by Tina Gower
Chandler turns away, but I catch his grin before he does. “You’re very private with your emotions. This is not a bad thing, but taking on a werewolf, even a latent one, will require you to be more open.”
I cross my legs and then my arms, tilting my body to the door. Read that, asshole. “Let’s keep this about the case.”
He sits. “Of course.”
I fidget in the silence for a minute or two, before deciding I might as well get more information from the guy while he’s here. When I return to the office, I’ll be buried in files and unable to work on this case. “What’s your status with the oracles? Whom do you answer to?”
“I am the head of my network. I manage the other sensitives. I also oversee the selection of oracles when we find children in the population who meet the requirements of training.”
Oracles are born, not bred. One of the reasons they were still in existence. We could exterminate or suppress the abilities of an oracle child, but it only created more. Same idea as if you have too many men in the population, suddenly there is a booming burst of girls born. Nature’s balance.
The sensitives seek these special children and guide them. If a potential chooses, they can become oracles. Most go through with the process, not many refuse. They’re guaranteed housing, provisions, great benefits, and a retirement plan anyone would envy. Oracles are also encouraged to pursue hobbies or even have a small family. The downside is that you’re property of the government. They can veto any choice you make if it interferes with their investment. The ones who defect and complain about the system are quickly discredited. It’s not a life I’d choose, regardless of how pretty the sensitives dress it.
I lean forward. “You’re here to convince me I’m wrong? That I should let this go as a chance prediction? If you care about the oracles, you’d want to know who’s after them. Last sensitive I ran into turned out to be an anti-fate activist.”
“I would do anything to protect the oracles. These mistakes are a threat to both of our interests. The prediction was not wrong. I listened to the predictions. I imagine the first vision has already been thrown out due to age of the oracle and the vague forecast. And the oracle in my care names the girl, the time, the place. She never connects the girl to the death.”
“Bull!” My chair squeals as I push away from the table. “It never works that way and you know it. Her vision was too clear for an ambiguity like that.” I thrust a finger close to his face and he doesn’t flinch.
He wasn’t here to do what was best for the oracles—he wanted to protect his oracle. One under his personal care. He didn’t take the threat to the group seriously or he would want me to go further with this case.
He leans forward. “My concern is for my oracles. Look at how well the Department of Predictions’ involvement worked for Jack Roberts. For the sakes of my oracles, please let us handle this breach on our own.”
At the mention of Jack’s name, I fall back into my chair as though he’s shoved me. Gods, I’d fucked up Jack’s case. Sure, he lived, but barely.
There’s a commotion outside the room. A radio cackles in the background, listing off codes. A number of police officers grab coats, keys, and savor last sips of coffee. I catch Becker’s eye as he joins the group out the door. A call must have come in that takes priority and I’m on my own.
I turn back to the sensitive and he’s standing, his fingers laced together in the prayer position. “I must leave now. I have faith you’ll make the right choice when the time comes to file your report. We will meet again soon.”
I narrow my eyes at him; if I didn’t have to get to the office I’d chase him down for answers. He managed to give me nothing but more doubts.
Chapter 6
I toss my keys onto my kitchen counter and they slide off the other end. Even though I spent less time at work today than the nightmare of the day before, today is when the crushing exhaustion hits. And tomorrow is Monday. I’m ready for a long session of stress eating and going over the recordings of the interviews Becker sent me at the end of the day.
I flip take-out menus on my tiny dining room table, like they’re tarot cards telling me my future. Banshee? Nope. Chinese? Eh. Ghoulish? Too bland. There’s a quick knock as my door opens at the same time. Only Ali is that brazen to enter as if she owns the place when I’m in an obvious foul mood.
“Sorry I’ve been working so many night shifts lately. Between work and checking in with the nurses about mom I feel like we haven’t caught up in ages…” Her gaze darts to the pile of menus. Her eyes go wide. “No. Stop.” She flings herself over the pile like she’s failed at defusing a bomb and will now sacrifice herself for the team. “What the hells are you doing, Kate?”
I tug at the exposed corner of an Italian cafe menu. “Quit it, Ali. I’m ordering takeout and you can’t talk me out of it.”
She does her sad puppy face. “Not even for Giant’s stew? I’ve got all organic vegetables. And a molten chocolate warlock’s cake. With walnuts and hazelnuts!”
“It’s not the same.” I give up on the corner of the Italian cafe and instead flip through the last few I have left in my hands, desperate to memorize a phone number before Ali snatches them from me. “I need the kind of comfort only MSGs and trans fats can give me.”
She scoops up the menus and runs to the farthest end of my apartment, which isn’t far because I live in a shoebox. She digs into her pocket and tosses out a handful of a white grainy substance.
“Did you just throw salt on me?”
“Damn.” Her shoulders lower. “I was hoping you were possessed and this would be an easy fix.” Ali grips menus in both fists and holds her arms out, coaxing me like a mediator in an intense hostage situation. “Come on. It’s all ready and simmering on my stove.”
Becker walks up to my threshold with two plastic bags of takeout. He peeks in, brows furrowed and inches away from the scene.
