by E. A. Copen
Marcus put a hand on Istaqua’s shoulder as he passed on his way to stand in front of me. “You have my sympathies, but there are things we must deal with. First, let’s deal with the small issue. I know your son isn’t registered with BSI. I also know how the tests came back earlier, and I know you don’t want those going further up the chain.”
“Are you going to blackmail me with that now? On top of everything else? God, you are an asshole.”
Marcus smirked. “Not if I don’t have to. Instead, know that I can stop those reports from making their way to your superiors. I can also choose not to stop them. Right now, it’s in my best interest to keep things the way they are and to intercept those reports myself rather than let them go to BSI.”
I couldn’t help it. I breathed a sigh of relief and closed my eyes. Hunter was safe from BSI for now.
“But,” Marcus continued, “the very fact that you don’t want him registered says much about you. I had thought you merely sympathetic to our cause and not so much of a rebel, Judah.”
I leered at him, but Sal spoke for me. “If you’ve got a point, make it. Otherwise, we’ll be going.”
Marcus turned and paced back to his desk as if he hadn’t heard Sal. He pulled out his leather chair and sank gracefully into it, folding his arms over the surface of his desk. “Mr. Branaslav wasn’t able to track the van closely without drawing fire himself,” he said. “In the interest of the safety of bystanders, he withdrew, followed at a distance, and managed to record a license plate.”
“Give me the plate,” I said, stepping forward.
“It’s no use,” Istaqua growled. “They’ll have used an unregistered van or a stolen one. These assholes aren’t stupid. You’ll never get them that way, girl.”
Marcus nodded. “On the off chance, I did have a friend at the DMV run the plates. Unfortunately, they only confirmed what Istaqua is saying. The van was registered to a plumbing company and reported stolen late last night.”
“They’ll ditch it anyway,” Istaqua added. “And even if your ballistics matches bullets or traces serial numbers, you’re not going to get anything useful. Witnesses are giving conflicting descriptions. Everyone thinks they saw someone or something, and nobody knows what the hell they actually did see.”
“There’s got to be some lead.” I shook my head. “Maybe if we find the van—”
“You’re missing the point,” Sal cut in. I turned and saw his eyes fixed on the side of Istaqua’s face. “By the time the legal system can do anything about them, they’ll be long gone, hiding behind someone or something.”
I put my hands on Marcus’ desk and leaned forward. “There has to be something we can do to find out who’s behind this.”
“We already know who’s behind it.” Marcus steepled his fingers. “At least, which group of people. The specific individuals have eluded us temporarily, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re found. I have every person I can spare on it.”
“Who?” Sal’s one-word reply was almost lost in a growl.
“And how do you know?” I added.
Marcus lifted a remote from the corner of his desk and pressed a button. The crackling fire on the screen to his right changed over to a news broadcast where a blonde, middle-aged reporter spoke into a microphone. She stood in front of the Dairy Queen, where police were milling behind yellow tape.
“…where a group of gunmen allegedly opened fire on the gathering of the local motorcycle group, the Tomahawk Kings, during a charity event. A source not wishing to be named but claiming to be close to the Kings states that the event was part of an effort to improve their image in the local community. That appears to have backfired. As you can see behind me, a crowd of protesters has gathered on the opposite corner, intending to march from here to Paint Rock in an effort to call attention to the rising supernatural-related violence in Concho County.”
The reporter turned, and the camera panned back slightly to reveal a face that made me cringe. “I’m here with Don Phillips, businessman, volunteer firefighter, and head of the neighborhood watch covering this area. Mr. Phillips, has there really been that much of an uptick in local crime?”
“Absolutely,” said Don, leaning into the microphone. “I was born and raised here. Used to be you could walk down the street and grab an ice cream cone. Kids could stay out past dark, and nobody locked their doors. Ever since they put that reservation down the road and that hospital in here, those people been coming by the dozens. Ain’t enough room for them all in the rez, so they live on the street here. They’re bringing crime. They’re on drugs. They’re rapists. As much as I hate to say it, this was bound to happen when you have so many monsters in one place.”
