Soul Breaker

  A hush of pity falls over the room. For a girl whose unfortunate ignorance led to her terrible death. I have no idea how long Johnston’s mind remained intact after the possession, but even if it was a fraction of a second, it was still too long. Powerful spirits can rip a human mind to shreds, drive you to madness in moments, cause you unfathomable, inescapable pain. Mentally, I curse Brendon, over and over and over. That arrogant twat lured a girl to a death that no one deserves. Even Betty Smith, for her part in this fiasco, didn’t deserve to go out with that spirit burning through her soul. (Or with bullets in her face.)

  In the midst of our mourning silence, a small voice whispers, “Tuchulcha.”

  A dozen pairs of eyes, including mine, redirect themselves to the doorway. Cooper Lee stands there, partially hidden behind the wall. His face is twisted in nervousness, scrunched up, like he isn’t sure whether he’s welcome in the task room or not—perhaps he feels he can’t stand in solidarity with a bunch of beat-up warrior types. He’s holding a book to his chest, a worn old tome, and I realize it’s the same one he’s been using to research Etruscan mythology.

  Ella tilts her head to the side and ushers the archivist into the room. “You can join us, Cooper. It’s okay.”

  Cooper shakes his head. “It’s fine, Ella. I was just about to head home for the night. I stayed a little late to finish up my work for you guys. I have some findings for you.” His lips stumble over the last few words, and I get the sense that he’s lying, especially when he refuses to meet Ella’s eyes, much less my own. Then it clicks in my tired brain. He stayed late because he wanted to be here when we got back from the raid. He was worried.

  The skinny archivist slips into the room, handing off a stack of printed pages to Delarosa, who’s closest to the door. He says, “The ‘fire spirit’ is called Tuchulcha. He’s one of Charun’s assistants in the Underworld. He’s not nearly as powerful as Charun himself, but, as I’m sure you all already know, he shouldn’t be underestimated. He seeks out strong hosts so that, when he leaves those hosts, he can take all their power with him and use it to his advantage while in spirit form. Hence the fiery escape from holding.”

  “So Kinsey’s right. He took Johnston because she had the most bang for his buck.” Ramirez plants his face in his hands and groans. “Damn, we really screwed up. We assumed the spirit had exhausted most of its power during its escape from the holding cell. But it didn’t because Johnston had a witch-level power store instead of a minor practitioner’s. So this Tuchulcha had more than enough energy left after its breakout to blow up the boathouse without a new host.”

  Ella scoots her chair back and grabs her coat, slipping it on. “Let’s be honest, guys: We led Tuchulcha to the kids. He was probably following us around, making us do his work for him. Once he had eyes on his targets, he called in Charun to help him finish the job. And that, friends, is how our raid went to hell.” She eyes the clock on the wall. “Now, since our lead captain is apparently going to be on the phone all night, I’m heading home for a nap. And I suggest you all do the same. We can’t salvage this case if we devolve into sleep-deprived zombies.” She stares at Ramirez, daring him to challenge her “suggestion.”

  Ramirez pushes the wireless mouse out of his reach, moving his own chair back at the same time. “Agreed. Keep your phones on, folks. You’re on call for the duration of this case. Go home. Get some rest. Eat a good breakfast. We’ll recap again in the morning, hopefully with Riker, and figure out a strategy from there.”

  Liam Calvary, still gazing off into the infinite space of a painkiller trip, lets out a low, confused whining noise. “But I don’t get it.”

  Delarosa grabs the younger man’s shoulder to guide him into a standing position. “It’ll make more sense when the drugs wear off, buddy. I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, no,” Liam slurs. “The treasure. What’s the treasure?”

  Delarosa sighs. “You mean the object they stole, Liam? You want to know what the kids stole?”

  “Yeah, exactly.” His lips form a lopsided grin underneath the wad of gauze. “What item could be important enough to make these monsters come up here to recover it?”

