by Jackie May
Several things happen at once. With a horrendous screech of pain, the harpy launches into the air, pulling me with her. Gunshots ring out—Brenner is firing at her. I feel the shudder of impacts against the harpy’s body. We’re falling again, and I can’t see up from down, but my damn foxy brain is still telling me which is which—I can feel where I need to go—and I’m able to pull myself up the harpy’s body as it twists below me. We hit the roof hard, bouncing, tumbling, but I’ve used her as a shield to blunt the impact. Even still, my ribs scream at me as I roll off of her, coughing and wheezing.
In a blast of wind, a black helicopter touches down on the roof. Amazingly, the harpy draws herself up, and without protest from me—the hell with that, I can hardly take a breath—she drops over the side of the roof. Gone to the night.
Longest two minutes of my life.
Two special ops guys—tactical vests, night-vision goggles, assault rifles, the works—hop down from the helicopter. Brenner hands Arael off to them and hurries over to me. As he helps me to my feet, all I can think to say is, “My shoes.” And then a worse thought occurs to me. “My jacket! My Tigers jacket is in my car.” And that leads to the worst thought of all: “My car! I can’t just—”
“Leave it,” Brenner insists. When I resist, he takes me firmly by both elbows and brings our eyes in line with each other. His face is smeared with sweat and grime and blood, but his eyes, like his voice, are still so soft, pleading. “Shayne. Leave it.”
I give in. Enough for one day. I let myself fold into Brenner’s side as he turns us toward the helicopter. A third operator stands before us. He raises his gun at Brenner’s face. “Back away! Drop your weapon!”
Brenner shouts, “I’m PD! Homicide!”
But the guy screams over him. “I said drop it, now! Do it!”
As Brenner drops his gun at our feet, I see Special Agent Hillerman step down from the chopper—an FBI chopper. She watches us from behind her shades as the special ops guys load Arael on board, cuff him, and strap him in. Brenner is shouting at her, but I’m too angry to understand his words. Hillerman points to the sky, where another chopper—this one blue and white, Detroit PD—hovers in a holding pattern. That will be our ride. We’ll go one way, she’ll go another. With Arael Moaz.
“We talked about this, Shayne!” Hillerman yells to me above the roar of the chopper. “You can’t win every time!”
Her men pile in, and she is following when I finally summon enough anger to shout through the pain in my chest. I remember before, how she stopped Arael Moaz in his tracks by using his real demon name. All I can think to do now is the same. I scream, “Charlotte Hayes!”
Her head whips around. Our eyes meet, mine red with fury, hers unreadable behind black mirrors, like a bug. The moment stretches long, maybe longer than those two minutes. I don’t know what meaning there is in that moment, but at least I feel some tiny bit of satisfaction that I was able to catch her off guard.
Big deal.
She climbs in, and the chopper lifts away.
I don’t see Brenner for a whole day after that.
We ride in the helicopter together, but then there are police everywhere, and Nick Gorgeous whisks me away before anybody can ask too many questions. Then comes home, and Mom in my face, and all I want to do is sleep. I shift into my fox, run deep into Newport Woods, crawl under a tree root (where no birds can spot me from the sky), wedge my brush under my chin, and I’m conked out. Like, a bear in hibernation conked out.
Twelve hours later, I’m amazed that nobody has bothered me for so long, until Ben tells me that Nolan parked his coyote butt at the start of the woods and growled at anybody asking where I was. Still treating me like his property. Mom demanding answers. Ben complaining that the police returned his gold rims all scratched up. Same old, same old at home.
And not much different at the Agency. Darla is too pissed to even acknowledge me with anything beyond a twitchy-eyed glare, as if it’s my fault Don Roman is in jail, that he was only dating her to stay one step ahead of the Agency while he jumped into bed with terrorist demons. And now Nick Gorgeous is telling me I have to roll over for Director West.
“It’s her job to cut you down to size, Shayne. It’s your job now to sit there and take it, and I mean take it. Do not open your mouth.”
“But what could she possibly have to say to me besides, ‘Fantastic freaking job, Shayne. On behalf of the city of Detroit, let me buy you a sandwich.’”