“I know that asshole,” I said through clenched teeth. “He was outside the Vanguard headquarters handing out pamphlets when I stopped by yesterday.”
“He’s a dues-paying member of the organization,” Marcus said after switching the screen off. “And so are more than half of the police who responded to the emergency call. As are the two detectives I hear have been assigned to the case.”
“That’s too much coincidence not to be a set-up,” Istaqua added. “The Vanguard is behind this, and they’ll try to cover it up, pin it on us. You can bet on it.”
“This is my case if it’s anybody’s.” I gestured to the blank television. “Nobody’s going to argue that this isn’t a supernatural crime.”
“But they are going to argue that, since your son was a victim, you can’t be impartial,” Marcus said with a frown.
“Best you can hope for is that they send someone else in to handle it,” Istaqua said grunting. “And you can bet that the Vanguard wouldn’t have made this move if they didn’t already have it set up for one of their own to come in.”
“But…BSI regulations prohibit membership in human or supernatural exclusive organizations,” I stammered.
“Agents also aren’t supposed to hide their werewolf kids from the government, Judah,” Sal said.
I lowered my head and stared at my hands pressed against the surface of Marcus’ desk, the fingers white and splotchy. My face probably was, too.
Marcus reached out and put his hand over mine. He was still wearing a wedding ring. “The Vanguard have people as high as congress, Judah,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “They’re less open about their hatred and run a good PR campaign, making them look more like a charity and non-profit than a hate group.”
“Nazis ran good PR, too, as I recall,” Istaqua said, wrinkling his nose. “And Andrew Jackson. And the KKK. People know. They just don’t want to see. Easier to have a scapegoat than to take responsibility.”
Even though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew they were right. For all the good BSI did, division and difference were still at the core of the agency. Agents could do good, and I tried my best, but too often, my hands were tied by government red tape. Doing the right thing had burned me more times than not. It was the whole reason I’d been relocated to Paint Rock. Now it was the reason Chanter died on an operating table instead of at home surrounded by his pack like he wanted.
A loud crack resounded through the room. My head shot up and then back down as my weight shifted forward. The portion of the desk that had been holding me up had cracked and given way. Without realizing it, I’d worked my hands into fists and sent a pulse of magick down into the wood that split it in two.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Marcus sighed. “It’s only a desk, I suppose.”
“So if I can’t arrest them, why am I here?” I asked, straightening.
Marcus bent over to pick up some of the papers and pens that had toppled with the desk. “To vote.”
“Vote?” I looked at Istaqua, who sneered.
“Marcus has it in his head that this democracy thing is important, and that all injured parties should have their opinions heard, regardless or not of whether it actually matters.”
Marcus straightened, dropped the papers on the win
dowsill, and adjusted his suit jacket. “Only in life and death decisions,” he said to Istaqua and then turned to me. “I’m throwing all my resources behind this to stop it before it goes farther. The media is going to run with it either way, but I’m going to do my best to curtail the slander. Istaqua and the Kings would have me turn the perpetrators over once I find them.”
“For justice,” Istaqua hissed. “Two kids are dead because of them, and also my V.P.”
“My alpha,” Sal said, nodding. “They don’t get to walk away.”
“As much as I agree, violence in the street is what caused this mess.” Marcus sank back into his chair and rubbed his temples. “And if there are more bodies, more violence, it won’t shift blame to where it ought to go. A public trial will force everything out into the open, and I can direct the media to cover everything. The perpetrators absorb public ire instead of the supernaturals and the Kings.”
“What about vengeance?” Sal growled. “One of my pack is dead, another hurt. I’m with Istaqua. They can’t walk. The pack won’t allow it.”
“Neither will the Kings.”
“Gentlemen,” Marcus said, raising both his voice and his hands. “I only ask for delayed vengeance. Get them behind bars. Then, let them meet justice in the shower one day, or in solitary. I can arrange for Bran to make it happen.”
