by Sarah Noffke
“Well, when you’re not working on discovering the hack then you need to have this succubus machine in that vault,” I say, pointing at the seemingly unassuming device.
“Oh right. Mind control. Good call. I hadn’t thought of that,” he says.
“I’m not surprised,” I say, turning to leave.
I spin around to find Trey standing in the doorway; beside him stands the tallest woman in the Institute. Shuman is the Head Mentalist and also in charge of the news reporting department. I’ve known her for the entire time I’ve worked at the Institute and never once have I seen her smile. I respect that she finds the gesture wasteful and usually insincere.
“Hey, intervener,” I say to Trey, still bitter that he brought Adelaide to the Institute. “Have you found new ways to stick your nose in my business?”
“I actually was stopping by to make your life easier,” he says.
“Oh, good, you’re getting rid of your son,” I say. “Good call. Joseph really is the absolute worst. We’ve all voted and it was unanimous.”
Trey shakes his head. “No, Ren. I had Shuman investigate her department for the mole. Everyone checked out.”
I eye Shuman, who has her arms crossed in front of her chest, her rattlesnake tattoo visible on her wrist and hand where it’s wrapped around. Her face as usual is impassive.
“Oh, for fuck sake,” I say to the ceiling. “God, why did you curse me to work with such idiots?” I then look back at Trey. “Did you also announce that we have a mole in our midst on the Lucidites’ newsfeed? Blog about it? Update your Facebook status with the information?” I say, my voice rising with each sentence. I hadn’t checked out Shuman or her department yet; well, besides Joseph, who fit the criteria for a mole due to past behavior. I only just cleared the scientist, which almost rotted my soul and stole my will to live.
“There’s a mole at the Institute?” Aiden says at my back.
I turn and give him a punishing look. “Forget what you’ve heard and don’t breathe a word of it or I’ll make you strangle yourself,” I say.
“Ren,” Trey says, “I knew you had enough responsibility and now with Adelaide’s condition—”
“Don’t talk about that,” I say, cutting him off.
“The point is that Shuman cleared her department, which is a huge burden off you,” Trey says.
“And who cleared Shuman?” I say, watching the Native American’s expression for the slightest shift.
“Oh, Ren, come on. It’s Shuman,” Trey says, waving a hand at her.
“This is why you didn’t see that your son was brainwashed or that your daughter was shagging this monkey,” I say, throwing a finger at Aiden. “You’re too trusting. Just because you know someone doesn’t mean you can trust them. Actually the people you trust are in the best position to fool you. Everyone is a suspect and no one should be trusted.”
“Does that mean you shouldn’t be trusted, Ren? Maybe you’re the mole,” Aiden says with a sniveling little laugh.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m secretly giving that siren information, disabling Roya’s clairvoyance, all while killing myself to stop Smart Solutions,” I say with a hot sigh. “God, Aiden, you’d make a worst detective than you do a scientist, you bloody prat.” I then turn back to Trey. “As I was saying before the toddler interrupted, no one, with the exception of me, should be trusted.”
“I disagree,” Trey begins.
“Ren is right,” Shuman says, her voice deep.
Trey turns and regards her.
“I am in the perfect position to be the mole. Furthermore, it is my department most affected by what Vivian is doing to sabotage our efforts. Roya, who has fully lost her ability to news report, is my reporter,” she says, her tone reminiscent of a chant.
Trey blinks at the woman blankly. “Well, I guess that’s a valid point but I trust—”
“It is not about trust, Trey,” she says, always the picture of poise. “What Vivian can do to a person undermines trust. She controls through voice commands. She disabled Ren’s powers in San Francisco with simple words. Vivian made an innocent person kill her father. This woman could very well have infiltrated the Institute and have any of us under her persuasion. It is possible that she chose the one person no one would suspect to be her mole. Because the perfect spy is the one no one sees,” Shuman states. She loves to talk in riddles and throw useless proverbs into conversations.
“So what do you propose?” Trey says.
“Ren needs to use his telepathy on me to confirm I’m not the mole and that I in fact cleared my department,” she says.
It’s about bloody time I work with someone with a fucking brain in their head. I don’t say that though. Instead I say, “Oh, crafty strategy, Shuman. You’ve finally figured out a way to get me to touch you,” I say, striding forward.
Shuman narrows her lavender eyes at me, but doesn’t say a word in response.
“Hold out your hand,” I say. “Against your deepest darkest wishes I’m not touching your private parts, only your hand.”
The stoic woman holds out her hand. I place two fingers on the top of her arm, where the rattlesnake’s tail rests. Shuman is a master of abilities and teaches Lucidites how to hone theirs. She’s been doing it for thirty years. She knows how to open her mind, and therefore it only takes me a few seconds to determine she has had no involvement in giving information to Vivian.
“She’s clear,” I say, pulling my hand away and experiencing a great relief, and then I’m flooded with dread. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The news reporting department was the last I needed to investigate. If the mole isn’t there then I’ve missed them. Or one of my agents has.
