Carrie Vaughn - Kitty's House of Horrors

None of the three had prior criminal records, but their activities, known associates, and known obsessions were indicative. None of it raised flags until you put the three of them together and added lighter fluid. Individually, they never would have acted. Together as their own little army, they egged each other on to destruction. Their egos, their sense of superiority, had never let them think for a moment that they could fail. I remembered Valenti, in Anastasia’s arms, as the full realization of what was happening to him dawned. And maybe Anastasia was right, and they’d been encouraged by someone like Roman.

They’d planned so well. They’d known so much about what they were facing. But in the end they hadn’t had a fucking clue.

I’d called the families of Jerome, Lee, Ariel, and Jeffrey. Not that there was anything I could say. But I was one of the last people to see their loved ones alive and wanted to bear witness. My chattiness failed me, of course. All I could say was I’m sorry, which was so inadequate.

As far as I could tell, Gemma and Dorian didn’t have families. I couldn’t track them, except through Anastasia, and she already knew how I felt.

Like he often did, Ben picked me up after the show. I climbed in the passenger seat, and he didn’t say a word, for which I was grateful. He just leaned over, touched my face, and kissed my cheek, resting his lips there for a long time. I leaned into the touch.

It was going to be okay.

Tina survived. She got better. The first time I saw her back on her own show, I cheered. Her cohosts were babying her, I could tell. They wouldn’t let her carry any equipment and helped her out of their van. That she didn’t argue with them said a lot about how hurt she really was. But she was back in action, and it felt like a big middle finger to Provost and company. We talked often, but not about Jeffrey. When she was ready, she’d bring him up. Me—I had no doubt he was still around, looking out for her.

Conrad also lived, and so did his leg. I got e-mails from him all the time. Updates, pictures of his kids—at the pool, on the beach, playing ball. Conrad was still processing. For him, the only way to believe that it had all happened was to keep in touch with our insane little survivor group. Whatever worked. He was also planning his next book—about his moment of epiphany, and about reconciling skepticism with the supernatural. I promised him an interview for it. I was happy for him, and grateful we’d been able to save him. No, not grateful—relieved. Relieved that I hadn’t had to call his wife and kids to tell them I was sorry.

Grant came to see me at my office a couple of weeks after. He’d spent time in Montana recuperating and was on his way to Vegas to return to his magic show. Another middle finger to the bad guys. When he sat down in the chair across from my desk, he moved slowly. He still looked ill, which was disconcerting. He was one of the strongest people I knew, but his face sagged, shadows marking his eyes. He sat unevenly, favoring his left, injured side.

We studied each other for a long moment. Hunting for the nonvisible scars.

“Well,” I said. “We made it.”

Ducking his gaze, he hid a smile. “I admit, I had some doubts for a while.”

“Naw, I never did,” I said, grinning and lying.

“How are you holding up?” he said, when I should have been the one asking.

I sighed. “I’m very, very angry. And I think Anastasia’s right. There’s a war brewing.”

“But Roman wasn’t involved with this.”

“Maybe not directly. Maybe not literally. But I think they’re both symptoms of the same thing,” I said.

“Good versus evil?” he said, brow raised.

I shrugged. “Let’s say order versus chaos. Kindness versus fear. No, never mind. False dichotomies, all of them.”

His smile quirked. “You’re learning.”

“Anastasia wanted you to have her card.” I handed him the copy I’d made of it.

He didn’t look at it but folded the page with scarred hands and tucked it in a pocket. “So Roman is recruiting his alliance, and Anastasia is recruiting hers. Do you wonder where this is all going to end?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it will. I think this same damn thing’s been going on for thousands of years. It’s just our turn to play the game now.”

“Well, then. Until next time.” He stood to leave, I stood to see him out. With anyone else, I’d have stepped forward for a hug, but that wry smile was all I was going to get from him. After he left, I sat at my desk, staring at his empty chair for a long time, ignoring the nervous knot in my stomach.

Cañon City was a small town in the foothills between the prairie and the Rocky Mountains. It was also, at least to people living in Colorado, synonymous with the several prison complexes that occupied a good chunk of land here, marked by miles of tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire and clusters of concrete institutional buildings. The Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility was in town, right off the highway. That was where we stopped. The late-summer sun baked off the blacktop and concrete, and I squinted against the glare of it. The whole prison area shone like its own little nightmare.

I was pacing by the car. Ben leaned against the hood, trying not to pace, but he had his arms tightly crossed and was tapping his foot. We were both fidgeting.

“Is it time yet?” I said.

“There’s still ten minutes.” He didn’t even have to look at his watch, which led me to think he’d been all but watching it since we arrived ten minutes ago. We’d gotten here early because we didn’t want to be late. The last thing we wanted was to have Cormac get out and not have anyone here waiting. We owed it to him not to fail on that little thing.

I paced because I kept thinking about how I almost wasn’t here at all.

Finally, Ben uncrossed his arms and straightened from the car.

“It’s time?” I said.

He just smiled and started walking toward the first of the chain-link fences. I rushed to join him, grabbing his hand. We squeezed tightly and walked on together.

Ben knew where to go, and I realized he’d probably done this before with clients. I’d come here dozens of times to visit Cormac over the last couple of years, but this was a different gate, a different part of the complex. It felt like a new start. Maybe that was the idea.

Just inside the gate in the fence here was a white plank-board guardhouse. Beyond that looked like three more stages of chain-link fence, forming a series of cages that led to the first of the cinderblock buildings. The idea of cages made my hair stand on end. I wanted to start pacing again.

A guy in a uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and started unlocking one of the interior gates. Another guard emerged from the building and did the same.

“The suspense is killing me,” I hissed. Ben didn’t say anything but just kept watching.

Then a tall, lanky man in a pair of faded jeans and a gray T-shirt stepped out of the building. He had brown hair and a trimmed mustache and carried a canvas duffel bag over his shoulder. He shook hands with the guard by the building, who locked the gate behind him as he walked on.

God, that was a really long walk.

It probably wasn’t more than thirty yards, but when you were waiting on the other side, it took forever. Especially when Cormac couldn’t seem to be bothered to speed up his usual calm saunter. But I recognized Cormac by that walk.

At the gatehouse, he stopped and signed something on a clipboard offered to him by the guard there. Then they shook hands.

“Time off for good behavior,” Ben said to me. “You can always tell because the guards actually look happy for him.”