“Is that Mexican? Get back here!” I yell after him, jogging to the door.
Ali grabs my blazer from behind. “It’s not healthy for you to eat out so often.” Becker gives us a wide berth and sets the food on the counter. Ali glares at him and jerks my blazer before letting go. “Enabler,” she mumbles under her breath.
Becker goes to work transferring the food onto plates. “I can’t stay,” he says. “But I wanted you to know that I set up an appointment with the oracle who made the prediction tomorrow at six p.m. Orland Chandler insists on being present.” His lip curls at the mention of Orland.
He’s tense, a light sheen of sweat on his temples. He shoots a quick glance at me, then away. He retrieves glasses from my cupboard and I motion for Ali to leave. Sensing the tension, she doesn’t need to be convinced. She uses her thumb and pinkie to her ear to indicate for me to call her when Becker leaves. I nod that I will.
By the time Becker turns around, Ali’s gone. He doesn’t comment on it, instead he shovels food into his mouth. In between bites, he points to my door with his fork. “Lock the door.”
I do, keeping him in my sights. “You mind telling me why you’re all strung out? I thought you’d be better after last night.”
He shakes his head, not giving me a verbal answer to my question.
I sigh and take a few bites from my plate. “Is it me? Is it because I’m not…” I swallow, staring at the mix of enchiladas, beans, and rice swirled on my plate. I push around the bits of food, not really craving it as much as I was before.
“It’s not.” He sets his plate in the sink. Already done. “It’s…” He scratches his chest unable to finish what he was going to say.
I set my plate down and reach for him, hold his hand until he’s more stable. He gives me a shaky smile, looking much better than when he came through my door. He reaches over and puts his other hand over mine. His wrists are red and raw.
“Gods, Becker.”
He adjusts his coat to hide the ruined skin. “It’s from cuffs. Don’t worry, I asked for it.”
“You asked to be
handcuffed…that looks painful.” I start to move away to grab some ointment, but Becker squeezes my hand, keeping me in place.
“Shifter genes.” He shrugs. “These kinds of superficial wounds don’t last very long.” He holds me closer until I’m fully wrapped into a hug, and he breathes like he finally can without pain. “Your food’s cold.”
“It’s why I have a microwave.”
He presses his lips together until they’re a long thin line, then reaches into his coat pocket and sets a memory disc on the counter. “Don’t watch it until I’m at least ten blocks away.”
I know he won’t make it the ten blocks. He’ll probably lurk around in my parking lot as usual. “I’ll wear headphones.”
His hand slides from mine and he doesn’t look at me as he unlocks, re-locks, and walks out the door.
I stare at the memory disc for a long while, pushing my food around the plate.
My phone rings. It’s Ali.
“I saw Becker leave a half hour ago. Everything okay?”
I finger the disc. “I’m not sure.”
“Hold on.” My doorknob jiggles. I unlock it. She talks at me through her phone. “I’m never going to get used to this privacy thing.” She hangs up, pointing at the memory disc. “What’s that?”
I reach into my laptop bag and pull out my computer, setting it up. “It’s what I’m not sure about. Becker’s all moody. This apparently has some explanation on it.”
“Should I leave you alone?” She eyes my full plate. “You didn’t eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She leaves, comes back with a steaming bowl of stew and a smug grin of victory, which she wipes off as soon as she notices I’m watching her. “Just a few bites. Never receive bad news on an empty stomach if you can help it.”
I set up my earphones and tilt the screen so she can’t see. I don’t want to be alone, but it also feels like an invasion of Becker’s privacy to have a group viewing of whatever’s on the disc. Ali dings the bowl with a spoon and I take two bites to appease her.
“I’m going to organize your spice rack. It’s a mess.”
“Fine.” I never go in there anyway. Ali does most of the baking in my kitchen. Making myself a comfy spot on the couch and wrapping a blanket around me, I’m suddenly enveloped in Becker’s scent. It’s like he’s here, curled around me. But it’s not magic, not my imagination, it’s the throw Becker and I laid on last night. I tuck myself into it, prepping for the worst, and hit play.
The shade who followed Becker and me last month pops onto the screen. He’d broken through Becker’s car window while his other parts—shades think of themselves as parts of a whole—worked on eliminating Becker. The shade’s pale skin and dark hair are nearly translucent. Shades can make themselves invisible to humans, a problem for which I had to find a work-around. Topaz worked. I’ve gotten in the habit of wearing a topaz ankle bracelet discreetly under my trousers or a statement piece necklace. The bigger the topaz the more warning I’ll get if a shade attempts to approach me again. So far we’d not had an issue.
Lipski’s voice comes in from behind the counter. “You’d mentioned you were working for a cell of anti-faters. Tell us the names of the other members of your cell and we can reduce your sentence down to a few years with early parole with community service.”
“I told you…” The shade’s blank expression is focused right on the camera lens. It’s as though he’s speaking directly to me. “I’ll only speak to the werewolf.”
“Officer Becker is busy right now. I’ll give him your message.”
“I. Will. Not. Speak—”
“All right. All right. You said that. You give me one name and I’ll go fetch him.”
