by Karen Greco
"Clearly," she said, her gaze holding all of the judgment of a posse of middle school mean girls. I scowled and shoved past her to join Frankie in the living room.
Frankie was on the couch, looking uncomfortable in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and nothing else. I glanced at his bare chest, the first time I'd ever really seen him that exposed. I averted my eyes quickly and masked my surprise to see that it was a field of scarred skin from centuries of getting nicked by blessed weapons. Vampires could heal, sure, but wounds from anything consecrated left a battleground. The realization that Frankie wasn’t totally invincible felt heavy. Frankie didn't notice my unease since his focus was on Max, who looked impeccable in a fitted charcoal suit, the shoulders pulling slightly at his bulging muscles.
A smile tugged at the sides of my mouth. Did clothes-horse Frankie feel inferior? That was a first.
"I hope you didn't dress up on our account," Max said, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes inched along my body. I sensed Mary Jane tense as she noticed that his expression wasn't exactly critical. Score one for the misfits.
"Nope," I said, irritated by the Barbie and Ken dolls standing in my kitchen. "I did it for Frankie."
My muscular thighs tensed as Max’s eyes continued to rake over me. My fangs protruded slightly, my discomfort level rising as he assessed me like a prize cow at a county fair. Asshole.
Frankie sat up, his hands balled into fists, and his eyes glowed their eerie blue.
"Boys, please." My grandfather stepped in between them. "We have a prison to break into."
My face went hot with embarrassment, and I tugged my t-shirt down lower.
Max averted his eyes and cleared his throat. "I snatched some ID cards that will get you into the prison."
Mary Jane's cool voice chimed in. "It's a computerized swipe system that opens the exterior as well as interior doors."
"All of them?" I asked.
"These particular guards have just about all access," Max explained. "There's one section of the prison off-limits to everyone except Leila and her inner sanctum."
"And that inner sanctum would be?" Frankie asked. His eyes still glowed.
"Kittie, for one," Max said. "And a bodyguard borrowed from Bertrand."
I raised my eyebrows. "Bertrand? He's playing both sides?"
"No," Mary Jane bristled. "Jacko is a plant. He reports everything back to us."
"Leila's not stupid," Gramps interjected. "Why did she allow one of Bertrand's men to be that close?"
Max shrugged. "Can't say."
My grandfather turned to me. "Don't trust that."
I nodded in agreement and then looked at Max. "Hand over the cards."
"Bertrand's not playing both sides," he reiterated, snapping the cards against the palm of his hand. "There is one problem."
He dropped them on the counter and slid the cards towards me. I snatched them up and the faces of two bulky guys stared back at me. "You think? Frankie and I can't pass for these muscle heads."
"And there's facial recognition software running to get into the more sensitive areas of the prison," Mary Jane added, her voice clipped. "And that includes your good doctor's cell."
"So basically, you brought us nothing," I said, sliding the plastic cards back towards her. Dammit.
Max pushed them back at me. "Best I could do."
"You can figure out the rest," Mary Jane said, her voice saccharine. "You’re clever. We have faith in you."
"Jesus, this is just like talking to Bertrand," I muttered, swallowing down my anger. Blood Ops was operating under the thumb of the demon.
"You're a right git," Frankie said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "How in bloody hell are we supposed to get into a facility with facial recognition scanning?"
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Maybe Darcy can hack in and trick the cameras?" I tried.
"Darce is good, but that seems a stretch," Frankie said.
"Pfft to your technology," Gramps said. "I have a spell that can change your appearance."
I rolled my eyes. "Like that potion from Harry Potter?"
"It's no potion," he snapped. "And what’s a Harry Potter?"
I shook my head. Mexico wasn’t devoid of global pop culture, but Gramps certainly was. "If it's not a potion, what is it then?"
He grinned. "Only the best kind of magic. An illusion."
10
Frankie laughed at me for a good three minutes, then continued to chuckle as we bounced around the back of Gramps’ old school "shaggin' wagon," a 1970s-era Chevy van tricked out for the psychedelic revolution.
