by A. J. Aalto
My brain wheedled and bribed me to retreat to the cabin, where I could send Mount Viktor home, dry off, and spend a rainy afternoon napping on the couch, or eating brownies and reading some Stephen King short stories as the atmospheric dirge howled around the cabin. It was tempting; avoidance is still my strongest suit.
Then I pictured the faceless Irish OSRA defector charming everyone at the PCU with his lyrical elocution and his magically delicious Lucky Charms, wearing my lab coat and sitting behind my desk, typing on my computer and writing on my grease board. Using my microscope? Feeding my zombie beetles? Intolerable! Made me want to bounce his head off the Blarney Stone. Violent overreaction was also one of my strong suits. No wonder I suck at poker.
I yanked several paper napkins out of the holder on the counter, dried my bare arms and legs, wiped mud off the back of my calves, then tossed the napkins in Claire's garbage can. She inspected me with a flat stare and said nothing. If I didn't already know exactly how much she charged for coffee and a Danish, I'd have had to lean over and read the register tape; Claire was the delightfully non-communicative sort. I handed her a five, told her to keep the change, and heard something I never thought I'd hear.
“Y'all ain't goin’ out in that mess again?” Claire asked.
As if on cue, the sky split; a detonation that rolled over the café, reverberating the plate glass windows, and ending with a moment of ominous silence during which we watched the front window breathlessly. A second crack brought a deluge so ostentatiously intense, it looked like some kind of Vegas casino's penthouse decoration.
I sighed. “I've got to. There's an ogre in my house and some ass-monkey is trying to wheedle my beetles.”
Beneath her frizzy bangs, Claire's eyes narrowed; I thought she felt my pain. I waited for her to tell me to either give up or to go get ’em.
Instead, she pulled a garbage bag out from under the counter and punched a hole in the bottom and slapped it into my hands. I looked at the impromptu rain smock with a grimace; it was the first act of social grace between Claire and I, and I figured if I refused, it might be the last.
“Right.” I pointed hard at the door. “Perseverance. I like the way you think.”
Slipping the bag up, I tugged my head through the hole. Once I put the black motorcycle helmet back on, I looked like the embarrassing sibling Daft Punk never talked about. Batten cannot see me like this. I saluted to Claire as I left. Kind of. It was probably hard to tell, because both my arms were shrouded inside the bag.
She had already turned around to make a fresh pot of coffee. Probably to serve the ambulance drivers who were going to have to scrape me out from beneath a Winnebago, I'm sure.
* * *
The FBI's Preternatural Crimes Unit had been relocated from the J. Edgar Hoover building in Quantico, Virginia to its new home Boulder in January. I could only imagine some of the protestations made over the timing. I didn't even like bringing in groceries when it was chilly; the thought of moving an entire office in the middle of winter made me break out in gales of disbelieving laughter. It now resided in an underutilized substation in an industrial crescent. I pulled into the rear lot, sparsely inhabited by tell-tale black SUVs and utility vans, and parked next to Agent de Cabrera's chained-up mountain bike — a serious, hardcore machine that made me think he didn't do cars. Yanking off the Hefty bag, I shoved it in the garbage can outside the building.
According to what Chapel had told me, the new PCU building was a giant step up from the bunker they'd been relegated to in the Hoover building at Quantico. In the new PCU branch, they had their own armory, a fully equipped lab and, down in the basement, a gym, locker room, and shooting range. Batten had threatened to teach me how to handle my Beretta Cougar properly. Probably I wanted him to handle some other things. Probably we both had a death wish.
I accepted the fact that the junior agent who stopped me at the front desk because I wasn't wearing my little clip-on ID tag almost certainly wasn't a ginormous putz; while he was calling up to see if Chapel was available, I tried not to make impatient noises. So this junior agent didn't recognize me, so what? Last time he'd seen me, I'd been a giant squirrel.
Shifting in my sodden socks and sneakers, I stood impatiently hugging the motorcycle helmet like it was a security blanket. The air conditioning blew from some vent nearby, chilling my wet clothes against my skin. I willed my bra to preserve whatever vague remnants of dignity I might still possess.
