Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,9
Instinct?”
“Greer isn’t some fresh-faced kid off the farm.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Bedlam shot back.
“She had a lot of prior combat training.” He wondered what had made Arthur Becket look at her and decide she’d make a worthy soldier. She was…but it was hard to imagine his thought process. “And she’s dealt with conduits before – at least one that I know of. She knew they could be killed, and she knew that dagger would do the job.”
Blind, superior anger warred across Bedlam’s face another moment – and then gave way to exhaustion. She thumped down inelegantly into her chair. “Where did she get it?” She nodded toward the dagger; Lance wondered if she was afraid to touch it.
“Anthony Castor.”
“The mobster back east?”
“The same. Or, well, his conduit had it. They used it to perform a ritual – one I’m guessing Tony thought he’d walk away from.”
She nodded.
“But before that, I have no idea. It’s supposed to be hell-forged. All I know is it kills conduits when nothing else can.”
“Wraith Grenades,” she countered.
“Messy. Inexact. And lots of potential for collateral damage.”
She lifted a hand – and then folded it into her lap. Her gaze sought his, penetrating and sharp. She missed nothing. “You recognized her. Yesterday in my office.”
“Ma’am?”
Her mouth twitched. “You walked in here and looked like you’d seen a ghost. One you wanted to see. She’s the girl you rescued from Castor’s place, isn’t she?”
Lying rarely paid off in these situations. His mouth felt dry with sudden nerves, though. “Yes. She is.”
Bedlam folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, expression going thoughtful. “Arthur Becket’s little pet.”
“I wouldn’t say pet,” he said, a kneejerk defense, and his captain’s mouth twitched again. “And how do you know about Becket?”
“You think I don’t read your reports just because I’m up to my fucking ears in them? Also: everybody keeps up with the Eastern crime scene. Everybody who does knows about King Arthur.” She lifted a single brow. “Is he really dead this time?”
“I watched it myself. If he’s not dead, he’s definitely no longer on this plane of existence.”
Bedlam nodded, and sighed. “The girl’s fucked up, du Lac. If I can see it, then you can, too.”
He nodded, with no small amount of regret.
“She’s the kind of fucked up that wants to throw herself at every big, bad thing she runs into, until they’re all dead, or she is.”
His throat got tighter. “I don’t know that I’d say she’s suicidal.”
“I would. Which, given how short-handed we are, and how ugly this damn war is, I don’t see myself turning away a willing gun…or knife,” she allowed with a fast gesture toward the dagger, “just because she’s got a death wish. But I won’t have her in the field if she’s going to get all of you killed. Is she a liability to your company?”
He knew she wouldn’t accept any hedging, not about this. If he lied outright, she would smell it on him.
He took a breath and said, “She’s the only person who’s ever been a part of my team who’s killed a conduit outright. No Grenades, no bystanders.”
Bedlam studied him a long moment; he swore this meeting had added to the little lines that branched off from the corners of her eyes. Then she nodded. “Fine. If something changes, I’m reassigning her. She can have her knife back, I guess. I don’t want it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He picked up the dagger – it was heavier and warmer than he expected, than he remembered.
“Du Lac.” Bedlam stopped him when he was at the door, and he glanced back over his shoulder. “You brought one of those things onto my base.” He heard the faintest shiver of fear in her voice. “Don’t make me regret keeping you around, either.” A clear warning.
“No, ma’am.”
~*~
The infantry stationed here all slept in a communal bunk room, but the Knights had some modicum of privacy: tiny, shoebox quarters, with just enough space for a bunk, and a wedge of floor to stand on. It wasn’t much, but it was better than listening to a hundred other people snore all night.
Lance rapped on the door of Rose’s room, and waited for her muffled come in before turning the handle.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, boots already off, in the process of peeling down her thick socks. She paused and lifted her head to see who it was when he leaned in the threshold. Her gaze shifted quickly from his face to the dagger he carried.