by Tina Gower
Ali nods. I hope she remembers enough from what I’ve told her about the case to recognize when useful tidbits come her way.
We enter a large foyer. My heels sink into a plush purple velvety carpet. Long paintings of what I assume are ancestors to the family that run the funeral home. Dark hair, gym-perfect bodies. A half-knowing smile like they know your deepest wish. Jinn.
To the left a door swings open and I hear the clink of pans and dishes and people dressed in white aprons with hairnets speaking in hushed voices. Ali eyes the kitchens and veers off from the main room.
Who am I kidding? Ali’s mind plays the same tune on repeat. “Where are you going?” I catch her arm before she completely abandons me.
She glares. “Don’t look at me like I’m going to fuck this up. I have a plan. The kitchen staff overhears everything.”
I let her go and wave her off. “Okay, fine.” Whatever, she’s probably right, even if she might be bullshitting me that she’s going to hang out in the kitchens for the sake of my case. Maybe she’ll cause less damage in there.
I skip the coat check, electing instead to keep my jacket as a security blanket. I don’t really want to be here, and this way, I can leave at a moment’s notice and not wait for the valet to find my items. My shoes leave footprints on the velvet carpet.
The walnut wainscoting of the main room is polished to a high shine. The matching hardwood floor peeks out from under a tapestry-like rug with detailed jinn and peri figures bringing a body to a gul. Along the outside is Arabic writing. I’m not familiar with the story, but since gul hang around graveyards and feed on spirits, it might have something to do with that.
The jinn in the corner wearing a traditional gold sash around his waist with a tablet and a stressed look on his face as he inspects the food trays must be the owner. A female jinn in a long satin dress with a headscarf is mingling with the guests and offering prayers—she must be his wife. The music drifts pleasantly in the background. Daff, flute, sitar, and an Indian woman’s soft voice lull the guests into a quiet somber atmosphere.
Jared’s portrait in a gold leaf-trimmed frame is centered in the front of the room with an impressive floral arrangement. White roses with silver-and-gold-sprayed manzanita twigs springing up all around the various marbled vases. Tall, thin, short, squat—it was a set up worthy of a pottery show.
I mosey to the food table and pop a few olives and a cheese square in my mouth, searching for someone who looks open to questions. Someone not crying. Someone not too close to the victim or near the open casket crouched in prayer.
I spot her. Dark gunmetal dress and cloche. Her gloved fingers clutch a small matching purse and her crimson-painted lips are pressed together while her eyes scan the group. Those are “when can I leave” eyes. But she also has a certain amount of familiarity with each of the guests, which leads me to believe she’s a relative. Distant maybe. I pile a few appetizers on my plate and work my way to the corner of the room where she’s set up her post.
I stand next to her for a minute, assuring myself that she’s not a date of a family member and I analyzed her all wrong. Another older woman comes up and gives her condolences. Bingo. We got a relative.
I wait until the older woman is finished with her story of Jared as a baby. “… But that was before you were born, dear.” The older woman pats my mark on the cheek.
The girl smiles. It’s a scrunched up nose and pursed lip smile, obviously fake. The older woman doesn’t notice though and she mutters about how cute those Walker siblings are and shuffles off.
A few beats and then I bump her from behind. “Oh, sorry. I was distracted by this interesting rug design. Any idea what it means?”
“No.”
I scramble for another opening. “Well, it’s pretty…uh…what’s that one guy doing? It’s like that urban legend where the doctors dig up the bodies in the graves to perform practice autopsies.”
She squints, as though she can’t see what I see, then shrugs. “That’s not an urban legend, they actually do that.”
Her tone is so flat and matter-of-fact I don’t know how to respond next. I pop something orange and white and puffy into my mouth. “Wow, have you tried these? They’re excellent.” No. They’re horrible. My mouth waters. I desperately glance around the room for a trash can to spit it out.
