Chronicles of Devon

by W. J. May

  “Mase, you can’t go home,” Devon said reasonably. “This is a kidnapping. Get onboard.”

  “You’ll soon begin to relate to us,” Julian added kindly. “It’s classic Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “Classic Stockholm Syndrome,” Devon agreed.

  Mason bowed his head with a sigh. “Okay...how can I get out of here?”

  Devon waved him forward with a grin. “You can fight your way to the door.”

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, Mason had yet to make much progress.

  They’d covered most of the basics—things they’d gone over before, but had been left to atrophy in the riverside cottage. Despite avoiding a life of espionage the guy was naturally athletic, making his way through the paces with the skill of someone who’d been fighting twice as long.

  Ink was carefully avoided. Weapons were medieval and borderline absurd. For the most part they worked with their hands—moving back and forth across the mats in graceful sweeps.

  Ones that hadn’t left much breath for talking.

  “So, why Australia?” Devon panted, ducking a swinging kick. “And don’t give me some crap about sun-kissed beaches and finding true love.”

  Mason spun low to the mats, coming up behind him. “I want to travel. I want to try new things. Maybe take some more classes—”

  “All things that require a disposable income and flexible work schedule,” Devon interrupted with a grin, boxing him on the ears when he tried to respond. “Tell me, what does that sound like?”

  Mason staggered back with a reluctant smile, shaking his head to clear it.

  “Oh yeah? When was the last time you took a vacation?” When Devon opened his mouth to reply, he quickly added, “One that didn’t require you to kill people?”

  Devon considered a moment, then flipped him onto the floor. “Waste of sunscreen.”

  “I’m serious.” Mason pulled back, lowering his hands. “Why do you want me to do this so badly? It can’t just be the tatù. Your wife can mimic that. She probably already has.”

  “It’s not about the tatù,” Devon replied. “It’s about the community. These are your people, Mason. You’re living in that big house all by yourself. Locking the doors, shutting the windows.”

  “Because of you—”

  “This is your world,” Devon interrupted softly, gesturing around the room. “Even if you don’t want to join the agency, even if you never want to set foot on this campus again...these are your people. They’ll have your back. And yeah,” he admitted, flicking at the glimmering lines etched into the guy’s arm, “that ink is insanely powerful. And these guys are doing good work. I want you to have their back as well.” Their eyes met for a long moment. “Now put your hands up.”

  The casual pacing jumped up a few notches as they walked in silence towards the center of the mats. Like clockwork the rest of the agents cleared away, leaving an open ring.

  Devon lifted his hands, bouncing to stay loose.

  “You remember that combination I showed you?”

  Mason hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “Show me.”

  With a speed and ferocity they’d avoided thus far, both men crashed together in the center of the mats. Striking with several sharp impacts before Mason shifted his balance and spun in a tight circle, landing a kick straight in the center of his instructor’s chest.

  Devon flew backwards with a gasp, beaming with pride. Not only did the guy remember the attack, but he’d clearly been practicing on his own. Maybe there was some hope for him after all.

  “Good,” he panted, stepping back into the ring. “That was really good, Mase.” He lifted his hands again, beckoning him forward. “Now let’s play it through to the end, all right?”

  They battled on for a few more minutes, entering a level of improvisation that Devon had done a million times but which was brand new for the man he was fighting. He slowed down ever so slightly, giving the guy time to work it out. It was one of the things he liked most about Mason. The guy’s ink was strong enough to cover a few gaps in technique, but he didn’t lean into it. He focused on each incremental step—thinking it through until it had seared itself into his brain.

  Let’s see what you make of this...

  Devon leapt towards him once more, but at the last minute he turned and attacked in two quick jabs—one to the ribcage and one to the face. Most people would have turned—the one to the ribs was actually harder to deflect—but Mason didn’t have enough experience to see it coming. There was a sharp cry as he took a punch directly to the cheekbone, staggering backwards with a gasp.

