Bitter Thirst

by SM Reine

  “You didn’t stand around for this one.” Now there was definite acid in his tone.

  “Are you mad that I left you to go fight a bad guy?”

  “To endanger yourself,” Fritz said.

  Jesus, he sounded like Pops. “It’s my job.”

  “This city is occupied by the military. There are people qualified to save lives other than you. Next time, stick closer so that I don’t get distressing mental images of my aspis sitting in an ambulance when I’m trying to focus on a female companion.”

  “More like whaaa-mbulance,” I muttered.

  With a motorcade, it wasn’t a long journey to the suburbs, where a sprawling Victorian manor waited for us. The sign on the lawn declared that it was a historic location. Nobody had gotten rid of the sign saying it was the home of Senator Peterson, though someone had put a bouquet of roses in front of it.

  This was where Tate Peterson had given his now-infamous “evil is real” speech. He had a flag-wrapped tour bus parked down the street and a whole lot of Union guys walking the perimeter of the yard.

  The concentration of protesters was much sparser here, and much less angry. It was quiet. Maybe even mournful. But that was probably because we were too far from the fun part of town to make it a worthy target.

  Still, we had to get through the Great Wards of China and two layers of Union soldiers to pull up in front of the garage.

  Tate Peterson was getting his hair done when we met him in the living room, and he groaned at the sight of us. That’s the fun thing about politics: you’re not supposed to groan at people where they can hear you. You save that for later, when they’re walking away with your knife in their back.

  “Thanks,” Tate said to his staff, and they left him half-finished.

  I’d seen Tate on the news way too much lately. Usually angry, always spewing stupid crap. He looked good on TV. Almost like a manufactured Disney teen star. But without makeup caked on, Tate was gaunt, his eyes shadowed. The trimmed hair didn’t suit him. He looked like he should have been shaggy-haired in loosely laced skater shoes instead of trying to stand up straight in a suit.

  “We appreciate that you’ve taken time out of your busy schedule to meet with us,” Fritz said, offering a hand to shake with Tate.

  “Yeah, whatever. Who’s this?” Tate was looking at me.

  I shook his hand too. “I’m Agent Cèsar Hawke with the Office of Preternatural Affairs. I’m on Director Friederling’s personal security team.”

  “He’s my aspis,” Fritz said.

  The word should have been meaningless for a stoner kid from the Midwest, but Tate looked wary. “Right.” He knew enough to be concerned about an aspis, especially since that meant that Fritz was a kopis. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “I’d love a bourbon,” Fritz said.

  “Got plenty of that. My gramps was big into expensive liquor.” Tate waved to one of his security guards, who wore Union black. She walked to a door against the back wall and opened it.

  I sneezed. Hard.

  The door was warded.

  “Where does that go?” Fritz asked with the mildest tone of voice, as though neither of us really cared why Tate Peterson had a warded door in his house.

  “Wine cellar,” Tate said. “And oversized liquor cabinet. Completely thanks to my grandfather, FYI. I’m not big into indulging in the sin of drinking.” He led us through the living room to a study, which didn’t have a door. We couldn’t have a private conversation without the Union listening in.

  The degrees on the study’s wall belonged to a different Peterson—his grandfather, the dead senator. The blunderbuss was resting on the desk beside a collection of cleaning equipment.

  “Can Agent Hawke ward the room for our conversation?” Fritz asked.

  “Ward?” Tate asked.

  “Protective magic that will prevent people from interrupting or overhearing us.”

  “Sure. What do you need to do for this…ward?” Tate asked.

  “I don’t need anything from you,” I said. “It’ll take just a minute.”

  He sat in his grandfather’s chair. Now Tate looked even more out of place, because he had a face sorta like his grandpa’s severed head, but didn’t have the Hawaiian shirt. And his head was still attached to his body.

  Tate’s eyes didn’t leave me as I moved around the room with fistfuls of salt, placing a few strategic ribbons to create a circle.

  This circle of power wasn’t one of mine. The ribbons had been issued by the Office of Preternatural Affairs. I’d learned to ward from the best—from Suzy—but my ability to execute those wards was still worse than our gadget-makers at the OPA.

