“It’s my understanding that these beings are essentially illegal immigrants, here without permission and not granted rights by most of our governments.”
“Yes.” I was relieved she had some facts right.
“And we lack a way to deport them, so it can be difficult to deal with them.”
“Yes.”
“Are they granted trials or a kind of unprejudiced judgment before you’re sent in to execute them?”
“Not typically.” I shrugged. “It’s not my job to question that.”
“Hm.” For the first time, she scribbled something on her notepad.
Her writing wasn’t firm. Which was too bad, because I would have had to climb into her lap to read her notes.
I frowned at her, tension replacing my relief. “Are you supposed to judge me? Is this like with the pen out there?” I jerked a thumb toward the door.
She looked confused as she followed my pointing thumb, but she recovered quickly. “I apologize if you feel that I’m judging you. That’s not my intent. I’m trying to understand your job so I can see how it could be a source of stress for you.”
“Well, it’s like this: on Friday night, while you were going home to be with your family, a dragon threw my Jeep twenty feet up in a tree. That was after I climbed down a cliff, risking falling to my death, to get in a fight with a wyvern, who could have killed me with her poisonous blood even if her beak, talons, and psionic powers hadn’t been enough. Also, I don’t think my insurance is going to cover the loss of my Jeep.” What did it say about me that that bothered me more than any of the other stuff?
“Those do sound like harrowing events, and I’m sorry you had a rough few days.”
The sympathy surprised me, though I supposed deflecting and defusing anger was what therapists were all about.
I settled back in the chair. “Thank you.”
“Would you say that was a typical week for you?”
“The wyverns, yes. The dragon and the Jeep, not so much. The week before, assassins broke into my apartment and tried to kill me in my sleep. But I was awake, since I hardly ever sleep anymore, enjoying some hot cocoa, so I shot them before they got me. The week before that, I was up by Stevens Pass killing a sasquatch that was eating hikers.”
She scribbled more notes. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“Not that many people are qualified to do it, and I’m good at it.”
Her eyebrows took another climb.
“It takes someone with a recent magical ancestor to sense magic and the magical. My father was an elf. Or maybe still is an elf. I don’t know much about him. My mom said he took off in the mass migration that left the world free of elves and dwarves.”
I hadn’t meant to talk about my family. I frowned, not sure whether she’d tricked me or I’d betrayed myself. When I’d been younger, I’d dreamed of my father coming to visit, of meeting him and finding out what he was like, but I’d long since gotten over that. Maybe I’d speculated a bit in my early twenties, when I’d finally come to believe he was an elf, but I didn’t care anymore. He had left Earth, and I was never going to meet him, and that was just how it was.
“So you’re good at your job, and that makes you feel compelled to do it.”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it if you were mediocre at it?”
“If I were mediocre at it, I’d be dead.”
Judging by her expression, that wasn’t the answer she wanted.
“I don’t dislike my job. I like helping people, and I like challenges. If I didn’t do this, I have no idea what else I’d even be qualified to do.”
“It’s never too late to retrain for another career.”
“I don’t want another career.”
“Good to know.” Mary set down her pen. “Let’s assume that you don’t find hunting down these magical beings, or being hunted down in turn, stressful.” Her face twisted, as if she had a hard time believing that. “I find that chronic stress, which many people deal with, often stems from a clash between what we think society wants from us and what we believe we want. The expectations of others, whether perceived or genuine, can be a great burden.”
“No kidding.”
“Does it bother you that you’re sent out to kill these intelligent beings when they haven’t received trials or a fair hearing?”
“No.”
At least it hadn’t until she’d pointed this out. Wasn’t she supposed to make my life easier, not more conflicted?
“They’re not ambiguous cases.” Usually. “And I purposely don’t get to know any of them. I just show up and do the job so they can’t go on hurting people.”
“So you distance yourself from them.”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“And how is your relationship with your family?”
“Fine,” I said tersely, debating whether to warn her that she was straying close to my list.
“Are you married?”
“Divorced. A long time ago.”
“Children?”
“One.”
“Does she live with you?”
“Are you kidding? Didn’t you hear the part about assassins coming to my apartment? It’s been broken into eight times since I moved into it last year. Twice when I was there. I have four deadbolts, and I sleep with Chopper and Fezzik on the bed next to me.”
“Are those… dogs?”
“No, my sword and my gun.”
“Ah.” She started writing notes again. “So your daughter lives with your ex-husband?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you see her often?”
“No.”
“So more distance.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, let me sum this up for you. My job is dangerous, it makes my life dangerous, and so I don’t form relationships because anyone close to me could become a target for someone on a revenge mission. That’s not hypothetical. That’s happened to me—to a friend. Yes, it’s lonely sometimes, and yes, I get that people are supposed to be social creatures, but the only way I could get out of the loop I’m in would be to quit my job and move to the other side of the world. I’ve tried quitting before, but as soon as someone gets killed and I see that the mundane authorities aren’t able to do enough, I have to go back to it. I can’t stand by and do nothing when I know I could help.” I flopped back against the backrest, more frustrated than relaxed by this chat. “I don’t want to talk about my job.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Can’t you give me some breathing exercises to do when I feel tense?”
