Soldier of Fortune

Gideon knew they were being followed.

He knew they were being followed because if they weren’t, all the shouts of protest, grunts of pain, and crashes of glass breaking behind them were the beginnings of Nike’s most specifically transient bar fight ever.

He hoped just this once his instincts were off, and the noise really was the result of a pub brawl-crawl, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed him five figures—two slim and dark and three broad and fair—plowing through the street. “Uh oh.”

Mia glanced over. “That sounds bad.”

“It is. The triplets are coming.” He turned and gave Mia a let’s hurry hand on her shoulder. “With their friends the mercenary twins.”

“What twins?” she asked, but hurriedly in deference to the hand.

“Remember the woman from the alley?”

“The one with the slithery voice.” Mia pulled him left, off of Marlboro and onto a still smaller street, one of those formed when more buildings were erected than the original city plan allowed for.

“That one, yes. Her name is Rey.”

“She was pissed—”

“Angry.”

“—that you bashed her brother. You never mentioned they was twins.”

“Were, and it didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

Mia, no surprise, rolled her eyes. Then she took a sharp right into a narrow walkway.

Gideon squeezed her shoulder to stop, and both flattened against the building as he leaned out to see what was happening behind them.

At first, he thought they’d lost the full hive of siblings, but a flurry of motion at the corner of Marlboro told him they were still coming.

“Time to scarp,” he said and followed Mia deeper into a passage made up of buildings so old and ramshackle, he suspected they only remained upright by leaning against each other.

He also found it odd that the entrances were all below street level, so one had to descend a staircase to get to the front door. He was going to ask about the odd feature when he got a whiff of ease-laced smoke through a cracked window and the question turned into a cough.

By the time he could breathe again, Mia swung left, down a set of stairs to one of the sub-level doors.

Gideon followed, less enthusiastically. “Tell me this isn’t your someplace quiet.”

“Nah, this is just a shortcut.”

Gideon, still on the steps, could smell the teasing edges of ease, trip, and who knew what other narcotics. He glanced back into the narrow lane. “So far, so good. Maybe we’ve lost—”

And then an Ohmdahl-like shout was followed by a Ronan-like shadow, and he knew they were out of time.

“Never mind.” He ducked into the house, and Mia followed, closing the door behind them.

He reached back to lock the door, but Mia shook her head. “If they’re trying the doors, and one’s locked . . .”

“It’ll look like someone’s hiding something.” He nodded, then coughed again as the smoke that had only teased its way past the door hung thickly in the house itself.

It stung Gideon’s eyes, rasped in his throat, clouded his senses, and infuriated Elvis, who set his wings to flapping the pernicious substance away.

“Thanks,” Gideon told him.

Through the haze, he could just make out a long central hall with an ascending stairway facing the entrance and rooms opening on either side. All, he assumed, occupied by whoever was making all that smoke.

Mia didn’t hesitate and headed straight through, past the stairs and the rooms, into the kitchen and then right to another door.

“Now where?” Gideon rasped.

Mia, holding one sleeve-covered hand over her nose and mouth, opened the door with the other to show a set of stairs leading down.

Bad idea, Gideon thought.

Then he heard the front door beginning to creak open behind them.

They went downstairs.

The lower area was as large but divided by a series of free-standing screens, and while there was enough smoke to calm an acre of bees, it was of the lighter, less narcotic variety found in pubs and hookah shops.

Gideon had never thought of tobacco as particularly refreshing, but in comparison to what was being inhaled upstairs, the basement was like a walk through a spring shower.

“This way,” Mia said again, leading him through the forest of screens.

As they moved, the air became less fuggy, and Gideon was even able to blink away some of the tears to see an open window.

An open window in a basement.

He looked at Mia, his eyes questioning.

“Wolstonecroft Street,” she said softly and pointed to where the window was set next to a crookedly hung door. “It’s a full story lower than Byron.”

From upstairs, the sound of heavy footsteps shook the ceiling. Mia, still filtering the air through her sleeve, tugged him past a meadow of reclining individuals, all sharing an apiary’s worth of water pipes, before hitting another narrow hall which led to the basement exit.

“Wait,” Gideon said quickly, grabbing Mia’s hand as she reached for the door’s handle.

A feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach—the same sort he’d feel when a mission was about to go swarm—meaning either he was suffering from a contact high, or . . .

He studied the door, top to bottom, then with a speed that belied the fug in his brains, slammed the door’s rusty lock home.

“What?” Mia hissed as he took her by the arm and dragged her along back through the hall, then down another short corridor that branched away from the somnolent party. “What’re you doing? We were almost home free.”

