"Don't be ridiculous. I have tickets for the opera and I fully intend to use them."
"I wouldn't advise—"
Before she could get the rest of the sentence out, the shimmer that was King found form. And he had a gun pointed directly at Wetherton.
"Minister, look out!" Even as she gave the warning, she freed her weapon and whipped off two quick shots. The laser's soft hiss seemed to reverberate across the silence but it connected with nothing more than air—at least until it burned through the garish flock wallpaper and then the wall behind it.
King reappeared several feet away from his original spot and fired. She threw herself sideways, hitting Wetherton and knocking him out of the way. She hit the carpeted floor with a grunt, the bright heat of King's laser skimming her side, burning through her jacket and scalding her hip. She swore again, but rolled onto her stomach and fired another shot. Again, the bullet tore through air, not flesh.
For God's sake, how was she supposed to protect Wetherton from someone who could become as insubstantial as the wind?
She couldn't. Retreat was the only option they had left. All she could hope for was that King wasn't as fast as he was invisible.
She twisted around to warn Wetherton, only to find him lying unmoving on the floor. His face was slack, his expression frozen in a mix of surprise and horror. A sharp but neat hole had been burned into the middle of his forehead. She half- imagined she could see brain matter through that hole, even though she knew logically that that was impossible given the distance, the position of his body, and the fact that lasers cauterized the wounds even as they created them.
At least one of her earlier questions had been answered— King was here for Wetherton. The minister had been living on borrowed time for a while now, but they'd thought the death sentence had come down from Sethanon. So why would the military want him dead? Even if they knew Wetherton was a clone, he surely wouldn't have any knowledge about Hopeworth that could be dangerous to them.
And yet Blaine had visited him. Had been in Wetherton's office for hours. Testing him, reading him, perhaps? If that was the case, what had they discovered that now warranted his death?
The only person who might know the answers to that question was King. And he was on the move—not towards her but rather the door. She scrambled to her feet, caught sight of the usher cowering behind one of the ornate columns near the staircase, and grabbed her badge from her pocket to show him.
"You, call the SIU. Tell them Agent Sam Ryan has a priority one situation. Tell them I need a med-team and backup straight away."
The usher nodded. She ran out the door and into the chilled night. King hadn't found form, but for some reason, the shimmer of air that surrounded and hid his form was more noticeable in the darkness lit only by street lights. "SIU, King. Stop or I'll shoot."
Passersby glanced at her, expressions becoming alarmed when they saw the weapon in her hand. Some hurried on, and others retreated. She didn't really care either way, as long as they kept out of her line of sight. She kept her gaze on King, and her finger on the trigger.
He didn't answer, didn't turn around, didn't stop.
She lowered the laser and ran after him. There were too many people out on the street to risk firing the weapon, and King was more than likely aware of that fact.
The heels of her boots hit the concrete noisily as she ran, a quick tattoo that spoke of speed and urgency, and one that at least had people scrambling to get out of her way. But however free her path was, however fast she was, King was faster.
The further away he got, the harder it was to see or smell him.
And then he disappeared altogether.
She swore softly as she slowed, then finally stopped. With her gun raised, she scanned the immediate area. They'd run far enough from the theater district that foot traffic was sparse.
This end of Victoria Street was close to Market and Elizabeth Streets, so there were still plenty of cars passing by. Their lights skimmed the sidewalks and nearby buildings, briefly illuminating the shadows. No one hid there, not even a shimmer.
She continued to turn slowly. Movement caught her eye in nearby Leicester Street. It was nothing more than a flare of orange that died as quickly as it gained life, and yet the sight of it had her up-until-now-dead psychic senses coming to life.
The enemy waited in the deeper shadows haunting that side road.
She slid her hand into her pocket and pressed the locator button on her viaphone, then slowly, carefully, eased toward the road.
The closer she got, the more her skin crawled. Then the familiar wash of heat hit, bringing with it the certainty that the enemy who waited was a shifter—a shifter whose very essence felt malevolent.
And it was a malevolence she knew.
Her steps faltered, and her hands suddenly felt clammy against the grip of the laser. Not so much because of the thick sensation of evil, not even because she'd felt this particular baseness before.
But because Blaine—the enemy that waited in the shadows—was not alone.
He was here.
The man who had saved her life at least twice.