Serve

by Laura Wylde

  I was relieved when Todd returned with his report that Code One priorities had been set in place. There would be a jungle of shape-shifters on patrol tonight. If there were any picnics on the pond, the jungle would be the first to know.

  He didn’t skip as lightly in damp weather as he did in dry, but his step was still bouncy enough to kick up a small flutter of fairy dust that died out quickly with the rain. If Winslow noticed, she didn’t say anything, but a flush passed over her face when she saw him. Todd had that effect on people he liked. No matter what they thought of him while he was away, they were happy to see him when he appeared. He brought luck with him and it was a sweet, dizzying nectar to the ones he gave it to.

  His presence created a distraction. A distraction meant I was no longer obligated to stand in as a silent audience and could return to my normal activities. I was having difficulty finding anything relating to troll metallurgy, but learned the distinct blue color was derived from the Underworld’s mystical realm, a form of magic that made the metal stronger and harder than steel, with an edge sharper than a diamond. There were pages of debate over who forged the terrible weapons and the shapes they took. According to the legends, the magically forged metal bonded with the owner. When the owner died, so did the weapon, turning dull and rusted overnight.

  I listened absently as the team leaders agreed to call it a day’s work, still imagining the cold precision of a blade that could split through the center of the spine and lay it open like cutting through clay. It was the atmosphere, bleak with rain, the pond swollen and overgrown with algae. It was the odor, too faint now for humans to notice, but still strong and rank to shape-shifters, sirens and mer-people. It made me imagine things too vividly.

  The rest of the team was returning to the patrol car. I stopped a minute and turned around, deciding to snap a few photos of the bridge and pond. Maybe when I zoomed them, I’d find something I hadn’t noticed. I wheeled in a semi-circle, clocking twenty degrees angles, focusing the last shot on the staked in area surrounding the drainage grate.

  The vision hit me like a lightening bolt. Instead of seeing an area of the pond in my camera, I saw an elaborate system of caves and tunnels, some palely lit, some tumbling away into darkness. There were sounds of rushing water, mutters in the darkness, running feet, the sharp intake of panicked breath. I blinked, and the vision was gone.

  I caught up with the others and sat in the back of the patrol car, wondering what had just happened. “Did Winslow go home?” Asked Adonis, twisting around from in front to look at me.

  I thumbed through my photos, wondering what had just happened. Was this my first ancestral memory? If so, it picked a fine time to jump out at me. “I think so,” I answered back. “I didn’t see anybody.”

  I came to the last picture, gazing at it idly. That was odd. There seemed to be a figure, either plant or animal, within the staked area. I zoomed it in as close as I could get. It was human, but still too far away to tell if it was a man or woman. It couldn’t be Agent Winslow, I reasoned. Nobody was that crazy.

  If I had looked behind me in the parking lot, I would have seen the agent’s car and known she had not left. If I had paid attention to the vision, I would have realized in the moment I was looking at the staked in area, I saw her dive into the pond. I saw her open the grate and glide into the tunnel. I followed her with my mind, wandering through the frightful maze, and I left her there, not believing what I saw.

  Tara

  Water gurgled overhead and found its way through the metal seals, dripping down the sides of the tunnel that twisted for a short way, then opened out to several more options. Right, left or straight ahead. I turned right because the debris that littered the floor was evenly spread in the other two tunnels, while it clung thickly to the sides in this one, with only a thin layer of clutter blowing across the middle, like leaves blowing across an autumn trail. It was the same type of disturbance I’d seen in the initial tunnel.

  I pulled out my penlight, cupping my hand over the top to keep the beam low and narrow. Land and water groaned and boomed overhead, ricocheting through the chambers. There was an acrid aroma. Stale air, rotting vegetation, moldering earth. There must be caves here.

  I inched forward stealthily, positive now the tunnel was occupied by more than the few squeaking rats that scurried over my feet and a lizard that hoped by staying perfectly still, I would not notice it. I shuddered for a moment. It was odd. When I first dived, I had felt like there was somebody with me, an invisible presence protecting me. The feeling was gone. I was completely alone and vulnerable.

  I held my light more firmly, my free hand close enough to my firearm to grab it if needed and flattened against the wall as I turned into the next corridor. A chill draft swept through it. I felt my skin prickle and shiver under the wet clothes. At least one of the caves must have a hillside entrance. I walked in the direction of the draft, one sloshing step at a time.

  The corridor opened into a large, natural chamber, with the ghostly entrances of several small caves toward the back of it. The chamber was lit by battery operated lamps offering minimal glow. They were scattered almost haphazardly, leaving the shadows long and thick. I saw several squat figures flickering between the light and dark spaces of the lamplight. The Unit’s profile had been wrong about them being the size of dwarves. They were several inches taller than a dwarf, close to my height or a little shorter; around five foot three or five foot four. However, they crouched as they walked, nearly dragging their butts along the ground, like apes.

  They had enormously powerful chests and arms, thickly chorded neck muscles and disproportionately large heads and jaws. One, passing by the lamp, turned his head in my direction for a second. Even my gut, which had been twisting from the moment I had acquired that unprotected feeling, froze. The face was like nothing I had ever seen in my life. The eyes were almost human, but with a larger iris and pupil. The nose was broad and rested over a mouth and jaw that protruded away from the rest of face, almost like a bulldog.

