by C. T. Phipps
Gilroy was about to charge at me when Jack, using his rifle, bashed him across the back. Wherever Gilroy’s strength had gone a moment ago, it was back now, and he elbowed Jack so hard I could hear my partner’s rib crack. Gilroy then grabbed Jack by the shoulders and threw him at me like a baseball. I could have dodged, but I used my TK to cushion his impact instead. It was better than letting my senior partner take another painful impact unprotected. We went down in a heap, though.
Bryce charged at him now, having put down Mommy Dearest, but I doubted he’d have any better luck than poor Jack, who now seemed thoroughly incapacitated, clutching his side in agony. I pulled myself out from under him.
To my surprise, Bryce did have a bit of better luck, for a moment. He slammed into Gilroy and sent him falling backward, crashing into one of the cement walkway’s bricks. Either momentum had caused him to knock over the teddy or Bryce was stronger than he looked. Then Gilroy grabbed Bryce by the throat and looked to be ready to snap his neck in a moment.
I didn’t have long to save him, but I had an idea. One I was ashamed I hadn’t thought of earlier. I reached into my purse and pulled out a small spray bottle of perfume I’d brought from the Witch’s Isle at JC Penny before running up to spray it in the werebear’s face.
“Ahhhhh!” Gilroy screamed, clutching his face as if I’d thrown acid on it.
Gilroy dropped Bryce and slowly turned back into a normal human being. I pulled back my arm and then delivered a TK-enhanced fist to his jaw that sent him flying. Gilroy landed with a thud, senseless on the ground a few feet away.
“What the hell?” Bryce asked, confused. He looked back to Meredith Brooks as she ran to her son’s side and cradled his face. She pulled out tissues and attempted to clean off his face, but it was hopeless. She’d need clean water and a good couple of hours for the stuff to stop working its anti-magic.
“Verbena,” I said, cheerfully. “The movies get it wrong by saying wolfsbane. The all-purpose anti-shifter plant found in many sprays and scented oils.”
“You defeated him…with organic perfume?” Bryce asked, awed.
“Looks like,” I said.
Bryce shook his head. “I take back half the things I said about women’s cosmetics being stupid.”
“As opposed to men’s cosmetics?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’ll take my body spray from my cold, dead fingers,” Bryce said, puffing up his chest.
“So, one question,” Jack asked, slowly getting up and covering his stomach with his hands.
“Yeah?”
“Why the hell didn’t you use it earlier?” Jack asked, suddenly shouting.
I felt a brief surge of energy as Jack healed his injury over a matter of minutes rather than weeks. Jack was a bright like me. His power, however, was healing. He couldn’t do much, but every bit helped. I understood he’d been a medic during the Afghan War before he’d gotten sick of patching up people only for them to come back dying again a day later.
I grimaced. “Well, it’s hard to use in combat and—”
“You didn’t think of it,” Jack said, simply. “Because you liked having a boxing match with a bear. A fucking bear.”
“Werebear,” Bryce said. “Much scarier. Like Jaws would be to a regular shark. Wait, was Jaws a wereshark? No, wait, Jaws was fictional.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I lied, ignoring Bryce’s comment. “I just forgot.”
Truth be told, it had been exhilarating. It reminded me of the good old days. Before they became the bad old days. I was about to make another comment when there was a whooshing sound behind me and I turned my attention to see the flying vampire from earlier had settled down on the ground.
He wasn’t gorgeous like many vampires nor was he particularly bad-looking either. Really, he was remarkable in his unremarkability. Still, I recognized him now that he was up close: Peter Stone, Bellidix (a.k.a Sheriff) of New Detroit’s vampires. Vampires preferred to handle their criminals in-house and it was Peter’s job to be the one to bring them in for his old-as-dirt bosses.
“No!” Meredith shouted, covering her still unconscious son. “Don’t let him take my boy!”
I did a double take. “Uh, what’s going on?”
