Shadow Train (15 page)

“But you
are
the best,” Savana said earnestly. “Everyone in town says so. They say you can perform miracles. And I need your help. Because there's something . . . this baby, Lily Rose. Something is . . . different.”

She was about to say more when she looked up and saw Jack standing in the doorway.

“What?” he asked. “What about our baby is different?”

Savana hesitated for a second. “It . . . oh, it's nothing,” she said finally. “It just kicks more than usual. Here—feel.”

Jack came over and put his hand on her stomach.

“I don't feel anything,” he said. She could tell he was in a bad mood again. It was hard to keep up with Jack. One minute he'd be so sweet and kind and charming, then something would go wrong and he would turn cold and distant, as if his relationship with her was just another frustrating business transaction he had to endure.

“Jack, did you know Lily Rose is a licensed midwife?” She turned to the old black woman. “How many babies did you say you've delivered, Lily Rose?”

“Two hundred and five,” Lily Rose said proudly and went to the dishwasher again.

“That's nice,” Jack said, taking a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet and pouring himself a glass.

“I was thinking of asking Lily Rose to deliver the baby,” Savana said.

“Well, stop thinking about it,” Jack replied and then took a sip of his drink. “No offense, Lily Rose, but Dr. Rosenberg at Stormont-Vail in Topeka is a friend. We'll go there.”

“But what if the baby comes early, Jack? We can't drive all the way to Topeka—”

“I've rented a condo in the city for you to move into a couple of weeks before the due date. I'll be there every weekend, and I'll have a driver on call in case you go into labor when I'm not there.” He smiled at Savana. “You see, my darling—I think of everything.”

“That's great, Jack, and I appreciate it, but—”

“It's nonnegotiable,” he said harshly and then added gently, “my love.” He downed the last of his drink and walked out of the kitchen.

Lily Rose turned on the dishwasher and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I guess I'm just about done here,” she said, giving Savana a sympathetic smile. “But if you need me, you know right where to find me, don't you?”

* * *

Aimee sat on her bed and looked around her room. It had been so long since she'd spent time here that everything seemed unfamiliar. But even stranger than her surroundings was a sudden recollection of the girl she had been before she met Orias. If she was still that girl, she would have freaked out tonight, when her father had grabbed her arm after Savana went into the kitchen with Lily Rose, marched her up the stairs, and thrust her into her bedroom. She would have been wracked with misery at the threat he had snarled at her, that she would be sorry if she tried to see Orias again until after he and Savana were married. If she acted up again, he had promised, he would send her back to boarding school immediately.

“You think just because I'm going into business with Orias that you can do whatever you want,” he'd said. “But you're going to do what I want for a change—and that is to keep your butt at home and make Savana feel welcome and help her get ready for the wedding. Got it?”

Without waiting for her to answer, he'd slammed the door and locked it. The sound of the lock clicking into place would have sent the old Aimee into a downward spiral of hurt and anxiety. That familiar crippling, gnawing fear that came from feeling trapped and powerless would have crept up her spine until it paralyzed her. But now, as she dangled her feet off the bed, she was only amused.

Serene, she rose from the bed, smoothed her skirt with her hands, and looked at her closed door. “Bye, Daddy,” she said and teleported out of her room.

It took less than a second. It felt something like a shiver, and Aimee was so good at it from all her practice with Orias that it took no more effort than a sneeze. When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the middle of Orias's parlor in front of a crackling fire. He sat in his usual spot on the couch, gazing into the trembling flames, and sipping from his chalice. As Aimee appeared, however, he started, almost spilling his drink.

“You've got to stop sneaking up on me like that!” he exclaimed. He put down the drink and pulled her into his arms. “You'll give me a heart attack.”

Aimee laughed. “Oh, I didn't know that Nephilim have hearts,” she teased.

“I don't,” Orias said tenderly. “Not anymore. I gave mine to you.”

