Revenant by Kat Richardson Read Free Book Online Page B

to reach the shrine of Our Lady of Fátima. They’re an odd mix, modern and medieval and generous and sad.”
    “I wonder what your father has in mind for them.”
    “He may not have much in mind at all aside from snatching Soraia. I haven’t been able to figure out his larger plan beyond ‘sow chaos and reap destruction.’ I haven’t seen much sign of the paranormal, even though I know it’s a big part of whatever he’s up to. I think we may have destroyed a lot of his progress in that respect back in Seattle, but he’s been successful with the ghost boxes at least enough to plant one in most of his units. The way he manages to getinformation and set people up is uncanny, and I can’t think of any other way he could be doing it.”
    “You mean like the box that Sergeyev was stored in—imprisoned ghosts who act as spies and agitators?”
    “Yeah. But I can’t see ghosts like you can and it’s one of the things I need you for.” He seemed frustrated at acknowledging that he needed anything, and furious with himself. “I’m missing something—missing too much, obviously, if I missed his taking Soraia.”
    I was on the point of telling him to stop blaming himself when he turned to me sharply and started for the train station, saying, “We need the train to Cascais.”
    “We do?”
    “We won’t be going that far. Sam lives in Carcavelos. It’s on the coast before you get all the way out to the famous parts around Estoril—that area is full of fancy resorts for the wealthy for the most part and always has been. Carcavelos is more famous for its surf. The Tagus River still has an effect at that location, so the waves are a lot more defined. And it used to be a British communication depot, so there are still a lot more English speakers there than in most small towns in Portugal. Come on,” he added, urging me into the building.
    The station was sleek and modern inside, all cement and steel, but there were still bits of art here and there, like a row of giant anthropomorphized rabbits in blue suits rushing across the platform walls from the metro to the train station. It took a while to figure out which train we needed since there were several types of service. Quinton found a clerk who spoke excellent English and who explained the various trains running on the Cascais line and which one would get us to Carcavelos quickest. Then we had to purchase passes from a vending machine and go through various turnstiles andvalidate the pass, find our track . . . and miss our train by seconds. The next would leave in twenty minutes.
    We doubled back to a small food vendor selling a sort of spicy pork sandwich called a bifana . The smell reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since Seattle. I didn’t appear to be the only one who was ravenous: The area was busy and we were jostled by hurrying commuters and hungry customers. Several men with ominous clouds of Grey energy around them passed as well. I tried to watch them and figure out what they were up to or who they were, but I couldn’t guess. We received our sandwiches wrapped to go—which had caused some sighing as if there was no understanding the silly ideas of tourists—and I asked Quinton what he thought of one of the men and if any were familiar.
    “Haven’t seen them before specifically,” he said, “but they remind me of the guys from one of the units I didn’t work with at a certain agency. Mostly young agents from the KGB and Stasi, who suddenly didn’t have a job when the wall came down in Berlin. They were at loose ends, not particularly idealistic, but well trained and resentful of being unemployed. Most of them were willing to work for the highest bidder or the government most likely to let them emigrate. By the time I met any, they were middle-aged, cynical, and mean as snakes.”
    “Sounds familiar.”
    “If you mean they remind you of my dad, I’d say these guys were less charming and had limits even they wouldn’t exceed—which is not