Fury

by Rachel Vincent

“But there was no proof of that,” her grandfather added as he closed the driver’s door. “This will blow over, sugar.”

  “The hell it will!” Grandma Janice snapped, and Rebecca glanced at her in surprise. She’d never heard her grandmother curse before. “Cryptids were behind this. Or do you really think your daughter acted on her own free will?”

  “Of course not.” Grandpa Frank stomped toward the building, his cane accenting every step. “But we ought not to draw conclusions without seeing any evidence, Janice.”

  Inside the building, signs taped to the wall directed them toward the Community Involvement room at the end of the hall, where they found several dozen folding metal chairs set up to face a small podium holding a microphone on a stand. About half of the chairs were occupied, and several people had gathered at the back of the room near a water dispenser and a stack of paper cups.

  Rebecca noticed as she glanced over the occupants that most of them were senior citizens.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll all take a seat, we can get started.” The microphone squealed, and Rebecca flinched as she followed her grandfather toward some open chairs three rows back, near the aisle. “Now just to be clear, this is the official information night for families affected by the removal of a child from their custody, following the August 24 tragedy, which those reporting on it have started calling ‘the reaping.’ If you didn’t get a letter in the mail from the Federal Bureau of Investigation asking you to be here, you’re in the wrong place. Just step out into the hall, and someone will help you find whatever room you’re supposed to be in.”

  When no one left, the lady at the microphone nodded to a man in a suit standing by the double doors, and he closed them.

  “Okay, thank you for coming,” the woman said as Rebecca settled into a chair between her grandparents. They’d been arguing a lot since the day the cops had come for Erica, and she’d been putting herself between them, both physically and conversationally, as much as she could.

  Becca had already lost one family. She wasn’t about to let this new one splinter.

  “Where’s my nephew?” a voice called out from behind Rebecca, and she turned to see a fortysomething man in a button-down shirt and jeans standing, while his wife tugged on his hand, clearly trying to get him to sit back down.

  “Sir, if you’ll take a seat, we’ll get to that. There are a couple of gentlemen here from the FBI waiting to answer your questions. All of your questions,” she amended with a glance around the room, which was two-thirds full. Then she turned to the two human men in black suits who stood at the end of the podium. “Gentlemen, if you’re ready?”

  The man in front nodded curtly as they both took center stage. He took the microphone from its stand, and feedback squealed across the room. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. First, let me thank you for coming in today. I—”

  “Where’s my nephew?” The man at the back of the room stood again, and this time he was joined by a woman to Rebecca’s left.

  “And my grandson?” she demanded.

  “Tell us what’s going on!” a second woman demanded, standing two rows in front of Rebecca and her grandparents.

  “All right, then, we’ll get straight to it. I’m Agent Mendoza, and this is Agent Burton, and we’ve been dispatched to you from the FBI field office in Memphis to expand upon the information mailed to you last week and explain what’s happening with the children who were taken out of your custody by the US government last month.” Agent Mendoza cleared his throat, then leveled the room with a frank look. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s no easy way for me to say this. So here goes. Chances are very good that the children who were removed from your care last week weren’t human.”

  A long, confused silence hung over the crowd. Then the man still standing at the back of the room spoke up again. “What are you talking about? I met my nephew when he was five minutes old. Of course he’s human.”

  “Sir, did your nephew’s parents kill his siblings in the early hours of August 24 of this year?”

  “That’s what the police say, but I don’t believe it. I know my sister. She wouldn’t—”

  “And what about your nephew?” Agent Burton called out, without the aid of a microphone. “Did he see what happened? Has he said anything about what he saw?”

  The man at the back of the room fell silent, and Rebecca watched him for a moment. His frustration and denial seemed echoed in expressions all over the room, and deep in her own heart.

  “Sir, I personally addressed the letters that went out to all of you last week,” Agent Mendoza said into the microphone. “Before that, I read each one of the case files involving the children who were removed from your custody. Which is why I can tell you that your story is just like hers.” He pointed to the woman who’d asked about her grandson. “And hers.” He pointed to the woman who’d stood up in front of Rebecca. “Everyone in this room lost one or more nieces, nephews or grandchildren six weeks ago. Each of those poor children was killed by one or more parents. And in every single one of those families, a six-year-old—or the odd set of six-year-old twins—witnessed the slaughter, yet survived unscathed.”

  “When the FBI discovered that pattern, they started collecting data.” Agent Burton picked up where his partner had left off, without need of the microphone. “And it turns out that every single one of those surviving six-year-olds was born in March of 1980. Even stranger, there isn’t a single child born during March of 1980 in the continental United States whose parents didn’t kill his or her siblings on August 24 of this year.”

  “The FBI doesn’t believe in coincidences,” Agent Mendoza said to a room that had gone silent in shock. “And even if we did, three hundred thousand six-year-old surviving witnesses of a coordinated attack on siblings by their parents? That more than strains credulity. So we ordered blood tests on a random sample of those six-year-olds.”

