Authors: Susannah Noel
Tags: #tagged, #Young Adult, #Paranormal Romance, #Paranormal, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Dystopia, #Urban Fantasy
“I prefer not to use Breathers.” Once more, something about Smyde’s tone made everything he said condescending. “But she’s smart. And independent. I didn’t think she’d be easily fooled. We need a subtler touch than a regular undercover officer can provide.”
Largan glanced over the images in the file. The girl looked to be in her early twenties. Not unattractive, although oddly girlish in those two long braids. Orphaned early. Raised by her grandfather. The only family she had left was an invalid sister.
Largan stared down at the photograph. There was something almost disturbing in the large, sober gray eyes and firm chin of the well-shaped face. He sighed, cringing at the inevitable depletion of the funds. “A Breather, then. Fine. Which one did you hire?”
“Mikel. He made first contact last night and claims it won’t be long before he has something to report.”
Largan cursed under his breath at the familiar name.
Smyde continued, “I wish we didn’t need to use such…such creatures.”
Largan raised his eyebrows—he’d always known Smyde hated the less traditional outgrowths of Union power, but he’d never voiced it so openly before.
He’d said a subtle touch was needed, however. If anyone was subtle, it was Mikel. The Breather was as seductive and charming as they came.
Largan turned to his monitor and touched a symbol on his touchpad. “I’ll make note of the fact that Mikel is in the city on a job. Let me know if he turns up anything.”
Smyde left, looking satisfied with himself.
Largan looked back down at the picture of Riana Cole. He wondered what had prompted her to get involved with the Front. She was good at her job—steadily moving up in the ranks of Readers. She’d never broken any laws or regulations.
Flipping through a few more pages, he noticed that she could also read the Old Language, the one spoken before the Cataclysm. Experiencing a new spark of interest, a more intense one now, he studied the page thoughtfully.
There weren’t many people left who knew how to read the Old Language.
He reached for his phone and dialed Smyde, who must have barely made it out of the building. “She was raised by a grandfather?” Largan asked. “That wouldn’t be Marshall Cole, would it?”
“Yes. That’s right. Another strike against her. She’s the granddaughter of that treacherous mystic.”
Largan ignored the insult, having known to expect it. Marshall Cole, once an asset to the Union, had turned into an anathema to the more rigorous proponents of Union values. But that didn’t mean he was insignificant. “I understood his whole family was killed.”
“His son and daughter-in-law were killed in the raid on the Eastern bank, and my understanding was a story was widely circulated that claimed the entire family was killed. But the two granddaughters survived. Why does it matter?”
Again, Largan didn’t bother to reply. “Keep me in the loop on any developments concerning the Cole woman.”
He hung up then, his mind buzzing as he sorted through possibilities. There was a banging on his ceiling—this building was constantly under construction—and the rhythm of the pounding seemed to match the pulsing of his growing excitement.
He wondered about Riana Cole. He knew as much about Marshall Cole as anyone. Why hadn’t he known a granddaughter had survived? If she’d inherited even half of her grandfather’s intelligence and creativity, she would be unusually gifted. Why would she have risked everything for a cause as meaningless as the Front?
Mikel had been the right choice. She appeared to be clever and competent, but Riana couldn’t hope to keep her secrets. Mikel was the most successful Breather on the Union payroll. He was particularly good at extracting information from women.
Making up his mind, Largan grabbed his phone again and called the capital to inform his superiors of a new development. When he hung up, he was satisfied he had the pieces in play to take advantage of the Cole woman.
Then he dialed Mikel’s personal number. Largan had worked with the Breather on numerous occasions in the past. It would be more efficient to deal with him in person on this matter.
Mikel picked up on the second ring. After a two minute conversation, Largan hung up again, his interest and excitement intensifying.
There was something he’d wanted to do for years, and maybe Riana Cole would be a step toward achieving it.
Mikel had said he’d already made a connection with Riana, and he’d sounded quite confident of his ultimate success.
Perhaps Riana would let herself be seduced. She didn’t have a man and maybe she wanted one. Maybe she’d give up the information he needed willingly, without any resistance.
She might not be so pliable, though. It might take more than Mikel’s charm and charisma.
Mikel might have to use his particular gifts and extract a series of her thoughts or memories.
It sounded vaguely horrifying. Largan would never allow such a thing to happen to him, but he’d ordered it done to others hundreds of times.
Take a piece of another’s spirit.
That was what a Soul-Breather did
Reed Connor stared out through his large windows at the grimy, crowded city street of east Newtown. The roadway and sidewalks were crammed with cars and pedestrians, and the muffled noise made its way up to the third-floor office of the warehouse building he used as headquarters.
He ached for the old city—for everything it had lost—as much as he ached for the losses in his own life.
It was a fairly quiet evening. No accidents or arrests on the street below him, even though both of them were common events in this part of town. Not much was happening at Headquarters either, giving him a rare chance to do some concentrated planning for the future.
He’d put down his notes a half-hour ago, though, and he couldn’t find the motivation to pick them up again.
