by Jackie May
“I thought you hated Hillerman,” she interrupts.
“Yeah, I do, but she’s…useful. And now I’m sure she’ll be taken off the case.”
“It’s already done. Hillerman’s been called back to Washington, reassigned to a desk job, effective immediately.”
My throat tightens again. For Hillerman, this is a fate worse than death. And I don’t care so much that she’ll blame me. I just…I don’t know, I guess what I’m feeling is that I might, maybe, have something close to a negative-like feeling if I never see her again.
“Unsurprisingly, Washington is having a severe reaction to all this. All kinds of new oversight will be the natural result, I’m sure. Tightening our leash. They’re already insisting that I keep a bodyguard around the clock. Security’s not just going to be tight, it’s going to be a choke hold.”
“Great. The office will be hell for everybody, and it’s all my fault.”
“You know, if any of us needs a bodyguard, it might be you, Shayne. Do you think anybody at the masquerade might have recognized you?”
My mind flashes to the image of me sitting at the poker table without a mask on, announcing my name to the entire place before putting them all under arrest. “Um…yeah, it’s safe to say I was made.”
Director West stares down at the beer in her hand. “Shayne, I wonder if I could trust you to discuss a delicate matter with me? It couldn’t ever leave this room.”
“That’s fine. It sounds like I shouldn’t ever leave this room, either.”
“It would be safer.”
“I’m not getting a bodyguard.”
“I don’t blame you.”
I slump back into my seat, pulling the blanket tighter around my neck. “I’m not really the delicate subject type, you know. I don’t see why you’d tell me.”
“A couple reasons, one of which is simple: you were at a secret meeting, and I am wondering if you might have seen a certain individual there. The second reason is that this individual creates a certain complication—for me—in a way that you, given what has happened tonight, might understand.”
“I don’t even understand anything you just said, so I don’t think I’ll be much help.”
“Do you remember back to the Christmas party at the Pauls’, when King Paul addressed me directly? He said something very…specific.”
I’m surprised to find that I do remember that moment. I mean, I don’t remember the words, but he looked right into West’s eyes and said something that made others in the crowd murmur as if it were significant. “I don’t remember what he said. Sorry.”
“He said, ‘The Agency giveth, and the Agency taketh away.’”
“Okay, yeah. Something like that.”
“Not like that. Exactly that. I know, because I had heard those words before. Many of us at that party had. Those were the last words of Marco Deus, right before I killed him in front of our friends and colleagues.”
The name sparks in my brain. “Marco Deus? Wait, that’s a name? I thought it was Latin for something.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“At Elmwood Cemetery. There was a Latin inscription. Something-something-Marco-Deus.”
She stands suddenly, setting the beer down too hard on the desk. “His mausoleum.”
“Right. We went inside. That’s how we got the deets for the secret meeting.”
“Inside. There was a coffin.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And…it was empty. Are you telling me it shouldn’t have been?”
“I told you, I killed Marco Deus. I laid him to rest in that coffin with my own hands.”
The whole story clicks into place. “Oh. Marco Deus was…he was your…”
“My husband,” she finishes, then sits down. “I’m sure you heard something about it.”
“Maybe, yeah, but…” I close my mouth.
“But?”
“I wasn’t told why. What did he do?”
Her chin raises an inch, as if steeling herself against whatever truth she’s about to reveal. “He was a necromancer. Or, I suppose we have to admit now, he is a necromancer. Somehow, somebody has found a way to bring him back.”
Instantly, a face materializes from my memory. “Middle-aged, good-looking? Salt-and-pepper in his beard? He was…I don’t know, like, a gentleman.”
Director West’s eyes shine with emotion. “So he was there. You saw him.”
“I can tell you something else. He couldn’t have been brought back. I mean through necromancy. He’s not a revenant.”
“How do you know?”
“His eyes were normal. No cataracts. He has to be something else—an illusion, or a dopplegänger, some sort of powerful glamour, I don’t know.”
