by S A Archer
London was content to let him. “If you need me, just give me a call,” she said to Joe. “As long as I’m still getting tailed by that government agent, I think it’s best if I steer clear from Malcolm and the band right now. We don’t need him getting interested in them.”
“I agree,” Joe said, with a nod. “Riley and some of Tiernan’s men will be more than enough backup to handle this vampire, and whatever crew he’s working with. We’ll find them and we’ll take them out. If they don’t show back up at the club, then we’ll set up a trap to lure them out, assuming that he’s still got it out for you, London.” Joe had that protective expression on his face that he had when he was doing his job for the fey. They were all serious about what they did, but Joe’s ‘serious’ was several notches above the average human’s.
“Okay, so we’ve got a plan,” London agreed. “And then maybe we can find out who it is that hired him to come after me.” The list of possibilities was considerably long. London had had her share of enemies even before she’d been enchanted by the fey. But that list seemed to explode exponentially when they’d cursed her. As bad as she disliked having a target on her forehead, better her than Malcolm. Too many people had been hurt on her account already, and London wanted to balance the ledger.
Chapter Eighteen
The shiny new badge dangled from the breast pocket of Peyton’s suit jacket. He carried the freshly refilled Styrofoam cup of coffee that Gina in the security office gave to him. Chatting her up, and flashing that smile of his, put her right at ease. She’d barely even gave his credentials a once over before issuing him the badge with its magnetically sealed and encoded access to every room in the facility. Lovely girl she was, too. Peyton might take her up on the offer to show him the town after work this evening. So much depended on how things played out.
He really did live for this.
Strolling into the operations hub, Peyton took it in at a glance. Six ‘partners desks’ were arranged in a horseshoe around a bank of mobile white boards that blocked off almost one wall of windows. He would have thought that the information on the servers would have been destroyed by the security protocols when the building’s integrity had been breached, as they had been programmed to do. Or, at the very least, crushed under the weight of the rubble. As he crossed into the room, there, upon the board, were the security profile pictures for every employee of the wizards’ operation. It was quite a sobering sight, seeing his former colleagues spread across the field of white, his own picture counted amongst them. From the sorting, it seemed clear that they weren’t classifying them on any hierarchy within the organization.
“Quite a mess, isn’t it?” The fellow that spoke came to stand beside Peyton, glancing at the vista of photos.
“Isn’t it always?” He turned to the agent-in-charge, and offered his hand to shake. “Peyton Price.”
“Agent Price,” the lead agent repeated, and then returned, “I’m Fletcher. Glad to have you on the team. Your file says you’ve done some undercover work while investigating the wizards. To be honest, before now, I hadn’t realized they’d become this organized.” Fletcher looked like he could have been teaching Humanities at university, with his mixture of geek and businessman look, which probably worked perfectly to disarm the unwary into underestimating him. He wouldn’t be Interpol’s lead agent on such a case if he wasn’t sharper than a machete.
“They have always maintained ties, even if loosely, because of their apprentice system. Only in the last few years have they begun to collaborate on any great scale.” Any hotshot agent that was deep into an investigation would know as much, or probably less, than Peyton knew from having worked for the wizards as long as he had. Peyton couldn’t claim to know everything, but he knew a hell of a lot more than his former employers would have guessed. He nodded to the board of security face shots. “That’s the head of the snake, Reginald Brightner. You didn’t find his body in the wreckage, I gather.”
That wasn’t a stretch. Peyton knew Reginald had remained on the Isle of Man with a few of his elite cohorts. That day had been designed for maximum casualties, not among the wizards, but their prey; the fey. The second tier of wizards, who were meant to go in on the first wave of the attack planned on the Isle of Fey, met at the Brightner Building. The top enchanters, those sniffing around for Manannan’s approval, had remained at the mansion with their benefactor to sweep in like tanks after the apprentices, AKA cannon fodder, did what damage they could. Not one of the wizards made it to the battleground that day, from all accounts. Peyton and London shut down the first wave before they could even launch their attack. What happened to the others was something of a guess. Manannan was dead though, that much reached even his ears on the first day after the Brightner Building’s collapse.
“Reginald Brightner is dead,” Fletcher stated, not a hint of doubt or deception.
Peyton blinked. Nothing else. His gaze, his expression, his focus remained upon the image of Reginald.
Dead? If he was an agent, he’d know that much.
Unless Fletcher was playing him.
Peyton glanced over at the agent-in-charge, stoic and unreadable, only to be handed a file.
Fletcher continued. “We found the ‘head of the snake’ bobbing in the surf around the pier in Douglas with his throat sliced. We’re keeping that quiet for now. No need to feed the media circus.”
“Smart move,” Peyton agreed, and didn’t bother to glance at the file just yet. “He had a mansion in Douglas. I heard he was there when the building went down.”
