The skin thief, p.2
The Skin Thief, page 2
The ancient dwellings were nested in darkness, except for pale moonlight shining in from the vast opening of the cavern. What a place! What a marvel of ancient engineering.
One of the Shadows moved. Human shaped? Imagination? No such thing as ghosts or whatever the hell people called them. They weren’t any more real than the Mothman, the Jersey Devil, or …
Quiet. Silence. Emptiness.
The stench. Like garbage. No, more like an open sewer.
Despite it, he gulped in air and took stock of his environment as coolly as possible. The ruins here were a little different from Mesa Verde a few miles away. Smaller numbers of round, stone buildings. Smaller footprint. Harder to get to. Lonelier.
Near him on the rock, was something gouged in white …
X138 turned his flashlight on it and jumped back. It had seemed real for only a second. A fraction of a second. Long enough to scare him. A petroglyph in white, maybe hastily scratched into the surface of the stone. A horned, hollow figure, sneering, holding a club and a knife. Inside him appeared a human being, upside down, helpless.
He backed away from the crude petroglyph.
He had to go further inside. He slipped around another old, battered chain and a newer sign that read, Danger — Keep Out.
Behind him, a bush rustled. X138 snapped his aim over to the sound.
He could hear his own heartbeat.
A shadow — formed by a bush — changed shape.
Quiet.
Loose gravel fell. Rocks clashed against the floor of the cave dwellings.
X138 gripped his gun with both hands. He was shaking. He couldn’t make it stop.
One foot reached out, touched solid ground, and he shifted his weight.
The ancient city was full of holes, both purposeful and accidental. At Mesa Verde, they were well lit, confined by chained barriers, and announced by helpful rangers and tour guides. At Mesa de los Muertos, they were hidden in the shadows. Shadows. Always the shadows.
And more of those angry petroglyphs. Hastily scrawled.
Something laughed. Behind him. It was laughter— or —what makes a sound like that and isn’t an animal?
X138 spun around. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. Was it enough?
Movement? He listened until his ears hurt.
Laughter. From behind again. X138 spun back, losing his bearing. Only the open face of the cliff dwelling with its relentless horizon told him he was facing west.
A rock skipped. Jumped. Skidded along the floor.
Thrown!
The laughter came from all around. Many voices. Echoes against the rocks and stones.
Behind. In front.
The shadow swept across him.
He fired two shots. They ricocheted off the walls. The reverberation pounded his chest and head until the echo silenced.
Stillness.
No footsteps. No shuffling. Only his own breathing.
Above, the wind shifted a load of sand over the side of the dwelling roof, sending the grains pouring over the edge like water.
Behind him. A whisper. No one there.
He took three quick steps backward and suddenly found nothing under his footing. Cursing, he dropped down and landed hard.
X138 sat up, stunned. He hurt, but he’d only had the air knocked out of him. Getting to his feet was harder than he’d expected, but then, what did he expect? Groping around, he found he had landed in a round room, with an opening at the far side. He must have fallen into one of the family rooms.
The blow to his head came from behind. His vision blurred. His gun flew from his hand and skittered out of reach.
The grip on his collar was so tight that it choked him.
The edge.
He reached back and should have been able to grab his attacker’s hair, or shirt, or …
Nothing was there.
His belt was held and used to move him. Where? Where was he being taken? He waved his arms frantically, striking out at whatever had him.
Agent X138 reached down to his belt and undid the buckle. It slackened and his assailant no longer held him by it.
It didn’t save him. He’d been thrown too hard.
Screaming, he dropped down ... and down
... and down ...
... and down ...
CHAPTER TWO
PIONEER SQUARE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
SHE HAD A MISSION AT LAST. Two long years of waiting — working on menial desk projects and praying for a fresh start — she had a mission.
Her sanity depended on it.
Her career depended on it.
Her life depended on it.
Seattle’s signature rain had grown from drizzle to steady downpour over the past few hours, chasing most visitors to the Emerald City indoors. A boon for the cafes, a bust for the sidewalk sellers, and a challenge for Athenaeum Agent Tessa Wells-Lancing. With so few people on the streets, she couldn’t hide amongst the throngs of tourists. A woman alone, dressed well and carrying a briefcase, on the weekend? Well, if anyone gave her trouble, she could handle them.
Can you?
Tessa’s bravado and security vanished, leaving only the sound of someone or something eating.
Not now, she demanded and closed her eyes while tightening her grip on her briefcase handle and reminding herself that the hefty tome, Parapsychology and It’s Development, waited inside beneath a landslide of documents and papers for her to sign.
After a moment of peaceful city chaos, she opened her eyes again. A deep, humid breath was followed by a soothing list of must-do’s. After the meeting, when she would be given a mission, she could take lunch near Pike Place. Oh yes, she would definitely be given a mission.