“Second floor, first door to your left,” the junior agent told me, hanging up the phone with a polite smile. He handed me a visitor's ID and nodded towards an elevator. I rolled my eyes, passed through a metal detector, and stepped into the elevator, pressing second floor, then basement. When the elevator doors opened on the second floor, I pressed “close doors” and hummed all the way down to the basement.
Visitor's ID. Not a good omen. Maybe Batten was wrong; maybe this OSRA guy wasn't to be my assistant, maybe he was taking my place. Maybe Chapel was letting me go. Harry would be pleased with that. Maybe Harry had demanded it. If he had, would Chapel cave? Was I unemployed? And why did that feel so wrong?
Conflicted, I stepped into an empty hallway. The ceiling was lower, and to the right I heard the constant, muffled thump of gunfire. My wet running shoes squeaked loudly, echoing down the cement block hallway like harassed waterfowl. I went left around the corner and past the UnBio lab, poking my head into the odd door here and there, until I stood in the threshold of the shadow-filled office that had been earmarked for me. There had been no name on it yesterday. Today, there was. Preternatural Biology Department, it said, and underneath that, a name. I didn't want to look. I had to look. I closed my eyes, steeled myself with a deep breath, and made myself read the nameplate.
Marnie Baranuik, Director
There may have been dancing. It wasn't graceful, and it sounded like someone rubbing a couple of balloons together while a faucet leaked nearby, but I didn't care. I was Director Baranuik, and I was an employed badass.
A new climbing vanilla orchid, carefully staked, sat on a shelf under a low plant light along the far wall, the only illumination in the room. The long mahogany shelves were now lined with books, binders, and journals — some from my lab, some unfamiliar. The walls held two new paintings, too, both of wide-reaching green trees, one of the trees sheltering snowy white owls.
My hand drifted to cover my mouth and I drew air in through my fingers. On the wide, glossy desk were a blotter and a pile of black Moleskine notebooks, still in the plastic wrappers, bound up with a floppy silk bow the color of ripe eggplant. A box of pre-sharpened No. 2 pencils lay perfectly centered beside them. I stepped closer. Stuck in the corner of the blotter was a folded note with my name on it.
Gary Chapel had made me a nest, a place for me in his new world, personalized, cozy and safe, reeking of me. The trees with the owls, he'd seen them before, on my office floor, painted there within a pentagram by my sister, Carrie. The notebooks were my favorite kind, the ones in which my father collected his poetry, always the Moleskine brand because he said they had a history. I'm not sure whether I used them for the same reason, or because they made me feel like I might still be my father's daughter, though Dad had stopped speaking to me not long after Harry chose me over him as his Bonded partner.
Did Chapel know any of this? No. He didn't know why they were important to me, but he'd been with me long enough to know that they were. I needed a second to take it all in, from the orchid to the name on the door to the paintings and the books. It was mine, finally. It was official.
But why now, why today? Because of the new guy? Because Batten was back? Was Chapel worried I'd spook and bolt? How was I going to do this every day, now that Harry was home from London? There was no way I'd have that ogre bodyguard in my house every afternoon. I reluctantly took the folded note out of the corner edge of the blotter. In Chapel's blocky, straight up and down writing, it read: M: Come see me in my office, ASAP, please. G.C.
“Balls
,” I breathed. “What are we going to do, Gary?”
And then I noticed something else: a coffee mug, leaving a ring on the desk by a phone so new it still had bits of Styrofoam packing material clinging to it. The coffee mug had been used. A thin skein of leftover java lurked in the very bottom. I peeled off a wet glove and whipped it into the maroon fabric desk chair, then gripped the mug's handle and waited, eyes slit.
Psi spilled into the front of my mind and spiraled there, tugging from the black void a white curling stage upon which the Blue Sense would do its dance. I didn't need to see his face, which was good, because I failed to. I knew this was my “assistant.” He'd been anxiously dipping his nib in my ink already, snooping in my office, checking me out. Leaving his residue behind. Was I supposed to wash his damn dishes? I opened the bottom drawer of the desk, dropped the mug in with a clunk, and kicked it closed; never knew when you might need something belonging to your enemy. I drew my glove back on.
