by Beth Dranoff
From what I could tell, the Yu-Gi-Oh! drink connection was actually part of some kind of city-wide scavenger quest for Pride-friendly experiences. The Swan Song wasn’t physically near the bars and clubs that catered to the hetero-adjacent crowd, but considering the range of clientele we got in here it’s not like a bunch of norms were going to faze us no matter who they fooled around with. We were safe. Relatively speaking.
Still, between the techno and the weird drink orders and the part where it was getting close to my getting-off-work-and-going-for-a-run time, I was definitely tracking on a minute-by-minute basis.
Something I didn’t recall doing when I was with the Agency. Don’t think about that. Owain wasn’t wrong when he pointed out how I was wasting my training and education pouring liquid inebriation for anyone who paid. Had it bothered me before he’d said something? Sure, I guess. On my dark days. But the part where my work didn’t tend to give me new nightmares made up for a lot. I could look at myself in the mirror and not hate the person I saw staring back at me.
Could I go back there and still live with myself?
Could I live with myself if I didn’t?
* * *
This time, the run was uneventful. We ran, we flicked water at each other; there were birds and rabbits and mice. Nobody crashed our party, and I was able to take a break from my indecision for a couple of hours.
Bliss.
* * *
The moon was starting its downward descent as we wrapped things up. Sam had something to take care of with Anshell, or maybe he was still bothered by our last conversation. You know, the one where I’d admitted to residual feelings for Owain, despite him having ripped out my still-beating heart with his bare hands and kicking it to the curb as he left. I knew I shouldn’t care about Owain anymore. Just as I knew what Sam really wanted was me, and all to himself. I probably shouldn’t have been so honest. Sam wouldn’t meet my eyes now, keeping his distance all of a sudden. Giving me the nod instead of a good-night kiss before we headed back to our separate vehicles.
Human form reminded my muscles that my mind was still restless. I needed to talk with someone who didn’t have a vested interest in the outcome, and who was probably still awake. Not Sandor. And Lynna was up north in Collingwood on a shoot until tomorrow.
Good thing I had options.
* * *
Jon kissed me on both cheeks, Euro style, before folding himself into the chair opposite me in the all-night café on Charles Street. Just a few blocks west of the Guy Watching Central strip, the heart of Pride celebrations, the restaurant was almost completely full. Almost everyone seemed like they were on something, fingers and palms and thighs touching over and under their tables around us.
My vampire companion licked his lips, savoring the energy, before focusing back in on me again.
“What are you having?”
“Chai soy latte,” I said. “Extra cinnamon sprinkles on the foam. Thinking about a side of poutine with something extra for protein on top. What can I get you?”
Jon waved over the waitress, who suddenly found our table irresistible and the man sitting at it even more so; she couldn’t stop staring at him now that she’d noticed his existence. I’d forgotten the impact of Jon’s charm on the unsuspecting. We hadn’t made it out much lately.
His drink, a steaming cider with a stick of cinnamon, appeared in less time than it took to brew my latte. Guess someone was motivated. The poutine with two forks arrived shortly after.
“What happened?”
“Am I that transparent?”
Jon eyed the poutine, then me, raising his eyebrow to punctuate his point.
Oh. “I guess I am.” I forced out a small laugh I wasn’t feeling.
Jon waited as I poked at my curd-laden mound, swirling a fry in the gravy before finally sticking it in my mouth and chewing.
“I’m thinking of working with the Agency again.”
Jon blinked. I’d said something unexpected. “Why?” He didn’t know much of my history, but he’d heard stories of what they could do to a supe. “Life’s gotten too boring?”
“Sure, that’s it. I want to go back and risk my life for a cause I’m not sure I believe in because, hey, it’s better than switching up my workout routine. Makes perfect sense.”
“Then why?” Jon leaned forward. “You won’t be safe there. They don’t know what you are now, correct?”
“Of course not.”
“Tell me then. Why would you risk yourself? Is the money that good?” It had been a while since I’d seen Jon actually get this worked up about something. He was vibrating.
“Yeah.” I reconsidered. “I mean, yeah, the money is good, but that’s not why.”
I told him what happened in the attic. The maps, and my father. How things were getting weirder and I needed information from the only source I could think of who might be able to help. If he felt like it. If I could create a scenario where maybe I trusted him, even if only temporarily.
“You think you can get answers there if they believe you’re one of them?”
“Yeah.”
“And your old partner, your ex—what was his name, Owain?” I nodded. “He’d have your back?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe?”
I know. Glowing endorsement of fealty and fidelity. But I didn’t lie to Sam, and I wasn’t about to start with Jon.
“You’re right though,” Jon said. “Fastest way to get the information you need is from the inside out. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I’m not thrilled about it either,” I said. “But at least its freelance. No contractual obligation to mortgage my soul for a millennia or anything.”
“And your first born?” OK, now Jon was joking. I was pretty sure he was joking.
“Nah, they don’t do that anymore.”