“That was a joke,” she clarifies. “I’m a nurse. Not an RN or anyone important. I pretty much clean up piss all day. I don’t like the doctors I work under. They’re total assholes.”
I continue to chew, avoiding swallowing the orange poison, whatever it is. “That must be a bummer to have done all that school and not even like the place you work.”
I have more saliva in my mouth than I know what to do with and I can’t swallow it or the orange stuff will have infiltrated my system.
“Not really.” She glances around the room, bored. “The school I mean. I only took two night classes my junior year of high school. Father said it would look good on a university application that I had a job with some life skills.”
I nod, my hand over my mouth. Gods, I think I might be drooling. She looks away again and I spit the wad of orange onto my plate and hold back a gag.
I shove the plate behind a statue. “So I gather you’re related to Jared in some way.”
“My brother. Half. We have the same father, but we were too far apart in age and too different. He was way older than me.”
Her words shoot an arrow through my chest. I miss my brothers.
The girl places her hands on her hips.
I slide my hands into my pocket, mimicking body language like Becker had taught me. “Didn’t get along?”
“We’d have to have seen each other more than a handful of times to qualify as sibling rivalry.” She crosses her arms.
Shit. It means she’s done with this conversation.
I leave my arms open, welcoming. If she’s going to phase out on me, might as well go for broke. “Now you’ll never have one.”
The corner of her mouth wobbles. Got her.
“Yeah.” She swipes the corner of her eye with her knuckle.
“It’s too bad.” I shake my head but keep my vision on her. “He didn’t even have a prediction. Fateless?” Even though I know he’s not. Becker had said Jared wasn’t, but we could have missed something.
“No. He had a few health forecasts that scared him into eating better. Cut down on salt. He showed on a few cupid cards, but don’t know if he ever dated any of the women who claimed they’d make a good couple. He was sort of a loner.”
“Right. So he wasn’t part of any groups? Hobbies?”
She shrugs.
There’s a long silence. She continues her person watch. Sighs. Right about when it becomes awkward, she turns, blinking at me as if she’s surprised I’m still there.
“Look.” I hand her my card. “I’m the actuary that was assigned to his case. If you think of anything you can call me at this number.”
She narrows her eyes at the card. “Anything? Like what does that mean? Like if he was acting strange before it happened? Or if he was contacted by anyone?” her tone drops.
My spine tingles. “Did he? Was there anyone suspicious hanging around him before he died?”
“No. Not really.” She tucks my card into a tall planter and smooths out her dress, her chin juts out. “I may not have had a great relationship with my brother, but I’m not going to help the person who should have been protecting him. Next time get your math right, so other families don’t have to live with your mistakes.”
My stomach sinks, but I look her in the eye. There’s nothing I can say, no explanation I can offer that won’t seem more like an excuse to her. I’ve done the grief thing. It never stops. The anger, the longing, the what ifs—all those emotions creep up at unexpected moments. It’s easier to blame someone. She blames the actuary. After my experience I became one, thinking I could make a difference and save others, even if I couldn’t save my parents.
&n
bsp; She blows out one frustrated breath and stomps off.
Ali appears next to me in a white apron carrying a tray of appetizers. “They don’t have shrimp. Cheap.” She grabs a peppered cracker with some sort of red topping. “Try this and tell me if you think they used a Persian lime or a key lime.”
I frown at the offering, not yet ready to try something new after my last experience. Also I have no appetite after being blamed for Jared Walker’s death. “I’m guessing it’s some kind of jinn concoction.” I sniff it.
“Ah! That’s it. They’d have used a kaffir lime.” She pops one in her mouth. “I can taste it now. I think I was confusing it with another spice.”
“I think we should go. I’m not going to get anything here. It was probably a bad idea.”
“I don’t know. I was talking to some of the servers and they said the mother and father don’t get along at all. They’re both fighting over Jared’s death insurance money and who should get what.”
“That happens at every funeral. He probably had a will. They’ll work it out then.”
