by Kim Fielding
It wasn’t really a free choice, was it? Sure, Terry could walk away—but then he’d never be able to face himself in the mirror again, and Edge would haunt him worse than any ghost.
He released a shaky breath. “I’ll go.”
Townsend hummed along to the radio during their drive back to HQ. After they pulled into the parking space, Terry planned to go straight to his own car, but Townsend caught his arm. “Come up to my office for a minute.”
Although Terry had experienced more than enough of his chief and the Bureau for the day, he obeyed. As they entered Townsend’s reception area, Mrs. Lutz handed off a stack of phone memos and didn’t acknowledge Terry at all. Townsend took him into the inner office, closed the door, and tossed the papers onto his desk. Then he opened a drawer in one of his several file cabinets and removed what appeared to be a pill bottle.
“Here,” he said, shaking a tablet onto his palm and holding it toward Terry. “Swallow this in the morning before you go to Whitaker’s. Don’t eat anything else.”
Terry didn’t take it. “Snorting coke at his party was bad enough. I’m not gonna—”
“It’s not a drug.”
“Sure looks like one.” Terry took the pill and held it up to the light, inspecting it. It was unremarkable—small and light tan, with no numbers or other marks.
“And I’ll wager your friend Edge looks like an ordinary dog. You should know better than to take things at face value.”
“Then what is it?”
“Magic.” Townsend laughed at Terry’s answering glare. “Truly. One of the benefits of my position is having access to… unusual tools. This is one of them. It’s limited, however, so use it only as I’ve instructed.”
Terry slipped the tablet into his pocket. “You’re not going to tell me what it does?”
“I’m not. You’ll do your job better if you’re unaware.”
Fantastic. Apparently Terry was supposed to trust him on this too. “Can I go now?”
“Get some rest.”
His apartment looked even shittier now, compared to the opulence of Whitaker’s estate. Even his room at the guest house had been infinitely better. And to add further insult, the milk in his fridge had gone bad.
Still, it was his place and nobody else’s, and the only reason it was so crappy was because he’d kept it that way. He could make it pretty decent if he wanted to. Or hell, he could give it up entirely and move somewhere better. He could afford nicer, and it was only indifference that had kept him in this state.
Stupid. He’d been so free all these years and never even realized it.
For what felt like hours, Terry stood in the middle of his pathetic living room, cursing himself and every poor choice he’d ever made. Back when he was a kid, he should have told someone that Aunt Shirley abused him. He should have moved out of her house the day he turned eighteen. He should have considered other careers. He should have tried to build something real with Amos instead of habitually retreating into the closet. He should have made himself a real home instead of tolerating a bland apartment in Culver City that held all the charm and individuality of a Motel 6. And he should not have left Edge in Whitaker’s hands.
But he couldn’t undo any of that. The past was done, and time travel wasn’t possible—unless Townsend had even more magic than he hinted at. Now all that was left was to try to make the best decisions going forward.
Fuck if he knew what that meant, though.
For the first time in his life, Terry felt the deep ache of having no close friends. It was as if someone had hollowed out his chest with a melon baller. He didn’t give a shit about fame and fortune, but right now he’d consider selling his soul for just one person who cared enough to give him good advice.
Then he noted the telephone on his kitchen counter, and he thought of somebody he could call. That person didn’t give a rat’s ass about Terry, but he’d give good counsel.
It took him a few minutes to find the battered business card tucked away in a drawer. G & T Investigations.
Someone picked up the call after three rings. “Yes?” Even that short word was touched by a hint of an accent.
“Um, this is Agent Brandt from the Bureau. Terry Brandt. We worked together—”
“I remember you.”
“I’m working on a case and… and I was really hoping for a little guidance from Mr. Grimes.”
There was a brief pause. “A moment. I’ll see if my master is available.”
