by JK Cooper
As the head of the agency’s clandestine paranormal unit, Bryanne was granted a larger cubicle than her team. Well, larger than the one other team member. Riley, a West Point graduate who had binge watched all the X-Files episodes probably ten times too many, sat in the adjoining cubicle. His was two square feet smaller. That made her smile, though Riley didn’t seem to notice, or care.
She had measured.
“Hey boss,” he said, leaning over the top of her cubicle. He sounded giddy. “You seeing all this chatter?”
Bryanne flipped a page on the report, refusing to look at Riley. “How many times have I told you I hate when you peek over my cubicle. It’s not safe, and you look like a wack-a-mole.”
“How do you know? You’re not even looking.”
Bryanne sighed and raised her eyes. “Fine, you look like a clean-cut Army-version of a whack-a-mole. Better?” She lowered her gaze and continued scanning the page. “Coffee refill, please.”
“Seriously? It’s 8 a.m.”
She held up her empty mug toward him. It read “That’s What She Said” in sassy red letters. This would be her third cup this morning, but it was an eventful morning. Reports of wild animals—wolves by most reports—attacking people had flooded in from the northern states. Montana, Minnesota, North Dakota. All the incidents seemed to be happening near the Canadian border on or near secluded ranches. She supposed the reports couldn’t be called a flood, maybe a solid trickle. A few random, small-town news channels were carrying the story, which hadn’t turned the heads of the major networks or newspapers. But the increased chatter among certain communications she kept track of through an NSA contact had increased significantly.
She wobbled her mug at Riley. “Still waiting, Agent Whack-a-Mole.”
Riley slumped off his perch. She heard him almost fall as his chair rolled on his way down, but he recovered and came around to her cubicle to take the cup. “Your wish is my command, Agent—”
“Don’t you dare say it—”
“—Scully.”
“I am never calling you Mulder. And Scully doesn’t have an Irish accent.”
“Fox works just fine,” Riley said as he walked off, his wingtips clacking on the cement and then linoleum floor once he reached the break room. “And Irish accents are, ya know . . . kinda hot.”
“You can’t say that to me. I’m your boss, wee little man.”
Yes, their “office” was conveniently placed along the path to the break room. And, yes, that meant everyone who passed by on the way to said break room made spooky ghost noises, cracked alien jokes, made robot sound effects, or at least glanced at her from the corner of their eye while raising their eyebrows, a gesture she knew was meant to say, “Hey, we know you get your methods from the Ghost Hunter TV series.”
Specters aren’t even my area! But her pay grade was way above theirs, crappy cubicle or not, because the agency knew she dealt with things no one else wanted to face as a reality, let alone chase down dark alleys. The worlds she could open to the mocking fools, if it wouldn’t break about a dozen national security directives, a lot of promises, a few ceremonial oaths, and several NDAs she’d signed.
In truth, she actually pitied them. They went on with their tiny lives in their own little world, believing terrorists were the worst thing we faced as a nation. Sure, they needed a certain amount of attention. But she knew things that went bump in the night were the worst thing we faced as a race.
Lycans, as the reports implied, among other anomalies, could be far scarier in the long run, especially when Lycans were acting very much like terrorists, dictators, and invaders.
The report, stamped “above top-secret” and written in ancient Kentish, an Old English dialect, told of the Advent Lycan pack’s recent inroads into North America. All her department reports and communications between her few counterparts in different world agencies were written in Kentish as an added measure of security.
She and Riley had tracked the movements of the Advent pack in Europe with increasing scrutiny. Now, it appeared their fears were being realized. The Lycan population of the world was estimated to be less than four thousand. But four thousand supernatural creatures, united under a determined head, could prove . . . difficult. And estimations sometimes proved to be incorrect. The Feral are impossible to number.
She shuddered as she thought back to the ghoul incident in Louisiana six years earlier. Not technically specters, so they became her problem. Not foreign invaders, one could argue, so not the CIA’s problem either, but someone higher up decided all paranormal incidents are “foreign” decades ago, so here she was.
