by Greco, Karen
"They are sending me to anger management," he said glumly.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the tension between us after our attempt at a relationship crashed and burned, but I burst out laughing. I couldn't help myself. It was just...funny.
"Sorry," I said. I held out my hand towards him and shook my head. "It's just...I just...a Berserker, in anger management!" I stopped laughing as quickly as I started. "Maybe that's not such a bad idea."
"You're kidding, right?" He balled up his fists and squeezed, like there was an imaginary stress ball in there.
"Honestly, Max, you have to learn to control this anyway. We'll be screwed if you Hulk out in the wrong place. Say, like, in front of the FBI. If you can control the rage, and turn only when you need to, it would be a whole lot safer."
"Maybe it's time the world knew the truth," he said quietly, staring at his balled up fists.
"You're joking, right?"
"No, I'm not. If we are in a position to help people, if we can warn people that their nightmares are real, can't they better protect themselves?" he said, growing emphatic.
"Max, that would be Armageddon. The only one to benefit would probably be Bertrand, because demons like him know how to play both sides. Trust me. It would not be good."
"And how do you know?" he pushed. "Have you ever tried?"
"Yes, with you. And look at how well that turned out." My voice was edged with sarcasm.
I pushed my chair back with a fair amount of force and stood abruptly. Max's anger when I came clean about Blood Ops was still raw in my memory. He was confused and angry, but he went running to Bertrand, setting forward the chain of events that may have brought down my would-be assassin, but at a pretty high cost. He became one of us.
Grabbing two cold bottles of black cherry soda from the fridge, I tossed one to Max, who grabbed it one-handed.
"I understand your position," he started slowly. "But—"
"Sorry, Max," I interrupted quickly. "There are no qualifiers for this one. There would be riots. Chaos. I am pretty sure there would be lynchings. The badass supernaturals would come out of hiding hell bent on destruction. And the humans would probably be worse. Maybe we should pay a visit to Salem this weekend? I suspect political correctness would be thrown right out the window. No one would think twice about burning a witch again."
I drummed my fingers on the side of my soda bottle, wondering if Max had lost his mind. The idea of outing the entire supernatural community was preposterous.
Max's cell phone interrupted our uncomfortable silence.
"Agent Deveroux," he grumbled, pulling it to his ear. His face clouded over again. "Yeah, she's with me right now. Why?"
I looked at him, puzzled. His stern expression broke and he grinned almost in spite of himself. "What if she refuses? Okay, I will let her know. No, thank you, Mayor."
I slumped back into my seat.
"What did he want?" I grumbled. Bertrand was never good news.
"Did you block his numbers?" Max's blue eyes twinkled a bit, his mouth tugging up at the corners.
I shrugged and he burst out laughing, easing the tension between us.
"He is the mayor, Nina," he said once he composed himself.
I took a long swig from my bottle of soda. "I didn't vote for him. What did he want?"
"He wants you to go to his Biltmore suite to meet Tavio's son? I didn't know Tavio had a son."
"Long story," I said. "When?"
He looked at his watch. "In about three hours."
"Oh come on!" I barked at no one in particular.
Max shook his head. "Sorry. He wants Frankie there, too, if that helps."
"Why would he want Frankie there?" Bertrand didn't have much use for vampires other than my Uncle Tavio, and apparently me. Inviting Frankie to the party was highly suspect.
Just then, the text message alert went off. I got up and grabbed my phone from the kitchen counter. It was Frankie.
We r summoned 2 Bertrand's at 6am. R we blowing it off?
His text made me smile. He was back to his old self.
I really wanted to blow this off, but with Frankie's ability to daywalk controlled by Bertrand, we were in a really sticky situation. I didn't trust that the demon magic didn't come without strings.
We're going. I typed back to him. Meet at 5:30 at Babe's.
OK, sweet dreams. xo
Dammit, this demon was a manipulative pain in the ass.
"So what's this about? Anything the rest of us should know about?"
