by Tricia Owens
“Whatever this thing is that Mr. Tower wants me to kill,” I said, “it’s going after witches and warlocks.”
A blond head slowly rose from behind the counter. Elliott winced and then gave me a little wave as he stood up. “Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you knew I was here.”
“I appreciate that.” Keeping my tone casual, I added, “We’re all Specials, though, so I don’t need to hide this from you.”
Elliott gaped at Sheridan. “You told her?”
Sheridan patted the back of his hand. “She’d find out eventually, right? Better from one of us.”
He nodded, though he seemed unsure. “I’m sorry I had to lie to you, Arrow. I wasn’t sure how much I could trust you. I trust you now, of course,” he added quickly.
“But I’m a Special like you are. Why wouldn’t you trust me?” I asked.
Sheridan shook her head patiently. “Just because a group of us share the moniker of Special doesn’t mean we’re any kind of team.”
“We’re kind of the opposite of that.” Elliott grimaced. “Everyone’s out for themselves because of the big bounties. If a general job call goes out, it pretty much launches a competition among the Specials. And some of them are, well, really aggressive.”
“Do all the jobs involve killing someone or something?” I asked worriedly.
“Not always,” Sheridan replied, which wasn’t exactly the answer I had hoped for. “Everything Mr. Tower hires us to do is related to the hotel, either protecting its interests or pushing agendas that affect it. Everything related to this hotel matters to this city and to everyone who lives in it. The majority of them simply aren’t aware of it.”
“Because they’re being lied to.” I was both angry and excited. “Was that why Mr. Morrison hired me? Because he knew I’m a skeptic when it comes to the government?”
“It certainly helped.” Sheridan and Elliott exchanged a look.
“What?” I prompted. “What aren’t you telling me? What else did he know? It’s not like I can ask him anymore.”
Elliott frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Because he’s dead.” I watched them both and was relieved to see genuine shock from both of them. “I’m actually being framed for his murder, but I think he was killed by the same killer I’m hunting.”
“He wasn’t killed in here, was he?” Elliott asked, clearly nervous.
“Outside the building. The problem I’m facing is that his death doesn’t tie into the others. Unless he was a warlock who’d changed his surname?”
I looked hopefully to Sheridan, but she appeared uncertain.
“I wouldn’t know if he’d changed his name,” she admitted. “But I doubt he was a warlock. I was told by Mr. Tower that Mr. Morrison and he had studied together at Filkmore Academy. It would have been wiser, if he were a warlock, to have joined a coven. Their business contacts are far more beneficial.”
I thought so, too. So why had he been killed?
The phone rang. Sheridan answered it, her expression never changing.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’m sending security up to you right now. Please remain in your room with the door locked. Yes, ma’am.”
I couldn’t help looking a bit nervously to Elliott. Was I about to be given my first assignment as Head of Security?
Sheridan hung up and said, “You’re needed at room seven-oh-three, please. A guest is complaining about a noxious odor.”
I almost laughed. “Really? And she needs security for that?”
She smiled, but her gaze was intent. “You never know what you may find on this property.”
~~~~~
Before we headed up, I made a call to Ozium. Unfortunately, the hostess who answered informed me that Jasper was busy, so I’d been forced to leave a vague, but hopefully understandable message about the potential danger his fiancée was in. If I lost him as a friend after that, I wouldn’t be surprised. The message probably sounded insane to someone who wasn’t fully up to speed on current events.
As Elliott and I rode up to the seventh floor, my thoughts lingered on the sidewalk ward. Understanding its motivations might help me to understand the shadow killer’s.
“Why does the Sinistera not allow witches inside? And worse, why does the sidewalk kill them?”
Elliott, who had been studying the patterned carpet, raised his head. “It’s been so long since it tested me I guess I stopped thinking about it. It’s disturbing, isn’t it?”
“It’s very deliberate, which means that something about witches—and warlocks, too, I assume—present a danger to the hotel.”
