by Lisa Shearin
Ian’s hands, which had been resting easily at his sides, began to twitch. Dr. Stephens wisely put another two steps between himself and his patient. I didn’t blame him. I’d seen Ian’s fists in action on numerous occasions. Though at least if my partner did slug someone, they’d already be in the right place to get the damage repaired.
Ian’s hands were twitching, but Noel was white as a sheet, his breath coming in ragged gasps as if he was about to be sick. I silently nudged the room’s trash can with my toe to get it closer to the doc’s chair.
As far as I was concerned, it was the proper reaction to being forced to watch a bunch of ancient Irishmen hack and carve sea monsters to bits. Ian had a military background; he’d probably seen it all. The closest Noel had probably come was reading about it.
After a few more minutes, Ian’s twitching subsided and his eyes ceased flickering back and forth beneath his lids.
Noel drew a series of shallow breaths, and swallowed with an audible gulp.
It looked like Ian’s dream was now Noel’s waking nightmare.
• • •
Ian was still out. Dr. Stephens had given him enough of the drug to help him sleep for the next several hours. He was still hooked up to the heart and breathing monitors, Dr. Stephens was in the room, and Yasha was sitting in the chair that Noel had used.
Ian had wanted me in the room with him, but seeing Noel’s drawings of Ian’s dream was more important. Besides, I was still watching over him. The room we were in had an observation window into Ian’s room. My partner’s features were relaxed, his breathing deep and even. I wouldn’t have woken him up for anything in the world.
The conversation we were having definitely would have disturbed him. It was disturbing the hell out of me.
Alain Moreau had joined us. I’d called him two seconds after seeing Noel’s drawings, and when Moreau had gotten a look, he immediately called in Amelia Chandler, one of SPI’s historians and our expert on classic Greek and Roman mythology, as well as Nordic and Celtic. From what I’d heard around the office, if anyone could tell us what Ian had running around in his head, it would be her. Most folks would say that history and mythology couldn’t be more different, but when you worked at SPI, you knew they were the same thing.
However, right before her arrival, Moreau flipped a switch on the wall next to the observation window and the glass went opaque, concealing Ian from view. I didn’t know Moreau’s motivation for not letting Amelia Chandler see Ian sleeping, but I approved wholeheartedly, even if it meant I couldn’t watch over him for the next few minutes. Ian would be safe there. I wouldn’t want a parade of people watching me sleep, either.
I recognized two of the creatures from unfortunate personal experience, and I’d assured Moreau that they most definitely were not myths. One was the squid guy.
The other was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Ian had two monsters in his dream that I’d seen in my reality. That said many scary and scream-inducing things about everything else in Noel’s drawings.
The monsters were only part of it. The others were breathtakingly beautiful.
Noel had just finished filling in some of the detail he hadn’t had time to work on while linked to Ian. It was these details that interested Amelia Chandler the most.
The armor looked like nothing from this world during any century. It appeared delicate, but was apparently stronger than any weapon their monstrous opponents could raise against them.
“I’ve seen two of the sea monsters in person,” I told her. “Who are the humans?”
She smiled as though her birthday had come early this year. “None of the beings in these drawings are human, Agent Fraser. This was before humans became the dominant life on this planet.”
“Uh, before humans? Wasn’t that dinosaurs?”
“Before modern humans, after dinosaurs.”
Well, that made it clearer.
“What we are looking at is from the age of the gods. I believe the exquisitely armored ones are the Tuatha Dé Danann, the not-mythical race of deities and heroes that settled in Ireland before the modern Gaels.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About four thousand years,” she replied without pausing in her study of the drawing with the squid guy and other misshapen mashups of men and sea creatures. “If those are the Tuatha Dé Danann, that would make their opponents none other than the Fomorians, purported to be a race of demons that came from the sea. The name is said by some scholars to come from the Old Irish fo, signifying under or beneath, and mur (sea), meaning the ‘ones from under the sea.’ Another interpretation suggests that it comes from mór (big/giant), meaning ‘the giants from beneath the sea.’” Amelia picked up another sheet. “Collectively these drawings could very well represent the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, which was said to have taken place in Connacht in Ireland’s west. In it the Tuatha Dé Danann defeated the Fomorians by driving them back into the sea.” She set the sheets down. “I have a colleague at the University of Dublin, Dr. Conor Delaney, who—based on the detail Noel has provided—would probably be able to put names to some of these faces. He’s worked with our European offices in the past.”
“I’m familiar with Dr. Delaney’s work,” Moreau said. “I agree with your suggestion.”
“I would ask where Noel saw them, or who he saw them from, but I recognize ‘only on a need to know basis’ when I see it.” She glanced at the opaque window. “Or don’t see it.”
“Thank you for your understanding. This is of the very highest sensitivity.”
“No need to apologize, Alain.” She smiled. “I was never here, and I never saw these.”
“There is one more thing,” Moreau said, passing three photos of the spearhead, shot from multiple angles, across the table to her.
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Is this what was brought in from the Prime Bank?”
“It is.”
“Is there any chance I could see this in person?”
“Can you identify it?”