Marcus trailed on with his plan. I stood in awe of how casually they negotiated back and forth, not for justice, but for murder. It was news to me that Marcus had that much influence inside the prison. It shouldn’t have surprised me, not with what I knew about him now. Marcus had his hands in everything.
I loved Chanter, but killing criminals wasn’t what he would have wanted to be done in his memory.
“No,” I said and then raised my voice to repeat it over their arguing. All three men turned to me in stunned silence. “If you kill them, inside or outside, you’re no better than they are. What good is it going to do? Will it bring Chanter back? Heal Hunter’s scars?” I shook my head. “This only ends when the killing stops on both sides.”
“Judah,” Sal said, his voice harsh. “You don’t lay down your weapons in a war zone and expect not to get shot. We defend our homes. We need to send a message.”
I glared up at him, eyebrows drawn together. “And what message does murder send except that retaliation is fair game? They kill you, you kill them, they kill more of you. You might as well put the gun in your mouth and do it yourself!”
Silence reigned in the room. Sal’s chest rose and fell with quick, angry breaths, and his eyes glowed gold. I fought the urge to look away.
Istaqua sighed and shook his head. “You have a very naïve understanding of the world.”
“I admire your idealism, Judah,” Marcus said, “But these people have stirred the pot for longer than you know. The situation can only escalate from here.”
“Which is why you should use legal channels!”
“Is that your final vote then?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow. “BSI intervention?”
“Yes. Anything else is stupid. The law is there for a reason. You don’t get to pick and choose which parts you like and disregard the rest. That’s anarchy.”
My argument fell on deaf ears. I knew it as soon as I spoke. Sal was too angry and lost to think it through rationally. Any other day, I might have been able to convince him to at least think it over. Istaqua would never listen to me. At least Marcus’ alternative was somewhat rational, even if it wasn’t my first choice.
Istaqua stood and adjusted his leather vest. “Sorry to say you’re in the minority, girl. If we don’t kill these fuckers and leave their bodies for the coyotes to eat, the club is going to walk.”
Marcus showed his fangs. “You wouldn’t. Not after everything.”
“We would,” Sal answered. “And we will. Pack, too.”
Before that meeting, I didn’t think it was possible to blackmail a blackmailer like Marcus. But he was no match to stare down a werewolf and a coyote shifter. Marcus shook his head, waved them toward the door, and wiped a hand over his face.
Istaqua moved to go, but I stood in his way. “If you pull that trigger, I will arrest you.”
He raised his chin. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, girl. Come on, Sal. We’ll go meet Bran and pick up the trail.”
He muscled past me, and Sal went with him. I followed them as far as the elevators still trying to talk sense into them. Neither so much as turned and looked at me. As soon as the elevator doors closed, I knew things were only about to get worse.
Chapter Twenty
I got the call that I could see Hunter just moments later and rushed back to surgery. The nurse who escorted me from surgery waiting to a room on the fourth floor tried twice to chat with me before she got the picture that I didn’t want to talk. She didn’t speak again until we were standing in front of his room.
“He’s still very weak,” she informed me. “But you can stay with him if you like.”
She pulled aside the curtain between his bed and the door. My hands went to my mouth when I saw him. Two blankets were pulled up to his chest; he lay limp and pale in a hospital gown. A large bandage covered the upper part of his arm, and tubes went down through his nose. The side of his face that had hit the concrete when Chanter fell on him was a deep shade of reddish-purple. His fingers wrapped flaccidly around a call button as if someone else had placed them there. He looked at me from under half-open eyelids.
“Hunter.” I went to his side to grip his hand.
He gave a feeble squeeze and mumbled something. I couldn’t hear, so I leaned closer. “Chanter…”
It was all I could do to keep from falling back into tears. I swept a hand over his head, brushing back some of his hair. “You worry about everyone else when you’re back up, okay?”
His eyelids slid open a little more, but his pupils wouldn’t fix on me. He must have been on a heavy dose of painkillers. “Love you.”
