Rogue Oracle

  “Harry’s asked me to help him with a case.”

  “Harry’s good for you. You should go.” The Pythia’s musical, softly accented voice wrapped around a steely inflection.

  “I don’t need your permission to leave the house. I’m not one of Delphi’s Daughters.”

  The Pythia shrugged. “But you serve us, and our patterns, whether you want to or not.”

  Tara hated the idea of surrendering herself to anyone’s control. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s tool. Not the government’s, and not Delphi’s Daughters’.

  The Pythia stepped over to the stove, the coins on her hip scarf chiming in time with her steps. She switched on the burner with a click, cranking the blue flame up high. The light cast her shadow long across the kitchen floor, and the Pythia squinted at the fire. Her talent was pyromancy. She could see the future in something as mundane as a match spark or as devastating as a house fire.

  “Interesting,” the Pythia said.

  “What?” Tara couldn’t resist asking.

  The Pythia abruptly switched off the burner. “Beware the Chimera.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The Pythia shrugged, took a drag on her cigarette. “I don’t know yet. That’s just what the fire said to me.”

  Tara rolled her eyes and dragged her suitcase to the kitchen door. The Pythia called after her, cheerfully: “Call when you need us.”

  Tara banged the screen door shut behind her, muttering under her breath: “Not fucking likely.”

  Rogue Oracle is also available as an eBook

  Also by Alayna Williams

  Dark Oracle

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Laura Mailloux

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Juno Books/Pocket Books paperback edition March 2011

  JUNO BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Wildside Press LLC used under license by Simon & Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work.

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  Cover illustration by Don Sipley

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978–1–4391–8281–9

  ISBN 978–1–4391–8283–3 (ebook)

  Acknowledgments

  THANKS TO my fabulous editor, Paula, and the wonderful ladies of the Ohio Writers Network: Linda, Michelle, Rachel, Melissa, Emily, and Faith. And thanks to Gloria for the game theory.

  Thanks to Jason, who always suffers through “muse duty” with aplomb.

  PROLOGUE

  HE’D DO anything to hear those voices again.

  Galen’s head was too silent. The other voices in his skull had drained away, leaving him alone. He pressed his cold hands over his ears so that he could hear his own blood and breath thundering, like the ocean in a shell. It was a bit less like being alone. He peered into the darkness, waiting. Waiting for the next voice to fill his thoughts and his dreams.

  Through the pulse of his hands, he could hear the whir of an air conditioner and the creak of roof beams cooling overhead as sunlight drained from the day. The orange strip of light shining underneath the closet door thinned and faded. Galen brought his knees up against his chest, and a dress brushed against his cheek. The jasmine scent of his quarry’s perfume on his clothes mingled with the smell of shoe leather.

  A car crunched in the driveway, followed by footfalls and the rattle of a key in the lock downstairs. Keys and purse jangled as they were cast on a hall table, and he heard the thunk of shoes kicked off on the slate tiles of the entryway. The shuffle of mail sounded like a deck of playing cards.

  Galen’s breath quickened, and he dug his fingertips into his close-cropped hair. Not long. Not long, now.

  Stocking feet padded into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open, then close. A microwave whirred, and a bell chimed. Galen’s nose wrinkled. Reheated rubber chicken from a trendy bistro, with tomato sauce. A television droned, comforting voices rising up through the floor. He leaned his head back against the wall of the closet. The television voices nattered on about Middle East peace talks, of a terrorism suspect captured, of the latest results from a television game show.

  A fork clattered in the kitchen’s stainless steel sink. The television was turned off, plunging the house into false silence. Footsteps climbed the stairs to the second floor. Galen could hear the polyester zing of stockings on the plush carpet as his quarry walked past the closet. Light spilled under the closet door.

  He held his breath.

  The footsteps swished into the bathroom, opened the bathtub tap. Pipes creaked behind the closet wall. Galen smelled bath salts and citrus soap, heard the squeak of flesh against the bottom of the enameled tub. A plastic bottle belched its last quantity of shampoo before it was tossed away into a trash can.

  Elbows resting on his knees, Galen waited.

  Like the rest of his prey, he’d never met her. This one’s name was Lena. He’d been led to her by the memories of others. Those voices burned bright in his mind for a few weeks and faded quickly, like a bruise. They left behind vacant space, space meant for another to occupy. And another. His last victim, Carl, had remembered Lena. Through Carl’s eyes, Galen had seen Lena in all her fearless beauty: Lena, walking across Red Square with her lustrous dark hair covered by a scarf. Lena, dressed in a gown with a plunging neckline, her throat glittering with jewels—paste jewels that contained smuggled microchips in the settings. Lena, methodically taking apart a gun in a hotel room and wiping it clean of prints.

  If he’d ever really bothered to admit it to himself, Lena had been the love of Carl’s life. Carl may not have seen it, but when Galen had taken possession of Carl’s memories, he could see it. Carl’s memories were twenty years old. But Galen wanted to see Lena, as Carl had. Though Carl’s voice had stopped ringing in Galen’s head, some of that feeling remained. Carl, the old spy, had carried a torch for Lena, right up until the time Galen had killed him. Galen possessed few feelings of his own. Like a voyeur, he savored the emotions of his victims.

