The Amplifier Protocol (Amplifier 0)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  A half-dozen incidents with Christopher had forced us to move multiple times, for fear of the Collective tracking us down through any network that might make note of possible clairvoyant activity. So I had made a decision to take on jobs under a false name. Over the course of five such assignments, I had cultivated a reputation I’d never wanted — a powerful amplifier who was willing to work for the highest bidder — so that I could purchase a new life for us. This sanctuary.

  We’d had three months in Lake Cowichan. Three months without incident, without wondering if we needed to run. Three months was enough to begin to hope. And hope was dangerous for people of our power, of our upbringing. I knew. Because I knew what I was capable of doing with only a glimmer of hope to guide me.

  Now Constable Jennifer Raymond was in my kitchen. About to drink my meticulously curated tea, my painstakingly tested ginger snaps —

  The kettle whistled.

  I stepped over without looking, removing the kettle from the heat and turning off the burner.

  “I … I don’t mean to intrude,” Officer Raymond said.

  But her gaze was on Christopher, not me, so I measured three teaspoons of Tanzania Estate tea into the strainer and didn’t respond.

  It wasn’t an apology. It was just one of those things that people said, things they didn’t mean. I loathed that about human interaction.

  I stepped back, put the stovetop timer on for three minutes — I preferred to not oversteep black tea — then set out the milk and sugar, along with three side plates and white napkins with a blue lace border.

  I’d bought the napkins from Hannah. At the thrift store.

  Damn it.

  The shifter was more observant than I’d given her credit for. She must have seen me coming and going from the store, seen me chatting with Hannah. And now she wanted to capitalize on that observed behavior, that perceived relationship.

  I arranged the tea and cookies on the corner of the kitchen island. The timer went off. I removed the strainer from the teapot.

  Christopher turned from the window, crossing into the kitchen.

  Officer Raymond watched him, enraptured.

  I leaned back on the counter by the sink, arms folded as I tried to see what she saw. With the white-painted French-paned glass doors behind him and the overcast day beyond, he must have looked like … pure light.

  Paisley padded alongside Christopher.

  “Oh, hello,” Officer Raymond cooed, as if she’d just spotted the huge pit bull.

  For her sake, I really hoped that wasn’t the case. She had to just be playing another game, pretending to not have noticed the lethal predator prowling toward her. Because even beyond the deplorable lack of shifter instincts this revealed, it suggested she was completely unsuited to her choice of career, policing mundanes. Never mind what it said about her standing in the house of two powerful Adepts — and about to beg a favor from them.

  The shifter waggled her fingers at Paisley, offering to pet her. The demon dog snorted derisively, then settled under the plate of cookies to gaze up at Christopher like he ruled her world. It was an effective technique, since not only was she hoping he wouldn’t begrudge the unsanctioned consumption of the leftover roast chicken, but also she wanted ginger snaps.

  Officer Raymond frowned at Paisley, brushing her hands on her pants and straightening. Her reaction time was human slow. She kept her beast firmly caged, which was negligent for many different reasons. If I actually had been a coven witch, I would have been placing a call into the closest West Coast pack representative immediately after meeting Officer Raymond. A shapeshifter who ignored their beast, and who didn’t have the structure of a pack to guide them, was liable to snap. A loss of control could mean the loss of lives. And way too much attention drawn our way as a result.

  “Milk?” Christopher asked Officer Raymond, going through the motions of serving the tea. He knew that I wouldn’t do it, and that she wouldn’t know that she was supposed to fix her own after he poured her cup.

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded.

  He added a slosh of milk, handing the mug to her.

  She reached for it, her left hand encircling the stoneware mug. Then her right hand moved beyond — to touch Christopher’s forearm.

  The gesture could have been completely harmless. She could have been flirting or simply saying thank you.

  But I stepped forward nonetheless, reaching across the island over the teapot and cookies to snag her wrist.

  Christopher steadied the mug he was still half holding.