That gives her a lot to think about, apparently, because the debriefing is suddenly over. Turning her chair away from me, she says softly, “You’re probably tired, Shayne. We can finish this later.”
I don’t want to go. I sit there for a while, just listening to the silence. When she clears her throat, I trudge out of the office. With that obligation over, I’m given no other alternative but to face the inevitable. I take a bus, then a taxi. During both, I am able to hold myself together with the help of my blanket wrapped tightly under my chin. But when the taxi drives off, leaving me alone in front of the house, I feel a huge swell building in my chest. Hurrying inside, I close the front door, sink down to the wood floor, and pull the blanket over my head to keep from seeing the familiar walls, the stairs, the holes in the ceiling. It’s no good, because I can still smell. I can’t describe the smell, except to say that it’s the smell of Jay’s house. Every house has a unique scent, and this one’s his. It was becoming mine, too, but it will always have been his first.
I cry for a long time, even though I’ve long since run out of tears. My body’s dehydrated, shouting at me to shift. My fox will be able to calm down and see to my needs. But I deny the request. As painful as it is, this pain belongs to Jay. It’s all I have of his right now.
Well, that’s not exactly true, as I am reminded with the sound of high-pitched whining and a soft, rhythmic thumping on the floor. Lifting the blanket an inch, I peek out to see that black beastie—the Labradoodle—lying down, his head resting on the floor between his paws, eyes big and sad. The thumping is his tail, flopping to one side, then the other.
I pull the blanket shut again. “He’s not here. Go away!”
There’s a soft sound, like something dragging or sliding, but in short bursts. It’s Muppet, crawling on his belly inch-by-inch toward me. I listen to him stop and listen, then advance another few inches, then stop and listen—no doubt waiting for me to lash out at him, or rear up like a monster. I hold my breath, bracing for something; I don’t know what. Finally, after a few whole minutes listening to this tortured army crawl, I feel the weight of his head set down gently on my foot. He relaxes, blowing out a breath of relief.
I match him, releasing a long-held breath, surprised to feel not entirely ungrateful for his company.
And that’s how we stay until sleep takes me.
I start awake when Muppet suddenly jumps to his feet and backs away, tilting his head to watch the front door closely. Loud knocking shakes the door against my back.
Russo’s booming voice calls out. “Shayne? Please tell me you’re in there.”
I really don’t want to see anybody right now, but if I have to, then I’m glad it’s Russo. “Why are you not at the hospital?”
After blowing out a relieved breath, he chuckles. “Are you kidding? That place was more dangerous than the Grande Ballroom. A wounded cop with an ass like mine in those skimpy hospital gowns? Every nurse there wanted to take me home for extended bed rest.”
Bitterness grips my heart. “Do yourself a favor, Russo. Go on back there. Get as many of their phone numbers as you can. The old Russo would have.”
His laugh turns nervous. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Really, Mr.
Two-Amy’s-At-The-Same-Time?”
“Wow, okay then.”
“Save yourself, Russo. Hillerman’s gone, and she won’t be back.”
He begins knocking again. “All right, how about we not do this through the door, Shayne? Open up.”
Using the door handle, I pull myself up. “I’m serious, Russo. Lock up your heart and throw away the key. People tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen, and now look—” My voice cuts off when I open the door to see Agent Hillerman standing right next to Russo.
She levels a flat look at me. “I didn’t think you’d open if you knew I was here.”
I don’t have an answer for that. My feelings are so complicated right now. I’m happy to see both of them—yes, even Hillerman. At the same time, having the three of us together only emphasizes the one glaring absence from our party. We’re supposed to be four, not three.
Thankfully, Russo didn’t break out of the hospital in his skimpy gown. He’s fully dressed. With each movement—even with each breath—he winces in pain. Muppet wags his tail, wanting to jump at him, but Russo holds him at bay with a scratch on the head. “Sorry, boy-o. No wrestling for me just yet.”
“How are you even on your feet right now?” I ask.
