Illusive Read Free Page A

mascot requirement.”
    Devon makes a disgruntled noise. “Shut up. Mascots are just there to look cute. I’m useful.”
    She can’t argue with that. Devon has been studying security systems for years. Specifically, he’s studied how to hack security with his illegally modified tablet. “God, I love these wireless systems,” he murmurs. “So much easier to break into. One more… just a minute… and there! Loop’s in place—we’ve got about three minutes before it’s blatant that something’s off.” He takes the pen from his mouth and uses it to gesture at Ciere. “Well, go on, then. Do your thing.”
    Ciere closes her eyes. She conjures up an image of an old woman—white hair pooled into a bun, wrinkles settling inaround her features—and her clothes shift into sagging polyester. She darkens her skin, altering its shade to match Devon’s. A young man and his grandmother will look perfectly innocent.
    Devon shakes his head, grinning. “You have no idea how mad it is to see that.”
    Arm in arm, she and Devon emerge into downtown Manhattan. Despite the fact it isn’t yet noon, the sun already beats down on the back of Ciere’s neck. She sucks in lungfuls of hot, humid air, tasting sweat and exhaust. Steam flows up from sewer grates, and people swarm the sidewalks—everyone from the homeless with their blackened teeth and sunken eyes to businessmen with tailored suits and briefcases. Ciere has to dodge several tourists as they shuffle past. She tilts her head back and gazes at the city. The buildings are an odd mix of classical arches, sleek skyscrapers, and the grunge that has taken root in the urban areas like mold in an old bag of bread.
    Devon releases her arm, hand raised to flag down a taxi. One screeches to a stop, and Ciere slides gratefully into the backseat, the leather upholstery sticking to her bare legs. In her illusion, she wears a pantsuit. In reality, she wears a sundress. It’s too hot for anything heavier.
    The cab driver gives Ciere’s dog a doubtful look, and she smiles. “Don’t worry,” she lies, trying to sound old. Illusions won’t change her voice. “The dog’s trained.”
    The cabbie turns away with a grunt of acceptance, andDevon rattles off the name of the train station. The car flies forward and Ciere digs her nails into the worn leather of the seats. The cab swings into traffic in a move both terrifying and utterly illegal. Ciere quickly fumbles for her seat belt. Once she’s firmly belted in, she closes her eyes, hoping for enough time to rest.
    Only minutes later, Devon touches her arm and his voice is in her ear, low and urgent. “Four turns,” he says.
    It takes her a moment to bring her mind around, and when she does, she jerks fully awake. There are ways to tell if you’re being followed, either on foot or by car. One of the more reliable ways is to count how many turns a person behind you takes.
    “We’re being followed?” Ciere asks softly.
    Devon nods. His eyes are intent on the rearview mirror. “Black Honda Pilot, looks like the 2016 make. Didn’t know those things still ran. Tinted windows. I’ve got the plate numbers, too.”
    “Feds?”
    “Not government-issue plates, but you never know,” Devon murmurs. “Options?”
    Ciere frowns. “Not a lot we can do in a cab. Not if we don’t want to seem suspicious. Hopefully there’ll be a lot of traffic around the station and we can duck into the crowd.”
    It’s not a good plan, but they’re not swamped with options.
    When the cab pulls up in front of the station, Devon shoves a handful of twenties at the cabbie and scrambles out of the car, following Ciere. She’s already slammed her door,and she strides into the train station, holding the dog in her arms. There isn’t a huge crowd, but there are enough people around to make Ciere relax. Devon falls into step beside her. “I think the tail drove on,” he says.
    “So our plan worked?” she replies.
    “Actually, I think there wasn’t any