by Janene Wood
“I need some fresh air,” said Marc, stifling another yawn, “and some decent coffee.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Come with me, I know the perfect place.”
Pax advised his assistant they were going out for an hour and followed Marc to the lifts. Leo had authorized Marc’s use of a Bureau vehicle during his period of attachment, so Marc offered to drive. They didn’t speak much on the way down to the parking garage, but that changed as soon as they emerged into the daylight.
“Okay,” said Pax, “I’ve got a question for you. Actually I have a lot more than one, but I have to start somewhere. Who the hell are these ‘Alete’? They're evidently some sort of covert, militant group, but where did they come from and what is their purpose?”
Marc shifted slightly in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. “They’re an hereditary army of sorts, dedicated to keeping the peace in the wider community. They have certain unusual characteristics that are extremely effective in fighting a particular type of adversary; abilities that are passed from one generation to the next.” Usually, but not always, Marc reminded himself, recalling Makamu’s words from that fateful meeting three years ago If only one parent was Alete, it was possible their children might not be. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about this disturbing insight into his family dynamic, but he supposed it was hard to miss what you never had.
“What sort of characteristics?” asked Pax.
“For starters, they each have a gift…what you’d call a supernatural ability.”
“Right,” nodded Pax. “And according to her file, Anastazia Bouvré’s gift is the ability to make people do whatever the hell she wants, right?”
“Right. The gift of Compulsion.”
“It’s not much of a gift for the person on the receiving end,” commented Pax wryly.
“No,” said Marc absently, struck suddenly by something that should have occurred to him earlier. “If that actually is her gift, then how did she and her two friends get out of her apartment without us seeing them? We had eyes on the only exit the entire time. I assumed her gift was invisibility or teleportation or something of the sort, but now…”
“Maybe she’s an over-achiever and has two gifts,” suggested Pax.
Marc shook his head. “According to my information, that’s not possible.”
“And where exactly is your information coming from, may I ask?” asked Pax curiously.
“Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of Guardians?”
“Leo mentioned something about a Brotherhood in his briefing.”
“Guardians have been around almost as long as the Alete. Their function is primarily defensive, to protect the Alete.” Marc took a breath, bracing himself for his friend’s reaction. “That’s what I do. I'm a Guardian.”
Pax stared at him, incredulous. “That’s your super-secret, hush-hush job?”
Marc was amused by the look of dismay on Pax's face. “I'm only telling you because it relates to the case. We like to keep a low profile.”
Realising his mouth was agape, Pax snapped it shut. He looked straight ahead, staring at, but not seeing the road ahead. Frowning, he looked back at Marc. “And what is it, exactly, you’re protecting these Alete from?”
Marc took a deep breath. This was the difficult part. He wouldn’t blame Pax if he didn’t believe another word he said, but hoped his friend trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t ever lie about something so important. Thinking back, it wasn't until he saw proof with his own eyes that he himself had truly believed.
“From every evil thing,” he replied. “There are things in this world you can’t even begin to imagine existing. Nightmarish creatures that normal people can’t even see; creatures that suck the goodness from the souls of humans as easily as a newborn sucks milk from its mother’s teat. Spell-weavers with the power to command demons. Human pawns who have lost their humanity and obey the will of their demonic masters without even knowing they've surrendered their souls.”
He paused briefly to gauge Pax’s reaction, before adding, “I know it’s hard to believe without any sort of proof, but trust me, Shadowkind are real. They're everywhere. They exist because humans are weak and easily corruptible and because they no longer believe in God, let alone the devil. The dark one has always been quick to take advantage of unbelievers.”
Marc’s eyes burned with the fervor of a zealot, but there was no madness there, only truth. Pax was silent, mulling over what he’d been told and hopefully reconfiguring his mindset. Leo was right; open-mindedness was a definite prerequisite for this particular mission – though couldn’t that be said of any form of law enforcement, considering the types of things cops and other first responders were exposed to on a daily basis? No doubt Pax thought he had seen the best and worst the human race had to offer, but he was in for a surprise. Hopefully his natural curiosity and receptiveness to change would force him to consider Marc’s words rather than reject them out of hand.
“Okay, let's assume I believe you.” Pax said hesitantly, not committing himself. “Are you saying there's some sort of supernatural battle going on around us that I'm completely unaware of? That I can't even see?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying,” smiled Marc sympathetically, knowing how hard it was to get one’s head around the concept of demons coexisting with humans. “It's nothing new; it's been going on forever. The Alete have been slaying demons since Adam was thrown out of Eden and Guardians have been their shield and sword almost as long. If not for our combined efforts, evil would soon hold sway over the world, making us all slaves of Satan.”
“Christ Almighty! You're serious, aren't you? You believe all this shit... and Leo seems to as well.”
“They're real, Pax,” Marc insisted. “I see them everywhere I go. It would be useful if you could too, but I'm glad you can't. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”
Pax shook his head and looked out the window. “The Truth According to Marc Webb, huh?” he muttered uneasily. The rest of the drive went by in silence.