  All the agents in the room consider that question for a moment. Because it’s a good one. None of the kids ever explicitly said what they took from the Underworld. And since we don’t know where the “treasure” is either, we may have to wait to find out what it is until one of the survivors is coherent enough to tell us about their jaunt into the Etruscan Underworld. By that point, Charun and Tuchulcha may have already recovered the object, through whatever means they consider appropriate.

  Harmony rises from her chair and zips up her jacket, shivering despite the warm air in the task room. “You know, given all that’s happened, I’m not entirely sure I want to know what they stole, much less find it. I’m kind of fond of keeping my head on my shoulders.”

  Nobody adds anything to that statement. Nobody disagrees.

  The meeting breaks up a few minutes later, and we all head off into the dreary night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two steps from my rusty pickup truck, parked in the corner of the bottom level of the dimly lit garage, I realize I forgot something moderately important before I left the office. “Aw, hell,” I mutter and dig Jack Brendon’s key out of my pocket. I tucked the heavy key away when Navarro was working on my arm, intending to drop it off with the analysts for evidence processing once the infirmary released me from its grasp. But, fixated on the events at Holden Park, I forgot.

  Grumbling, I turn on the cool concrete and march back toward the garage entrance to the building, passing several other agents from the task room. Some of them give me curious looks, but none of them care enough to say anything. Or maybe my face is contorted in an annoyed expression that convinces them staying silent is the better option. Either way, I head through the automatic office doors, swipe in with my ID card at the turnstiles, and take the elevator upstairs to the fourth floor. When the box dings like a microwave and the doors roll open, I all but dash into the hallway, eager to get in, out, and home quick enough for a good night’s sleep.

  But I only make it a couple of steps before I almost run face-first into Cooper Lee. He yelps, dodges to the right to avoid a collision, and stumbles into the wall. A folder full of papers flies out of his hands and bounces off the floor twice before it comes to rest underneath a water fountain. Three hundred odd pages scatter across the tiles, as Cooper looks on in dismay.

  “Ah, jeez. Sorry, Cooper.” I bend down and start collecting the papers, aware they were probably in some order that will take an hour to replicate. Smooth move, Kinsey. “Thought you said you were heading home for the night.”

  He scuttles over to the water fountain and retrieves the emptied folder. “I was about to leave, but then I got a call from Nakamura’s team. They’re out in Riesling—it’s a small town about fifty miles north—dealing with some sort of malicious supernatural sea creatures terrorizing the shores of Lake Huron. I’ve been prepping a bunch of research for them for the past few days, and now they need it. Like, right now—as in, somebody’s downstairs in the lobby, waiting for the package.” He hesitates and stutters out, “A-Apparently two people got eaten yesterday.”

  He spins around, one slow, complete, devastating circle. His bottom lip wobbles a bit, like he’s about to go down sobbing, though his eyes don’t tear up. “Oh, God,” he groans out. “I have to reorder all these pages. Why didn’t I use a freaking paperclip?”

  I continue gathering papers for him, inwardly cringing. I’m torn between being an asshole and leaving—I really need some sleep, okay?—and staying here to help him fix his research material before the agent downstairs has a conniption fit. He looks so distressed, though, gazing, forlorn, at the papers on the floor, that I bury my body’s bone-deep need for rest and say, “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ll stick around and help you get your stack back into shape. Is there a meeting room open? If we work together, we can probably reo
rganize this stuff in ten, fifteen minutes.”

  Cooper gawks at me for a long second. “Really? You’ll help?”

  “Of course.” An idea strikes me. “If you’ll do me a favor.” I dig the key out of my pocket and hold it up. “I forgot to drop this off at the evidence desk earlier, after the raid. Those analyst guys tend to raise a stink whenever I bumble procedure—which, admittedly, is often—and I’m not in the mood for their backtalk tonight. So, how about you take my key to evidence and deal with the cranky analysts, while I take your research downstairs and smooth talk the guy past the delivery delay? He’s a detective, yeah? So he and I are on the same level. Sort of.”