“I don't think you should be here,” a female voice said from the doorway.
I looked up to see one of the most beautiful people I'd ever seen. I'd never thought of myself as anything but straight, but any human eyes that fell onto this woman couldn't help but dilate with pleasure. Was it her absolute symmetry that did it? The soft flow of radiant auburn hair over her shoulder? The length of her legs, their perfect shape not hidden well by serious navy dress pants? The natural swell of breasts that were neither too big or too small, high and hugged by a crisp white shirt? It was hard to tell which feature I admired most. The FBI tag at her neck hid cleavage that she seemed uninterested in exploiting, closed-up behind pale buttons done to the neck. She did not smile. Severe hazel eyes dissected me, labeled and parceled me in one practiced sweep. Having made up her mind about me in two-point-three seconds, she didn't waste any time deciding what to do with me.
“I'll have to escort you out, ma'am,” she informed me, and set her shoulders authoritatively. “This area is closed to civilians.”
I nodded, squinting at her ID. “I understand, Agent Golden, is it? But I'm not a—”
“The elevator is this way,” she cut me off, moving into the hallway, expecting me to follow.
I didn't. I unwrapped one set of Moleskine notebooks and took a pencil from the box. Her head appeared again at the door.
“Now, ma'am. What are you … those aren't for you.” It was a good voice, cautiously stern but with warmth. The warmth wasn't aimed at me, but I heard it anyways, like she couldn't help it.
“Pretty sure they are,” I assured her. “This is my office.”
“This is an unused office,” Agent Golden corrected. “Put those back, please.”
“Fine.” I didn't want to fight. I dropped the notebook on the desk. “I'll get them later. I'm going upstairs. Gary's expecting me.”
This warranted a second inspection which lasted slightly longer than the first. The opinion on her face did not change. Apparently, drippy civilian-types in jeans and t-shirts don't make a nifty first impression. She went to touch my phone.
“I'll call up and ask if he's available.”
“Front Desk Guy already did that, and yes, SSA Chapel wants to see me.”
I only meant to tap her hand away from the phone. I'm not even sure why I did that much. She did not react well to me swatting her with my wet, gloved fingers. Her indignant hand moved fast, her grip on my wrist an agonizing chastisement. I clenched my fist and my teeth, and did my best not to show pain. She gave me a warning squeeze. My eyes watered.
I performed the sharp twisting escape Hood showed me, and, amazingly, it worked. Thankfully, she didn't pull a gun on me, because he hadn't taught me how to dodge bullets yet. My freed wrist started to throb, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me rub it, so I puffed a calming breath out of my nostrils and said, “Was that completely necessary, Agent Golden?”
“Why are you here?” she demanded, the temperature of her voice cranked up, not quite to boiling, but quickly approaching it. I wondered if she was capable of cold. Elian had called her the Frost Queen, so I supposed it was possible. If so, I didn't want to be around when it happened. She had a good eight inches on me; craning up to tell her off felt sort of silly, like I was a piddling toy poodle yapping at an offended mastiff. I'd mouthed off to some big people in my life, but I usually paid a price for it. I wasn't going to score points with Chapel if I blew my wig and then met my new assistant with a broken face.
“If SSA Chapel decides that it's important for you to know why I'm here and why this is my office, my desk, and my phone, then he can tell you. Until then, perhaps you ought to back up a step?”
She looked down at her feet as if she had no idea she'd been moving closer to me, though I'm sure everything Agent Long Legs did was deliberate. Before she could demand I go to the elevator, I did so like it was my idea.
I didn't look back.
CHAPTER 12
I USED THE ELEVATOR RIDE to mutter all the unprofessional things I wanted to say but wouldn't, couldn't, in Chapel's office. I'd master my mouth yet, because I had an official FBI job and the people skills to match, dammit. I secured my gloves, even though they were rain-sodden and chilly from the air conditioning.