Riley took his time in the break room with her coffee. She glanced up, making sure he wasn’t on his way back, then blinked. On the page, the Kentish letters morphed into English.
Sister, The Advent pack has spread. Our efforts to disrupt their unification across Europe have failed. I fear the pack, now bordering on becoming an international power, wields significant influence. Even here in MI5, I have felt its touch. I hope this cable makes it to you. I feel watched. Everywhere I turn, I sense their stares. The signs and patterns are not encouraging. Take heed, sister. It is not—
“Here’s your coffee.”
Bryanne jumped, nearly coming out of her chair. Riley held the coffee cup out to her as she turned the report over, face down.
“Geez, boss. You okay?” Riley asked.
“Wipe that awkward grin off your face.” Even if it’s cute. Then she caught herself. Yeah, he’s a baby compared to you. Way to objectify him. “Straight?” she asked, taking the cup.
“I took the liberty of adding three creams and two sugars.”
Bryanne stopped. “Do you like your job?”
“Just kidding, Agent—”
Bryanne lowered her head and raised an eyebrow.
“—um, Desmond,” Riley finished.
She sipped the coffee. Straight black. “You can keep your job for now, deviant.”
“You’re not a Starbucks fan, are you?”
Bryanne cleared her throat. “It’s way too early for small talk, Agent . . . Smith.” Yeah, Smith was a better fit for him than Mulder. If he kept working in her department, he’d probably look a lot like the guy from The Matrix, pale, thinning hair, sour disposition, and all, but with less kung fu.
Riley checked his black tie, feeling at the knot. “Human beings are a disease, a cancer, Mrs. Anderson. We are the cure.”
“Quit being so nerdy and foppish.” But she had to force the smile from her lips. “Track down any other news stories about wild animal attacks. I’ll expect a briefing at ten.”
Taking the facedown report from her desk once Riley finally left, she read on.
It is not known what their goal is, but I’ve received several missives from other Bandruí. Many gave their lives to find this intelligence. They seek something they call Ascension. Beyond this cryptic word, I have no insight. I’m sorry sister. I have to go dark for a time. It is not safe. The Goddess keep you.
The cable ended. Agent Desmond’s left leg shook with a tremor. She thought to reach out to an old contact, one she had not spoken to since her incident. Absently, she felt the two scars beneath her blouse, one under her left breast, the other at her navel. Dr. Gennesaret Copeland had saved her life that night. Where will her pack stand? Will she even return the call?
Nervously, she tapped her pen on a clipboard.
“Perhaps a little louder,” Riley said from beyond the great, stained beige wall of fabric, particle board, and metal that separated them. “I don’t think they can hear you on the top floor.”
Screw it. She picked up the phone, dialed in a code to make the line secure, and paused. She licked her lips, then dialed a number with a Texas area code.
Shelby sat in front of her bathroom vanity, staring at her reflection as though she might shift at any moment. Her insides roiled constantly. It didn’t feel right going to school after everything that had happened. Shelby had learned more about h
erself and her world in a couple of weeks than she felt she had in her entire life previously. Has it only been two weeks since I showed up for tryouts? Am I really planning on gymnastics meets and dances when there’s so much more to life than any of this?
The thought of Kale in a tux did send butterflies running through her center. Warmth flowed through her and she knew he was thinking about her too. Probably felt my butterflies. I’ve got to learn to be careful with this bond thing, or he’ll know everything I’m thinking and feeling all the time. Somehow that wasn’t as scary as she thought it would be.
But the comfort of the bond didn’t banish all her anxiety as she got ready for her first day at Lansborough High. To lipstick or not to lipstick, that was the question. She thought of the whorey trinity and their powderpuff faces. Nope, no lipstick. She had never really needed makeup much anyway. Her hair didn’t have any tangles left, yet she couldn’t help but rake through her blonde-streaked brunette hair as her mind wandered.