“Crack under the door,” he explained shortly as boots clumped heavily down the stairs. “The gap was big enough to see two pairs of boots waiting on the other side. Here.” He stopped at the end of the hall, in front of a curtained-off section of wall.

The odor emanating from behind that curtain was about as far from a spring shower as he could imagine.

“Here, what?”

“Here is where you’re going to hide,” he said, pulling the curtain aside and immediately wishing he hadn’t.

The curtain really did cut down on the privy’s smell.

“Are you swarm?” she asked, almost choking on the odor. “We can’t all fit in here—and those who do are like to suffocate.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said. Actually, it was pretty bad. But behind him, whoever had come downstairs was rousting the torpid smokers from their respective stupors.

And now someone was banging on the back door.

Gideon looked at Mia. “There’s room for the two of you.”

“Wait!” Her eyes went wide, making her, for once, seem as young as she actually was.

“Can’t,” he said, then straightened his arm and clicked his tongue to Elvis, who flowed from Gideon’s shoulder to his wrist and then, when Gideon gave the sign, to Mia’s shoulder. “Friend,” he said to the draco. “Guard.” And while Elvis showed his displeasure by shifting from leg to leg, he remained in place, his right forepaw resting in Mia’s hair.

“No,” she whispered, never minding that the draco had been her sole desire not five hours ago. “We’ll fight ’em. Like we did before.”

“Can’t,” he said again. He crouched down quickly because, to his horror, the girl was actually near to tears. “The thing is, these aren’t going to be the last. The person who sent the twins—”

“Rand,” she breathed the name.

“Yes, Rand,” Gideon agreed as a rush of fresh air from behind told him the basement door was now open. “Rand’s like Killian Del. He has money and power, and even if we could fight them all—and we can’t—Rand won’t stop sending people after me.”

“But—”

“They’re not looking for you. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Her face began to crumple, and his heart seemed to be going along for the ride.

Must be something in the smoke . . .

Footsteps were closing in. The screens Mia had led him around were being torn aside, or simply through.

“Keep Elvis safe for me,” he said. Then he rose and dropped the curtain before her expression could completely undo him, turned, and stepped out of the alcove where the five—no, six—pursuers waited.

Gideon frowned, then counted.

Three Ohmdahls, check.

Two angry twins, check.

And one—

“I’m sorry,” he said to the sixth person, a smaller man with a distinguished mustache and wearing what looked to be a servant’s uniform. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nahmin Soor,” the small man said. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Quinn.”

“Not colonel,” Gideon said.

“As you wish.”

Gideon stepped forward, trying to move the scene farther from Mia’s hiding place. “Where did you come from?” he asked Nahmin.

“I found him waiting at the back door,” Freya said, peering somewhat owlishly at the small man. “First I wonder, ‘who is this little man pounding on door, and why is he also looking for Gideon,’ but then I am thinking, the more the happier, yes?”

“No,” Gideon said, glancing at the six standing between him and any hope of freedom, “not really.”

“That’s just hurtful,” Nahmin said, looking past Gideon’s shoulder.

“Did you bring the carriage?” Rey asked.

“It is just outside,” Nahmin replied.

“I thought you were looking for a higher class of employer,” Gideon said to the Ohmdahls.

“You’ve met one another?” Nahmin asked Gideon.

“I facilitated an understanding between the triplets and a young lady.”

“Nice girl,” Rolf agreed. “Friend of Mia the dodger.”

“Small world,” Nahmin observed.

“Gideon even gave us some starbucks, for our troubles,” Ulf tossed in.

“Well,” Gideon replied, “I did cost you a job, so—”

“Enough!” Ronan cut Gideon off with a shove that sent him stumbling toward the privy curtain. He only avoided crashing through it by twisting wildly and grabbing hold of Rey’s sleeve, which went about as well as one could expect.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing at the side of his head—at least she hadn’t hit the same spot as Jagati—while noting that the Ohmdahl triplets were beginning to look less cheerful.

Nahmin must have noticed as well, as he turned to face the three giants. “Thank you for your assistance,” he told them. “But we can take over from here.”

The Ohmdahls, however, were not eager to shuffle off the stage. “We are happy to be helping,” Freya said, while her brothers both nodded.

“A generous offer,” Nahmin replied, “but our business with Msr Quinn is just that, business, and dull business at that. There will be no need for your particular skill sets.”

And as the butler-like man spoke, Gideon saw him flick a stiletto into his hand, angling it so only Gideon could see the gleaming blade. “I’m sure Msr Quinn wouldn’t want to keep you from your pleasures. Would he?” He turned to Rey and Ronan, both armed, then gestured at the privy curtain, leaving no doubt just how messy things could get should Gideon contradict him.

“Absolutely not,” Gideon replied, meeting the small man’s dark gaze before turning to the triplets. “You should all go, get home to your mom.”

