. Not like Ginnie. Tan was the evil twin; she had the darkness.
Sometimes Tanager considered asking him to blank her past completely.
Nothing to see here, folks, move along.
But even though they hurt like a bitch, she couldn’t give up those memories. She had nothing else left.
CHAPTER 15
A skeletal, wild-haired
witch came screaming out of her cell. She launched herself at Taye, paying no heed to his reassuring words. She didn’t appear to have any words left; fire balled from her hand, and he dove wide. The flames slammed into the wall behind him. Without waiting for Hawk’s call, he pulled, lightning crackling from his fingertips. The darkness inside him swelled, bringing the shadow-pain to life, but he ignored it as the electricity fried her.
The insane subject arched and screamed, giving pause to those shambling out of their cells. Most were pale, thin, and weak, but none of them attacked.
“What are we supposed to do now?” one asked.
Hawk answered, “If you can remember a number, I’ll tell you who to call. If you’re interested in fighting back, he can help you. Otherwise, you’re on your own. Just be aware that there are hunters, and they can track use of your powers.”
“I can remember,” a woman said.
Taye gave Mockingbird’s special ping-only line. As a group, their lips moved, memorizing it.
“I have a pen,” Hawk added. “If anyone wants to write it down.”
One of the men stepped forward, tall, thin, and freckled; he moved sluggishly, as if he was drugged. He motioned for the pen and wrote the number on his palm. Slowly, he printed more, and then flashed the message to Taye:
My brain’s not what it used to be.
Somehow, the Foundation had stolen his voice.
“Mine either,” Taye told him.
He had stood in their shoes. Right now he knew exactly how they must feel: terrified and helpless. Anger surged through him, so strong it nearly kindled the lightning without his will. The lights shimmered overhead, and Hawk cut him a sharp look. He could read the question:
You okay?
Taye nodded, locking the power down; the current steadied overhead.