I gesture to a wall-mounted TV showing helicopter footage of East Side, still belching smoke from buildings destroyed in the three-hour war. Police had mounted their first assault into East Side when radios lit up with the announcement that Arael Moaz had already been taken into custody. It took two more hours for police to back out. Three officers were wounded, but expected to live.
East Side demons tried to keep fighting, fanning the flames. They still wanted their war, even without the boss. But DPD was satisfied, and it takes two for war. Most of the news coverage now focused on how bad the war would have gotten had Arael not been captured so quickly. Fighting would have raged for weeks.
Well, we go into the Director’s office, and she starts in about the thin line we try to walk between helping humans and exposing ourselves. According to her, I took the unwarranted risk of saving the world “in front of every YouTuber with a cell phone. We police our own people, Miss Davies, and even that objective is secondary to keeping our existence hidden.”
“Oh, and letting demons start a war isn’t bad for our image at all.” From the corner of my eye, I see Nick rubbing his face. So much for keeping my mouth shut.
“I understand that angle, Miss Davies, but the humans wouldn’t have seen it that way. For the most part, demons have no discernable anomalies. Humans wouldn’t have known it was anything out of the ordinary.”
“I think people just might notice a goat man and a ten-foot crow monster with huge tits!”
“Which forms they only assumed when you attacked. Without your complication, this would have been just another gang war.”
“Lots of people would have died.”
“I don’t dispute that. There’s no doubt you saved many lives…” She stops, and she leans back in her chair, mulling over some change in tactic that has just occurred to her. “Perhaps…” She temples her fingers under her chin. “It could be, Miss Davies, that I’ve not come at this discussion in a manner suiting your particular sensibilities.”
“Oh, no, by all means, I love being yelled at. Really. I love being told by everybody else how to be better at being me.”
She nods slowly. Her face relaxes. Her voice lowers. “Let me start over, Miss Davies. I should have started by thanking you.” She pushes the perfect flip of silver hair away from her brow. “Whatever incidental concerns we might raise in the aftermath of such high-risk events, the bottom line is that the outcome was positive. This is a win, and it’s all yours. Everybody agrees, Davies. You did a damn good job.”
I wait for the but. But there’s no but. Director West regards me with soft eyes. I look to Nick. He looks to me, then back to West. We’re all just looking at each other, and I’ve got absolutely nothing to say. Completely tongue-tied. And yeah, some part of me registers how pathetic it is that I needed to hear those words, but there’s no denying the bigger part of me that melts, and soothes, and feels, for once, no compulsion to throw out some quip in response.
Nick makes a face like a miracle has just occurred. To West, he says, “You did it. Look at her, I mean, just…silence.”
She holds a finger up. “Now…”
There it is! The but!
She sits forward. “Now, having said that, having acknowledged what did happen, let’s take just a moment to play devil’s advocate and consider what could have happened.”
“Easy,” I say. “The whole world could have seen shifters fighting demon creatures in the Grandy district.”
“One possibility,” she agrees, “and do you know, Davies, th
at’s all I’m trying to assess here. Whether or not you recognize the risk of your actions.”
“I get it.”
She doesn’t look so sure. “Consider Arael Moaz, for example. Without our intervention, he would have been killed in a war with police, which is, honestly, despite the human casualties that would have incurred, preferable to what happened.”
“That’s what you wanted?”
The edge comes back to her voice. “Think about it, Davies. Which is better, a dead demon, or a demon taken back to Washington? I don’t expect you to comprehend the complexities of interworld relations, but try to imagine if aliens came down to see what humans were like, and the one they chose to sample was Adolf Hitler?”
“But Washington doesn’t have only the one sample. They know about the rest of us.”
“But will they tell the story that way?”
“Who the hell knows? And besides, when we got to the roof, Hillerman was already there. If we hadn’t got to Arael, she would have done it on her own.”
“We’ll never know, will we?”
“Give me a break.”
“But I will concede that we’re fortunate Special Agent Hillerman showed up.”
“So the FBI’s taking all the credit now?”
