“Your boobs look fine to me.” I glance over my shoulder at the creature, struggling in the cage in the back.
“Funny. Implantable identification.” He drives through the parking lot and to the dark side of the building, where he backs the van up to the door.
“That’s fucking big brother shit.” I’m horrified that Marcus would suggest it, and that Leon didn’t tell him hell no right off the bat.
“It’s just talk.” Leon turns off the engine and pockets the keys. “Come on.”
We get out of the van and I toss my ruined jacket into the passenger seat as Marcus appears, lit up from behind in the glow from inside The Center. “You got it?” His eyes, even in the dark, sparkle with excitement. “Can I see it? Is it new?” He’s already at the back of the truck, peering over Leon’s shoulder.
“New to me.” I idly swipe at a scratch I didn’t even know I had. A long angry red line runs all the way down from my shoulder to my elbow. I probably have more I don’t even know about yet. Adrenaline does that to me; things happen and I don’t even notice in the moment.
“Ho-lee shit.” Marcus is halfway inside the back of the van, helping Leon pull the cage out. “I’ve never seen one like this either!” There’s wonder in his voice. “It’s gorgeous. Definitely some canine qualities, but I swear there’s some porcine genes working here too!” He turns to me. “Amazing. Are you hurt, Thea?” He sees the scratch on my arm, then points to my cheek.
I reach up to feel the familiar sting of another injury. “Fuck,” I mutter. “This one’s going to kill my modeling career.”
Leon chuckles as he brings a dolly around to the van. The three of us manipulate the cage onto it.
Marcus pulls a huge syringe with a hypodermic needle attached out of his pocket. “Good night,” he whispers, then stabs the animal through the bars of the cage, hard and fast in the neck. It struggles for a few more moments before uttering a sigh and falling limp. Marcus reaches through the bars and pets its mangy fur.
It’s weird to see Marcus out of his lab coat. Right now, in the middle of the night, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Normally he enjoys dressing like a stereotypical scientist, and I think it’s kind of more out of vanity than necessity.
Every day he slips his white coat, monogrammed with his last name—Korr—over his suit. He’s about fifty, medium build, with dark hair and really cool blue eyes that look even brighter in his rugged face. It’s the face of someone who spent years in the sun, and though he doesn’t talk a lot about his past, he’s alluded to a life in Hawaii. Maui, I think. Mostly, though, he keeps his personal life private. I get that. I do IT too.
“You need any more help here?” I’m dying to go home and shower. I smell like wild animal and sweat. And there’s still the lingering scent of bad sex clinging to my body.
“No. I’ve got this.” Marcus takes my hands in his, staring into my eyes. “Thea, you are exceptional. I don’t know how to express the gratitude I have for everything you do for us.”
“Money?” I pull away from him and put one hand on my hip, shooting him a cocky look.
He throws back his head and laughs. “A bonus. You’ve got it.”
“Fuck. I need money too.” Leon laughs. “I didn’t know I just had to ask. You ready, Thea?”
We walk to the van. I’m tired. And I stink. And I need a drink. But I make Leon stop at Kay’s Bakery, that’s just opening at 5:00 a.m., to buy some fresh muffins to leave outside old Mrs. Bachman’s door.
The animal is pacing around, but less frantic than I’d have thought, which probably has something to do with the enclosure Marcus put it in. It’s big, with glass walls. Probably bigger than my living room, though that’s not saying much. A stream runs through it, water constantly filtered and fresh. Lush bushes grow out of real dirt, providing ample places for it to hide.
Marcus has spent a lot on making sure the animals we bring in are well cared for.
“I groomed him before he woke up. A little at least. He had some wicked dreadlocks growing.” Marcus strokes his own cleanly-shaved chin as he watches the animal lope around.
In broad daylight—or artificial yet perfectly-simulated daylight—it’s apparent how unusual this animal is. Brown fur so dark it’s almost black covers most of that strange gray skin I saw last night, but the animal’s lost a lot of hair. Its skin is wrinkled, and blueish veins run like a road map over its body. Yellow eyes dart back and forth as the creature shoots looks at Marcus and me. It opens its mouth slightly, growling and showing its long teeth. Perfect for piercing skin and sucking blood.