  The light under the closet door winked out. Galen heard Lena pull back the bedspread and climb into bed. He heard her punch the pillows and rearrange the covers. After a half hour, all Galen could hear was the soft hiss of her breathing, moving in time with his own breath.

  Galen nudged the closet door open. His muscles creaked as he unfolded his lanky frame. He caught his breath, certain Lena could hear him. But the form stretched on its side in the bed remained motionless.

  Galen approached the bed. Dim light from the street filtered through the curtains, illuminating Lena’s features. Age had softened her face, sketching new lines that hadn’t existed in Carl’s memory. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, brushed over a shoulder that was rounder than Carl remembered. Her right hand curled loosely over the pillow, and a ring glittered behind a swollen joint. Galen recognized it: it was one that Carl had given her, many years ago, in a
spontaneous fit of affection.

  Galen peeled back a corner of the covers and slipped into the bed behind Lena. His arms wrapped around her waist, fingers ripping her nightgown. Lena awoke with a jerk, struggling against him. She howled and bit the hand he clamped around her mouth, drawing blood.

  Galen could hear her. He could hear her swearing at him, screaming. The scream softened as he slipped his hand around her throat and squeezed. He felt the delicate hyoid bone in her throat shatter as his grip dug deeper, into her flesh. His own skin had grown porous and elastic, thumb reaching up into her jaw. Lena’s eyes rolled back in panic. She wheezed as Galen pressed his chest to her back. He could feel her warm flesh against his cold body, felt the cells in his skin growing plastic, reaching out. One of Lena’s white teeth glinted in his thumb. It disappeared as his hand lost its shape and flowed into her mouth. In his other hand, he could feel his fingers splitting apart Lena’s ribs, feeling the fluttering of her heart like a sparrow in a cage. His hand unfolded and fused with her heart, and he could feel his pulse pumping in time with hers.

  Galen heard Lena whimper as she became part of him, trapped in his embrace, melting into his flesh. He could feel her disintegrating, her skin losing surface tension as his body began its parasitic devouring of every vessel and cell, like a snake digesting its prey. But this digestion was external: a slow dissolving of Lena’s body. Galen was conscious of the sharp point of Lena’s elbow somewhere near his lung, of the contraction of her fingers around his ribs.

  And he could hear her. The whisper of Lena’s memories suffused his head, as Carl’s had. Whispers tumbled over each other, shards of memory cutting deep in his head where they intersected with Carl’s fading thoughts.

  Galen smiled.

  He wouldn’t be alone … for as long as Lena’s voice lasted. Afterward, just as Carl’s memories had led Galen to her, Lena’s secrets would lead him to others.

  Chapter One

  THE WARDEN calls you a monster.”

  Tara Sheridan stared over the edge of a manila file folder at the man in an orange jumpsuit, wrists fettered to his waist with a belly chain. He looked back at her with contempt over a battered stainless steel table. As she paged through the psych reports conducted by other profilers, she was inclined to agree with the warden’s assessment. Zahar Mouda was an accused terrorist. He’d been caught by campus police at a large Midwestern university attempting to drag a drum of solvents out of the chemistry lab. He’d been unsuccessful in convincing the campus cops that he was dragging a keg to a frat house. Subsequent investigation had discovered other missing material that could be used to make bombs. Lots of them.

  Zahar shrugged, the movement restricted by the rattle of the chain. For all the dire warnings in the reports before Tara, he looked very young to Tara: thin, gangly build, large brown eyes framed by square-rimmed glasses. His file said he was twenty-two. She watched his fingers fidget with his restraints, watched him chew his lip.

  “Do you think I’m a monster?” he challenged.

  “I don’t know. But the Bureau of Prisons would like me to find out.”

  “What do you know about monsters?” Zahar snorted.

  “Plenty,” Tara told him.

  He stared at her, but his gaze faltered as it snagged on a white scar that crept up from the collar of Tara’s suit jacket, curling up around her neck to her jaw. Tara didn’t flinch, didn’t bother to hide it. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt Zahar to know that Tara had faced much greater monsters than him. Monsters that had nearly killed her.

  Tara leaned forward, pressing her elbows to the battered table, resting her chin in her hand. A wisp of chestnut hair from the chignon at the base of her neck pulled free, tickling the raised skin of the scar. She ignored it. “What were you doing with those chemicals?”

  Zahar rolled his eyes. “Look, I was just trying to make some money. It was just little stuff, at first. First the guy asked for a departmental phone book, then a few sample slides, then …” He shook his head. “It was a few bucks, here and there. For dumb shit.”

  Tara’s mouth thinned. This was how traitors were groomed. Small, inconsequential requests snowballed into larger favors. Before long, the victim had given up too much and was too indebted to his handler to climb out of the trap.