I looked at Max out of the corner of my eye. The "team" was always Frankie and me. Dr. O, like a true Druid, was there for us as advisor, planner and sage. Darcy was our tactical support. Babe was...well, I thought Babe was kind of like Team Mom, but it turned out that she was much more than that. She was the unofficial witch on the team, doing a lot more behind the scenes than I imagined.
But stuff like this...meeting informants, chasing down baddies, ferreting out leads — the day-to-day grind of being supernatural hunters — these were things that Frankie and I did as partners, without really talking it through with anyone else. Not while we were in the thick of it, at least. Like, if we weren't going in wired, we didn't need to wake Darcy up.
Now, with Max, things were different, and we weren't used to working this way. Frankie and I had fallen into a rhythm. Even before the binding, I almost knew what Frankie's thoughts were before he did. That's just how it was between two people who worked closely at a maximum intensity job. Max turned our twosome into a threesome, and it was kind of weird.
We couldn't quite find the groove for the three of us, especially since there was unresolved history between Max and me. And, according to Darcy, Frankie had his own unresolved feelings for me. So the whole thing was super-awkward. I am not big on expressing emotions, so it was way more comfortable for me to bury my head in the sand than confront it head-on.
"Bertrand and Tavio," I shuddered in disgust as I said their names. "Tavio's son is in this sort-of famous band, and they have these problems with riots and murder and general mayhem when the band rolls into town. And they are rolling into Providence this morning."
The manila envelope Tavio left with me was in the center of the table. I slid it over to Max.
He pulled out the bundle of news clippings and studied them for a minute. "Looks like something for Providence PD, or a private security detail. You are neither."
I cringed at his use of the word "you." He still didn't feel like he was part of the team, and the fault for that lay squarely on my and Frankie's shoulders.
"That's what I said. But apparently these riots have a supernatural origin."
"Okay, so like the marauders?"
"Sort of. Imagine that magnified by a thousand. This band plays to capacity crowds every night."
"There's no guarantee that it will happen here." Max's skepticism almost rivaled my own.
"Something is already happening here. Bertrand suggested we get out ahead of it," I said. "And since Frankie likes walking around during daylight hours, I think we have to comply."
He shuffled through the papers. "These cities — Chicago, San Francisco, Austin, Miami — these cities have not had any supernatural takeovers, right? I'd be more convinced if this happened in Detroit."
"I agree," I said. "But Detroit was the first leg of the tour. Maybe they picked up whatever it is there, and it's following them."
Max puzzled over that for a minute. "What do you know about Detroit?"
"When the humans moved out, the monsters moved in," I said. "The explanation's pretty simple."
He smiled, the delicate skin around his blue eyes crinkling good-naturedly. It was a look I had not seen enough of since Bertrand turned him Berserker. "There is elegance in simplicity, but I need a little more info. Is there one dominant supernatural...thing...in Detroit? Or is it a melting pot of crazy?"
Even though Max was a novice at the supernatural stuff, he was a great cop, and even his s
imple investigative skills enhanced what we did tremendously. Frankie and I, being born monsters (part-monster, in my case), were drawn to action. We didn't spend a lot of time asking questions, investigating. We just kicked a lot of ass. Max brought a little more finesse to the operation.
"Detroit started the way they always start. Poltergeists come first, followed by vampires, maybe were-animals of some sort, depending on the location. Eventually the demons show up. That's when you're screwed. Demons are near impossible to remove."
"What about the witches?"
"What about them?" I shrugged. "Witches are everywhere. They aren't drawn to places when supernatural stuff goes off. In fact, they prefer the company of humans. Unless you're into voodoo. Voodoo practitioners don't mind hanging with the ghosts."
"What happened here then? Is there enough of an infestation to bring Bertrand and his kind here?"
I sipped my soda, considering that for a minute. "I hadn't really thought about it, to be honest. But no, it's not like that here. The poltergeists are definitely here, but they are concentrated in one area."
"The Biltmore Hotel?" he asked.
"Well, mostly concentrated in one area," I clarified, thinking about Lovecraft, who moved unencumbered around the East Side.
