Ashes of Raging Water

by Michael J Allen

  “I’m sorry, Ani. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just very frustrated.”

  I turned to the shelves, scanning them for something that might lighten my mood. Shelf after shelf, I scanned titles. “Is anything here from this century?”

  “Vitae finds no literary value in modern written works.”

  I held back another scream by mere fingertips. I grabbed the nest guide and flopped into a chair. Anima announced another breach. I turned the page with courteously restrained force.

  19: The Deep Forensics

  Bradley

  Bradley rushed into Grady Memorial Hospital early the morning after his new cat became its new peculiar form of life. He’d concealed the makeshift cage of nested laundry baskets in a duffel, anxious every time the animal growled its meow. He headed to diagnostics, juggling duffel and package with badging the doors.

  A short, plump figure in a doctor’s coat met him. “This had better be good, Bradley.”

  “Better than your trip to the Shire in New Zealand.” Bradley offered the package. “Your bribe.”

  The other doctor opened the box, eyes widening. “Holy shit, this is your entire collection. What exactly are you bribing me to do?”

  Bradley lifted the duffel. “I need a cat scan.”

  “This is an MRI.”

  “Jesus, Tommy, it was a joke.”

  Tommy frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  Bradley ducked into the MRI chamber and extracted the cage. Tommy leaned in closer. The reanimated cat hissed at him.

  “It’s a cat,” Bradley said. “Cat scan? Eh?”

  “Looks more like a Mogwai you fed after midnight.” Tommy stared. “What is this thing?”

  “That’s the bribe. I need to run tests and I’d rather not answer questions.”

  Tommy glanced at the package. “You got it. Nothing metal in there, right?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “You did score lower than me.”

  “In one class, and honestly who cares about sociology anyway?” Bradley asked. “Shrinks?”

  “People that want to date.”

  They fell to reminiscing about medical school and weekends roleplaying while the MRI did its thing. When the conversation waned, Tommy turned up the morning news, a sappy grin pointed at the female anchor.

  “Government officials confirm that the DeKalb county fire was yet another in a series of arsons fueled by gas lines tampered with to prevent safety cutoffs from doing their job.”

  Bradley scowled at the anchor. “That can’t be right. Safety cutoffs are designed to be tamper proof.”

  “Valerie’d never lie to us. She’s brilliant and beautiful and surely she fact-checks every report before delivering it.” Tommy stormed over to the control console, jammed Bradley’s flash drive into a port and transferred the test data. “Are we done yet, Mister Science, or do you need something more? Blood tests? A public inquisition?”

  “What?” Bradley glanced from Tommy to the screen. He narrowed his eyes.

  Is that? Ah, the girl from Tommy’s lit course that was nice to him to get project help.

  “No worries,” Bradley said. “I can do blood tests back in my office.”

  “Morgue.”

  “Medical examiner’s office.”

  “Morgue. People will be coming on shift soon. Did you want any more tests? Your CAT scan maybe?”

  “That was a joke.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Fine, let’s run it through. Be kind of interesting to see how she reacts to x-rays.”

  A concerned expression crossed Tommy’s face, relieved by a glance toward his bribe. He led Bradley to an out of the way room, still dark and empty. The cat reacted immediately, howling like it was in pain. Tommy shut off the machine as Bradley rushed forward. The x-rays had burned the animal’s skin. New skin grew back in thicker, scaly leather. The cat glowered at Bradley with malevolence befitting a much bigger cat.

  “Hells, are those bone spurs growing out of its back?” Tommy asked.

  “Looks like it. Still look like a gremlin to you?”

  “More like a scaly Vapereon—without the blue,” Tommy said.

  An idea struck Bradley, provoking a grin.

  “I hate it when you get that look. What do you want?”

  “Think we have time to take Whiskers here down to radiology? I’d like to run a few more tests to see what other effects the x-rays had on it.”