  “You took the money. Why?”

  “I’m trying to save up to bring my sister over here. She wants to study pharmacy.”

  “Who offered you the money?”

  “Some guy at the student union.”

  “You got a name?” She regarded him with ink-blue eyes, measuring to see if he told the truth.

  “Masozi. I already told the cops.”

  Tara tapped her pen on her notepad, keeping her face carefully neutral. The Federal Bureau of Prisons had asked her to develop a profile on Zahar, to determine how dangerous he truly was. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand per shipment.”

  “That’s more than enough money to get your sister over here.”

  “Stuff’s expensive.”

  Zahar leaned back in his chair, and Tara could sense he was shutting down. She tried a different tactic: “Tell me about your sister.”

  Zahar licked his lips, and his eyes darted away. Not a good sign … His body language indicated he was buying time, fabricating. Or else weighing what to tell Tara. When he spoke, though, his voice was soft. Almost vulnerable. “You don’t understand. I had to buy my sister back.”

  Tara’s pen stilled. “Buy her back?” she echoed.

  “She’s married. Third wife of one of my father’s colleagues. He’s not really fond of her. Slaps her around.” Zahar looked away, and Tara watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “He agreed to allow her to apply for a visa, but wanted money. Fifty thousand in U.S. dollars.”

  “What about student loans?”

  Zahar shook his head. “I’m on fellowship. My tuition’s waived, and I get a monthly stipend. Seven hundred fifty dollars, after taxes.” His mouth turned down, and he pushed his glasses up his nose with his shoulder. “And let’s face it, nobody wants to see a male chemistry nerd do fifty thousand dollars’ worth of exotic dancing down at the strip club.”

  Tara cracked a smile. “Tell me about when you were children.”

  Zahar didn’t miss a beat. “Asha’s three years younger than me. Takes after our mother. She did great in school. She got through her first year of college before she met my father’s business associate when she was home on break. The guy took an immediate shine to her.” His fists balled at his waist. “I wanted to kick his ass.”

  “What was her favorite toy?”

  “A doll my grandmother made for her. She named it Rahma.”

  “Tell me about when you fought.” This was a trick question. All siblings fought. She wanted to gauge how honest Zahar was with her.

  “Our worst fight was when we were little … She was probably seven. I found a bird egg in a tree and broke it over her head. She ran crying to our mother, and we both got punished.”

  “Did you feel bad about that?”

  “About getting my sister in trouble? Not really.”

  “No.” She paused. “About breaking the egg.”

  He blinked quizzically at Tara. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  A knock rang against the metal door behind Tara, and a guard’s voice filtered through: “Five minutes, Dr. Sheridan.”

  “Thank you,” Tara called. She scribbled some notes on her notepad. The Bureau of Prisons had guaranteed her a secure room without observation cameras for her interview with Zahar. She was heartened to see that someone had eventually bothered to check in on them.

  Zahar stared at Tara. “Well, what did you decide?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you decide whether or not I’m a monster?” His mouth twitched around the word.

  “I haven’t made any decisions, yet.”

  “But your opinion is one that matters.”

  Tara’s mouth thinned. “Your
psychological profile will make a great deal of difference in this investigation. But mine isn’t the only opinion you need to fear.”

  “Will it make any difference in how I’m treated?” Zahar’s fingers knotted in the chain. “Am I going to get deported?”

  “That’s not up to me.”

  The door behind Tara swung open, and two federal prison guards crowded into the tiny room. They unlocked the belly chain from the metal chair, and marched the prisoner back through the door. Zahar’s plastic inmate flip-flops slapped on the concrete floor.

  One of the guards held the door open. “You coming, ma’am?”

  “Can you give me fifteen more minutes?” Tara said. “I’d like to jot down my notes while they’re fresh.”

  “See you in fifteen.” The door clanged shut, and Tara was left in the tiny room with the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

  She stacked the contents of her file up neatly and placed it in the file folder. She shoved the folder aside, placed her purse on the table. She rooted around in the bottom of her purse for a pack of cigarettes. Tara didn’t smoke, but the cigarette pack attracted little notice on the metal detectors at the prison or in the quick manual search of her bags. Tara flipped off the lid of the pack and pulled out a deck of cards.

  The backs of the cards were decorated in an Art Nouveau pattern of stars on a background of midnight blue, edged in silver. These Tarot cards had been a gift to replace the deck her mother had given her, long ago. They’d been a peace offering, of sorts—Tara’s lover had given them to her, though he was uneasy with what they represented. Tara’s original deck had been destroyed. These still felt too crisp to her, the cardstock stiff and shiny-new. She hadn’t quite yet bonded with this deck. Each deck had its own quirks, even a limited personality, and this one seemed determined to surprise Tara at each turn.

  She moved to Zahar’s still-warm seat, wanting to occupy his physical space. She blew out her breath and shuffled the cards. The sharp cardstock cut her thumb as she shuffled, and she popped her thumb in her mouth as she wiped a droplet of blood from the edge of the deck.