The Agency shrink had cleared her for duty while being amazed at her recovery from the Unfortunate Incident, or more specifically, Tessa’s chosen methodology for coping. Parapsychology? Why not? If one thinks they encountered something … well, unanswerable by normal science, why not deal with it with un-normal science?
The shrink gave her a few resource recommendations and signed off. Ah well, the Agency shrink wasn’t there to make sure Tessa was sane but to make sure the Agency could still make money with her employment.
Work out her first steps for the mission – contacts, equipment – that sort of thing. Perhaps even finish that last chapter. She’d given up hope that the recommended book could answer her … particular … question, but she had another six like it at home. One was bound to have the answer. The flashbacks, though …
The city park décor at Pioneer Square reflected the aesthetic of a Paris le Metro subway entrance as opposed to an urban U.S. tourist destination. The Art Nouveau ironwork arbor held dripping vines and flowers over the wet pavement.
Tessa’s low-heeled boots tapped lightly against the sidewalk as she darted around puddles. At the corner, she stopped a few paces from a small group of sturdy tourists huddled together under the cheap umbrellas they’d just purchased at a gift shop. Tessa observed the out-of-towners while they all waited for the crossing signal. Traffic sloshed by, kicking up gutter spray. The tourist group stepped back from the curb and into the empty space Tessa had left in front of her.
The day was miserably wet – the sort of wet always shown in movies during funerals..
Sunday. The office building looming ahead was officially closed until Monday. A security guard sat at his station in the lobby, bored, and probably watching the latest sports game. The elevator bank just beyond the security desk only went from the first to the fourth floors. The special elevator went further up, but the guard didn’t have an operator’s key since clients for the Agency never visited on weekends. Agents entered from beneath the building with their own keys and elevator.
Looking up, Tessa noticed lights on the seventh floor.
Her Field Controller, code named Kyriós, was early — he always was. She was on time — she always was.
Her whole body ached with anxiety, not excitement. Well, either way, she’d finally be out of that limbo an agent finds herself in after two failures in a row. Failures meant loss of revenue for the Agency, and honor didn’t retain a high resale value. Still, a field mission rather than excommunication to the Agency’s infamous Department 44 was best.
And as usual, the man-with-the-newspaper was sitting in the bus shelter twenty feet to her right, keeping his own clear view of the building. When wasn’t he there?
Dizziness, dry mouth, nervous tension. Was Newspaper Man the cause, not the expectation of the new mission? She wasn’t sure. Strange, he had no umbrella, only big, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and a heavy coat. New Italian shoes too. He wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous. In fact, he left the impression that he wasn’t concerned about being noticed.
Isn’t one of ours. Much too respectable to be one of my colleagues. Amongst her associates, it was widely accepted that he posed no immediate threat. He was from some legitimate federal organization or a rival private one. Tessa agreed with that assessment.
From experience, she knew the crossing light was about to cycle through and change. She side-eyed Newspaper Man, the not-so-covert-observer.
She felt him, as if his glare penetrated her skin.
That scent? Sweet, smoky, almost … medicinal. Nothing like the petrichor of the rain or the exhaust of passing cars.
That was when she saw Ben. Laying on the pavement. Blood everywhere. Yes, now she could smell it. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Christ, not again. Not now!
Ben’s eyes. Glazed over. Clouded. The Figure. Tearing him away. Screaming. Fighting. He didn’t want to go. The Figure ripping at Ben – its scent turning from sweet to sour to morgue-like –
Familiar. Frightening. Danger, she heard It say.
Tessa looked around wildly before she thought better than to do that.
The street was empty – no Ben – no blood.
Newspaper Man was still watching, but behind him waited the Figure cloaked in black, fading in and out of the reality around It. She’d seen It before with Ben and now, here.
Newspaper Man gave no indication he knew It was there.
It radiated menace, and the sight turned her insides. Moving. Changing. Floating behind Newspaper Man. People walked by the bus stop, oblivious to Its presence.
Danger, girlfriend.
That voice, in her head. She knew It. She knew It.
She gulped in her breath, blinked hard, and looked again.
Newspaper Man sat as usual. Nothing but an ad for a men’s cologne behind him.
She’d seen It. She’d heard It. It was playing spectral games with her. Sensation left her arms and her head spun. Her instinct was on alert adding to everything else.
Calm. She would have to stay aware — without panic. Newspaper Man was too obvious to be taken seriously, but smart training told her to keep an eye on him anyway. It was not something she could do anything about. Even the strange scent was gone.
Tessa, jerked back to reality. She sneaked a glance back at Newspaper Man.
Newspaper Man watched her cross the street.
Tessa glared from the far corner..
Newspaper Man glared back at her.
This is ridiculous, her sensibility scolded her.
He’s a problem, her gut screamed at her. Wait, was that her gut? Or her anxiety?
