Avenger of Sins (SPECTR Series 3, #6)

Chapter 5

FIVE

John stepped into the little motel room, swaying on his feet. The sheets on the twin beds looked rough and scratchy even from a distance, but at the moment they could have been made from rocks for all he cared.

He’d left a message for Kaniyar about what Night and Gray had found. There would be an investigation into the fire; it was up to her as to whether she wanted to alert local law enforcement, or send in more SPECTR agents, or make the problem disappear altogether.

He’d left his conversation with Ryan out of the report. It felt…private. Personal. If he could just talk Ryan into turning himself in…

“Are you okay?” Caleb asked, shutting the door behind them. They were in one room, with Night and Zahira in the next one over.

“Ryan’s still out there.” John sat on the edge of the nearest bed and kicked off his shoes.

Caleb hovered uncertainly. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “A part of me…Goddess, this sounds terrible, but a part of me is glad he’s still free. I might feel differently if I’d seen Foster’s body, though. I just…he’s been through so much, and yes I know what he did to me, to you, but…”

“But you don’t want to see him disappeared into some SPECTR lab again,” Caleb guessed.

John pressed his fingers against his eyes, colors exploding behind the lids when he did so. Because Caleb was right—Ryan was a telepath, and thus valuable. He’d never have a trial of his peers, not when he might manipulate their minds. Kaniyar would tuck him away somewhere as yet another of her “assets,” and take every possible precaution to keep him from escaping again.

If John did his job, if they caught Ryan, he’d spend the rest of his life trapped in the horror they’d all been so desperate to leave. Oh, he didn’t doubt Kaniyar would be far more humane than Walsh or Harlow, or the rest of the brain trust who’d come up with the Center. But he’d ultimately still be a lab rat in a prisoner’s jumpsuit.

“I hate this,” he said, voice cracking a bit. “I hate this so much.”

“I know.” The mattress bowed beneath Caleb’s weight, and an arm went around John’s shoulders. “It sucks. I’m no fan of Ryan after he mind-controlled you and stole our blood, but I’m no big fan of SPECTR, either.” He sighed. “Though I guess we shouldn’t let Ryan run around killing people, huh?”

“Probably not.” John leaned against him. “I’m so tired of thinking.”

“Then don’t.” Caleb pressed a kiss into his hair. “Let me pull back the covers, and you lay down, okay?”

John nodded. Caleb turned down the bed, then helped him strip. “I wish I wasn’t too tired to do anything,” John mumbled as he stretched out.

“Eh, it’s not like any of us are in the mood.” Caleb pulled up the covers and kissed him on the forehead. “We’re going to swing by and grab Night, then go hunting. Are you going to be okay here?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Caleb’s weight left the bed—John hadn’t even realized his eyes had fallen closed. There was the squeak of leather, then the soft sound of a door opening and shutting once again.

It was afternoon by the time they hit Atlanta traffic. Caleb had driven in the city a couple of times before and was familiar with its infamous gridlock. Which didn’t make it any easier to sit through.

Sullen rain showers made it even worse, salting in a few car crashes just to really slow things down. Zahira tapped away on her phone in the back, while John stared blankly out the passenger side window. Night faded into the gray shadows of a rainy winter day, only her eyes occasionally flashing in the rearview mirror when he glanced back.

They’d had no luck hunting the night before. Thomasville had been too small even for a ghoul nest, and if anyone was summoning demons they were doing it somewhere in the deep woods too far away to catch the scent.

It had left Gray somewhat grumpy. They weren’t in need, exactly, but all the healing had spent enough energy to give a sharpness to their appetite.

“This place will be better,” Gray rumbled as he watched out of Caleb’s eyes. “More hiding spots for demons within a city.”

And more mortals in one place equals more concentrated desperation, and hence more demon summoning, Caleb thought back. An actual social safety net would do more to cut down on possession than anything else. But of course the government would rather spend the money on agents with guns.

Gray’s response was a wave of indifference. He had a very specific set of mortals he cared about; musing about society in general was beyond him.

“I simply do not indulge in mortal nonsense,” Gray corrected loftily . “‘Society’ shifts and changes with the wind. Five hundred years from now, this city may not even exist.”

Weird to think he would probably still be hanging around centuries into the future. What would things be like then? How well would he remember ever being human?

Would he remember John?

Not the time to think about that sort of thing. He pushed it aside and concentrated on driving. Traffic crawled through downtown, then sped up to twenty miles an hour. Practically flying for this time of day. Caleb followed the GPS’s instructions onto an exit, then a two-lane road. The area became more affluent as they went east, the houses growing larger and farther apart, until they were true mansions, tucked away from the road. In the summer, when there were leaves on the trees, most of them wouldn’t be visible from the street.

“Tuxedo Park,” John said, naming the richest neighborhood in the whole damn city. “Of course. She’s a lobbyist married to a guy who runs a Fortune 500 company.”