The silence stretched, companionable, each of us lost in our thoughts. Then:
“You coming over later?” Because there was that between us, no matter what else was going on.
“Not tonight,” I replied. Maybe I’d regret it.
Then I remembered Jon was still seeing Claude, his not-so-ex.
Maybe I wouldn’t regret it at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was daylight, and coffee. Should be safe.
Of course, this was the Agency we were talking about.
“You’ve read the paperwork?”
“Yeah.” I’d skimmed it. Lots of wherefores and heretofores and non-compete clauses that I’d scratched out and initialed on the version I’d printed. Because yeah, sure, I was going to sign away my rights and protections based on one of their boilerplate agreements. I was trusting that way.
Right.
Owain put out his hand for the document and started reading, pausing every minute or two for a sip of coffee. Espresso, no sugar. Tough guy. But then, caffeine wasn’t about the joy for him—it was medicinal, practical, and he’d determined it to be the fastest way between tired and awake.
As he read, I entertained myself with sugar packets and wooden swizzle sticks. I’d gotten the frothiest of café lattes, sprinkled the foam with brown sugar that melts into a crumbled shell, and now I was bored. It was either that or notice new flecks of grey nestled into the red curls cropped short above Owain’s ears. Laughter lines around his eyes etched deeper than before, and a scar the size of my thumbprint under that jawline I used to be able to trace from memory in the dark. The way my chest clenched when he glanced my way. How part of me still waited for him and wanted him back even though I knew we weren’t right together anymore.
Better to build forts out of paper, sugar and disposable cutlery.
I had a good bridge system going and was working my way up to a crystalline catapult defense when Owain put the
stack of paper down again.
“Have you looked over the job?” If he noticed what I’d been doing, he opted to keep his opinions to himself. “You’re briefed on the target?”
“No.” Whoops. Should I have broken the seal? “I thought we had to settle terms before I was privy to those kinds of details.”
He chuckled, took a sip of his murky caffeination to cover it.
“I forget that you’ve been gone awhile and need to get your clearance levels back,” Owain said. “You’re right—even if you tried to break the seal, all you’d see would be a supermarket flyer PDF. I’ve got to put this through first.”
“Does this mean you’re my handler?” Yeah, that would work well. My ex knowing all the quirky details of my current life circumstances. “Or are you just my first point of contact?”
“Higher ups are still working that out,” he said, meeting my eyes. Evaluating. My own eyes looking back at him were cool, or at least I hoped they were but who knows. Could we work together again? Really? Someone somewhere thought this was a good idea?
“Any higher up in particular?” Don’t say Ezra don’t say Ezra don’t say Ezra.
“Was there someone in particular you thought would care?” Owain’s voice was deceptively even. I knew his tells the way he knew mine—he was fishing for any triggers I may have developed in the lapsed years between us. Like I’d tell him.
“See much of Ezra these days?” Fuck it. Sometimes the best response was the real one.
“Of course,” Owain replied, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t? He was your mentor—and you’re in the same city. You two haven’t kept in touch?”
How was I supposed to respond to that? The Ezra we knew may or may not be dead? Or that he could maybe shrug into and out of a flesh suit that looked like his old self but sometimes used the voice of his long-dead friend Stuart? Oh, wait, maybe Stuart wasn’t dead either. That some version of Ezra had worked with an entity named Alina, who’d been raised in a bleed and feed ritual four months ago, and together they’d taken turns torturing me? It was all very confusing.
So I shrugged instead of explaining.
“We see each other occasionally,” I said.
“Lots more opportunity for you to catch up soon. I’ll let you know once this has been processed, and we can talk specifics.” Owain downed the last of his coffee in a single gulp. “If there’s nothing else?”
“Actually, there is.” Could I ask? And if not Owain, then who? “Have you ever heard of something called Zarcon Loubitz? Or Dog’s Breath Passage?”
“That’s pretty random,” Owain said, leaning back again. Suddenly less interested in leaving than he’d been thirty seconds earlier. “And no, I haven’t. Why d’you ask?”
“Found some old letters of my father’s, and he mentioned those. Made no sense to me but I thought maybe you’d know more.”
He nodded, understanding without having the panoramic view. Some things he still remembered.
“Like maybe they’re connected to his accident,” Owain said. Not a question. “And you thought I might know something more about it, what with me being a Company man myself. Yes?”
I nodded.
“Even if I did—and I don’t—you’d need clearance levels to find that kind of thing out.” He gave me a look that involved raised eyebrows and a faint smile to soften that edge. “You’ll be wanting to be careful who you ask once you’re back with the Agency. Last thing you need is for history to repeat itself.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is there something I need to know?”
But then Owain was all charm and brogue and white teeth and that c’mon let’s get into trouble for a while grin. I wasn’t getting anything else out of him tonight.
* * *
I’d noticed that exercising more this close to the full moon helped me control any residual restless, trouble-causing energy. You know, the kind that might out me as something other than what I needed to be when re-entering the belly of the Agency beast: normal.
