by Jason Rose
Wilson wrinkles his eyebrows and puffs out his lower lip.
“Looks like you get to call your girlfriend for a work-related reason, lucky you,” teases Sinn.
Wilson looks up, and the realization hits him and he smiles. “You’re right, boss, we do know somebody. I’ll give Cinnamon a call. For purely work-related reasons of course.”
“Of course,” mocks Sinn.
My cell phone vibrates; it’s an email alert:
Mr. Valentine, I want to apologize, I had our IT department search our system for (1) a video of the confession of Eirik Varulv and (2) Rodrigo Ruiz’s notes and was unable to locate either. They either never existed, which goes against our internal protocols here at the Public Defender’s office, or they were so thoroughly erased from our system that our computer forensic experts can find no trace of them, which I am told is nearly impossible. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance. Good luck with your case.
Sean Evans
Managing Attorney at the Boston Office of the Public Defender
Pretty much what I expected. It would be way too convenient, like an episode of Murder, She Wrote, to be handed exculpatory evidence on the eve of trial. “Did we find a computer?” I ask, looking up from my cell phone.
“There’s one hooked up to the equipment in the bedroom,” answers Wilson.
“Go get it. Bring it back for Joycee. Let’s do one last search of the place for anything interesting, and then let’s head back to the office. And, by interesting, I do not mean sexually interesting. Leave the porn.”
Sinn smirks and Wilson feigns injury. “I was only going to take it for research purposes, of course.”
“Research? Really?” replies Sinn.
“Yes, research. Haven’t you ever wondered about werewolf reproductive activities? For example, when a werewolf bangs another werewolf, do they do it in wolf-form? If they do it in human form, do they always do it doggy style? What about when a human bangs a werewolf in its human form, is that bestiality? What about the reverse? Is that bestiality? Don't give me that look—these are serious scientific inquiries."
Sinn face-palms and I consider throwing the bar of soap on the bathroom vanity at Wilson’s head. “Leave the porn, Dr. Kinsey.”
“In all seriousness, boss, we should take it. If It really is werewolf porn, do you think we should leave that for the human authorities to find? And the killer could be in one of the videos. This could be a spurned lover situation.”
“Fine, take it. Take anything you think the human authorities shouldn’t have, or we might need to solve Whiley’s murder. Box it up. When we're done with it, we can turn it over to the HPA. Wouldn’t hurt to generate some good will there. In fact, when we get back to the office, let’s give them a call and let them know about the body in the tub. They can clean it up.”
Wilson starts to say something, then stops. “Sure, boss.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t start to say something and then chicken out. Not you. Our relationship only works if you’re straightforward and honest with me. Even when it’s something I might not like.”
Wilson shrugs. “I got ya, boss, I just don’t think those HPA guys are gonna be too happy with us.”
“What did you do?” I ask in an accusatory tone.
“I stole Agent Franklin’s cell phone during the fight with the wolves.”
“You what?” yells Sinn. “Like we don’t have enough problems without stealing from the HPA!”
“You weren’t there. I had a good reason.” Argues Wilson.
“Calm down, you two. It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not alright,” snaps Sinn. “The HPA can be a huge pain in the ass. It’s better to stay off their radar. Out of their way. Stealing from them is guaranteed to cause us all sorts of trouble.”
“Sinn, I didn’t have a choice,” pleads Wilson.
“Someone forced you at gunpoint to steal the phone?”
“Go easy on him,” I interrupt. “Before the fight with the wolves, Agent Franklin set that phone down on the table and activated a Mage-Recorder app. It was dark and he was probably too busy trying to survive the battle to watch me, but that app recorded everything. Without that recording, they might suspect it, but the HPA doesn’t know I’m more than human. I’m betting Wilson stole it to protect me.”
Wilson nods in agreement.
Sinn sighs and faces Wilson. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Colt’s right, you probably did the right thing. The longer Colt’s abilities remain ambiguous, the better. What did you do with the phone? It probably has a tracker.”