I killed Lucas. Or, rather, Eira did. My Immortal Wolf from Alsvoira—another world, if I can convince myself the things she and Skotha showed me were real.
They are, Eira said in her mind.
That was new too. Her wolf had become more vocal. And Kale’s wolf, Skotha, spoke to him as well, but never had before that night a week earlier.
Why have you been silent toward us until now? Shelby asked.
You had not yet awakened. It would have been . . . difficult.
Shelby felt there was something more to it. You mean I would have thought I was going crazy? Maybe would have tipped into madness?
Shelby felt the nod within her, followed by the voice of Eira, a distinct voice in her head, completely different than her own, with a hint of an accent that had no place in this world. Yes, that was a possibility, Thyra. It happened the last time. I was impatient, and you paid a great price.
Thyra. That was new too. It had been Shelby’s name when she lived on Alsvoira, some eons past. She could not remember that life, beyond what Eira had shared, but apparently her Immortal Wolf had no problem recalling their shared history, a lifetime ago. Wait, it happened before? Here, on Earth?
Again, a sensation of a nod. Once. You and Daeglan encountered . . . resistance. You did not survive.
Daeglan. Shelby tingled as she thought of Kale’s ancient name. Seriously, having ancient secret names was so awesome. And sexy. She blushed. Part of her had begun to understand that their love was just as ancient, a bond that had transcended time and worlds. It hadn’t been love at first sight—Shelby still believed that to be a stupid notion, reserved for flighty girls who had crushes and moments of puppy love they mistook for something deeper. She knew lust at first sight was definitely real. Sadie’s living proof of that every day. That girl needs a hormone blocker.
“But I don’t really believe in reincarnation,” Shelby said aloud to her image in the mirror. “Am I wrong? Have I always been wrong?”
A furry blue brow furrowed within her mind’s eye. Yes and no. Reincarnation was a part of me before I joined with you, but it was not a part of you. I am an Immortal Wolf. You are part of that now.
So, Kale and I can live forever? “We’ll keep finding each other?” Something about that appealed to Shelby in a fairy-tale way she would usually scoff at.
Eira frowned. I do not know how many times Skotha and I can bring you back. It took hundreds of years for us to reawaken. It might take thousands if we must do so again. Or we might slip into the dark mysteries, where you and your kind normally go.
Shelby clawed at her hair, realized she’d done so a few dozen times, and sat on her hands. I’ll go bald if I’m not careful. She looked inward again. You mean you could die for real? I thought you were immortal?
Eira barked a sad laugh. We were immortal before our merger, but we tied ourselves to you, to mortals. It is a long story for another time. You and Daeglan were worthy of our sacrifice.
Shelby felt Eira’s sad smile grow into a happier one within her. It was still odd to feel her wolf’s expressions. Is it the same for Kale? She groaned and checked the time on her phone. Crap. Kale. He’ll be here in five minutes.
“Shel?” her dad called from downstairs. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
She stood from the bench in front of her vanity, shook the numbness from her hands she’d been sitting on, cinched her seemingly ever-present hoodie tighter around her waist, fussed with her hair one more time before admitting—again—that it was hopeless, and ran downstairs, pushing past her dad at the bottom of the staircase without looking at him.
“Hey kiddo, I’ve got cinnamon raisin bagels and—”
“No time,” she said, snatching up her backpack. Just then, she heard Kale’s Ford Raptor pull into the gravel driveway. “Kale’s here, gotta go.”
“Hey, how about I come take you to lunch for your first day,” Grant said. “There’s that one little place off Main, pretty much the only café in town.”
“No, thanks.” Shelby made for the screen door.
“Shel,” Grant said, his tone one he rarely used.
She stopped, her back to him. She’d heard the pain in his voice, the sharp bits of emotion he always kept in check.
“Shel, please. You haven’t said more than five words to me since . . .” He trailed off, unable to say the words.