“We’re getting claim jumped,” Jack said, looking less than pleased.
Peter smiled and spread out his hands. “Sorry, guys, but it took me a while to find this place. I don’t normally make it out this far from New Detroit.”
“Aren’t you the guy who runs the convenience store right in front of the Dairy Queen?” Bryce asked, blinking. “Wait, you’re a vampire?”
I gave Bryce an elbow that was a lot harder than it should have been and he almost barreled over.
“Oomph,” Bryce said.
“Sorry,” I said, embarrassed. “What do you want, Peter?”
“I’m here to pick up a criminal,” Peter said, looking down at Gilroy. “He’s ticked off some very important people.”
“Funny, so are we,” I said. “You know, the superhuman who committed crimes like ruining our van? We are getting credit for the arrest, right?”
I was kidding of course. Peter had about as much authority to arrest Gilroy as I did, which was to say none. Bail bond contracts allowed you to bring criminals in as they forfeited their right to habeas corpus but that wasn’t technically arresting someone. It was more like a mall cop holding someone until the real authorities arrived. I wasn’t about to turn him over to the vampires and their mafia-like secret society.
“What did he do?” Bryce asked, slowly climbing to his feet.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Because he’s not going with him.”
“Gilroy got in a fight with a favored member of an Old One’s harem,” Peter said. “We’re still trying to find all of the pieces.”
“So, he’s a murderer,” Bryce said, looking back.
“And worse,” Peter said. “However, he’ll pay for everything he’s done.”
“With death?” Bryce asked.
“No, I mean literally pay,” Peter said. “The Old One wants to shake him down for weirgild. Either in money, favors, or information—Gilroy is going to give up what he owes.”
I hated vampire society. “Like hell he will. I’ve had it to here with your secret courts and supernatural laws. He’s going to get his day in regular court.”
“Ashley—” Bryce whispered. “That’s a vampire.”
“Really?” Peter asked, looking back and forth. “Where?”
“We just got our asses kicked,” Bryce said. “We don’t need to get into another fight. Not over money.”
Technically, only Bryce had gotten his ass kicked. Also, people who tended to say money wasn’t worth it were people with money.
“There’s more at stake here than money, Bryce,” I said.
“Like what?” Bryce said.
“A lot of money,” Jack snapped, aiming his rifle at Peter. “Move along, bloodsucker.”
“What if I could tell you something that was worth more than whatever his bounty was?” Peter asked.
“Unlikely,” I said, assuming a fighting stance.
“Even if it was about your missing brother?” Peter asked.
Goddammit.
Chapter Three
Where I make a deal I will regret
“You know what happened to my brother?” I asked, stunned. “Arthur?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “I do.”
Peter’s words struck me like a knife, and I was momentarily speechless. The fact there was an unconscious werebear behind me, his mother weeping above him, and my crew had been beaten six ways to Sunday suddenly seemed less important than the possibility of getting information about my brother.
Arthur Morgan was my little brother by two years, so of course I’d teased him mercilessly growing up and considered him my own personal headlock practice dummy. Much the same way as my own older sister, Anna, had done to me. The Morgan Family had all grown up in the shadow of the
House but had never been anywhere near the top of the food chain. That was more like the Timmons and Hawthorne families. In Harry Potter terms, they were the Blacks and Malfoys, while we were the Weasleys. Still, I’d wanted to be the best soldier I could be and so had my sister Anna. Neither of us had adapted well to a world where we were expected to just be ordinary people.
Arthur had adapted better, wanting to show off his powers and let the world know he was a bright. He also was fascinated with everything super and gravitated to the supernatural counterculture that emerged. He’d waved the supernatural pride flag and I’d always been afraid he’d end up shot because some bigot was afraid he’d cause their head to explode. Not that Arthur could do that. He was an illusionist and a weak precognitive—which confused me as he never seemed able to see the possible consequences of his actions.