  “Shit,” he cursed softly, cupping his face as his eyes watered involuntarily. The pride kicked in a second later, but he didn’t lower his hand. “I’ll never understand how people get used to that.”

  Devon stood there indifferently, fighting his urge to help.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Mason panted, dabbing away the blood. “Sorry—I’m fine.”

  Devon closed the distance between them, pulling his hand away to see the damage for himself. He winced involuntarily, then clapped him lightly on the back.

  “You don’t ever get used to it. You just get better at stopping it from happening.” He paused a few seconds, trying to read the guy’s face. “Want me to show you how to block it, or would you like me to drive you home? You’ve earned it—Jules and I won’t try to stop you.”

  Mason stood there a moment longer, then lifted his hands. “Count it down.”

  THE MEN CONTINUED FIGHTING for the better part of an hour, having more and more fun with it as Mason fell into his stride. Near the end, they decided to raise the stakes and start introducing a few powers. At least, that’s the way Devon would describe it later to friends.

  “Slow down,” Mason gasped, trying to keep his friend in focus as they streaked across the mats. “Slow down, Wardell. There’s no way I can keep pace with that.”

  Devon kept his speed, flipping over his opponent’s head. “Jules keeps pace—so can you.”

  “Jules is a freak of nature,” Mason argued, leaping backwards to avoid a spinning kick to his face. “Seriously, Devon, just give me a second to—”

  But he didn’t have a second. And in a moment of panic, he threw up his hands.

  A burst of golden light scorched the air between them, and the next thing Devon knew he was no longer on the practice mats. He was crashing into a wall on the other side of the room.

  No...you never get used to it...

  He rolled over with a groan, blinking stars from his eyes as his shell-shocked brain struggled to make sense of what had happened. He’d seen Mason’s portals before. It was the entire reason the PC was so intent on acquiring him. But he’d never actually felt one until that very moment.

  He was inclined to buy him a ticket to Australia.

  “You okay, buddy?” Mason called with a grin, savoring the moment. “Need some help?”

  Devon tried to sit up, but collapsed back on his arms.

  “We’ve reached the talking portion of the lesson,” he called back, to the amusement of several nearby agents. “Bring me a stretcher and a baseball bat. I’ll tell you what you did wrong.”

  Mason chuckled, then headed to the door.

  “Think I might go home instead. We can remember this as the day you almost recruited me to the Privy Council...but ended up paralyzed instead.”

  Yep, that’s probably how we’ll remember it.

  Devon flipped him off, but he was already outside—assumedly to hitch a ride with someone back to the city. A second later hand appeared out of nowhere, pulling Devon back to his feet.

  “Very impressive,” Julian congratulated. “Nice of you to go easy on the kid.”

  Easy...right.

  “Remember Carter wanted to speak with you.”

  “Shit—that’s right.” Devon dusted himself off, still spinning. “You going to be here for a while? I can give you a ride back to the city.”

  At that precise momen
t, the door opened and a statuesque woman sailed into the room. She locked eyes with the psychic and smiled, giving Devon a look of supreme disgust at the same time.

  “Nah—I’ll catch a ride back with Angel. Nice work today.”

  “Yeah,” Devon stared after him, “nice work.”

  It had been a cataclysmic end to what might have been a promising training session, but fortunately the training ring was a sacred space. Such things never left the Oratory mats.

  “Tough break, Wardell.” A shifter flashed a grin as he headed into the PC tunnels, waving a teasing hand as they crossed paths. “How many fingers do you see?”

  Such things were never SUPPOSED to leave the Oratory mats.

  “I will break you to pieces...the second I get feeling back in my legs.”

  The man vanished with a grin as Devon came to a stop in front of the door at the end of the hall, knocking softly and smoothing back his hair. It was quiet for a second, then—

  “Come in.”

