Lena took a seat in a corner booth and tried to hide in the shadows. In an effort to drown her newfound compassion, she ordered a drink; it was the first time that she had done so while on a hunt. No matter how weak or pitiable the demon appeared, Lena could not allow this compassion to take root. She’d seen the demon take a life in her visions, and it had been done without remorse. She had seen firsthand the destruction that a demon could do—what one had done to her childhood home—when left unsupervised and not confronted. If she left this one alone now, this demonling would only develop into a time bomb that would later explode elsewhere. The blood that was spilled later would be on her hands, just as the blood of her family had been.
Lena watched the demon as she flirted with her victim, whom she recognized easily from her vision. The demon had targeted this man specifically not because of something he had previously done to her but because he reminded her of someone else—the true object of her hatred. Lena struggled to remain objective; through her link to the demon, the man incited the same anger in her breast, despite the knowledge that he was blameless in all of this. He spoke to the demon about his recent divorce, unloading his troubles as easily as he would have to a dear friend, and she listened with feigned sympathy. She really knew how to draw victims into trusting her.
Lena had hoped that the demon would excuse herself to go to the restroom at some point before their rendezvous so she could intervene, but the demon never left her victim’s side. She watched as the two of them exited the bar. They were physically clinging to one another, yet the demon still managed to keep him at a safe distance. Lena left money on the table—hopefully enough to pay the bill—and discreetly exited a side door to trail the couple into the alleyway.
With the man now secured in the demon’s fatal grasp, the attack was underway. Her lips pressed tightly against his and she drained him, causing his skin to rapidly become ashen and his body lifeless. Jody drank her fill within seconds and then let his corpse fall as soon as he could no longer support his own weight; she was too petite to hold it herself. Jody’s keyed-up emotions flooded Lena’s senses, causing her to falter, stagger a few steps, and fall to her knees. It wasn’t just that Jody needed to feel strong or that she was addicted to the rush; she was also reclaiming her power from her abuser, who was encapsulated in this unfortunate surrogate. This was not the first time that she had killed, nor would it be the last if she continued unchecked. Years of unwelcome touching had cultivated her strange power so that she could finally fight back, but it had not been enough; she saw her father everywhere more and more often now, and she would have her revenge even though the real perpetrator was long dead.
As her euphoria began to subside, and sensing that she was no longer alone, Jody turned and noticed the formidable woman kneeling behind her. The pseudo-current flowed through her veins, making her invulnerable, but she could also feel a tug in the direction of the stranger, and she approached Lena cautiously. This woman, who was tall, tough, and everything that Jody was not, gazed at her, and yet her blue eyes were not focused on her; in fact, they were not focused on anything, and as Jody tilted her head curiously, she realized that the stranger was enthralled by her, as her movements echoed her own. She felt a call, as if she needed to complete a circuit, and she approached the mesmerized woman cautiously as she removed the glove from her right hand. Delicately, almost in a tender caress, she touched Lena’s cheek and felt the circuit complete. She was in her head. She understood her and her cause. She was a kindred!
Lena felt the shock of betrayal course through Jody’s mind as her blade pierced the demon’s abdomen, digging deep within her stomach and slicing apart its innards. It had been hard to resist the siren call of this woman, who could touch her without draining her and whose mind was a field of sorrow, pain, and revenge just like Lena’s. She had felt herself echo the demon’s sentiments and realized that she could even resonate, borrow, or even build on her unnatural abilities, but against great pain, she had chosen forbearance. She escaped the siren allure of this new possible life by replacing the surrogate image of the now dead male victim with one of her own: her father. He must have confronted the traitorous demon in his household as his family had perished in the inferno. Had she been there, would she have empathized with that demon then? No, she would not and could not if she wanted to achieve redemption for her childhood failure.