“Yeah, but he had a couple hundred thousand. What if someone offed him for the cash?”
“Maybe.” I slide my notebook from my blazer pocket and jot it down. “Jared’s death could have been unrelated.” I won’t say accident. It’s too weird that the accidental event meant for Alana instead killed Jared. He was never supposed to be there.
“We should get back to the apartment and look through the binders for a witch that can see individual fate threads.” I tuck my notebook into my pocket. “Our time will be better spent there.”
Ali shakes her head. “Just give me a minute. I was supposed to do the rounds with these. I want to see if people like them and if I should make an effort to steal the recipe. I think I saw the chef peeking into a little black book.” She swoops off with her tray before I can object.
I suppose I can let her do her thing as a thank you for driving me out here. I decide to wait out front. I twist on my heel and run smack into a solid wall of muscle. Becker grabs my arms to steady me.
All the blood drains from my face. What is he doing here?
Becker jerks his chin and pulls me, half dragging, half carrying out into a service hallway. He looks both directions. The tink and cling of trays and rush of water are like symbols crashing at a pump house. At the end of the hallway a door swings open and a jinn teen carries a hot pink bin of dirty dishes across the hall. He doesn’t glance down and see us. Becker tugs me another direction until we’re in front of a large walnut door with carvings alongside. He tries the knob and when it doesn’t budge he digs out a long metal pin from his pocket and with a jab and a wiggle we’re inside. He shuts and locks it behind him.
I’m cast in darkness. I blink, attempting to adjust to the dim light. I feel around, but only come in contact with a wall of hung coats, each with a number tag. Hats, scarves, gloves, shoes, a microwave—wtf, who coat checks a home appliance?—are stored all around us.
Becker paces the room, checking each access point. When he’s deemed it safe he comes at me, hair wild, eyes bloodshot. “What are you doing?”
“Attending Jared Walker’s funeral. Investigating.”
“You said we’d go together. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“What? Are you shitting me right now, Becker? I called you and Dalia picked up your phone. I gathered you were a bit too busy for work.”
I emphasize those words a little more than I’d meant to so Becker would get my meaning. I plop down on a low shelf and kick out my legs. Might as well get comfortable for Becker’s uncalled-for scolding.
“She shouldn’t have spoken to you. This stuff with Turmoil is complicated. If I join we have to be careful how we present it.”
My muscles stiffen. Becker acknowledging my fears isn’t what I wanted to hear. “If you join? Dalia made it sound like a done deal.”
His eyes go soft. “I told her to wait—”
“Wait until you saw me in person to break off the pack agreement. She already spilled on that one.”
“Break off the pack agreement? That’s not what we discussed…She’d be joining us—”
I recoil. “That is…no. I’m not comfortable with that.” I imagine her stroking Becker with me on the other side, watching jealously. “If it’s her or me, it’s probably better to go with her.”
I’m not dense. Dalia’s a wolf and would understand his needs better than me. Becker made that point clear earlier. My wishy washy non-commitment in the beginning did irreversible damage to Becker’s trust and loyalty.
“No.” Becker scratches his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the ground between us. “I’m not comfortable with her. I’m doing it to protect her.”
“Protect her?”
“She’s under pressure to bring me in to Turmoil and if they receive word she’s failed in some way, they might blackmail her or at the very least toss her out. She can’t go lone. She’s like me, too full-blooded.”
“You feel responsible for her.” I sigh. Becker can’t resist a needy female. Too bad I don’t play that part well. He’s tried the over-possessive angle with me and it’s one of the reasons I shoved him away. “She’s in distress and you want to help her. That’s fine. You’re a good guy.” I wait a beat, clearing my mind of any anger, so the next part comes out genuine—even if I don’t really want things to go down this way. “But I don’t need to be involved.”
“You do. I’m not stable enough. She’s not stable enough on her own or even with me in the mix. My only other option is to join Turmoil temporarily and make them believe I’m going to…perform.”