  The shifter reacted to my movement, then to me grabbing her. Completely delayed. She tried to yank her arm away but couldn’t break my hold.

  Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring. “You dare!”

  “No,” I said calmly. “You dare.” I flicked my gaze to Christopher, then back to her.

  “Let me go.”

  I almost forced her to try to break my hold. I almost goaded her into trying.

  “Socks,” Christopher whispered. The white of his magic flared, edging his eyes then fading.

  I dropped Officer Raymond’s wrist and was back leaning against the counter before she realized she was free.

  She stared at me, then at Christopher, rubbing her wrist. Though if she was actually hurt, it was due to her feeble attempt to break my grasp, not the hold itself. “You aren’t a witch,” she said accusingly.

  I didn’t answer. That should have been obvious the moment she’d first scented me. In town. Over three months ago.

  Christopher set her tea down next to her elbow. He poured a second mug, stirring in a teaspoon of sugar for me. And then a mug for himself, leaving it black. “Tell us about Hannah. And how you’d like us to help.”

  The shapeshifter stared at us, emotions ranging from surprise to confusion flitting over her face.

  There really was no way she was a werewolf. Even if it was judgemental of me to look down on her for not using her magic.

  “I’m not well versed in Adept society …” I said, reaching for my tea. “But even I know that you don’t touch anyone without express permission.”

  “I would never.”

  I pinned the shifter with a withering gaze.

  She looked away, sipping her tea. Then she grimaced.

  Grimaced.

  As if she hated the taste of my tea.

  “Socks,” Christopher murmured again.

  I took a sip of my own tea. I was triggering his magic with my anger.

  “I’m sorry,” the shifter said. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  “Touching me comes with consequences,” Christopher said, his tone steady and calm.

  I hated that he felt he had to step in, to explain me, to explain himself. But that was always the way with us, between us. He was the fixer. I tore everything apart — but only after rationally assessing that it needed to be pulled asunder.

  “And if you want us to find Hannah,” he continued, “then those consequences could obscure my ability to help.”

  “She’s a mundane,” I said, grumbling into my tea. And completely lying. Hannah Stewart’s blood held a faint trace of witch magic, likely inherited from way back. Similar to how any number of people in this part of Canada carried First Nations’ blood. But dormant magic wasn’t going to help Christopher key in on Hannah Stewart.

  “I thought of that,” the shifter said, picking up the item she’d retrieved from the cruiser. It was a ziplock bag that unrolled in her grasp, revealing a blue plastic comb within its depths.

  “I see,” I said, taking another sip of tea. “The ziplock makes it seem so official.”

  Officer Raymond clenched her jaw, as if she might be considering leaping across the island counter and slapping me.

  I took another sip, letting her think about it.

  She decided to remain on the edge of civil.

  Too bad.

  Paisley snatched the plastic-swathed comb from Officer Raymond and swallowed it whole, ziplock
bag and all.

  The shifter stumbled back. “What the fuck?!”

  Paisley chortled darkly. Even after living with the demon dog for almost seven years, the sound sent a sliver of a chill down my spine.

  Officer Raymond rubbed the back of her neck, staring at Paisley dumbfounded. Then she got angry. “That isn’t a dog!”

  “Just noticed that, did you?” I asked mockingly. Then I tapped my nose. “Now I see why you’re a pack reject. Can’t even find a woman in a small town when you have a sample of her hair.”

  The shifter turned bright red in fury.

  I waited, just long enough to see if anything interesting was going to happen.

  She sputtered, clenching and unclenching her fists. Then she got herself under control.

  So, no.

  Christopher took a sip of his tea, then spoke thoughtfully. “It has been raining.”

  Ever the peacemaker.

  “For months,” I said agreeably.

  “Are you going to help or not?” The shifter spat out each word as if they were separate sentences.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Christopher said.

  “The woman is a mundane.” I set my mug down, crossing my arms.