“The condition is incredible. Do you know how rare it is to find an intact weapon in this condition from that age?”
I leaned forward. “What age?”
Amelia nodded toward the stack of drawings. “That age.” She didn’t seem to be breathing all that well. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be joining Ian in the infirmary. “Has Harald seen this?”
I assumed they meant Harald Siggurson, SPI’s in-house bladed weapons expert.
“He’s examining it now.”
“Where?”
“Down the hall in the main lab.”
Amelia Chandler, a historian with four degrees, looked like she was about to squee. “Is there any way I could—”
Moreau took out his phone. “I’ll call and tell them to let you in.”
Amelia jumped out of her chair and was halfway to the door when she stopped and turned. “We’re finished here, right?” Her words came out in a rush.
My manager smiled. “Yes, we are.”
“Do you need Conor’s contact information?”
“I have it. Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” Then she was out the door, her high heels clicking against the linoleum as she ran down the hall to the lab.
15
“WHAT do you mean I’m not on the team?”
Ian was furious. Alain Moreau was standing his ground.
Our manager was the last person who could ever be accused of having his emotions written on his face. But this morning, I knew he had to be hating being in charge of SPI right now. I wondered if vampires took vacations. If Moreau had been a human in this situation, he’d have been thinking that when Vivienne Sagadraco got back, he deserved a bonus at the very least, though a bonus and an extra week of vacation sounded about right.
I did not envy our manager becoming everyone’s boss the w
eek the vampire families were at each other’s throats and Ian’s ghoul stalker surfaced in front of the mortal world, and now Ian was being taken off the team that would hunt him down. This was why Ian had joined SPI, and now Moreau was telling him to stand down.
“Agent Byrne, you know the reason.”
“Yes, the bastard called me out—and he knows things about me that I don’t.”
“Which is precisely why you will not be on the team. Your knowledge of this creature will be invaluable to our search, but you will not be going outside of this complex to hunt for him. We have other agents who are just as qualified—”
“Name one,” Ian snarled.
“Every senior agent in the bull pen.”
Ian inhaled slowly in an attempt to calm down.
It didn’t work. The only thing that would make my partner feel better about this would be that ghoul’s neck between his hands—or better yet, on the business end of Ian’s favorite machete.
“Sir, this thing was the reason I joined SPI.”
“We are grateful for that decision,” Moreau countered. “You’ve saved countless lives, and it is my job to keep you alive to save countless more, not let you sacrifice yourself to satisfy your need for revenge.”
“I assure you it wouldn’t be sacrifice. I have no intention of dying—only killing.”
“Agent Byrne . . . Ian, we don’t know the reason behind these thefts—and we don’t know why you reacted to that spearhead the way you did. Thanks to a lack of cooperation from the vampire families, we don’t even know what has been stolen. What we do know is that these crimes have been committed in daylight and in public. SPI would be involved due to the identities of the criminals, but we are doubly involved because they have struck openly in full view of mortals. For now, the media is telling the world that it’s elaborate makeup. It won’t take much to disprove that.” Moreau paused, his pale blue eyes intent on Ian’s. “The ghoul wants you to come after him, perhaps so he can finish what he started—perhaps something else, something more. By involving SPI to the degree that he has and then calling you out, he wants to make it irresistible for you to come after him. There is more to this than a desire for escaped prey on his part. There is more at stake, more that he wants, and you are the key to whatever it is. It has been my unfortunate experience, Ian, that when a being as old as this wants something—or someone—it is catastrophic to many if they get it. To prevent that from happening, I will do whatever I must do to keep you from endangering not only yourself but any and all others who may suffer or die as a result of your actions. You are not to leave this compound until the ghoul is in custody. Do I make myself clear, Agent Byrne?”
“As crystal, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
• • •
As the elevator doors closed behind us on the executive suite, I glanced over at my still-silent partner and could virtually see the wheels turning.
“Ian,” I said in warning.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yet.” I took out my phone and started texting.
Ian knew it was about him. “Who?”
“Insurance.”
“For what?”
“Good behavior. Yours.”
I sent the text, put my phone back in its holster, and it beeped with an incoming almost immediately. Though to be exact, it howled.
Ian scowled. “Yasha.”
“Six foot eight of hairy insurance. Moreau’s not taking chances with you and neither am I. You merely said you heard him crystal clear; you didn’t promise anything.” I thought for a moment, reached out, and hit the elevator “STOP” button. We heard voices complaining from below. “Take the stairs,” I bellowed. Then I turned both barrels of my anger at my partner and let him have it.
“Some of us care whether you live or die,” I snarled. “Even if you don’t.”
“I never said—”
I snapped my hand up for silence and got in his face, which was less effective than it could have been considering how much taller he is than me.
“Yes, you’re the best agent in this place; and yes, you’re the most qualified to send that ghoul back to the deepest corner of Hell where he came from.” I was yelling and I did not care, and I didn’t think I could’ve stopped if I wanted to. I sucked in a double lungful of air and kept going. “That’s also why we can’t lose you.” Tears stung my eyes and I growled because that made me even angrier.