“There are about twenty thousand meditation and breathing apps in the app stores,” Mary said.
“That’s your advice? Go download apps?”
“Actually, I don’t give advice. I’m just here to listen to you and help you figure out solutions on your own.”
“And that’s what pays for the leather couches and marble floors?”
“Those came with the building. I just rent the office.”
“Wonderful.” I checked the door to make sure there weren’t any threats about to barge in and closed my eyes. A headache was burgeoning.
“If you like, you can try the 4-7-8 breathing technique. Whenever you feel agitated, inhale through your nose for four seconds, hold your breath for seven seconds, then exhale slowly for eight seconds. This helps switch your body from a flight-or-fight state to a relaxed state by activating the parasympathetic nervous system.”
I opened an eye. That sounded vaguely useful.
“Are there other people like you?” Mary asked. “In your, ah, industry?”
“There are some mixed-blood humans who gather intelligence in the office I work for, and some of the police have experience with the magical, but I’ve been the go-to assassin in the Pacific Northwest for the last ten years. There are others in other parts of the country and around the world.”
“Are there conferences?”
“Oh sure, and I get the industry magazine.”
“I’ll take that for a no.”
“Nothing for assassins specializing in the magical. I don’t do hits on humans or hang out with people who do. I’m not a bad guy, damn it.” Maybe it was hypocritical of me to find killing acceptable as long as I didn’t prey on my own kind, but it was what it was.
“The reason I ask is because, since you don’t believe normal humans can protect themselves against your enemies—”
“They can’t.”
“—then perhaps you could forge friendships with other mixed-blood colleagues, people who could take care of themselves.”
I couldn’t keep from making a face. “The guys I know are cocky assholes who are in it for the money.”
“And the magical themselves? Those who haven’t broken laws? Would they not have the power to protect themselves?”
“Some of them do. Some are here hiding on Earth because they don’t have much power. But I don’t talk to them unless I’m questioning someone and trying to get a lead. They’re not in love with me. They have lots of unflattering nicknames for me. They always seem to know what I do.”
“All of them? I ask because it doesn’t sound like you’re willing to give up your job, but there is tension in how it affects your life, and this need you feel to distance yourself from everyone may be affecting you on a personal level.” Mary was going to write distance on my chart in all caps, I could tell. “You might have more luck finding a support group or a relationship, if that is something you seek, among those who you deem capable enough to deal with your shrapnel.”
“I do not seek a relationship, thank you very much. I didn’t come here because I need a hookup.”
“That’s not what I was suggesting.” Her tone was dry now.
Were therapists supposed to be dry? I thought it was a requirement that they radiate love and compassion.
“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Mary asked.
“No.” I glanced at the clock. We still had more than a half hour left, but I needed to get across town, so I didn’t mind quitting early. “I have stuff to do.”
She hesitated, then pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone number if you need to call or text. I don’t always answer, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you soon.”
I’d gotten a breathing technique to use, so I didn’t plan to come back for another appointment, much less call her at home, but I accepted the card. “Do you always give the weirdos you see this much access to you?”
“No, but you seem like someone who may need after-hours help.”
What did that mean? That she thought I was a suicide candidate?
“I can’t be more messed up than the guy chanting to himself in the waiting room.”
“Those are song lyrics, I’ve been told. If you want to schedule another appointment, Tara can help.” Mary smiled. “I hope you will.”
“Because the rent is due soon? You can’t possibly have found any of that productive.”
“It’s about what you find productive. But I think you should have started talking to someone the first time you lost a friend because of your work.”
“The person I would have talked to was the person I lost.”
5
“Yes. I sent the pictures.” I made a face at the phone, specifically the insurance agent on the phone. This was some kind of senior agent that my case had been escalated to. “You sent someone out to see the crash site, right? I’m still trying to arrange a tow.”
Arranging it wasn’t the problem. Paying the huge fee for a truck to drive from the nearest city out along that dirt road was another matter. If the insurance wouldn’t cover it, the wreck could stay there.
A car honked, almost drowning out the reply. I was cutting across Capitol Hill on foot to make my meeting with this Lieutenant Sudo, and the freeway traffic roared nearby.
“How did it get in a tree?” the agent asked, suspicion lacing her tone.
I wished I’d opened with reporting a tornado strike. Oregon wasn’t known for tornadoes, but an internet search had revealed that a couple had touched down there before, if decades apart. It seemed too late to change the story now, especially when I’d already tried two.
“I was off-roading and I had to swerve to avoid hitting—” a dragon, “—a bear. The Jeep flipped and rolled and bounced off a log or something—I couldn’t quite see what. I was thrown out before it ended up in the trees.”
