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“I did not touch her,” Serge repeated, the fire fading from his eyes. “I swear.”
Within Lucius, the part that was still human battled back, taking advantage of the serpent’s surprise, finally beating it under. “Serge,” he whispered, releasing his vise grip on his friend’s head. “By the gods, Serge.”
“We haven’t fought like that in over five centuries,” Serge said, drawing in deep swaths of air. “Now I remember why.” He rolled onto his side. “You always beat me.”
“You are yourself?”
“For now,” Serge said. “I don’t know for how long. It comes,” he said. “It stays.”
“You’re going to have to find the strength to fight,” Luke said, fearful that strength was fading within him. It was far too easy for the serpent to come out this night. It needed release if it was to be crushed back, docile, within.
“My serpent is not the problem,” Serge said. “Tasha is gone. Graylach was slaughtered. Your enemies, Lucius—”
“I know,” he said. “Caris has taken her.”
“Caris?” Serge asked, his confusion clear.
Luke kept his voice flat, unemotional, and told his friend all that had happened.
“What can I do?”
Luke unbuttoned his shirt. “Who designed this device?”
He watched as Serge’s brows knitted, as he reached out and touched the cold metal. “I’ve heard of these, but I have never seen one before.” He looked up at Luke. “Someone of great power made this.”
“Can you find him?”
“Perhaps. If not, I may have another solution. I’ll leave word where and when to meet me tonight, and we’ll see what can be done.”
* * *
“Nothing new on Stemmons’s location,” Sara said, hanging up the call from Porter and turning back to face her team. “So we switch gears for a moment and focus on the Dragos matter. We’ve got three weeks until trial.”
Her attention moved to Doyle and Tucker as Blair flew in, folded back her wings, then sat. “What more have you two got for me on the rape?”
“We’ve run down five victims,” Doyle said. “The judge was a damn prick, and hell on wheels for keeping secrets. But once we tugged on the thread, it all started to unravel.”
“And Tasha?”
“Not a word, not a whisper.” Doyle narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “You ever consider that Dragos is blowing smoke up your skirt?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That he knew Braddock was dirty, and he’s tossing you this load of crap about his ward figuring you’ll do exactly what you’re doing.”
“Not buying it.” She’d seen the pain in Luke’s eyes. No way was she going to believe he was bullshitting. “So I want you to keep looking. And I also want you to flag the interviews with the other rape victims. Have Blair make copies and send them to Dragos.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Doyle said, as beside him, Tucker almost choked on his salt-and-vinegar chips.
She turned to Blair. “That rule plays down here, too, yes? We come across evidence that might clear the defendant, we have to turn it over?”
“Check,” Blair said. “Pretty sure humans took that one from us, too. An earlier incarnation of the PEC established that rule in, oh, about 600 B.C.” She frowned. “Maybe 1600 B.C. Anyway, before that, it was pretty much anything goes.”
“Reading that rule awfully broad, aren’t you?” Doyle said, blood rushing to his cheeks, and his eyes flashing red to match. “Dammit, Constantine, do you want the guy to get off?”
“What I want is justice.” She pressed her palms flat on the conference table and leaned over into his face. “And that means, Agent, that we don’t try to stake innocent men. So if you find anything that suggests Dragos didn’t murder Braddock—or if you find anything that suggests mitigating circumstances—then you flag it, you copy it, and you send it to the defendant. Are we clear?”
“I get you,” Doyle said. “But we’re not going to find anything. Dragos is a son of a bitch. And for once—finally—he’s going to get what he deserves.”
