by Voss Foster
I had to clear my throat three times before the demon finally started awake. "I'm sorry. You normally use Gutt and I just did not expect anyone." The demon was a she, in the end. She looked me up and down as she rose. "You're new."
"Dashiel Rourke, just got hired on for this case." I nodded to her curtly. "If the director ever sees you like that—"
"Svenson never comes down here without notice. We're a necessary evil as far as he's concerned. Best not to look evil in the face." She straightened out her suit with long, clawed hands. "Where to?"
"New York Presbyterian. Just right out front if you can get that precise."
"If I can get that precise? Oh ye of little faith." She waved her hands over the blank wall behind her and it shimmered to life with what I'd so brilliantly figured out was magic. "All ready. You been through this before?"
"Conscious and unconscious." And I stepped through. I wondered briefly, passing through all those colors, if it was possible to take one of these right through someone's stomach and come out holding their intestines. That would probably get the whole Remote Transport thing shut down fast.
Then I was out. No intestines, no blood, just a neutral-toned building with red and white signs. Like every other hospital in the world, except these signs said New York Presbyterian. Score one for the demon lady.
I walked to the front doors and headed in, straight for the desk.
The middle-aged receptionist smiled up at me. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm here for Oscar Hernandez."
She tapped a few keys. "He's under orders not to be seen by anyone other than the…Office of Preternatural Affairs right now."
I showed her my ID. "That's why I'm here. If family or someone shows up, we don't want them waiting longer than necessary to see him. Just have a few questions for him."
"I see. Well he's in room 2212, according to our records."
"Thank you." I headed for the elevator at a jog, and one kind soul deigned to hold the door for me. "Thanks. Second floor?"
The nearest person pressed the button. Up we went and out I got, then down the way to his room. There was an agent posted outside. I didn't introduce myself, just flashed my ID again and said, "OPA."
Mr. Guardy-Pants stepped aside with a grunt and I went inside. Oscar Hernandez was lying in his bed, watching I Love Lucy on the tiny little TV they had in his room. He still had blackened flesh, red flesh, lots of bandages, and he smelled slightly of old lady perfume. Probably the sprays or poultices or whatever they had to slather on him. But he was breathing more normally. There were a few spots where his muscles still appeared atrophied, but I guess the damage done to him took a bit longer than what had happened to me. There was also the telltale beep of the O2 and heart monitors, doing their oddly comforting work. As long as they were beeping away at non-scary speeds, they were fine by me.
He still had most of his hair, though it looked like they'd sheared a fair amount of it off around the edges of his face and all around his ears. Not a good look. Gauze covered his right eye, but the other looked fine. Puffy and bruised, but not scarred closed or missing or anything. His bits were covered by a pair of loose shorts, so at least he wasn't going to be feeling so self-conscious, out on display for me and God and everyone to gawk at. Some measure of dignity.
I walked up and pulled over the chair they'd left in the room. "Oscar?"
He turned his head and nodded, grimacing as he did so.
"I'm Special Agent Rourke from the FBI. I'm going to keep this short, okay? I know you're not doing so hot."
"I've been better." His voice creaked like he was about four-hundred years old. And made of wood and rusty nails. It drove home the kind of damage he'd taken. Honestly, walking in he looked…well, not good, that was for sure. But a lot better than the burned, desiccated near-corpse I carried into the Field Office at any rate. But that voice…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was a kid.
He cleared his throat and it didn't do any good. "You're FBI?"
"I am. My department's looking into this, and I wanted to talk to you."
"My family, are they…?"
Of course he would ask. I guess no interviewing him also meant no filling him in on the information we had. "I'm so sorry, Oscar."
He squeezed his one good eye shut. "It's okay. My, um, my tear ducts aren't working right now, anyway. Have to get drops in my eyes. Poison got in there and they haven't healed. So I won't even cry."
Christ... "Are you going to be okay answering some questions for me?"