  I laid out strips of ribbon in the windowsills last, which would obfuscate the view through the glass. Engravings in the frame caught my eye. Someone had used a pocketknife to cut a couple of runes into the wood. Considering rune magic was proprietary to the Union—other than Weston Connors—then it must have been a protective spell laid down by the Union.

  Running my fingers over the marks, I probed the magic. It wasn’t a listening spell like I expected. But it was strong, whatever it was. Felt like running my fingers over the flank of a sleeping bear.

  I inched my ribbons away from those runes before activating them just in case.

  Tate didn’t react when the magic went off, although he did whip out a handkerchief for me when I started sneezing. “Bless you,” Tate said.

  “Thanks.” Handkerchief was kinda weird from a college-aged guy, but what did I know about college students these days?

  “Excellent.” Fritz took the chair opposite from Tate. “I have difficult news about the circumstances surrounding your grandfather’s death.”

  “I’ve heard it all from Secretary Zettel.”

  “I’m sure you have. Including the fact that your grandfather was the primary author of PRAY, and that he leaves behind a legacy wanting to regulate the very creatures who murdered him.”

  That was kind of a cold way to talk to a kid whose gramps had just died.

  But Tate didn’t even flinch.

  “I didn’t know Senator Peterson, but I’m familiar with the legislation,” Fritz said. “It’s been influenced by OPA leadership I’ve been quietly working to oust.”

  Tate faltered. He stood up, adjusted his jacket, ran his fingers through his hair. Little fidgeting gestures that gave him a moment to think. “Why are you telling me that? I don’t have authority over any government agency.”

  “Sadly, I don’t either,” Fritz said. “That’s why I’m asking for you to help me from another direction. PRAY gives the OPA secretary too much power over the government, and the OPA needs to be restructured.”

  “I know. The OPA sucks.”

  I was really confused by this attitude from the OPA’s all-American poster boy. Next he was going to invite us to a gay marijuana orgy or something. “You’re working with the OPA,” I pointed out.

  “The OPA’s not a monolith.” Tate scratched the inside of his arm, gazing thoughtfully at me. “I’m thinking you don’t work with the people that I do.”

  “East Coast, West Coast.” I shrugged.

  Tate snorted. “Yeah, right. So what do you guys want? I’ve already heard from at least two other segments of the OPA so I’m excited to see where this train wreck ends up.”

  “I need you to speak against PRAY with Justice Mendez,” Fritz said.

  “Because it will help you oust disreputable OPA staff?”

  “Specifically Lucrezia de Angelis and Gary Zettel. They’re in the pockets of demons, such as Belphegor of the House of Abraxas.”

  Tate laughed in his face.

  Hell, I knew how terrifying Belphegor was, and I still wanted to laugh in Fritz’s face. It sounded so fucking stupid. Those weren’t even real words! Belphegor? Abraxas? They sounded like a belch and a sneeze respectively.

  “Gary and Lucrezia?” Tate asked. “You want me to go against Gary and Lucrezia?”

  The fact he was
on a first-name basis with both was worrying.

  Fritz took a folder out of his briefcase and set it in front of Tate. “This has all the information you need. It’s a first-person account of the cataclysm that occurred in Nevada and how it was fostered by OPA leadership.”

  He didn’t pick it up. “You’re OPA leadership too.”

  “I’m not like Lucrezia and Zettel. Read what’s inside that folder, Tate. Take your time to think about it. You’ll be convinced that PRAY needs to be completely rewritten without their involvement.”

  “What are you going to do to me if I’m not convinced?” He knew that he was being told something horrifyingly confidential. “You know I’ve got a lot of guards, right?”

  “I’m not threatening you, Tate. You have an influential voice in this matter, and I believe that if you’re a better person than your grandfather, you’ll use your voice to protect the American people.”

  Better person than your grandfather? Oh shit. I cleared my throat. “Director Friederling…”

  Fritz was watching Tate intently, like hunting dog versus unsuspecting grouse. “Are you better than your grandfather?”

