Page 70 of Night in a Waste Land

Morgan didn’t seem to hear.

Rose went to her, touched her shoulder; he still marveled over the fact that Rose, his best conduit-killer, so readily made physical contact with this one.

“Where?” she asked.

“Ground floor. He’s – something’s – different.”

“Different how?” Lance demanded.

Rose shot him a warning look. “Different how?” she repeated, much softer.

“He’s…I don’t know.” Again, more faintly, “I don’t know.”

“Are we proceeding or not?” Tris asked.

Morgan shivered all over, and said, “I’m ready.”

“Proceeding,” Lance said. “Rose, stay in the back with her.”

Rose shot him a glare, but didn’t argue, for once, hand still on Morgan’s shoulder.

Lance drew his suppressed gun, and a knife. Tris did the same, took up the point position, and they went through a door. One that led out into a hallway.

A guard turned toward them, opened his mouth to shout – and went down, eyes closed. Men went down in great, limp tangles as they found a second stairwell, and went down two more floors, to the ground level.

That was when felt the unpleasant, electric tingles down the back of his neck that meant a conduit was near. He felt them in Morgan’s presence, but they had their own particular thrum, and he’d learned to ignore them.

This, though, this –pulse. A ripple like an unsteady heartbeat, a push and pull rather than a static humming. It set his teeth on edge.

They stood in a grand foyer, its slate floors polished to a shine. A clock on the wall chimed the hour, and through arched doorways he heard the murmur of voices, and the steady tread of unhurried feet. Someone laughed – loudly, and wildly. Crystal shattered with a bright, tinkling sound, but there were no screams or rushed steps. A normal occurrence, then: the breaking of things.

A glance toward Morgan revealed she was bone-white, and trembling, whether from exhaustion or fear, he had no idea.

At her side, Rose gripped the hell dagger, the hilt’s rubies winking like blood drops in the glow of the chandelier.

“He’ll have the hostage with him,” Rose said, sure of herself. “That’s where he can guard him the closest.”

Lance nodded. They’d peeked in a few bedrooms upstairs on their way, and found all of them empty. There would be only one surefire way to ensure a hostage stayed carefully-watched.

He faced forward–

“Hey!” someone shouted behind them.

A moment later a thud registered as Morgan collapsed the body, but the shout had been loud. It would have been heard – and had been, if the sudden silence from deeper in the house was any indication.

Lance took off at a run.

A short hallway led into a massive dining room dominated by a long, gleaming table. Candlesticks marched down its center – for ambiance, rather than practicality, a chandelier burning overhead. Lance registered guards – reaching for sidearms, barking into radios, lunging toward the door, and him. His attention skipped over a skinny-necked, big-eyed teen who could only be Logan, the Prime Minister’s son, but his attention snagged on the man sitting at the head of the table, the stem of a shattered wine glass held negligently in one hand.

There was a reason Timothy Shubert was the head of his criminal organization, and not merely a hired thug: he had the looks for it. Tall, elegant, his short, ash-blond hair combed neatly to one side, in a style reminiscent of a century ago. He wore a suit, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes – his white-blue, glowing eyes. That glow was unmistakable, as was the way the back of Lance’s neckburnednow that he was in the conduit’s presence.

Too late – Lance cursed himself for the lapse – he lifted his weapons as the guards closed in.

But Shubert said, “Stop.”

The guards halted.

Shubert grinned, head cocking to the side, gaze fixed on Lance. “How cute. A rescue mission.” Then his expression flickered, and smoothed, and in an entirely different voice – the flat, toneless voice of Morgan, and every other conduit he’d ever faced, said, “That was foolish.”

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