The Dragon Conspiracy

by Lisa Shearin

  Ian didn’t need to explain. Cops meant questions. Questions signaled evasive maneuvers, either verbal, physical, or both.

  Most of the witnesses had been too busy watching what their eyes and common sense had told them couldn’t be real. But once the cops got hold of the surveillance tape, they’d be able to zoom right in on me and Ben. We needed to make ourselves scarce before the NYPD took that choice way from us. A guy new to his power and who’d literally been smacked upside the head with the reality of the supernatural world did not want to be in a police or FBI interrogation room.

  “Until we find out who and what he is,” Ian said, “and who he works for, unconscious equals cooperative. That stunt he pulled affected every supernatural being and magic sensitive in the room.”

  “You mean that electrified-Mexican-jumping-bean-shock-wave thingie?”

  “You felt it?”

  My belly button and ears were still buzzing from it. “Oh yeah.”

  “Makes sense. As a seer, you qualify as a sensitive.”

  “By the way, his name’s Ben Sadler,” I told Ian. “He’s a diamond appraiser at Christie’s.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Of course. Who else would—” I stopped and did a mental head smack. How hard was it to give a fake name and job title, Mac? Just because a man has big blue eyes and can act innocent doesn’t mean you aren’t being played. Now that I didn’t have my imminent death hanging over my head and could think straight, it sounded like ninety percent of my dates.

  Crap. “Still too trusting, aren’t I?”

  “Trust isn’t bad, but people often are. You just need to make room in your trust to allow for that. We can check his wallet once we get him out of here.”

  “I still don’t think he lied. He’d have to be the best actor on the planet to fake that reaction. I thought he was in shock after seeing those harpies. Too bad he had to snap out of it, get gutsy—”

  “Get stupid.”

  I’d give Ian that one. “Okay, get stupid, and attack that harpy.” I paused. “What did he do? After that light show, I was blind as a bat.” My arm was beginning to seriously throb. “Was that him or the harpy that made those diamonds flash?”

  “Harpies don’t have magic of their own.”

  “So Ben did it.”

  “That’s what I saw—me and a lot of other people.”

  “So what kind of magic is that?”

  “It could be any number of things; none of them are anything a beginner should be able to do.”

  The hallway ended in another door.

  Ian hitched Ben up farther on his shoulders. “Time to mingle with the crowd. Stay close.”

  The door opened on the wide corridor just outside the Sackler Wing. The only civilians remaining inside were the same ones you’d find gawking around any other violent crime scene where there were dismembered and disemboweled bodies. You’d think people had never seen intestines before.

  A man up ahead was flagging us down. I tensed until I recognized Eddie Laughlin, our security consultant. Three harpies had been one hell of a security breach. I bet Eddie was grateful that the diamonds’ actual security hadn’t been his responsibility. And even for a supernatural security consultant, a statue of three harpies coming to life couldn’t have been on his “be on guard against” list. That still didn’t mean that Vivienne Sagadraco was going to be happy with him.

  Eddie fought his way through the crowd. He looked at Ben. “This the guy?” he asked when he got next to us.

  “Yep,” Ian replied.

  “I can have a car here in five minutes,” he offered.

  “Thanks, but we’ve got Yasha picking us up.”

  “Headquarters?” Eddie asked.

  “No, safe house on the next block.”

  “You sure you don’t need any help?”

  “We’ve got it.”

  Eddie listened to someone on his earpiece. “I’ll be right there,” he said to whoever was on the other end. “Good luck, man,” he told Ian. He turned and vanished into the crowd, making his way back to the Sackler Wing.

  There was ample chaos and no one gave a second look, or even a first one, at two people carrying a third bloody person away from the scene of the crime and out of the museum. In fact, out was the preferred direction, all we had to do was insert ourselves into the stream of frightened humanity, and let ourselves be swept along. It also helped that all of the men were wearing tuxedos. Unconscious, tuxedo clad, with his head down, no one could identify Ben as the maniac who’d attacked the harpies, and my involvement consisted of a low tackle, out of sight for most people whose eyes were locked on three jewel-thieving harpies.

  Running against the tide were at least a dozen of the NYPD’s finest.

  Ian quickly turned his face away from them, giving me a not-so-subtle clue that he didn’t want the boys and girls in blue to see him. Three years ago, Ian had left the NYPD for SPI. He’d been with them for five years, so there was a very real possibility that one or more of that group of cops would have recognized him.

  We’d be hearing soon enough what the other witnesses had to say. In SPI training, I’d learned that when people had supernatural experiences, they’d go through all kinds of mental convolutions to find not only a logical explanation, but one that they could personally deal with. The human mind knew how to protect itself, and realized it was in its best interest to keep episodes of catatonic mumbling or hysterics to a lifetime minimum.

  The brain could be pretty danged creative when it came to explaining the unexplainable.

  Plastic surgeons weren’t going to be the only medical professionals with new patients and/or appointments on Monday morning. Manhattan’s psychiatric community was about to see an influx of new clients, or old clients with new problems.

