An hour later, showered and no longer smelling of burnt Frank, I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn disc. Padding over to my ruined clothes, I pulled it out, flipping the tiny thing over in my palm. No laser grooving, no markings, and no way of determining if there was any data on it. As far as reading the disc? Who knew what kind of tech I’d need to open it? Except…
Lincoln might have something.
Because he had the latest… everything. Lincoln was a collector, which was a fancy person’s version of hoarding. Everything from antique vinyl records to hologram projectors. Singer sewing machines to old Apple laptops. But he had a special place in his heart for cutting-edge tech. I never knew where he got it, but his collection was two floors below me, and I’d just bet he had the latest gadget on the market. A moment later, I stood at the door, pressed my palm to the biolock, and….
Nothing. I frowned, looking at my palm like it had malfunctioned. Lincoln never locked me out of anything.
Looking both ways down the hall, I sent a tendril of my handy-dandy magic through the glass screen, probing the motherboard, then aligning the cylinders in the lock with the openings. Voila, the door swung open, allowing a hiss of climate-controlled air to escape.
I passed the neat rows of precious vinyl albums, ancient player-piano rolls, old pre-Surge CD’s and DVD’s, the old technology unusable after the solar flare fried it a hundred years ago. It was beyond me why anyone would collect things that don’t work, but that was Lincoln. I headed to the back, where the new tech was displayed—glittering, shiny testaments to ingenuity and money—each on its own little pedestal, illuminated by a narrow light strip overhead, in front of the bank of monitors.
I examined each device carefully, pausing before a small, silver box. I held the disc up to the narrow sliver of an opening. About the same size. As soon as the edge of the disc touched the device’s slot, it sucked in, and the device hummed to life. “Well, that was easy. It must be my lucky day.”
The designated holoscreen flickered on, populating instantly with names, locations, and numbers, only to be overlaid with a graph labeled “Biotech Assets” and cascading related documents. Tapping the top of the device, glowing controls appeared in midair, and I flipped downward until I reached the document with the names.
“Oh shit.”
No telling if the names themselves were real, but there was no doubt in my mind I was staring at an official report from Shelton Industries. It had all the benchmarks of greed and avarice, including the initials “ARS” at the bottom—Andrew Reginald Shelton, CEO.
“Ars for short.” I murmured. “How fitting.”
The way I saw it, I had two choices. Pretend I never saw any of this and walk away. Or dig deeper. I knew from experience the first option was the smart move. The other one? Well, let’s just say investigating Shelton Industries was a euphemism for suicide and not just metaphorically.
Still, I couldn’t just walk away without determining if Frank had, indeed, been looking for his brother. I began combing through the list, searching for one surname. Sure enough, there it was.
Robert Pullman #38702
Frank was telling the truth. His brother was on a Shelton Industries ledger. This could not be good. Not only that, the list contained thousands of names and numbers, in seemingly random order. Some columns contained coded data that I couldn’t decipher, the headings equally confusing because they were in Latin. But look at all these names. Finding an equal mix of female and male names, I sorted the list by number. Still no apparent pattern, although the smallest ID number was #18063, and the report was dated three years ago.
Finding a sequential group of three, I studied the accompanying data. It was similar, the same text code in the first few columns, while following numerical data varied. A family, maybe, I mused, scrolling back to Frank’s brother. Robert’s code was ignis, followed by masc. In the next columns were random numbers, in the last two, one was mortus, the other donor.
I pulled out my phone and typed the words into the translator.
Fire. Male. Dead. Donor.
The name above Robert’s was Susan Pierino. Terra, fem, mortus, donor. I typed them into my phone, my heart pounding faster.
Earth. Female. Dead. Donor.
As ominous as that sounded, most of the text was Latin, and the codes meant nothing to me. Without having a key, I had no way of deciphering this report with any accuracy, and honestly, I didn’t want to. Investigating anything having to do with the Sheltons would be deadly, and I had a long, happy life ahead of me.
I’d just decided to destroy the disc when the gentle clearing of a throat sent me spinning away from the screen. Lincoln paused in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his smoking jacket tightly belted above silk pajama bottoms.
“I wasn’t aware you had a key to this room, my dear.” Lincoln lived and died by his manners, and properly chastened, I fell into practiced courtesy.
“I’m sorry, I only thought I’d be a second, but then I got caught up…” My justifications trickled off, seeing Lincoln’s face. Properly humbled, I apologized. “You’re right. I should have respected your boundaries, and I shouldn’t be in here.”
“No,” he said slowly. “No, you shouldn’t. In fact, I specifically coded this room so the door only opened for me.” A flicker of something, anger maybe, crossed his face, but then his attention caught on the holographic screen hovering in the middle of the room. “Shelton Industries?”
With a shake of his head, he tsked me once again. “Miranda, do you never learn? Seriously, I sometimes wonder how you are still alive.”
“Yeah, you and me both. This is evidence from the Knight job. I was only curious to see if Derek was telling the truth about something, and wonder of wonders, he was. Now I’ll take my disc and get out of your shrine to outdated technology.”