  “Hannah,” Officer Raymond interjected, gazing hopefully at Christopher. “Her name is Hannah. And she has an abusive boyfriend.”

  “If you had any credible evidence that she was in trouble, you wouldn’t be here with a comb in a ziplock bag.”

  “Yeah … well, I might not have an official missing persons report. She’s an adult, living on her own. Her mother in Victoria wasn’t expecting her this weekend, and the few friends I could call haven’t seen her. But since she took over running it, she’s never not opened the store without leaving a note or it being a stat holiday. Even then …” Officer Raymond clenched her fists. “I know … I know something is wrong.”

  And for the first time, her shapeshifter magic coiled around her — a slight trickle of energy. Then it settled. So … her magic was triggered by protective instinct, not in anger or in frustration.

  I sighed inwardly. First Christopher’s insistence, then Paisley with the comb, and now evidence that Officer Raymond wasn’t a total magical dud.

  Hannah Stewart was in trouble.

  “We’ll discuss it,” I said.

  The shifter glanced at her watch. “A small group of us are meeting at the diner at three for an unofficial search party. I can get you another DNA sample. If you cast a … spell of finding, then meet with us but go your own way, it’ll seem totally plausible when you find Hannah.”

  Ignoring the impulse to remind her — again — that we weren’t witches, I looked pointedly at Christopher. “That is thoughtful, setting up a foolproof cover for the use of magic around mundanes.”

  He curled his lips into a smile, but refused to engage.

  That was always the best way to deal with me when I got edgy, so I couldn’t fault him.

  The shifter glanced back and forth between us. “You’ll be there?”

  “We will,” Christopher said. “But we don’t need another sample. We have Paisley.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “Okay … I’d better get going.” Officer Raymond set down her all-but-untouched tea, plucking a cookie off the plate. “Thank you for the tea.” She glanced at me, completely earnest and polite.

  So Canadian.

  I nodded.

  Christopher escorted her to the front door. If she touched him when saying goodbye, there’d be nothing I could do about it. Nothing I should do about it. He was more than capable of moving out of her way if he wanted to.

  I nibbled on a ginger snap, lining up all my reasons against helping search for Hannah Stewart in my mind, readying my argument.

  Except I was having a difficult time not remembering her smile two days before when I’d gushed over the cardigan she’d set aside for me. Or the way she’d flinched when the bell over the door announced the arrival of her boyfriend. Or how he’d stunk of old beer, as if it was coming out of his pores from the evening before.

  Christopher was watching me from the doorway. I couldn’t remember all my reasons for not helping. Except that he was mine to protect and Hannah wasn’t.

  “Paisley and I will go without you,” he said. His tone was hard, irreproachable.

  As if to punctuate this statement, Paisley ate all the ginger snaps. Including swallowing the plate.

  “That’s a set,” I said mildly.

  She gently placed the plate back on the island counter with a flick of her forked blue tongue.

  “It would be easier with you,” Christopher said. “Quicker.”

  I picked up my tea, sipping it.

  “It will be okay, Socks,” he whispered. “I know you’re scared —”

  “I’m not scared.”

  He held his hands up but didn’t step any farther into the kitchen. “I meant scared for me. For the life you’re trying to build for us. But no matter how hard you try to blend in, dressing from the thrift shop, hiring locals to do the work here, or even going to the diner for lunch like a regular person, you know you don’t blend in. We don’t. Not even to mundane sight. But if we control the attention, we control the gossip. The story. We join the locals looking for Hannah and we find her. Then they’ll accept us as one of their own.”

  “That’s not your reasoning.”

  “No. It’s yours.”

  I swallowed a retort about not being so cold, so calculated. It was better that Christopher didn’t know I had other reasons for agreeing to join him. Emotional, irrational reasons. “What’s your plan. Using Paisley?”

  He nodded. “Starting at Hannah’s last known location, which I gathered from Jenni is the diner. Hannah had a shift last night, after working at the thrift store all day.”