The clock tower chimed. She couldn’t be late. Her first mission in so long and she couldn’t be late. Not for this. The first mission in two years.
He’s still over there, and I don’t have time to play games with a rival agent, she rebuked the inner voice. Tessa’s legs moved on their own, following the known path to the office. Her anxiety multiplied each time she told herself to ignore the hue and cry pounding her psyche.
Crossing the side street, Tessa navigated the downside of the hill that tilted steadily toward the waterfront. She followed the slope as it turned up an alley with a battered door not visible from the street. Her key fit the lock in the side after two fumbling tries.
Steady. Breathe. She slowed her movements with determined force and controlled her hands. The hands of a professional.
She wasn’t late, not yet. The mission was her only focus. Professional. She folded her umbrella, smoothed her hair, and squared her shoulders — comfort gestures.
In the gray light, her rich, auburn hair disrupted the gloom. It was that long, stick straight hair, her heart-shaped face with thick but small lips, and Elizabeth Taylor violet-colored eyes that were her few physical assets. The rest she brought to the party was based on her life as a skilled intelligence officer and an exceedingly well-connected operative, minus the last two years.
Her heart squeezed. At least her father didn’t know she’d trapped herself in an unviewable alleyway. Alone. An amateur’s mistake. The consummate intelligence veteran that he was, her father would undoubtedly be disappointed in her.
Get a grip, Tess.
Frigid air tickled the back of her neck — spectral fingers alerted her. Decaying alley smells mixed with that familiar sweetness.
Danger!
Her hand dropped to her waistband holster.
Chapter Three
THE UNDENIABLE SENSATION within each cell of her body announced Its arrival.
The Figure as standing right next to her. Death.
She and Death were too well acquainted now. She knew Death’s presence. That was the scent that dragged memory back to the present. She knew Death’s voice, too.
She knew Death’s sickening laughter, especially when it was directed at her.
Tessa turned to point her 9mm between Newspaper Man’s eyes, now threatening less than three feet from the muzzle. “Hands out,” she growled, words low and clipped. How could she let this happen? Cornered. Beginner’s fatal mistake.
Slowly he moved his hands outward. “Easy, honey.”
“Name.”
“I’m not—”
“Name!”
“Trono. Phil Trono. Look, I ah …”
“Who are you with?”
He licked his lips and leaned forward.
“Don’t. Even. Blink.”
“I think this is a simple mistake. You kept looking at me, so I thought maybe —”
“Who are you with!” She watched his body, especially his fingers, for the slightest tell. Don’t make me kill you, overwhelmed her thoughts.
The man who called himself Phil pressed moistened his lips again. His breathing was unsteady. Sweat formed above his eyebrows.
Pull the trigger, girlfriend. Death’s voice was icy smooth. Shoot and I’ll take him away, too.
Fire welled up in her chest, carrying into her arms and her hands. This was going to be like Ben – just like Ben. Don’t make me do it! You don’t want death. I’ve seen It – you don’t want that.
She must have spoken her thoughts out loud.
“Shit, lady, it was Jenkins,” he spit out. “Jenkins over at the Keepers Group sent me to watch you folks.”
Tessa’s vision tunneled down to only the man and the tip of the gunsight. “Why are you over here now? In this alley?” She spoke slowly, hiding the tremble of fury, fear, and electricity coursing through her muscles.
“I just told you, honey, so why don’t you put that thing down.”
His right hand twitched. Left hand swept out to take the weapon from her. He struck the muzzle hard instead, as she pulled it back and held it close to her body.
Shoot, Death insisted.
I can’t.
Tessa crouched back as he took another grab for the weapon. It almost slipped from her numb fingers.
His right hand gripped her neck and squeezed.
Girlfriend. Shoot, Death demanded.
No!
Sickening dread flooded her stomach — her chest — her lungs. No room for air. No air!
Shoot!
It wanted her to provide him. To kill him. To –
Tessa flipped the weapon in her hand and pounded it on top of his arm until he let go. With a backswing, she connected the grip with his face, knocking him backward – stumbling – until he dropped to the ground.
His expression of shock and fear as she threatened to pistol-whip him again was at first a relief, she wouldn’t have to kill him, then satisfying.
She heard him try to speak as she searched him for weapons. She watched him struggle with pain and consequence while she called for backup. Moving fast, she made certain he wasn’t going to give anyone any trouble. Her gun, she kept low, out of reach and out of sight. The last thing anyone needed was attention drawn to the alley.
She hadn’t killed him. Why? She could have. She should have.
“I can’t.”
But that was the job, wasn’t it? Didn’t mean she liked to kill, but she’d done it before.
Goddamn it — I hesitated. She’d taken a terrible risk by not dropping him there and then, like any other agent would have.
Again.
And she knew why. That damn Agency shrink knew why too. But Tessa was one of those agents they needed back in the field –
Or permanently out of the way.