Jody’s hand fell away from her cheek as Lena rose, and they switched positions: She was standing, while Jody lay on the cold pavement. With steely determination, she stood on Jody’s uncovered hand with the boot of her heel, placing enough weight on it to protect herself without being thrown off balance, and sliced the demon’s throat cleanly. As Jody flailed, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and the light of her dark eyes faded, Lena knew that she had done the right thing, because she was a hunter, and Jody was a monster.
- - -
The bar smelled, though Orion couldn’t pinpoint what exactly the stench was; he guessed from its sourness that it was someone’s old vomit, but it could just as easily have been spilled liquor or urine. He tried not to think about the floor’s stickiness and what it would do to his shoes. As someone passed behind him, Orion leaned forward and barely missed upsetting the glass of alcohol in front of him. He winced in disgust at the lukewarm swill; even if he had chosen to imbibe alcohol, this would not have been his choice, as it reminded him more of rubbing alcohol than the consumable kind. He glanced across the table at his partner, whose languid body language belied his watchful gaze. One arm was propped on the back of the chair, and his face was set in a leer. Sat half-turned away from the table, Connor swirled the untouched drink in his hand lazily while listening to the lone ice cube clinking in the glass. By now, his dark hair had won its war against domestication and had begun a mutiny against good taste, led by a cowlick at his crown. He’d suggested wearing casual clothes so as not to draw unnecessary attention to themselves and had changed into jeans and a T-shirt, neither of which helped him blend in.
Orion fared better only by mishap: His usual baggy clothes, hoodie, and gaunt face made him resemble a druggie looking for his next fix. He supposed that Connor’s sloppy appearance might be having a similar effect, only that he’d resemble someone who was merely a casual user. Orion’s inability to relax made it difficult for him to blend in as easily as the agent did. Maybe that would make his role as a druggie seem more authentic.
Connor glanced at his drink, clearly contemplating taking a swig of it, but he swished it around again and placed it on the table. Orion didn’t know why he didn’t imbibe; the agent had informed him that a drink or two would make them less conspicuous as long as he didn’t drink enough to be impaired. While Orion had considered taking a few sips, he wasn’t overly confident in his alcohol tolerance because it had been months—maybe a year—since his last drink.
The agent’s attention was abruptly seized by a woman as she stumbled into the bar. Her face was haggard, her dark hair greasy and tangled, and her clothes mismatched and disheveled as if she were wearing her only outfit and couldn’t afford to wash it. She appeared older than the median age of the establishment, but since many patrons were also drug users, it was difficult to determine maturity based on appearance alone. Connor watched her drink for a while, almost drowning herself in alcohol, and he seemed to suddenly lose focus and turn inward. He finally took a generous swig of his beverage, shook his head in revulsion at the quality of the concoction, and refocused. He turned his back on the newcomer and set his face in a cynical, lopsided smirk. “So, why don’t you tell me about your family, yeah?” he said suddenly. “Stuff I can’t just read in your report.”
Orion couldn’t tell if the interest was genuine and the request had been tactlessly made or if he was somehow being mocked. He did not understand Connor’s most recent shift in personality. The agent kept up a façade of casual, almost slapdash professionalism, but he was certainly more
proficient than he appeared; Orion didn’t know whether this was a purposeful attempt to make people underestimate him. Despite the regular annoyance that he provided at Orion’s apartment, he’d also shown concern about his well-being—something that he certainly appreciated experiencing for once—but he felt that there was something more to Connor’s visits. He raised an eyebrow and asked cautiously, “What kind of ‘stuff’?”
He shrugged. “Girlfriend. Hobbies. Favorite color,” he replied. “Typical small talk.” He leisurely took another mouthful, this time swallowing as if he were pacing himself.
Orion assumed that they had drained the well of casual conversations over the many visits to his apartment, but evidently Connor believed that there were more topics to mine. “I don’t like talking about myself,” he complained.
Connor’s cocky grin widened. “Ah, mate, that’s something you’re going to have to learn to do if you want to get anywhere in this world,” he lectured almost contemptuously. “You’ve got to have confidence, and what better way to demonstrate it than by talking about yourself for hours on end?” He raised his glass in a toasting motion for emphasis.
