Transient Moon

by Kos, Gaja J. ;

  They waved me on with professional, kind smiles as soon as I passed through the series of scanners, then returned to their surveillance. Not wanting to bump into Dopfer, I ascended the main stairwell quickly, although I did keep my eyes open for any sign of Agnieszka.

  My wish came through on that first part, but no luck on the second.

  Stuffing down the slight grumpiness, I continued all the way to the top floor where the main offices were situated. I padded down the utterly impersonal, almost sterile hall, then rapped on the door marked Senior Agent Ulrich.

  One last step, and then I was free of ICRA for good.

  I emerged from Ulrich’s office about forty minutes later. She basically repeated what Isa had already conveyed, but added a lot more—sadly, unnecessary—details. The bottom line was that I was healthy and fit, if a touch demonic.

  But while I had no doubts I’d been experimented on, I couldn’t help wondering if the demonic signature was actually more than just the result of whatever the Frankensteinian fucks had done to me.

  I glanced down at my arm. Could the machines have picked up on Afanasiy’s mark?

  After all, I only knew what the thing did, not the actual workings behind it. Since I only had to think about the handsome demon for him to materialize in front of me, the mark had to be far more than skin-deep.

  Carrying a part of his essence, his soul, didn’t strike me as superficial, exactly, either.

  Still, I’d kept my mouth shut while Ulrich passed on the results. As long as that trait inside me remained dormant, I didn’t particularly care how it got there.

  Okay, so that last bit was a lie, but the things I’d seen at that lab still came to haunt me sometimes. So I shoved the thought away and skipped down the stairs, eager to leave the building behind.

  Again, I strained my senses as I passed Agnieszka’s floor, but the vampire was nowhere in sight. Not even a trace of her scent embedded in the disinfectant-stained currents. I pulled out my cell to give her a call—or at least leave a message—when someone bumped into me from behind.

  “Hey, watch it,” I snapped as I caught myself against the wall with a hand.

  But the agent didn’t even acknowledge my existence. He rushed down the white-painted hallway, the glare of artificial lights reflecting harshly off his black suit. As I glared after him, the sweat and urgency permeating his scent clogged my nostrils. The agent caught up with one of the doctors working on the premises and all but yanked the man behind him as he barreled in my direction again.

  This time, I plastered myself to the wall.

  “You have experience with Vilas, right?” the agent growled as they moved across the landing into the opposite wing.

  “I’ve healed them before,” the doctor replied. “What’s going on?”

  “Nelle realized only now that our victim is part Fae, part Vila. We tried paging you…”

  His voice faded in the distance, but I wasn’t listening any longer. My heart was hammering in my chest hard enough to send tremors throughout my entire body. With sweaty hands, I unlocked the screen on my phone and pulled up the contacts, then pressed that one name that was blasting through my mind.

  She’s fine, I told myself, but even my mental tone carried an edge of panic.

  I leaned against the wall as the call went through, sinking lower with each tuut that assaulted my ears.

  There was a half-Fae, half-Vila victim in ICRA’s care.

  And Melina…

  She wasn’t answering.

  Seven

  “I’m sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information to civilians,” the agent I’d cornered said, only mildly covering up her annoyance.

  I wanted to shake her until she coughed up the answer, but I still had enough of my wits to know that that would probably end up with me being handcuffed. I stomped away from the frustrating were without another word and called Voit.

  He was the only one I hadn’t spoken at length with at the party, and I knew he and Melina had developed a long-distance friendship during the time I was away. Melina had taken an interest in his recovery from a magical standpoint, while Voit was more than happy to talk shop with someone who came from such a different background.

  A perfect match.

  I paced the length of the landing, impatience ratcheting up inside me with every second that slipped by with no answer. Shit, if Voit was already in one of his Shadow World recovery sessions—

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you talked to Melina recently?” I fired away, my voice fraying around the edges.

  “Lotte? What’s wrong?”