"So why is Bertrand here?"
"Good question," I muttered. "You gonna ask him the next time you see him?"
Max snorted. "I don't think so."
I grinned back. "Me neither."
This was nice, easy. Forgetting myself, I sighed audibly, relaxing into our conversation. It was like this between us, before all hell broke loose. Nice. Comfortable. I stared down at Max’s hands and almost willed them to reach out and grab mine.
"So, I wanted to talk to you and Dr. O about last night's evidence plant. And arson." And just like that, I was jarred out of my fantasy.
"There's nothing to say. We do it to keep our secret," I bristled, sitting up stiffly in my chair.
"It's illegal, Nina." His voice was stern, matter-of-fact, like a father scolding his child. Or like a really self-righteous, inflexible cop. My face flushed with anger.
"I will not apologize for making sure we stay underground. The goddam world would end if we were discovered. It's better this way."
"It's a miscarriage of justice."
"Seriously?" I rolled my eyes. "This isn't Law & Order, my friend. This is real life, which can get real ugly real quick. Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"This isn't about sides!" Max said. His left eye started to twitch as his voice raised a measure. "This is about illegally planting evidence. This is about arson. This is about making those people appear guilty of a crime they did not commit. Not only that. They were clearly the victims!"
I slammed my fist on the table, and my soda bottle overturned. Black cherry soda streamed across the table and onto the floor. Dog was up like a shot, happily lapping it up.
"This is about survival, Max." I grabbed the paper towels, and Dog growled lightly as I cleaned up the puddle. "My survival, Frankie's survival, Darcy's survival, and now your survival. So don't pull this crap on me. If we were discovered, there would be a lynch mob. And don't you think for a second that the witches and demons won't be leading them straight for us. They can pass for human, and history taught us that they always turn on the ones who can't. Your kind included. Why do you think you’re the only Berserker left?"
His face turned red and twisted. I held my breath, hoping he didn't Berserker out on me.
"Well, I don't like it," he said quietly.
I tossed the soggy paper towels into the trash. "I'm not asking you to like it. But you have to accept that it's the way we do things. We don't have a choice."
"I'll see if Dora is almost finished so we can get out of your hair. Do you want to plant drugs on this one? I assume that you don't want her to burn down the place."
I seethed. "All she needs to do is clean. He's a missing person now."
"With a family that loves him and that is worried about him."
"He's a vampire, Max. He has no family."
"You don't know that," he countered.
"We're monsters, Max. Family tends to walk away from that sort of thing."
"Yours didn't," he pointed out.
"I'm not dead yet. When I turn, my relationship with Babe will change."
"Bullshit."
I shrugged. "You have a lot to learn before you can begin to understand."
"How am I supposed to learn? You aren't exactly giving me lessons." He looked genuinely hurt.
I yanked open the door to the stairs that lead down to the bar. A blue puff of The Cleaner's cigarette smoke wafted into the apartment, and Max stomped angrily down the stairs.
"Stop thinking like a human. Maybe then you'll learn something!" I yelled after him before slamming the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was six in the damn morning. After the events of the past two nights, I was a sleep-deprived grump. So Ami Bertrand and his henchman, my Uncle Tavio, were the last fools on this earth that I wanted to see for a breakfast "meeting." But here I was, Frankie by my side, staring at the brass revolving doors in front of the Biltmore, Providence's peculiar hotel.
Once the elegant reflection of Providence's glory days as a manufacturing hub, the hotel, like the rest of the city, had fallen into extreme disrepair. To pay the bills, the hotel's owners had turned some floors into de facto single-room occupancies, a slightly upscale version of a flophouse. As the city floundered, the hopelessness of the Biltmore's guests — sad-sack businessmen, over-the-hill hookers, drug kingpins and their addled clientele and the poor lone tourist who relied on out-of-date AAA tour books — festered. With all that bad juju, the Biltmore became a magnet for supernatural entities. Now, the place was infested.