It’s pacing like a wolf, on four legs. But sometimes it switches to a strange back leg only canter, and I realize that’s probably so it can use its front legs to help hold down a creature it’s after.
“It’s really kind of ugly,” I mutter.
“It’s fucking magnificent.” Marcus can’t keep his eyes off it. “Do you . . . feel it . . . now?” He doesn’t often ask about my abilities. Like the topic is off the table. Inappropriate or too intimate.
“Nope.”
“You need to, what, tune in or something, right?”
“Sort of.” It’s hard to explain, and I don’t really want to try. But I like Marcus, so I do my best, even though we’ve been over this before. He’s obsessed with my ability. “It’s like a radio. You need to turn it on first. And then you need to find the signal. Like you said, tune in. It’s a process.”
He nods, and then rips his eyes from the animal to look at me. “I’m jealous of you, Thea. You know that, right? I’d do anything to be able to . . . feel the creatures like you do. Sense them. Find them. Your gift is very, very special.”
I don’t like this much attention, and I don’t like people staring at me with so much feeling in their eyes. “Yup.”
“I transferred money to your account. Bonus. I appreciate you, Thea.”
“Thanks. So what’s next? You got another assignment for me?”
A strange look passes over his face. He stares hard, like he’s making a huge decision. Then he nods slightly. “This one’s different,” he finally says.
I tilt my head.
“I’ll give you a file. Let’s go to my office.”
We head down the immaculate white hallways of the lab, greeting the people we pass. It’s a big facility, but it’s run by a small group, all of whom have been vetted and whom Marcus trusts to keep our work quiet. We don’t know each other, not on a personal level. But we share a commitment to hard work, focus, and confidentiality. We don’t get beers after work or hang out on the weekends. I know nothing about their personal lives, with the exception of Leon, and that’s only because he insists on telling me stuff. But there’s mutual respect.
His office is lined with bookshelves, the books all familiar to me by now. I’ve read many of them, or at least spent hours poring over the tomes on cryptids and zoology in general. Plus some science fiction too. Marcus likes to read.
I sink into the chair in front of his desk and open the manila folder he gives me. I skim the page before looking up at him. “I don’t understand.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and nods. “I know this is different. And I can’t give you all the information I have. It’s classified . . .”
“So you’re asking me to capture this . . . creature . . . but you won’t give me all the information about it? Nothing’s ever been too classified for you to share with me.”
“You have to trust me, Thea.”
He’s never steered me wrong. And he basically gave me a job and career after I was pretty much blacklisted from my field. Is that enough for me to unquestioningly do someone’s bidding, though?
And I don’t know how I feel about tracking down and capturing a “humanoid.”
“Exactly how human are you talking?” I ask, shutting the file and looking at him across the desk.
2
The first time I sensed something was when I was five. We were at my grandp
arents’ farm out in the middle of nowhere, Wisconsin. The small kitchen was brightly lit, the flowered yellow linoleum tabletop practically glowing. I was drinking a glass of Tang, a drink I forever after associated with old people because that’s the only place I had it.
Outside was pitch black—no other houses or lights for miles. I felt like we were in a lighthouse or fish bowl, our brightly lit kitchen windows beacons for all the deer and squirrels and other animals that wandered around in the Wisconsin countryside.
My mom and grandma were speaking in Latvian, their native language. I understood nothing except a random word here or there and was bored, watching undissolved particles of orange powder swirl around in my glass as I stirred the liquid. I closed my eyes and zoned out, trying to make my mind as blank as possible. Like an experiment to see if I could have nothing at all, even the idea of having nothing, in my brain.
And then, for the first time ever, I heard it. A shrill but quiet and continual noise. It sounded red and thin, as though I could actually see what I was hearing. I pretended my mind was a tuning fork, focusing on the sound until it was clearer and louder.