  I stayed next to Ian. Once clear of the exhibition, the crowd ran across the vast marble-floored Great Hall, out the glass-and-bronze front doors, and down to Fifth Avenue.

  “This way.” Ian had to shout to be heard over the crowd. “Yasha will be at the end of the block.”

  With all the mayhem of panicked people running, gridlocked cabs and police cars, flashing lights and sirens, even Yasha would have trouble getting anywhere near the museum.

  Then I saw him. To be more exact, I spotted the tricked-out Suburban he thought of as his baby.

  During the day, the sidewalks near the museum played host to food carts and vendors. Tonight the massive black SUV had claimed a big chunk of concrete real estate for its own.

  Yasha Kazakov was an accomplished urban off-road driver.

  The Russian agent was one of SPI’s drivers and trackers. In a city where there were more supernatural baddies than available parking spaces, having a drop-off and pick-up guy you could count on to be there when you needed him was a must-have. The big brush guard mounted on the Suburban’s grill had never been used against brush, but saw plenty of action against charging monsters. And Yasha was always willing to take the fight beyond the driver’s seat—just not during the full moon.

  Yasha Kazakov was a werewolf.

  Like most supernatural beings, Yasha used small magics to hide his werewolf form from the public. My seer vision let me see Yasha’s large, furry, and red-haired aura. I was grateful this wasn’t the full moon. If it had been, Yasha wouldn’t have been in any condition to drive.

  Older werewolves could change when they wanted to, but all werewolves, regardless of age, changed on the night of the full moon. Werewolves at SPI automatically got three days a month off: the day before, the day of, and the day after a full moon. Though some missions went better and got resolved faster when you had an irate werewolf on your team. Most supernatural bad guys surrendered on the spot to keep from having a full moon–crazed werewolf, who could do zero to sixty in six strides, turned loose on them.

  Between Ian and me,
we got Ben in the SUV and securely buckled into the third-row seat. Yasha stayed right where he was, prepared to do his job—get us the hell out of here.

  “Go!” Ian shouted, before he even had the door closed.

  Yasha proceeded to whip the Suburban into the fastest three-point turn I’d ever had the displeasure to be in a vehicle for. That it was done on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue half a block from the Metropolitan Museum of Art merely bumped the terror factor up by ten.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, winced, cringed, and fully expected a crushing impact any second. We accelerated with only squealing tires, no crashes, thumps, or bumps.

  “Still there is no trust in my driving,” Yasha said in his thick Russian accent from the driver’s seat. Yasha Kazakov was ninety-six years old. Most people would have their driver’s license taken away by that age; but as a werewolf, Yasha didn’t look any older than thirty-five and was just getting started.

  The jury was still out on whether he should have a driver’s license.

  I opened my eyes all the way. “It’s not your driving,” I kind of lied. “It’s everything else.” My hands kept a double death grip on the back of the seat in front of me.

  We passed a big network news truck, the kind with its own satellite. I groaned inwardly and thunked my head against the window. I should check YouTube and Twitter, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t do anything about it, so I’d leave it to SPI’s damage control people. Their own contributions would be up soon, though they were probably there already.

  One of SPI’s largest departments was Media and Public Relations. I’d always thought a better name for them would be fire stompers; though in corporate speak, it would be crisis management. Our media and PR department existed with the purpose of dealing with a problem before it became a crisis. Proactive “R” Us. They specialized in working behind the scenes to explain the unexplainable, turning actual encounters and sightings into simple hoaxes by those looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, or exposing them as elaborate cover-ups by any number of shadowy government agencies that were ripe for the blaming. No direct accusations, of course, more like the often used “a source close to the investigation speaking on condition of anonymity because they weren’t authorized to discuss the investigation publicly.”

  And not all the people on SPI’s media and PR department worked from headquarters. They had people in the highest levels at TV networks, cable news, all across/over/throughout the web, and even in the increasingly archaic print media. Influence had been bought, paid for, and was being well used.

  It seemed like everyone had smartphones, and everyplace had security or surveillance cameras. Now not only was Big Brother watching; so was Big Sister and the whole damned family. Yeah, technology gave anyone the ability to photograph a mermaid in New York Harbor, but that same technology gave us endless ways to explain how that photo could have been hoaxed. Privacy was gone; information was there for the spreading—but so was misinformation—and no one could slather it on thicker or to greater effect than our media and PR department.

  So as soon as the harpy postings started to go live from the Met, our folks would jump in and throw fistfuls of doubt and disdain at any aspiring photo journalist who thought they had the next National Geographic wildlife cover.

  It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that within ten minutes of the robbery, they had a team in the ceiling above the Sackler Wing installing wires for the investigators to find to explain how those harpies could fly. As for a statue coming to life, Disney World had people dressed and made up completely in white who suddenly moved and scared the bejesus out of kids. And if Cirque du Soleil could make people appear to fly and disappear, so could the thieves. Then there was the ever-popular publicity stunt explanation.