I remembered standing in his bedroom a decade ago, a place covered in the posters of tattooed punk girls and a couple of guys. The place smelled like pot and there was the sound of Lacuna Coil playing in the background. It was, by and large, a perfect college kid’s place but it was Arthur packing his bags that brought my attention.
“I don’t like the crowd you’re hanging with,” I said, staring at him. I wasn’t sure what the proper sort of response for this was.
“The crowd?” Arthur asked, being rude enough to point out I was running on clichés. “Who are you and what have you done with my sister, 1950s mother concerned about the reefer and the hot rods?”
Arthur was unlike the preternaturally beautiful members of the Morgan Family that were from generations of selected breeding and magical modification. He was a stocky man with a thick beard and preferred to dress in sports hoodies with black jeans. I’d always made the (not so funny in retrospect) joke he was part-ogre.
“I’m not joking,” I said, feeling ridiculous asking about these things. “I’m worried about you.”
It would normally have fallen to big sis for these sorts of conversations, but Anna was gone. She was studying at Quantico as part of the new Supernatural Division of the FBI. There was already talk of the President planning on creating a new branch of the government called the Bureau of Supernatural Services (or BOSS). I doubted Anna would end up with them, though, since everything indicated they were going to be a dumping ground for every Right-Wing nutjob who wanted to burn witches at the stake. Vampires might occasionally deserve a torching but witches were cool.
“I know you’re not joking,” Arthur said, continuing to pack. “That’s what’s sad.”
“You’re going to run off and tour the country when religious hate groups are lynching people with our powers.”
Arthur shrugged. “Non-religious people too.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you even hope to accomplish?”
Arthur paused after zipping up his suitcase. “I dunno, get laid with a bunch of vampire girls. Maybe a shifter or two.”
I wanted to throttle him. “I forbid it.”
Arthur barely bothered to look at me with disdain. “This coming from the woman who dresses up in a bloody cape.”
I frowned. “The cape is just for social functions. My Red Widow costume is practical body armor. It just looks sexy because I had an illusionist enchant it….”
“Yes, me.”
Arthur knew a bit of magic in addition to being a psychic—personally, I thought that was cheating. Still, I was already neck deep in being a superhero. The cops let me do what I wanted because I could control emotions and made sure almost everything I walked into ended up peacefully resolved. It didn’t always work but that was what my years of combat training and stun batons were for.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re walking into riots and active crime scenes. I’m joining some supernatural goodwill tours. Yet I’m the crazy one?”
As inexplicable as I found my chubby brother’s talent for getting laid with whichever women and occasional man he wanted to sleep with was, I didn’t doubt his ability to find willing partners at home. “There has to be another reason you’re doing this. Leaving the safety of New Detroit.”
“There’s no safety here,” Arthur said. “Half our family is dead, sis. Dead or missing. Hell, going back through our family tree there’s two or three members who vanish every generation. It’s like someone is pruning it regularly.”
“They died fighting for the House,” I said, knowing that was a poor defense.
“I want to do something with my life,” Arthur said. “I’m making contacts.”
“Contacts?” I asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “We need to organize, or the government will stomp down on us all. Supernaturals versus humans. These concerts will be a good place to meet and greet. Some powerful supernaturals will be coordinating them too.”
“So, you’re not just ignoring danger,” I said, dryly. “You’re actively going into it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am. But so are you.”
“At least I’m—” I started to say, realizing my argument wasn’t going to work. “I have people helping me here. I just don’t want you biting off more than you can chew. Or, you know, getting blood itch.”
“Blood itch.”
“It’s a vampire STD. I read up on it online.”
Arthur stared at me. “Vampires don’t have STDs. They’re dead.”
“That means it’s necrophilia!” I snapped.
Arthur shook his head. “I’ll be fine. See you in six months.”
I considered using my Empathy powers on him to make him stay. It was ridiculous but every bone in my body told me there was something terrible afoot. I resisted, though, because not only wouldn’t it have worked (Arthur wasn’t “weak-minded” if you would pardon my Star Wars) but he’d never have forgiven me. The problem was my instincts were one hundred percent right. I never saw Arthur again.