What was that? I opened my eyes and looked at my mom and grandma, who were still talking loudly and gesturing wildly, oblivious to the sound. And, with my eyes open and my focus lost, I couldn’t hear it anymore either.
Once more I shut my eyes, blanked out my mind, and focused on the blackness and emptiness inside my head. And once more, I heard it. A signal.
I knew suddenly that I had to go closer. That the sound was calling me, beckoning. Without the grownups noticing, I slipped out of the house and into the thick darkness. I should have been scared, but something spurred me on. Something told me my life was about to change.
It was impossible to see anything since the night was so black, but I kept on, farther and farther. My eyes grew used to the dark, and clouds moved away from the moon, the light casting a glow over the tall grasses in the field beyond her house.
I stopped to focus in again, and now it was loud, my head filled with it and nothing else. My brain was beating, throbbing, relentlessly pulling me forward.
Then I saw it. Alone in the pasture beyond the barn, ghostly in the hazy moonlight, frozen at attention as it stared at me. A deer. But not a deer. Antlers rising from its head. Ears alert, listening. It stood on its two back legs, almost like a person, but suddenly huge dark wings unfurled from its back, like it was showing me what it was. A creature unlike anything I’d ever seen. Unlike anything that existed. But right there in front of me all the same.
I knew it understood me. Knew it felt me the way I sensed it. There was an understanding between us, that we meant no harm. I could approach it if I wanted. Touch it. Stroke its silken fur, run my fingers over the delicate but strong feathers of its unbelievable wings.
Closer and closer I crept, the animal wary but approachable. My heart thumped hard in my chest because this was magic. There was no other word for it.
“Theadora!” My mother’s voice in the distance pierced the silence, breaking the spell. “Thea? Where are you?” Her words were full of panic, reaching out to me through the night.
I turned to her voice, then back to the animal, but it was gone, soaring away into the sky, growing smaller and smaller in the dark night until it was only a speck. And then nothing.
Disappointment flooded my soul.
But there was an excitement too. I had found something new inside me, something huge and beautiful and fantastic. And it was my secret.
From that moment on, my life changed. The ability to find things other people couldn’t, to communicate with creatures nobody else even believed in, was a gift.
But it kept me separate. Alone. I didn’t share it with anyone.
Blink is on the southern end of Wicker Park. Actually, it’s not technically part of Wicker Park, evidenced by the fact that the yuppie/hipster vibe hasn’t taken over yet. It’s sandwiched between an abandoned storefront and a murky martini bar, closed because it’s 10:50 a.m. on a Saturday and nothing’s open around here at this hour. But the tattoo shop will be in ten minutes.
Blink is etched onto the frosted window, and you might not know it was a tattoo shop just from the outside. I know because I’ve done my research. I always do my research.
I’m disappointed that the window is frosted like that—it gives the place privacy. And that’s exactly what I wish it didn’t have right now. I was hoping I could sit here in my car, see Foster come and go, watch him work.
The truth is, I’ve never actually seen someone get a tattoo. I probably rank fairly high on the rebel scale, but so far my body is unadorned with ink. Blink, though, looks nice, at least from the outside. Clean. Like you could probably get a tattoo without an accompanying disease.
I take a sip of the shitty coffee I picked up at the gas station on my way over and settle back into the driver’s seat. I’m parallel parked across the street from the studio, wedged between two cars on a street fully filled with other automobiles, so nobody will notice me.
My stomach rumbles; I forgot about the cold piece of leftover pizza I pulled from my fridge this morning. I’d slapped it onto the dashboard before leaving, and it slid down by the window. I grab it and take a bite. It’s gross, but it’s fuel.
I’m mid-chew when I see him. Foster Graham.
Gotcha, I think, tossing the pizza onto the passenger seat next to me. I pull on my beat-up Chicago Bulls baseball cap and look out the passenger window under the lid of the hat. I want to turn on my brain, to tune in, to feel Foster. But if I do that, chances are good he’ll know I’m there. And I can’t allow that. I won’t give myself away. That’s one of the things that makes me a good tracker.