  “Just tell me,” I growled. Two rookie agents walking up the stairs shot me curious glances, but I ignored them. “Did or didn’t you?”

  “Yesterday morning to discuss the party.” I could almost hear the frown in his tone. “She had a lot of paperwork to go through since her club gained a sponsor just earlier this week, and she needed to meet the deadline to file the papers. She was worried she wouldn’t get it all done in time to make it to the Zentrum. I left her a text when I realized she hadn’t shown up, but I never heard back from her. Figured she was just wiped out.” He hesitated. “Did… Did something happen?”

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and pushed back the heated sting of tears. With my back against the wall, I sucked in several deep breaths.

  To calm myself.

  To sample the air for any hint of Melina’s scent.

  I failed on both counts.

  “Lotte?”

  It could be a coincidence. Surely there was a whole bunch of people out there with the same mixed-race heritage as Melina’s. But my instincts weren’t fooled.

  “Lotte, tell me what’s—”

  “I have to go,” I cut in and pushed off the wall. The landing swam before my eyes, a bitter taste rising at the back of my throat. “Voit, I swear I’ll call you the minute I can. Just—let me know if you hear from her in the meantime, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I disconnected the call before he could say anything else and practically ran out of the building. One of the vamp guards extended his hand to take away my visitor’s pass. I slapped the card into his palm then raced for the door. Brisk air assaulted my skin and seeped through the front of my sweatshirt, but did little to ease the unpleasant ice-cold heat that had me in its grip.

  Or the nausea, which only got worse as I unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

  With shaky hands, I jammed the key in the ignition. The car roared to life, leaving skid marks behind as I pulled out of the lot, then rounded the corner of the building and aimed for the gates.

  Still shut.

  “Come on, come on,” I growled under my breath.

  Torturously slow, the steel barrier rattled to the side. I floored the pedal, tires screeching, and sped back towards Munich.

  There was one person who had to know what happened to Melina. One person who had to be notified, regardless of how tight-lipped ICRA wanted to be.

  Though I kept wishing with all my heart that my trip would be in vain.

  While unearthing a parking space in the center of Munich was never a feat, I was grateful all of the Zentrum’s cars passed those pesky environmental tests—a prerequisite to gaining access to this area by motor vehicle. If I had to jog all the way here from one of the outer rings, I would have probably torn someone’s head off long before I reached my destination.

  I managed to find an empty spot in a grossly overpriced underground garage, then exploded up the stairs into the late-morning air. Winds whistled through the streets and sent my hair flying in a thousand directions. I welcomed the sensation as I ran towards Viktualienmarkt.

  Mercifully, the sea of too-slow pedestrians parted as I rushed down the sidewalk. The scents of humanity entwined with threads of the supernatural grew heavier by the second, which meant my luck would only take me so far. On a cloudless Friday like this, the market was probably packed.


  Cursing, I abruptly switched my route. A few cars sounded their horns when I cut in front of them, but as long as nobody turned me into roadkill, I really didn’t care for the surge of anger in the atmosphere.

  Unlike my first visit to Bathilda’s, I approached from the opposite end, weaving between trash cans and skirting around supply trucks dominating the not-so-prim-and-proper section of the otherwise lovely Stadtbezirk. Gradually, the scenery changed, and my knees gave a little wobble when the black storefront came into view on the left.

  It was futile. I knew as much, but still, I crossed the narrow road and peered through the cross-window. The gentle aroma of herbs prickled my nostrils, along with a low-key tingle of magic. Dormant magic, designed to guard, not even a hint of activity in sight—or sense—beyond the glass.

  Desperate, I knocked on the locked antique black door. The responding silence only confirmed what I already feared.

  Bathilda wasn’t here.

  Swearing under my breath, I pulled my phone from my coat pocket and did a quick internet search. My numb fingers fumbled with the small keyboard, but eventually, I managed to hit GO. Bathilda’s shop dominated the top hits, the only number listed belonging to the stationary phone I could spy through the window. Fuck.