“How else could we explain how Arael Moaz was extracted so quickly? How did we know it was him? How did we connect so few dots, and so far apart? It almost seems supernatural, the assumptions that were made. Too many leaps in logic that don’t make sense to humans. Going to the Monolith Casino, for example. Why? What possible connection could have led you there?”
“Vampires.”
“Vampires! Of course. Case closed, call CNN. You see, we don’t have good answers for these kinds of missing links, Miss Davies. The big, glaring footprints you left all over town. And now inquiring minds have dragged Henry Stadther down to the police station! Why did he cover up the murder of two cocktail waitresses from the East Side? How on earth did Detective Brenner know the white van would be at the Don Roman auto plaza? Who was driving the beat-up car that collided with the bomber in front of the municipal center?”
My heart breaks anew at the thought of my Crap-pile rotting forever in that abandoned car plant. I’ll never see it again. “You mean the car that saved all those people, including the Chief of Police?”
“Human affairs. Any involvement by the Agency has to be invisible. They have their own police. They don’t need our help.”
“But when humans are targeted by underworlders, the results are people like Brenner and Hillerman. You said yourself we’re going to have a major image problem when the truth comes out. If it weren’t for me, Brenner’s only contact with the underworld would be the monsters who killed and fed on his sister.”
“If the truth comes out. Not when.”
I glance at Gorgeous, and I’m not surprised when he won’t meet my eye. “Are you serious? Which is it, guys? Is Washington conspiring to out us, or not?”
Director West shakes her head. “The only thing we can say for sure is that they won’t have to out us if we do the job for them through our own recklessness.”
Circles and circles. Exhausting.
“Okay, so let me guess. You stuck me on this shit job to babysit a fed because it’s beneath all of you, and oh, hey, I totally screwed that up by actually solving the case, so now I must be fired. Am I right?”
She lifts her chin but does not speak. Her eyes slide to Nick Gorgeous.
“Hell no,” he answers. “You’re not fired, Shayne. In fact, we’re not the only team trying to recruit you.”
My blood boils. “Don’t say it.”
“She called while you were sleeping. Special Agent Hillerman says her offer still stands to join the task force.”
“Which we declined,” Director West is quick to state.
“Thank you,” I say to her, and I mean it. Gorgeous gives us both a grimace. It seems that two out of three is the best we can manage on any agreement. “And if Hillerman can do it, then we can do it.”
“Do what?” Gorgeous asks.
“Recruit from the other side. I want Detective Brenner.” I hadn’t planned on the request. It only popped into my head suddenly. But now that the words have come out, I can’t settle for anything else. “He can work with me. He won’t say no if I ask him.”
After trading a look with Gorgeous, West says, “We’ve discussed it.”
“And?”
“There’s concern, for obvious reasons. We can’t tolerate—much less participate in—any kind of vendetta against vampires—”
“I get that,” I cut in. “I know it, and he knows it. It’s not a problem, I promise you. If he wanted that, he would have stayed in Chicago, don’t you think? He came here to get away from what happened.” That’s only a guess, of course. But it sounds logical.
Director West agrees with a nod. “Still, a human with knowledge of the underworld is the responsibility of the Agency. If he ever becomes a liability…”
“It’ll be on you,” Nick finishes.
“Oh, he’s all on me, for sure. He’s on me, and I’m all over him. A close eye. Two close eyes.”
“A very close watch,” Director West says with a coy wink. “Stay on top of him, won’t you?”
Nick’s mouth drops open. “What the hell is this? Why are you smiling?”
She gives him a duh look. “Because Detective Brenner. He’s gorgeous.”
“With a capital G,” I add.
Nick stands up. “I see. Wow.”
“Not so fast,” West says. “Give her the thing.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I say, “Yeah, give me the thing.”
Grumpy now (too easy), he jams a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a leather flap, like a wallet.
My stomach flops. “Oh, that thing.” It’s a badge. FUA, Double D, super official looking. “So I’m a special agent now, just like you?”
“No,” he barks. “I’m special agent-in-charge.”
“And together we’re”—I flash my badge in his face—“Foxy and Gorgeous, everybody!”
