by RJ Blain
He chuckled and scooted so he could escape my bed. “We have no new leads, so it’s not a big deal. While they were handling your transfusion, I set up a board in your living room, and I’ve populated it with as many connections as I could. It’s not looking promising so far.”
“What’re the best connections you’ve found so far?”
“Seventy percent of the vics are fringe survivors of the Bay nuke. That’s the best one we have, and it only goes downhill from there.”
Almost half the local population held that dubious honor; as far as nukes went, the Bay bomb had killed few and offered survivors little magic. Its detonation off the coast of San Francisco had been one of the final but weakest volleys of World War III.
My parents had both survived the Bay nuke with enough magic to withstand most scrutiny.
For months, they had believed I’d died in New York’s death zone, and I’d returned to the west coast a changed woman.
So many had died, and my friends and classmates had vaporized around me while I stood still and shocked, untouched by the flames, destruction, and ash. When all that had remained were the shadows of the lost, I’d been left behind.
I remembered little of the month following the bomb’s detonation.
Detective Davis stood, and he stared at me. He frowned, and I wondered what he saw in my expression.
I’d sworn one day I’d tell someone of what I’d experienced. Despite the long years, that day had not yet come. Sometimes, I wondered if it ever would.
“That’s not much of a connection. The other thirty percent?”
“Mostly survivors of varying degrees but tourists.”
“Any pures?” I doubted it; those not exposed to radiation possessing non-mutated genes were closely guarded. Some escaped such scrutiny, but they’d either donated DNA samples or had agreed to government testing and experimentation to dodge being secluded from the rest of society.
“No.”
“That’s something. Less paperwork.” I sighed and stretched. “I should soak for an hour. It’ll help with recovery.”
“A shower or bath is on your agenda. I’m under strict instructions from Luke and Eddy. First, you take your shower or bath. Your choice on that one. I’ll make you breakfast while you do that, and when it’s done, I’m to put the food out for you and get out of the way. Once you’ve eaten, I leave you with the morning briefing papers and wait until you’re fully awake. I’ve already been warned that you might not even remember this conversation because you’re technically functioning on autopilot.”
No wonder he hadn’t freaked out about me snuggling with him. “Sounds about right. In case they didn’t mention this, coffee is a basic part of breakfast.”
His mouth twitched, he smiled, and then coughed to mask his expression. “According to Luke, you require two to three cups to become functional. Fortunately for you, I do know how to make coffee.”
“You’re one of those teetotaler tea drinkers, aren’t you?”
“Only during business hours.”
“And after work?”
“I make a mean margarita when I’m in the mood.”
In the mood could mean several things, and I’d enjoy investigating Detective Davis’s dark, dirty little secrets. “If you want a shower, it’s a good way to hide while I’m vanquishing breakfast.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer. Thanks.”
There was hope for the cop after all. “We have a plan, then. I’ll see you post breakfast.”
Someone had filled Detective Davis’s head with nonsense. Enough food for three waited on my kitchen table, and an offensive amount of orange juice kept my coffee company. As I had no doubt Luke would interrogate the poor bastard, I chugged it to make everyone happy. The inclusion of perfectly crisp bacon to go with my eggs and pancakes decided me.
My father could ground me for life if he wanted, but I would somehow convince Chief Kirkland to loan me his cop for breakfast-making duties for the rest of my life. The chief would find some way to make me regret my decision, but I’d cope easier having a good meal to start every day.
I’d polished off the bacon and eggs and was facing off against the pancakes when my new live-in chef emerged from the bathroom in a pair of navy slacks and a slightly damp white shirt.
Hello, Officer. I raised a brow. “Your application to be my live-in breakfast chef has been accepted, and I’m prepared to offer you free rent as compensation.”
Detective Hunk didn’t seem impressed with my offer. “I’m concerned.”
I pointed my fork at him. “Ask Eddy. I have a bad relationship with food. I treat food like I do blind dates.”
“You skip them, often. You don’t need a live-in chef. You need a babysitter.”
I scowled and shoved a bite of pancake into my mouth. I swallowed, and in an act of defiance, kept chomping until one pancake remained. Then I looked him in the eyes and ate that one, too.
“I have no idea what just happened, but okay. If you could wait until after we deal with the morning work to pass out from gorging, I’d appreciate it.”
Damn. Obviously, exposure had solidified Detective Hunk’s general courage and resolve. “I’ll try to refrain from adding any additional delays to the schedule. Let’s talk statistics. Outside of my quad, what’s the highest-ranked survivor?”
“One low-grade death zone survivor from San Diego.”
“Former Marine?” I guessed. Most were—or from some other department of the military.
“Correct.”
“Abilities?”
“Empathic drainer, negative alignment. He currently works as a physical therapist for trauma patients.”
Negatively aligned empaths often got a bad rap; they thrived on negative emotions and pain. However, a strong one could drain pain from someone else, turn off their pain receptors, and push them through physical therapy and general medical recovery in half the time.
Pain often hampered healing, and they could circumvent the body’s ability to register pain.