“Appears he went down at the same time. Assassinated, probably by the same ones responsible for the explosion.” Fletcher edged towards a smile. “That’s still our working theory, at any rate.” Turning towards Peyton, he leaned his bum back against a desk, his hands curling around the edge on either side of him. “What can you tell us about their organization? Who were their enemies?”
Peyton’s eyebrow lifted. Mimicking Fletcher’s stance, Peyton leaned back against the opposite desk, setting the file down so that he might even position his hands in the same manner, signaling himself as a subordinate to the agent before him. “Besides the fey, you mean? They victimized them almost exclusively.”
“What about their allies? Their competitors? Should those be our lead suspects?”
“There were no wizard competitors, unless you count the in-fighting among the wizards for positions of power. Other predators of the fey, like werewolves and vampires, tended not to have the scale or ambition to match them either. As for allies, given the nature of their business, stripping magic from others to bestow it upon themselves, no other magical types seemed inclined to want to chum around with them.” No doubt, Fletcher and his team had already reached similar conclusions.
“So, we’re probably looking for a fey, that’s what you are saying?”
There was nothing to read past Fletcher’s casual expression, and off-hand conclusion.
But the implications of such a question could have far-reaching effects on Peyton’s future wellbeing, should the government decide to pick up on the wizards’ legacy and go into a full scale expunging of the fey, like they had been doing with demons for the last few decades.
Shifting physically, as if to get more comfortable or to consider the question more fully, Peyton’s only option, with this man looking him dead in the face, was to divert. “I’m not comfortable jumping to any conclusions. There is too much evidence yet to be shifted through.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Having said that, I don’t see the fey doing something like this.” Nodding to the image of the building’s rubble stuck to the board. “It’s not really their style.”
“Well,” Fletcher looked him dead in the eye, “it’s somebody’s style.”
For a split second panic flared like a sickness in Peyton’s gut, whispering the dreaded thought, he know
s…
But then the smile broke easily across the agent’s face as he tilted his head towards the evidence boards, before adding, “Apparently.”
“Apparently,” Peyton echoed, not quite as loud.
Fletcher stood up and gestured for Peyton to follow him. “Come on. I want you to meet the team you are joining.”
Chapter Nineteen
The evening was a little bit warm for the green hunting jacket Granger wore, even if it was lightweight and over a plain white T-shirt and jeans. He strolled up the alley where he’d found London in the grips of a vampire a few days earlier. He’d LoJacked her car, and tracked her to this neighborhood that evening. Coming across her in the grips of the vampire had been accidental, and fortunately for her, he’d noticed the commotion as he’d been walking past. But now he was curious about why she’d been down his particular alley that particular day. As he scanned the backs of the shops that line the alley he gauged where she might have come from. Some doors were locked and bolted from the outside, but one was unlocked and with a weak bulb hanging over the door. It was the fire exit for one of the taverns, Granger had to guess. He gauged the distance down the alleyway and then walked around to the front of the shops on the main street. It was a dance club, of all things. He wouldn’t have thought London much for the dance club type, but then again, perhaps she was there for another reason.
Walking into the low light, the flickering of neon dazzled his eyes at first and Granger paused just inside the doorway to glance around. The crowd seemed young, mostly 20’s and 30’s, and just here to dance, drink, and enjoy the atmosphere. The music thumped away, coming from the live band on the stage at the far end of the narrow building. He didn’t see London among the crowd, but then again, the LoJack was reading somewhere close to her own neighborhood at the moment, but it had been there for the majority of the day and he had to wonder if she’d caught a ride with someone. Just as he was getting ready to start strolling farther into the club, a fellow leaned over and greeted him, “You seem like you’re looking for someone. Can I help?” The fellow seemed pleasant enough, with an easy smile. Might have been one of the college students, which was Granger’s first guess.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Her name’s London. Do you know her?” Granger wasn’t expecting an answer, one way or the other, but it never hurt to cast out bait and see if he could catch anything interesting.
The fellow’s smile grew a little bit wider and he gave a nod. “Yeah, I’ve met her a couple of times. She might be here, I don’t know. But if anyone does know, it’ll be Joe, over there by the bar. I’ve seen her hanging out with him a few times.”
Granger gave a nod of thanks to the young man, and headed off in that direction. He could feel the gaze still following him and, when he glanced back, the young man was smiling, and following his progress with his gaze. Granger turned back more slowly, thinking the bloke was a little bit too interested, given the circumstances.
But he headed towards the bar at an easy pace, and leaned up next to the guy he’d been directed towards. “How’s it going?” He asked in a casual manner, like just another stranger being polite in this social environment.
Joe turned towards him, and then gave a glance past him up to the stage. The drummer paused mid-beat and gave a cutting gesture across his throat with one hand before rolling the sticks, and going back into the rhythm without missing a beat. Joe looked back towards Granger.