  Detective Foxner

  Sabrina pulled up in front of the apartment building. Numerous squad cars filled the small strip of parking spaces. She pulled the warrants from her bag. Anger clung to her, amplifying the day’s heat. The judge had denied her warrant request to search Terrance Wall’s residence, claiming she didn’t possess enough proof to link Wall to Buckler as an accessory.

  “I want four of you on the third floor outside 3C while I serve the landlady. Two of you go around and watch the back right corner to prevent our suspect from bolting down the fire escape. Be nice to the old lady. She’s holding back possible evidence, but she’s not involved, and she hasn’t actually obstructed yet.”

  Sabrina climbed the stair, lifting a hand to knock on 1A. Mrs. Cox opened the door before she could, holding out an empty palm. Sabrina handed over the warrants.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Cox perched reading glasses on her nose. “This seems in order, two apartments only. I’ll comply, of course, no scofflaw—me or poor Quayla. You’re barking up the wrong river, Detective.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “You’ll be civil to my other tenants and if you break it, I’ll be on the phone to Marge in a heartbeat.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “No, Marge plays bridge with the mayor’s assistant’s mother.”

  “I see. Anything else?” Sabrina asked.

  “You’re not getting any more muffins.”

  “I’ll need you to hand over the picture you took from me.”

  Mrs. Cox smiled like the kindliest old lady that ever lived. “Returned it to its owner. After that? No idea.”

  You little—okay, you want to play hardball?

  The detective turned to the four officers lining up to search Mrs. Cox’s apartment. “Seems our evidence has gone missing.”

  Faces hardened.

  “Please, find it. Remember, only items which include these three people.” Sabrina held up pictures of Dylan and both Quaylas.

  Mrs. Cox entered her apartment, planted herself in a rocking chair and folded her arms.

  Sabrina climbed to the third floor. The sergeant supervising the second team frowned at her. “No answer.”

  Sabrina smirked. “Guess the landlady gets to come let us in.”

  She fetched Mrs. Cox and waited while the old lady flipped through a seemingly endless ring of keys for twelve apartments. She tried each at least twice, refusing assistance with a merry if vindictive smile. “Oh, dearie me, I do hope I haven’t misplaced it.”

  “Picture and a key?” the sergeant said. “Sounds like obstruction, Detective.”

  “Oh, no, officer. I’d never do anything to obstruct an officer executing his office.” Mrs. Cox scowled at the keys. “Just give an old lady a moment to collect her thoughts.”

  As if you’re not sharper than he is, you old fraud.

  Mrs. Cox plucked a key at random and opened Quayla’s door. She stepped in first. “Is anyone home? It’s just me, Hadley, oh and the police.”

  Sabrina entered after Mrs. Cox. A cursory scan found gaps in the former furnishings. “Stuff’s been removed.”

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Cox repeated. “You don’t suppose those nice kids had a spat?”

  Sabrina held up more warrants. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got him covered, too.”

  For a moment, Sabrina thought she heard the old lady curse softly. She let a smile blossom across her lips. “Okay, sergeant, this one’s a full search. Find me something linking these people to our suspect or the break in. I’ll be back aft
er I serve the third warrant.”

  Sabrina drove across town toward Dylan’s high-rise apartment, cursing traffic.

  Why can’t you people take a bag lunch?

  Several squad cars waited for her. She considered getting the super before going up to Snyder’s apartment, but he answered his door. “Good afternoon, Detective.”

  “We’re here to search your premises.” Sabrina handed him the warrant.

  He didn’t even glance at it, just snorted and waved them in. “Be my guest.”

  “I noticed a lot of things missing from Miss Buckler’s apartment. Can you explain that?”

  Dylan gestured to several boxes. “She dumped me.”

  “This girl dumped you?” Sabrina turned around a high-res printout of her suspect looking adoringly at Dylan.

  “No,” Dylan scowled at it. “Pretty bad Photoshop work, too.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t the woman who dumped you or is it this obviously in love woman didn’t dump you at all?”