Rage spiked through Caleb’s blood, and he ground his teeth together. Foster had his McMansion, Lydell was living like she was on an episode of Real Housewives —at this rate, Harlow would own fucking Versailles. All of them had thrived, while their victims sorted through the wreckage of their lives.

Alarmed by Caleb’s anger, Gray rose to just under their skin. Ready to manifest; ready to fight. But this was one problem they couldn’t just eat.

The GPS brought them to a mansion surrounded by a brick wall and iron gate. Christmas lights decorated the wall, and a huge wreath hung from each half of the gate. A miserable-looking man in a suit stood beneath a too-small umbrella, his shoes and slacks below the knee soaked from the rain.

Caleb pulled in and rolled down the window. John leaned over him, badge out. Zahira did the same from the back seat.

“John St-Starkweather,” John said as the man leaned forward, and Caleb winced.

The guard didn’t seem to notice the stumble. “Special Agent Chris Christopher,” he said, because apparently his parents hated him. He examined both badges, then handed them back. “Go on through—the director is waiting for you.”

The iron gates opened; past them, a brick driveway cut through stands of bare trees to emerge into an impossibly green lawn. Topiaries flanked the circle at the end. Feeling petty, Caleb pulled off the driveway and parked on the pristine grass.

The mansion was a sprawling brick edifice, and he almost hoped Jo would show up and burn it to the ground. Behind them, the gates creaked closed again, poor Agent Chris-Chris huddled on the other side.

John sighed heavily, then climbed out of the car. “Stay here,” Caleb told Night, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Night sank back into the shadows, doubtless glad to escape dealing with mortal foolishness.

A second agent met them at the door and checked their badges again. Apparently Kaniyar really wanted to protect this psycho from Ryan.

“Follow me. I’ll take you to Director Kaniyar,” the agent said, before briskly heading into the house.

A huge Christmas tree greeted them in the foyer, its branches laden with ornaments that looked as though they’d been carefully placed by an interior designer. The rest of the house was gorgeous in that weirdly sterile way rich-people houses sometimes had, at least judging by what Caleb had seen on TV. Everything in its place, no pile of crap dumped on the chair just inside the door, no stains on the carpet, not even any dust. The ecru furniture was artfully arranged on the taupe carpet, with tasteful paintings hung just-so on the eggshell walls. Bouquets of flowers dotted the rooms; some were beginning to wilt, cracking the facade of bland perfection.

A spare bedroom suite on the second floor had been converted to SPECTR’s command center. Laptops covered every surface, the king-sized bed had been pushed into a corner, and the empty walk-in closet hastily turned into a break room with coffee maker. Agents with headphones on stared at monitors showing various security camera feeds of the property.

Kaniyar had been peering over one of their shoulders. Now she turned to them, hands folded behind her back. “You bit someone, Mr. Gris?” she asked him pointedly.

Of course she wanted to start with that. “She stuck her fingers in my mouth. Oh, and those fingers were literally on fire. So, yes, I bit her. I assure you, nobody enjoyed that experience.”

“I see. And your compatriot? Where is she?”

“Waiting in the car.” Away from this bullshit.

Kaniyar pressed her lips together, then jerked her head toward the door. “Come with me.”

They followed her into the next bedroom over, another spare which Kaniyar had apparently made her private office, including desk and chairs. Rather than sit down, she went to the window and looked out into the rain.

“I’m concerned about how desperate Jo seemed for your blood,” she said.

John cleared his throat. “Ryan is manipulating her, ma’am. She isn’t responsible for her actions right now.”

“No doubt. I’d be less concerned if some of the Charleston agents who…partook…weren’t complaining about lack of access. They seem to suspect I’m holding some in reserve and assure me they require it to do their jobs.”

Caleb went very still. Yuri had controlled his renfields by giving or withholding his blood. He’d called Isabelle greedy that night in the alley, just before she sucked his blood straight out of an opened vein. Was their desire for it, for its power, not entirely under their control?

“Director—” John began, but Caleb cut him off.

“They’re just being whiny,” he said. “John’s had it and he’s fine.”

Her dark eyes fixed on him. “Is he? Or does he just have access?”

Caleb restrained the urge to tell her to go fuck herself. Instead, he said, “And what about you? You had our blood that day. Are you having any cravings we should know about?”

“No,” she said, her gaze steady. If only he was an empath and could know for sure she wasn’t lying. “This is all moot right now, anyway. I’d like for you and Night to patrol the grounds and keep a sharp eye out for Ryan or Jo. Starkweather, Noorzai, report to the command center and relieve some of the agents there.”

Thank god they could get outside and away from Kaniyar. “Happily,” he said, and turned to the door. Before he could leave, however, Kaniyar spoke up again.