“I’m not an idiot. I smashed it to pieces, ran a powerful magnet over it to try and erase anything stored on it, and now the pieces are sitting inside one of those FasTrak mylar bags that prevents radio waves.”
“The grey plastic cover the FasTrak toll transponder comes in? The thing that’s supposed to prevent it from working when you drive over the bridge? You think that little bag will prevent the HPA from tracking it?” I ask in disbelief.
“It should,” answers Wilson.
“Unless they use magic to track it,” corrects Sinn. “You need to get rid of it when we get home. I suggest you melt it. Fire purifies most magic. Burning it will erase whatever is still stored in that app.”
Wilson nods. “Good to know and will do. Boss, you still want me to call them and tell them about the body?”
“Yeah, I have a feeling the HPA is going to be watching us no matter what. We might as well use them to our advantage.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Early Thursday Morning
I’m awakened by a sharp pain in my finger, my ring’s nifty early warning system, telling me that another Advocate is nearby. It’s less of a piercing pain, which is the signal that my ring gives me when it thinks I am danger, and more of a throbbing pain, meaning violence isn’t necessarily in my immediate future; although, if I’ve learned anything in the past few months it’s that you never can be too careful. One second you can be sitting at a table in a bar drinking a nice glass of pinot, and the next you’re in a death duel with a thousand-year-old vampire. Life is funny like that. I run my finger across the side of my nightstand, slow enough so the hidden biometric reader can register my fingerprint. There’s a click, and a hidden compart opens, allowing me access to a Glock 42. A gift from Wilson. The Glock 42 is a small gun and, while it lacks the stopping power of its larger cousins, it’s easy to fire and accurate as all hell; and accuracy is the most important feature of a gun used for home protection, particularly when you live in an urban environment. More accuracy and less stopping power means you’re less likely to damage furniture or shoot through a wall and kill your neighbor or their kids. It’s also the only gun I like that fits in the small hidden safe Wilson installed into my bedside table. He wanted to go much larger. Call me crazy, but I thought the aesthetics of the room outweighed the utility of installing a refrigerator-sized gun safe next to my bed.
I pause at the bedroom door leading to the living room and listen; I hear the clinking of a mug and the familiar dripping sound of my coffee maker. I guess whomever my guest is, they feel comfortable enough to use my shit without asking. I push my bedroom door open a little harder than I should and enter my living room without even trying to disguise my displeasure at being woken up. Whannung approaches me with a cup of coffee. “I brought myself some tea”—he motions to a Starbucks cup on my dining room table—“I thought you might need a cup. You take it black, right?”
“I guess,” I answer awkwardly while accepting the cup of black gold and setting the Glock 42 down on the counter. It’s three in the morning, where is there a Starbucks open? I guess there’s always a Starbucks open somewhere for an Advocate with a gate-pen.
“Would you like to put some clothes on?” Whanung asks. “I can wait.”
I look down at my mostly naked body. “Nah, I’m good. If I go back in my bedroom I’m going back
to sleep. If you want to be an asshole and break into my house at the butt crack of dawn, you’re just going to have to deal with the fact that I’m wearing nothing but boxers. Now, what do you want?”
“Please sit,” he points at the table, “I want to tell you a story about a patriotic American football player who pissed away his money and fame because he wanted to be a gangster.”
“Let me stop you, I don’t need to hear what you think is a clever story designed to lead me to an obscure Massachusetts law I can use to win Eirik Varulv’s case. I remember the football player. Can’t stand the team he played for, a bunch of cheaters as far as I am concerned, but I remember the case. You couldn’t escape the media circus surrounding that trial; it was all over the news and, as a human defense lawyer, I found the whole thing fascinating. I read all the pleading—everyone at my office did. It was big news at the water cooler. I’m also aware of what happened after the conviction. The civil case and the evidentiary issue. I know what you’re going to suggest. The problem is, I don’t like that solution. I’m not sure I’m ready to go down that road.”