The shade turns to where Lipski must be standing. “Liza Hamilton.”
“Try again. We already have her in custody.”
“You said one name and I gave one name to you. Now give me Becker.”
“We don’t work like that.” Lipski’s arm blocks the screen as he leans over the table. The shade angles his chin to look up at the larger man. “Names.”
The shade blinks, but his bored expression doesn’t change. “I have five names.”
“All right.” Lipski scoots a sheet of paper and a pen toward the shade.
He doesn’t take the materials. Instead he starts listing out names, keeping his eyes focused on Lipski. “Tonya Linotelli, Jackilynn Martell, Marco Ramirez, Ben Jones, and Jaylee Ferri—“
There’s a click and a door slamming. A blur from across the room knocks over the camera and there’s the sound of a body thumping against concrete. The camera tilts, half a close-up of the paper and pen and the other half is an unfocused body slamming its fist into another.
Becker’s voice is muffled through the speaker. “Don’t you fucking say their names. Don’t ever say any of their names again.”
His tone, the anger mixed with a hint of him losing it and breaking into tears, sends a shot of a cold dagger straight though my chest. My throat hurts to swallow, like I’ve got barbed wire wrapped around inside.
A commotion fills the room and then there’s a dozen cops pulling Becker from the shade. The recording bleeps out, but restarts, this time with the shade wearing a slightly less confident grin and a shiner.
I pause the recording, catching my breath.
The names. It has to be his pack. He’s never mentioned their names, except for one.
Jaylee. Becker had been sleeping with her. Her name is burned into every synapse and dendrite related to that memory of the day he admitted his history with her to me. I’ve never asked or been curious enough to look up the others, given my own inability to deal with my own death issues.
I run a search. Yeah, it leads straight to an old news article about the slaughter. Five pack mates shot with semi-automatic rifles on a camping trip. The assailants were suspected to have been hidden in trees at the neighboring campsite several yards away. Three bodies were rearranged to spell an “N” which was the Norn’s call sign and the first time they’d become violent against a group that had no connection to them or had provoked them in any way. Becker had told me he’d gotten a call and when he returned he discovered the bodies. Gods, what a horrible way to find his friends.
I restart the recording.
The back side of Lipski’s body peeks into view and the shade waits with his cuffed wrists chained to the table. The room looks different. Smaller. The date on the bottom corner is also different. The first video was a few days ago. This one is stamped for this afternoon.
“For obvious reasons we can’t have Officer Becker in the room with you, but we’ve set him a seat behind that two-way over there.” He points to a mirrored wall beside them. “The names. You listed off victims of a crime from over five years ago. Are you confessing to their murders or was that a little show to get Officer Becker’s attention?”
“No confession. We’ve studied that masterpiece. It’s what we strive for.”
“To end innocent lives. Why?” Lipski leans forward as though he’s raptly curious. “Tell me about what makes that case special to you.”
“It caused a disruption.”
“A blip in the net. Nothing significant.”
“Chaos, even in small waves brings peace.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“I want to talk to the werewolf. I want to tell him something.”
“No can do. You want to live, correct? We can’t control him or guarantee your safety.”
The shade turns his body to face the mirror. “Wolf, I know you are there. Please come and play with me.”
“He’s restrained. He can hear you. Tell him what you want him to know.”
The shade’s blank expression twists into one of concern. “How do I know he is there?”
“You’ll have to take my word for it.”
The handcuffs. That’s what happened to Becker’s wrists. He was in this room a few hours ago. I squeeze my arms into my stomach.
<
br /> Only the shade’s side profile shows to the camera. He blinks, slow and even. “I will trust your word.” He continues to watch the mirror, not moving or speaking as though he’s waiting for some sign. He must have seen what he was waiting for because after a minute, just when Lipski’s about to cut off the camera he says, “We didn’t get them all. Your pack. We didn’t know about the baby or we wouldn’t have allowed it to die unborn. We would have waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“The full impact. We should have killed six living wolves. The baby didn’t count. There needed to be six.”
“You talk as if you were there. Are you confessing to the murders of that wolf pack?”
“One of me was there.”
“Which one of you?” Lipski is careful to tease out the confession. Becker had explained that prosecuting the shades would be tricky considering they see themselves as one whole. They could be released on a technicality. If one part didn’t consent or know of the other’s actions, it would mean that they acted separately. And there were apparently legal loopholes that would protect them in such a case.
The shade rubs his chin and jawline with his knuckle. “We do not remember.”
“Of course you don’t. Is that all? Do you have more to add?”
“That is all for now.”
I shove my laptop closed. Ali spins around, three spices in each hand. I’d forgotten she was here, but I’m relieved I’m not alone.
“Gods, Ali, it’s horrible. I have to find Becker and…” I almost admit to her that I need to comfort Becker. I shut my mouth before I confess that little secret.
Although, Lipski, Becker’s partner, knows and I’ve grown to trust him even if his teasing in the beginning was over the top. He’s barely mentioned it to either of us in the last few months after I dialed our interaction way back. Hells, at this point, keeping it completely from Ali seems like a betrayal.