  “We’ve got bigger problems,” Ian said, as if reading my mind. It must have been the forehead-to-window thunking that gave me away.

  I’d been at SPI long enough to know that if Ian said we had bigger problems, our harpy situation was in reality the size of Godzilla rising out of the Sea of Japan to put the munch-down on Tokyo. I recalled the harpies crashing through that glass wall and into Central Park with a sense of impending doom.

  “We both got a good look at that statue before it animated, right?” Ian asked.

  I hesitated before responding. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t see anything tipping you off that those harpies were hidden under a veil or held immobile by some sort of spell.”

  “No.”

  Ian was leading me to the conclusion he’d already arrived at, but I wasn’t doing a good job of following his breadcrumbs.

  “Solid rock doesn’t come to life. No magic can do that. Meaning those were real harpies that someone was powerful enough to put into suspended animation, harden on the outside to the consistency of stone, keep them that way for at least six days while the exhibition was set up, and release them to steal those diamonds. The beings that have the power to do that can be counted on one hand.”

  “Have I met any of them?”

  “You’re alive to ask me that question, so no, you haven’t met them.”

  “How about you?”

  “Likewise alive, and I don’t plan to get in that reception line anytime soon.”

  “Now they’re in New York with three harpies at their beck and call,” I said. “And seven cursed diamonds.”

  “Do not forget the Russian,” Yasha added. “Dragons do not like having part of their hoard stolen.”

  Nothing like mentioning Viktor Kain to make me want to change the subject. “How long will Ben be out?” I asked Ian.

  “One dose lasts an hour.”

  “And we’re not going to headquarters?”

  “No. We have several properties in the city where we can take someone of Mr. Sadler’s undetermined talents.”

  That didn’t sound good. I got visions of a single chair and a really bright, naked lightbulb.

  “There are reasons it’s against SPI policy to bring a new talent anywhere near HQ while conscious,” Ian said.

  “Can’t show civilians the Bat Cave, huh?”

  “That’s one reason. There’s also the possibility that Mr. Sadler could have set us up and be working with whatever masterminded tonight’s show—or Viktor Kain. Kain saying he wanted him was the perfect way to get back one of his people. If he is Kain’s man, we want him. We can’t risk anyone knowing the location of headquarters.”

  My mouth dropped open. I didn’t even try to stop it. “Holy paranoia, Batman.”

  “Not paranoia. Past experience. More than once. Agents with more experience than you and me put together have had their instincts proven wrong, and good people have died because of it.”

  That shut me up. That and Ian’s expression at the mention of those “good people.” A shadow had passed across his face. He’d known some of them.

  “What happens next?”

  “They’re taken in, given a background check and a psychological evaluation. If their background’s clean and they’re mentally stable, it’s taken on a case-by-case basis as to whether to grant them level one clearance and educate them on their skill.”

  That was completely different from my experience.

  I had attracted SPI’s attention working at the only journalism-type job I could get after coming to town—a reporter at a sleazy tabloid that specialized in anything weird or so far out there that just reading a story about it would give you a nosebleed. The vast majority of articles weren’t true, but mine were because I could see what the other reporters had to either make up or depend on getting their information from sources who wore tinfoil hats.

  I glanced at Ben. “What about the ones packing major mojo?”

  “People who come into their talent later in life are particularly dangerous to themselves and others. It h
as to do with younger minds being more flexible and easily taught.”

  “Kind of like learning a foreign language. If you’re gonna learn one, do it while you’re young.”

  Ian nodded. “They’re assigned a mentor of sorts to help them through the adjustment period. The new talent is also required to check in regularly, daily at first, then weekly and monthly as their control—and trustworthiness—progresses.”

  “Like a parole officer confirming that they haven’t been bragging to their friends, or aren’t thinking about going into business for themselves knocking over banks.”

  Ian nodded. “And if the talent is one that would be useful to us, they could be eventually offered a job as an agent.”

  “Like I was.” I thought back for a second. “Wait, I didn’t get a psych evaluation.”

  “Oh, yes, you did. You had tea with the boss, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ms. Sagadraco’s been around humans long enough to read us at a glance. She cleared you herself—that and your family background didn’t hurt.”

  My family lives in a small town in the far western mountains of North Carolina that through the years has attracted more than its share of people and not-people who wouldn’t be described as normal by anyone’s definition. My family took it on themselves to protect the prey—supernatural and otherwise—from supernatural predators. Since the town’s founding in 1786, there’s been a Fraser as marshal, then sheriff, and my aunt was now the police chief.

  “Or if the talent is something we don’t need often,” Ian said, “we contract with them on a job-by-job basis.”

  “Like Eddie.”

  “Exactly.”

  I tilted my head toward the far backseat. “So what do you think is gonna happen with . . .?”

  Ian answered by not answering.

  I felt kind of responsible for Ben. If tonight had been the first time his talent had stood up and said howdy, I’d been there when it happened. What if I’d come into my talent later in life, and suddenly saw monsters everywhere I looked? I’d be in a funny farm inside of a week.