  Cooper pouts for a second, considering my trade, and then a look of relief washes across his features. “You know what? I’m familiar with one of the analysts on evidence duty tonight. Brittany Regent. We were in the same graduating class. She’s nice to me.” He chuckles. “All right, then. You deal with the scary detective, and I’ll take the friendly analyst.” He shuffles forward and snatches the key from me, stuffing it into his own coat pocket. “Now, can we get this mess off the floor before a janitor sweeps it away?”

  “You got it.”

  Even though I only have one arm to use, Cooper and I manage to get the research stack back together in ten minutes, working out of a cramped, two-person meeting room near the elevators. Once he’s satisfied that the papers are in their proper order, he grabs a paperclip and a rubber band from the closest supply closet, secures the stack, and hands the finished package off to me. “Be careful, please,” he pleads, as we’re parting ways. “And thanks for your help.”

  I hit the elevator button and say with a wink, “No problem, man. If Brittany gives you any crap about the key, let me know.”

  “I will.” He darts off down the hallway, toward the analyst area, and disappears around the corner. But a second later, as the elevator doors are opening again, his head pops back around the wall, and he shouts, “Night, Cal!”

  Snorting—Cooper’s kind of a trip—I reply in kind and step into the elevator. It takes me to the ground floor, where I meet with one Detective King, an older agent who stands half a head taller than me, is twice as broad, and has a thin, puckered pink scar curving down one side of his face, where something with claws almost got the better of him. But didn’t. I imagine because he strangled it to death with his bare hands before it could. Christ, no wonder Cooper was scared of the guy.

  Thankfully, King is in too much of a rush to do more than grumble a short complaint about the tardy package. He takes off for the front entrance the second the research lands in his hands. Past the glass doors, I can see a car waiting for him in the front lot, another agent in the driver’s seat. I wonder briefly, as King exits the building and hops into the vehicle, which drives off a moment later, why Cooper didn’t just email the research to Nakamura’s team. Then I remember an academy lesson that mentioned something about the dangers of digitizing certain types of written spells and magic instructions.

  Hm. Whatever. I’m done for the night.

  I take the stairwell back to the garage and all but run toward my truck. No more distractions. No more delays. I’m going home.

  The garage is now clear of the meeting attendees, and there are no sounds except my heavy breathing in the cool night air, my footsteps on the hard concrete floor. I round a support pillar, revealing the line of empty spots that lead to my truck, still parked all by itself in the corner. But the second I catch sight of my trusty vehicle, I see something else, too, and I scuff my feet to a stop, one hand sinking to the gun holstered on my thigh.

  It’s not Charun or Tuchulcha, though, come to finish off the annoying Crow.

  Nope. It’s Erica the witch.

  She’s lounging on the hood of my truck, typing something into her cell phone, nonchalant. Despite what must have been a brutal battle with Charun in the darkness of the woods, hours of physical and magical exertion, she looks like she just stepped out of her front door in the morning, fresh and rested. When she hears me coming, she dons a smirk and glances at me over the top of her phone. “Well, hey there, hot Crow. Been looking for you. Got time for a quick bite to eat?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Erica drives me in my truck to a twenty-four-hour diner tucked between a defunct bowling alley and a Laundromat. It’s one of those Mom and Pop places that’s had the same menu for thirty years and ignores trends like gluten-free and the much-exalted (or reviled) vegan diet. Erica parks my truck in the empty lot of the bowling alley, and we walk across to the diner, both of us shivering in the pre-winter air. Once we’re inside, a kindly older waitress tells us to pick our seats—there’s no one else in the place, so we have the full selection—and the two of us slide into opposite sides of a booth with cracked leather cushions.

  The moment my ass touches the seat, I ask in a low tone, “What happened to Charun?”

  Erica, who hasn’t spoken a word to me since we left the DSI garage, hums and replies, equally quiet, “Slipped us outside of Terrence Town. We got a couple guys out searching still, but odds are, he’s off the radar for the night.”

  “Ah, I see.” So much for the powerful witches and wizards saving us from the big, scary monster.

  After we put in a coffee order and start perusing the menus, Erica picks up the conversation again. “Fancy footwork out there earlier. Almost thought you had that Etruscan beast for a minute. Too bad you can’t conjure up a bigger charge in those rings of yours.”