“And he’s the highest?”
“Most were really low-grade on the magic scale, and the survivors are middle of the road at best. Your quad’s the most likely targets, but they were hit near the end of the attack. In good news, three of the team have fully recovered. There’s one thing: they’ve been dreaming of a ghost fish, too.”
That worried me. I rarely had an overactive imagination, and I hadn’t been targeted with whatever had forced so many into a comatose state. “And Adrianna?”
“No change. All victims are on IVs, and feeding tubes will be inserted tonight if there are no signs of recovery.”
“Any connections between the victims?”
“Nothing concrete; some are friends and family with each other, some aren’t. It’s what you’d expect from a crowd mid-day. A few were co-workers, and they were found together. We’ve been running criminal records, and the only hits we’ve had are petty crimes and one illegal immigrant.”
“Tell me about the illegal.”
“He’s Korean, and it looks like he’s been in the country since World War III.”
Illegals happened; Australians took the top prize for sneaking into the United States; they’d fled their home in the final days before the complete destruction of Australia. No one even visited the irradiated continent, which served one purpose: to destroy nuclear weapons through detonation.
Koreans came in second, as they’d escaped a harsh regime and human experimentation with nuclear radiation to create a superhuman army. “He has no motivation to toss his status as a refugee, and most Koreans fear incarceration. We register them as refugees and settle them. Any actual convictions on him? I’ll register him as a refugee myself if the process hasn’t been started yet.”
“Luke said you’d say that. He’s clean and is being processed as a refugee. He’ll get a light slap on the wrist at worst once he’s conscious. The other vics don’t have anything relevant as far as I can tell. It’s a fairly equal mix
of genders and ages. We’re pretty sure your quad leader was a case of bad luck.”
“Great. That’s not useful. What do we have on the signature?”
“As you like to say, zip, zilch, nada.”
Detective Hunk wasn’t supposed to have a sense of humor. He needed to go back to being dour. Dour was a lot less dangerous than humorous and handsome. I could work with dour while tweaking his nose. Humorous and handsome would test my peace of mind. “How about the statuette’s owner?”
“No word yet.”
“Put in for a search warrant of her property along with a questioning warrant.”
“That’s a pain in the ass, Olivia.”
My name and his mouth needed to terminate their relationship. “The questioning warrant means we can’t touch her stuff but can access her property. Just get me the damned warrant. You know where she lives and can put together just cause easier than I can. Do we have anything useful?”
If we didn’t, I’d be tempted to go right back to bed for another day.
“Zip, zilch, nada.”
“Damn it. You get the warrant, head to her place, and talk to the owner. I’ll start groundwork for expanding our investigation.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take a hike down memory lane armed with the best sensors the FBI has and see if I can find anything.”
“Alone?”
The skepticism in his voice annoyed me into glaring at him. “I’m sending you to some woman’s house alone. I’ll cut you a deal: you stay out of trouble, I’ll stay out of trouble. I’m taking a walk with a hundred thousand dollar scanner. What could possibly go wrong?”
He smirked. “Let me count the ways. I’ll start with the obvious. You’re a woman alone with a hundred thousand dollar scanner. Do I need to elaborate?”
“Oh, please. Do I look like a damsel-in-distress here?”
“Yes, you do.”
What an asshole. I flipped him off and went to get dressed for a day of work.
My newly created shit list had one name: Detective Raymond Davis. I swore payback would be swift and harsh. Not only had he called me a damsel-in-distress right to my face, he’d called Luke to make certain I stayed out of trouble. In the thirty minutes it took for me to get dressed and ready to face the day, Luke and his quad showed up.
With my fucking scanner.
A smug detective got into his patrol car, waved, and drove away.
“I hate that man!” I howled, and I snatched my scanner out of Luke’s hands. “Any of you say a single word—even one—and I’ll make you wish I’d drown you. I. Am. Not. A. Damsel. In. Distress.”
“Whatever you say, Sleeping Beauty,” Luke muttered.
Why couldn’t I kill members of my quads? “I am perfectly capable of handling a walk without an audience, just like Detective Hunk can handle going to a woman’s house without my supervision.”
There. I could treat the cop like the eye candy he was. That’d teach him a thing or two.
Luke stared at me. “You call Ray Detective Hunk?”
“Try to be at least a little gay for once in your life,” I complained. “He’s delicious. Definitely worth adding to the menu of a high-classed establishment. He’s not just delicious. He’s male perfection.”
“Are you feeling all right, Olivia?”
“No, I’m not. My shower saw him naked and I didn’t. I’m jealous of my shower. I’m concerned I tried to violate him in my sleep. If I did, I can’t even blame myself. Why are all the hunks insufferable assholes? He’s the chief of the hunk assholes. He called me a damsel-in-distress!”
Luke bowed his head, and Ethan came up and patted my shoulder. “You’re a beautiful woman with a hundred thousand dollar scanner. Add in your rating, your rank, and that your father happens to be the police commissioner, and you’re a walking target.”
“Don’t you bring my daddy into this, Ethan.”
