The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 39

Cassandra wished her training attire were any color other than black.

The noonday sun baked her from the pinnacle of the cloudless sky as she peeled her tight shirt away from her chest, shaking it in an attempt to dry out the sweat dripping down her cleavage and pooling underneath her breasts.

She, Xenia, Cael, and Tristan were hugged against a building across the street from the Delirium factory. The sun-warmed bricks burned her fingertips.

The glass and steel factory glistened in the piercing rays like a leviathan risen from the depths—a sleek, charcoal monstrosity among the simple brick buildings surrounding the harbor.

The Sea of Thetis had betrayed them today, offering not a gust of wind nor even a subtle breeze to chase away the oppressive heat, her waters still and stagnant.

Despite the broiling atmosphere, Xenia was buzzing. Cassandra had decided it would be better for Xenia to fly with Tristan, and the enthusiastic blonde had begun peppering him with questions as soon as he’d taken off for the harbor.

During her flight with Cael, Cassandra had used every ounce of willpower to not ask what was going on between him and her friend. Based on everything she’d witnessed, she was certain he didn’t know either. So she asked him about himself instead.

Cael had been born in a hilly region in the northwest continent called Brachos. The rocky yet verdant land was inhabited by Windriders like himself, those with wings of flesh, not feathers, plus a few breeds of hardy Beastrunners—mountain goat, horned sheep and yak bi-forms. His father was something like a lord there, the leader of the region and a loyal representative of the Empire.

Cael was the third of four brothers and therefore unlikely to take his father’s position anytime soon. So he’d decided to prove his mettle with the Vestian Guards in the colonies, hoping to earn a position with the Emperor’s own royal guard, the Vasilikans, someday.

It was the most Cael had spoken to Cassandra since they met. She wondered if being in the sky, buffeted by the wind and thinning air, had softened his rough edges. Or perhaps it was reminiscing about his family. His deep gray eyes broadcast his love for his parents and brothers, and Cassandra could tell he missed them terribly.

He’d shut down again as soon as they landed, but Cassandra was grateful she’d gotten to know him a little better. He wasn’t as jovial or forthright as his partner, but he had a quiet depth that she appreciated. She suspected his surliness was a shield to keep his tender heart protected—she wondered if Xenia knew that.

But she kept her thoughts to herself as the quartet peered around the red brick wall, watching the workers stream out of the factory on their lunch break.

Tristan had informed them that the factory was open from eight in the morning until eight at night every day of the week, each worker assigned five or six shifts per week. Cassandra questioned how he knew Aristol would even be here today, and Tristan shrugged and said he didn’t. She scoffed, annoyed that she might be melting in the miserable heat for nothing.

Just as she was about to berate Tristan for the intelligence failure, she caught sight of glinting, coppery hair across the street.

Aristol pulled off his hat, ruffling his hands through his ginger curls, his face aimed into the sun.

Tristan shooed the group behind the wall as Aristol strode past and headed for a pub further down the dusty street.

Tristan began doling out commands: “Cael, you and Cass go poke around the factory. Find the entrance points, see what kind of surveillance we’re dealing with. Xenia and I will head to the pub and engage Aristol.”

Cael nodded, but Cassandra felt a pang of rejection that Tristan hadn’t chosen her to accompany him. Then she realized he was trying to personally protect her vulnerable friend.

She could’ve kissed him.

Wished she would have this morning, since their tryst in her extraction room yesterday was the last time she’d had her hands and lips on him in any satisfying way—it felt like eons ago.

But she’d been too busy to tangle with him this morning. She paid a visit to her mother between breakfast and chapel service—she hadn’t seen her mother in several days. She found her silently folding clothes in the laundry hall and led her away for a walk in the courtyard.

Her mother had given no indication that she wanted to do such a thing, nor that she cared about the stories Cassandra recounted during their stroll—stories about the investigation, about Tristan, about life—but Cassandra didn’t mind. It was soothing to tell her mother everything that had happened, a burden shared and lifted, even if Cassandra knew none of it registered.

She’d returned her mother to the laundry hall, gave her a hug and peck on the cheek, and echoed her consistent farewell—I’ll be here if you need me, Mama. I promise—before heading to the chapel and, an hour later, the harbor.