What was she supposed to say? Since I found out you were a Hunter, like Lucas, sent to kill my mom? It’s all good, Dad. No hard feelings. That stuff just happens.
You are being petulant, Eira said. Your father is proof humans are capable of great change. He loved her.
Shelby sighed. I know. But she felt what she felt despite knowing better. I killed Lucas. Grant killed Sherman. The cancer that took my mom wasn’t natural. So much death began with him. And her father, the man that had raised her and protected her, who had loved her, had accepted a mission to kill her mother. Who even knows how much death?
She spun to face her dad. “How many did you kill?”
Grant blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“How many of my kind did you kill before mom?” Shelby asked. “Before you somehow fell in love with her? And after? Did you keep killing Lycans even after marrying mom?”
Grant looked down. “No, of course not.”
“So, how many, then? Five? A dozen? Hundreds?”
“Shelby, it’s compli—”
“There. That’s more than five words.” She whirled around, hiding the tears stinging her eyes, and pushed through the screen door. The steps that had concealed Grant’s arsenal had still not been repaired. She hopped off the porch over them, her yellow Converse All Stars making a soft crunching sound as they hit gravel. She ran to the Raptor.
Kale leaned over and opened her door. A breeze, perfectly timed, lifted his short cut bangs just as he smiled. Shelby’s eyes dried, her heart skipped a beat, her stomach fluttered, and she swallowed hard. On some level, she knew her lips parted slightly, giving her that mystified, staring-at-a-god look, but she couldn’t care less.
“Hey,” he said. “Ready for your epic first day of senior year at Lamesburough High?” Then he seemed to intuit something. “You okay?”
She managed an unconvincing nod.
His eyes raised, looking beyond Shelby, and she knew her dad was standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Brooks,” Kale said.
“Morning, Kale,” he said.
Kale glanced back to Shelby. “So . . .”
“Let’s go,” she said, hopping in and putting a hand on his forearm to urge him to shift into drive. “Now.”
The ride to school was mostly silent. Shelby held Kale’s hand, fingers interlocked, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over his.
“You’re still thinking about them, aren’t you?” Kale asked.
Them. One word to encompass the full lives of those who had died because of her. She had brought death to her new pack within days of meeting them, of loving them. That was the blessing and curse of b
eing an Omega, to love the pack so completely only moments after being taken in, and also to feel their losses so keenly, as if she had known the six her entire life.
Anna Bingham. John Bingham. James and Belinda Southeby. Their young son, Tyler. Will Kaplan, one of the triplets.
Austin, Will’s brother, had not spoken a word since Will’s death. Emily, the outsider of the triplets, had disappeared, taking only her bow with her.
“She came home yesterday,” Kale said. “But her quiver was empty. Just her bow.”
“Oh,” Shelby mumbled. She had apparently sent her thoughts through the bond.
Not only did Shelby feel the loss of life, but she also felt the pain of the pack flowing her way from each member, not just those closest. Each one of them was grieving in their own way. And Shelby soothed them as best she could, even though she didn’t fully understand how her Omega influence worked. Still, it flowed from her, through the pack link, and to them. But all her comfort, healing, and love seemed little solace in this solemn week of despair.
And who was there to console her, with all she had experienced and learned?
I am, Eira said. And they are.
Shelby knew Eira meant both Kale and Skotha. Probably meant Grant too. And the pack. They would comfort her, if she let them.
“Yeah,” Shelby finally answered Kale. “I guess I’m okay. Not really. I don’t understand how they don’t hate me.”
“The pack?” Kale asked. “It’s not your fault.”
“Kinda is. Chenoa said I would bring destruction.”
Kale rolled his head to look at her briefly before turning back to the road. “Chenoa is a bitter person, Shelby. I think she can’t help but believe in the dark side.”
“The dark side?” Shelby cracked a smile. “Like, Stars Wars the dark side?”
“We’re going to have a serious problem if you’re a Star Wars hater,” Kale said.