  They must have both known something I didn’t. Tate didn’t look offended at all, but interested. “Yes,” he said, “but I’m still going to help PRAY pass.”

  Fritz’s shoulders tensed. “Why?”

  “Your organization sucks and your argument against it sucks. You’re only saying that Lucrezia and Gary are un-American, but everyone says that about the people they don’t like.”

  “I think Armenians say that people they don’t like are un-Armenian, actually,” I said.

  Tate cracked up. Finally, someone who appreciated my hilarity. “Our country needs better tools to fight against preternaturals, and this will help do that. Lucrezia and Gary aren’t terrible. You should be working with them—it’ll make your job easier.”

  I hadn’t come into the meeting expecting to agree with Tate, the homophobic Ken doll favored by news networks everywhere. But he kinda had a point. It would make my job easier if I could run around kicking preternaturals into detention cells just because they breathed wrong.

  Fritz’s smile had become fixed. “You don’t know Lucrezia and Zettel the way that we do.”

  “Maybe I know them better,” Tate said. “I’ve been all over this country in the last few weeks, Director Friederling. I’ve seen Americans hurting all over. I’m feeling everything they’re feeling. All the anger and confusion. There’s a reason there was a shooting in D.C. this morning.”

  “I was at that shooting,” I said.

  “What happened?”

  “During the incident, not much.” Unless you counted killing a bunch of innocent Union staff. “Afterward, our necrocognitive spoke to the shooter’s spirit, and he claimed that he was hired to discredit protesters. Especially preternatural ones.”

  “Can you trust that intelligence?”

  “The dead are incapable of lying,” I said. “It’s likely someone like Lucrezia de Angelis hired him. She has the money, the motivation, the connections…”

  “And you got this guy on video saying that Lucrezia hired him?”

  “We have him on record as saying that he was hired,” I said.

  Tate pushed. “By Lucrezia?”

  I shook my head.

  He gazed out his window for a thoughtful moment. “If Lucrezia and Gary are trouble…I’ll want to know. But I trust them. If you bring me evidence that they’re deliberately killing people in support of PRAY, I’ll ask Justice Mendez to fight it. Otherwise, I’m going to do everything in my power to push PRAY through.”

  Chapter 11

  Officially, I left the penthouse that night to work on investigating Lucrezia de Angelis. And that is what I really should have been doing. Connecting Lucrezia to our shooter, Lawrence Lefebvre, would be like catching a rainbow, so a smart guy would have dedicated as much time and as many resources as possible.

  Unofficially, I went to pick up Suzy’s Prime Locker delivery and let her out in a park bathroom.

  “Sorry, it’s the men’s room,” I said in a low whisper as she slipped out of the portal.

  Suzy glared around at the bathroom graffiti, much of which included suggestions of what guys like to do with your mom’s butthole. “Welcome back to society,” she muttered. “Clothes?”

  I handed her the unopened box.

  “Great. Get out,” she said.

  I guarded the other side of the door for her. Did I look weird standing around outside a bathroom stall, hanging out while a dozen protesters passed through to take a piss? Maybe. Did I get solicited by at least two guys? Definitely. But Suzy was safe.

  “All right,” she said after a while. I stepped back from the stall. Suzy emerged fully dressed, her cube and sweat pants in my duffel bag.

  “Evening,” I said, giving a polite nod to a baffled guy who stood in the doorway.

  “Stop staring or I’ll pluck your eyeballs out,” Suzy said to the baffled guy, who turned into a running guy, because he must have known a crazy bitch when he saw one.

  We emerged outside the National Mall. The park itself was closed off. Violent protests will do that. But there was nothing stopping us from walking along the far side of Louisiana Avenue, a safe distance from the capitol.

  “Where are you going to find members of the movement?” I asked quietly, keeping my voice down in case there were Union listening spells nearby. There were Union listening spells on everything.

  “Around,” Suzy said. “It’s not your problem. How was the Peterson house?”

  “Could have been better. Do you recognize these runes?” I showed her the drawings I’d made of the runes carved into Tate Peterson’s windowsill.

