by Jackie May
“There, that’s it,” Hillerman says to me. “I’m filing for an extension.”
“No go,” I protest. “He didn’t give up any intel, and we care shit about Tabitha Durran, anyway. It’s the necro we’re after.”
“The necro!” Arael blurts. “Nobody knows who it is. Some dandy, if you ask me. The only way to meet him is to get invited to secret masquerades, strictly black tie. Do I seem like that type? Of course I didn’t go.”
“But you got invited?” Hillerman asks.
A thought strikes Arael. “The invite. A plain black card with an illustration of a white government building.”
Hillerman spins on me. “Extension!”
“Call her off,” Arael says.
I scoff. “Call her off? May I remind you all that the revenants out there are the same bastards who killed Nora’s mother? I’m sorry for bringing it up, Miss Jacobs, but this is what you’ve been waiting for. Go on, give us a note.”
Arael rages. “I’ve given you something! Follow it up. A black card with a white government building. You find that building, you find your necromancer.”
Hillerman steps between Arael and me, as though to buy him a few more seconds. “Why do you say it’s a government building?”
“Because the style. The fancy pillars, the white steps. And Latin! Latin writing at the top.”
“How’d you get this invite?”
“Beyona gave it to me, and I tossed it out. I don’t know anything else. I was planning a war! Do you think I cared two brown shits about waltzing at a society ball?”
“No, I don’t,” Hillerman says. She regards me with a question mark.
Now it’s my turn to say: “Just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, let’s see, maybe just the fact that he’s a demon. Lying is their preferred language. I’d sooner trust a Magic 8-Ball.”
And now it’s Hillerman’s turn to press the button on her walkie. “Send him in.”
Once again, the bulkhead door whines open. I see an immaculate man dressed all in white, complete with a fedora tipped slightly to the side and, I kid you not, a fashionable cape over one shoulder. It’s Theo Coltrane, the Cleveland master. I can practically hear Darla and Ren tittering from the Agency two hundred miles away. Keeping a healthy coven must be a snap for Coltrane. Who needs compulsion when you’re stylish, rich, and strikingly handsome?
“This is your ‘stronger method?’”
“This is our verification process,” Hillerman says.
Arael leers at me. “More hypocrisy.”
Before Hillerman can ask me what he means by that, I say, “Fey elixirs and vampire mind reading? For an agency hell-bent on shackling the underworld, the UTF seems a little too eager to use our powers.”
Hillerman adjusts her librarian glasses and says in a perfect deadpan, “Well, I’m fresh out of Magic 8-Balls.”
“But you’ve got a master vampire. What are we doing here? How come you don’t know every single thing in Arael’s mind by now?”
“It’s not that simple. Humans aren’t equipped to resist when compelled, but underworlders have built-in defenses. Your underworld current creates resistance, like radio interference. Besides that, until recently Arael was too weak. Pressing too deep into his mind could have killed him.”
“Would have killed him,” Coltrane says. His voice is velvet. “I’ve had to tread lightly.”
“Even still, you got nothing?”
Coltrane smiles, as though I amuse him. “Not nothing. We got the yellow house.”
“That’s how we knew Beyona might be there,” Hillerman adds.
I flip into full sarcasm mode. “Ah, the yellow house, good times. You mean the sting operation I set up, at great risk to me and my friends, in which you and your team of heavily-armed Navy SEALs ditched out to chase after the harpy, leaving me with nothing but a well-dressed socialite and a human to take down a rampaging ogre?”
Hillerman places her hands on her hips. “Divide and conquer.”
“From what I hear,” Coltrane says, “the ogre got the raw end of that deal.”
I count on my fingers. “Number one, that’s not the point, but number two, you’re absolutely right, and number three, I like you already.”
Coltrane flashes a beautiful smile of perfect teeth. “We meet again.”
“We’ve met before?”
“We saw each other at the Double-D a few nights ago.”
My face heats up. “Right. I saw you, of course, but I didn’t think…I mean, it was so busy that night.”