“Surgeries went well. No vital organs hit. A few aspirin. I’m good to go.”
His casual response doesn’t surprise me. Jay would have said the exact same thing. I look to Hillerman. “And you. Director West told me you were reassigned. They’re pulling you back to Washington.”
“That’s what I was told, too,” she says. “So I quit.”
“You…what?”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, I guess quit isn’t the right word, since UTF agents aren’t allowed to quit. We know too much for the government to let us go back into the wild. I guess that means I’ve gone rogue.”
“Love it. So much hotter than quitting,” Russo mutters.
“Rogue? You mean, like, people are going to be after you?”
Hillerman tosses her head. “They can get in line.”
Russo laughs grimly. “Right? Don’t look so surprised, Shayne. You’re acting like you thought this was over.”
“It’s not? No, I mean, I know it’s not, but…what if Jay’s already…how do we know they haven’t…” I can’t say the words. My emotions run wild, tying my thoughts and fast-flowing words into knots. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate…you have no idea how glad I am to see you guys right now”—I gesture to Hillerman—“yes, even you. But we had our chance last night. That was it. Hillerman, you’ve been working this case for how long—how many years now?—and it all led to the Grande Ballroom. That’s not happening again, so what do we…how the hell do we find them again? What are we supposed to do? We don’t have years anymore. We have, what, days? Hours? We don’t know!”
“You’re right,” Hillerman says in her sharp, clipped way. “We don’t know how much time. Maybe we don’t have much. But there is one thing we do have.”
Russo cocks one brow. “We have help.”
There’s a knock at the door before Elle bursts in and rushes straight into my arms. She’s so short, the top of her head fits snugly beneath my chin. “Shayne, you…why would you…how come you didn’t…”
“Breathe, Elle.”
She huffs. “You stayed here all night, alone?”
“It’s fine. It’s safe here.”
She scoffs with a grunt of frustration. “I’m not talking about being safe. I’m talking about being alone, which you are not.” Pushing me out to arm’s length, she pins me with a fierce look. “Any hour, day or night, rain or shine. I’m the first call you make.”
The weight on my heart eases a bit. “I know, Elle.”
She frowns. “You know, Elle, and…what?”
“And I promise I will next time.”
“Good, except there won’t be a next time, because we’re not leaving you until this is over.”
I shoot hesitant looks at Russo and Hillerman. “We’re not?”
Elle shoos my concern away with a flip of the hand. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but I had to lift the wards on this place. For our guests.”
Through the open doorway come two familiar faces—Rook and Wulf Winters. They both nod and say in unison, “Shayne.”
“Hey, guys.” It sounds lame and anticlimactic, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m shocked to have two powerful wolves standing in my living room, supposedly here to help. To help me—not of their clan, not of their status.
Rook takes my shock to the next level when he slightly bows his head to me. “This is your territory, Shayne. We won’t intrude any further without your express permission.”
My jaw drops. “My…what? Me?” Elle bumps me with her hip, knocking sense back into my words. “Yes! Yes, of course, come in.”
Wulf grins from ear to ear. “Good, but I think you should know, we brought a plus one.”
“The runt of the litter,” Rook jokes, “but we’ll take all the help we can get.”
In his red-checked shirt, the sleeves characteristically rolled up, Nolan steps out from behind the Winters brothers, looking very hesitant to see me. He mutters. “I understand if I’m not welcome here. If it’s inappropriate—”
I fly at him. Caught off guard, he flinches, maybe expecting an attack, but all I’ve got for him is a fierce embrace, clutching at him as though my whole family could somehow feel it through him—Mom and Dad, my sister, my Little Bunica. I’ve got so much to thank Nolan for, to discuss with him about our stupid past, so much I didn’t know or was too oblivious to understand. Now’s not the time. I’m just so happy he’s here, which is a feeling I thought might never return.
His voice is thick with emotion. “I’m here, Shayne. I’m here. For whatever that’s worth.”