  Automatically, the hand covering the penlight dropped down for my Glock, betraying my location. The uncanny eyes shifted in my direction and I fired. They began to run in my direction, lumbering in short, thudding steps. I fired again, the bullet penetrating the shoulder of the lead runner, but not even slowing him down. I shoved my gun into my belt and turned. They may be impervious to bullets, but at least they were slow.

  Never had I felt pure terror, not even when my horse threw me after being struck by a rattlesnake. I was in a bit of a jam, no doubt. We were on a high plateau, with the town located three miles west, and my ankle was twisted. The rattlesnake had slithered off after doing its damage, but the horse was good as dead without some skillful first aid. I worked frantically on that animal, doing everything to save it, because more frightening than being stuck out on the plateau for three days, was the idea of coming home and admitting I not only lost my horse, but the rattlesnake that bit it.

  That was only fear. This was pure terror. It screamed in my ears. It clutched at my throat. It shot adrenaline through my legs and made my heart thump wildly in my chest. I raced back the way I came, my pursuers thumping and roaring behind me. I slid through the opened grate and gasped for air as I rose out of the water. I thrashed in the shallow water, reaching out for solid land. I scrambled up the bank, remembering the words of the Special Unit, “they are more dangerous in the water than they are on land.” The marsh, the mud, the water was their element.

  I scrambled until I reached the flat, grassy field that dominated Central Park and streaked across it. I couldn’t remember where I parked the car and I didn’t want to go back to the bridge to find it. All I wanted was to put as much distance between me and the pond as possible. Before I realized it, I was on Central Avenue, with the traffic flashing by as though there was nothing unusual about a woman standing on the curb, soaked to the skin.

  In the park, shadows flickered, bushes rustled, and birds darted, startled, through the trees. E
verything looked sinister. I crossed the avenue and cut down a side street. Even there, the frightful shadows whispered and shifted. I was alone. I was vulnerable. The only place I could think of to go was the precinct station. It was only a block away. The light over the doorstep was like a homing beacon.

  I sprinted the last few yards, positive at any moment an unmentionable creature would spring out of the shadows and drag me back into the caves. I threw myself against the door at the same time I opened it, so it swung back, slamming against the wall. I know I was muttering incoherently, but the words wouldn’t form correctly. They tried to stand up to the horror I’d seen, then shrank away, the syllables twisted together.

  My teeth were chattering, making it even more difficult to speak. I felt someone throw an emergency blanket over my shoulders, then someone else push a cup of coffee into my hands. I clung to the cup like it was a life preserver. I forced my lips to move correctly, although the words clawed at my throat. “They weren’t human.”

  Instead of the clamor I expected, Adonis drew me away from the open floor, to his office. He and his team piled in and he closed the door. That action was more assuring than anything he could have done, including notifying my superiors. The rest of the precinct was probably already in high gear, gossiping among themselves about how the FBI agent had gone off her rocker. I wasn’t crazy. I straightened up and repeated, my voice accusing, somehow believing it was Adonis’ fault. “They weren’t human.”

  The ball was in their park now. Adonis could have his revenge for poking fun at his name and for stepping on his command position, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t crack a single joke. “You’ve met a non-human?”

  “Not one. More. Four, I think, or five. They almost look human, but they’re not. They have horrible, toothy mouths, like dogs with squashed noses. And their eyes! You can barely see the whites!”

  I think I went into hysterics then. With each word, my voice pitched steadily upward, until it pierced the air in short, sharp explosions. “What were they?”

  The images I had run from wouldn’t stop flashing in front of my eyes, so I shut them, trying to squeeze out all sight and sound. “Tara. Tara.” The voice in my ear repeated my name gently and insistently. “Where did you go, Tara?”

  “You’ll tell on me! You’ll tell on me and they’ll drag me back.”

  I struggled to get out of my seat. There were too many hands holding me. They had betrayed me. They were taking me back. I begged them, sobbing, not to do it. “I know where she was.” Something familiar bumped against my mind. Something protective. I calmed down and let him talk. “She went through the drainage grate.”

  “Adrien!” I could see more clearly now. I was among friends. I had a protector. “You were there!”

  If it was clear to me, it wasn’t to the Captain. He crossed his arms and waited for an explanation. “I had a vision,” Adrien said. “Just when I was snapping some photos of the pond. I thought it was my first ancestral memory.”

  Yesterday, that answer would have check marked him as a bona fide lunatic, but today it sounded far more logical than what I had just witnessed. Even the Captain’s reply sounded normal. “You’re too young to begin having ancestral memories. You’re going through late adolescence; heightened brain activity. Telepathic episodes are common during this phase.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adrien said, taking my hands. “If I had known I was seeing true, I never would have left your side.”

  There’s something comforting about everybody being in the same loony bin. If they wanted to talk like whacked-out astrologists, I no longer cared. When Adonis suggested I go with them to their upstairs apartment, I agreed. I was still too frightened to think about spending the night alone, and I still needed to talk with someone about what I had seen. If I talked with another agent, it would be an automatic psychological evaluation and possible treatment program. I didn’t need treatment. I needed answers.