Aimee smiled and pressed her head against his broad, powerful chest, inhaling the strange incense and musk scent that marked his divine presence.

“I thought your father wanted you to sleep at home,” Orias observed.

“He did,” Aimee said, nuzzling her face into his shirt. “But I didn't want to. And thanks to everything you taught me, no one can control me anymore.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. He seemed strangely disturbed for a moment, but the expression disappeared quickly, replaced by his usual charming smile.

“Anyway, I can slip back into my room before school tomorrow, right?” she said.

“Of course, my love. Now . . . how about a nice cup of tea?”

* * *

Zhai stood for a long time in the shadowed hallway, staring at the swirling patterns of the wood grain in his father's study door. For the last few months, curiosity and resentment had risen within him like a cresting flood, but as many times as he'd approached this door, something had always made him shy away from confronting his father about his association with the Order of the Black Snake. For a long time, he'd thought it was respect, but lately he'd begun to think it might be fear—fear of what his father might tell him.

Either way, there was no more time for hesitation. Master Chin was barely hanging on to life. The Toppers were falling apart. And if Zhai lost his duel with Rick on Saturday, the shards the other Toppers possessed might be lost, too—at least until the Obies tracked them down. And once they presented the reassembled ring to their serpent god, who knew what would happen?

Ironically enough, it wasn't any of these potential calamities that had finally driven Zhai to his father's study. It was the phone call from Nass. His family had been evicted from their home by a company Zhai's father and Jack Banfield owned.

Before the search for Raphael started, Zhai had been certain that he wouldn't like Nass. He remembered watching the Flatliner's break-dancing routine during his first week of school and thinking that he was just a loudmouthed showoff, a ham who cared about nothing but stirring up trouble and being the center of attention. But when the two had joined forces in the search for Raphael, Zhai had been amazed. When other Flatliners began giving Zhai attitude, it was always Nass who reminded them that they were all working together to find their friend. Nass was truly hilarious, but his jokes were good-natured and inclusive, not the boastful, crass humor Zhai had expected. And often at the end of a long day of searching, Zhai, Maggie, and Nass had been the last three still out looking for Raphael. The more he observed Nass's work ethic, his leadership, and his generosity, the more he admired him. At times, it felt like they were a two-man gang of their own—the only two people in town fighting for peace, when everyone else was clamoring for a fight.

So when Zhai had learned that Nass's family had been thrown out of their home, he had decided he could no longer stand by while whatever his father was doing went forward.

Nass said that the Flatliners were sure that the evictions in the Flats had been part of the Obies' search for the ring. That search was over, yet the evictions continued. Zhai intended to find out why. He also had a few other questions he wanted his father to answer.

Before he could lose his nerve, he reached out and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” his father's voice sounded from within.

As usual, the moment Cheung had returned home from the Banfields' party he'd barricaded himself in his study. Zhai entered it now and found his father sitting at his desk, looking at two computer monitors set up side by side. He gazed at them for a moment longer before pulling his eyes away.

“Hello, Zhai,” he said. “What can I do for you this evening?”

The last phrase was one Cheung Shao had picked up many years ago in an English for Business course, and he was particularly fond of it. Zhai would have preferred a less impersonal greeting, but he was in no mood to correct his father—not tonight.

He placed both hands on the desk, palms down. Four puffy, crimson lines on the back of each of his hands showed clearly in the lamplight. If anyone looked closely, they would be able to see the remnants of the defaced markings beneath the scars—black tattoos that had been the Chinese symbols for the word
slave
. So far, Zhai had kept the scars and the marks beneath them hidden from Cheung Shao. Now he made sure he saw them.

His father stared down at his hands and then cleared his throat. His face was so rigid with tension that his lips barely moved as he asked, “What happened?”

“The Order of the Black Snake,” Zhai said. “They marked me.”