I would have added that the shadow killer was targeting witches, also, but how could the two campaigns be related? Tower had hired me to stop the shadow, not to help it hunt down more witches.
“Someone told me that a long time ago the government ran a program for them. For witches, I mean.” Elliott colored slightly. “I don’t know if it was dumb gossip or not, but if it’s true...” He trailed off self-consciously.
“What kind of program?” I tried not to get too excited, but these days anything connected to the government seemed to be relevant in some way.
“I didn’t really understand it. It sounded like it had something to do with enhancing their ability to conjure. People are always accusing the government of making super soldiers, right? Maybe someone thought it would be funny to substitute super witches.”
“It’s not a joke,” I said quietly as I watched the floor numbers light up above door. “The seven freedom fighters from the war received magical enhancement of their DNA. Whatever the scientists did to them made them stronger, gave them super healing properties, and amplified their natural magical ability—all the advantages they’d need to fight off Dr. Febrero’s demons.”
I had inherited my grandmother’s natural healing factor through my father. My body activated an accelerated response to injuries and sickness. It wasn’t a magic pill. If I bled out I would die. Same if I fell off the top of a skyscraper. I wasn’t, by any means, immortal. That wasn’t true of my grandmother, however. Because the scientists had enhanced that healing factor in her, making it work overtime, death for her would come only with effort. She might survive that fall from the skyscraper, for instance.
Elliott stared at me with wonder. “I had no idea they’d done that. That’s, er, kind of scary if you think about it. They’re changing people with magic.”
“They’re making new types of people, which is scarier. It’s a good reason not to trust them, if that’s all you know of what they’ve done.”
I felt him eyeing me. “But you know more, don’t you?”
Could I trust him? He’d hid his status as a Special from me and acted as though he hadn’t known what Tower’s note had meant. He’d also pretended not to know who Morrison was. He could be a double-agent for the government or for Tower, who in turn could be a double-agent. For that matter, Wolfgang could be the ultimate double-agent. How far down that rabbit hole could I afford to fall? At some point I had to begin trusting people with my biggest secrets if I hoped to gain their help.
“My grandmother was one of the seven freedom fighters,” I told him as the elevator chimed to indicate we’d reached the seventh floor. The doors slid open, but neither of us got out. “Immediately following Dr. Febrero’s defeat, the surviving fighters were rounded up and administered suppressants and other drugs by the same scientists who’d enhanced them in the first place. This treatment, one of the steps in the so-called Clean Solution, was supposed to help their bodies transition to normal life so they wouldn’t be too powerful to rejoin society. The public would be afraid of them otherwise, or so the scientists had claimed.”
Elliott looked as though he were holding his breath. “What did the scientists do?”
“Destroyed the fighters’ memories of the war. Suppressed their powers and personalities. My grandmother, who had been a Master level Telepathic Projectionist, doesn’t know her own name most days, much less that she once sa
ved the world. And the only reason she’s like that is because the scientists screwed with her to make sure she could say nothing to the public and press about what really happened.”
“What really happened?” Elliott’s eyes were fit to burst from their sockets.
“I don’t know,” I admitted with a sigh that tasted of defeat. I couldn’t tell him about the photo of the demon because that might eventually lead back to Wolfgang and I wouldn’t betray him like that. “But something’s wrong. Otherwise why the cover up? Why destroy the minds of the heroes who helped us? The government insists that we should forget the war because they claim history will only inspire a repeat of events, but I think that’s a lie. They say to heal we must move on and not look back. I think they’re hiding something from us.” I paused, and then looked Elliott boldly in the eyes. “They’re hiding a man.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Assuming he was still alive. That part was troubling. Fifteen years had passed since the final battle. Time would erase the last of the government’s secrets if I didn’t piece the puzzle together soon.
“That’s crazy. I mean, it’s not crazy! You’re not!” Elliott floundered helplessly. “I believe you, Arrow. But how do we find out more?”