“It’s never too busy,” he says with a sparkle in his eye, and then, as if to demonstrate, he extends a hand to Cafeteria Girl. “Miss Jacobs. Always a pleasure.” When he kisses the top of her hand, Cafeteria Girl nearly swoons.
Hillerman clears her throat. “If you would, Mr. Coltrane.”
A fleeting dark cloud passes over his face, gone just as quickly as it came. He squares his shoulders and resumes his charming smile, albeit forced, for Hillerman. “All work and no play, as always, Agent Hillerman.”
“We’re looking for verification of a particular image.”
“An image of what?” he asks.
“You’ll know it when you see it. Won’t he, Arael? If there’s any resistance—if Mr. Coltrane doesn’t describe exactly what you told us—then I turn you over to Miss Jacobs and the FUA.”
Through clenched teeth, the demon master mutters, “Someday, Charlotte Hayes, it will be you under the spotlight, for all your friends to see plainly. What then?”
“Then nothing, Arael. I don’t have any friends.”
To my embarrassment, her remark stings a little. Thank goodness I’m not the one Theo Coltrane is about to expose.
The master vampire gently places his palm on Arael’s temple. After a moment of concentration, he says, “Special Agent Hillerman, if you’re looking for an image of yourself being picked apart by a giant crow, it’s here in vivid detail.”
I shudder. Hillerman seems unfazed. “Go deeper. Arael, I’m giving you ten seconds.”
Arael curses under his breath, and then Coletrane nods. “Ah, here it is. A business card of sorts? All black, no contact info. Just a logo of a white building. Obvious neoclassical architecture, like a state capitol building. White marble columns, a dome on top.”
“No writing?” Hillerman presses.
“An inscription. Looks like Latin, but it’s not very clear. His memory is spotty.”
“Because I took one look at the card and tossed it,” Arael growls. “If you want more details, Agent Hillerman, why don’t you try asking Beyona the next time she drops in?”
“I’m counting on it. Agent Davies, does a building of that description ring any bells?”
“Sure. Neoclassical architecture simply abounds in Detroit, don’t you know?”
“Did you know what neoclassical architecture was until just now?”
“Oh, not a damn clue. But I still could have told you that old-ass buildings cover the shit out of downtown.”
Coletrane smiles. “Elegantly said.”
“So, we’re done with Cafeteria Girl? I’m sorry, what was your name? Monica? No, Mindy.”
“Mandy.”
“Report back to your post,” Hillerman orders.
Cafeteria Girl lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. I really can’t sing to save my life.”
A strangled groan brings our attention to Arael Moaz, who glares at me with unrestrained hatred. His face is turning red. The veins in his neck bulge.
I turn to Coletrane with exaggerated bravado. “Well, I don’t think it takes a vampire to read that thought, does it?”
Coletrane tips his hat to me. “Badass.”
I make an astonished face at Hillerman—that totally worked did you hear that he just called me badass!
She only sighs and walks away.
From the front steps of the Old Wayne County building, I spot Jay’s car three blocks down, turning onto Rando
lph Street. “There they are.”
“We shouldn’t stand out here in the open,” Hillerman says.
She’s right, but I can’t help it. I’m too eager to see Jay, to watch him get closer and closer, until he has arrived at the safest place he could ever find in this world, which is by my side. I may be one of the lowest shifters on the food chain, but I can’t help but feel that, somehow, not even Nick Gorgeous could protect Brenner better than I can. It’s a strange kind of pride, to feel so protective of somebody besides myself.
Speaking of Nick Gorgeous, a text from him pulls my gaze from the car.
Nick: Take the next few days off. Not a request.
“What the hell?”
“What is it?” Hillerman asks.
“Nick Gorgeous. He just ordered me to take time off.”
“Something happened.”
I peck rapidly on my phone.
Me: What happened?
Nick: Find somewhere with protective wards. Stick your head in the sand.
Me: Is this about last night?
Nick: Your welcome, btw. Hope you like your man meat well done.
