Taken By Storm (30 page)

"I'm Riley," she says. "Ayala and Evis Storme, right? Alamea told me to expect you."

Evis Storme. My brother jumps at the name, but when I look at him, his eyes glow with pride.

She ushers us through the door into a cozy kitchen that smells like cinnamon and roasting chicken and fresh cut herbs. It reminds me with a dissonant sort of jolt that it's the holiday season. I don't usually do much besides order take out and decorate a pine bough on my coffee table, but this year we won't even be doing that.
 

The kitchen is tidy, organized. It bridges decades of style from old flip top canisters that are lovingly worn to a gleaming stainless steel set of appliances. The shelves are all raw wood, sanded and sealed to show off the grain. The floor wears slate blue matte tile that matches the countertops.

The sight of this well-kept, homey place makes me feel the threat of what's coming feel all the more real.
 

I don't think hell dimensions look like this, if their inhabitants are anything to judge from. The slime alone would ruin it in seconds.

Evis hangs close to me, our arms touching.
 

Riley bustles to the sink and sets a teapot on the stove. "What would you two like to drink?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine, thanks. I don't drink tea or coffee anymore."

Alamea emerges from the living room, coming in to lean on the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the dining room.

"Thank you for coming," she says.

I glance at Riley. "Thank you for having us."
 

Exchanging pleasantries feels strange.
 

Riley squeezes Alamea's arm as she walks out of the kitchen. "I'll leave you three to talk without me eavesdropping."

"So," I say. "You knew where Gryfflet was all along."

"Not exactly. I knew he was off doing something in particular, but I didn't know where he was doing it."

"What is he doing? Aside from haunting old ruins?" I move over to the breakfast bar and sit on a stool. I always hate stools. They hurt my back.

Evis stands across from me and leans on the counter.
 

"Gryfflet has been working on a special project for me, and it was imperative that the Summit think he was working against me. Or at the very least, to undermine me." Alamea's hair is pulled back from her face, the long, thin locs now free of the mud and grass that peppered them last time I saw her. A small silver clasp with a stylized crescent moon dangles on a stray loc that hangs over her shoulder.
 

I consider what she's just said. I've known for a while that she had her own agenda, but I don't think I let myself really question just how strategic she could be.
 

"You knew what Gryfflet was going to tell me." I don't expect her to deny it, and she doesn't.

"Yes."

"You could have told me that yourself, back when we were looking at those maps in your office a few months ago."

"I was gauging your reaction to the news that our territory could become the next Mississippi. It's one thing to be faced with a fight on your home turf. It's something else altogether to have that fight extended worldwide." Alamea smiles at Evis, who returns it with a blank stare. "I wasn't sure what you'd do with that information, and it was such that if you'd gone flapping your tongue to the rest of the Summit, most of the older Mediators would have just treated you like a young little firebrand spouting off conspiracies."

"I'm only going to tell you this once," I say. "Play me like that again, and any trust we have will be lost forever."

Alamea nods, slowly. "I understand. But you have to understand that I'm working within a fragile and very volatile infrastructure here. Some things I can share. Other things I can't. And yet more, I literally
can't
."

I blink at her. "That's either a deeply disturbing admission about Summit politics or a very convenient excuse to withhold information."

Her smile now is as dry as a deer hide left out in the summer sun. "Why do you think I had Gryfflet talk to you?"

Something occurs to me. "If I were to ask you about the Summit-provided tea and coffee and its extra ingredients or processing techniques, what would you say?"

A sheen of perspiration begins on Alamea's forehead. I watch her mouth open and close, and Evis backs up a step.

"Would you care for some water?" she asks finally.

I've heard of gag spells before. They're mostly illegal after a bunch of production companies in Hollywood tried to use them to enforce non-disclosure agreements to disastrous effect, but they're not too difficult to find. And they're also not too difficult to recognize.
 

I'm not sure why, but for some reason Alamea's binds that prevent her from discussing one of the best kept secrets in Mediator history restores some of my confidence in her. Though it confirms the disturbing truth that at some point in our history, someone made a decision to put us all in cages with the hordes of hell.
 

"I also see that you didn't go flapping your tongue about any beverages to the rest of the Summit."

"Not because I don't want to. It's abhorrent."

She doesn't answer, but I think from the set of her mouth she agrees. Alamea walks to the sink and fills a glass with water, taking the unused tea kettle off the burner when it whistles. She speaks slowly, with a deliberation that causes more sweat to bead on her forehead, though she manages to get words out. "I hope you see why it is I can't let that be known."

I want to protest, and Evis looks confused. But I nod. "For now, yes. For now if we crumble trust in the Summit — which this coming out would — it would fracture everyone. Not just the Mediators. And we can't afford that right now."

Alamea gives me a terse nod.

"But Alamea? If there's still a world left when the new year dawns, I'm opening the cage doors."

She sips her water, and I can see her eyes brimming with tears I never thought I'd ever see from her. "If there's still a world left then, I'll help you."

