Dragon Spawn

by Eileen Wilks

  “We don’t know shit yet, including who was in the building.” Ackleford’s voice was as hard as ever. His eyes weren’t. “Quit jumping to conclusions and go bother Webster or someone and let me get some work done.”

  At least she’d heard from Deborah, Ruben’s wife, so she knew Ruben was okay. He was at what was left of FBI Headquarters now, but he’d been at home when he was hit with a sudden, overwhelming premonition and called the director and Martin Croft.

  Croft, at least, had listened. He’d intended to evacuate Unit 12. Deborah didn’t know if he’d succeeded. “If you hear anything—”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  6:27 p.m. PDT

  “Thank you, General. If you’d give me Colonel Abram’s number so I can . . .” Lily scribbled down the name and phone number of the colonel who’d been stuck with this hot potato of an investigation. As she did, her phone pinged. Incoming text. “Yes,” she said patiently to the irate general. “I understand. But I lack the authority to, ah, penalize a dragon for . . . they are arrogant, yes. I’m afraid I have to go now. Thank you, sir,” she said firmly, and managed to disconnect before the man could repeat the same tirade he’d been on since she called.

  Lily had a desk at the FBI’s San Diego field office. It resided in an office a bit larger than her new closet. Once in a while she even used that desk. Not often, because in addition to being tiny and windowless, her office was in the ATF section of the building, and ATF and the Bureau didn’t get along. But it was a place to sit while she made phone calls . . . and waited.

  The text was from Rule: Sam’s not leaving. Didn’t explain much. Call when you can.

  She called. He immediately asked about Martin Croft.

  “No word yet, other than what Ida told me.” After hearing from Ida, Lily had texted Rule that Ida had made it out with the rest of the Unit 12 personnel. Everyone but Martin Croft. He came out of his office on the run and told us to get out, Ida had said. Drop everything and get out. We did. He didn’t.

  “Why the hell didn’t Martin evacuate?”

  “Procedures,” she said bitterly.

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation employed about thirty thousand people. Nearly a thousand of those people worked at its Headquarters—fewer at night, thank God, but there’d still been around three hundred people present at 7:06 P.M. As with any bureaucracy, there are Procedures to Be Followed. Technically, any Unit 12 agent had the authority to order any building evacuated, including FBI Headquarters . . . but there were those Procedures.

  “Meaning?” Rule prompted her.

  “Croft didn’t explain to Ida. He didn’t have time. But she thinks he was trying to get the rest of the building evacuated. He had the authority to order that, but to claim that authority he would have had to present his credentials to the most senior person present. Turns out that person was the assistant director.”

  “Shit. Conroy Pine.”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a reason Ruben had called Croft and the director, but not the assistant director.

  Conroy Pine was a career man, not a political appointee. He was respected if not liked by the rank-and-file, being hardworking, honest, and fiercely protective of the Bureau’s reputation. But Pine hated Ruben. Before the Turning, he’d been part of the denier crowd, convinced that magic didn’t even exist—and if magic didn’t exist, then Ruben Brooks and everyone in Unit 12 were either charlatans or deluded. Pine’s worldview hadn’t survived the influx of magic that accompanied the Turning, but he still despised Ruben; he seemed to blame magic and those who used it for the mental cataclysm he’d endured when forced to accept reality.

  “Conroy Pine doesn’t hate Martin as much as he does Ruben,” Rule said, “but he wouldn’t evacuate the building just because Martin asked him to.”

  “And he sure wouldn’t accept the authority of anyone from Unit 12 to order an evacuation unless they followed the sacred procedures.” Lily drew a deep breath, trying to clear out some of the bitterness. “So what did Sam tell you?”

  “Not much. He did say that the pilot who fired those missiles was under a ‘strong and well-wrought compulsion.’ The compulsion made it difficult for Sam to access the pilot’s mind in the short time he had before the man destroyed himself along with his plane. But Sam believes the magic used to implant the compulsion carried her taint.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes. That’s about all that Sam learned about the pilot, other than his name, if that helps. Avery Jenkins.”

  “I got that much from the general—General MacDonald, the one Sam spoke with. The plane was from his command.”

  “Is he a fool?”

  “So Grandmother says, and I never argue with Grandmother.” Especially when she was so clearly right. How did such a bloated bag of wind ever rise to be a general anyway? “He, ah, has begun an investigation.”

  “I feel like there should be ironic quotation marks around the word ‘investigation.’”

  “That would be because he’s a waste of oxygen. But it did occur to him to learn the pilot’s name, which he graciously shared with me.” A whiff of amusement ghosted through her. “I also found out how Sam goes about motivating an Air Force general.”

  “Ah?”

  “He wouldn’t let any planes operate until the general cooperated.”

  “How in the world could he do that?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t budge, though. None of the planes would move an inch until the general agreed to cooperate. Listen, I should probably call the colonel who’s in charge of the Air Force end of the investigation—”

  “I’ve one more thing to tell you. I’ll be quick. Sam told me he wasn’t leaving because he’s very concerned about some development in the patterns.”

  “Something other than FBI Headquarters being turned into rubble?”