My heart stops. What the hell’s he mean by that?
“Shit,” Hillerman hisses. She hurries down the steps.
I look up from my phone and gasp at the sight of Jay’s car as it pulls up. The entire back end is charred black, and the windows are blown out. When Jay steps onto the curb, he matches the car. One side of his face is red and black. His clothes are torn. Lips bleeding. He winces in pain with every little movement. Russo slams the passenger door. “Car bomb,” he says. “Parked right behind us at the crime scene.”
Hillerman pulls her firearm. “Get him inside. Were you followed?”
“Maroon El Camino. See ’em there?”
One block down, an El Camino—the same maroon El Camino that chased us out of East Side last year—slows to a crawl as it turns a corner. Three huge guys are packed in the front seat, glaring at us. Hanging out the passenger window is that hairy bear of a man—the silverback wolf. Grinning, he makes a gun of his fingers and points it at Jay.
I feel paralyzed. I haven’t moved—haven’t breathed—since Jay pulled up. I want to throw my arms around his neck, but that would hurt him. I want to run after those East Side maniacs, tear their throats out, but my feet are rooted to the spot. The silverback has spotted me. His jeering smile gives way to bared teeth. I feel his growl in my bones, and I’m forced to look down in submission.
Tears of frustration are wrung from my eyes. In my heart, I feel that I’m not afraid of him, but my underworld instinct—the fox biology in my nervous system—completely overrides my senses with a flight instinct. I’m useless.
The El Camino turns the corner, out of sight, but not out of mind. Never again out of mind, not until I catch that silverback bastard and put a silver bullet in his brain. I vow it.
Jay’s arm snakes around my waist. He crushes me to him.
“Careful, you’re hurt, you’re…toasted.” Tenderly, I touch the bright red swells on his neck. I wipe black soot from his face.
“Not to alarm you,” Russo says heartily, “but he should be dead.”
I swipe at him. “Yes, Russo, that does alarm me, you asshat. How can you be smiling right now?”
“Because, this is Brenner we’re talking about. He has what can only be described as a supernatural tolerance for pain. You would not believe the beatings I’ve seen this man take. Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you that Jay Brenner simply cannot be killed!”
I nearly choke on the glut of gypsy superstition that suddenly lodges in my throat. “Are you insane? Go find some hard wood and knock your fat head against it!”
“All right,” Jay murmurs against my forehead. He squeezes me gently. “All right.”
“We can’t stay in the open,” Hillerman reminds us.
Russo follows her up the marble steps. With awe, he says, “Special Agent Charlotte Hayes. I’m still not over it.”
“Only my friends call me Charlotte.”
“Oh, but I thought you didn’t have any friends,” I quip.
“Exactly.”
Russo claps his hands together with a chuckle. “Keeping your distance, I get it. I not only get it, but I need it. If you don’t keep me at a distance, there’s no telling how close we’ll get, because I got no brakes when it comes to you.”
Hillerman whirls on him with a death stare. Russo stops, and even though he’s two steps below her, their faces are nearly level with each other. He meets her dagger eyes with an easy calm. “No disrespect intended. What I meant to say is, what should I call you?”
Her voice is ice cold. “You shouldn’t.”
I cringe, but for some reason mysterious to me, Russo responds to her rejection with a serene smile. When Hillerman stomps inside, he follows her.
“Your partner has a death wish,” I say to Jay.
He’s grinning. “You have no idea. He wouldn’t shut up about her all morning.”
“Really? C’mon…for her?”
“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen him like this. I think he might be…”
“Shut up, he is not.”
He looks deep into my eyes. “You think I don’t know what it looks like?”
His emerald eyes twinkle through his pain, like the last rays of an afternoon sun lighting the bottoms of storm clouds. Shimmering snowflakes drift between our faces. Some of them melt right there in the heat of our breath. I raise to my tiptoes and kiss him. “You sure you’re all right?”
He grunts. “Don’t worry, it feels much worse than it looks. I…” He stops short.