Owain said he needed a couple of hours to put everything through. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and already the pavement was shimmering in heat that was only going to get worse. Sure, this was Canada, home of the winters that made you want to hide out for five months until the snow melted and the sun did something other than make you squint. But June in Toronto was rarely a moderate experience either, with consistent daytime temperatures over 30°C (86°F), and this year was coming in right on steaming cue.
I could have gone back to my apartment, showered, maybe taken a nap. Except there was Gus and the smell of his feet and, oh yeah, the possibility I might let him know I’m back in with the Agency and any judgments he might choose to share on the topic. Not that I cared what he thought. Still, I wasn’t in the mood to rationalize or defend my actions. Especially to him.
So I headed over to Hart House, adjunct to the University of Toronto downtown campus and home of my first Agency test with Ezra. My day pass got me access to the House’s exercise facilities, a saltwater pool with high glassed-in ceilings and the potential for ghosts wandering the halls. One of these days I should really spring for a membership. Still, after half an hour of jogging around the track, some weight training and then laps in the pool, the urge to be all I could change into subsided. Hallelujah.
It also helped me sift through the information I had so far. My father had been working on something that required maps with a cipher, and that cipher seemed connected to whatever he’d tattooed on my back. He’d either kept it from the Agency as a whole or it was uncommon knowledge—my proof of that was Owain’s blankness when I’d asked him about specific places mentioned on the maps. Sure it had been a gamble. Didn’t make it any less of a useful exercise.
Also didn’t mean Ezra was ignorant of the meaning, or the significance, of whatever my father had been working on. This casual contract arrangement with the Agency could still put me in Ezra’s crosshairs, even with other people watching; we were living in a post-truth reality where anything was possible. Even more so in the covert ops field.
I had to stop what I was doing—soaping my armpits—to put my palms flat against the beaded white tiles and concentrate on my breathing. Ezra was connected to Alina in my mind, and that part of my mind ran screaming from what it had seen. Breathe. It was just me, and water, and I was safe. For now. No. Focus. Counting backwards from one hundred; harder than you’d think. Then the alphabet as the water ran cold. Teeth chattering. Until my thoughts were my own again.
I rinsed off the last of my shampoo and stepped out of the enclosure. Oh yeah, becoming a double agent had been such a good plan.
But maybe evil Ezra was just the façade, and underneath it was my father’s old friend, the one who’d brought me jumbo sucker swirls as a kid. Looked out for me when I was starting out. It was possible that reality as I knew it was fluid, right?
If that was the case, though, then what was Ezra’s tie to Alina? And how was Alina connected with my father?
I’d missed three calls while sweating out my personal demons: Sandor, Anshell and Owain. The unholy trifecta of Dana Responsibilities.
Nothing from Sam.
Sandor had left a message asking me to come in for early afternoon, reminding me that I’d booked off as of 10 PM for tonight’s Pack run. Anshell was checking in—personally!—to see how contact with the Agency was going. Of course he already knew; it wasn’t the kind of thing even I’d keep from the Pack Alpha. And then, finally, Owain. Paperwork was filed and let’s get together to go over the assignment.
The snowball that was my life. Here’s hoping it didn’t crush me as it rolled down that hill of inexorability.
* * *
Sitting across from Owain in a boardroom surrounded by grey cubicles and flickering overhead fluorescence, I tried to remember why I was doing this. Curious about the gig, eve
n though I didn’t really want to work for the Agency again. I didn’t. Still, I wouldn’t mind being one step ahead of the bad guys for a change. Figure out who’s up to what from the inside, rather than standing on the other side of the door trying to see in through the reverse peephole.
Maybe this would be the time I kept the Agency from sucking the marrow from my soul.
I took the tablet Owain handed me, pressed my thumb against the flickering oval, and broke the seal.
Dumb fucking luck.
The target was my own diamond-spewing couch surfer under tusked nepotistic protection: Gus.
I realized Owain was watching my face for any kind of reaction, so I did my best to paste on a professional let’s get this done expression. But could I really take on this gig now that I knew who the target was?
The old Dana would say sure, why not. A demon was a demon. But now? Some of my closest friends and playmates were something decidedly other than norm. And that big blue guy crashing at my place as a favor to his brother—my boss, and also my friend—was maybe even sort of growing on me. OK, so it wasn’t super-nutrient-rich soil that sprouts green in like ten minutes. But it was there.
Plus, if I didn’t accept the contract, the Agency would put someone else on it. Even if I was super unproductive with my results—after all, it’d been a few years since I’d done any tracking—it could buy us all enough time to get Gus to safety, maybe even clear his name first.
Was I really going to double-cross the Agency and get away with it? The thought alone was fantasy magic land to the power of who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are? The part where I was still considering it notwithstanding suggested a grip on reality that was slipping into the same range as do-you-hear-voices-not-your-own? No way I could do this. Could I?
But what about the part where change can be effected better from within than without. What about that?