  Carter was sitting behind his desk when Devon slipped inside, half-submerged beneath a massive stack of files. Since he was sixteen years old, he’d been coming into that office.

  The image hadn’t changed.

  “Pete Lansing slipped his cuffs and turned up in a warehouse in Chelsea. He doesn’t know we’re sitting on him, but someone needs to pick him up tomorrow to submit the evidence in time.”

  Devon froze where he stood, switching tracks.

  “He slipped his cuffs?” he repeated slowly, sensing it wasn’t that simple. He and Julian had a hell of a time arresting the guy in the first place. “How did that—”

  Carter held up a hand, looking immensely tired. “I’m getting into it. For now, I just need Lansing. Can you and Julian—”

  “I can do it,” Devon offered quickly. “Jules has a prior commitment tomorrow, and if there’s no strict time-frame I can just grab him after dropping the kids off at school.”

  Carter hesitated, staring up from the desk. “Are you sure? Last time, it took both of you—”

  “I can do this,” Devon interrupted quickly. “It’s just a pick-up, right? Piece of cake.”

  The PC president considered a moment longer, then assented with a single nod.

  “It was good to see you training Mason today.” He moved aside some papers, glancing up with a shrewd stare. “You think we have a shot?”

  Devon hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know—too soon to tell. Some part of him wants to be here—you can feel his connection to this place—but there’s something holding him back.” He remembered their confrontation by the river with a faint smile. “He thinks he’d be better off in Australia.”

  Carter shook his head briskly. “Tell him about the snakes.”

  “All over it.” Devon backed to the door with a respectful nod, pausing at the last second with a question he tried to make casual. “You heard anything from Rae?”

  “She hasn’t missed a single check-in.” Carter’s face softened ever so slightly. “I’d be willing to bet she’s more worried about you. How’s it going with the kids?”

  “Fine,” Devon assured him, backing out the door. “Everything’s fine.”

  Everything’s fine.

  Chapter 6

  “Creatures of darkness...bow to your queen!”

  Devon jerked awake with a gasp as his daughter’s voice echoed up the stairs. Ironically enough, he’d been having a similar dream. It was getting harder to differentiate between the two.

  He closed his eyes for a split second, then glanced around for his phone. The room was already bright with sun, but he’d set an alarm. Why hadn’t it—

  “Aria!”

  There was a thundering of footsteps, then a tiny girl appeared at the door.

  “Morning, Daddy.”

  Not good.

  Daddy had been officially abbreviated to Dad after she and Benji had discovered sunglasses and decided they were cool. Now, the title only made special appearances. Like when she’d done something questionable and needed to apologize...like stealing her father’s phone.

  “Sweetheart, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Like the time?

  Her face paled, then cleared in the same instant—like whatever timid conscience had been poking tentatively to the surface had been beaten with mallets back into the ground.

  Rae had a similar expression.

  “It’s funny you should ask.” She sashayed into the room, hopping onto the edge of the bed. “I think you’d be really proud of me this morning. I problem-solved, just like you’re always telling me to do. Good spy training, when you think about it—”

  He snapped his fingers, bringing her back on point. “What was the problem?”

  She paused instinctively, venturing onto thinner ice. “Well, you know how I’ve always fancied myself a scientist...”

  He tilted back his head with a groan.

  His daughter’s interests tended to come in violent waves, and scientific exploration had been no exception. Most of her ‘ground-breaking’ experiments tended to require a technological sacrifice and involve a great deal of water. Her anthropological study of her classmates had been even worse.

  “Aria, did you take my phone?”

  She let out a nervous breath of laughter—angling towards the door like a tiny bird on the verge of flight. “Daddy—you solved it! Are you sure that you’re not the psychic one?”

  Flattery. Cute.

  He sprang out of bed and moved swiftly across the room—yanking a shirt over his head while he simultaneously checked the sink and the bathtub. Both were suspiciously empty, but that still left several unsettling things she might have tried.