Chapter Thirteen
Two week after giving birth and three blood transfusions later Adelaide has returned home. I visited her during her stay at the hospital, but never for long. Dahlia said I never spent enough time with Adelaide, but that I did more than anyone expected. She was always alone, in the intensive care unit. Thankfully the little monster was always absent, too weak to leave the neonatal.
I open the front door for Mae. “Go through,” I say to the old woman who moves too slowly when she’s not in the infirmary. I dream traveled with her to the GAD-C in Los Angeles. I thought I was going to drop dead from boredom waiting for her to generate her body and walk to the parking lot where the limo was waiting. When I told her as much, the healer informed me she’d do her best to bring me back if that happened.
This is the first time I’ve allowed someone from the Lucidite Institute in my residence. I would have hired my own healer but I can’t argue with Trey on this one; Mae is the best. And Adelaide apparently is in a lot of pain. She complains about the pain medicine. About needing it, but not liking how it makes her feel.
A baby is wailing when I close the door. “Fuck my life,” I whisper to myself.
“What’s that, dear?” Mae says, her eyes scanning the gigantic entry hall, which is flanked by columns and lined with too many gaudy statues.
“Nothing,” I say, stalking off to the staircase.
“I didn’t take this kind of place as your style,” Mae says five paces behind me.
“It’s not,” I say simply.
“Oh, so the decor is Dahlia’s taste then?” she says, nearing me at a speed that would make a sloth appear quick. “Does she do all the designing?”
“Up there,” I say, pointing to the second floor. “It’s the third door on the right. You’ll find your patient there. By the sound of that incessant crying I’m guessing you’ll find both your patients up there. Do your job and I’ll return you to the Institute before you get a sunburn from this exposure to sun.”
Mae is not known for leaving the Institute. She’s committed to her position and has no family outside of that place. She had a daughter, but because she allowed her to work for the Lucidites, the girl died prematurely. That’s the reality a Lucidite faces. We take on missions that are dangerous so that Middlings can go to the gym and indulge in frozen yogurt
and take dumb vacations. None of them realize there’s a race of people killing themselves fighting evil so they can live repugnant lives. And Mae hasn’t really been the same since a year ago when her daughter was murdered on one of these missions to save humanity. She hasn’t left the Institute or ventured far from the infirmary. This is probably the first time Mae’s skin has felt real sun in many years.
“Aren’t you going up to see your daughter and your grandson?” she says to me, giving me the same disapproving tone as that damn midwife.
“Eventually,” I say, my eyes on the stairs that I realize could lead me to my daughter, who I haven’t seen since she returned from the hospital.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I hear from the hallway. I turn to find my pops. He returned from Peavey shortly after Adelaide delivered the little monster. Pop has been here for a while now. Imposing his opinion on me about how cold and distant I am to Adelaide and the thing she brought into this world. He really should know he’s overstayed his welcome. Houseguests and fish are only good for three days.
“You’re coming up to meet your grandson, it’s overdue, son,” he says, hooking his arm through mine and tugging me up the stairs.
“Fine,” I growl, realizing I’ll have to face this moment sooner or later.
Mae takes up the spot behind us, which is for the best because being behind her going up the stairs would kill my remaining spirit.
***
The little monster is quiet when I knock at the door.
“Come in,” I hear an unfamiliar voice say.
The door creaks when I push it open. A woman who has no reason to be smiling is grinning wide when she sets her eyes on me. It isn’t polite to smile at strangers. It’s disingenuous and completely a waste of energy. The woman is rocking the little shit in her arms. She has black, blue, and pink hair, an obvious result of a bunch of hair dye and a really lame Saturday night. The atrocity of hair is tied up in a bun on the top of her head like a donut.
“Hi,” she whispers now, still smiling. “I’m the nanny, Cheryl Deariso.”
“And I don’t bloody give a damn,” I say, waiting for the woman who hasn’t grown old gracefully to make it up the fucking stairs and join us. I tap my foot and peer over my shoulder, looking for Mae.
“I just got the little tyke to calm down and take his bottle,” the woman whispers again, nodding to the thing in her arms sucking on a bottle.
I loathe whispering. It’s too low and soft and scratchy. A grunt falls out of my mouth in reply. I then turn my attention to Adelaide, who lies in a bed on the other side of the room. Her head rests on a pillow, although she sitting up and trying to make a show of being alert. However, I spy the exhaustion in her face.
“Hi,” she says, her voice coarse, but her face perking up a bit as she tries to pull herself more into a sitting position.
“I just came in to deliver Mae. You’ll remember her from the Institute,” I say, indicating the woman who has finally made it into the room. “I’m certain she can help you to feel better.”
“Oh,” Adelaide says, her voice dropping with repulsive disappointment. Why do people have to have expectations and hopes when it comes to me? I thought I’d firmly set standards, especially with Adelaide.
“Actually he came to see you and the baby,” my pops says with a chuckle, slapping me on the shoulder. He’s going to go to hell for lying.
I scowl at him to zero effect.