  “Yes.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Something that seems more important to him than looking for . . . uh, Weng’s ancestors.”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t tell me more, said he didn’t have time to translate what he perceived into terms I would think I understood. ‘The illusion of understanding’—his words—was likely to lead me further astray than if he had said nothing.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “Yes.” Rule’s voice was bone dry. “Then he told me to go away. He’s gone under-earth to better inspect those patterns. I’m driving Madame Yu home now—”

  “Grandmother’s with you?”

  “She seems to be napping. I’ll join you as soon as I drop her off.”

  “No. I mean . . . I want you to, but I think Toby needs you to be home with him.” She hadn’t forgotten what was happening tomorrow. She hadn’t had time to think about it, to come up with a way to stop the stupid Challenge from happening, but she hadn’t forgotten. She huffed out a breath. “I’m doing this wrong. It’s your decision, but I think you should be with Toby.”

  “I’m not going to let that pup kill me, Lily.”

  “I know that.” She almost knew it, anyway. Things could go wrong. Things did go wrong sometimes. “Toby probably knows that, too, but—”

  “But he’s ten years old.” A sigh. “You’re right. I’ll see you when I see you, nadia. T’eius ven.”

  “Good hunting,” that meant. Or “Go with the Lady.” She’d take either one right now. “I love you,” she said. “I’ll keep you posted as much as I can.”

  7:48 p.m. PDT

  “I wish I could tell you something, Arjenie,” Lily said. “I don’t know much more than what’s on the news.”

  “I shouldn’t have called. It’s just so hard, waiting.”

  “Yeah. Waiting sucks.” Arjenie Fox was an FBI researcher. She worked at home these days—home being Clanhome, where she lived with Rule’s brother, Benedict—but she used to work at Headquarters. Research ran shif
ts around the clock, and Arjenie knew people who’d been in that building.

  Lily had seen the same images as everyone else in the country. FBI Headquarters was more rubble than building. They were still digging through the debris, hoping for survivors—and had pulled out a few, so there was hope. There was still hope.

  “I should have called you,” Lily said. “Sorry. When I talked to Cynna, I asked her to pass on what I’d heard—”

  “She did. She said you’d heard that some of the researchers evacuated with Unit 12?”

  “Yeah. It’s not confirmed yet, but that’s what Ida told me. Texted me, I should say. It was a group text and she asked us not to respond. She was using someone else’s phone.”

  “And that’s all you know. I shouldn’t have pestered you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m doing anything productive right now. I’ve made some calls on, um, another case . . .” Which might be related. She didn’t see how the attack on Sam’s lair could be tied into the bombing at Headquarters, but she didn’t have a lot of faith in coincidence. “But that’s about it. Mostly I’m sitting on my ass. If I knew why the director wanted us to . . . Yes?” she said to the woman who’d appeared in the door to her tiny office.

  “Ackleford wants you right away.”

  Was there news? “I’ve got to go,” she told Arjenie. “Ackleford wants something.”

  “That charmer. Hang in there, Lily. Oh—Benedict wants to know if you’ve eaten.”

  Trust a lupus to have his priorities straight. “Not yet. Someone’s bound to order pizza at some point.” No one wanted to go home, though they weren’t accomplishing much. “I’ve got to go, Arjenie.”

  Ackleford did not have news for her. He had a phone call. “Director Parks wants to talk to you. He’s on my line—or some secretary is, waiting for you to show up. I’ll put it on speaker.”

  Why hadn’t the director called her cell? With the building a pile of rubble, everything was disrupted, but Ruben had her number and he was there. Lily remembered tact and didn’t ask. Ackleford had already put the call on speaker. “Special Agent Yu here,” she said, sitting in one of the worn visitors’ chairs facing Ackleford’s desk.

  “Please stand by for the director, Special Agent,” said a crisp female voice.

  She’d been standing by for three hours now. She didn’t point this out. More tact.

  Franklin Parks was the brand-spanking-new head of the FBI, having been appointed just two weeks ago when the previous director retired suddenly. They were calling it retirement anyway, though most people figured he’d been forced out. Lily had mixed feelings about that. The previous director had screwed up during the crisis two months ago, but until then he’d done okay. At least they’d known what to expect with him. This new guy, Franklin Parks, was an unknown quantity. He was well connected politically, of course—political appointees always were—and he did have some law enforcement experience. He’d been a federal prosecutor before running off to Congress to join the other clowns in that circus, where he’d served for eleven years before being tapped for the director’s job.

  Rule—who paid attention to congressional critters—said that Franklin Parks leaned conservative but wasn’t an ideologue. A subtle man, Rule said. Ambitious, but not a publicity hound. That was good, but Lily wasn’t sure—

  A pleasant tenor voice interrupted her train of thought. “Special Agent Yu? Franklin Parks here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “You’ll want to know about your boss, Martin Croft. They found him. He’s not in good shape, but he’s alive and is being transported to the hospital. I can’t . . .” Lily missed the next few words, so swamped by relief she couldn’t focus. Good thing she was already sitting down. “. . . was in Conroy’s office, or what used to be his office. I’m sorry to say that Conroy didn’t make it.”