He’d have sex and a kid with someone he doesn’t love to save them? And he’ll not sleep with me because he likes to me too much. Becker’s not just emotionally unstable; he’s got it backward.
“That’s…” I swallow down bile. “Are you okay with this? Gods, Becker, this might be their plan. You’re falling right into it. She’s helpless and needy and—”
He waves off my concerns. Nodding, not listening to my lists. “You’re not getting it. She’s one of the experiments. We’re—” He swallows, not finishing that thought.
He doesn’t need to. My jaw drops.
“You think she might be your sister?”
He nods.
“This is even worse. They’ve set you up. Trapped you into a DNA test and you’d do it willingly thinking you’ll get family out of the deal.”
They dangled a carrot that he couldn’t resist. They already suspected him of being one of the experiments. A group of children who were bred from the last remaining shifting werewolf and females with high amounts of werewolf DNA.
“She doesn’t know about me. My history. She’s terrified they’ll find out her own secret. She lied about her history when she joined. Her mother is her biological mother. Dalia wasn’t one of the pups adopted out of the program. Her mother kept her.” He grabs my shoulders, forcing me to squarely face him. “If we are a match, I’d know for sure. I’d know if I’m one of them.”
“You know for sure she doesn’t have a clue about you? But when you met with Turmoil they accused you of as much.”
“It was mentioned, but I doubt they relayed their suspicion to her. Nobody would want to…most of the other tagged experiments are in the system, put away for violent crimes. They want her to trust and like me enough to…” He clears his throat, blushing. He can’t even say the words.
His eyes widen as though he’s realized the extent of what he’ll have to do. He’ll have to fake a relationship with her. He’ll have to tell her he suspects they’re related first, but then they’ll need to pretend they’re together long enough to get her out of that pack safely if that’s the case.
“Oh hells.” I cross my arms. “How are you going to pull this off?”
“Well, it gets my supervisor off my back about not having a pack. It takes the suspicion off us having a relationship that HR wants us to claim so they can re-assign one or both of us.”
He shrugs. “Status. A hope to bring our species back to the good ‘ol days when others would cower before us in fear. Who knows what sort of power a shifting wolf might bring into this world after being extinct for decades?”
I blink, my earlier conversation with Orland coming back to me. “Or use the pup’s blood for magic. Sell it to the highest bidder.”
“That’s an old warlock’s tale. Ali said it doesn’t even work. When I said power, I didn’t mean it in that way. Our blood is too diluted and a full-blooded werewolf, the ones who were used in those spells, will never exist again. If it ever really worked before.” His fingers twitch, but he covers the nervous movement by scratching the back of his neck. “It was likely a superstition, not based on any real fact. There’s no way of knowing if a shifting pup’s blood would even work.”
“I don’t know.” I pause, gathering my thoughts, while making small circles on the white painted wood with my finger. “That’s what they tell witches now, but what if witches turned to other shifters and saw enough results to convince them? What if they’ve been trying out those old abandoned spells and using them to change forecasts? Or create predictions?”
Becker squints at my swirling finger, like it holds the answers to what I’m getting at. Wondering if I should reach to him, I inch closer on the bench. Best to wait for his signal. I don’t want to key him up more than he already is.
I sit up, leaning forward, elbows on knees. His gaze dips to my chest, then quickly snaps to my eyes. I ignore it, not acknowledging his slip. Yeah, he’s attracted to me. I’m attracted to him. Neither of us can seem to agree on what it means.
I tuck a few errant locks of hair behind my ears. Becker watches the motion like it’s feeding time at the zoo. “Orland told me that a year ago several oracles under his care had prevented an anti-fate group from trying to wipe out a group of rat shifters. We can’t ignore the similarity of how your pack was targeted. The shade had said they needed more blood. As in, they thought if they had enough quantity for the sacrifice it would make up for the dilution. It caused minor issues on the net for a few days after their slaughter.”