“Then tell me about yourself,” Orion retorted flatly.
Connor’s smile faltered, twisting momentarily into a hostile scowl, but it quickly rebounded as if Orion had only imagined it. “Fair enough,” he said and began to tick off his fingers. “No girlfriend—not for years, I like to knit, and my favorite color is blue.” When Orion’s only response was to be markedly unamused, he demanded, “Fine! What would you like to know? Oh, I know: We’re both orphans.” His inimical tone was unwelcome, which Orion showed with a scowl, and Connor relented reluctantly. “Alright, that wasn’t very nice…” He drained his glass, slammed it on the table, and leaned in conspiratorially. His tone was quiet yet sharp like slivers of busted glass. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I wish I was an orphan. Mamgu raised me for a few years, then she off and died and left me back with my mum.” He focused on a point in the distance, as if he had lost his center, and in contrast with his previous affected disengagement, his painful digs appeared to be legitimate attempts to stay detached from personal entanglements. When his distraction passed and he returned to reality, his manner was more accessible but no less mordant. “That’s enough of that, though. And now you know where the accent is from,” he concluded, even though this didn’t explain anything to Orion. “It’s your turn.”
Though Orion wasn’t usually one to be distracted by an attractive woman, the slight figure lingering at the entrance recaptured his attention. Despite being covered from head to toe, every inch of her alluring body was hugged by black spandex, which served more to accentuate her curves than to conceal them. Cassie had dressed this way once before he’d set her straight, so Orion immediately assumed that the lady was a teenager like his sister, and he could now fathom why she’d sneaked into a shady bar: It was a cheap thrill to be somewhere forbidden, even though the neighborhood was too dangerous for someone her age. Cassie knew better, but the lack of forethought about personal safety wasn’t beyond some of her friends.
“Come on, now,” Connor persisted. “If we’re going to be partners, we need to get to know each other.”
Orion was debating whether the girl needed a lecture, when he saw her leave on the arm of a much older man. Though the man was heavily intoxicated, he was the pillar of strength, and his hands wandered all over her concealed body, probing her limits. She encouraged him by moving the offending appendages teasingly to more publicly appropriate areas. “Agent Connor,” Orion interjected, pointing at the departing couple, “what was the victim’s profile?”
“You don’t get out of it that easily,” Connor chastised, but he followed Orion’s gaze to the door. His eyes flowed over the man, noting the similarities in his physique to the corpse in the morgue, and then continued onto the woman to make the same assessment. “Shit,” he cursed as he realized his error. His voice was tight, matching his expression, as the tension spread to the rest of his body. His hand reached under his shirt subconsciously to pat his weapon, which had been returned to him despite its recent betrayal, and then it dropped away without touching the recently installed security strap and leash. The woman, whom they had both dismissed because she’d only vaguely resembled their ambiguous police sketch, was leaving with a man who was the very definition of the perpetrator’s victim profile. Orion wondered whether Connor knew for certain that this was their culprit or whether the alcohol had prejudiced him toward rushing into action.
Connor was on his feet and poised to dash after their target when Orion asked, “What do I do?” He hadn’t been issued a firearm, nor had he been given any combat training of any kind; he was still a civilian and he probably would’ve refused a weapon had it been offered.
The agent’s attention snapped back to him, and he grimaced in distinct annoyance. “Follow me,” he growled, instantly causing Orion to recoil. Hoping to avoid further incitement of Connor’s displeasure, Orion quickly and quietly followed him out the front door, and thankfully, the other patrons ignored their hasty departure. The agent hesitated on the street, scouting for their target’s probable course, and then tread down a side street with swift footsteps. Orion followed as closely as he could, his sneakers scuffing noisily against the pavement, and he tried to reassure himself that Connor, being a member of law enforcement, would protect him if the confrontation turned violent. He halted hastily, barely avoiding running into Connor’s back as the latter drew his firearm and peered around the corner cautiously. He drew a bead on his target as he simultaneously entered the alley and bellowed, “Freeze! BSI!” Orion followed gingerly.