  “Jenni?” I asked mockingly.

  Christopher ignored me. “Paisley will pick up Hannah’s trail.”

  “But it’s been raining. For weeks.” I was being completely snarky, verging on unreasonable. But I loathed being backed into a corner, whether by Christopher or by my own emotions.

  “Yes. So … at some point, I’ll see you finding the woman.”

  “Hannah,” I corrected softly, gazing at him. “Hannah Stewart.” Keying in on me more than he already perpetually did was a terrible idea.

  “Let me do this, Socks. I’ve … I want to stay. I want to plant the garden and paint the barn.”

  “I know.”

  “I want to grow flowers and herbs. Dahlias, roses, lavender. I want to cut a few every day and put them on your bedside table.”

  “I know, Christopher.”

  “I want to pick the apples and make sauce and pies.”

  “I know.” Tears spiked in my eyes. I struggled to deny them.

  “You’re tired of running. Tired of dragging me with you. We can make a home here. Let’s find Hannah.”

  “All right.”

  If we were quick, efficient, the fallout might not be too bad. We were isolated in this small town, so if my immediate future was going to haunt Christopher — more than it already did — we should at least be able to avoid the worst effects.

  “You’re going to need pants,” he said.

  “Screw you.”

  He laughed, turning into the hall. I listened to him jogging upstairs as I reached into the cookie jar for another ginger snap.

  Paisley head-butted me in the hip. Hard.

  I sighed, then handed her another cookie. She blinked up at me. A single tentacle snaked out from her currently otherwise invisible mane, delicately taking the ginger snap from me. Still pinning me with her red-eyed gaze, her massive maw opened, revealing a double row of sharply pointed teeth. Then she lavishly licked the cookie with her forked tongue.

  I laughed.

  Then I went upstairs to begrudgingly pull on dark jeans and day hikers. I slipped on a black Gore-Tex jacket. But I wore it over the cashmere cardigan that Hannah Stewart had found
for me.

  A small group of people were gathered on the corner of South Shore Drive and Lakeview Avenue. Officer Raymond and three others. They fell silent and watchful as Christopher, Paisley, and I arrived at five minutes after three o’clock. On foot, though it was raining lightly. I was assuming the search for Hannah Stewart would take us where I couldn’t drive, or wouldn’t want to.

  The diner on the corner was currently closed but still well lit. The interior was filled with red-vinyl booths arranged next to wide windows. Shiny metal stools topped by the same red vinyl ran along a laminate counter that bisected the restaurant.

  A painted sign declared it ‘The Home Cafe.’

  I’d been meaning to start going to the diner for lunch, once a week, to get the locals accustomed to my presence. But I’d found excuse after excuse to not do so — unpacking, overseeing a few deliveries, rain.

  I paused a few feet away from a dark-haired woman who was a couple of inches shorter than me, wearing worn jeans, a bright-green Gore-Tex jacket, and weatherproof hiking boots. I immediately picked up a muted energy from her, informing me that she had latent magic. But what kind, or whether she even knew she was magical, I had no idea.

  Her presence was somewhat disconcerting. Before I made the decision to buy the property, I’d been as thorough as possible without actually trespassing onto private property, carefully cataloging and assessing anyone in the area with magic in their blood. I’d visited Lake Cowichan three times, playing the tourist. My magical sensitivity should have been sharp enough to pick up the presence of any Adept. But I’d evidently missed one.

  A blond woman in her early forties smiled at us broadly, brushing her hands together as if she thought they might have been dusty. She then thrust one hand in my direction. “Melissa Wilson.”

  The former daughter-in-law of our neighbors to the west, Melissa had bought the diner with the proceeds of her divorce, going into business with her lover, now husband, but keeping the Wilson surname. And yes, her former mother-in-law had informed me of all that, along with the fact that Melissa had supposedly stolen her tuna casserole recipe, when she’d popped over to introduce herself the day we moved in.