  She took my Steno pad and flipped through the pages. “Not at all. Are they OPA?”

  “I thought they were because they look kind of familiar to me, but I can’t figure out where I’ve seen them.”

  “We could reverse-engineer the spells, cast them, and see what happens,” Suzy said.

  “You’re the only person I know crazy enough to think that’s a good idea.”

  “Shucks, you’re so sweet.” We stopped at the bus station. Suzy patted down my pockets, searching for change, and she came up with my wallet. She didn’t bother asking before opening up my billfold to check inside. “You can come with me to hunt up the movement, if you want.”

  “Can’t. I have plans.”

  “With Isobel?” she asked, pulling a twenty out of my wallet.

  “My family,” I said.

  “Here? In D.C.?”

  “Yeah, they came into town with the protesters.”

  “Who’s they? Pops?” Suzy knew about Pops because she’d interviewed him when I was accused of murder.

  “Pops and Ofelia, my little sister,” I said. “And her, uh, Ofelia’s boyfriend. He’s in town too. I promised my sister I’d do dinner with them at their hotel. We’ll have to meet up afterward so I can get you back into my room. Does eleven tonight sound good?”

  Suzy folded her arms. “Eleven? How many hours of your attention does your family need?”

  “It’s not just them. I’m going to Senator Peterson’s house tonight—it’s open to mourners for his memorial. High security,” I added when Suzy got a look in her eyes, like she was about to tell me that she would be going too.

  “What do you expect to find there?” she asked.

  “Maybe nothing, maybe more runes, maybe key evidence for building a case against Lucrezia de Angelis.” I tucked my Steno pad into my pocket again. “Tate Peterson is connected to Lucrezia. I think she bribed him into being the poster boy for the OPA.”

  “You’re saying Lucrezia killed Senator Peterson?”

  “Dunno. But there’s a rabbit hole here, and something weird going on with these runes. I’m going down the hole to see where it’ll take me.”

  “I’ll come to the house too,” Suzy said.

  “You can’t,” I said. “If you get
caught—”

  “I’ll get a glamour from the movement. You don’t think I just spent the last few months hiding and getting fat because I wanted to get caught, do you?”

  “Good point.”

  She punched me in the arm again. “Then it’s a date. See you tonight.” The bus pulled up. Suzy stuck my lightened wallet into my pocket, climbed on, and vanished.

  I switched stops and caught another line out to the bad part of town. While I was staying in one of the swankiest luxury hotels in the region, Pops and Ofelia were not.

  It was called Hotel Sunset, and it looked like it had been built fifty years earlier and then never updated again. Whatever paint still remained on its walls was peeling and faded. The windows were barred, and the bars showed signs of people trying to cut through. Guess the fact there were gouged bars at all was a good sign. Meant nobody had gotten inside.

  Pops’s room smelled like cigarette smoke. It was weird seeing modern news on a TV that still operated by the dials on its face. “Twenty bucks a night when you buy a week at a time,” Pops informed me. “Good deal.”

  It wasn’t even that Pops couldn’t afford more than one hundred and forty a week at a hotel. He just loved his money. I think it’s an old guy thing—the desire to spend as little money as possible. He didn’t care about the cigarette burns on the wallpaper and the holes in the carpet that revealed subfloor. There was enough room in the (also carpeted) bathroom for him to make one of his standing circles of power, and two beds, so that he could share the room with Ofelia and Cooper.

  Not that Ofelia and Cooper were allowed to share a bed. The flat pillow and threadbare blanket on the couch suggested that Cooper was sleeping a chaste distance from Ofelia.

  If Pops thought Ofelia had any purity left to preserve, then the guy was going senile.

  “Did you get pepperoni and pineapple?” Ofelia yanked the pizza boxes out of my arms. She set them on the busted three-legged table next to the TV for inspection. “Yes. Pineapple.”

  I knew better than to get pizzas my baby sister didn’t like. The only reason I’d learned to survive crazy women like Isobel and Suzy was because Ofelia had put me through the wringer first.