“Oh, you haven’t met your grandson, have you?” the nanny who I employ to take care of the runt and not speak says. She has the bottle propped up between her chin and shoulder. The woman stands from the rocker and shuffles in my direction. The thing in her arms is making repulsive noises as it slurps on the bottle of blood or whatever the demon drinks. The bottle makes a sucking sound when she pops it out of the thing’s mouth. The little monster immediately shows its dissatisfaction with that action by making noises that border on crying. The nanny turns the thing around to face me. “Meet your grandson,” she says proudly
“How do you do?” I say, not looking at it.
“His name is Lucien,” Adelaide says from the bed. Again that expectant quality is laced in her voice.
“Lucien,” I say, glancing at her. Mae is busy doing her voodoo, her hands hovering over Adelaide’s midsection.
“Yeah, do you like it?” she says and swivels her gaze to the thing in the nanny’s arms, but she doesn’t regard it with affection. Actually she looks somewhat afraid of the thing.
“Do you mean do I like its name?” I say.
“Oh, for all the king’s men, Ren,” my pops says, scooping up the bundle that is now wailing loudly. “Of course she means the name. And you don’t call a baby an it.”
“You might not,” I say too loudly, so I can be heard over the thing that obviously doesn’t have the underdeveloped lungs that the doctors reported.
“Tell him the full name,” my pops says to Adelaide while he bounces the little monster in his arms.
She sighs. “It’s Lucien Reynold.”
A cough is suddenly begging to erupt from my mouth. I swallow it down. “Well, congrats, Pops. She named it after you. I bet that makes you feel extremely proud,” I say.
He regards me under hooded eyes. “Ren,” he says, sounding to be punishing me with my own name.
“Well, if I’m no longer needed here I’m going to pop off,” I say, turning swiftly for the door.
“But don’t you want to hold the baby?” the nanny says to my back.
I turn and look at the woman who is either trying to taunt me with dumb questions or has entirely misread all my nonverbal cues. Then I regard the squirmy thing making sounds that are quickly draining my usually unending patience.
“No, I don’t hold babies,” I say. Then I swivel my chin in Adelaide’s direction, but don’t look at her. “Take care,” I say and exit immediately.
Chapter Fourteen
The receptionist’s office on the top floor of the Smart Solutions’ skyscraper is a crisp sixty-five degrees. The air smells of jasmine. And of course passing through security was a laughable experience. People really have no idea how powerless they are against me. I’m certain the receptionist will be zero trouble at all for me to bypass.
A woman with long red hair close to the shade of mine looks up at me when I breeze through the space. Her eyes do a double-take at me. The second one is coated in shock.
“Sir, you’re here!” she says, bolting to a standing position behind the desk. The lady hurries around the desk, smoothing down her baby blue pant suit as she does. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s such an honor to meet you in person,” she says, extending a hand to me.
I narrow my eyes at the offered hand.
“Why? Why is it an honor and how do you know of me?” I say.
With a chuckle she drops her hand and smiles a bit indulgently at me. “Oh, mistress was right. You are fun,” the woman says.
I sneer at the insult. “By mistress you must mean Vivian and she is wrong. I’ve never been considered fun,” I say.
“Well, still it’s wonderful to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Jennifer Long,” she says like that should mean something to me, offering me her hand again.
“No one cares,” I say, looking at her hand like it somehow offends me. “Now since you obviously have a listening problem, I’ll repeat the question. How do you know me? This time answer the question and I want specifics,” I say.
She laughs like I’ve told a joke. Waves her hand at me. “You’re so funny. I’m Jennifer Long,” she repeats.
“That name doesn’t ring the bell that I suspect you think it should,” I say, growing more and more irritated by the redhead. We really are a different species. It’s strange to look at her, like I’m looking in a mirror. I’ve never shagged a redhead because it would be like doing it with myself. “I don’t know you, so how do you know me?” I say.
“Well, I realize we’ve never met in person, but I thought you’d remember my name
since I’m your personal assistant,” she says.
“Say what?” I say. What is this woman talking about?
As though she hadn’t heard me she continues, her voice cheery and gross. “And since you’re also my mistress’s partner, I feel like I already know you. Well, and with all the arrangements I’ve made for you, I mean it seems like we’re best friends,” the redhead says. We really are the worst.
“I don’t have friends,” I say, eyeing the door labeled with Vivian’s name and then the woman in front of me. Having sufficient information is critical in this situation. So I’m going to plan my questions strategically and not give anything else away, even though my surprise is quite strong right now. “Arrangements?” I say. “Like what sort of arrangements do you make?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” she says, her eyes sparkling with pride.
I grunt at the question. It’s one of the worst ones ever. “Obviously I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jen Jen, or otherwise we wouldn’t be having this soul-sucking conversation.”
She presses her hand to her chest. “Well, maybe you thought I farmed out the work you assign me to an intern but I would never. I take pride in my job. And as your personal assistant, I make all of your travel arrangements, order your suits, and deliver your lunch. Just about anything that you request.” The nuisance then laughs, her nervousness showing. “As your personal assistant, I personally assist you,” she says in a cutesy voice that might make me vomit if it continues.