"I'm not going anywhere." He started to cough and hack, and something black came out.
I stepped out and grabbed the nearest person wearing scrubs. "Hey, the kid…he's coughing up something and…can he have water? I don't want to screw up any treatment."
"Oscar's okay to drink, and he's supposed to be coughing that stuff up." She slipped out of my grip. "What he needs is bedrest, so whatever you're doing, just hurry it up."
"Right." She was already gone. "Sorry." I walked back in, grabbed a cup, and filled it in the sink. I grabbed a sanitary wipe from the dispenser by the door, too, and wiped away the black whatever that wasn't supposed to be in his lungs. "You want a drink?"
He nodded again and I lifted the water up to his lips, tipped it back slowly. When I pulled it back, he sighed and closed his eye. "Thanks."
I sat back down and pulled out a pen and notepad. It gave me a little something to do with my hands, but not enough to fully distract me. "All right, first things first, do you have any other family in the area?"
"My aunt Gigi. Griselda Lopez. In Brooklyn."
"Okay, I'm sure they've called her, but I'll make double sure she knows what's going on." That easy answer left just the sticky questions to get through. "Okay, do you know what happened to you at the park?"
"Poison gas attack."
"Right. Okay. Do you remember anything about it? Anything you saw or heard, or even if you just had a weird feeling?"
"It was all fine. We were at the park. My parents, my twin brothers, and his girlfriend. Steven's girlfriend, not Alex's. Beth. Beth Campos."
That accounted for all the bodies in that cluster, then. "Okay. What happened when you got to the park?"
"We were just walking around, talking. It was supposed to be a good day. We were doing the rounds in Manhattan. Madison Square, some restaurants downtown, Central Park Zoo." His voice caught. "And then there was this white mist. It went along the ground. I knew what it was, but it was already there. It was so fast." His heart monitor beeped faster, and his breath sped up, tightening. "They told us about it on the news, to watch for it, but it was so fast."
"Hey, it's okay, it's okay." I moved to stroke his arm, but no way in hell that would feel good for him. I clumsily turned it into a stretch. "All right, we're almost done. I just need you to walk me through everything else. Take your time. Whenever you're ready."
After a few seconds, he nodded. "It burned. On my legs, and just everywhere. But once it was on my legs, I couldn't get away. They hurt so much. We were on the ground and I tried to hold my breath and—"
More coughing, more black sludge. I wiped that away and got him some more water. "Don't talk too fast, don't strain yourself. This stuff can really screw you up."
I took the cup away and he nodded. "Mono was more fun."
"Mono. Ladies man. Or man's man. Whatever floats your boat. It's got to be the hair. You'll probably want to get a new cut when you're feeling better, though."
He cracked a tiny, weak smile. I was pretty sure it was fake, but he put out the effort. "Bad hair?"
"It's not a fashion decision I would make." I scrubbed back over my notes. Nothing of real significance yet. "Did you see anyone suspicious, Oscar? Anyone who you just kind of felt was out of place, or anyone who tried to make a really fast getaway? Wearing a gas mask? Anything like that?"
"No. Just the people around me. They all fell." He closed his one good eye. "Were there any other survivors? I know my family didn't make
it, but…anyone else?"
I didn't expect him to be quite so blunt and ask me about that. "You're the only one we found."
He nodded very slowly, eyes closed. "Is there anything else?"
He may not have been able to cry, but his voice sure sounded clotted. Thicker than it had before, although it was damn hard to tell through the rasping. There was no reason to keep doing this. His family died around him. He was in terrible shape even after ministrations from Casey. And like the nurse said, he needed bedrest, not a hardcore interrogation. "I'm going to leave a card here, and the hospital can get hold of us is you lose this. If you remember anything, I can get back down. Just go ahead and try to get some sleep."
He nodded, eye still closed, and I slipped out of the room and went to make the call.
"NYPD—"
"Hi Stacy. It's Dash again."
She sighed. "Agent Rourke."