Most humans only felt a strange and uncomfortable sadness weighing on them when they entered the place. And apart from the weird poltergeist-y happenings — the sort of haunted house stuff like ashtrays flying across the room or lights flickering — most only felt the crushing blow of depression, which led to a number of suicides. Given my particular "gift," as it were, I not only saw dead people, I also interacted with them. Hell, a few months ago, a gang of restless spirits full out attacked me as I walked down one of the hotel's hallways.
The best way for me to get through the Biltmore was to have Casper as my shield. If he possessed my body, no other ghost could get in. But the effect of the last ghost attack on us left him dangerously damaged, with his ethereal flesh melted off parts of his body. Fighting these particular beasties turned him into ghost goo. Bits of his ghost form where still missing. That's how we learned ghosts didn't heal.
So where the Biltmore was concerned, I needed to fly solo. The place gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I pulled my aunt's talisman from my back pocket and palmed it. Without Casper, this would have to do. Nodding at Frankie, I muttered an incantation as we moved through the revolving doors.
"Don't worry, you've got this," Frankie mumbled under his breath. I wasn't sure if that was to reassure me, or him. At least he was walking into this healthier than last night. His cheeks had a bit of color again.
As a pair of supernats, Frankie and I were not only ghost magnets, but we also made them completely rabid. Hence, the attacks. The talisman was supposed to keep the ghosts from coming after us. I just hoped I got it right. I didn't exactly take to this witch stuff like a fish to water. I was a way better vampire.
The air in the hotel was stagnant. The odor of old gin and stale cigarettes clung to the stained walls and threadbare carpet. It mingled with the stench of fresh vomit. Max lived here for several weeks when he first arrived in Providence. I don't know how he could stand it.
I gagged slightly, mucking up the incantation just enough to catch the backdraft of a malevolent spirit. But Bertrand's bellboy was at the ready and pushed the poltergeist away.
Not that the bellboy was much of a tradeoff. Also a ghost, his brains were perpetually oozing o
ut of the back of his head, where he was shot gangland style in the 1930s. He motioned for us to follow him up the stairs. My stomach flipped a bit as leaking brains plopped rhythmically onto the carpet. I wondered why he never seemed to run out of them.
We climbed to the second landing, and the ghost held open a large white door, motioning at us to move through. "He's in the office. Please go right in."
My ears popped when I stepped over the threshold and entered the hallway. The air changed to clean smelling and climate-controlled comfortable. I filled my lungs with the fresh oxygen, but still felt like I needed a scalding hot shower to scrub the dank hotel smog off my body. Even Frankie looked relieved to be away from the hotel's grotesquerie.
Bertrand, of course, had the cleaned-up wing of the hotel. There were no spirits haunting his section, and the place had recently went through a pristine renovation. The hallway was stark white, with the mold accents painted in gold. The thick white carpet was shockingly spotless, so I scuffed my dirty boots deeper into the plush. Glancing back, I saw the dirt I tracked in disappear into the thick wool. Demon magic was even better than a maid.
We stopped at a closed door about halfway down the hallway. I turned the cut crystal knob and we walked into a circular anteroom that led into Bertrand's office. There was an overly muscled goon standing guard — he was bursting out of his suit jacket, and his neck was just way too thick to even entertain the idea of a tie. An Uzi machine gun was strapped around his expansive chest.
"Bertrand needs a doorman?" Frankie snarked, his mouth caught somewhere between and laugh and a sneer.
"That's Mayor Bertrand to you, Fanger," the guard said. His gravelly voice and black, menacing eyes screamed demon. He shoved Frankie against the wall and patted him down with more than a little gusto, causing Frankie to fang out a bit. He simply asked me to remove my jacket, with an apology at that, probably because Tavio didn't want me manhandled.
It was stupid for Tavio and Bertrand to trust me, but I wasn't carrying anyway. What good were my weapons against a demon? And anything more than a cross would probably set off some sort of Mephistophelean alarm system. I bet Bertrand was hooked up with some crazy demon tech. I made a mental note to ask Darcy if demon tech even existed.