Cheung went suddenly pale. “I . . . I've never heard of them—”

“No!” Zhai interrupted. It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice to his father, and it felt like a floodgate opening. A raging torrent of emotion drove him on. “Stop lying to me! The men in derby hats marked me. Your guests, Father. They tattooed my hands and made me their slave. The only way I could be free was to do this to myself—to burn the marks off. Now their leader is in town—and he almost killed Master Chin. I need you to tell me what's going on, and how to stop them.”

Cheung shook his head. “I . . . I don't know. I don't know anything about them.”

“Yes, you do,” Zhai insisted. “They told me that they own you, that they're in business with you somehow. Just admit that it's true! Admit you're working with them!”

Zhai's father stared back at him, his face as still as a death mask. Filled with a sudden frustration, Zhai slammed both his fists down on the desk. “At least tell me why the evictions in the Flats are still going on. My friend and his family just got thrown out of their apartment—he's homeless now, because of your company!”

Cheung sniffed and then wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “My work in the Flats is done,” he said calmly. “I've sold my share of all those properties to Jack Banfield. He has a ten-year redevelopment plan for the area—outlet malls and condos, mixed-use properties. An office park. If your friend has a problem, he should take it up with Banfield.”

Zhai stared at his father in disbelief. All these years he'd felt so empty, so devoid of emotion, so careful not to let himself feel anything. The only emotion he had allowed in was love for his sister, until he met Kate—and he couldn't help but love Kate. But now he was feeling something new and unfamiliar, an emotion so powerful that it scared him.

He was truly, genuinely angry.

“You can deny it, Father. You can lie to me. You can lie to Lotus and Li. You can even lie to yourself. But I know you work for the Order. And even now, now that I'm begging you to tell me the truth, to help me, to help my friends—you're protecting them, the men who branded your son. All the long hours you locked yourself away from me I thought it was your obsession with work, but now I know the real reason behind it. You can pretend it was for us—for your family. You can pretend to be a perfect, moral, disciplined person all you want, but I know the truth.” Zhai's last words came out in something between a sob and a snarl. “The truth is, Father, you're nothing but a slave.” And he wheeled around and stormed away.

The moment his hand touched the doorknob, however, he heard a sound from behind him, a pitiful groan, and he turned back to find his father standing now, tears streaming down his face.

“Zhai—my son.” Cheung's voice trembled. “You're right.”

Cheung Shao unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his bare chest. There, two familiar Chinese symbols were tattooed—the same symbols that Zhai had on his hands. The magical marks the Obies had used to control him.

And this tattoo was directly over his father's heart.

“The Order used their mark to control your fists, so you would fight for them,” Cheung said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “But my mark is upon my heart, and it is that which they control. I disobey them, and they will break it by destroying all that I love. And then they will make it stop beating. Now do you understand?”

* * *

With one swipe of his forearm, Raphael wiped the dripping blood and sweat from his brow. Already, his wounds were too numerous to count. So far, he'd defeated an ape-like humanoid, a caveman with a wooden spear, a bronze-age warrior with a sword, a barbarian wearing nothing but a fur tunic and brandishing a wicked, spiked club, and a Comanche warrior with a tomahawk. Now, his eyes flicked back and forth amid the swirling mist, searching for his next adversary. His new enemy's appearance happened so fast that Raph could barely register who he was.

This combatant wore nothing but a linen loincloth and a steel helmet with a large, brush-like flourish on top. He held a steel short sword in one hand and a spear in the other. Raph glimpsed his chiseled abs and bulging biceps an instant before the man's sword whistled toward his head, and all he could do was throw himself backward, out of range of the deadly blade. He landed on his back and then kicked his legs over his head and somersaulted over and back up to his feet, just in time to see the next blow coming. Somewhere amid the tumult, it registered in Raphael's mind who it was he was fighting—one of the most elite warriors of the ancient Greeks, a man who'd likely spent his entire life training for warfare. A Spartan. But Raph was already too exhausted to experience anything like fear. All he did was react to the blade when it whooshed toward him again.