“What?”
“The car bomb was close, Shayne. I mean, just a few feet away.”
“I don’t understand. Then how are you…”
“How am I still here? Because of Nick Gorgeous. He was working the scene for the Agency. He saw guys running away from the car, knew something was up. He threw himself in front of me just in time. You know Gorgeous. For him, this was nothing. He barely felt it.”
Okay, scratch that part about me being able to protect Jay better than Nick Gorgeous. If I had jumped in front of that bomb, both Jay and I would be dead. A heaviness falls over us.
“I thanked him, of course,” Jay continues. “But he seemed…I don’t know, annoyed.”
“Well, yeah, he’d just been blown up.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he agrees with everyone else in the underworld, except you, and wishes I’d just go back to the kids’ table already.”
He starts us up the stairs. I pull away. “You go on. I have to call in.”
I don’t call in. I decide to text instead. At first, I start in with a long-winded gush full of superlatives. I don’t like it. Doesn’t sound right to me. But saying thank you to Nick Gorgeous is not me, so how’s it supposed to sound? I delete the long message. Maybe for me, being brief is like the ultimate superlative. So I send: Gorgeous…I owe you.
And, naturally, my rare moment of genuine emotional communication is met with a slap in the face.
Nick: Take my advice, Shayne. Cut him loose, and now. Send him as far from Detroit as possible.
I stare at the phone, not caring that snowflakes are melting on the screen. After those tantalizing blinking dots, a final note pops in.
Nick: For both your sakes.
I want to throw the phone as far as I can. I want to crush it to bits and stomp on it. I quickly peck out an entire line of middle finger emojis.
I don’t send it. After working with him these last few months, I’ve learned that Nick is not nearly as gruff as he pretends to be. He’s not trying to bust my chops. He’s only trying to help, in his tough-love way. Silence would be the mature response.
Meh. I go ahead and send the middle fingers.
The Old Wayne County building is a hundred and twenty years old. Although some fancy investment company spent millions restoring it a few years ago, the building is still vacant. There’s definitely no secret masquerade
going on. We walk empty corridors of marble and stone, our voices booming.
“It looks the part,” Jay says. “Marble columns and steps out front. That old government building look—what did he call it, Shayne?”
“Shit, don’t ask me.”
“Neoclassic,” Hillerman says. “But there’s not really a dome on the roof. It’s a tower.”
Russo’s deep voice sounds godlike in these marble chambers. “And no Latin inscriptions.”
“I’m telling you, I know every major building in this city,” I say. “Me and Hillerman already checked half a dozen others. This one’s as close as it gets to the description.”
Hillerman holds her thumb and forefinger up, a few inches apart. “The invitation is the size of a business card. The building couldn’t have had much detail. More like a logo. Could be it’s not literal at all.”
Brenner leans against a marble column. “Like maybe it just stands for something?”
“Power,” Russo guesses. “Or government. The ruling class. Extreme wealth.”
I trade looks with Jay and Hillerman. Russo just perfectly described the sorcerer community. Makes sense for a secret society of necromancers to use such a symbol.
Hillerman sounds grim when she says, “Could be the Latin inscription is the key.”
“Great, the one thing our snitch couldn’t remember,” I say. “We’re right back to square one.” I look around for something to kick, but the building is empty. Not even a wastebasket. I pull one of my Converses off and chuck it down the hall. “We have to go back to Arael and press him harder. Squeeze the hell out of him.”
“If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember,” Hillerman says quietly.
Her calmness pisses me off. “Then, what? We just never go outside again? Hide behind magic wards forever? Get used to worrying that every time we step out the front door, somebody’s going to try to blow up my boyfriend?”
Jay corrects me. “Fiancé.”
A full-on canine growl escapes my throat. Tearing my other shoe off, I send it spiraling at the wall next to his head. “And you! Why didn’t you notice those guys parking right behind you? We know East Side likes car bombs. They pulled that shit on us last time. Be smarter!”