When Terry had first met these two, he’d been a little disturbed by their relationship. Townsend had warned him that Tenrael was a demon, so the black wings and small horns hadn’t come as a shock. But then Terry had seen Tenrael kneeling beside Grimes and calling him master, and Terry’s stomach had roiled. Even a demon shouldn’t be kept as a slave. Soon, though, Terry had taken note of the way they interacted—Grimes treating Tenrael as an equal even when he knelt, both of them displaying easy affection—and had realized that their link was loving and consensual. Weird, yeah, but Terry had seen stranger.
“Hello, Brandt.” Grimes’s voice carried no accent but sounded crisp and dry, like a stack of new dollar bills.
“Hi. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
Terry smiled. Grimes wasn’t the type to waste words. “Thanks. Look, I’ve been working on this case, and… well, I guess I shouldn’t spill the details. They’re not important at the moment anyway. The outcome is really important. Someone I care about is in danger.”
“Do you need our assistance?”
“No, thanks.” The offer warmed him, but he was afraid that involving more people would only make things worse. “Just advice. Townsend… he says I should trust him. He claims that if I follow orders, everything’ll be awesome, but he won’t tell me more. So should I do what he says or develop a plan of my own?”
Grimes was silent for a long time.
“I couldn’t tell you what his ultimate motives are. I think he’s playing a different game than the rest of us, and nobody but him knows the rules.”
“Yeah,” Terry said with a sigh, relieved he wasn’t the only one who thought that way. “But is he a good guy or a bad guy?”
“That’s a false dichotomy.”
“Maybe, but I don’t have much else to go on.”
“Yes, you do. You know Townsend has a gift for seeing truth—and for speaking the truth as well.”
Terry considered that and deemed it accurate. Townsend always seemed to know… everything, just as he’d known about Aunt Shirley. And he might be sparing with important details, but Terry had never heard him lie. “Thanks. That helps.” He let out a small, shaky laugh. “Can I ask you something else? Something personal?”
“What?”
“A long-term relationship between a human man and a… not-so-human man… that can work, right?”
Grimes surprised him with a chuckle. “I’m not the one to say. But I can tell you that a lack of full humanity needn’t necessarily stand in the way of a very long-term relationship.”
“Okay. Thanks. And hey, I owe you one. If you ever need a helping hand, let me know.”
“Good luck, Terry.” Grimes disconnected the call.
That use of his first name cheered him. Maybe because it had been a long time since anyone had called him Terry—except for Edge.
Most of Terry’s favorite CDs were still in Whitaker’s guest house, so he turned on the radio instead. George Michael was singing about needing faith. Alone in his apartment, Terry closed his eyes and danced.
Chapter Eleven
Edge woke up before dawn in his human form and climbed stiffly out of the cage. Holt was gone, but Duke was sound asleep in his own cage, paws twitching in his sleep. Edge stared at him for a while, wondering if the collar felt as heavy around Duke’s neck as it felt around his own. Butch had died with his collar on, his form wavering agonizingly between human and canine as the life ebbed away. Edge didn’t know what the boss had done with the body.
Not wanting to wake Duke, Edge stepped outdoors into the last of the darkness and crept behind the bougainvillea to shift. When it was complete, he shook himself and trotted out to find Holt and take over patrolling the grounds.
Even now he heard Terry’s songs playing in his head. At least he’d have that gift to keep, along with the memory of Terry’s touch—and the fact that Terry hadn’t been repulsed by him or acted as if Edge were… lower. Terry had seen the potential for Edge to be his own person.
He ran slightly faster, head held high.
He was on his third circuit of the grounds, sniffing at the remnants of Terry’s scent from the day before, when Ms. Stroman planted herself in front of him. He stopped and gave her a wary look. She wasn’t exactly cruel to him, at least not the way the boss was, but she’d always made her disdain for him clear, and he believed that she had prompted some of the beatings the boss gave him.
“Your master wants you,” she said.
He didn’t like her smile at all, but he headed for the big house anyway.
