A Shadow in the Flames (The New Aeneid Cycle) Page 2

  In fact, Diomedes hadn't even moved since sitting down except to slowly turn his glass with his eyes focused through it, through the table, at some point beyond the ground. Though thankful not to be alone, Michael wished to God that Diomedes would offer him some reassurance, but the longer he sat, the more Michael could sense only fury. Diomedes was thinking within his anger, but of exactly what, there was no telling.

  "What're we going to do?" Michael asked again before he could stop himself. Dammit.

  Diomedes didn't move.

  Michael reached out for a paper napkin and grasped it tightly, just to have something in his hands.

  At least I still have him.

  Diomedes had worked on the farm when he was younger, and Michael counted himself lucky to have found him again a few months ago. Though the older man had shaved the dark head of hair he'd once had, Michael still recognized him immediately by his stern face and the determined look in his eyes. He'd helped Michael more than a few times since, either teaching him about city life or protecting him from its more dangerous elements. A weight had lifted the day Michael persuaded the freelancer to let him move in.

  Michael managed a smile despite himself. In truth, he'd more or less idolized the man soon after he'd come to the farm. It didn't seem so long ago. Michael had been twelve and Diomedes around nineteen, though he hadn't taken the name Diomedes yet. Diomedes would not respond to his real name anymore, save for the occasional burst of anger at its use. Michael had decided it best to think of him in terms of his new alias as well.

  It was, after all, what freelancers did.

  At least I still have him, Michael repeated, trying to find comfort in his friend's presence that wouldn't come. He rubbed his eyes to try to force out the sting of the smoke.

  Nearly everything else he had was lost in the fire, probably destroyed before he'd even made it inside. The printed pictures he'd kept from his days on the farm had surely burned as soon as the heat had neared them. His memory alone would have to serve him now. Even the digital copies he'd had were lost. The tablet computer that held them, only recently purchased, was among the small bit of expensive equipment he had. All of it was gone. Michael squeezed his eyes shut again. Dammit.

  Diomedes coughed as if about to speak. Michael looked up in hope of guidance, but all that followed was a renewed scowling. The older man must still be dealing with the smoke as well.

  All in all, Diomedes had lost even more than he had. All of his expensive equipment—a collection of weapons, armor, and miscellaneous gadgets—was hidden away in a small, concealed room with an electric lock on it to keep it safe from random break-ins. Michael cursed himself again for getting in his roommate's way. One small path through a roomful of fire and he'd stood like a cow in the middle of it.

  "I'm getting a beer," he said finally. He doubted that he'd be able to put the money to better use anyway, and he didn't want to think about the fire anymore. Diomedes had no response for him. Michael slid from the booth to make his way to the bar.

  Though The Flaming Pyre—the bar's name had taken on a sickeningly fitting quality—was a favored hangout for Diomedes and other freelancers, Michael had only been inside with him a handful of times. Reddish light and low metal music bathed the place, the latter disguising most of the noise of the patrons. Rarely in Michael's brief experience did the voices become loud, and when they did, it usually meant trouble.

  Michael's gaze traveled around the other patrons rather than over them as he approached the bar. Diomedes had taught him to look that way, to avoid the possibility of provoking someone who might mistake a casual glance for a challenge. Don't let your eyes rest on anyone. Use your peripheral vision. And that was only for when you actually had to look for something. All other times, you just looked straight ahead and minded your own business in places like this. Though the habit seemed a little paranoid to Michael, he gave Diomedes's experience the benefit of the doubt. He'd be like him one day, with the ability and confidence to command respect. He hoped. Attaining such glory from his current situation seemed impossible now, even with Diomedes to guide him.

  Use your peripheral vision.

  A man was staring directly at him.

  Michael looked away after the initial flick of eye contact, trying to act as if he hadn't seen his observer. He was sitting across the room, just barely in view behind a table where three Aegis-affiliated freelancers sat. Michael did what he could to avoid the stranger's gaze and focused instead on ordering his beer and watching the bartender fill the glass. Still, the stranger remained in the corner of his eye, a cool presence in a posh overcoat, watching him.