“I love you too, Hunter.”
He drifted back to sleep. I stayed with him another hour before I resorted to pacing and wringing my hands. A half-hour after that, the room felt too small. My mind drifted to the mayhem Sal and Istaqua would cause if left unchecked. I could arrest one or both, but not without destroying my fragile relationship with Sal. Then I’d have to spend every waking moment babysitting them and not hunting down the assholes who shot Chanter and Hunter. Not only that, but if I arrested Istaqua or Sal, the media would latch onto that. All it would do was make them look even more responsible for what happened and turn public opinion further against supernaturals.
And then there was this ghost of Marcus’. He hadn’t said anything about it because we were all too busy deciding what to do about the shooting. Still, I had sensed he wanted to talk about it. It was only his sense of professionalism and practiced etiquette that kept him from bringing it up.
I needed something to do, something to keep my mind busy. There was nothing I could do for Hunter, but I could help Mia.
I was just about to leave when there was a knock on the door and Father Gideon Reed poked his head in. “Afternoon, Judah.”
“Reed,” I said in the form of a greeting.
He took it as an invitation and stepped in, his forehead wrinkling as he looked over Hunter. “How is he?”
“Going to make it, which is more than I can say for Chanter. The pack got the news just a little while ago.” My throat tightened with the last sentence.
“I know,” he said, nodding.
An awkward silence hung in the air. I turned my back to him. “Mia’s taken a turn for the worse, too. Chanter was…” I trailed off and had to swallow the tightness gathering in my throat. “He was the only chance I had of saving her. I don’t know what to do now.”
“What about Sal?”
I shook my head.
He sighed, and I heard the door click shut. There was no lock, so I had no reason to fear being alone with Reed. I still didn’t trust him.
&nbs
p; “You’re going to have to tell him,” he said.
I turned halfway to regard him. “I know. I just wish there was a way to do it without hurting him.”
He nodded slowly. “I understand, Judah, but we’re talking about Mia’s life. I made the mistake of silence when I could have helped. I should have told you what I knew as soon as I knew it. Instead, my guilt and fear, my own shame kept me silent. Things might not have gotten so bad if I had come to you first instead of hiding in my home like a coward for three days.”
Reed gave me a strained smile that quickly faded. “I’m sorry I intervened. I only wanted what was best for her. I let my protective instincts override reason. I know how it is to grow up subjected to that kind of torture.” He came to stand closer to the bed, resting his hands on the railing.
“You were tortured as a kid?” I suddenly felt sorry for Reed. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
“All power comes at a price.” He turned to look at me, and I saw exhaustion in his face. Every time I saw him, he looked more tired than the last. Of course, it couldn’t be easy, living with one kidney after a wendigo ripped out and ate the other.
“Why are you here, Reed?”
“I know you’re not religious, Judah, but in light of things, I’d hoped you’d let me pray over him. Children like Hunter are the future. Someday, they will inherit the Earth and all the damage we’ve done. It will fall to them to fix things. Hunter has seen more pain than most men twice his age. When terrible pain falls on the young, it often shapes them one of two ways: either toward inflicting pain on others or toward mending the broken.”
I nodded. I’d seen it, too. Trauma shaped everyone it touched. Hunter had been withdrawn and angry ever since the first time he was hurt. This second time might push him into irreparable bitterness and rage. If that happened, the kind and caring little boy that was my son would be no more.
“I suppose it can’t hurt to say a prayer,” I said with a shrug. “Even if maybe no one’s listening.”
“He is always listening,” Reed assured me, and then placed his hand gently over Hunter’s forehead. “Heavenly Father, we come before you today in need of healing, not for ourselves, but for brave young Hunter who is, as we speak, fighting for his life. We ask that You hold his heart in Yours. Renew him, body mind and soul, and bring some measure of healing comfort to his mother’s broken heart. May she know peace and find strength in the family and friends she holds so dear. In Your glorious name, we pray. Amen.”