by Gwynn White
He made the trip fully expecting to be fired, or at least reassigned somehow, which made it all the more surprising when he arrived to find someone else occupying the hot seat.
“Knock, knock,” he said, interrupting Ann’s meeting with Nissa Aziani as he stepped into the office.
At first, he took it for a friendly visit, Nissa dropping by to wish her friend and former boss well in her new job, but it quickly became evident there was more at stake.
“Oh, sorry,” he said slowly. “Didn’t know you had someone else in here. You should really think about getting a secretary.” He meant that last part as a joke, but for all he knew, that might just be the extent of his duties in her administration. Best not to give her any more ideas on the subject, he decided. “Anyway, I’ll wait outside.”
“It’s all right, Cato,” Ann said. “You’re already here. You might as well hear this, too.”
Cato looked back to find Ann waving him in from behind the desk. This should be interesting, he thought, then stepped into the office and took the open chair next to Nissa. “All right,” he said, spreading his hands in invitation. “So, what’s the big deal?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it,” she began. “Nissa, I wanted to be the first to inform you that PWD is planning to conduct a formal review of your actions during the attacks on the city, in particular your use of unauthorized weapons and ordnance.”
Cato could hardly believe his ears. His jaw dropped and his brows crossed with shock and astonishment.
By contrast, Nissa received the news with the same stoic resolve she had shown throughout her ordeal. Her response was unreadable; her emotions seemed to be thoroughly internalized. Or perhaps she was still in something of a daze. Cato had seen the same thousand-yard stare in the eyes of many of his fellow citizens in the days since the attacks. In time, they would recover and return to their normal selves. Unfortunately, time was a luxury Ann could ill afford. She had a city to run, after all.
“I heard rumors to that effect,” Nissa finally said. “But I do appreciate hearing it officially from you.”
“Unfortunately, protocol requires that you be suspended during the course of the investigation. You’ll need to turn in your badge and service weapon to the new chief of detectives before it begins.”
“Of course.”
“If you’re found to have been in violation of the pact, you’ll be demoted, possibly terminated. If not, you’ll be welcomed back to PWD with a clean jacket.”
“This is so ridiculous,” Cato muttered under his breath.
“Something you’d like to say, Spector?”
That was all the invitation Cato needed. He’d heard about Nissa’s plight, how she’d wound up fighting for her life with some wight supremacist scumbag she’d had to put down afterward.
“Come on,” he said sharply. “What choice did she have? It was either use the phos rounds or get torn to shreds by a mob of psychotic vamps.” The notion that she’d had a choice at all would have been laughable if the stakes hadn’t been so damn serious. Instead, he scowled as he added, “I know which one I’d choose, Founders’ Pact be damned.”
“Do you think I’m happy about this?” Ann snapped. “Because I’m not.”
“So do something about it.”
“Easy for you to say. What, you think because I’m on this side of the desk now I can just snap my fingers and make it go away? I would if I could, believe me, but it doesn’t work that way. The terms of the pact are clear, and I can’t start my administration by pissing off the entire strigoi community.”
“The same community that conspired to seize the city and kill or turn every last wight inside of it, I might add.”
“Only a small portion, most of whom are dead now,” she said, correcting him. “I don’t govern the dead, Cato, only the living. I may not know much about this job yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s considered ‘day one’ material.”
“And here I thought you were a pain in the ass before you got all political.”
“You and me both. I suspect we’re only just getting started, so… well, I’d say get comfortable but what with the ass pains and all…” She shrugged.
Cato laughed in spite of himself.
After a moment of silence, Nissa said, “I understand, Mayor Banner. You have to do what’s best for the city now. If I still have a job when the investigation has concluded, I’ll be happy to return to it.”
“Thank you, Detective. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll revisit a neglected pastime,” Nissa said thoughtfully. “I used to be quite the moto racer back in my day, you know. It can be very exhilarating.”
That was news to Cato. Judging by her reaction, it was something of a revelation to Nissa’s former boss, as well.
“Seriously?” Ann asked.
“What, you two honestly thought I was this drab and boring all the time?”
“I wouldn’t have said ‘drab and boring,’ exactly. More like… buttoned-down.” Cato tipped a brow, the corner of his mouth curling up beneath it. “And, no, I would hope not.”
“Touché.” With that, Nissa stood. “Good luck, Mayor Banner. I look forward to returning to work, given the opportunity,” she concluded, offering a small but respectful bow of her head.
Her farewell to Cato was more open to interpretation. Eyeing him almost appraisingly, she smirked as she saw herself out. “See you around, Spector.”
“Likewise,” he said, turning in his seat to give her a little wave when she made herself scarce. “Maybe I’ll come watch you race some time.”
Turning back once she was gone, he found himself under the weight of a much more critical gaze.
“What?” he asked Ann.
“Anything I should know about, there?”
“Just two colleagues sharing a moment of mutual respect, nothing more. Seriously, though, isn’t there anything you can do for her? With the investigation, I mean?”
“I’m going to prepare a testimonial about her work for me while I was chief of detectives. Other than that, not much. Hopefully, the panel will take it into consideration, but this is a PWD matter going forward.”