  I kept scrolling, praying to the gods for one single—

  There.

  It wasn’t a number, but it was an address.

  The webpage was dated back to before the War, so there was a fair chance that building didn’t even exist any longer, at least not in the same form it had back then, but I had to give it a try.

  Deciding against getting my car and losing time to find another parking space, I broke into a sprint. Briefly, I contemplated changing into my wolf form, but with nowhere to stash my things, the prospect of coming to a dead end with no cell phone or clothes to change into wasn’t exactly inviting. Human legs coupled with preternatural speed would have to do.

  I consulted with the map I brought up on my phone when I reached Gärtnerplatz just to make sure I was on the right track, but other than that, I stopped for nothing and no one. So by the time I reached the proper building near the Städtisches Atelierhaus, I was thoroughly winded, my forehead slick with sweat. I blinked away the prickling salt and scanned the names listed on the intercom.

  My legs nearly gave way beneath me.

  Bathilda still lived here.

  I buzzed the button marked BOHM, leaning on it far longer than was decent. I let out a little cry when Bathilda’s voice sounded through the speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Lotte Freundenberger. Is Melina—”

  The door buzzed open. I sprinted up the stairwell that had seen better days, following Bathilda’s softly lingering scent until I reached the third floor. I caught myself on the wall.

  Bathilda was standing on the threshold wrapped in a shawl, her heart-shaped face gaunt and streaked with mascara-tinted tears.

  The porcelain teacup in Bathilda’s hand rattled as she eased herself on the dark leather chesterfield. I didn’t even dare to pick mine up.

  She hadn’t said a thing after I walked into the apartment behind her. She simply went into the kitchen and emerged with the two cups, looking even frailer than she had before. While I understood Bathilda’s need to gather herself enough to speak, my mind was just about ready to rip itself apart, churning the numerous scenarios—each one grimmer than the last.

  I fumbled with the edges of my coat, fighting back the bile that threatened to rise with each second we passed in silence.

  “Someone…” Bathilda shivered, then wiped her tears with the back of her trembling hand. “Someone attacked Melina yesterday afternoon.”

  My stomach sank, and the room around me spun violently. I gripped the armchair, steadying myself, but could hardly fend off the onslaught of Bathilda’s grief.

  Or my anger.

  “Her neighbors called the police when they heard the shouts,” Bathilda went on. “The struggle.” She shook her head, sniffed, then thrust her mane of disheveled brown curls back. “Melina was barely alive when they arrived.”

  “Who—”

  “They don’t know.” Her tea sloshed over the edge of her cup and onto the saucer. “My little cousin is in a coma. If it weren’t for her Fae blood…”

  Good gods, Melina…

  Tears rolled down my cheeks in searing currents, but I managed to control my voice enough to ask, “ICRA is taking point?”

  Bathilda nodded, then shuffled over to a vintage chest of drawers beneath the window and plucked a business card from the glass holder. She handed it over. I didn’t recognize the name, but I took a picture with my phone, then returned the card.

  “Have they said anything else?” I peered up.

  Bathilda shook her head, her fingers fumbling with the corner of the card. “They’re keeping her in intensive care. All they know is that whoever broke into her home and attacked her…they weren’t human.”

  No, they couldn’t have been. Not if they bested a Fae-Vila.

  Swallowing past my unease, I stood up and placed my hands on Bathilda’s shoulders. “Melina is a survivor.”

  “I know.” Her dark eyes glistened. “But there are certain things not even the strongest of us can withstand.”

  “I promise they won’t get away with this.” I tightened my grip, then let go. “Whoever they are, I swear to you, Bathilda, they’ll suffer.”

  “W-what do you plan to do?”

  I offered her a smile, though it felt bitter even to me. “What I have to.”

  The instant I was out the door—as well as Bathilda’s earshot—I pulled my phone from my pocket again and sifted through the contacts until I reached the proper name. Only two rings passed before the familiar silky voice spilled down the line.