  “Without our permission?” a man on the left demanded, still sitting.

  “We had a warrant granted by a federal judge. And you might be interested to know, sir, that one hundred percent of those samples came back labeled ‘cryptid of indeterminate species.’ So we ordered another round of tests, both of those same kids, plus fifty others, randomly chosen. The results were the same.”

  The man at the back of the room cleared his throat, and Rebecca turned to see him staring at the FBI agents, his forehead deeply furrowed. “So what you’re telling us is that the kids we thought had survived this tragedy...they’re not really related to us? They’re not even human?”

  Agent Burton took the microphone. “We haven’t tested all of the children yet, sir. At this point we’re only about a quarter of the way through, but so far, all of the results have been the same, and we have no reason to believe that will change with those who’re as yet untested.”

  A murmur rose from the crowd as aunt spoke to uncle, grandfather to grandmother. No one seemed to know what to say. Then Rebecca Essig, the only teenager in the room, stood up.

  “Sir, the phrase indeterminate species—what does that mean? You don’t know what these kids are?”

  “That’s right,” Agent Mendoza said. “The tests detected genetic components that don’t match anything in our databases. We’ve sent them out to various crypto-biology labs across the country, hoping to find out more, but so far the researchers are all stumped.”

  “For the moment, we’re calling the children ‘changelings,’ which is a term that describes a child of one species that was...um...taken,” Agent Burton added. “And replaced with something else. Usually with a member of the species that took it, glamoured to look like the child being replaced. It’s like the fae version of trading in your car for another model. Only with kids.

  “To be clear, we have no reason to believe that these children are actually fae,” Agent Burton continued. “Which is why there’s been some push in the Bureau to call the
m ‘surrogates’ instead. Because they’ve been standing in for the human children they evidently replaced.”

  “Oh my God.” The grandmother on the left side of the room sank into her chair, shock echoing in her voice. “So then, what happened to our kids? Our nieces, nephews and grandchildren? They were kidnapped?”

  Agent Mendoza gave her a grave nod. “It appears so, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

  “And I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” Agent Barton added. “As some of you may have concluded, we have reason to believe that these surrogates may have had some kind of...influence over the parents who killed their other children.”

  “Was my sister brainwashed?” the man in the back demanded. “Are you saying this ‘surrogate’ was controlling her and her husband?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” Mendoza admitted, and it was clear this was the part of the meeting he’d been dreading most. “All we can say for sure is that one hundred percent of the kids we’ve tested so far are surrogates, and one hundred percent of the parents arrested claim not to remember anything that happened that night. When we have more information, we will let you know. But what I can say is that no matter how young, cute and familiar these surrogates seem, they are not your nieces, nephews and grandchildren.”

  The room erupted in an uproar. A dozen people stood at once, all shouting questions, while Rebecca and her grandparents stared around in shock, trying to absorb what they were being told.

  One voice carried over the din, and Rebecca twisted in her chair to see a woman with long blond hair standing with a toddler on her hip. “Agent Mendoza, how long have our families been living with strangers? With...monsters?”

  “Ma’am, we don’t know that for sure. But I think it’s entirely possible that the answer is always. We’re not convinced that any of the babies born in March of 1980 actually made it home from the hospital.”

  Delilah

  As daylight began to fade, blanketing the bedroom in murky shadows, I settled onto the bed next to the nightstand lamp with a novel I’d already read several times, trying to distract myself from mounting fears of childbirth and from thoughts of Gallagher’s upcoming mission. But no matter how many pages I turned and words I scanned, the only image my mind could hold on to was the memory of Oliver Malloy’s face, staring up at me from my own phone.

  “Delilah?” I looked up to find Gallagher standing in the doorway. “You look pale. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I set the book on the nightstand, frowning when I noticed that he wore his boots. “You’re not leaving now, are you?”

  “I want to be back before you go to bed.” So he could keep me from sleepwalking my way through another murder.

  “That’s ambitious, considering the drive, but I think you’ll have time if you stay and eat first.” I twisted to plump the pillow at my back to shore up the support for my lower spine. “I’m pretty sure that even if I get up in my sleep again, it won’t be until the middle of the night. Long after everyone else has gone to sleep.” At least, that seemed to be how it had happened before. Which was part of what I couldn’t understand.

  How had the baby—or the furiae—found a victim within walking distance of our isolated cabin? There were no other residences nearby, and none of the hunting seasons had started yet. Why would there even be anyone else in the woods?

  He frowned. “Just to be safe—”

  “Oh! She’s kicking again.” I slid my shirt up over the arch of my belly, so he could see the tiny bulge with every blow the baby dealt my insides.

  Gallagher crossed the room in three steps. His fascination was a thing of beauty. How could a man who’d seen people turn into cats and giant birds rise from their own ashes be so amazed by something as simple as a baby’s kick? “You still seem so sure it’s a she...”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Yet every time I talk about her, the feminine pronouns are just there.” Another kick rippled across my stomach and I grimaced.