"I could laugh at you, too, you know," I snapped, rubbing the ridiculous high-and-tight haircut I now sported. My patience wore thinner and thinner these days.
"You keep threatening to cut your hair," he teased, his grin lopsided. I crossed my arms and stewed in the backseat.
With a short chant and a wave of his hand, Gramps turned Frankie and me into a pair of steroid-bloated goons to match the ID cards Max pinched. At least my goon had a head of hair. Frankie was the bald one.
Gramps said the spell was an illusion, but I didn't think that the illusion applied to the person he spelled. I wiggled in my shag carpet covered seat and shifted my new pair of balls to the other side.
"How the hell do you guys live with this?" I muttered.
"Quit your bitching," Gramps barked as he pulled the van over. "We're about a half mile out. You two will have to walk the rest of the way."
"And watch how you walk," Max cut in. "These two idiots are so overbuilt they practically waddle."
"Yes, figured on that," Frankie said, his gate awkward as he stepped away from the van to make room for my boxy build to climb out.
"Remember, you have no earpieces, no communication with the outside whatsoever," Max added. "Get in, get the intel, get out."
"Preferably before the enchantment wears off," Frankie added.
"I know the spell," I snapped.
"Steroids make you cranky," he spat back.
I shoved past him. "Speak for yourself."
"Both of you best focus," Gramps warned from the driver’s seat. "And that goes double for you, nieta. If that spell wears off, you need to be ready to recast it. And fast."
He gunned the engine and peeled away, leaving Frankie and me at the side of the highway just as the sun breached the horizon.
"These blokes go to work bloody early," Frankie grumped as we plodded through the thicket of brush that led to the back of the prison parking lot. This small forest of overgrown shrubs acted as a not-terribly-effective sound barrier from the highway. However, it gave us decent cover to slip into the employee parking lot.
We found our way to the lot and waddled up to the front gate. The half-asleep guard was so involved in his giant yawn that he barely glanced at us as he buzzed us into the prison. Frankie and I schlepped down the dank hallway, the florescent lights flickering above us, their irritating hum cutting in and out. An inhuman scream came from inside the prison walls, setting my teeth on edge.
"Morning, Barry. Ronny," a guard waved as he walked past us towards the door. "You guys picked a crap day to come in early. The natives were restless last night."
Frankie stopped abruptly. "Yeah?" His voice was Bronx nasal. I cringed. The Rhode Island accent had a particular sound, and whatever he just bleated out wasn't it. "What happened?"
"You hear that scream?" the guard asked.
"Who didn't?" Frankie asked, shifting his accent, this time overdoing his Boston twang. I gave him a quick nudge, but he ignored me.
"You okay, Ronny?" the guard asked. Frankie cleared his throat and nodded. The guard shrugged. "It's been like that. Weird screams, all night. And howling."
"Howling?" I blurted out, covering my feminine pitch with a quick cough. The damn illusion spell didn't extend beyond the visual.
"You two getting sick?" the guard asked, making his fingers into a mock cross and wielding it at us. If he only knew. "Keep your di
stance. I'm out of sick days. Anyhow, it's like there's a pack of dogs behind the walls."
"Any idea where it's coming from?" I asked, forcing my voice deeper.
"No idea. It's all echoes," the guard said. He gave me a funny look. "Say, what's with you guys today?"
"Damn, I hope it's not the flu," Frankie said, developing a sudden hacking cough that he aimed right at the guy.
"Jesus, what did I say? Stay the hell away from me!" Our new friend backed away from us right quick, pulling his shirt up over his mouth as if that would protect him from rogue germs. He waved for us to go through. "Good luck in there today."
We both returned a friendly wave and then headed deeper into the prison.
"Just had to stop for a quick chat, didn't you?" I muttered.
"And what's wrong with that?" he asked. "We just got valuable intel."
"Intel," I scoffed.
"They've got the werewolves," Frankie said. "We didn't know that for sure when we walked in."