  “Honey—you can’t keep doing this,” he chided, grabbing his toothbrush and stuffing his feet into shoes. “I had an alarm set for this morning. You’re supposed to be at school—”

  “Relax, it’s not even seven-thirty,” she said quickly, flitting along in his shadow as he paced manically back and forth across the room. “And I already fixed the phone. It’s resting now.”

  He stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder with a chill. “What do you mean, ‘it’s resting’?”

  She lit up with a beaming smile. “You said that whenever stuff like that got wet—we needed to put them in a bowl of rice to leach out the water! And I remembered you saying that!” The smile turned abruptly smug. “You see? Problem-solving at its finest. I bet you’re actually kind of proud...”

  He spat out a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “I’ll write it down in my journal. Get you a gold star.”

  ...to drown in the sink.

  She nodded brightly, then vanished out the door—skipping down the hall to get dressed for school and commemorate this latest exploit in an actual journal she kept stuffed beneath her pillow.

  Devon had stumbled upon it only once whilst cleaning. He’d had nightmares for a week.

  Apparently, it had been around seven-thirty whenever his distractible daughter had glanced at the clock at some point in the morning, but it was far closer to eight. Devon discovered this when he located his watch, strapped it onto his wrist, then cursed aloud when he saw the time.

  “You want waffles or toast?” he called, hurrying down the hall to the baby’s room. James was already standing up in his crib, and with a speed tatù both parents had gotten the morning-routine down to an even forty-seven seconds. “Arie—answer me! Waffles or toast!”

  “Can I get some yogurt?”

  I’m going to sell you on the black market.

  “Toast it is...” he murmured to himself, kissing James on the forehead and strapping him into his high chair. There was an immediate wail and he spun in a quick circle—trying to locate the correct appeasing toy. “I know, I know—I’m looking...”

  The wailing crescendoed as the two pieces of bread he’d put into the toaster began to smoke. A distant crash sounded from upstairs as he threw the toast onto a plate, then let out an actual sigh of
relief when he spotted a little rubber giraffe in a potted plant next to the fireplace.

  “Here you go, buddy. Enjoy.”

  He and Rae might not have known much about parenting before getting surprised with the news of Aria one fateful morning, but a great deal of it seemed to center around Sophie the Giraffe, because they’d been gifted it by no fewer than eight people when they’d announced the pregnancy.

  Already, James was tearing into it with a voracity only seen on especially gruesome nature documentaries. His father stopped a moment to stare, secretly grateful he didn’t yet have any teeth.

  “Aria—breakfast!”

  A voice echoed down the stairs.

  “It smells like smoke...”

  “That’s what you’re having for breakfast—smoke,” Devon replied, hurrying around the kitchen and throwing things into bags. There was a strangled screech behind him. He turned in time to see James biting a hole into the giraffe’s neck, attempting to extract the squeaker. “Hey—no, no, no!” he cried, stuffing it into his pocket. “We don’t decapitate giraffes, Jamie!”

  A quiet beep sounded from the doorway as Luke took a picture on his phone.

  “Famous last words...”

  Devon froze mid-step, blinking in surprise.

  Most mornings, he might have been caught off guard by the sight of someone unexpected in his kitchen—especially considering he could hear what was happening in all his neighbors’ kitchens for a radius of five blocks. But on that particular day, his focus was stretched a bit thin.

  “How long have you been...?” He trailed off, gesturing to the phone. “What’s that for?”

  Luke grinned at the image before slipping it back in his pocket. “Molly was talking the other night about having another kid...this should put her off a few more years.”

  Unable to argue the point, Devon turned back to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, we’re running a little late this morning.” He rummaged in a drawer, shoving some utensils into a lunch box. “But Aria should be just about dressed, then you can—”

  “Dev, you’re taking Aria to school.” Luke’s eyes twinkled with affection as they lingered on the backwards shirt and burnt breakfast. “I’m watching James and picking her up this afternoon.”