“This is the fourth accident you’ve been in in three years.”
“I know, but I’m in a dangerous line of work.”
“You said you were off-roading.”
“I was. It wasn’t recreational.”
“And what line of work did you say you’re in?”
“I didn’t. It’s top secret. I’m a government contractor.”
“I don’t think we can cover you anymore, ma’am.”
“That’s fine, but you have to pay out on this claim. That’s why I’ve been paying you every month.” That and because the auto loan required it.
The line went dead.
I resisted the urge to whip out Chopper and take out my aggressions on a fire hydrant. Was I supposed to eat it on the Jeep? I still owed twenty grand. My combat bonuses went to paying off informants, buying ammo and gas, and replacing the gear I lost in fights, not making extra car payments.
With an angry huff, I reached the Starbucks Reserve Roastery on Pike and stalked through the big wood doors. It was packed, as usual, and I grimaced at the noise of dozens of conversations, voices raised to be heard over the grinding and transporting of beans through the elaborate equipment on display. This was Colonel Willard’s favorite place, so we always met here, but I was less inclined to endure the hordes of tourists and scents of burning coffee—people who actually liked coffee called it roasting, but it smelled burnt to me—for some substandard replacement contact.
I spotted Sudo immediately. He wore a suit and tie rather than his army uniform, but the short buzz cut screamed military, and he had a familiar manila folder on the table in front of him. As I walked over, I couldn’t help but grimace again. He was even younger than I’d imagined—if he’d graduated from OCS, it must have been that year—and kept glancing at his phone.
“Where’s Colonel Willard?” I sat down facing him, glancing at his small black mug with a pattern in the frothy milk mingling with the coffee.
Annoyance flashed across his face, but he tamped it down. “In the hospital.”
I forgot my own annoyance. “What hospital? What happened?”
He gave me the name of a local hospital, not the army medical center on Fort Lewis I would have expected, then grimly said, “Cancer.”
“Cancer?” I struggled to imagine the forty-five-year-old, tough-as-nails colonel being susceptible to anything so mundane. She competed in triathlons when she wasn’t busting people’s faces in some martial art or another. Coffee was her only vice, as far as I knew, and she ate more servings of vegetables than a goat with a tapeworm.
“Yes. I have your bonus.” Lieutenant Sudo pushed the envelope across to me. “And I must let you know—”
“Wait. You can’t tell me Colonel Willard is in the hospital and drop it. Is she just getting treatment or what? She didn’t have to leave her home, did she?” I waved vaguely toward North Seattle where a few officers who worked in the city, running intelligence and keeping an eye on the magical beings that showed up here, had apartments.
“Her condition is quite advanced. She’s in the hospital for the rest of… until they’re able to get it under control.”
“Quite advanced? How can that be?” The now-familiar tightness returned to my chest. And my throat. I struggled to calm the emotions welling up and squeezing everything. I wasn’t going to use the inhaler in front of this kid. And I definitely wasn’t going to cry. “She has to have been getting all of the usual screenings,” I said reasonably, logically. “She’s not the kind of person who would put that off.”
“I’m not her doc
tor. Listen, here’s your money—bringing cash is highly unorthodox, I’ll have you know—and I’m here to inform you that we won’t have more work for you until I’ve finished my investigation.”
I blinked slowly. “Investigation?”
Was this kid old enough to investigate more than his comic book collection?
A waiter came over, so Sudo didn’t answer right away.
“Can I get you anything?”
Sudo shook his head and waved at his cup. As if the guy had been asking him.
I started to also shake my head but thought of the colonel. “Do you have any bottles of that cold nitro stuff?”
“Yes. Sweetened or unsweetened?”
“Definitely unsweetened.” I had laid a five on the table, then wondered if that was enough for hoity-toity coffee.
The waiter went to get the order without commenting.
Once he was out of earshot, Sudo answered my question. “I’m an accountant. General Nash—Colonel Willard’s boss—ordered me sent in to see if everything is legitimate and a genuine expense that the taxpayers need to foot.” He pinched his lips together as he regarded me.
“The taxpayers that don’t want to be eaten by wyverns, orcs, or trolls are probably okay with it.”
He curled a lip. The gesture reminded me of the dragon—Zav. But Zav, at least in human form, was handsome enough and old enough to make it look like that aloof haughtiness was perfect for him. Sudo just looked petulant, like someone had stolen the comic books he’d been investigating.
Suddenly suspicious, I opened the envelope to see if there was actually cash in there. I never would have doubted it with Willard.
Sudo’s hand lifted toward it, but he dropped it. He glanced nervously around, as if afraid someone would see us exchanging bills. I couldn’t care less if an undercover police officer came over to talk to us. Sudo could impress the guy by showing him his military ID with accountant stamped on it.
Sinister Magic: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons Book 1) Page 4