  Their upper level apartment was rather convenient. It wasn’t an apartment, really, but a collection of suites joined by a common room on the top floor of the police station. The apartment had that quiet look of upper middle -class people who had invested wisely in sturdy, well-crafted furniture and appliances. They were apparently fond of spices, as there was a distinct smell of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves. They were also fond of incense. There were several incense burners scattered around the room, although none were currently lit.

  The part of me that was returning to normalcy, found something sweet and amusing in the way they all behaved. They weren’t condescending. They were concerned. They apologized repeatedly for being inadequate hosts. Todd tripped over himself bringing me fresh towels and a fresh set of clothing from his wardrobe. “The bathroom is right over here,” he said, opening a door.

  The bathroom was well-lit, with plenty of shiny chrome, mirrors and white, polished tile. I turned on the shower gratefully. I don’t think I would have been able to stand a single shadow. I let the water stream over my head, my neck and my shoulders freely, then began soaping down. It felt like the cloying odor of the tunnels had followed me, and I wanted to wash the dirt, the grime and the decay off, right down to the last microscopic molecule.

  The warm jet streams made me relax. I ran my hands through my hair, loosening the suds, and slid them down my face and neck until they stopped just under my bust. My skin tingled. It was alive with nerves that begged to be touched and soothed. “It must be the after-shock,” I decided. At first, I had felt numb. You could have hit me with a crowbar, and I wouldn’t have felt it. Now I felt over-stimulated. I ran my hands over my stomach and down my legs, chasing away the soap suds. The feeling was sensual. I straightened up and turned in the shower, as I imagined four pairs of hands slipping over me, finding my secret spots.

  I cupped my hands under my breasts and touched my erect nipples. An involuntary moan escaped my lips and I caught myself. What was I doing? I was drooling like a schoolgirl who has fallen in love with a four-man band and can’t decide which band member she likes the most.

  I turned off the shower and reached for the towel, still bothered by my sudden, indiscriminate attraction. Adrien I could understand. He was around my age. His nerd fest probably included science fiction movies and mind-benders, which I could get into. He was never aggressive or obtrusive and kept an objective viewpoint. And there had been a connection. Maybe he was telepathic. There have been enough documented cases to know these things happen.

  I finished drying off and looked at the clothes Todd had brought me. He was only a couple of inches taller than me, but quite a bit broader. He had a steel-driver’s torso, with muscles bulging over the top of muscles, tapered hips, but thick, powerful thighs. He had given me a pair of denim jeans and a pull-over long-sleeved shirt to wear. His large legs made it necessary to buy the “hefty” fit, which was double the size I need for my size four frame.

  Even my attraction to Todd was relatively easy to understand. At times, he irritated me. He joked around too much. He made too many references to bars and drinking. He was a good detective, however. His eyes missed nothing. Twice in the field, he had confiscated a cell phone and escorted the uninvited guest off the premises before the rest of us realized there was an intruder. More than that, I always felt a little happier when I saw him around. He seemed to make things a little brighter, a little cheerier just with his presence.

  My feelings for Thaddeus were mixed with tenderness. I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to recognize PTSD. Thaddeus had it bad. His trauma was so great, he could confront it only by reciting a history four hundred years in the past. From the start, Thaddeus had been the most cooperative. He treated me like a lady. He had an old- world charm that was difficult to resist. He trusted me.

  Adonis, though, reminded me too much of an Ivy League graduate who rode on daddy’s money and never acquired an education in the real world where people cried, struggled and went hungry every day. That’s how he appeared at first, but
I wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t live like Ivy League. He had a lot of street savvy. His portfolio of closed cases in some of the roughest districts of New York was impressive. And he was soft-spoken and kind when he wasn’t angry.

  The pants were not going to stay up on their own. I rummaged through the bathroom cabinets and found two wash cloths. I rolled them up like tacos and stuck them through the side belt loops, drawing the loops together and tying them off. Next, I folded over the bottoms of the pants and rolled them up until they fit snugly around my calves. The shirt was also enormous. The sleeves draped over my wrists and the bottom hung nearly to my knees. I wadded the shirt at one end and tied it at the side, then rolled the sleeves all the way to my upper arms. I glanced in the mirror as I walked out. Bizarre, but who knows? I could start a new fashion.

  The Captain and his crew were settled in the living room, talking, but immediately made room for me on the couch when I walked in. Thaddeus brought me a hot, spiced tea. “It will calm your nerves,” he promised.

  I tasted hibiscus, lemon grass, honey and a hint of nutmeg. It was calming. As I relaxed, that affectionate feeling swept over me again and I fought it back with effort. “What did I see out there?” I asked, setting down the nearly empty cup.

  Adonis glanced at Adrien, who took my hand and squeezed it before answering, sending that electric surge of connection zapping into my brain stem again. “They were trolls,” he said, then sat back as I withdrew my hands from his.

  “They were trolls. As in fairy tales trolls? They weren’t deformed people pretending to be trolls?”