  Anger darkened his features. He stabbed the printout. “As far as I know, that woman doesn’t exist. And it wasn’t my Quayla who dumped me as much as her...boss told me I wasn’t welcome around anymore. Do you have any other questions, Detective?”

  She brought out her notebook. “What’s this boss’s name?”

  “We weren’t introduced. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, why’s a clean-cut guy like you lying to me for some thief?”

  Dylan snorted. “My Quayla, okay, the Quayla who used to be mine, isn’t a thief. You’re barking up the wrong river.”

  Sabrina narrowed her eyes. “Say that again?”

  “You’re barking up the wrong river?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I don’t know, why?” Dylan asked.

  “Mrs. Cox said the same thing.”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe y’all colluded together, built a story to hide Miss Buckler’s guilt.”

  “Think what you want.” Dylan folded his arms and stepped to one side.

  The search of Dylan’s apartment turned up nothing. The search teams reported equal results when she returned to the suspect’s three-story walk-up.

  “Something’s off here,” the sergeant said. “No woman alive doesn’t have pictures of her and her boyfriend.”

  “I don’t know, Sarge,” one of the younger officers said. “I hate pictures of myself. I could see avoiding the camera and just taking pictures of him.”

  “We found none of those either,” the sergeant said. “And a woman with her own mirrored dressing alcove is vain enough to have plenty of selfies.”

  Sabrina looked down. Quayla Buckler had broken the law. She’d lied to Sabrina. She’d used someone who was clearly head over heels for her and just thrown him away. She needed to pay. Sabrina held up the warrant for the florist shop. “Let’s just hope fourth time’s the charm.”

  Mrs. Cox stepped into their midst. “Are you done, Detective?”

  “You in a hurry to see us go?”

  Mrs. Cox made an exasperated gesture. “Of course, I am. I’m going to have to burn white sage all afternoon to remove the taint of your bad attitudes.”

  Detective Foxner

  Sabrina hurried into precinct Tech Ops. The day had seemingly exercised a grudge against her. Long grueling hours searching had turned up nothing and kept her busy until the chances of catching Miri grew slimmer and slimmer. Sabrina tried anyway, hoping she’d beat the odds this once and find the tech still in, despite the hour. Light beyond frosted glass lifted Sabrina’s spirit. “Good evening, Miri. Please make my day and tell me you have something I can use.”

  Miri turned toward her, dark curls crowding the edges of her oversized glasses.

  If she just added a little makeup and downsized the glasses a bit...focus, criminals lying to your face.

  “Yes.” Miri turned back to her keyboard. Images popped into existence covering Miri’s wall of screens. Dozens of pictures showed her burglar—without the mask—in crystal clear images alongside Dylan Snyder. Several of the images were overlaid by mathematical graphs of some kind.

  “What am I seeing?” Sabrina asked.

  “She’s talented, but nothing is ever truly gone from the internet.” Miri sipped out of a mug. “I’ve used date-time stamps, orbital charts and some algebra to compare the two women in question. They’re not the same.”

  “Did she get the fastest plastic surgery in history?” Sabrina asked.

  “Only if she let them chop half a foot off her legs. I suppose you could double check that with x-rays. Calculating heights and builds, they share similar overall mass, but their dimensions are too dissimilar to prove they were ever the same woman—even if they are using the same name and apparently the same man too.”

  “No chance of getting an order for an x-ray with what I have right now.” Sabrina leaned closer. “Did you find any record of my suspect?”

  “There are no matches in Federal facial recognition databases. As far as the Feds are concerned, your suspect doesn’t exist, and this new girl always has.”

  “Fingerprint records?”

  “Modified the morning of the robbery, but I haven’t been able to dig down and prove that the modification wasn’t something clerical like an address update.”

  “Backups?”

  “Same modification dates.”

  “So, what am I dealing with, a super hacker animal extremist?”

  Miri sipped her drink. “She didn’t do the hacking.”

  “How do you know?” Sabrina asked.

  Miri brought another image onto the screens. Scribbles covered the massive world map. A dot lit up in Washington D. C. followed by a line, then a dot, then a line over and over all over the world in a haphazard and seemingly random string of connections until the last dot lit dead center in Vatican City.