"Dogs. They've got dogs."
"You really think they’re dogs? This is a prison, not an animal shelter."
"Fine, let's say they have werewolves," I said. "We don't know where they’re being kept. And right now, we need locations. In addition to knowing who. Or what."
Four more guards walked past, giving us the requisite head nods. Then we were at our first locked door that required the key card. Frankie pulled out his card and swiped. He leaned against the wall and looked at me, flashing a confident smile.
That's when the alarm screamed.
The look of shock that spread on his face nearly sent me into a fit of laughter. Instead, I bit my lip and pretended to look just as confused as the guards rallied by the commotion.
"What the hell?" shouted the middle-aged guard at the head of the group of seven that raced towards us. Beads of sweat broke out along my forehead.
Frankie bellowed back, "That's what I'm sayin'!"
"Damn thing!" The aging guard swiped his own card in the machine and then punched in several numbers. "If you don't look dead at the damn thing, it goes haywire. Happened to me just the other day. Pain in the ass."
"Giant pain in the ass," Frankie echoed in agreement as the door buzzed open. I darted through it, but Frankie took his sweet ass time, kicking the door jam and muttering about faulty technology.
"Yo, Ronny!" the guard yelled after us. "Your wife didn't pack you a lunch today?"
"My lunch?" Frankie stopped, confounded for a moment by the question.
"Yeah, you know lunch. She usually sends you with a lunch box the size of a suitcase." The guard wheezed out a laugh.
"Nah," Frankie called over his shoulder. "I let her sleep in this morning."
The door slammed shut, but not before I caught the guard's confused expression.
"Can the chitchat, Frankie," I muttered as we lumbered through the labyrinthine hallways, following the shrill screams that echoed down the stone corridors.
"You just don't understand the bro factor," he chided me.
I grabbed his overgrown bicep, bringing both of us to a halt. "Bro factor?"
He gave my shoulder a small shove to keep us moving. "Yes, bro factor. You are not a bro, ergo, you would not understand."
"I am a bro at the moment," I muttered, shifting my newly acquired sacks as they knocked against each other. I finally understood the appeal of tighty whities.
We hit a crossroads, ending our conversation. We were now in the heart of the prison and had to make a decision. More screams travelled down the hallway to our left.
"To the noise, or away?" Frankie asked.
"When have we ever run from screaming?" I asked. "I'm not about to change that. Are you?"
Even through the pudgy face, the grin I got in agreement was pure Frankie.
We went left and hustled down the hallway. At the end was another locked door. This time I swiped with Barry's ID and faced the facial recognition scanner full on. Expecting alarm bells to sound again, I held my breath until I heard the lock slide open.
"Nice one," Frankie mumbled as we stepped into the cellblock.
We entered the wing. The cells were pressed against the walls and ran up two stories, with an expanse of nothing in the middle save for a catwalk. A series of chairs were bolted into the cement floor on the ground level. The seats had clamps at the arms and legs to hold prisoner's wrists and ankles. Judging from the gleam, they were pure silver, perfect to weaken a vampire or werewolf, beings who were strong enough to break through the restraints. Blood spatter covered the painted grey cement floor.
The cells were locked with the exception of one. The prisoner was strapped into the chair, and three guards hovered around him, each slicing into his chest with intricate cuts. I grunted at Frankie and gave a short nod to the scene. I thought the guy in the chair was part of the werewolf pack that once worked for Leila, bringing the Beta-Vamps a tainted blood supply. But making an accurate identification was difficult when the captive was partially obscured and wearing a standard prison jumpsuit. The man's skin hissed and smoked each time the blade carved into it, which told me he was definitely werewolf. The guy was out cold, but suddenly exploded awake with bloodcurdling screams before passing out again. The other prisoners cowered in their cells, pressing themselves as far back as possible in a bid not to be noticed.
Another guard stood apart, holding a sheet of paper and surveying the work. He turned towards us when we walked in. His ID badge had the name Robards.