He leaves with a sigh.
Too easy.
Vinewood Street runs west from downtown, through a quiet neighborhood that only a few years ago would have been pleasant enough—small but tidy green lawns, washed cars in driveways without oil stains, neat rows of Detroit’s characteristic narrow duplexes. Now that neighborhood is still quiet, but nobody would call it cheery. There’s more grass in the cracks of the sidewalks than in the lawns, half the cars no longer run, and most of the homes have been abandoned.
I knock on a door that is so badly warped I could slide my hand beneath the three-inch gap at the bottom. To my surprise, I hear quick, light footsteps running to the door. A curtain is pulled aside in a bay window, and a little black girl—maybe eight years old—peers up at me with suspicious eyes. I hear a woman snap, Get away from there! The doorknob unlocks and turns, but it takes three hard pulls before she can wrench the door open just a crack.
“Well, then?” the woman says. I’d put her around mid-forties, maybe a bit younger if she weren’t scowling.
I step back, the creaking boards under my feet threatening to collapse. “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong house.” I hope she’ll correct me, but she only stares, her hard eyes traveling up and down my body.
Only when I turn to leave does she finally say, “You’re Shayne Davies.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Okay, I’m intrigued. She knows me, but I have no idea who these people are, or why they’d be in this house.
After more glaring, she says, “You’re looking for Brenner.”
I know she’s asking questions, but there aren’t any question marks in her voice. If she means to be intimidating, she’s succeeding. “Yes, ma’am. I stopped by the station, but he wasn’t there.”
Another long moment passes, in which she seems to be considering whether or not to let me in. At last, with a reluctant sigh, she op
ens the door.
The house is a shambles. I don’t mean unclean—I mean structurally, you’d expect it to fall down under the weight of the first snow. Entire walls of the front hallway are stripped of all drywall, so you can step right through into the neighboring apartment. The ceilings sag—in fact, there’s not a straight line in the whole place—and the floors are plywood, no carpet.
In the kitchen, an old guy with a wiry gray Afro watches TV from a wheelchair. Seeing me, his eyes grow wide, and he twists around in the chair to exclaim, “Good golly!”
“That means ‘Hello, gorgeous,’” the woman translates with a wry expression, “and ‘what an ass for pinching.’ So keep your distance.” She’s not joking. “He don’t get out much.”
The little girl, keeping careful, sober eyes on me, climbs into the old man’s lap. Not knowing what else to do, I smile at her profusion of tiny curls. “I like your hair. What’s your name?” But the girl doesn’t respond.
“She don’t talk,” the woman explains, then lifts her chin toward a sliding glass door. “You go on.”
“Good golly,” murmurs the old guy again as he watches me cross the room.
Outside the glass door is a sight that makes me smile. Though I can’t see Brenner’s face, I know it’s him from all the bruises on his body. He’s shirtless, and in the middle of a push-up competition with a teenage boy who is easily winning.
“What happened to him?” the woman asks. Her tone is accusatory—whatever happened, she’s sure it was my fault.
“The bruises? Just some meth heads from East Side. Brenner’s fine. All part of the job—”
She cuts me off. “Not the bruises. I mean, why’s he different now?”
“I don’t…” My heart plunges. “Different?”
“Look, I don’t know how long you’ve known him, but we all been here six months with Brenner, and I ain’t never seen him home for more’n four hours, and that’s just to sleep. He’s married to that job. Eats, drinks, breathes it. And God knows I, of all people, want him out there working, doing what he do. But still, I try to get him to take some time, slow down. But he don’t, not ever, no matter what.” She gestures toward the backyard. “Until now. He took all yesterday off, and now today. Doing stuff around the house! Trying to fix the roof.” She makes an absurd face, as though what she’s saying is unthinkable. “Fixing the damn roof! Now look, I owe Brenner. I ain’t got no disrespect for him. Even though he’s sure a damn fool boy sometimes, I still see the man in him. But a handyman he ain’t never gonna be! And now he’s goin’ around with a hammer, banging on shit? Saying his sister used to fix things just from watching a YouTube video, and I don’t doubt it, but—”