  Michael didn't know how long he'd been watching. He didn't even remember seeing the stranger come in. From the brief moment of eye contact, he didn't seem to be threatening, merely observing. Maybe he'd caught the stranger's eye too long the first time and the man was merely watching him for any further challenge. When his beer was ready, Michael did his best to inconspicuously return to his roommate's booth. He sat down again with Diomedes's silence and stared into the beer without drinking.

  "It was no accident," Diomedes said.

  Michael turned his attention back to his friend. Diomedes was still staring through his glass, but the words he'd spoken were loud enough to where Michael thought he might be speaking to him. Despite Diomedes's sudden breach of silence, he briefly wondered if he should say anything. He decided to chance it.

  "Are you sure?" It was an old building, after all. An accidental fire could have hit a gas line and caused the explosion. Michael wasn't an expert on such things, but it seemed feasible enough to consider.

  Diomedes fixed him with a stare. "It was no accident."

  Michael glanced down at the table. "How do you know?"

  The freelancer regarded Michael and seemed to consider his response. "Don't ask me that question."

  Michael waited a few moments for a more satisfying response before he once again regarded his drink with an inward sigh.

  A new voice entered the conversation. "Your friend is right."

  Michael jumped at the voice, feeling foolish for it even as he did so. Diomedes didn't flinch. The voice belonged to the man who had been across the room watching him only moments before.

  II

  The stranger must have approached while Michael was concentrated on Diomedes. Now that he was closer, Michael was able to get a better look. He pegged the stranger at about six feet—roughly Michael's own height—and of average build, though the overcoat made it hard to be sure. A suit and tie were just visible through the bit that hung open. A black ponytail seemed the only prominent feature of his otherwise unremarkable features. Hands held in his pockets, he looked between the two men. Michael looked back to Diomedes for guidance.

  The man with the ponytail paused, also waiting for a reaction from Diomedes. Getting none, he continued. "He is right," he said to Michael, "but beyond that, I doubt he knows any more than you do."

  Diomedes grabbed the front of the man's coat at the neck and pulled him down in a motion almost too quick to see. Only after the man was caught, his head pulled level to his captor's, did Diomedes turn to look at him. His voice was frigid. "Do you have a point?"

  The stranger smiled and, comfortably, clasped his hands behind his back as if bending down of his own accord. "Oh, I have more than a point. I have a proposition." Michael was impressed by the stranger's composure. "Although," he continued, "I'd much prefer to deliver it sitting down."

  Diomedes regarded the man for a moment. He then grunted quietly in reply, slid farther down the seat, and pushed the man absently onto the other half of the booth. "Talk."

  The man settled into his new seat and turned first to Michael. "I can see your friend is, understandably, not in the best of moods. I'll attempt to be brief. As I said, the destruction of your building was no accident." Here the stranger glanced at Diomedes's tightening grip on his glass and added, "Nor was it an attempt on your life, if that's what you're thinking. As a matter
of fact, I can't give you much of an idea of the reason behind it, other than to say it was arson. I don't know how much attention you pay the news. The few other little fires started around the city recently?"

  "It was just a random arson," Michael whispered despite himself. A random crime, not a random accident. Somehow the idea made him feel even more helpless. Diomedes glanced at him, his stern expression unchanged.

  "Yes. Perpetrated by the same man who set the others."

  "You're sure of that?" Diomedes asked.

  The stranger paused and turned to look at the freelancer. "My employer is. He is also sure of his identity, at least—"

  Diomedes spun in the booth. His hand shot to the man's throat, this time pinning him against the back of the seat.

  "Tell me," he whispered. "Now!"

  Though it faded quickly before being replaced by his previous confident manner, Michael could tell the man was caught off guard. Even aware that Diomedes had enhancements to speed his movements, Michael couldn't help finding his own surprise in agreement with the stranger's. Diomedes's rage had worn through his patience the way Michael's own helplessness had worn through his hope, and the stranger had caught the result. The stranger smiled, a trace of nervousness on his face, and glanced down at the hand at his neck.

