Drake reappeared in one of the many nooks in the multilevel lobby. Those small spaces were intended to provide privacy, screening occupants from view. But Drake had chosen one within Sam’s line-of-sight. It was a fortuitous opportunity Sam did not want to pass up. Experimentally, he directed the microphone in that direction and was gratified to pick up the words of the maitre d’.
“… gentleman has been awaiting your arrival, sir. He said he had a message to deliver to you personally and refused to leave. We, of course…”
“Leave us alone,” Drake said, cutting the headwaiter off.
“Of course, sir,” he said with a bow.
Drake stepped deeper into the alcove and leaned against the brass rail. He looked out the window at the lights of the metroplex. He would be completely out of the sight of anyone in the lobby or the Upper Hall.
The messenger who followed him in was a big, heavily muscled man who moved with the swagger of a tough who knows that he is dangerous. His chromed eye shields, button-disk cyber-ears, and strip-cut hair were Street style, in contrast to the silk suit he wore. Though cut from expensive materials, the suit was not well-tailored enough to hide the ominous bulge under the man’s left armpit. Another of Drake’s outside contractors, Sam concluded.
“Trouble, Mr. Drake,” the man said, softly as though he feared the response.
Drake sighed and continued staring out over the city. “Speak.”
The messenger was obviously disconcerted by Drake’s detached attitude. He fidgeted, reluctant to begin. Must be really bad news, Sam concluded.
“It’s Wilson,” the man began. “Some kind of inspector showed up and spooked him. He’s rabbited.”
Drake turned slowly to face the messenger. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve lost track of the doctor?”
The man became even more nervous. His eyes shifted away from Drake’s face, then back again, sliding across the stony expression and coming to rest on Drake’s collar. “Well, sort of. He’s real tricky, you know. He-”
The man’s words broke off as Drake’s hand shot out and took him by the throat. He lifted the man, rapidly purpling, off his feet. The man’s hands beat against Drake’s arm and his feet kicked ineffectually. Calmly, showing no strain from the exertion of holding a struggling man aloft with a single hand, Drake spoke softly to him.
“You were charged with seeing that nothing happened to the doctor until I was ready to take care of him. If you have lost him, you have failed me most profoundly.”
Relaxing his grip minutely, Drake allowed the man to get a grip on the strangling arm, supporting himself enough to choke out, “It was an accident.”
It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Drake’s eyes narrowed and with a twist of his wrist, he snapped the man’s neck. The messenger coughed once, spraying blood, then went limp. Drake dropped the corpse and stood looking at it for a moment. He raised his arm and licked stray drops of blood from the sleeve of his pristine suit.
The maitre d’ returned to discover the cause of the slight commotion. He stood frozen by the sight, his aplomb shattered by the results of Drake’s sudden, lethal violence. Drake brushed past him on his way back to the dining room.
“Clean that up, please. He’s had an accident.”
Sam knew that Drake was not a man who balked at murder, but had never imagined he would dirty his own hands. Drake was more dangerous than he had thought and was obviously equipped for mayhem. Hadn’t Lofwyr said the man was more than he seemed? The murder of the messenger proved the man was obviously enhanced. Sam congratulated himself on the success of tonight’s recon. But the night wasn’t over; the time had come to see just how much cyberware Drake was packing. Sam might not be able to tell just what Drake’s enhancement did, but knowing their extent would let the runners gauge the opposition. The more of Drake’s hidden secrets they could learn, the more likely they would eventually bring him down.
Sam focused his concentration, finding the shift to astral space easier this time. He looked across the restaurant. As usual, the shifted perceptions confused him initially, and he found himself unsure of Mirin’s table. Then he found her. Her aura was strong and vibrant, making her even more beautiful. When Sam turned to her companion, he was shocked to see what sat coiled upon itself at the table by her side.
Its batlike wings were folded tightly on its back, the bathed upper joint level with the the arch of its long, sinuous neck. The wedge-shaped head had wide jaws filled with sharp teeth, and a tail with equally sharp barbs twisted around the chair where it sat. It was a miniature Dragon, its image pulsing with power and straining at a glistening constraint that restricted none of its motions but seemed to contain it in some unfamiliar way, Sam’s attention was drawn to one golden claw, resting on the table. One talon wore a ring carved in the shape of a man with too-familiar features, Jarlath Drake. So it was true that Drake was, indeed, far more than he seemed. He was not a man at all. Drake didn’t work for Haesslich; he was Haesslich!
Sam, still only a novice magician and uncomfortable with power, tumbled back into his body, retreating to the mundane senses that had served him so well. Across the restaurant, a suave, dark-haired man dined undisturbed with his lady friend.
Hadn’t there been enough dragons in his life already?
He didn’t know what to do next, but one thing was certain. He was in far over his head.
45
He had seen it before, but today the sight struck Dodger as odd. The feared and renowned street samurai Ghost Maker, known to closer associates as Ghost Who Walks Inside, was making soykaf in the pitiful strip that served as the squat’s kitchen. Maybe it was something about the slight awkwardness in the Indian’s movements or the way he continually cocked his head as though listening for an anticipated signal. Something was out of place. As Ghost left the counter with a mug in each hand, Dodger saw a third mug lying on its side by the pot. That was it. In the past, Ghost had only prepared the brew for Sally, leaving the Elf to take care of himself.
“Thanks,” Dodger said, taking the offered mug.
Ghost lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. For several minutes, they sat quietly, sipping the steaming soykaf. Then Ghost said, “Whatever else he is, he’s brave.” Ghost shook his head. “Wants to haul a Dragon to court for murder.”
“You sound like you’re not so sure anymore. You wanting to bail out?”
Ghost looked at him bleakly. “Wanting has nothing to do with it.”