Whanung is, as always, as unreadable as the fine print on a cell phone contract. He sips his tea in silence. Finally, he says, “You cannot lose this case.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that. Why not? I know Adrian is convinced the wolves and the universe for that matter will be better off with him in charge; me, I’m not so sure. I’m having a hard time believing the fate of the universe rests on this case. What if Adrian gets run over tomorrow chasing after a mail truck, is the world going to end? What if I hadn’t saved his hairy ass the other day? Would it have ended then? Even if power changes hands, or a crown changes heads, the world will march on—it always does. Things are rarely ever as dire as we try and make them out to be.”
“You’re right, the world will march on. For me, maybe nothing changes. Maybe I continue to float through the centuries like an unconcerned butterfly caught in a summer breeze. I’ve never much cared about the lives of the insignificant. I am more concerned with the greater cosmic balance, and the loss of a few hundred or even a few thousand lives barely registers in that equation.” Whanung pauses and sips his tea. “For you, maybe everything changes. Will you be able to live with yourself if a werewolf war ensues? What if hundreds of innocent people die all because you refused to do what needed to be done? What if it’s thousands of lives? The world will always march on—you just might not like the beat.”
“If you don’t care, why are you here? Why did you steer this case to me? Yeah, I know what you told Red.”
Whanung calmly takes another sip of his tea. “It was necessary.”
“Necessary? Fuck your necessary! Isn’t there somewhere you can go cocoon yourself and hide from the world until after I’m long gone? Your late-night theatrics are getting old.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t care; I do care, more than you’ll ever understand. I care about something greater than a couple hundred human and werewolf lives. I’m here because there’s something bigger to play for. The ultimate game is afoot. I didn’t see it at first, but Pavo did . . . You may not know it yet, but you’re an important piece on the board. One who has the potential to change the balance of the game. Sometimes, with a little patience and planning, even a lowly Knight can take a Queen.”
“Enough with the cryptic chess metaphors. Just speak plainly. Say what you mean. I can’t take much more of your prophecy and fortune cookie bullshit.”
Whanung pauses again. I’m not sure if I’ve pissed him off, if he’s carefully choosing his words, or if he’s just trying to build suspense. He is literally impossible to read. His mute expressions are wholly indecipherable, and the random moments of silence he places between words are infuriating. “Colt, being told to believe something is not the same as learning it yourself. There are things that cannot be told, things that can only be discovered. Your faith is a tower you must build, brick by brick.”
“More spiritual mumbo jumbo. Are you going to tell me anything useful, or can I go back to bed?”
“What I can tell you is that while many may die if you win this case, many more will surely die if you do not. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s awesome. Very uplifting. You're telling me people are going to die no matter what I do? Thanks. Great pep talk. That’s really helpful. Have you thought about offering a free advice clinic? Maybe once a week. There’s a great farmers’ market over by the Ferry building. You could set up a booth. Or maybe you could start a self-help blog? You’d be a hit with the mentally deranged.”
“There will come a time when you need allies—the fate of everything may depend on it. Winning this case places you on your proper path. The path with the greatest chance for success.”
“Success at what? Why don’t you just tell me what it is you think I’m going to do?”
“Mr. Valentine, you’re going to try and save the world.”
I can’t help but smile. “Wow. You’re a hell of a motivational speaker. I’m going to try? Try to save the world? Nah, I’m going back to bed. The world can save itself. You can let yourself out.” I stand up and start walking back towards my bedroom, leaving Whanung alone at the kitchen table.
“May I see the sword?”
I stop; for the first time tonight, Whanung has said something that interests me.
“The sword, the one you wore to court, may I see it please?” he repeats.
“What do you know about it?” I ask, turning back to him.
“May I see it?” he says, this time with more force behind the request.