  "Ah, perhaps now would be a good time to tell you of my proposition."

  Diomedes's hand tightened. "Wrong. Now would be the time for you to tell me who the bastard is."

  "You want to kill him?" the man managed to gasp.

  "I'm going to kill somebody."

  "That's—the proposition." The man managed a smug grin. Diomedes watched him silently for a moment, not seeming to have heard. The stranger looked back with a clear expectation of freedom after his last pitch. His smile faded as the grip about his neck continued to hold. He glanced at Michael, who watched, unsure of what to do. He didn't think that his friend would kill the man, but he realized with more than a little nervousness that he didn't absolutely know that he wouldn't, either. Probably he was just trying to frighten the stranger. Diomedes had once told him the importance of maintaining a powerful image in this sort of situation, but the man didn't seem frightened so much as—like Michael—unsure.

  And then, as if by some unseen signal, Diomedes released the man and turned back to the table. "So tell."

  Aside from rubbing the growing welt on his neck as he settled back into his seat again, the man continued as if nothing terribly unusual had happened. He laid his left arm on the table and rolled up his sleeve to expose the underside of his forearm. His hand clenched briefly and, a moment later, a rectangular panel of skin about five inches long folded upward to reveal a data pad touch screen. It blinked to life.

  The quality of the artificial arm was impressive. Michael knew enough about cybernetics and synthetic skin to know that the seamless concealment of the computer was quite expensive. Who ever this man's "employer" was, they obviously paid him quite well.

  The stranger touched a few keys. Michael and Diomedes both watched closely as the image of what looked to be a warehouse appeared.

  "Where's this?" Michael asked.

  "One of the other arson sites. Watch."

  A figure appeared on the screen, running along the warehouse's roof. There was no sound with the image, but if there had been, it seemed that they might have heard the breaking of glass as, after a short distance, the figure swung down over the side and disappeared, feet first, through the window.

  "This was taken a few days ago by a rather resourceful person who then sold it to my employer. Considering what little can be made out so far, it doesn't seem to have been such a wonderful bargain. Though if you'll watch a little longer. . ."

  They obliged. About ten seconds later, the figure was visible again, jumping out of the same window to the ground and then running away from the building in the general direction of the camera. A second later, the building erupted in a way familiar enough to feel like a punch to Michael's gut. He glanced at Diomedes, who returned the gaze before looking back at the screen. The stranger tapped a key, and the image paused.

  The light from the flames cast a bit of light on the figure. Michael could make out a little of some type of full body suit, although its flat black coloring made it difficult to see entirely. An occasional glint of metal could also be seen in places, but the camera was too far away to discern a face.

  "A little bit better," the ponytailed man remarked. "If we enlarge here and enhance the image. . ." He pressed a few more keys. Soon they were looking at a close-up of the figure's face, half illuminated by the light of the fire. The other half was just a shadow in the flames. Michael studied the face without recognition.

  Diomedes matched Michael's scrutiny. "That's him?" It was more a statement than a question.

  "Do you recognize him?" the man asked.

  Diomedes stared at the picture again. "No. Who is he?"

  The man closed up his arm and pulled his sleeve back down. "We don't know."

  Diomedes glared. "You said—"

  "Had you allowed me to finish my sentence earlier," the stranger advised, "you would have heard me say that we know who did it, not exactly who he is."

  "Not exactly?" Michael asked.

  "We do know one additional thing about him." The man paused, as if searching for a way to say something. "He seems to match the general vague description of someone who's rumored to be calling himself 'Wraith.' Apparently he fancies himself a vigilante, fighting 'evil-doers'." The man gave a mocking chuckle. "Gangers and the like. Though as you can attest to, he sometimes misses the mark a bit."

  "And you want him killed," Diomedes said. The man nodded.

  "Why?" Michael asked.

  Diomedes flashed him a stern look.

  The stranger shrugged. "I'm just a facilitator. I don't ask, they don't tell me."