To their surprise, another young woman was in the alley. Crouch notwithstanding, she appeared to be tall, athletic, and not much older than Orion. The blood that sullied her blonde hair and nonstandard fatigues drew Orion’s eyes to the rest of the scene. She rose, revealing her victim to be the young brunette from the bar. Her throat had been sliced, and her arterial bleed faintly painted the scene, including the newcomer. Unfortunately, the man was slumped behind the two women, and his wan countenance confirmed his likely demise. The blonde deliberately held the bloodied knife out to her side and dropped it as she raised her hands over her head and shifted her weight as if to kneel. Her blue eyes suddenly glinted, as if they’d become reflective by a trick of the light, and her posture turned from unconditional surrender to wariness. Her scrutiny enveloped them as if she was hunting for something that only she could see, and her formidable gaze locked onto Orion, forcing him to eventually avert his eyes.
“What is BSI?” she inquired suspiciously. Rather than adopting the broad stance that she had taken earlier, she turned her body so she became a profile. Although her hands were still in the air, she had lowered her arms to be more level with her body. As far as Orion could tell, she was still not a threat, though she might become one.
Connor’s aim never faltered. “The Bureau of Special Interests,” he explained. “We police Others. We try to stop things like this from happening.” His eyes indicated the unlucky man.
“Others?” she echoed. “Do you mean the demons?” Pointedly, she narrowed her gaze on Orion, and he shrank away.
“If that’s what you call them,” Connor replied calmly.
She snickered bitterly. “I hate them,” she said quietly. “There is no policing them. They should all be destroyed.”
“There are good Others,” he interjected. He leaned toward Orion slightly, as if to prepare himself for possible interposition if she decided to go on the offensive. “They hunt the bad ones… the ones you would call demons. Mr. Starr here helps us apprehend the bad ones before they harm people. You could too, if you wanted. We always need help from those who know about Others and aren’t afraid to deal with them.” Slowly, he transferred his weapon to a single hand and used the free one to retrieve his badge from his back pocket. Unf
olding it, he presented it to her as harmlessly as he could.
Her gaze shifted to Connor, and her eyes gleamed again briefly before lowering to examine the proffered badge. “Good Others,” she mused skeptically, her focus squarely on him. She paused as she deliberated internally, and she gradually relaxed the tension in her body and adopted a more neutral stance. Whatever was going through her mind, she kept it to herself, but she surrendered without further incident.
- - -
The blonde turned out to be a woman named Lena Malmkvist, and she decided to join the BSI’s ranks after being connected with headquarters and being convinced that the bureau wasn’t a front for the demons she hunted. Not only had Connor brought her to their attention, but he had also seen her on the field, and they wanted his evaluation. So he wrote a statement in addition to the initial incident report. He couldn’t tell them about much, other than the attitude he’d sensed: She was willing to take the hard road when it came to euthanizing Others while still using prudence. She seemed capable, both in investigative techniques and the ability to take care of herself, and it turned out that she had been hunting Others for years, believing that she was a lone soldier in a battle against evil. It would take a while to expunge years of prejudice, but it would be worth it. Cross-examination revealed that she had taken down several bad individuals, but despite her assertions, Connor was uncertain they had all been Others.
Processing her at Plum Island generated two additional interesting facts, one of which he’d already suspected: She was an Other herself. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d developed the hypothesis, but it had made sense against the background of her testimony, and despite the fact that her clairvoyance would normally divert her to Paranormal’s jurisdiction, further testing had revealed that her ability ran deeper than that. Granted enough time, she could mimic and utilize another Other’s power simply by being in their proximity, and after generous training, she would be a valuable asset to the bureau. Connor hadn’t asked how she’d taken the revelation given how she felt about Others, but he had a feeling her path would be difficult until she accepted it.
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