“Before you go…you didn’t see any sign of Agent Pittman, did you? Other than his gun, of course.”

He glanced over his shoulder. She’d turned back to the window, so he couldn’t make out her expression.

“I’m sorry, but no.” And, to his own surprise, he was sorry. It sounded like they’d been a team for a long time. “I don’t think he was with them anymore.”

John and Zahira stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind them.

Sourness turned his stomach and clawed at his esophagus. Somewhere in this house was Carrie Lydell, the exorcist who had summoned demons and put them inside him. Inside Ryan, and Jo, and their poor dead friends.

The knowledge threatened to make his hands shake, or send him running to the bathroom to throw up. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Zahira noticed. “Are you all right, John?”

“No.”

She let out a sigh. “I don’t see how you could be. Do you need to take a break?”

An idea began to grow in his brain. It would be a mistake, he knew it would, but…

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to find the kitchen, splash some water on my face, have a glass. Hydration always helps, right?”

“Take all the time you need.” She stopped outside the door to the command center. “I’ll be in here.”

He nodded, and she slipped through the door. Alone in the hall, he contemplated for a moment, before heading off in what he thought was the most likely direction.

The plush carpet rendered his footsteps silent. Despite being near the heart of a major metropolitan area, no outside sounds penetrated the thick walls and triple-paned windows. The air was oddly still, except when the heat kicked on, as though the house was more showplace than home.

A grand staircase led the way back downstairs, a huge chandelier dangling from the ceiling above the massive Christmas tree. The house’s electricity bill must be astronomical, but clearly Lydell had plenty of money to spare.

He found her sitting in one of the many living rooms, tapping on her phone. Plastic surgery had taken its toll, sharpening her cheekbones, plumping her lips, and suctioning any fat from her cheeks so the flesh clung close to the skull. But he recognized her still. This woman, dressed in white pants and a tan sweater of Vicu?a wool, had once stood over him while he was strapped in a medical chair. She’d dressed like a typical agent then, in a black pantsuit, and her hair had been honey blonde instead of the frosty shade it was now dyed, but it was her.

The exorcist who had summoned demons and forced them inside himself and the other kids.

A wave of nausea passed over him, and his limbs felt weak. He sank into one of the chairs, barely noticing the cloud-like softness of its cushions.

The motion caught her attention, and she looked up. A flash of irritation crossed her face at the sight of him sitting on her furniture. “How much longer is this going to take?” she demanded. “I can communicate with my personal assistant over the phone, but I need the maid service back in as soon as possible.” Her gaze went to one of the ubiquitous vases of fresh flowers, their leaves drooping sadly. “All of the flowers are old and wilting.”

“You could just water them yourselves,” he said.

Her glare could have flayed skin. “I’m not asking for advice. I’m asking for results.”

The sick feeling was joined by something else. Something darker, like a stain on his soul. As soon as the first demon had touched him inside, he’d wanted to kill her. Bite her, rip her, taste her blood and flesh. It was all the maddened thing inside him could understand.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

She frowned, started to respond, then hesitated. At last, she said, “Nineteen?”

“Yes.” Something seemed to constrict his throat. “I’ve been assigned to stop Ryan and protect you.”

The agent who’d been guarding the front door walked in, holding a plastic cup of something green and thick. “A delivery driver brought your smoothie.”

“Finally!” Lydell snatched it out of her hands. “I’m famished.”

John met the other agent’s gaze as she walked out; she rolled her eyes and mouthed “rich people” at him. He managed a slight grin for her.

Lydell sipped her smoothie, then made a face. “Even more disgusting than usual, but it’s good for the skin. Packed with antioxidants.”

She’d put NHEs in him, exposed his young mind to desperation, madness, and rage. Now she sat here in her fucking mansion, nattering on about smoothies as though everything was normal.

His hands tried to curl into fists. “Don’t you have any remorse at all?”

“Why would I have remorse?” She took another sip, made another face. “I served my country. Just because things didn’t work out doesn’t mean I failed.”

God, it was Walsh all over again. “You tortured children,” he growled. “You tortured me!”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea how lucky you are. If it had been in the 60’s, you would have been strapped to a gurney 24/7 with electrodes implanted in your brain. Instead, you were allowed far too much freedom.” She winced and put a delicate hand to her forehead. “You’re giving me a literal headache with these questions. You seem fine to me now, so why don’t you go and do your job?”

He was at a loss what to do. Could he say anything to crack her facade? And if he could, what did he want that to achieve?

An apology—that would be a good start. An acknowledgement of their pain. A bit of remorse, even if only because her actions had helped create the situation they were in now.

Lydell set aside her smoothie and her hands went to her throat.

He stood immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“C-can’t breathe.” She lurched to her feet, then promptly bent over and vomited green smoothie all over the floor. Even as he shouted for help, she collapsed to the carpet like a marionette with its strings cut.