I couldn’t help smiling at his use of ‘we.’ “I don’t know, Elliott, but I’m going to keep my eyes and ears open. The truth is out there. Somewhere.”
“I’ll help you if you can tell me how.”
I wanted to hug him. “I don’t know that I’d want to involve you in it. If people were killed for knowing too much…”
“I don’t think I have a choice, Arrow. If the scientists could do something like that to important and famous people like the freedom fighters, what would stop them from doing that or worse to plain old me? Especially since—especially since I’m a criminal. Technically.”
The elevator dinged again, but neither of us made a move to exit the car.
“So you’re like me,” I said lightly. “I’ve been framed for the murder of Mr. Morrison and I’m also probably wanted for using IMT without a certificate.”
“Oh, that’s bad,” Elliott said, so solemnly it made me laugh. He smiled, too, and I could tell he’d needed the release of tension. He rubbed the back of his neck. “My crime is different. I did something terrible to a cohab.”
He fiddled with a button on his shirt, unable to look me in the eyes as he spoke. “He was a canine shifter named Shawn. He was the friend of a friend. I hadn’t met him before that night. The three of us were out, looking for something to do. We were already drunk…super drunk. We should’ve holed up somewhere and crashed but, well, we just didn’t. God, how I wish we had.”
Elliott’s sigh was thick with regret for a choice that had irrevocably changed his life.
“We were walking downtown and my friend saw the light rail. He thought it would be funny to see if Shawn could outrace the railcar. Shawn was a greyhound shifter, you see, so it made sense that he’d be fast. That he could race…”
Elliott shut his eyes briefly. His forehead was shiny with sweat. I thought about telling him to stop, that I didn’t need to know. But when he opened his eyes I realized he needed to tell this story for his own sake.
“Shawn got down beside the rail, waiting for the train to approach. My friend and I stood apart a bit, laughing because this guy was on all fours and the thought of him shifting into a greyhound sounded so funny.
“The train came along, and Shawn did it—he shifted into a dog and he ran. I remember being so amazed by how fast he was. I thought he really might beat the train. They were head to head and then all of a sudden Shawn began pulling ahead. I couldn’t believe it. He reached the next intersection first. He was so happy. Just like a dog. He jumped around in the middle of the street to celebrate. My friend and I were laughing so hard at this drunk greyhound flipping out. We cheered for him because he’d won, right? That was all. We were rooting for him.”
Elliott choked and coughed, then continued in a dull voice. “I didn’t think twice about whistling. It was supposed to be a regular whistle, but I was drunk and an idiot and I don’t even know what I whistled but—it affected Shawn. His dog, I mean. I saw it stumble and then run forward a-ways, like it had lost all sense of direction…”
He looked at me bleakly. “He ran right in front of the railcar. I don’t have nightmares about it hitting him because there wasn’t much to see. One moment he was there, the next…he was gone.”
I put my hand on his arm. “It was an accident. I bet you didn’t even know you could affect cohabs like that. I definitely didn’t.”
He nodded, but he still looked stricken. “I had no idea. The police said that it was because he’d been in his animal form, that as an Animalia Medium I should have known I would affect him. But they never taught us that in school. It isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Shawn was drunk. He probably lost control and stumbled.”
“They said it was because I whistled,” Elliott murmured dazedly. “They said I shouldn’t have whistled.”
He seemed lost in the past, maybe trapped in it, so I touched his shoulder.
He blinked as if revived and then attempted a bright smile. It was pretty miserable. “I was charged with involuntary manslaughter, but the judge wanted to make an example of me. He was going to send me to jail for eight years, Arrow. Eight years! But then…Mr. Morrison showed up and he did something—I don’t know what—and I got off with probation and community service. He offered me this job and I knew better than to refuse. I owed him. If the government ever decides to do something about its criminal element, like drug them until they’re no longer a threat, I’ll be on that list, Arrow. So if you need help, count me in.”
