by M. D. Massey
I was sitting on the front steps of the warehouse nursing a beer when Finnegas finally came out to join me.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
The old man shook his head. “Incredible, never seen anything like it. She’s definitely been touched by the Oak’s magic. Yet it seems that dying and being brought back to life—twice—has changed in her ways that I don’t think we’ll understand for some time yet. At least, not until those changes manifest completely.”
“It doesn’t seem like she retained much of the Grove’s magic. Is she still a threat?”
Finnegas patted his pockets absentmindedly. “To us? No, not at all. As far as I can tell, her former personality has reemerged fully. But to herself?” He sighed. “She’s been traumatized, my boy. We’ll need to keep a close eye on her over the coming weeks, to ensure that she safely readjusts to life as a human.”
“I won’t let anything happen to her,” I said, softly.
“I know you won’t.”
He sat next to me, patting my knee before carefully packing his pipe. I arched an eyebrow and suppressed a grin as I watched him complete the ritual.
“Back to the pipe? I thought cigarettes were your chosen poison these days.”
He lit up and puffed on it a while. “Seemed appropriate.”
It occurred to me that the last time I’d seen him smoke that pipe had been when Jesse was still alive. “Are you going to go back to dressing like a college professor, too?”
He frowned. “Pfah, I only dressed like that because it was good for business. No point anymore, now that Éire Imports is shut down.” He had a twinkle in his eye I’d rarely seen in recent days. “I’m glad to know that everything turned out well. Jesse is more or less back to her old self, and you’ve claimed the Grove. Healed it up good as new from what I can tell.”
“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.” I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “You think Jesse will be alright?”
Finnegas tsked. “She’s a tough one, always has been. The girl will pull through, with our support. The more pressing concern is how we’re going to hide her, now that she’s back.”
“Hmm… yeah, I thought about that. Don’t you think it should be her decision, who she tells and who she doesn’t?”
The old man scratched his forehead. “Maureen seems to think—”
The loud screech of tires cut him off mid-sentence. We both stood, watching with interest as three large black SUVs with dark limo tint and government plates squealed to a halt in the junkyard parking lot. No sooner had they stopped than over a dozen men and women in black tactical gear poured out, guns drawn as they took cover behind the vehicles. Every barrel was trained on us.
“Fecking Cerberus. I was afraid this would happen,” he hissed.
“Afraid what would happen?” I asked. “Finnegas, what’s going on?”
He spat and dumped the cherry from his pipe bowl, tucking the pipe away as he leaned against a rusty metal support pillar. “We drew the attention of the wrong people, son.” He turned his head and gave me a look that brooked no argument. “Whatever happens, leave the talking to me.”
An athletic man with olive skin and dark, crew cut hair stepped out of the lead vehicle. He wore a Kevlar vest over a white dress shirt and black suit pants, a walking cliché if I ever saw one. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviators, and instead of a pistol he held a document in his hand. He swaggered up to the gates as if he owned the place, disdain written across his face.
I already hate this guy, and we haven’t even been introduced.
The place was still locked up, which meant he was locked out. On seeing the lock and chain, the agent held his papers up like a cleric presenting a talisman against the forces of evil.
“Colin McCool! My name is Special Agent Mendoza. I’m from the Department of Homeland Security, and we have a warrant to search these premises. Open the gates and allow us to search the facility, or we’ll cut the locks off and enter by force.”
I looked over at Finnegas. “Should I warn Maureen?”
“Trust me, she knows. Probably on the phone with Borovitz and Feldstein as we speak.”
“Finn, why is DHS here?”
He chuckled humorlessly. “They’re not DHS, although that’s what their badges and identification will say. You’d best let them in—and drop your wards, too. They’re bound to have a few non-humans in the mix. No sense getting them riled up more than they already are.”
Agent Mendoza called to us from the other side of the gate. “I’m running out of patience, Mr. McCool. Trust me, you do not want to do this the hard way.”