Cassandra watched Tristan and Xenia cross the busy street and head into the packed pub at the corner.

Cael must’ve noted her concern. “They’ll be fine,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

He hurried across the street, his long legs carrying him faster than she could follow. She was panting and sweating even more profusely when she finally caught up with him.

“Give a girl a chance, huh? Holy High Gods, you Vestians walk fast!”

Cael glanced back, his permanent frown etched in place, but did slow his pace.

They walked along a concrete retaining wall topped with thick steel fencing that ran the entire perimeter of the factory.

There were only two openings in the fence on the street side. The workers had exited through a narrow door behind them and there was a larger opening a hundred yards ahead through which magically powered Fae vehicles—trucks, vans, and semi-trailers—passed to pick up and drop off supplies.

“Look towards the roof. But don’t turn your head, try to see out of the corner of your eye,” Cael murmured.

She did as he said and noted sleek, white boxes lining the edge of the roof. “I see them,” she said. “What are they?”

“Opticorders,” Cael answered. “They use Fae magic to create a visual replica of everything they capture. The replicas can be watched live from somewhere else or recorded for later. Notice there’s no guard houses between this fence and the factory?”

She glanced into the courtyard, a barren stretch of concrete running alongside the glass and steel walls.

“Whoever is watching the feeds is likely inside the building. It isn’t worth the risk to try and disable them—they’re probably bespelled against such interferences. We’ll need to replace another access point.” Cael nodded down the road. “Let’s go look around back.”

The two rounded the corner onto a street that sloped downwards, ending at the tranquil, mud-brown waters of the sea.

Cael paused, his eyebrows knit and his shrewd eyes narrowed as he surveyed the side of the building. He rushed down the sloping street, and Cassandra struggled to keep up without losing control of her feet and toppling down the sidewalk.

He stopped at the corner, and Cassandra slammed into his back, flattening her palms against his wings. They felt so different than Tristan’s: velvet-soft and cool with a fine, almost imperceptible coating of tiny hairs that sprang to attention when Cassandra’s hands made contact.

Cael sucked in a sharp breath and shuddered. His cheeks were stained with color when he turned around, his handsome face tight and unreadable.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Tristan warned me how sensitive a Windrider’s wings are.”

“Did he?” Cael asked, cocking a knowing eyebrow. The corner of his lip curved upwards.

How much did he know of her and Tristan’s arrangement?

“I’m messing with you,” Cael said, peering around the corner and thrusting his hand back to keep her in place. He rounded the corner, signaling her to follow.

At the back of the building, a line of cypress trees speared into the sky, a living wall between the water and the factory. A concrete sidewalk ran between the trees and the building, bisected by an aluminum dock that connected the factory to the water.

The only sounds besides the ever-present cawing of gulls were tiny waves lapping and the groan of the bobbing dock.

Cassandra was about to round the corner when Cael dropped an arm to stop her.

He gestured to the roof—more opticorders. “They’ll see you,” he said.

The heavy metal door at the end of the dock rolled open and four Deathstalkers ambled out, footsteps clanging. Cassandra and Cael darted behind the retaining wall, peeking their heads out.

Cassandra sniffed her armpit.

“What are you doing?” Cael whispered.

“Do you think they can smell me?” she asked, catching a whiff of her sweat-soaked, extremely ripe scent.

“Yes,” Cael answered dryly. “But I can smell about a dozen other humans in the air right now. And you don’t smell the worst, trust me.” He sniffed and grimaced, looking back toward a ruddy, pot-bellied fisherman untying his boat from a nearby dock.

Cassandra chuckled, but it caught in her throat as she glanced towards the dock and recognized one of the Deathstalkers.

That scar.

Alexei.

The four Deathstalkers, laughing and jostling, piled into a Fae speedboat and sputtered off across the sea, the dock thrashing in their wake.

“Maybe we’re in luck and they’re leaving for the day?” Cassandra offered.

Cael grunted. “Even if they’re not, this is our best point of entry. Tristan’s wingspan should cover the gaps between the cypress trees and allow us to sneak up to the dock without the opticorders noticing. From there, he can take us one by one to the side of the building where there’s a blind spot. Let’s just hope that he and Xenia have persuaded Aristol to let us in.”