He meant it sincerely, so I treated his offer seriously. “I will.”
His smile firmed up just as the elevator chimed again.
“We should probably leave this thing sometime before our shift ends,” I said.
“Oh, yeah! Ha-ha.”
We exited the elevator and Elliott led the way. The floors that we’d inspected yesterday had been mostly silent, with the occasional murmur behind closed doors or the shutting of a door around a corner. I’d gotten the distinct impression that many eyes had been pressed to peepholes, checking us out as we passed. This floor wasn’t any different.
Elliott finally drew us to a stop. “Here we are.”
I took an experimental sniff though I already had my answer. “I don’t smell a thing. Do you?”
Elliott passed a couple of doors ahead then came back. He looked as confused as I felt. “I smell Mr. Tower’s usual floor scenting, but that’s it. Nothing worth calling down to the Front Desk about.”
I turned to door 703 and raised my hand to knock. “Let’s find out what the problem is.”
The air crackled. I paused with my knuckles inches from the wood, feeling the hairs on my arms rising off my skin.
“Calia, don’t!” Elliott yelled.
I jumped backward just as a bolt of blue-white lightning cracked against the door knob, spidering black through the wood around the metal. I spun to confront the young woman I’d seen in the café, the room service attendant according to Elliott. She stalked down the center of the hallway, stiletto pumps sinking into the carpet. The silver sigils on her thighs began to glow. I pulled out one of my meddled guns.
“Stop,” I ordered. “Don’t make me shoot you. It’ll be bad for employee morale.”
“Funny,” she said before cracking the pink bubblegum in her mouth. “It’s even funnier that you think anyone’s going to know or care that I fried you.” She raised her hand, thumb and middle finger pressed together. “Head of Security is a bad job, sweetie pie. No one lasts in that position for long.”
“Are you the one who called us up here?” I asked.
She grinned. “Sheridan’s got a terrible ear for voices.”
She snapped her fingers.
I felt the tension
and sizzle in the air and somersaulted forward. A white bolt struck the carpet where I’d just stood, burning a black sphere in the floor. The violent crack of it striking the carpet sounded like the snap of a bullwhip.
As I regained my feet, I heard Calia bark, “Elliott, back off!”
“You can’t kill her, Calia!”
“Elliott, listen to her,” I said firmly. He was an Animalia Medium. He was defenseless in this battle.
Calia grinned at me. “Yeah, pretty boy. This game is for the ladies.”
Another snap of her fingers sent me diving into the wall. Not fast enough. Electric pain shot up my leg from where her bolt had caught me on the boot heel. Along with the stabbing, burning pain was the horrible sensation of the muscles in that leg jerking taut as a wire. It was if the entire limb had turned to wood.
As I backed away, I stomped my foot on the floor to loosen it up. An excruciating pins and needles sensation wracked that leg, but within seconds I could bend it at the knee again.
“Can’t fight electricity, sweetie,” Calia cooed as she advanced.
“Oh, yes, I can,” I growled.
I aimed a gun at her face and fired.
The bullet that sped toward her exploded at the last minute into a wire web that wrapped around her upper body. It was magnetized and stuck to itself to cinch tightly. Calia cursed and stumbled backward, her arms trapped awkwardly against her body by the netting. I fired a second net that overlapped the first, binding her in more twisted metal cords. She lost her balance and fell sideways to one knee.
“Oh, no,” she said, looking up at me with wide eyes, “you’ve got me. Whatever will you do with me?”
I frowned as I cautiously approached her, not liking the mocking tone of her voice. “I can meddle those nets into razor wire if you’d prefer.”
“Wouldn’t make a difference.” She grinned up at me as the silver tattoos on her legs suddenly glowed. The nets burst off her body, nearly striking me in the face. I berated myself for not realizing her power could reverse and repel the magnets in the nets. “I’m an Electro-Magnetist,” she said smugly. “Never try to use polarity against me. That’s my turf.”