  I tap my finger on an order of bacon, eggs, and pancakes, one of the more expensive combos on the menu. I only agreed to this pre-dawn adventure because Erica promised to foot the bill. Perhaps that’s not so “gentlemanly” of me, but I’m fucking tired, okay? I’m running on fumes right now. I’m probably going to pass out in my plate of food.

  Dropping my bent-up menu on the table, I mimic Erica’s hum and reply, “So, how long were you watching me fight Charun exactly? If you saw me zap him, then you had ample time to help me out. You think of that? Using your awesome magic to stop the Crow from dying a horrible, bloody death at the hands of the eight-foot-tall monster with the giant hammer? Hm? Did that cross your mind at any point?”

  “It did, actually. Very early on.” She tucks a free strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Unfortunately, I’m not the local Council leader. Marcus is. And Marcus ordered us not to interfere until Charun left the park and became a threat to the general population. Sorry, Cal, but like you, I’m under a command structure. Riker is your captain, and Marcus is mine. If I had disobeyed, I would have put myself in deep shit. The ICM isn’t particularly forgiving about breaches of authority. I could have gotten a sanction.”

  I fiddle with the saltshaker in the middle of the table. “And a sanction is worse than my death?”

  “A sanction from the ICM can mean a period of magic probation. In other words, they use charms to suppress your magic in order to teach you a lesson.” She snatches the saltshaker from me, eying the waitress, who’s ambling back toward us with our coffee. “You know what tends to happen to a witch who’s stripped of her powers? All her enemies decide it’s a great time to slit her throat.”

  The waitress hands us our cups, and we send her off again with our food orders.

  I consider Erica’s words carefully, a knot forming in my stomach. All I know about the ICM comes from my academy course on the subject, and this tidbit of juicy info was definitely not in the textbook. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t imply that you have a lot of dangerous enemies liable to come after you and your acquaintances—AKA me. Instead, I’m going to ask: Why the hell does the ICM have such a problem with you helping the Crows, huh? Most of your folk won’t even give us the time of day, much less invite us out to a 4:00 AM breakfast. What gives? You’re human, too, right? And our issues do tend to cross over, monsters and dark magic threatening innocent people. So…?”

  Erica adds two sugars and a cream to her coffee and stirs them in with a spoon, a wry smile on
her face. “If only it was that simple. The main goal of the ICM is international cooperation and education, focused on the proliferation of safe magic practices beneficial to both magical and normal human society. Officially, we take a stance of nonviolence. We aren’t an army of witches and wizards on the prowl, hunting down the ‘naughty monsters.’ We’re only supposed to fight in defense of ourselves, our peers, or those under our protection and purview, including normal humans and minor practitioners. ICM members are not supposed to engage in combat on a regular basis, especially with beings from another supernatural community.

  “And that’s where our problem with DSI comes in. See, the supernatural community, as you know, is really a collection of various sub-communities. Vampires. Werewolves. Magic practitioners. The big three, if you will. Followed by hundreds of smaller communities, each with their own laws, governing bodies, etc.” She takes a sip of her steaming coffee. “As a whole, the supernatural super-community is supposed to be entirely disengaged from the normal human community. We use inter-community channels, treaties, tribunals, to resolve disputes and dispense justice when a member of one community commits a crime against a member of another.

  “If normal folk get hurt or killed, the same thing happens. We work together to find the bad apple and, well, clip him off the tree. The normal human community is not supposed to be involved in these proceedings.” Another sip. “But…”

  “DSI breaks that practice,” I throw in. “We are normal people, barring a few minor practitioners, and we use human law to dispense justice when a member of a supernatural community commits a crime. In other words, we screw up all that careful inter-community diplomacy hidden from the normal folk by the supernatural curtain, and that pisses the ICM off. So you guys don’t help us unless you have to, unless the threat we’re after also threatens you. Basically, you negate our normal human status and categorize us as something lesser, so you can justify looking the other way when one of us gets hurt or killed on a case. Like I almost did tonight.”