Connor was “the Librarian”—an appellation he’d started to use as a joke but one that had ended up sticking and then collecting a useful amount of exaggerated mythology. He was supposed to have led a mercenary army in the fight for independence of several different free islands. At roughly the same time, he was supposed to have taught two-thousand people to read so they could infiltrate Union offices worldwide. He was also said to have hacked the impenetrable Union database in the capital and liberated two dozen imprisoned members of the Front. Anytime something inexplicable happened, his name would eventually get tossed about.
According to the stories people told, he’d lived a pretty accomplished life for just being twenty-eight. He wondered what would happen to his reputation if people knew he spent most of his time writing out coded communication.
Not that his efforts at leading the Front appeared to be making all that much difference to the lumbering leviathan of the Union.
Being the Librarian when no one wanted to read was a discouraging job.
Connor was about to indulge in a rare case of self-pity when a knock at the door distracted him. The man who entered was quiet and competent, but the expression on his face made Connor stiffen in his chair.
“What is it?”
“Brook has been arrested.” Kelvin’s freckled face was basically composed, but his forehead was damp and his fists clenched at his sides.
“Military arrest?”
“Police. They took him on a regular patrol.”
“For general suspicious activity? Then what’s the problem?
Arrests happened all the time to those who supported the Front—just as they happened to everyone else. The police were in the habit of picking people up for suspicious activity, whether there were legitimate grounds to do so or not. Connor made sure his people didn’t keep incriminating evidence on them, since they never knew when they might be rounded up and searched.
Kelvin didn’t answer, and Connor could see a muscle rippling in his jaw.
That was when it hit Connor—the impact so intense it was visceral. He jerked out of his chair. “Brook had taken Ammie’s place today. He has all the correspondence for the north side.”
“Yeah,” Kelvin said. “They’ll find it when they search him.”
Moving immediately into crisis mode, Connor strode toward the office door. “Who do we have over there now?”
“No one on duty. We’re short-handed because Ammie is sick and Valance is out of—”
Connor didn’t bother to let him finish. “Contact Torrence at police headquarters. She should be on shift now. Tell her to be prepared to do anything she necessary to keep Brook from being searched when he arrives.” He stopped at the elevator for a moment and saw that it was on the bottom floor. The creaky elevator was too slow to wait for, so he pushed through the door to the stairs and started down them two at a time.
Kelvin, already working on the touchpad of his phone, kept in step with him. “I will. And I’ll send Marius over. He’s not too far away.”
“Good.” Connor cleared the last of the stairs and burst out onto the city street, the dirty humidity of the late afternoon slamming into him like a blow. His glasses fogged up slightly after the cool of the building. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly five o’clock. “Jenson’s in that neighborhood. He’ll be getting off work. I’ll use him. We might have time. If not, tell Torrence and Marius to be prepared.”
Without waiting for Kelvin to respond, Connor jogged down half a block to where his car was parked. The door rattled slightly as he slammed it, but the engine rolled into life as he turned the ignition. Like everything else he owned, the car was unpretentious, of good quality, and had seen better days. He pulled out into traffic and pressed the accelerator, trying to estimate how long it would take him to get to the north side at this time of day.
Barely sliding through a traffic signal, he grabbed his phone and called Jenson.
He prayed they wouldn’t be too late.
***
Twenty minutes later, a police van plowed violently into the back of Connor’s car.
The impact was loud and jarring, and the airbag in front of him deployed with another burst of sound.
Connor was momentarily swallowed by the airbag—winded and disoriented by the brutal motion and the momentum of the crash.
If he hadn’t been expecting it, then it would have been worse.
Even so, the sudden impact and the grating noise of his car being mangled nauseated him. The skin of one side of his face burned, probably scraped up by the air bag. He’d taken his glasses off before the accident, so at least they were intact. As the airbag deflated, Connor sat behind the wheel and breathed deeply, assessing his condition and composing himself.
His job here wasn’t over yet.
Putting his glasses back on, he tried the driver’s side door. It opened with a little more force than normal so Connor was able to get out.
The damage was mostly to the rear end of the car. It had been crushed by the much larger van, and the sight of it inspired an intense pang of regret.
He’d liked this car, and it wasn’t going to be easy to replace.
Some things were more important than that, though, so he concentrated on what he still had to do. The two police officers on patrol were disembarking from the van. One of them approached Connor while the other went to the back to inspect the rest of the damage.
Jenson’s car had come out best. It was his sudden swerving that had caused the accident, and he’d done it very adeptly—managing to side-swipe the police van, enough to do damage but not enough to injure any of the van’s occupants.
As they’d planned on the phone a few minutes ago, an accident like this would inevitably lead to the afternoon’s arrests vacating the van.
Connor saw with relief that the second officer was following protocol and had opened the back of the van. He was now leading a grimy old man onto the street. With this confirmation, Connor started on the next stage of the plan.
“What do you think you were doing?” he roared at the police officer approaching him. “Haven’t you ever heard of using your brakes?”