I grabbed Finnegas by the shirt sleeve. “Who are these people?”
He rubbed his chin and scowled. “Lotta folks think the PATRIOT Act was written to fight terrorists. It wasn’t. It was penned so people like Agent Mendoza and his crew could rendition good folks like Maureen and Jesse.”
“Wait—you mean they’re clued in?”
“Yes.” He leaned in and whispered to me. “We’re human, and so long as we don’t show any sign of magical ability, we’re safe. Do not work any magic, other than quietly releasing your wards—and definitely don’t let them near Maureen or Jesse, you hear me? Whatever it takes, keep them out of sight, or we might never see either of them again!”
5
Mendoza and his agents split into teams of four, with two teams searching the warehouse and yard while he and the remainder of his people tore through our offices with a vengeance. They tossed papers everywhere, overturned desks, rifled through file cabinets, and ripped posters and pictures off the wall. Nothing was sacrosanct to them, and they took what they wanted, which was pretty much every written record and receipt. Finally, they shoved it all in boxes along with our computers, and packed them in their vehicles.
I sat to the side, fuming but saying nothing. Finn had warned me to keep my mouth shut until someone from Borovitz and Feldstein arrived. Mendoza stood in front of me, communicating on a walkie-talkie with his other teams. Apparently, they had yet to find Maureen and Jesse, so that was a plus. But something told me they weren’t going to leave until they found whatever it was they’d come for—which I assumed was evidence of supernatural activity or involvement.
Mendoza marched up and hovered over me, hands on his hips. He was obviously trying to intimidate me, but it wasn’t working. The agent whipped off his aviators, then he glared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he spoke in a low voice.
“Three major terrorist events in the span of two weeks, and you know what they all have in common?”
Finnegas smirked. “Don’t say a word, boy.”
Mendoza ignored the old man. “No? I’ll tell you. A certain college student and junkyard owner was spotted by eyewitnesses at each scene. First, we have you on camera at a convenience store on the east side of Bastrop. You were in a late model Corvette with a tall, blonde female we have yet to identify. However, we have reason to believe she has ties to the Russian government.” He showed me a picture on his phone of me, standing in line at the counter waiting to buy a slushy, a bag of caramel corn, and a pecan log. “This was just a few hours before that medical research facility got blown sky-high.”
I did my best to appear disinterested. Mendoza swiped to another photo on his phone. It was of me again, this time barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, running down West Avenue toward the collapse.
“This is a photo of you, taken by a bystander, at the scene of the building collapse in downtown Austin. You know, the one where eight hundred and fifty-seven lives were lost?”
“I thought the official number was eight hundred and forty-nine,” Finnegas interjected, stone-faced.
The agent kept his eyes on me. “Yes, that was the official count.” He swiped one more time. “And this is a photo of you, taken by a traffic camera in Glen Rose, the day of the meltdown at the nuclear reactor outside town.”
The photo was blurry, but it was definitely me, runnin
g a red light in a rental car registered in my name. I silently cursed myself for needlessly being in a hurry that day.
Agent Mendoza leaned forward, hands on his knees, as he got in my face. “So tell me, McCool—how is it that you just happened to be at the scene of three major disasters that happened at three different locations, all over the state of Texas?”
About that time, a very well-dressed blonde with a very expensive haircut and highlights walked through our front gates. She wore a pencil skirt and matching suit jacket, a silk blouse, sensible pumps, and she carried a Burberry briefcase in her left hand. In her right she held a business card, which she extended to Agent Mendoza.
“Are you the special agent in charge?” she asked Mendoza.
“I am,” he replied frostily.
“Kenzie Kupert of Borovitz and Feldstein, Attorneys at Law. Mr. McCool and Mr. Murphy have both retained the services of our firm. Are my clients being detained?”
“Not yet,” Mendoza said with a curious gleam in his eye.
She turned her steel gray eyes on me. “Colin, you’re not required to answer any of his questions. My Audi is parked in front. Go wait for me inside and speak to no one until I join you.”