“Your daddy will kick our asses when he finds out Isaac drank you down to needing a transfusion.”
I scowled and pointed at the drainer. “Go ahead. Try me, Sucky McSuckyface.”
“Thank you for not drowning me today,” he replied.
“You’re welcome.”
Luke heaved a sigh. “You’re not going alone, Olivia. First, you might faint. And don’t feed me any shit about how tough you are. You were down and out for too long.”
Every member of Luke’s quad glared at me until I surrendered, holding my hands up. “Fine.”
Luke relaxed and grinned. “Get into the SUV, bitch and moan over our cruel damseling of your person, and tell me where we’re going.”
“We’re following the incident path looking for unusual signatures, and if we can’t register the event signature, we’re going to visit a victim to register the signature.”
“The mall first, then. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Chapter Five
Oakland City Center seemed normal enough. Shoppers shopped, going in and out of the stores like nothing had happened. Glass shards along the sidewalk were the only evidence left of the accident that had claimed two lives. Armed with the excessively expensive scanner, I went to work trying to isolate a signature that might match the magic afflicting so many. When I turned the device on, it beeped and began calibrating itself so it could begin its initial scan.
I would register as a strong anomaly to it, and after referencing the FBI database on unusual supernaturals, it would disregard my presence. A special code in my entry spared the machine from trying to make sense of my signature. It might if I gave it a week and it did nothing else. Most scanners took ten minutes to get to the point it could ping the FBI database for a match.
After two minutes, it completed its calibration and listed all unique signatures in a ten foot radius. “Hey, Luke?”
“What?”
“I’m keeping this scanner, and I’ll marry it if I have to.”
“You can’t keep the scanner, Olivia. It’s a loaner.”
I huffed and scrolled through the results, removing known signatures from the list. One faint, ambient source, registering as an anomaly, stood out among the remaining results.
Bingo.
I selected it and tapped in the command for a full registration scan of the signature, unlocked the scanner’s distance restrictions, and waited.
When I’d first joined the FBI, someone had tried to explain how magic and technology made things like my precious scanner work, but I’d gotten a headache and skipped straight to learning how to use it. The scanner beeped while it churned through its tests. According to every scanner manual I’d bothered attempting to read, the scanner emitted a pulse of magic that resonated with the one it wanted to register. The resulting waves created from the two sources of magic clashing was then used to identify the properties of a specific signature.
Within ten minutes, the scanner provided me with a map of the mall matching what I remembered of where the victims had been found. Behind me, a thin line marked the path the magic had taken to reach the shopping center.
Excellent.
I scrolled along the map, pleased with the device’s one-mile range. “I’ve got it. We’re headed south. The scanner picked up a trail. Let’s figure out where it came from first, then we’ll figure out where it went after the Oakland City Center incident. Once we have the where hammered down, we’ll figure out the who, how, and why.”
“You’re missing what.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just assuming the what is a ridiculously expensive koi statuette.” I shot Luke a glare. “The peanut gallery gets to stay quiet today.”
All four members of the peanut gallery grinned at me.
As I refused to cut corners on a serious case, I stood around for ten minutes and registered the signature in the FBI’s supernatural database, taking the time to write in my suspicions on the nature of the signature, what sort of magic it possibly was, and referencing my case so anyone interested in it would have to come to
me. Once I had the signature’s new identification number, I called my boss.
“What do you have for me, Olivia?”
“How does the identification number of the signature involved with the Oakland City Center incident sound to you?”
“Hit me with it.”
I read him off the eighteen digit code. “I’ve got it on track on the scanner, so I’m going to see where this damned thing came from before nailing down where it went following the incident.”
“I’ll notify the other investigators and the police. Where are you? Who is with you?”
“I’m with Luke’s quad, and Luke brought me a scanner. I’m formally requesting this scanner as part of my arsenal. I need it, sir. I’ll marry it if I have to. But I need this scanner.”
“As I authorized the loan and know exactly how much that machine costs, you’re going to need a damned good sales pitch to keep it.”
“It churned through this site in two minutes, and it has a one-mile range.”
“Olivia, I know what the scanner can do.”
“What other justification do I need? It took two minutes, and that includes churning through my signature, sir.”
My boss sighed. “I’ll cut a deal with you. Figure out who is behind this and how to help the victims, and I’ll talk to the government about having you issued the same type of scanner. I can probably point out you’re the heaviest hitter we have in the Californian FBI, you have a crush on the damned thing, and you usually end up being the one who checks out the scanners anyway. It might be more efficient to just give you one of your own. But if I did arrange for you to have a scanner, you’d likely have to work with the local cops more frequently.”
“Can I be picky about which local cops I work with?”
Detective Davis needed frequent reminders of my existence, and I bet I could give him some damned good job security if his boss needed him to get access to me and my new scanner.
“What are you scheming?”
“I like some cops more than I like other cops, and if I have to share my scanner with the cops, I only want to work with the cops I like. And as a general rule, none of the cops I like are the cops my father likes, because that would make things boring.”