The second floor was peopled by agents on phones, agents standing behind Lucite partitions, agents scribbling at desks, agents frowning unhappily at computer screens, agents weary from the constant barrage of crime. Each of them cast curious looks at the damp, sulky psychic trying not to tromp to Chapel's door. If Harry had been there, he'd advise me to glide, glide. I tried; it's not easy to glide when you're squelchy.
Chapel stood when he saw me, a courtly gesture that quelled my nerves, though his surprise was depressing; obviously, he hadn't expected me to show, even though I'd promised. For a moment, I felt unwelcome. I fought it by managing a confident strut that would have pleased Harry immensely as I moved further into the room. I beamed at Chapel, baring teeth. His eyes widened slightly at my sudden change of demeanor, like he didn't know what I was up to, and didn't want to. Or maybe he thought I was rabid.
The man sitting in front of his desk didn't turn around to face me. The back of his head was covered in short, wavy, black hair that gave the impression of scarcely-contained, temporarily-quelled rebellion, as if he forgot to groom, it would spring into riotous abandon.
“Sorry I'm late. Batten mentioned I was on my way, I trust?” I said, before thinking I shouldn't mention that Batten had been to my place.
Chapel motioned to a chair. “He did.”
Batten had made the same mistake. It wouldn't look good. I'd have to speak to him about discretion. Or not coming to the cabin at all.
As I perched precariously on the chair's edge so as not to overly dampen the fabric, the swelling zephyr of psi rose up. Empathically, I channeled it to me; the emotion coming in dribs and drabs from Chapel suggested relief, followed by a hint of dread. Verrrry flattering. The urge to mention my strange gurgling phone call to Chapel waxed and waned; Chapel must have seen it on my face.
“Marnie?”
How could I explain? “It's nothing that can't wait. What did you need, Agent Chapel?”
“I take it you didn't read my email this morning.”
“I'm waiting for the movie to come out.”
“More than thirty pictures from the autopsy this morning—”
“I'd never go see that one.” I grimaced. “Wait, whose autopsy?”
“We've had a development in the missing Furries case. I need you to see this,” Chapel said.
“I trust you aren't squeamish, Dr. Baranuik?” the stranger asked me, still showing me the side of his head, like I wasn't important enough to look at, or maybe he'd suffered a kind of degenerative spinal injury and couldn't turn his neck. His voice didn't have an Irish accent to my ear.
Squeamish? What was this guy, some kind of lightweight stiff? Only one way to find out. “Gary, you want me to tell him about that time with bitey head in the mailbox?”
I was prepared to judge the man who was undoubtedly plotting to take my place as a hideous gargoyle based on the smallest of flaws. Unfortunately, he had none, and the wholly brilliant green of his eyes would have detracted from flaws anyway. They had to be contacts, but I couldn't see the plastic border around his pupils. He was plain-faced but appealing in a tidy fashion. His expensive black bespoke trousers had perfect creases; Irish was handy with an iron. One of his legs was crossed ankle-to-knee upon the other, and the shoe sole that faced me showed no wear. If he looked down on me or my reputation, he didn't show it.
Instead, he turned to inspect me with open interest, from my squished helmet hair to my sopping wet sneakers. “Goodness,” Dr. Edgar said softly, his brows furrowing. I tensed for a Harry-like sermon about my drowned appearance and inappropriate office attire. “You're awfully glib.”
“I'm pretending not to be horrified. Get used to it.”
Chapel's lips tightened. “Declan is here on loan from the OSRA to learn how we do things at the PCU. He will assist you in the lab.”
“I'm also working on a project on which I hope to get your input, Dr. Baranuik, if you are open to it.”
“What sort of project?”
Dr. Edgar finger-swiped an iPad on and slid it along the desk in front of me. The document was titled, Dreppenstedt: The UnNatural History of the Oldest Bloodline. I swiped to the first page. The chapter heading wasn't exactly creative, either: Being the Life, Death, and UnDeath of Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, 1574-2011. It bothered me, that end date; it was as though, upon completion of his history, Declan planned to off Harry.
“Is this a joke?” I asked Chapel. “He's gonna be my fucking shadow? This is his real purpose for being here, to dig up dirt on the Dreppenstedts.”