Cato shook out a soft breath. Much as he hated it, he understood that she couldn’t afford to be seen as playing favorites. Her administration was in its infancy, and many who hadn’t voted for her were waiting in the wings to see it fail.
“It’s better than nothing, at least,” he admitted. “Still, after the losses PWD sustained during the Trials, we can’t afford to lose someone as brilliant as her to bureaucratic grandstanding.”
“On those points, at least, we’re in complete agreement.”
At least there was that.
Looking around the office, Cato wondered how Ann would make it her own in the coming months. Zobbles had cleared out all his personal effects and other decor, leaving it largely empty. In that sense, it was a fitting metaphor for her administration: open and full of promise.
“So, how does it feel?” Cato wondered with a nod across the desk. “The chair, I mean.”
For the first time since he’d entered the office, Ann actually smiled. Glancing down, she walked her fingers along the chair’s well-appointed arms appreciatively. “Different. Definitely different. But I’m getting used to it.”
“So it would seem.” Watching her settle into her new role, Cato made a decision. “I guess that just leaves one thing, then.”
“Oh? And that would be?”
“This.” He popped the badge from his hip and placed it on the desk between them.
A few weeks ago, he might have dropped it for punctuating effect, but they weren’t the same people they had been a few weeks ago—even a few days ago. He might have preferred to go out on his own terms rather than being straight-up fired, but he’d recently come to the conclusion (perhaps with some help from Nissa’s example) that he didn’t have to
be a dick about it. Ann was the mayor now, but even absent that, she was, and always had been, worthy of his respect.
Ann regarded his gesture with a tepid expression, her mouth fixed into a firm, flat line in her otherwise unreadable face. She plucked the badge off the desk and held it up in front of her.
“There was a time I thought I’d have enjoyed this a hell of a lot more,” she said. As she looked across the desk at him, her lips curled into a knowing smile. “You know Zobbles actually offered me your job?”
He hadn’t. “He did?”
“Yup. Right after you took custody of the Stone scene. I barged in here spitting nails and he coughed it up. I’m pretty sure he was terrified of me.”
“He basically said as much to Hank and me,” Cato said. “Nothing about the offer, though. Son of a bitch. Just like that, and he drops it in your lap?”
“Just like that,” she confirmed. “Although it probably didn’t hurt that I walked in on him getting a hummer from his secretary, either.”
With that confession, the two found themselves in an ad hoc stare-down, each of them almost willing the other to break. Finally, they had no other option, and both were overcome by ridiculous, giggling laughter.
Composing himself, Cato wiped the beginnings of a tear from his eye and said simply, “Zobbles. What an ass.”
“Once again, complete agreement.”
“Is that why you didn’t keep her around?”
“His secretary? Didn’t have a chance. She took off with him. I’d try to poach your current girl, but she’s already put in her papers for the next PWD training class, apparently.”
Lifting a hand to pull at the stubble that had accumulated on his face over the last few days, Cato sighed. “She did. They also came with a very glowing endorsement from a certain PWD vet of high standing.”
“I’m impressed. Although you probably shouldn’t show that sort of favoritism again, at least while I’m in office.”
“What favoritism?” Cato grinned. “The endorsement came from one John Rohner, retired, and one of the other recent heroes of the Trials. Like I said: glowing.”
“Well-played.”
For a moment afterward, they sat in silence, regarding the place they had both come to inhabit—he on such a familiar side of the desk, and she deciding whether to banish him from it altogether.
“Would you have at least kept Hank on?” Cato asked. “If you’d taken my job, I mean?”
“Of course. I’ve got no problem with Hank. He’s a stand-up guy who only wants the best for his city.”
“That he is,” Cato agreed.
Ann considered Cato’s badge for several more seconds before sliding it back across the desk. “And so are you, Spector Cato.”
And there it was: the second time she had surprised him within a few minutes. “No shit. You’re keeping us on?”
“I am. Now that I’m sitting in the mayor’s chair, I’m starting to see how having a couple of seasoned vets answering to me and me alone could be useful.”
Cato laughed, a low, rattling chuckle deep in his throat. “What a surprise.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Ann said, a little too cheerfully.
Then she leaned across the desk, tenting her fingers and looking Cato straight in the face.
“That said, there’s going to be some changes around here…”
THE END
Continue the series in book two, THE ODIN GUARD.
catoandsmiley.com
About the Author
Logan Thomas Snyder is a lifelong reader, dreamer, and avid science fiction fan. His stories run the gamut from dark fantasy to science fiction, with the occasional pit stop in between.
His novels include Between Kings and Carnage, VIOLET, and The Lazarus Particle. He has also appeared in popular anthologies such as Beyond the Stars: A Planet Too Far, ALT.HISTORY 101, and The A.I. Chronicles.
Read more from Logan Thomas Snyder
loganthomassnyder.com
The Incurables
Volume I of The Chronicles of the Worldcracker
Felix R. Savage
A Game of Thrones set in the 1980s, with tanks and guns.
In this alternate Earth, magic is real, but illegal. Miracles cost a fortune. And King Trystan II is fresh out of cash.