Chapter Twelve
Usually when Terry was on assignment, he felt excited. Amped up. It was the only time he felt truly alive, aside from dancing. And he was never frightened, not even when he damned well should have been.
But this morning as his IROC-Z rolled down the street between the walls and privacy hedges, past the old cars that belonged to hard-working members of the staff, his heart beat like the drums in a Ramones tune and his palms sweated all over the steering wheel. He was terrified, but not for himself. If he was honest, he’d always assumed he’d bite the dust during one of his missions. Hell, he’d maybe even welcomed the idea. Better to go quickly while fighting the good fight—perhaps amid a pack of ravening chupacabras—than to fade away unnoticed and unmourned.
That attitude was fine for him; he’d made his own decisions and steered his own fate. Had plenty of opportunity for freedom. But what about Edge, who’d been faced with grim decisions at best? Edge deserved a chance in the world. Dammit, Edge deserved an autonomous life. He should get to drink too much and exhaust himself dancing in nightclubs. Decide who he wanted to have sex with, and when, and how. He should have the right to know joy.
Terry pulled up to the gate, scared to death for Edge’s sake. And that was not a good way to run an assignment. Townsend’s mystery pill felt heavy in Terry’s gut, although it didn’t seem to be affecting his mental state, which was as clear as it ever got. For all he knew, the stupid thing was poison. Or a goddamn miniaturized nuclear bomb.
The gate slid open before Terry had a chance to get out and announce himself. He wondered if Whitaker was watching on the security camera. Maybe weighing the quality of the soul he intended to take. Well, joke was on him. Terry’s soul was a shriveled thing, not worth much at all.
Ms. Stroman waited for him atop the stairs as she had the first time, a mastiff on either side. There was no sign of Edge, and Terry silently chided himself not to panic. Maybe Edge was off patrolling the estate or engaged in other duties.
“Welcome back, Mr. Brandt.” As he stepped up to her, he noticed for the first time that her eyes were odd. Not flatly reflective like those of Whitaker’s clients. In fact, almost the opposite: her eyes seemed to draw him in as if he might get lost in them. Not one mirror, but a whole maze of them. A carnival house of mirrors.
How had he not noticed this before? He barely suppressed a shudder.
Terry fell into step behind her, and the dogs flanked him. He wished he could ask them where Edge was—how Edge was—and beg them to round him up and escape with him right now. But he doubted they’d listen. They didn’t even look at him as they trotted along.
Although he’d been in Whitaker’s house just a day earlier, the interior looked different now. Still a series of rooms full of monochrome chairs and couches, but these were different chairs and couches. He was sure of it. Even a man as wealthy as Whitaker couldn’t possibly have redecorated so extensively in twenty-four hours, so perhaps they were taking a new route through the house. If so, there seemed to be far too many rooms, even for such an expansive structure.
They finally passed through a set of double doors into a space Terry knew he’d never seen before. It was a big room, although the exact size was hard to judge because walls turned at weird angles and the place was stuffed with furniture. Not bland stuff in grays and whites; these pieces included every color of the rainbow and then some. They spanned styles from ancient Egyptian through ultra-modern and were made of wood, leather, plastic, metal, fabric, stone, fur, glass, and bone. The walls, painted in wild hues, were hung with a museum’s worth of paintings. Taken together, it was as if every rich person in history was having an estate sale in this spot.
“What the hell?” Terry muttered. Ms. Stroman either ignored him or didn’t hear him, but she cast an evil look at one of the dogs, who had accidentally swiped a small blobby sculpture off a coffee table with his tail. Terry took care not to knock anything over as he wound his way through a maze of desks, armoires, shelves, divans, and ottomans.
Just before they reached a wall, an unobtrusive door opened and Whitaker stepped out, closing it behind him. Today he looked as if he might have just stepped off his yacht: boat shoes, pale blue chinos, layered polos, and a pink sweater knotted around his neck. He was smiling.
“I’m very happy to see you again, Terry.”