His friends and colleagues would have gaped had they heard his harsh, resonant bellow. He was well-known for never raising his voice.
When the officer tried to respond, Connor interrupted, “Look at my car! It’s totaled! Do you have any idea what this car means to me?”
He kept it up, gesticulating a lot and causing such a scene that onlookers gathered around to witness the show. The other officer had herded the arrests out of the van, making sure they were still cuffed and gagged, but his attention kept straying to Connor.
By now, Jenson had gotten out of his car and was holding a handkerchief to his forehead. Connor didn’t dare to look at him directly, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that he was carrying a canvas bag—incongruous next to his old-fashioned tweed jacket.
The first police officer, not appreciating Connor’s attitude, had started to raise his voice too. The second officer, having ascertained that the arrests weren’t going anywhere, stepped over to intimidate Connor with his bulk.
It was painfully hard not to watch what Jenson was doing, but Connor managed to turn away as he yelled, gesturing wildly toward his mangled car.
“Is everyone all right?” The mild, cultured voice belonged to Jenson, breaking into the increasing hostility.
When Connor turned back around, he saw that the canvas bag Jenson carried was now different. He’d managed to make the switch with Brook—protecting the Front’s correspondence.
Had Brook been taken in a military arrest, they’d have been out of luck. The military handled the arrests of all suspected traitors, and the guards were far more vigilant and experienced.
But police patrols picked up people every day—loiterers, drunks, petty thieves, and those at the wrong place at the wrong time. Invariably, they were fined and released. After they were searched, of course.
Brook would be fine, now that Jenson had possession of the incriminating correspondence.
Connor pretended to be bullied into silence, and he let the officers write up the accident and send both him and Jenson to the hospital.
They didn’t fully relax, however, until they were taped up, checked out, and sent on their way.
Kelvin came to pick them up, since both of them had lost their cars.
Connor had a brutal headache and he still felt vaguely nauseous, but he was satisfied with what they’d accomplished.
“I hope you appreciate my sacrifice,” Jenson said dryly, looking oddly unkempt with the white bandage over one temple. “I’ll now have a violation on my perfect driving record.”
“Tragic. I had to sacrifice my car.”
Jenson chuckled softly and stared out the window as the lights of the city blurred by them. It was already dark. They’d lost the whole evening. “It was time to give up that hunk of junk, anyway.”
Jenson was Connor’s cousin—several years older and intensely private. Connor had brought him into the Front a few years ago, once he’d decided the man could be trusted.
It had been a gamble, since Jenson would always be a slightly unknown quantity, but he’d proven himself loyal. And indispensable. And not a bad man to have on one’s side.
Connor sighed and leaned his head back against the car seat. The pang he felt in his chest was genuine—however trivial it should be. “Maybe my car can be fixed.”
Then he opened his eyes. “Thanks, by the way. You were perfect. No trouble with the exchange?”
“No. Everyone was focused on your histrionics. I had no idea you were so good at being a prima donna.”
Connor ignored this jibe and reached over to pull the canvas bag into his lap to find the pages they’d risked so much for.
The Front had used written texts for years to share information and to exchange plans and directives. Since few people could read, the correspondence was relatively safe, even if a text now and then was intercepted. The only real danger was on the days the monthly correspondence was delivered. They split it up as much as they could, but so many written texts in one place were sure to be suspected, even if they couldn’t be read.
Most of the Readers were loyal to the Union. And Connor’s codes—hidden in written language—were good but they weren’t unbreakable.
Connor closed the bag and put his hand on it, finally relaxing in the knowledge they were safe.
“I think we have someone new to recruit,” Jenson said, breaking the silence of the car.
Connor slanted his eyes toward his cousin and noted something almost wary on the other man’s face. “Who is it? Another one of the Readers?”
“Yes.”
When Jenson didn’t continue, Connor arched his eyebrows. “Who is it?”
Still no answer. Connor suddenly realized why.
He gritted out, “No.”
“We need to revisit the issue.”
“No.”
“Yes.” The force in the one word was startling, as was the almost angry look in Jenson’s eyes. “You don’t get to close down the issue without even discussing it. We can use her. And we can trust her. Why wouldn’t—”
“We don’t need her,” Connor interrupted, knowing he sounded petty and young but unable to make his objection take on any more weight. “We have plenty of Readers already. And there’s no reason to drag her into—”
“We drag people in! That’s what an underground movement does. We recruit people to our cause until we have enough supporters to change things. We drag people into this, even knowing we put them at risk. You
know
that. And you can’t let your feelings for Riana—”
The sound of her name made Connor want to strike Jenson. He didn’t, of course. He just clenched his fist and looked away, out the window at the runners in the park. “Any feelings I might have had are long gone.”
“Right.” The word was dry and not quite under Jenson’s breath.
Connor wasn’t a liar, and he rarely spoke anything but truth to his compatriots. Especially Jenson, who was related by blood as well as by loyalty.
But he couldn’t admit to this. Not after the three years he’d spent trying to convince himself his feelings for Riana Cole were gone.