Shadowmaster

“His lover?” Brita spat, visibly struggling to get her anger under control. “Neither one of us has time for that.”

Phoenix released her breath slowly. At least she wasn’t dealing with jealousy, which was a very dangerous and irrational emotion.

What troubled Phoenix was that her relief wasn’t in the least objective. It was uncomfortably personal, as if she couldn’t bear the thought that—

“By the way,” Brita said, abruptly derailing Phoenix’s uneasy train of thought. “Sammael said to move you to a new room of your own.”

Phoenix stared at the Fringer woman in surprise, noting that her body had relaxed as if there had never been any tension between her and the prisoner.

And that made Phoenix very, very suspicious.

“I don’t understand,” Phoenix said. “I thought Sammael wanted me to stay here.”

Brita stretched out her long legs and crossed her ankles. “He doesn’t want you to leave the premises, but you may be staying here for a while, and you can’t spend all your time locked up in this room.”

“Sammael’s orders?” Phoenix asked.

Brita didn’t answer. She rose and jerked her head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you to your new digs.”

She strode through the door without once looking back. Phoenix followed slowly, half-expecting an ambush.

The corridor outside was damp and cold. The only light came from Brita’s headlamp, which she turned on as soon as they left Sammael’s room, and a few flickering lights spaced several yards apart. Phoenix assumed they conserved energy whenever possible, since the Fringe’s access to the city’s power grid was strictly limited.

Brita escorted Phoenix along several corridors and stopped before a warped door. “About as good as any room you’ll find here,” she said, “and it has a decent bed.”

She led Phoenix inside. “If you need anything,” she said, “bang on the door. This place gave up being soundproof a long time ago, if it ever was. But you wouldn’t be very smart to try and leave this room without an escort. Every exit from this building is guarded by a whole network of booby traps and alarms, and they have to be disarmed very carefully.”

“How many prisoners do you have here, anyway?” Phoenix asked.

“Just do as I tell you.” Brita closed the door, locking it from the outside. Phoenix listened for a while after Brita’s footsteps had receded into the distance.

This was obviously some kind of test...or a trap. And Phoenix was by no means sure that it was Sammael’s idea. She would certainly learn the truth when Sammael and his crew returned. Since they worked at night, they’d be finishing up their current “business” by dawn or soon after...only a couple of hours away.

Brita had told her not to leave the room, and Phoenix knew it would be dangerous to try. On the other hand, she might never have a better shot at looking for evidence that Sammael was in direct communication with Drakon, and how he might lead her to the assassin. The odds that anything obvious would turn up were probably thousands to one, but the odds weren’t her concern. The looking was.

Still, she didn’t attempt to leave until she heard voices that seemed to be coming from outside the building, too indistinct for her to decipher the words but clear enough for her to identify one of the speakers as Brita.

After a few moments’ careful consideration, Phoenix decided to take the risk. She tested the door and quickly discovered that the lock was broken—more proof that this might very well be a trap. She paused outside, listening again.

Brita definitely wasn’t in the building, and Phoenix was finally able to pinpoint the direction of the voices. Before she did anything else, she had to know what Sammael’s lieutenant was up to.

Still, she hesitated, sensing something out of kilter besides the obviously ineffective lock. It took her a few minutes to find the webwork of nearly invisible wires stretched between floor and ceiling on each side of the door, clearly meant to trigger an alarm on contact. Or perhaps do something much worse.

But Brita clearly didn’t know that this govrat’s training had included such esoteric skills as disarming bombs and alarm systems.

In five minutes, Phoenix had found the trigger and disabled it. She used every one of her half-dhampir skills to make her way through the maze of corridors while avoiding the surveillance cameras she spotted at each end of every hall or corridor. She found a rear exit and searched the area for the “booby traps” Brita had mentioned.

As she’d suspected, there didn’t seem to be any safeguards to prevent escape, only to keep potential enemies out. If Sammael’s crew did take prisoners or hostages, they certainly weren’t confined in rooms with half-broken locks.

Once she was certain she wasn’t going to trip any alarms, Phoenix carefully moved through the outer door. It was hidden from the view of outside observers by the strategic placement of old crates and pieces of discarded metal and wood, but the voices grew more distinct, and soon she could make out the words.

“I told you I’m happy where I am,” Brita said. “I don’t care what you offer me. I’m not switching crews now.”

“Even though everyone in the Fringe knows that Sammael’s crew is getting restless because he gives half your booty away?” the man’s voice asked.

“He gives a shit about the people who live here. And you’re wrong about his crew. I grew up in the Fringe. I know what it’s like, and I know how to survive here. Sammael’s no weakling, and you’re never getting to him through me.”

“We can always find someone else.”

“You don’t think Sammael’s watching? You think he’s so soft that he’d let some traitor go over to your Boss?”

There was a long silence, and Phoenix could almost hear the man’s shrug.

“Your funeral,” he said. “But The Preacher’s gonna come for Sammael’s turf sooner or later, and it’s gonna be a nasty war. Whoever loses is gonna take his crew down with him, so you better make sure you’re on the right side.”

“And you better make sure you don’t come here again, or I’ll kill you myself.”

The man laughed. “You can try.”

The sound of his footsteps receded, and then there was only the darkness and silence.

Phoenix retreated just inside the door and waited until Brita returned, disarmed the alarms and stepped into the Hold. Her pupils were huge in the darkness, and when she saw Phoenix she stopped in apparent shock.

“You were talking to someone from The Preacher’s crew,” Phoenix said, leaning against the wall.

Brita’s eyes narrowed. “You got past the web.”

“You were laying a trap for me,” Phoenix said, dodging the question. “Why?”

“Because you’re not who you say you are.”

As you are not, Phoenix thought. “You’ve obviously believed that from the beginning,” she said aloud, taking a step toward Sammael’s lieutenant. “Who do you think I am, Brita?”

“You’re not human.”

Phoenix wasn’t shocked. If she recognized Brita, then it was bound to work the other way. But she had to be sure. “Why would you think that?” she asked calmly.

“Maybe Sammael is blind, but I’m not.”

“And what do you see so clearly that he doesn’t?”

“Things like how easily you move in the dark. And other—” She cut the air with her hand. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I just know.”

“Do I look inhuman?”

“Looks can deceive.”

Indeed they can, Phoenix thought. “If what you believe is true,” she said, preparing herself for a fight she didn’t want, “why didn’t you tell Sammael at the beginning?”