I shrugged and stood, but Mendoza motioned for me to halt. “Not so fast. We have reason to believe your client is a material witness in a case involving domestic terrorists operating on U.S. soil. As such, I have the right to detain him if I believe he presents a flight risk. And, I do.”
Finnegas laughed while Kupert glowered at Mendoza. “Preposterous. My client is a law-abiding college student and a hard-working business owner. To claim that he has knowledge of any terrorist activities is simply ludicrous.”
“Nevertheless, I do have the right to detain him—indefinitely, if need be.” He motioned to a pair of agents who were standing by. “Grimes and Case, take Mr. McCool into custody.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I hissed. Despite my concern, Finnegas seemingly found the situation to be very amusing. I decided it was likely an act, meant to keep Mendoza and his team focused on us.
“You’re definitely too pretty to go to jail, that’s for sure,” the old man chortled.
Kupert gave us each a hard look. “Please, not another word—from either of you.”
Finn winked at the pretty young attorney. “Oh, I’ll be fine, ma’am. Just minding my own business.” He then nodded at me. “She’s right, you need to keep your mouth shut.”
I made the universal sign for zipping my lips and throwing away the key. Then, I held my hands up to show I didn’t intend to fight being taken into custody. I figured it was better that I get arrested by these chumps instead of Maureen or Jesse, and I was pretty sure the old man would agree with me.
Mendoza smirked. “Wise choice, kid.”
I flipped him off with both barrels and a smile. Mendoza’s smirk turned into a snarl as he got up in my face, drill sergeant style.
“You want me to put you in cuffs? Keep trying me, kid, and I’ll lock you in a hole so deep, every time you take a piss you’ll be watering flowers in China. I’m begging you, keep it up and I’ll show you how the Federal Government treats suspected terrorists.”
Kupert was on her phone, and I overheard the words “U.S. Attorney” and “immediately.” She covered the receiver as she addressed Agent Mendoza. “If that’s the case, then we’re going to need to see some formal charges. And, I want a copy of that search warrant.”
Mendoza smiled at Kupert like a wolf eyeing a newborn lamb. “I’ll get right on that, your highness.” He turned to the same two agents he’d addressed earlier. “Didn’t I tell you to take McCool into custody? Cuff him, damn it!”
I looked at my mentor. “Finnegas—”
“Just go with it, son. They have jack squat, and Mendoza knows it. This whole damned thing is nothing more than one big fishing expedition. Keep quiet, do as your told, and Borovitz’s team will have you out in no time.”
Meanwhile, the two agents had already jumped into action. Before Finnegas was through talking, they’d manhandled me out of my chair and slammed me facedown in the dirt and weeds. Soon I had my hands cuffed behind my back, and the bastards even zip-tied my ankles to the handcuffs. One of the agents continued to kneel on me, digging his knee into my spine. Kupert nearly had a fit.
“This is an outrage, Agent Mendoza, and your superiors will be hearing about this—”
“Agent Case, escort Ms. Kupert to her car. She can speak with her client when we’re damned good and ready. Grimes, ease up on the kid. We need him to cooperate.” Mendoza squatted next to me, leaning in close to whisper in my ear. “What your pretty little attorney doesn’t know is that we don’t answer to the Justice Department. Just wait, McCool—once I get you someplace private, the real fun will start.”
“Why, Agent Mendoza,” I said aloud, “I’m flattered, but you’re just not my type.”
Finnegas guffawed.
“Shut it, old man,” Mendoza snapped, “or I’ll cuff you too.”
The old druid gave an innocent smile and pulled out his tobacco pouch.
Mendoza looked like he was about to say something else to me when one of his agents came in over the radio. At the same time, screams and gunfire erupted in the distance.
“Sir, this is Agent Wurzel—we have a problem!”
Mendoza stood and grabbed his radio. “What is it, Wurzel?”
