One woman with a job to do. One gorgeous hacker with a plan. One apocalypse. Any questions?
Aika Lareto is a descendent of St. Brighid in her incarnation of all things fire and warfare in a time when heroes were revered as gods. In 2025, this means Aika is hunted by all things demon and government. All she wants is to get on with her work as guardian of the dregs scraping out a fringe existence in London’s blitzed underground—the lost, forgotten and the just plain ignored.
Declan Pryce is the hacker who finds her first. Quite a feat, considering current ruling government conglomerate Dreamtech has issued a bounty on Aika’s head for her ability to bypass their security systems.
When she escapes Dreamtech’s net, the vote is unanimous—Aika is a liability in need of immediate resolution—dead or alive is entirely her choice.
No choice, really. She’ll take death over disloyalty every time. Declan has a plan that doesn’t include falling for an impossible woman in an impossible situation. She has plans of her own that don’t leave room for a love life.
If they’re incredibly lucky, it just might work.
Product Warnings
Contains a hot hacker with a penchant for redheads, battles with demons, a little light torture, explosions and a heroine willing to do whatever it takes to do her job.
Copyright © 2011 Cate Morgan
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
Aika skirted a Technicolor block party pulsating beneath a violent fuchsia tarp anchored to street lamps with jellyfish tendrils, then slipped into a side street packed end to end with small clubs, all night takeaways and street vendors offering food and stimulants to keep the crowds going—and spending. The throngs migrated in one direction, taking as much notice of her as a river parting around a rock. It was a knack, this not being noticed. Almost as effective as going between. She needn’t have bothered, except for the practice.
She passed an alley on her left. The muted chink of a broken bottle skittered across its dark, damp well of concrete and brick. She didn’t think twice; she pulled folds of shadow around her like a midnight blanket and stepped into the time and space between this world and the Other.
It was like being deep underwater, close and oppressive, but she was inured to its womb-like dark. Time slowed. Space expanded. She braced herself. Pushed as she exhaled from the abdomen, and squeezed herself back through to the end of the block on the opposite side of the partygoer currents. She stepped beneath the awning of a trendy sushi bar, the wide front windows pulled open so the overflow could perch on its sill. Paper lanterns exuded improbable colors—summer-sun yellow, peacock blue, hot-pant pink.
Two figures in overcoats hurtled out of the alley, arguing strenuously. One sported the sort of Nordic bulk associated with Thor, his companion dark and wiry. Violent arm gestures ensued.
Smiling, she cut through a few more side streets and made her way to the nearest tube station, in the opposite direction of the stragglers. Oversized advertisements continued their mocking dance overhead against the near invisible curve of the biosphere, lighting the iron cross above Saint Somebody-or-Other’s across the river. It had changed management once or twice. These days it was a nightclub so elite she was surprised they had any patrons to speak of. She supposed everyone needed a niche in such a competitive market.
Her world lay elsewhere. In the Burnout Zone, among the dregs. A thriving black market had sprung up among the piles of tumbled walls afforded by the disused Underground tunnels and fallen bridge. Blankets were spread on the ground, the more resourceful with overhead tarps and makeshift tabletops offering a variety of salvage, trinkets and handmade goods. The closer she got to her destination, she passed more amulets in the shape of crosses and stars crafted from twisted wires and knotted string, anything they could find.
One of her regulars waved her over to his blanket, a prime location along the main thoroughfare. “What’s on today, Carl?” She looked over the hodgepodge of questionable salvage. Only the very brave, naïve or strange bought from Carl, but she gave the sprawl a professional once over anyway.
He leaned forward on his rickety crate, ragged dog end trapped between his fingers like a fly in a Venus flytrap. It was difficult to tell the yellowed, smoldering rollup from his tartar-stained fingers as he wafted black smoke over his reclaimed treasures. “In the market for an upscale…whatever this is?” He prodded a misshapen object with his boot.
She stared at the…item, momentarily fascinated. “Unfortunately not.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” He shook his head. “Business could be better, what with the new cleanup initiatives. Folk don’t throw out anything worth having no more. How’s the old man?”
“I’m sure he’d love a chat,” she assured him. Regardless of his merchandise, Carl’s information was always good, not to mention identifiable. “It’s beef tonight.”
“I prefer squirrel.”
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