"Yeah, I'm not thrilled about making all these calls either. Listen, did anyone find contact for that kid? Oscar Hernandez?"
A brief pause, then, "No, it doesn't look like anyone's tracked it down yet."
That would explain why she wasn't frantically shouting and pacing in the lobby. "Well look, I'll take care of it. I just talked to him, got his aunt's name. I'll track her down and let her know what's going on, so you can stop the search."
"Oh. Look at the FBI, taking a personal interest." It was a little snide remark, but…well, unfortunately she actually sounded a little impressed, and unfortunately I couldn't exactly act surprised about it. "You give me the name, Rourke, I can toss you her contact. Just as long as she actually comes up."
"It's a Griselda Lopez. Lives in Brooklyn." I pulled out my pen and pad. "And I'm ready to copy this down."
She rattled off the number for me, then sighed. "Is she really the only family he's got left?"
"According to him, yeah. At least who lives in the area."
"Damn. I hope it works out."
"Me too. Thanks Stacy. Hopefully we won't talk again soon." Walking and talking, I'd made it back to the elevators. I took it down to the lobby before I placed the call on the number Stacy had pulled for me.
"Hello?" A heavily accented alto voice.
"Is this Griselda Lopez?"
"Yes, yes."
"This is Special Agent Dashiel Rourke with the FBI. I need to speak with you. Are you alone?"
"Yes, what is this about?"
I didn't love delivering this news over the phone, but I couldn't be gone from the job too long doing this kind of work. OPA was a small enough unit as it was. And I needed to be there to see all of this through. Not for the case, but for me. So the phone it was. "It's about your nephew. Oscar Hernandez." Which was bad enough on its own. "And…Mrs. Lopez, you need to come down to New York Presbyterian, in Manhattan."
"Oh my god, is he okay?"
"He was caught in an attack at Madison Square Park earlier today. It would be better for you to talk to his doctors, and the agents here. I'm sorry, Mrs. Lopez. Someone will be available after you've spoken with them to answer any other questions."
"My…I'll be down."
She hung up. I hated it. I hated all of those calls. They'd gone way down since getting in with the FBI. Not disappeared, but down. Had to make plenty when I was with NYPD. I never liked them, and I damn well hoped I'd never grow to even tolerate them. They needed to hurt every time you had to deliver that kind of news. A reminder that these were people. That they mattered.
I leaned back against the wall and blew out a slow breath, collecting myself the best I could. The interview, the phone call, it was all over, and I needed to push it behind me as fast as I could manage.
Then I had to make a considerably more pleasant phone call. Not entirely pleasant, but honestly anything was an improvement over what I just had to break to Gigi Lopez. I dialed up Swift. "Hey, I'm at New York Presbyterian. How am I getting back? No magic for me."
"Get out front. Someone'll go through and get you. Anything useful?"
"Got hold of his aunt. Nothing great for the case, though. Hope Gutt and Bancroft had better luck."
"Keep hoping."
"Great." I moved toward the doors and headed out. "Okay, I'll be back as soon as someone magics me over to DC."
And on cue, there came the demon friend from before, though only her head, one arm, and the top half of her torso. She waved me through the rippling air. "Let's get you back."
Chapter Six
I got sent straight into Swift's office. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, jacket off. "Give me news, Dash."
"Well, I'm sure if you turn on a TV, you'll get the news coverage on how incompetent we all are. Was that what you were looking for?" I sat down in the chair that wasn't currently occupied by Swift's right leg. "I talked to the kid, he said he saw nothing out of the ordinary. I wasn't going to get anywhere with him all emotional. Had to break the news about his family."
Swift's mouth tightened. "Didn't think that part through. Should have had him filled in beforehand."
"Well, he's got my number if he remembers anything that seems important. But I got a fraction of the poison in my system that he did, and the whole experience was a blur for me. I wouldn't count on much."