As the memory of my brother walking out the door passed, I found myself once more staring at Peter with Bryce and Jack by my side. It had been a pretty intense flashback and akin to a movie playing in my head. That was another problem you had when were a bright: memories were vivid to the point that you could end up distracted by them in real life. Thankfully, it looked like only a few seconds had passed.
“Who is Arthur?” Bryce asked, completely missing the point.
“Ashley’s stoner brother,” Jack answered, oh so politely. “He disappeared a couple of years after the Reveal. Ashley has been searching for him ever since. Probably why she became a bounty hunter.”
Actually, I became a bounty hunter because of a show on TV I watched when drunk and broke but I wasn’t about to correct Jack on this.
“Isn’t he probably dead?” Bryce asked. “I mean, if he hasn’t shown up in eight years?”
“Nice job, Bryce. Real classy,” Jack said.
“Just saying,” Bryce muttered, sticking his hands in his pockets.
I turned my head at them both, staring death.
“The clock is ticking, Ashley,” Peter said, looking over at Gilroy. “If I have to put this guy down again then I’m not going to tell you shit.”
“You know where he is?” I asked, fishing for information. All I needed for him to do was confirm that Arthur was alive.
“Uh-uh,” Peter said, shaking his head. “That’s not how this works. You hand over Gilroy and then you get your answers.”
Peter wasn’t usually this obstinate or this crafty, which made me think that something bigger was afoot than just the fate of one werebear.
“Gilroy isn’t Ashley’s to turn over,” Jack said, keeping his rifle aimed at Peter. “He’s one third of a two hundred-thousand-dollar loan for each of the partners.”
“Sixty-six thousand sixty-hundred-six dollars,” Bryce said. “Roughly.”
“Shut up, kid,” Jack said.
Peter frowned and disappeared for a literal second before reappearing. In his hands was Jack’s rifle.
“Ah fuck,” Jack said, looking down at his hands. “I hate vampire speed.”
“Time magic, baby,” Peter said, laughing. “It’s the pause menu of the universe.”
“Technically, it’s more like Time Stop spell from Dungeons and Dragons,” I said.
Peter looked at him.
“What?” I asked, stalling for time.
I struggled with my feelings and tried to figure out what I wanted to do here. It wasn’t about the morality. He did just try to kill all three of us after all. It wasn’t about the money either, though I wasn’t so rich that losing this bond wouldn’t put a serious crimp in my finances. No, it was the fact that I didn’t trust Peter to tell me the truth. Shockingly, vamps had a history of being liars and being the most honest among them didn’t count for much. But did I have a choice if I wanted answers? It turned out I didn’t. “Fine, you can take him.”
“Ashley!” Jack said, angry.
Peter disappeared again and reappeared with Gilroy in his arms. The crook had reverted to his human form and looked like someone had hit him with a car or three. Personally, I had the world’s smallest violin playing in the background for him.
“You could have taken him any time you wanted,” I observed, feeling slightly better about condemning a man to possible execution by vampire fang.
“Yes,” Peter said, smiling that empty smile that older vamps had perfected. “However, Arthur wanted me to let you know that he’s alive and in the city.”
“What?” I asked, stunned.
“I’m still not letting you get away with Gilroy,” Jack said. “He’s a payday.”
Peter chuckled. “Don’t worry. He won’t be killed. Just roughed up a bit. Okay, a lot. You can have what’s left.”
With that, Peter lifted off the ground and disappeared into the sky.
Bryce began humming the Superman theme from the Christopher Reeve’s films. “That is so damn awesome. Can all vampires fly?”
“Nope,” Jack said, speaking like an expert. “Only that asshole and a handful of others. I mean, not counting bats and ravens or shadow monsters.”
“Bastards!” Meredith shouted, bashing between us and going for Jack’s rifle.