“You are being sure?” Freya asked.

“Very,” Gideon said.

“You see? Everything is honey in the comb here.” Nahmin smiled and, to Gideon’s relief, the triplets finally accepted the dismissal.

Still, Nahmin’s blade remained low and ready, and not until the Ohmdahls were well on their way through the rumpled pallets, pillows, and screens did he turn his attention back to Gideon. “Now, if you don’t mind, the carriage is waiting.”

“Wait.” Rey held up a hand.

“For what?” Nahmin asked as Rey produced a length of rope.

“This,” Ronan said, before delivering a punch that landed firmly in Gideon’s kidney.

Mia, who’d remained as close to frozen as she’d ever been, waited until the sounds of footsteps faded to a safe distance before daring to peek through the heavy curtains.

The angle wasn’t good, but she could see Gideon, his hands bound behind him, being escorted in the direction of the Wolstonecroft door between a man and a woman who had to be the twins.

Coming up behind was the little man she’d first spied close to eight hours and half a lifetime ago, following Gideon. This time the chameleon of a poisoner was dressed in the black and white togs of a high-end servant.

Just as he was about to round the corner, the little man turned in Mia’s direction and, even though she knew he couldn’t possibly see her through the sliver of space between the curtains, she watched him once again raise his index finger and shake it back and forth in warning, exactly as he had when she’d spied him outside the Elysium earlier that night.

He held the position for a beat, then turned away and continued on after Gideon and the others, leaving Mia with the revelation that there were people way scarier than Ellison.

Elvis must have been worried as well, because for the first time since she’d laid eyes on the draco, he’d not moved so much as a talon while his person headed into what looked to be some pretty deep fertilizer.

“But we’re not gonna leave him in it, are we?” she asked the draco, still perched on her shoulder.

Elvis apparently knew she was addressing him, because his neck snaked around so they were eye to eye, and his head shook in what appeared to be both echo and denial of Nahmin’s forbidding finger.

Moments later, Mia and Elvis were outside.

Wolstonecroft street was empty but for the echo of a carriage and four rattling over the cobbles that made up most of the streets in this district.

“If you can find ’im, I’ll keep up,” Mia said to Elvis.

Again, the draco proved himself keener than most people Mia knew as, rumbling low in his throat, he launched himself from her shoulder, taking flight above the rickety housetops and flying in the same direction as the receding clomp of hooves.

“Wicked,” Mia judged, then raced after the draco, using the routes known only to the dodgers of Fagin Ellison.

It didn’t occur to her, at the time, that it was Fagin Ellison who’d first mapped out those routes.

Ronan shoved Gideon into the narrow street to discover the same carriage that had pulled up to the Elysium sat waiting.

Which was all Gideon had time to notice before a sack was yanked over his head from behind.

“Nice,” he muttered, even as he was roughly guided up the steps and into the carriage interior, which felt as spacious on the inside as it appeared on the outside.

Then he was being shoved onto a cushioned bench, and two bodies bounced to either side, bracketing him.

Though the burlap left him blind, Gideon could hear the shift of a body on the opposite bench.

He suspected it was Rand but didn’t have time to address the other passenger as, the second the carriage began to roll, the first punch struck, knocking his head sideways and splitting open his cheek.

From there, the pummeling continued from both sides. Gideon, slumping to the floor, tried to remind himself it could be worse.

It had been worse a time or two in his life, like when he’d ended up in the hands of that Midasian interrogator, or facing off with Renny Boucher in that vein in the Barrens . . . or when he’d been aboard the Kodiak, facing Rand from the inside of a cage.

Over the rush of internal static accompanying another boot to the kidney, he thought he heard a word, and that word might have been “enough,” and perhaps it was since the attacks ceased as suddenly as they’d begun.

Curled on the rumbling floor of the carriage, Gideon remained tense as he breathed in the odor of blood, burlap, leather, and—oddly—an undercurrent of something spicy and subtle that tickled the edges of his memory.

Rather than dwell on the pain, his thoughts danced over those muffled scents, latching on to leather, which in Gideon’s experience meant boots shined to gleaming, the scabbard of his sword, the strap of a rifle, that interrogator’s whip . . . and the interior of this very fine carriage, he thought, sliding closer to the present.

“Suede,” Dani’s voice whispered through the fog. Her long fingers brushed cool against the broken skin over his cheekbone, drawing Gideon back, back to the past . . . to when she was his. “Blue suede shoes.”

“You never wore blue suede shoes,” he told her.

“No,” she agreed, leaning close to brush her lips over his as she added, “I never wore perfume, either.”

Which was when he remembered.

Perfume.

Spicy.

Subtle.

Celia.