  She’d been right. Croft must have headed for Conroy Pine’s office, trying to get the building evacuated, but they’d both run out of time. At least Croft was still breathing . . . Lily didn’t say any of the things going through her mind about that. “Thank you for letting me know, sir.”

  “I’m glad I could give halfway good news to one person today. It’s a hell of a day. One hell of a day. But I didn’t call you just to tell you about your boss. I need some recommendations from you. Even if he makes it, Croft will be recovering for a long time. I need someone in charge now.”

  That was easy. “Ruben Brooks, sir. He knows the Unit inside and out. I know Congress won’t like it—or some of them won’t—but in an emergency, you use what you have. Luckily for us, he’s the best anyway.”

  “That’s out. You know the man and like him. I understand that, but he’s compromised. You must see that. Or perhaps you aren’t aware that he knew about the bombing ahead of time?”

  She stared across the desk at a grim and silent Ackleford, too shocked to respond at first. “Yes, sir,” she managed. “I did know that. He had a premonition—”

  “Maybe that’s what it was. Can’t be sure, so I can’t put him in charge. What about you?”

  She was still struggling with the idea that this man suspected Ruben. Did he not know about Ruben’s Gift? “Uh—no, sir, I didn’t have a premonition. About Mr. Brooks—”

  “I’m talking about you taking over while Croft’s out, Special Agent.”

  “No!” That came out way too strong. She moderated her voice. “Thank you, but no. I’m good at my job. I would not be good at running the Unit. That’s a different skill set, Director.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see. In the meantime, who’ve we got who can tell me if magic was used in the bombing? You could, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir, eventually, but I’d have to touch everything to see if I felt any magic on it. That might be . . . impractical. It would certainly be slow. I recommend we ask Cullen Seabourne.” Which Ruben could have told him, if the idiot Parks hadn’t decided to distrust him. “He’s consulted for us plenty of times. He’d have to fly out, but that only takes about five hours if you get a nonstop. Seabourne’s good. He’d be able to tell faster and more definitively than anyone else if magic was involved.”

  At least Parks made decisions fast. He asked two more questions, then told her to “get Seabourne to agree,” to give his secretary Seabourne’s contact info, and said that he’d arrange transport. “A military jet, I think. They’re fast, and whoever did this can’t tamper with one of them.”

  Except that had happened a few hours ago—though it was the pilot, not the plane, which had been tampered with. When she tried to tell him about that, he cut her off, reminded her to send that information about Seabourne to his secretary—“your SAC has the number”—and ended the call.

  Lily shook her head, simmering. “I can’t believe he thinks Ruben had something to do with the bombing.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “He just said he did.”

  Ackleford gave her a pitying look. “You’ve led a sheltered life, Yu. Sheltered from the kind of political shit most of us have to deal with. Parks isn’t an idiot. He doesn’t think that Brooks is responsible for anything except making him look bad.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “The top precog in the country told Parks to evacuate Headquarters, and what does Parks do? Blows him off. Now Headquarters is mostly rubble and a hell of a lot of people are dead or injured. Parks has to act like he’s suspicious of Brooks. Otherwise, how’s he going to explain why he didn’t act on Brooks’s warning?”

  “That’s . . . ‘slimy’ doesn’t go far enough. Slimy the way death magic is slimy.”

  “That’s politics.”

  “Only if you’re a filthy ass-wipe.”

  Ackleford nodded. “You’re catching on. That’s why he told you about Croft right off. Why he dangled the prospect of putting you in charge. You’ve got a rep and the press loves you
. Hell, you’re up for a goddamn Citizen’s Award. Parks wants you on his side. Now go away and do what he said. Call Seabourne and text the ass-wipe’s secretary.”

  She stood, so angry she was nearly shaking. If FBI Director Franklin Parks thought he could plant the blame for any of this on Ruben—

  “And don’t say what you’re thinking to anyone else in this office. People repeat shit. Even good people.”

  10:15 p.m. PDT

  “This just in,” said the professionally crisp voice issuing from the laptop’s speakers.

  Lily had moved to the conference room, which held whiteboards with two lists of names—one of the confirmed dead and one for those still missing. Someone had fulfilled Lily’s prophecy by ordering pizza. Someone else had brought their laptop into the room so they could listen to one of the news sites while they pieced together what they could. They weren’t really working. They didn’t have enough data, and none of them were officially tasked with the investigation. But they had to do something.

  Fielding was trying to get Lily to say that magic had definitely been involved—as if she knew!—when something in the newscaster’s voice caught her attention. Lily turned to look at the small laptop as if that would help her hear better.

  “We are receiving reports of a major explosion in the Hebei Province of China, near Beijing,” the news anchor said. “This may have been a nuclear explosion. I repeat—there may have been a nuclear explosion near the Chinese capital.”

  11:55 p.m. PDT

  Lily watched the laptop intently, along with everyone else in the field office. The president had interrupted regular programming to speak to the country about the war that had just been averted. She spoke of “the great grief the American people feel for the lives lost” and praised the Chinese government for “listening to the wisdom of our dragon friends.”