  Michael almost asked who 'they' were, but thought better of it. It didn't seem like the man cared to share that with them, and, as Diomedes hadn't touched on the subject, he figured it wasn't something you asked. He made a mental note to talk to Diomedes about it later.

  Diomedes turned to face the man, for the first time making eye contact without assaulting him. "How much?"

  "Ten thousand. Two up front. Plus, of course, the information I've already given you."

  "Information we need for the job anyway."

  "Granted, but one could argue that was given out of trust that the job would be accepted." The man smiled.

  "You gave it because your neck was squeezed. That was your choice. You pay for it."

  The ponytailed man scowled. "I hardly think that—"

  Diomedes cut him off. "Fifteen. We have to find him, first."

  The stranger looked at Michael, who had been listening silently. "Your friend here is bold. Given his previous behavior, he planned to do what the job requires even before it came along." He looked back to Diomedes, a trace of smugness in his expression. "Now he seeks to throw away the chance of compensation."

  Diomedes's pale eyes narrowed. "I said I was going to kill somebody. You're still an option."

  Though he appeared unfazed by the threat, the man nevertheless responded after a few moments. "I can do as much as twelve. I'd suggest you take it before I decide to leave."

  Diomedes turned back to the table. "Twelve. With three up front."

  "Done," the stranger replied, not seeming to care. He placed the money and a card on the table and stood up. "Call there when it's done," he said, indicating a number written on the card. "He shouldn't be too hard to find. Maybe," he added, "if he hears you're looking for him, he'll help you out and come to kill you. Gentlemen."

  With a farewell nod and a smirk, the ponytailed man turned and left the 'Pyre. Diomedes watched him go. It was plain from his expression that whatever he was thinking about the man wasn't good. Michael had never known Diomedes to be a fan of smugness.

  For his own part, Michael's spirits were rising. The fire that took almost everything away fr
om him was starting to give him some of the things he never had—a chance to do something adventurous, something to help people. Catching a vigilante-turned-arsonist could prevent more useless destruction. The fact that the man in question called himself "Wraith" only made things more mysterious, if a touch absurd.

  Although, Michael considered, were they really going to kill the man? On the one hand, he had little faith in the justice system. The ideas behind it were noble enough, but he had heard too many stories of corruption and inefficiency, and seen too much crime going on unchecked, to have much practical faith in it. Sometimes the individual needed to act on his own. Corporations and others who could afford it did so every day, hiring freelancers and private investigators. On the other hand, the actual thought of killing had him wary. Yet Diomedes was a part of this, and if he thought it necessary, then it was necessary. If the man was an arsonist, lives would be saved.

  "Diomedes," he said, "how can we be sure about what that guy said?"

  The large freelancer looked up from his own brief thoughts to Michael. "Trust the money, kid," he replied distantly. "It's a constant."

  Michael nodded at the advice. They were going to have to find the man anyway, and that process would likely help to answer his questions. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how they would go about tracking him down, and he mentioned this to Diomedes.

  "I'm thinking about that." Diomedes looked absently at the wall. "May need to hire some help with this one."

  "What?" Someone else? Was he going to be left out? "Aren't I—"

  The freelancer frowned. "To find the mark, dumbass. You don't know where he is any more than me, do you?"

  Michael nodded, relieved to still be included, despite the way Diomedes had said it. He hadn't meant it as an insult, of course. That was just the way Diomedes was. And he was right. If he said they needed help, they needed help.

  "There's someone I know. . ." Diomedes scowled.

  "But?"

  "He's a jackass. Also the best guy for the job."

  Michael remembered someone who had once come to the apartment for Diomedes to consult about something that the freelancer hadn't let him hear. The guy had seemed nice enough in the brief time Michael had spent with him. He'd seemed to have a rather constant sense of humor, which might have been part of why Diomedes found him irritating. One thing Michael had noticed on the farm was that Diomedes lacked a real appreciation for humor; following their reunion, he appeared to have little tolerance for it at all. Or it may have been something else entirely. Michael didn't really experience much of the man to tell. He couldn't even remember his name. He asked Diomedes if this was the man he meant.