  “Lotte?”

  “Can you demand that a case is transferred over to you?” I asked. Then, when she hesitated, I snapped, “Damn it, can you or can’t you, Isa?”

  “Depends on the case, but yes, for the most part, I have the authority to do so. What’s this about?”

  I didn’t let the nausea twisting my stomach stuff down the wretched words I had to say. My fingers curled around the banister. “That offer you gave me, about coming to work for you?”

  “Yes?”

  “Consider it accepted.”

  Eight

  The tubes. The beeps. That delicate, delicate line of Melina’s heartbeat on the monitor.

  Fury roiled through me.

  Isa stood silently by my side in the oppressively sterile restricted area of the Fürstenfeldbruck facility, having keyed us in what must have been minutes, but felt like hours ago.

  She hadn’t attempted to stop me when I’d bolted down the hallways ahead of her, somehow sensing precisely where I needed to go. Nor did she press me as the rush of volatile emotions surged—though I felt the weight of Isa’s discreet attention. Not monitoring for a threat, but making sure I was all right.

  As all right as I could be at the sight of my friend, my former lover, her lithe body littered with bruises and her mind submerged in a coma.

  I let the landslide of emotions pass through me, not once removing my gaze from Melina’s broken form. She seemed so frail, covered with a white sheet that only emphasized the multitude of contusions, her hair spilling out in a dark halo around her. Frail, just like Rihard had been when Nill had nearly taken his life last spring.

  A crack opened up inside me, and from its maw rose a sensation I hadn’t experienced since my early teens.

  A deep urge to kill.

  A sharp yearning for blood that spread through my veins and colored my mind red.

  Likely sensing the danger, Isa stilled, although her scent revealed she was ready to fight if push came to shove. It only made it harder not to give in to the blind desire for pain and death. The wolf wanted out.

  And all she needed was a single trigger to wrest free of my control.

  “Back down, Isa,” I warned. “Now.”r />
  She did so without hesitation.

  The red mist creeping across the edges of my vision began to recede, then dissipated entirely. I braced a trembling, sweaty hand on the reinforced window separating me from Melina’s room. There was no doubt what I would do when I got my hands on whoever had beaten her, but until I had them within reach, I needed to detach myself from the situation.

  Isa didn’t have to say it for me to know that I would get thrown to the curb faster than I could shift if emotions clouded my judgment.

  That she hadn’t done so already was motivation enough to reel in the last of my violent impulses. A foggy imprint of my hand remained on the glass as I pushed away to face Isa, but before I could as much as open my mouth, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Alec.

  I silenced the call, then stashed the phone away.

  Isa observed me with that calculative, almost feline stare of hers, not a single detail escaping her keen eyes. Her gaze traveled from my pocket to my face, but she didn’t say anything. Simply inclined her head and strode down the white-lit corridor, briefcase in hand. The click of her heels shattered the silence.

  I followed her through the familiar layout all the way down to the cafeteria on the ground floor. Only a few agents occupied the many tables this late in the morning, along with the three cooks chatting softly behind the counter near the open kitchen doors. The aroma of cooked meat and steamed vegetables adhered to my lungs. Nausea crawled up the sides of my throat, but I focused on the sway of Isa’s pitch-black hair in front of me, on the collected determination squaring her shoulders.

  Senior Agent Vogt was a force to be reckoned with. And for once, nothing but gratitude washed over me to have her by my side.

  Though how long that would last was anyone’s guess.

  Isa led me towards the door separating the main dining hall from the private chambers reserved for the top dogs. Not that I ever noticed any of the Senior Agents preferring isolation to the bustling hall, but then again, the people working at the Fürstenfeldbruck medical and training facility seemed to be somewhat more friendly than those at ICRA HQ in the center of town. Yes, even Dopfer and Kveder—the latter greeting me with a curt dip of his chin as I strode by before he returned to his meal.