"I'm not counting on anything right now." He swung off his desk and sat in the chair next to me, crossing one leg over the other. "Gutt and Bancroft did go over the gas masks and the runes on them. Definitely Norse. And we know why their gas masks work where ours don't."
"Well what's the secret?" And did it help us in any way?
"It traps a bubble of clean air that you breathe from. The poison never has a chance to get into your lungs."
"And how do they keep their skin safe?" Oscar, me, and the dozens of dead victims were proof enough that breathing that shit was hardly the only risk to worry about.
"Don't know. Gutt and Bancroft wondered the same thing. They figure there's some kind of protection sewn into their clothing."
My mind flashed back to the street, up close with that sorcerer. "They do. I didn't think much about it, but yeah. There were symbols all over his clothing, too. Probably more runes." Still, nothing would settle in my head long enough for me to be sure. "Sorry I'm not more helpful on that front."
Swift nodded. "No one expects you to remember shit, Dash. You did your job and then some there. And with the poison, shit's going to fly out of your brain."
I nodded. "The special gas mask and the clothes and everything at least tell us one useful thing. The people doing this are playing with things they can't fully control."
Swift nodded slowly. "It does seem that way, doesn't it? Even with whatever kind of magic it is they need to be able to unseal all this, they don't have a total handle on it."
"They're playing with big shit, sir."
"I'm going to let that one slide, 'cause it was a good line. But no sirs unless someone who can fire me is around." Swift got up and finally sat in his chair on the opposite side of the desk. "I want you to get any last paperwork that needs doing filled out and filed in, and then I want you to go home."
"Excuse me?"
"You were very recently poisoned, and you've been running non-stop all day, dealing with all kinds of dead bodies and that bullshit. I figure after that poison attack, you're operating at about sixty percent. So work sixty percent of the day. I don't need any of my agents coming in on this case and doing a half-assed job because they're tired."
"I'm not tired, Swift. And this case is still going. That means I'm still here."
Swift stared up at me. "I do appreciate an agent who questions my authority, but the single greatest favor someone can do for you is telling you when you're being an idiot. And you are. You're going home, Dash. I don't know if you remember this, but if we need you, we're more than capable of getting you here." He nodded and looked back to his desk. "I want you to go home and rest. We only have so many agents to bring to bear on this case. If you're not a hundred percent, then you're not a whole agent I can count
on."
"I can do the work."
"And I can have Casey come and knock you out, and Gutt come and carry you back to your house and sit on you. This is not one of those movie moments where you question and browbeat your superiors into letting you do stupid amounts of work." He still wasn't looking up, and not raising his voice. He said it all like it was just…fact. "Go home. Sleep. Come back rested tomorrow so we have the best chance of keeping this death toll under fifty. Clear?"
He still wasn't looking at me. It was frustrating…not the least reason being that I was fucking exhausted. I was running on coffee and a peanut butter sandwich, my chest was still a little tight, and worst of all, I wasn't able to come up with any sport of snappy comebacks to try and charm Swift into giving in. That right there was a sign if ever there was one.
"I will be back in the morning. Early."
"You're damn right you will be. This is still a serious case. Go get some serious rest." He finally looked up at me again and winked. "It's better if you don't argue. Remember, I'm operating at a hundred percent. I've got the upper hand."
And once again, he was right. So I nodded. "Tomorrow. So early it might still be dark out."
"I'll bring the flashlights."
I walked into the office the next morning—not quite flashlight darkness, since my body had resisted getting out of bed hard—to Bancroft and Gutt poring over sheaves of old paper and leather-bound books that probably cost more than my entire college tuition.
I walked up, but definitely kept my distance in case my dumbass self spilled coffee on a stack of priceless manuscripts. "Anything good?"
"There's nothing good about any of this." Bancroft shook his head, leaned back, and pulled off his glasses. "Norse mythology is an unending parade of misery as it is, but adding in actual information and records from the Hidden Kingdoms? I already need a drink."