They had persuaded him.

Well, Tristan had.

Xenia hadn’t been much help, giggling in her role as the good cop to Tristan’s bad cop.

Tristan had told Aristol that he knew about the women being kept below the factory. He convinced the young man that the wrath of the Emperor would come down upon him if he didn’t help them free the prisoners and apprehend whoever was responsible.

Aristol was shaking the whole time, from fear of Tristan but also from fear of what his bosses would do when they realized Aristol had inadvertently exposed them by sacrificing memories. Tristan promised that the Vestians, and by extension, the Vicereine and the Emperor, would protect the young man if he played a role in bringing the operation down.

Aristol had agreed to meet outside the pub after the factory closed for the day. He informed Tristan that only a few Deathstalkers would be on guard duty after hours. Aristol could help them gain entry to the building, lead them to the hallway, and use his thumbprint to open the cell doors.

And so, the foursome once again found themselves across from the pub, leaning against bricks radiating warmth after a full day of baking in the sun. Tristan ruffled his feathers and soaked in the heat.

A few final patrons milled about in the darkened pub. Aristol pushed through the front door, a stun pistol strapped to his belt, and crossed the dusty street, puffs of dirt churning underfoot as he approached the two Vestians and two Sisters.

“Aristol, how much time do you need to get in and get down to the loading dock to let us in?” Tristan demanded.

“I’ll meet you in ten minutes,” Aristol said before striding off towards the factory.

Tristan turned to his merry little team of rescuers, a knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. Why had he allowed Cassandra and Xenia to join?

He knew Cassandra was well-trained; he’d witnessed her impressive fighting skills first-hand. But contrary to what Xenia had said yesterday, she was almost completely helpless despite her months-long training with Cassandra. She’d be a distraction for both Cassandra and Cael—Tristan couldn’t let the Sisters in the building.

“Cass, Zee, you two keep watch on the dock,” he commanded.

“What?” Cassandra cried out. “Absolutely not. We are coming in with you. You didn’t see the first half of that memory. You won’t be able to replace Sister Kouris.”

Tristan gave her a pleading look. “That’s what we have Aristol for. Besides, taking you two in there feels like leading lambs to slaughter. These assholes have abducted three members of your order. What if they decide to take you too?”

“They could capture us just as easily from outside,” Cassandra snapped, her hands on her hips and her smoky blue eyes roiling.

Sweet Amatu, she looked so tempting when she was pissed at him. Her flushed cheeks and quickened breathing made him ache to cause those reactions in a different, more intimate way.

It had been far too many hours since they’d last played. He was fighting the urge to pin her up against that brick wall and bury himself inside of her, mission, audience, and her position within the order be damned. He took a deep breath to quell the desire overtaking his sanity.

“Cael and I would tear those fuckers apart before we let them lay a hand on either of you, I swear it. At least let us go in first and scope it out. If we’re able to subdue the Deathstalkers on duty, we’ll bring you in. Deal?”

Her eyes narrowed, but the small pause in her breathing was a tell that she was about to give in. She threw her hands in the air, expelling an exasperated sigh. “Fine,” she grumbled.

“Well, now that we’ve wasted three minutes standing here arguing, let’s go,” he said as he scooped Xenia into his arms, and Cael grabbed Cassandra. They had decided to approach from the water to avoid the opticorders.

Tristan flew out low, the mist churned by his flapping wings coating his face and cooling his nerves. Xenia clung to him as he doubled back and aimed for the line of cypress trees at the edge of the factory. He landed, Cael with Cassandra right behind him, then set Xenia down before rushing to the trees and spreading his wings. He rattled his feathers to activate the camouflage that would mask their presence.

“Snuggle in, friends,” he said, grinning.

Tristan sidestepped down the line of trees, wings spread wide, and Xenia, Cael, and Cassandra stayed close to remain hidden. Once they reached the dock, Cassandra and Xenia crouched behind a cypress while Tristan curled Cael in the cocoon of his wings and walked carefully up to the metal door.

Cael pressed himself against the glass and steel wall while Tristan went back for Xenia, then deposited her beside his partner.