Marc's eyes were glued to the road as he forced himself not to be distracted by the multitude of unearthly creatures walking alongside their unsuspecting human hosts, feeding on their base desires and selfish yearnings. Ignoring them had become easier over time, but they still unsettled him.
A Fateful Meeting
Yawning widely, Kate raised a weary hand to cover her gaping mouth. Utterly exhausted, she pressed the button for the ground floor again, hoping to hurry things along. A small girl of seven or eight, clutching the hand of a much older woman, most likely her grandmother, looked up at her with wide eyes. Glad of the distraction, Kate wondered at the reason for their visit to the hospital. Perhaps the little girl's mother had just had a baby, she thought brightly, smiling down at the child.
Realistically though, it was more likely the reason was no cause for celebration. Sickness, disease and death were a sad fact of life, as Kate had good reason to know. No family was immune. Kate hoped the child's mother was on the Maternity ward, not the Oncology ward.
The lift doors opened wide and the light-headedness Kate had been experiencing since leaving Sophie’s bedside in the children’s ward threatened to overwhelm her. Yawning again, she willed herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. There was no way she could go back to work just yet, not without resting for a while and recharging her batteries. If only she had taken Lorna’s advice and taken the time to eat something. She knew better! People were staring at her like she was a zombie. If she could just find a place to sit for a minute...
Without further warning, the world turned black and Kate crumpled to the floor. A crowd soon gathered around her, though she was unaware of the furor she had created. There were cries of “Get a doctor!” but no one made any move to do so. Finally, a woman in a blue Chanel pant-suit pushed through the throng and took charge.
The concerned stranger made a rapid assessment of Kate’s condition, checking her pulse and breathing an
d placing a gentle hand on her forehead to check for fever. Speaking soothingly, she patted Kate’s cheek until she began to stir. The crowd heaved a collective sigh of relief and began to disperse. A few gawkers remained, but the woman assured them all was well and urged them to go about their business. She motioned to a well-built, dark-skinned, young man hovering nearby. “Jaamir, would you mind…?”
With a silent nod, the muscular young man scooped Kate up easily into his arms. As he carried her across the lobby toward a largely unoccupied coffee-shop, Kate’s eyelids fluttered open.
“It’s all right, my dear,” the elegant woman reassured her. “You’ve had a bit of a turn, but you’ll soon be right as rain.”
Jaamir set Kate gently upon her feet and nodded an acknowledgment of her thanks before stepping back. Kate sat down gratefully at an empty table, still a little dizzy, but feeling better now that she wasn’t standing upright.
Much to Kate’s surprise, the woman also took a seat. Not that Kate was averse to sharing a cup of coffee with her; on the contrary, she was intrigued by the well-dressed woman and her handsome companion, who appeared to be her personal bodyguard. She was merely surprised that such an elegant, self-assured woman had nothing better to do than act as nurse-maid to a total stranger.
“How are you feeling, my dear?” the woman asked kindly.
“Much better, thank you. I’m Kate, by the way. Kate McDermott.” Kate offered her hand and took the opportunity to study the other woman properly. Her face had a timeless quality which made it impossible to judge her age accurately. Kate guessed she was somewhere between 35 and 50. Her hair was a dark, lustrous shade of mahogany, worn long but pinned back off her face to reveal a graceful neck and unlined forehead. The blue eyes that returned Kate’s interested appraisal were intelligent and forthright. Kate could tell she was used to being in charge, but was equally capable of compassion. Something about her touched a chord deep in her memory, but she couldn't put her finger on it. “Have we met before?”
Accepting Kate’s hand, the woman held it for a moment longer than necessary. Kate felt a strange tingle in the tips of her fingers as their flesh met, almost as if something tangible passed between them.
“I don't believe so,” replied the woman at last. “I'm very good with faces and would definitely remember yours. But I’m very pleased to meet you, Kate. You may call me Catherine,” she offered magnanimously. She signaled to a waitress, who had been glancing their way, fascinated by their unconventional arrival. “Tea and scones for two, my dear,” she ordered imperiously.
“I am a great believer in the restorative powers of tea,” Catherine explained easily, as the waitress wrote the order on her pad. “In all the world – and I assure you I’ve been to all four corners – there's no better pick-me-up than a cup of strong, sweet tea when one is feeling a little peaked.”
The waitress retreated to the kitchen with a sideways glance at Catherine’s burly bodyguard, who stood with his back to the wall, arms folded, surveying the lobby. Abruptly, he stepped forward, interrupting the two women.
“My lady,” began the young man, speaking with an unexpectedly deep voice that resonated from the depths of his chest. He was older than he had seemed at first glance; thirty at least. Catherine listened carefully as he whispered in her ear. Upon receiving a short nod of approval, Jaamir straightened and strode purposefully away. Kate wondered what had transpired to send him away so abruptly and watched his receding form until Catherine spoke again, distracting her.
“Well, my dear Kate,” said Catherine, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Do you have any idea what caused your untimely collapse?” The older woman studied her closely, apparently seeing something in her face or manner that intrigued her.
Kate returned her appraisal just as candidly. Catherine was unlike anyone she had ever met before. Self-assured, poised, empathetic... “Mmm, yes, I have an idea,” replied Kate enigmatically.