Reigning in an alternate 1979 Great Britain where feudalism never ended, King Trystan faces a terrorist insurgency. His father lost the magical sword Worldcracker that kept House Taranstroy's throne safe. And with the saints of his House decaying, Trystan can no longer buy peace.
The assassination of Trystan's son triggers vicious reprisals. The lords of Britain plot a coup.
Meanwhile, an undercover magician in the pay of Brussels struggles to contain an outbreak of illegal magic.
All that can save the kingdom from disintegration is the sword Worldcracker. But when the magical blade does turn up, its finder is a wildly unlikely hero.
For starters, he's only nine…
Prologue
Vivienne
August 1956. London
It’s bring your own booze,” Tristan said. “Yes, the old Cumberland place. Don’t tell anyone else. We don’t want a mob.” He put down the phone. “That’s everyone. Let’s go.”
“What about your little brother?” Vivienne said.
“Not taking him.” Tristan grabbed his satchel and thrust the door of his chamber open. “Oh.”
William Wessex, age thirteen, crouched in the passage. “I’m not little, and if you leave me behind, I’ll tell Father.”
“Oh, hellfire,” Tristan said. “Hurry up, then.”
The whole of the Tower of London was quiet. In the White Tower, Tristan’s father, the king, was holding an emergency Cabinet meeting to decide what to do about Ireland. Vivienne’s father was there, too. Niall Sauvage was the Protector of Ireland, so the crisis was happening on her family’s patch.
They drove out of the Traitor’s Gate in Tristan’s convertible. The court press corps milled at a respectful distance. “What’s His Majesty going to do about this pretender, then?”
“No comment,” Tristan shouted back, stepping on the accelerator.
A reporter jumped back too far and fell into the moat. Vivienne giggled nervously.
Weeds shrouded the still-numerous bombsites in the City of London. Warm wind blew through their hair, the last exhalation of a summer’s day. Tristan sang along with the radio, then broke off. “Here we go.”
He swerved around St. Paul’s Circus, the wrong way. Oncoming traffic veered aside to avoid a collision, cutting off the nondescript vehicle which had been following them—the princes’ not-so-secret protectors from MI5.
Tristan floored it. A whistle shrilled. They dived into the shady streets of Mayfair.
“We’ve shaken them off!” Vivienne whooped. William made dragon noises.
“Good! I hope they don’t get in trouble. But they’re really better off not knowing.”
“Are you …” Vivienne hesitated. “Are you sure it’s not wrong, Stannie?”
She knew he was not sure. But she wanted to know that he was at least sure enough to say so out loud.
Tristan turned down the radio. “Magic isn’t necessarily wrong. There’s black magic and then there’s white magic.”
“But it’s all illegal.”
“Yes, but Father says the purges went too far. He regrets that he didn’t try harder to stop them.”
“I sort of miss Mamblese,” Vivienne said.
The Seer of the Royal Chamber had gone to the block during the purges, the year after the Second World War ended.
“Well, you know, Mamblese wasn’t any great shakes as a magician.” Tristan paused. “I’m already better than he ever was.”
Vivienne shivered.
They pulled up outside one of the grandest mansions in Mayfair. It took up a whole city block, and was concealed by trees. Tristan beeped the horn. The branches overhanging the wall rustled. Their friend Alec Northumberland jumped to
the ground, followed by his sister Tabitha.
“Darling Vivienne!”
“Beloved Tabitha! Those flares are divine.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “Where’s our medium?”
“Around the back,” Alec said. “Servants’ entrance.”
They needed a medium for Tristan’s plan to work, and Alec had found one. She was one of the Northumberlands’ kitchen-maids. She waited outside the servants’ entrance, a dumpy figure in a purple lurex blouse and cherry-colored slacks.
“What a very pretty color that is on you,” Tristan said, smiling. “I’m so glad you could make it. What’s your name?”
“Millie, m’lord. Millie O’Braonain.”
The kitchen-maid was Irish, about fourteen, a couple of years younger than Tristan and Vivienne. She was pretty in a vacuous way, with a high forehead and bulging blue eyes. Her fair hair was cropped to her ears in the style commoners were legally required to wear. She sat on the jumpseat, hugging a big vinyl handbag.
“That’s an adorable handbag,” Vivienne said, being nice.
“It’s a present for the Prince o’ Wales and Lady Vivienne Sauvage,” Millie said clearly. She did not seem to realize that Tristan and Vivienne were the Prince of Wales and Lady Vivienne Sauvage. According to Tristan, mediums were always a bit slow. That was one way to recognize them, besides a certain pattern of lines on the balls of the thumbs, and some other sort of pattern in their irises—it was all in the books.
The banned books. The burned books, that Tristan had picked out of the rubbish after Mamblese the royal seer was burned to death on a pyre of his own magical things.
They wended on through Mayfair and Chelsea, picking up a couple more friends who were too young to drive. As the sun sank behind the trees, they arrived at the rusted gate of the old Cumberland place. Alec jumped out to move, and then replace, the trestle barrier that said: Sealed by Court Order. No Trespassing.