“A lot, Nolan. Everything. I can’t believe you’d come here. The others can’t know, I’m sure. Ben?”
“No, they don’t know. And it has to stay that way. Ben…is Ben. He meant what he said, and he can’t take it back. If he knew I was here, he’d challenge us both.”
“I’m sorry. I…I never meant for any of this.”
I shush when he wipes a tear from my cheek. “One thing at a time. Right now, all we care about is getting Jay back.”
My heart pounds with nervous energy. A flutter of mixed emotions. Renewed hope and energy, but also dread of the unknown. What if it’s already too late?
Oliver Harrington’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Room for more?” he says as he comes in, followed by Deputy Director Parker Reed in one of his crisp suits. Then, ducking under the top of the doorway, Terrance the troll muscles his way through the crowd, giving me a playful shoulder bump as he passes. Russo, in awe of Terrance’s bulk, moves beside him and mimics his stance to compare. Terrance has him beat by a half foot in both height and width. Russo raises his chin, trying to stand a little taller. Annoyed, Terrance scoots away.
As I’m reeling from the shock of these unexpected visitors, I realize a man is standing right at my elbow. I whirl, startled half to death. He’s some kind of fey, I know that much from his wicked-but-gorgeous grin. Sharpening a fingernail with the point of a gleaming dagger, he says, “Right now you’re thinking, How long has Illren been standing there? And Illren’s answer is yes.”
Illren? The Illren? Personal bodyguard of Nora Jacobs? I don’t answer him, and not only because I’m now scared, but because the hits just keep on coming: beside this dangerous assassin is, of all people, Ren. Ren from the office. He waggles his fingers at me. I half-waggle mine back.
Next to him is a charming face I don’t know. He’s blond, with dimpled cheeks and astonishing pink eyes. With an angelic smile, he wraps me in a warm hug. “I’m Charlie.”
He holds me, rubbing my back tenderly, even though I’m not making any sign of reciprocating, because, um, who the hell is this? Oh, right, duh, he’s Charlie.
Ren peels him off of me, saying, “He’s just a little puppy dog s
ometimes. What he means is, We’re here to help. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Ren. And you, Charlie person. But I…”
Ren tilts his head. “You what?”
Looking around at so many faces, old friends, new friends, all staring at me expectantly, my face heats up. “I just…you’re all here…for me?”
Elle jams her fists on her hips. “Would you stop that?”
“What?”
“This, the thing where you always think it’s you versus the world. I know that foxes are fiercely independent, but it’s time for you to get it through your thick skull that you don’t have to do everything yourself. We—all of us here—we’re in this with you. All the way.”
When she says all of us, it makes me take another look around the room. An obvious detail hits me. “Oliver, Parker, Rook, Terrance. But aren’t you all…you’re all in the Nora Jacobs deal thing.”
Terrance puffs his chest out. “You mean her clan? Don’t forget Wulf, Illren, Charlie, Ren, and Enzo.”
“All of you?”
Nodding solemnly, Charlie makes a shrewd but inaccurate interpretation of my response. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed. The odds of this many good-looking men congregating in one place is simply staggering. It’s unnatural.”
“Yeah, it’s not that. I’m actually just surprised that you all left your queen’s side for more than two seconds.”
“Oh, but they didn’t,” says a wry voice at the front door. Nora Jacobs pushes a fur-lined hood back from her face and smirks at me. “Heaven forbid I should step foot outside our house without nine escorts.”
The moment is surreal. I’ve seen Nora Jacobs before, plenty of times, but I’m pretty sure she has never seen me. Never looked at me, I mean. Now that she is—now that we’re staring awkwardly at each other—I’m finding it difficult to remember why I’ve made such a habit of disliking her. She’s strikingly beautiful, but not in a threatening way. She doesn’t seem to own it, or flaunt it. In fact, her hair is mussed from the jacket hood, and her lips are badly chapped. Her left shoe is untied, there’s a hole in her jeans. And yet, she radiates an easy self-confidence.