We stay for a couple hours, spitballing strategy ideas, but nothing helps.

She tells me that Gryfflet's been working on a way to track non-specifics, like for instance, where the imbalance is coming from. Her belief in his abilities feels a bit optimistic, but she's the one hiding out in her own city from the Summit she's technically leading, so I'll leave her that little ray of hope while I have to make my peace with the clouds outside.

Alamea also gives us some contact information of trustworthy people at the Summit who Carrick and Mason can get to help with the Gregor-missile tracking spell. I call Carrick with it right away, give him the information, and hang up before he can hand the phone to Mason.

I'm not ready to deal with that yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to deal with it.

The sky is darkening for the night when we get in the car to leave. Evis hugs Alamea goodbye, which I think surprises her. Her arms flop around him for a second before tightening into a proper embrace, and she's recovered enough by the time he pulls away to place a light touch on his shoulder.

This time I see tears in his eyes, and I turn away before either of them can see them also in mine.

I drive us through downtown, wanting to know how much things have changed. Part of me superimposes Seattle's streets over Broadway and Demonbreun. I try to blink away the images of bodies piled high in the streets of my city.

"Do you think the demons are coming here?" Evis asks me. His fingers trace the rubber seam where the window meets the car door.
 

"I think there's no chance that they won't." I hate saying it. Maybe driving down here is one last chance for me to capture Nashville as I know it, Parthenon to Music Row.
 

This city may have been my unwitting cage my entire life, but it's the only home I've ever known. There are people I love here, people like Laura and Alice. Madeleine's, where I used to go for brunch all the time and where once a shade in Saturn's generation threw a businessman down on my eggs Benedict once. Right in my perfectly jiggling poached eggs.

I never had much of a social life, but I know these streets the way some folks know people.
 

On a whim, I dial Laura's office. It goes straight to voicemail. Her message says, "I am sorry to miss your call. Due to unavoidable circumstances, I am out of town for the foreseeable future. If you are a current client, please call my cell."

There it is, proof that the city is already changing.
 

As if I need any other reminder, when I hang up the phone, Evis yelps. There's a pack of slummoths running down Charlotte Avenue, and the sun doesn't set for another two hours.

With a screech of rubber, I pull my car over on the side of the road and jump out. I'm not in my leathers. I should be. It's stupid of me to leave the house without being armed to the gills right now.

I pop the trunk and fly out of the car. Evis covers me, heading to the street, making eye contact with the oncoming demons.

A few cars swerve out of the way, but there's almost no traffic for nearly rush hour, for which I'm grateful.

I grab my swords, the feel of the hilts against my palms reassuring me already. There's only six slummoths, though six is plenty even if I've taken down a lot more than that in one sitting before.

I know as well as any Mediator that a single harkast can take you out if they get lucky enough.

There's a squeak of brakes behind me, but I ignore it. As long as no asshat texting and driving plows into me before I can take out these slimy motherfuckers, I don't really care what the cars on the road do.

Evis runs at the slummoths head on, getting them to all focus on him. I flank them, and he jumps back just as my sword's edge makes contact with the first dripping grey neck.

Someone honks, and I hear yelling.
 

My brother knows what he's doing. His hands strike out both at once, fists landing in the squishy folds of slummoth necks. The two demons collapse, enraging the remaining three. I come at them from the side, dodging their swinging claws. I get one more head off and ram my saber point deep into the side of another. Evis tears the head off one of the downed beasts and hollers as the other claws him up the calf.
 

My sword bites into the neck of the demon I just stabbed. Spinning, I evade the rushing attack of the single slummoth remaining standing, and Evis rips the arm off the one on the ground before decapitating
 
him.

He closes in on the last one, hitting it in the face with the arm he just removed. The spray of bright green blood lands right in the slummoth's eyes, and I dart in, lobbing off its head.

For a moment, I expect more to come howling down the street.

None do.

There's a backup of traffic on either side of us, and I look around to see the faces of incredulous norms staring at me. Several of them have their gods damned phones out, aimed right at me and the slummoth carcasses littering the street.

I hear someone yell my name, and when I turn, the random stranger takes a picture.

Dumbfounded, I look at Evis, who looks confused.
 

"What are they doing?"

"They're filming us. I think we're about to be YouTube stars." My voice comes out far more glib than I feel.

I forgot that my face has been plastered all over national television. They're not just staring at the demons in the middle of their street. I'm on center stage.
 

"Evis, we should go."

He nods, heading back to the car.
 

I give the spectators an ironic salute with my saber and head back to Evis, cleaning my blades with the eyes of about fifty people burning into my back. Or maybe that's just the slummoth blood eating through my t-shirt.

Either way, I can't get out of there fast enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

We don't make it out of the city.

We make it as far as Gallatin Avenue, and my phone rings. Mira.

"Gregor burned down my house." Her voice is thick with tears and snot, and I immediately pull the car over to the side of the road.