He gave a half smirk. “I get the feeling I was expected.”
“Shall we step into my office?” Joe said, gesturing towards the back exit, which Granger knew led out to that alley.
This was an interesting turn of events, Granger thought. Was this London’s bruiser of a boyfriend, about to get jealous and threaten Granger to shove off? Or was there something more at play here? As Granger glanced around, he noticed more guys than just the young man at the door were tracking the pair of them. No, there was definitely something more to these people than what met the eye. Granger was game to find out what. “All right. Lead the way.” There was nothing in his expression or his voice that suggested that he wasn’t aware of what was probably getting ready to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had to negotiate with knuckles.
Joe pushed open the outer door and Granger followed him. There were just a couple steps down from the door to the concrete of the alleyway. They got that far, before Joe turned on him. The arm that came at Granger wasn’t merely a fist aiming for his gut, as he’d anticipated. Nor was it a knife, which was where his thoughts went next, when he saw the glint of light. He gripped Joe’s wrist before he could complete the thrust, but it didn’t matter when he hit the trigger, and sent the barbs of the taser, shooting into Granger’s torso and shocking the living shite out of him.
That really did hurt.
It slammed him against the brick wall, as his body jarred and jerked with electricity, and then he dropped towards the ground. If not for the bulletproof vest, he would’ve taken the full shock, but what he did get was bad enough.
Already the young man from the front door came jumping down from the landing. As Granger was pushing himself up, the guy did a roundhouse kick and caught him in the side of the face with a foot, sending him tumbling.
Granger came up, rubbing the blood from his lip with the back of his hand as he turned towards the two men that were coming at him. “Is this how you blokes always have a conversation?” He growled, hardly down because of these cheap attacks, even if he was jarred by them. As he braced himself against the wall, he started to pull himself up again, but the guys didn’t have a chance to reach him. The back door slammed open and the young drummer came bounding out, shouting at them, “What are you doing? I gave you the signal that he wasn’t the guy!”
Joe glanced over at the kid and repeated the gesture that he’d seen. He made a cutting mark across his throat with his fingertips. “You did this.”
“I know,” the kid insisted. “It meant he’s not the guy.”
“It means to get rid of him,” Joe said in frustration.
“You guys need to get your signals figured out, before you go attacking people,” Granger said, but he was staring at the drummer now. At his face, which he would’ve recognized anywhere. And those ears sticking out from beneath his hair. The name of the band, “Fey Bangers” was emblazoned across his T-shirt. And heck, if it wasn’t true. This kid was the fey that had escaped the building with London. Now wasn’t that an interesting turn of events?
The youth made a frantic X-ing out gesture, like that could undo everything. “He’s not the vampire.”
“Yeah, I’m not a vampire.” Granger remained a little bent over, willing to play up the pain, and maybe throw some guilt their way. “So what the bloody crap was all this about?”
“If you’re not the guy who’s been after London, then what business have you with her?” Joe wasn’t apparently willing to concede that perhaps he’d made a mistake, as if perhaps Granger still might have had it coming.
“I’ll save that conversation for when I am speaking with her.” As much as Granger wanted to know more about this kid, now was clearly not the time.
As if conceding the fight, Granger stumbled out of the alleyway. Once he was clear, he straightened up some, making less of a show of the pain. On the wall outside the club he saw one of the band posters plastered onto the brick wall. He snatched it off, ripping away the corners that had been secured with tape. The poster even listed the band members’ first names and gave a website. How convenient. He glanced it over again, seeing the boy’s face on there, and the name ‘Malcolm’ scrawled below in a slasher font. “Gotcha.”
Chapter Twenty
With her arms each clutching a paper shopping bag, London slowed as she approached the outside of her building. Granger leaned against the back quarter panel of her Honda. His lon
g legs stretched before him, and crossed at the ankles. His hands were jammed into his jacket pockets, and his head lowered, as if he contemplated his shoes. Only she knew that wasn’t what was on his mind, as he waited outside her home for her to return. As she slowed, he glanced up. She could only see the left side of his face, but the frown was serious, even from this angle.
She debated saying something in greeting, but could tell he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. And the reason became more clear as she drew closer, and got a look at the right side of his face. The bruise was too large to be called a black eye. It covered almost the entire side of his face, discoloring it into a dark, purple bruise. “What happened to you?”
“Your friend, Joe, and his little ninja-kicking buddy.” His voice was flat.
London grimaced. “What happened?” Although she had a sinking feeling that she already knew.
“I guess they thought I might be a vampire looking for you.” He straightened. “That’s what they said, anyhow.” He drew closer and scooped the heavier shopping bag from her arms. “I take it that the guy is still after you. Did you ever figure out why?”
She hesitated, but couldn’t see any benefit in lying. “Yes, he’s still out there, and no, I don’t know why yet.”