“I can’t lose you. You might realize that if you thought for one second about someone other than yourself. You can’t bring your partner back. What happened that night wasn’t your fault, and from what you’ve told me about him, if he were here right now, he would kick your ass. I’d do it for him if I thought I could, and if it would do any good.” My eyes were getting blurry with unshed tears. I swiped the back of my fingers across one eye and kept going. “So don’t give me that bullshit that you’re doing this for him. You’re doing it for you and no one else. Yeah, you got away from that ghoul and he can’t let it go. Well, neither can you. All you’re being is a selfish bastard.”
I made a fist and punched the button to restart the elevator. It hurt like hell.
When we reached the bottom floor, the elevator doors opened, and no one was waiting. I glared out over the bull pen and I’d never seen so many people trying so hard to look so busy. Under better circumstances, it would have been funny. As far as I was concerned, circumstances couldn’t get any crappier than they were right now.
“I need a drink,” I spat to no one in particular.
I went straight to my desk and grabbed some quarters out of my top drawer.
There was nothing in the breakroom drink machine except tooth-enamel-eating battery acid. My dentist had told me she had a couple of cops as patients, and they always carried cola in their squad cars in case they needed to clean blood off a crime scene sidewalk.
That was the button I punched. To my teeth, it might be battery acid. But to my taste buds, it was sugary bliss. “Live fast, die young, and leave behind rotten teeth,” I muttered.
I heard the breakroom door close quietly behind me. I knew it was Ian, but I didn’t turn around. I’d said my piece. If he wanted to talk—or get himself eaten alive by that ghoul—there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop him. With that happy thought, I tossed back a gulp.
“Go easy on that stuff,” he said gently. “You’re gonna give yourself the hiccups.”
I barked a short laugh—and hiccupped.
“Dammit,” I said. I didn’t shout or snarl. My throat was raw. “I think I pulled a vocal cord.”
Ian’s hands came down on my shoulders.
“On the upside, nobody out there will ever make the mistake of pissing you off.”
“Like you did?” Hiccup.
“Like I did,” Ian admitted quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were that—”
“Pissed? Enraged? Livid?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently I didn’t know, either.” Hiccup. “I stood there, watching Moreau try to get through that thick head of yours.” Hiccup. “And knowing he’d have been better off talking to a wall for all the good it was doing.” Hiccup.
Ian got a glass out of the cabinet and poured a glass of water. “Drink this.”
I took the glass of water in one hand and still had the can of cola in the other. “Look at me.” Hiccup. “You’re turning me into a two-fisted drinker.”
I started drinking the water slowly and continuously while continuing to breathe, also slowly. Then I hiccupped again and damned near choked myself.
Ian went to the table and sat down. I leaned against the drink machine, closed my eyes, and told myself to calm down unless I wanted to hiccup my way through the rest of the workday.
It took a few minutes, but I got rid of them. When I opened my eyes, Ian had a Krisp
y Kreme cruller on a paper towel at the place next to him.
A sugar-glazed peace offering.
I was suddenly too tired not to take it. Besides, it was a doughnut. I sat down, took a bite, and washed it down—carefully—with a sip of delicious, not nutritious battery acid. I swallowed and my stomach rumbled in gratitude when they both arrived. “Oh yeah, I haven’t eaten today.”
“Also my fault,” Ian said.
I leaned back in my chair. “Well, what are you going to do?”
“I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. And you know what I think.”
Ian smiled, slightly. “Me and every other agent with ears.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never been shy about letting my opinion be known.”
Ian leaned forward, serious. “Mac, I’m sorry if I hurt you, upset you, or made you mad.”
“Yes to all of the above.”
“And you may be right.”
Whoa. I raised an eyebrow. Heck, I raised both of them. “About . . .?”
“Why I want to go after the ghoul. But what you said, what you think, is only part of it. I’ve been talking to Noel, and being honest with myself.” Ian looked down at his hands folded on the table. “Mac, I’m afraid of that thing. All my life, I’ve confronted my fears.”
“Confront and defeat.”
“Yeah. Though it’s more than that. The dreams, the voice. They follow me; they stay with me. If someone else kills this thing . . .”
“The nightmares might still be there,” I finished.
“It’s not just that. What about the next ghoul, and the next? I’m not a runner, Mac. I’m a fighter. The fear, the not knowing where he’ll turn up next, is eating me alive just as surely as if it was his teeth. For it to go away, I have to be the one to make it stop.”
“No, you don’t. I understand the need to see the body. No body, no death, and all that. I’m sure Sandra or Roy’s teams would be glad to haul what’s left of the carcass home with them so you can have closure. I’m all about having closure. As to the ‘next ghoul’ . . .” I coughed out a couple laughs and shook my head. “A shapeshifting monster of undetermined—but definitely ancient—age with an unhealthy obsession with Irish-American SPI agents. Chances are slim to none that there are any more of those running around. I’m sure the rest of your career will have plenty of nasty beasties, but I think the ghoul is a completely original, one-time-only supernatural psycho.” I finished the doughnut and sat back, suddenly worn out. A hissy fit worth having really takes it out of a girl. “Just stay put, okay? Can you promise me that?”