When he returned for Cassandra, she leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist as he puffed and cocooned his wings around them. As soon as they were hidden, her mouth was on him. The kiss was deep and fierce, their tongues dancing together as they both groaned.

“I’m sorry,” she said, resting her forehead against his cheek, panting. “This whole situation, the danger, you in command mode… I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just… I couldn’t stop myself.”

Tristan snickered, walking them towards the building. “You never need to apologize for that, Daredevil. But this might not be the best time for a play session, yeah?”

“I know.” She blushed.

“Afterward,” he licked her lips, a promise, “assuming we make it out of here unharmed.” She shivered, and he hoped it was partly from fear; he didn’t want her to try anything reckless. He opened his wings and settled her down next to Xenia.

“He didn’t carry me over like that,” Cael quipped.

“You’ll always be my first love, Cael, no need for jealous hysterics,” Tristan answered, blowing his friend a kiss.

The quartet waited in silence until the metal door rumbled into motion, rolling up as Aristol stepped through.

“All clear,” the young man said. “There are only two Deathstalkers stationed in the wing with the prisoners. I’ll take you to the hallway, but I can’t risk going with you to the cells.”

“Why the fuck not?” Tristan growled. “Our deal was you open those cells for us, or we turn you in to the Vicereine.”

“You have no idea what they will do to me, to my family,” Aristol sniveled, raking a shaking hand through his copper curls.

“You have no idea what we will do to you,” Cael snarled, his wings flared.

Aristol cowered but refused to concede.

“How are we supposed to open the cells without your thumbprint? You gonna leave your thumb with us, Aristol?” Tristan leered, wolfish, as he took a menacing step toward the young man.

“Nuh-not my puh-problem,” Aristol said.

“You little twat.” Tristan gripped Aristol’s sweater and threw him to the dock. “Why did you even bother helping us get this far?”

“What they’re doing to those women,” Aristol whispered, “it isn’t right. I want them to be free, but I don’t want to die saving them or risk my family’s safety.”

And even though Tristan understood Aristol’s decision, he couldn’t contain his fury. He straddled the young man, running his tongue over his canines, reminding Aristol of who the true threat was. “Just tell us how to get to that hallway before I rip your throat out,” he snarled. “And give me that stun pistol.”

Aristol handed over the pistol, then hung his head. “Follow this corridor and go through the third set of swinging doors on your left. You’ll go down a set of stairs, then enter a long black marble hallway. Follow that for a hundred yards until it dead-ends, then turn right into the hallway with the cells. The two women are being held in the fourth cell on the left and the second cell on the right.”

“Two women?” Cassandra chimed in, her voice high and shaky. “Not three?”

Aristol shook his head. “There’s only two.”

Terror rippled through Cassandra, and she shot Tristan an agonized glance.

“We will replace them all,” he stepped towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders and bringing his face level with hers. “I promise you.”

She trembled, but nodded, breathing slowly and deeply before a calm, determined look settled over her—his brave playmate.

Aristol didn’t wait for a dismissal, stuck close to the side of the building to avoid the opticorders and dashed off into the quiet night.

Tristan, disgusted, watched the young man scamper away before handing the stun pistol to Cassandra. “Use this if you need to. We’ll come get you when and if it’s safe.”

Cassandra cradled the pistol in her delicate hands. He hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

“Be careful,” she said. “Both of you.”

“Indestructible, remember?” he winked.

Xenia squeezed Cael’s hand, her green eyes shadowed with worry.

Cael glanced down at the contact, a pained expression washing over his face before he nodded and released her hand.

Tristan whispered a message into his palm and sent a gust flying over the rippling black water.

“Who’d you send that to?” Cael asked.

“Hella. Told her to come wait a few docks down in case we need backup.” Cassandra scoffed, likely insulted that she and Xenia weren’t backup enough. He leveled a stern look at her. “We’ll need extra help to carry the Sisters out of here.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t retort.

“Good thinking,” Cael said. “Let’s go before someone wonders why this door is open.”

Cael pressed a large red button on the inside wall, and the door began rattling shut.

“Use that pistol if you need to, Cass,” Tristan said. “Don’t hesitate.”

Her faintly uttered words—Pistol up, fear down—faded as the door banged shut between them.