“Sure. Why not.” I retrieve the sword from the larger safe in my coat closet. I was feeling uncomfortable leaving guns and priceless weapons lying around the house, so I bought a large safe on sale from one of those membership big box stores. Wilson laughed when he saw it and offered to get me something better, higher quality, like the gun safe in my bedside table—I turned him down. This one works and, if I am being honest, I take some satisfaction in having bought it and bolted it to the floor myself. There is pride to be earned in doing things for yourself, particularly when you’ve chosen a profession like I have that is more about destruction than creation.
I set the dragon-handle sword on the table in front of Whanung, who silently studies it without touching. In my heart of hearts, I’m kind of disappointed he doesn’t pick it up. I was hoping it would burn him. Not a serious burn, just enough to get a reaction. Payback for dropping by at 3:00 am without an invitation or even a box of donuts. What an a-hole.
“Well?” I prompt.
“I wouldn’t carry this to court any longer. I wouldn’t sleep near it either. You need to hide it in a safe place.” He looks over at my hallway closet with disdain. He’s obviously not impressed with my current level of security.
“Why?”
“As far as the supernatural world is concerned, this sword is equivalent to a nuclear weapon.”
“Wait . . . what?’” The coffee I was sipping sprays out of my open mouth in an arc. “I’m not going to get sick from radiation poisoning or anything, am I?”
Whanung frowns, the same way a parent frowns at their child who’s just asked a question too dumb to be responded to. It’s the first emotion he’s ever displayed. I think I’m starting to wear through his armor. “This sword has been lost for centuries; most believe it to be a myth. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, centuries ago, I wouldn’t believe it ever existed. The stories surrounding it are too terrible to be true. Its ancient name roughly translates to Soul-Eater. It can kill anything and anyone—god, mortal, immortal, human, citizen; it doesn’t matter who or what they are, Soul-Eater kills them all.”
“Sounds pretty awesome. Like something I should have on me at all times.”
“No, it’s dangerous, especially to its chosen user. And it makes you a target. There are powerful beings in this world, beings that have no fear of death, other than from that sword. By giving you that weapon, someone has painted a large bu
ll’s-eye on you. The powerful often act irrationally when they perceive themselves to be in danger. Someone will come for it. And they will come hard. You and anyone around you are in danger. Where did you find it?”
“It was hanging on Eirik’s cabin wall when Adrian and I were attacked. Adrian said I could have it as partial payment for saving his life. He’d never seen it before anyway. I assumed Eirik found it or bought it; I can’t exactly ask him, though. Not in his current condition.”
“If this sword had chosen Eirik, he would have used it. He wasn’t the type that could own a weapon like that without abusing its power. The stories say that only the sword’s owner can touch it without being purified. I saw you touch the blade without being harmed—the sword must have chosen you. The sword binds itself to its owner and only its owner. No, this sword never belonged to Eirik. There is another player, someone in the shadows. It is too much of a coincidence that the sword appears now, of all times, and it makes its way into your hands. I doubt Eirik ever even saw this sword. It was placed there for you to find. Someone is intervening. The question is, whose side are they on? I must think on this.”
Whanung stands. He bows his head and walks over to my wall, then draws a gate and steps through into the blackness of night without so much as a goodbye or good luck. What an epic donut hole. Well, shit, it’s a little after three in the morning and I just had a cup of coffee; no going back to bed now. I glance over at my running shoes by the door. Why not? Exercise always helps me think. There’s a twenty-four-hour donut shop about a mile away. If I’m lucky, I can get there in time for a fresh batch.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thursday Morning
“Son of a fucking cunt!” screams Joycee from her desk as she uses the black handheld stapler as a baton and smashes it repeatedly into the laptop computer, the one we borrowed from the D.C. apartment of the werewolf formerly known as Whiley.
“Is that a new hacking technique?” I ask, hoping to introduce some humor to the situation.