“Potential Level Five entity, headed your way. She took out Reagan and Cox without batting an eye. I’ve taken cover behind a stack of junked cars, but—”
Finnegas sighed as he rolled a cigarette. “Now you’ve done it.”
The transmission cut out, and we could hear another scream across the yard, this time much closer. Mendoza yelled into his radio.
“Wurzel. Wurzel!” Nothing. He clicked the transmit button again. “All agents, converge on the front office, now! I repeat, converge on the front office immediately!”
Mendoza holstered his radio as he reached behind his back to draw his sidearm. I was familiar with most modern firearms, but the thing in his hand looked nothing like any production pistol I’d ever seen. It was a revolver, that much was clear, but the barrel was even larger than a twelve-gauge shotgun. The ugly, flat-black gun looked as though it only held four rounds in the cylinder, which was similarly oversized and longer like one of those .410 pistols. Whatever the damned thing was, something told me it could do some real damage.
Case and Grimes were the only agents who had responded to Mendoza’s call. They had lined up beside him shoulder-to-shoulder, each armed with a smaller version of Mendoza’s pistol. One of the junior agents tossed an object up in the air, something that looked like a coil of thick copper wire. It snapped open over their heads, instantly transforming into a stiff wire hoop approximately seven feet in diameter. The hoop landed on the ground, and I heard a “whoomp” sound.
It’s a fucking ward circle, one that uses technomagic. Who the hell are these people?
There were more screams and gunshots as the seconds ticked by, each time getting closer and closer to where the three agents waited. I was working on getting out of my cuffs, which were spelled against magical tampering, and craned my neck to see what was going on. I wondered for a moment if I was about to see Maureen in all her kelpie glory, but that’s not who walked through the gate to the junkyard.
Nope. It was Jesse, still in human form, but with her eyes glowing green, and her jet-black hair whipping around like Medusa’s tresses even though it was a windless morning. She took a few unhurried steps toward us, her lips drawn in a tight line, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, each wreathed in black fire. She saw me and stopped in place, maybe twenty feet distant.
“Colin, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, but you need to stand down,” I replied.
“Did they hurt you?” she asked.
“No, I’m alright. Just back off, okay?”
“Take her out,” Mendoza muttered,
and all three agents fired at once.
Three things happened simultaneously. First, I snapped the cuffs open and cast them off me. Second, a wall of earth rose up in front of Jesse. And third, several dozen strange, dart-like projectiles appeared in the earthen wall that stood between the agents and my ex-girlfriend.
Dark, spiny vines grew up from the ground around the edges of the agent’s ward circle, each thorn dripping with black sap that I assumed was poison. Something about the vines she’d conjured was off, for lack of a better word, but I didn’t have time to mull it over. More and more vines sprouted up around the agents, but their magic barrier was keeping Jesse’s spell work at bay. The agents were still firing at her, and while neither side was doing much damage at the moment, it was clear that someone would get hurt if the fight were to continue.
I sat up and cut the zip ties from my ankles with my belt knife. Finnegas was already kneeling at my side, grinning like he was enjoying the whole messed up situation.
“So, the girl didn’t retain much of the Grove’s magic, huh?” he said.
I held my index finger and thumb apart. “I might have underestimated the situation—just a wee bit.”
The battle between Jesse and the agents continued to escalate, with the agents shooting continuously as the vines slammed repeatedly against their magic barrier. Mendoza was on his phone calling in reinforcements, and Jesse was floating off the ground. Wherever she floated, the earthen wall shifted to protect her and keep her from getting at the agents, so I figured that was the Oak’s doing. Eventually she’d get around it, which meant we needed to end this, fast.
What a clusterfuck, I thought as I turned to Finn.
“Any suggestions on how to keep them from killing each other?” I asked.
He frowned. “Well, if ever there was a time to ‘snap your fingers’ and stop the clock, this would be it.”
“Huh? What do you—oh, right.” I looked at the agents and Jesse, doing the calculations in my head. “It won’t last long, not if I have to include them all.”