"Barry, maybe can you figure out these damn glyphs," he grumbled, thrusting the paper at me.
I took a look at the crude drawing in my hand and then glanced at the werewolf strapped to the chair.
"Not working, eh?" Frankie covered for me while I gaped at the paper, my mind processing through the rudimentary sketches, struggling to figure out what the hell they were after.
My own knowledge of runes was minimal at best, but based on the symbols drawn on the paper, they were trying to extract the wolf from the man.
"I'd just as soon kill the freaks, but boss lady wants them carved up first," Robards grumbled. "But I'll be damned if they don't all turn out like that one when we get those symbols on them."
He pointed to the cell to our right, and I caught my breath when my head swerved. A half-formed wolf cowered in the corner. Human-like legs were attached to a furry torso, and her not-quite-transformed face still held human traits. Her body was twisted, bones clearly cracked without having fully formed into a wolf, rendering her practically crippled. A low growl came from her throat and she curled her lips in a snarl, showing impressive teeth, that petered out into a sustained whimper.
I swallowed the gore that rose in my throat and turned my attention to the werewolf in the chair. Coarse animal hair sprouted on the tops of his hands. He struggled to keep the transformation from happening.
"So what do you think, Barry?" Robards asked. "You're skilled at dealing with this oooga-booga shit. What's the problem?"
"Oh, I dunno about skilled," I said, stalling. I was hoping to tease out a bit more information on the guy I was impersonating.
"You shitting me? You pulled the goddamn magic out of one witch and transferred it to a human. I mean, you couldn't do it twice, but that was still some crazy-ass shit."
Pulling the magic out of a witch? Turning a werewolf by force? They had to be working with more than runes to run these sorts of experiments.
Robards looked at me expectantly. "So? Waddaya think?"
An idea hit me. "You take this to the old man yet?"
The guard looked baffled. "The old man?"
"Yeah, you know, old guy, Irish brogue," Frankie chimed in.
"Boss lady lets you talk to him?" Robards asked. His stance shifted and he spread his legs wide, fists on hips, taking up more space. It looked like a giant pissing contest was about to commence. "She gave you clearance to go into his cell block?"
"You don't have clearance?" I asked.
"Maybe you have access and y
ou just don't know," Frankie jumped in. "Have you even tried?"
"Take a break," Robards barked at his subordinates, and then turned on his heel. We followed him out of the cellblock, and I heard the lucky werewolf whimper in relief as we walked past.
The guard walked at a fast clip down the hallway, bringing us back to the crossroads. Instead of heading down the other hallway, he turned to what appeared to be a dead end. A brush of his hand against it revealed a door that was enchanted to look like a stone wall. Robards opened the hidden portal. Sandwiched in the thick stone wall was a spiral staircase. Of course, its only direction was down. Robards pushed his bulk into the narrow passage, and Frankie and I followed, turning our oversized bodies sideways to better fit. Water leaked from the ancient stone as we descended, and a musky damp smell thickened the air. We came to another locked door at the bottom. Robards swiped his ID card and waited for the scanner to recognize his piggish face. My stomach flip-flopped when the door buzzed open.
We walked inside a space flooded with florescent lights. Banks of computers were all around the room. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets flanked one wall, and based on what I saw, they housed enough weapons to arm several platoons, both of the human and supernatural sort. A huge reinforced glass window looked into a cellblock. This one was smaller than the one upstairs, and the people — the missing witches, I assumed — housed in it were all strapped to hospital beds. Three prison guards were glued to computer monitors, barely reacting when we entered.
Frankie stood with his legs wide open, mimicking the stance of most of the guards, taking up as much space as possible. "Where's the Irish bastard?" he asked.
Robards nodded towards the back of the room. There was yet another door, locked with the same computerized mechanism, as well as three additional steel bars barricading it.
Frankie gave a low whistle. "Damn. That's a lot of iron."
"He's a sly old goat," Robards said. "The computer locks couldn't hold him in."
I snickered at the idea that locks could hold an ancient Druid in a cell.