It quickly became clear she had no intention of elucidating, but Catherine didn’t seem to mind. “Well, it would be remiss of me if I didn't suggest you see a doctor. I can’t imagine it will be too difficult to find one around here,” she added wryly.
“That won't be necessary, but thank you.”
Catherine's eyes never left her face. “Forgive me for staring so rudely, Kate, but your eyes are quite remarkable. Such an extraordinary colour! Does that shade of violet run in your family, or are you a throw-back to some far-flung ancestor? Perhaps to one of the ancient Norse gods?” Catherine’s own blue eyes sparkled playfully. “What with your blonde hair and regal bearing, you would have fitted into their midst quite seamlessly.”
Kate laughed at the suggestion. Strangers often commented on her eyes, and not all of them were as polite as Catherine. “No,” she replied, “I’m the odd one out in my family. My brothers used to tease me about it when I was younger, telling me I was a changeling. They all have brown eyes and brown hair,” she explained.
Catherine looked intrigued. “And your parents?”
Kate tilted her head to one side, grimacing slightly. “I can't vouch for my father, as I've never met the bas... the er, gentleman in question, but my mother’s eyes were brown.” Kate felt her cheeks colour. What was she thinking? She hadn’t intended to say what she did, but the words slipped out before she was aware they had even entered her head. Her father wasn’t a subject Kate liked to think about, much less discuss, even with kindly strangers she would never see again after today. But there was something about this woman that invited confidences.
“I’m sorry about your father,” sympathised Catherine, with no hint of judgment in her voice. “Relationships can be tricky, especially when children are involved.”
Kate smiled wanly and against her better judgment found herself confiding in the older woman. “My mother was adamant he wasn’t worth the trouble of getting to know, and after what she told me, I decided I was better off without him.”
Her mother had made no secret of the fact that her relationship with Kate's father had been a tempestuous one, nor that she had loved him with a blind passion. That was standard operating procedure for Jane: fiery, all-consuming, brief encounters, which burnt themselves out quickly and irrevocably. With the exception of Frank, of course, but then Frank was exceptional.
Jane had been far more reluctant to admit the other truth: that she had stayed with Kate’s father after he hit her – and that he hit her more than once. The final toll was several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a plethora of bruises, black eyes and split lips – and a premature delivery. The last time he lashed out, she had been eight months pregnant with Kate. In a drunken rage, he knocked her down and kicked her repeatedly, causing her to cramp and pass out on the kitchen floor. It was finally enough to bring Jane to her senses and throw him out.
It was only Kate's determination to learn about her father that finally forced Jane to come clean with the unvarnished truth, lest Kate take matters into her own hands and search him out herself, which she was entirely capable of doing, even at only twelve years old.
Kate didn’t tell Catherine any of that, though. There was a limit to how much of herself she was willing to share, even with someone as easy to talk to as this winsome woman. It amazed her she had confided as much as she had.
“Mum begged me not to look for him, and under the circumstances, I promised I never would. Even after she died, I kept my promise. The only thing I know about him is his first name.” Richard. Kate was discomfited by the admission, but the look she gave Catherine was challenging, daring her to suggest she was any sort of gullible fool.
“In my experience,” responded Catherine gravely, “mothers generally know best about these things. I think you were wise to heed her advice.”
Kate let her breath out slowly and relaxed once more, weirdly relieved by Catherine’s response.
“It must have been difficult losing you mother, especially with no father to lean on. How old were you when she died?” asked Cat
herine gently.
“Twelve,” replied Kate evenly, deliberately distancing herself from her memories. It happened soon after she learned the unpalatable truth about her father. She had felt doubly abandoned when her mother died, so soon after her hopes for a father had been dashed. Jane's death brought an abrupt end to her childhood – to all their childhoods; Simon's, Sam's and Jack's as well – but she wasn’t going to think about that now. If she gave her feelings more than a cursory examination, she knew the tears would start. And they were difficult to turn off once they began. She preferred to spare herself the humiliation of a second public exhibition.
“It was hard, but at least I had my brothers. We were lucky that Simon, my eldest brother, was old enough to be our guardian. It would have been a hundred times worse if we’d been separated and sent to live with strangers.” If it hadn’t been for Simon’s over-developed sense of responsibility, that’s exactly what would have happened. Most 18-year-old boys would have run a mile when faced with such a daunting responsibility, but Simon was better than that, and he continued to prove it every day of his life.
“Your brother must be a remarkable young man,” said Catherine.
“You have no idea,” replied Kate seriously, gazing into the distance. The three of them owed Simon so much, not just for keeping the family together, but for the sacrifices he had made, putting aside his own dreams for the thankless task of raising his younger siblings.
They were interrupted by the return of their waitress, and also Jaamir, looking vindicated. Kate leaned back in her chair to make room for the array of tea things being arranged upon the table, and watched curiously as the bodyguard made his report. Catherine and Jaamir spoke quietly for a minute, after which Jaamir handed over a small black object and a business card.
“Kate, do you know a man named Douglas Pritchard?” asked the older woman.