Busted Flush

“Bahir was a hick from Afghanistan, or Kazakhstan, Baluchistan, or some other fucking stan. But suddenly he begins to show a great deal of sophistication. And then there was the little trick with the cards. Not to mention your stunning failure to locate the boy. You’re too dangerous to be allowed to live, Noel. I will try to have you killed.”

“Well, thanks awfully for the warning.”

“A gesture to our past friendship,” he says.

“You won’t target my family?”

“No,” and I hear fourteen years of British public school and sportsmanship on the cricket pitch echoing in his voice.

“Good of you. I have to go now.”

I hang up, force the doctor, the cop, and the orderly to go the hell away, and pull shut the curtain around my bed. I feel the ban dage slip as my waist narrows as I make the transition to Lilith. I picture the front hall of the house and jump.

Cordite has a distinctive smell. I know it well. I’ve shot a lot of guns over the past seven years. Someone has fired a gun in my parents’ home. I struggle into a shuffling run, cursing Siraj with every breath. “Dad! Niobe!”

I find them in the study. Dad is out of bed. His skin is gray and seems to be drooping off his bones. Dark circles are under his eyes, and there’s a smear of blood on the back of his hand where he’s pulled out his IV. I look down at the scabbed bubble of blood on my hand. He is standing next to the wing-backed chair, using it for support. Niobe is curled up in the chair. Dad’s free hand is softly stroking her shoulder. On the threadbare oriental rug there is a wet smear. I’ve seen it before—on a threadbare spread in a hotel in Texas. I plunge out of the room and find the other three. One in the hall. One in Drake’s bedroom. The other in the kitchen. My children. Dead.

I return to the study and Niobe looks up at me. I seem to be staring into an infinite darkness. Her face is rigid, and tear-stained. “They took Drake,” she says. “A stone giant and a bunch of men with guns. The kids tried to stop them. Protect him.” I hear or at least think I hear the accusation. You weren’t here. You didn’t keep us safe. Why weren’t you here? “They killed them. I felt the bullets.” She lays a hand on her chest. “It hurt so bad. I couldn’t do anything.” Her voice is shaking. It translates into her body. She’s shuddering like a woman lost in a blizzard.

I kneel next to her, my arms outstretched, hanging in the air an inch or so from her body as if held back by an unseen barrier. She falls against me and Lilith’s long black hair hides us. Rage engulfs me. Rage at all the masks. I will be myself and they will fucking fear me. Niobe gasps a little as she feels my body morph against hers. But then I’m back and she rests her head on my shoulder with the air of a bird settling into its nest. “They’ve taken everything from me,” she says, so quietly that it’s more like puffs of air against my cheek.

“I’ll get him back for you. I swear I will if it’s the last thing I do.”

Her arms close convulsively around me, and she whispers something that I can’t hear.

“What, honey, I didn’t—”

Dad suddenly pitches forward. I jump up, feel the stitches in my side give way and the tickle of blood running down my side, but I manage to catch him before he hits the ground. Niobe is at my side, brushing the tears off her cheeks.

“We need to get him back in bed,” she says.

A clawlike hand seizes my forearm. “They put him in the back of a big truck.” My father’s voice is like stone on a file. “It was bloody strange. It started driving. Very fast. Then it was gone.”

Niobe reads something in my expression. “What? Does that mean something?”

“Yes, darling, it means I know how to find Drake.”

The pub is empty at 3:00 A.M. The truck is parked out front, the streetlights glittering in the raindrops dappling the hood and roof. The silly little bell tinkles madly as I push through the door. Beneath the long leather coat I’m wearing tight leather pants and a laced vest that pushes up my breasts. Bruckner only knows Noel.

He knows I’m an ace. He knows I’m a killer. He doesn’t know my power. That leaves Lilith free to do her job—get me close.

The fat bartender looks up from his washing. A glass hangs in his hand slowly dripping soap suds off the rim. The Highwayman is at his table by the window, but instead of watching his truck, Bruckner’s watching me. His face is slack with lust. I saunter over to him. His eyes follow every undulation of my hips and sway of my hair. I’m reminded of a fakir in India I once saw dancing with his mesmerized snake. I lean down and whisper in Bruckner’s ear, “I hear you’re a man who can give me a ride.”

“Which kind you want, love?” The last word turns into a whistle of pain as I reach into his crotch and close my fist around his balls.

“The kind that takes me to the boy.”