Holy. Crap. I knew Foster Graham was important to Marcus. Special in the world of cryptids and supernatural beings. A rare and unique unknown. But what I didn’t know, even after looking at countless photos of him online, was how utterly and completely drop dead gorgeous he’d be in person.
It isn’t the slightly scruffy thick brown hair, wavy with a lock dipping down onto his forehead. Or the brown eyes, which right now are covered with a pair of sunglasses. It isn’t his stature—over six feet tall—or amazing lean yet muscular build. The torn jeans that fit his ass perfectly. Worn leather jacket. Or the scruff on his jaw, which, I should add, is chiseled, like a fucking model.
Well, okay.
It is all those things. But even more, it’s the way he walks. Carries himself. Like he owns the world and every goddamn thing in it.
Like if he turned to me and curled his finger in the come here motion, I’d be pretty much under his spell.
Like he probably fucks every single girl he tattoos, because how could any woman resist him after spending hours under his hands, under the intense security I know he gives his art. I’ve seen photos of the work he produces. I’ve even watched a video. But in person? Holy shit.
I never get carried away like this. Guys? They’re fun, but nothing I’d lose sleep over. Foster Graham? He could keep me awake all night and I’d beg for more.
Except not. Except he’s my project. My job. The next creature I need to capture.
Settle the fuck down, I tell myself as I watch him reach into his leather jacket pocket for the keys to the shop. He retrieves them and is about to open the door, when suddenly he freezes. Tilts his head. And turns.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I slink down into my seat as he looks my way. Did he sense me? Didn’t I turn off my brain good enough?
But when I peek back out the window, he’s inside the shop, and the light inside has been turned on.
My next stop is his apartment. Really, I don’t have a real reason to go there. I learned almost everything I need to know just from the Internet research Leon’s done for me. But I’ll get a better feel for him if I check out where he lives. Right?
I know he’ll be at work all day; he’s totally booked. I called pretending to try to schedule with him, and was told there’s a waiting list. Of severa
l months.
I drive through the city, cursing at every other car out there. Everyone’s driving like an asshole. And I’m trying not to pay attention to the images of Foster that keep popping into my head. He’s supposed to be my prey. But I can’t stop thinking about how sexy he is.
Foster Graham’s apartment is on the west side of the city, in a little pocket of slightly gentrifying streets that provide a mix of gang activity and grungy hipster coffee shops. His address is in an old brick three flat with no front yard and soggy newspapers decorating the walkway. My online research has informed me that he not only owns the building but lives there as well.
I park down the block, then walk back to his place, hoping the building is as unsecured as it looks like it would be. I’m in luck, and the exterior door is closed but unlocked.
It’s dusty and run-down in the foyer, and I start up the worn smooth wooden stairs to the second floor. The scent of Indian food lingers in the stairwell, and even though it’s old, my stomach growls. I never did finish that slice of day-old pizza.
Apartment 2B is locked. I knock and hold my breath to listen for a sound from inside. Nothing.
I drop my backpack to the floor and pull out my lock picking kit, a gift I bought myself a few years ago along with a lock picking class taught by a survivalist I’d met at the shooting range. I splurged, getting a leather case with a T on it, which I’m both proud and ashamed of. Sentimentality like that is kind of embarrassing. But I really, really like it.
In less than two minutes I’m in. I’m getting slow, and it pisses me off. I need to brush up on my skills.
I shut and lock the door behind me, securing the deadbolt that Foster’s installed on the inside. Taking a deep breath, I turn to look around. And I’m fucking speechless.
Foster Graham has one of the most amazing apartments I’ve seen. It’s like a legitimate adult place, with art on the walls—black and white close up photos of tattoos I assume Foster created. The floors are made up of thick wood planks, sanded and stained to a pale gray color. The couches and chairs are modern, all sleek lines but somehow still inviting.
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