  Gallagher laughed as he sat on the bed next to me. “She is powerful. Like her mother.” He leaned over me, reaching for me with one huge hand, and I cringed away from him.

  The pain of rejection clear on his face broke my heart.

  “I’m sorry.” I made myself relax. “She’s yours, too. You can feel her.”

  Instead, he gently lowered my shirt to cover my stomach. “Another time.”

  “Really,” I insisted as I carefully pushed myself upright. “You just startled me. Leaning over me like that. The angle...”

  Gallagher looks down at me. The light behind his head forms a halo, casting his face in deep shadow.

  My heart pounded and my throat felt thick. The flashback felt like a knife plunged through the fabric of my memory, and I knew that if I picked at the threads, the tear would widen. The rest would come pouring out.

  Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut and stitched up the hole.

  “Delilah?”

  “It’s okay,” I said when my pulse had slowed.

  “It isn’t. This is not how it’s supposed to be.” The admission seemed to wound him. “The relationship of a champion to his benefactor should be uncomplicated. Pure. I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to spill the blood of your enemies and use it to sustain myself. Nothing could be simpler.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Gallagher ducked his head until I met his tortured gaze again. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

  “If I hadn’t made you give me that promise, this never would have happened.” I’d made him swear not to kill anyone unless my life were in danger. Oliver Malloy had wanted to rob me of my dignity. My choice. But not my life. “You shouldn’t have had to do what you did. They shouldn’t have been able to use you like that.”

  Pain was etched into the lines of his forehead. It swam behind his eyes. “My shame is because I could not protect you from the amusement of a man whose life is worth less than the dirt you walk upon. But I swear to you that in those moments, I shielded as much of you as I could from his gaze.”

  A sob erupted from my throat at the thought of how he’d tried to spare me.

  Gallagher reached out to comfort me—then snatched his hand back at the last second, clearly determined never to touch me without permission again. “Do you remember?” he whispered, the rumble of his voice a mere suggestion of sound.

  I shook my head. “I think I could if I tried, but...” I swallowed all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t condemn him to hear. “I feel like I should remember the conception of my child, no matter how it happened, but I can’t quite bring myself to.”

  “Treasure that ignorance and know that it’s a mercy.” His exhalation seemed to carry the weight of the world.

  “I wish you had the same luxury.”

  “My only regret is that I couldn’t spare you from the event entirely. Though I must admit, I regret that less when I think about the blessing that has come even out of such a terrible moment.” He leveled a loving gaze at my bulging stomach. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

  “Of course not.” I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blotted my eyes. “It makes you a promising father.” And that was all that really mattered, ten months removed from the event.

  “She could have no better mother. Though if I could change the circumstance of her conception, please know that I would.”

  “I do know. It wasn’t your fault.”

  His gaze held mine. “Yet you flee from me as if I might do it again.”

  “I’m not—” But I was. I’d crawled across the bed until my hip hit the nightstand, though I didn’t remember moving.

  “I am supposed to protect you with my life, yet I am the thing you fear.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Gallagher.”

  “You’re lying.” The profound sadness swimming in his eyes seemed to echo my own heartache.
“But I understand.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” I took his hand, trying to demonstrate the truth in my declaration. “I’m afraid of what he made you do.”

  “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I will work for it. I will cut out the tongue that spoke the order. I will dig out the eyes that witnessed your humiliation. I will chop off any other parts that offended you, and I will return with his bones for our child to play with.”

  That time I smiled through my tears, as horrified as I was pleased by his description of cold-blooded slaughter.

  I wanted the revenge he was describing. The furiae wanted it for me. We ached to see Oliver Malloy’s tongue lying limp in the dirt. His blue eyes divorced from that gaunt face, the sadistic gleam having long gone dead and—

  Sadistic...

  I remembered that look in the thin man’s eyes. I’d hidden the memories from myself, but they were still there, buried deep in my head. If I wanted, I could recover them, as I’d recovered the memory of standing over that body in the woods.

  Or I could choose not to. I could choose to move on from past trauma and confront more current problems.

  “Delilah?” Concern furrowed Gallagher’s brow. He squeezed my hand.

  “I’m fine. I was just thinking about the man in the woods. The man I killed. I can’t get him out of my head.” Yet even that was better than thinking about Oliver Malloy.

  The bed shifted as Gallagher stood and headed into the bathroom, where he ran cold water into the cup from the countertop. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know. He looked familiar, but I don’t know where I would have seen him before.”

  “On television?” He handed me the cup and sank onto the edge of the bed next to me. “Or maybe you met him once? Was he a customer at the Spectacle?”

  I took a long sip, then let my head fall back against the wall behind the bed. “I don’t think so. None of that feels right. But I’ve seen him somewhere.”

  “Why don’t we fish around in the memory for more detail? Where did this slaughter happen?”