  “She’s a spy for the Pope?” Sabrina asked.

  Miri shrugged. “Vatican denied any knowledge of her.”

  “Wouldn’t they deny knowing a spy anyway?”

  Miri shrugged once more and drank. “This is real life, not some Bond film, but aren’t you church people supposed to tell the truth?”

  “So, I’ve got proof my suspect was using the same name—”

  “And man—talk about identity theft.”

  Sabrina cracked her neck. “So, we have no proof she ever existed outside social media pictures that you dug out of God knows where.”

  “I kept notes.”

  Sabrina paced. “Fine, you and God know where. The Humane Society folks found nothing missing except animals which are definitely not in her little apartment.”

  “None of the animals they listed have any market value.”

  “Right, so at best I’ve got B&E with a petty theft kicker. What the hell is going on here?” Sabrina said.

  “Could be a cult, animal sacrifice, that sort of thing?” Miri said.

  Sabrina leveled a dark expression at her. “Why is it every time I come here you suggest there’s some blood sacrifice cult involved?”

  Miri shrugged. “Probability says I have to be right sooner or later. Besides, they happen.”

  “Okay, is there anything else you can tell me about the new Quayla Buckler?”

  Miri shrugged. “She works at a florist shop owned by a shell company whose officers don’t exist, but all pay taxes.”

  Sabrina brightened. “Money laundering?”

  Miri shrugged and sipped.

  “Thanks, Miri. Anything I can get you?”

  Miri pushed her glasses up, giving Sabrina a small, matter-of-fact smile. “I’m happy.”

  20: War’s Burning Heart

  Quayla

  I knelt beside my nest. The foul taste of Terrance’s slurry lingered despite numerous rinses and two ginger ales. I extended a hand over the basin and squeezed my core tighter. As with arming my Karambit, essence pooled in my palm and hung in gravitational defiance. I pushed harder, expanding the mass in hopes enough
would accumulate to drop away like rain collecting beneath a wind chime. When it didn’t fall, I cringed in anticipation of the coming tearing sensation.

  The Shieldheart’s Guide had added to what I’d been taught in my initial training. Neither training nor the guide spared me from the tearing sensation which seemed to shred my heart each time essence separated from the whole, but the guide had revealed things my rushed initial training hadn’t.

  I pushed more essence from my palm, much more than I’d ever managed to force into one of my knives. I could’ve extruded essence from anywhere. The guide provided advanced methodologies illustrating nuances that theoretically enhanced my ability to transmogrify only part of my body into pure essence. It didn’t provide a way to lessen the pain of severing a limb but it did offer a less painful way to rebalance my essence while maintaining my human shape in front of witnesses.

  The thought alone made me shudder.

  Tactical realities had forced me to hurl essence blades from my hilts, but I repeated the agonizing attack infrequently. Ripping a part of myself away from the whole just plain hurt. No matter how small, the loss weakened me. In my earliest training, it had made me dizzy, even starting with a hale and whole body.

  Crying wasn’t the most efficient way to refill my nest when it was badly depleted, but I’d gotten used to the painless method. When Vitae’d kept me under house arrest, he’d disdained any contact with me and made even stepping out of my bedroom miserable.

  My only expenditures of essence had been to fulfill his demands that I provide seeds for the sentry net which he had both provided and placed for me. When Terrance or Ignis took me into the field—sometimes under vehement objection, they’d kept me from death. There hadn’t been any hurry refilling my nest, and I was glad not needing to carve out chunks of my body.

  I hate this.

  I fought pain aversion and willed my essence to separate. Several cups hung from my palm like stubborn mucus—even when I tried to shake it from my hand.

  “Perhaps if you cut it away,” Anima said.

  Anima offered no physical target, so I glared in general. I drew a Karambit and pushed essence into the hilt. The pressure of maintaining so much essence outside my skin made my head throb. It almost crossed my eyes.