Terry nodded. “I really want what you’ve offered.”
“Good. Like I warned you, my price is steep. But you know the sayings. No free lunch. And you get what you pay for.”
“What am I paying?”
“Now, see? You gotta want this so bad that it doesn’t matter what you gotta give. That you’d flatten your mother with a semi if that’s what it takes.”
“My mother’s been dead for years.”
Whitaker laughed. “I guess I can’t ask for that, then. Tell me again. What family do you have?”
Surely Whitaker knew the answer already—Terry had given his biographical sketch during the party, keeping it fairly true except for the law-enforcement parts. Maybe Whitaker was testing to see if his story had changed, a tactic sometimes used by the Bureau during interrogations.
“I had an aunt, but I haven’t spoken with her in almost a decade. I have no idea what she’s been doing or whether she’s still alive. And that’s it.”
“Good. Relatives just make things messy. Always after your money. Anyway, you won’t want family once you sign with me. You’ll have more important things to keep you busy.”
Was that a consequence of selling your soul: losing your desire for emotional connections? If so, that was truly awful. Terry had only recently become aware he possessed that desire, and now it felt vital.
Whitaker glanced at his Rolex. “Time’s ticking, kid. You ready to make a deal?”
“Yes.” Terry hoped he looked a lot more eager than he felt.
A hand landed on his bicep, startling him. It was Ms. Stroman, who held a sheaf of papers in her other hand. “The contract.” Grinning like a crocodile, she handed it to him.
Terry scanned the writing. “This isn’t English.” It was, in fact, a particularly obscure demonic dialect he’d been introduced to during training, but the only thing he knew how to say was Stop or I’ll shoot. Not helpful in this situation.
Whitaker shrugged. “Them’s the rules. Not my idea. Honestly, I’m just the broker here.” He glanced at Ms. Stroman, who was still flashing her teeth. Terry almost staggered with a realization: She wasn’t Whitaker’s secretary or personal assistant, as he’d assumed. She was… the devil. Or at the very least, the devil’s representative. Devil’s advocate, he thought, and almost erupted into hysterical giggles. And now that he’d seen what lay within her eyes, he wouldn’t want to give her his dirty socks, let alone his soul.
“Having second thoughts?” Whitaker asked.
Terry struggled to get his brain in order. “I… I’m just hesitant when I don’t know what I’m signing.
”
“Do you always read the fine print? You don’t seem like the type.”
Well, that was accurate. “No. But I usually have a… a vague idea.”
Ms. Stroman growled and stepped closer, and for a fraction of a second, she didn’t look remotely human. Terry didn’t have to feign fear as he stumbled back and nearly fell over a high-backed wooden chair. Then she was a pretty woman again, laughing. The dogs, however, had moved as far away from her as possible.
“What…?” Terry cried. Although he hadn’t had to fake being scared—her little performance would have made an ordinary person, one who hadn’t spent years with the Bureau, piss his pants—he feigned surprise and confusion.
Whitaker simply shrugged. “There are things in this universe your little brain can’t even conceive of, boy. Things that would splat you like you’d swat a gnat. What’s it gonna be? All the money you want and hordes of fans? Or—” He slapped one hand down on the other, obviously referencing the unfortunate gnat.
“Just tell me what I’m selling. Please.”
Though Whitaker seemed loathe to answer, Ms. Stroman apparently didn’t mind. She touched Terry’s shoulder, making him shudder. “Your soul, little man. Your teeny, tiny soul. You’re hardly using it anyway.”
And that was it, right? His mission was complete. He had more than enough evidence against Whitaker—and against Ms. Stroman to boot. Even Townsend might not have known about her. So now what the fuck was he supposed to do? Walk away? Whitaker and Stroman certainly wouldn’t allow that, and he suspected that his hard-won fighting skills would do little good against… whatever she was. He wasn’t carrying a weapon. And even if they let him waltz back out the gates, where did that leave Edge?