“And brand-new technology,” Lincoln drily reminded me.
“Yes, that too.” But when I went to eject the disc, he stopped me, staring at the graph-filled screen.
“What am I looking at?” With the ease of a master, he navigated through the list rapidly, scanning one after another, finally muttering, “What are those people up to?”
Assuming he was talking about the Sheltons, I explained, “I nabbed Derek while he was retrieving this disc. He said it was stolen from a Shelton R&D lab. He claimed it’s a record of the Devilton disappearances.” Pausing, I waited for Lincoln to contradict me. When he didn’t, I pointed to the final column. “I think these are donors. Maybe some kind of matching algorithm for transplant research?”
“Shelton Industries doesn’t do organ transplants.”
“They don’t?” I asked innocently, keeping my face carefully blank.
In truth, I went out of my way to keep tabs on Shelton Industries, not something I wanted Lincoln to know. Two hundred years ago, the Sheltons got their start in oil, then railroads, then moved into more lucrative ventures, until New York City was littered with their name.
The company was still family-run, according to the stock reports, while popular gossip said they owned half the sitting judges and a third of Congress. The rumors might well be true, seeing how they rarely lost a court case, and Andrew Shelton made frequent visits to the White House.
These days, Shelton Industries was the oldest producer of nanotech in the world, their reputation was sterling, and their charitable giving in line with their profit margin. I’d made it my business to keep an eye on the Sheltons, but no matter how hard I dug into their affairs, I’d never hit pay dirt.
Until now.
“Not medical research,” Lincoln said, doing something fancy with the hologram so it spun around. “They turn out cutting edge tech, like this.” Lincoln patted the slim silver box. “A universal reader, capable of adapting and reading any information on any format.
“Lucky for you, this device is hardwired into my security system, which means they didn’t get a notification you opened one of their classified files.” Lincoln did hi
s—I can’t believe how stupid you are—headshake I hadn’t seen in at least a few weeks.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to find anything, because I thought Derek’s story was bullshit.” Not my best defense, but the only one I had at the moment. “Then, once I saw the spreadsheet, it wasn’t like I could unsee it.”
“Hmmmm,” Lincoln answered, clicking through the rest of the documents like some kind of savant. If I knew him at all, he was memorizing every piece of data he saw. Not wanting to break his focus, I waited, my gaze wandering over the rest of the tech stowed in here. Most of the new stuff had the initials SI—AKA Shelton Industries—stamped into their shiny metal cases. Some detective I was, missing that huge clue staring me in the face.
“How did you even get all this stuff? I mean, I know you’re a gadget-head, but this stuff must be worth a fortune, Lincoln.” I wandered over to a matte black box that looked interesting. The second I touched the case, the thing powered up with the barest hum. “VC, huh? This is pretty slick.” I picked it up, noting the lack of connections and no obvious power button.
“Hmmm, that one?” He spared me the slightest glance. “That’s made by the Vanguard Corporation. The company is relatively new, but produces cutting edge tech that surpasses even the Sheltons.” He nodded at the device in my hand. “That’s Gabriel Vanguard’s very latest.”
I dropped the box like it was on fire while Lincoln explained, “Vanguard and the Sheltons have been in tight competition for… oh, the last five years. They enlist me to evaluate their latest designs. It keeps me in the loop and ensures my skills don’t get rusty.”
I rubbed my palm on my thigh like the box had bitten me. In addition to the Sheltons, I kept tabs on Gabriel Vanguard, though my casual obsession with him revolved around something other than his company. My palm still itching, I watched Lincoln scroll through the data. By the time he finished, he was frowning.
“Miranda. Who knows about this disc?”
“As far as I know, just me, Derek, and Frank. Frank’s dead, so he doesn’t count. Neither does Derek, because right about now, he’s pleading for his life.” But come tomorrow, while he was recuperating, Derek would definitely remember the disc. Trying not to imagine what Knight might be doing to him, I quickly changed the subject.
“I guess at the moment, I’m the only one. But the intel’s not every useful, since none of it makes sense.”
“These reports make perfect sense, which is why I plan to bury this matter quickly and quietly. You focus on dealing with Knight.” With a flick, the screen faded away. Then it was just me, the dark, and Lincoln’s tsking, which sounded impossibly loud, as did his dramatic sigh.
“My dear Miranda, you do have such a knack for getting yourself into trouble.”
The next morning, I skirted the trio of surly guards outside Knight’s office, noting there was still mud splashed on the sides of his car. Which meant he’d had a late night and would be in a fouler-than-usual mood. Lucky me.
“What’s up, my people?” I asked, raising my hand for a high five as the nearest thug settled his bedazzled ass on the car. “Gosh, I sure hope you don’t have rivets on those fancy jeans. If you scratched Knight’s car, you’re toast.” I dragged my finger across my throat, my smile not reaching my eyes.
While I only got a growl and a narrowed gaze in return, he did take the time to inspect the fender he’d been using as a seat. Then hastily buffed the paint job with the sleeve of his hoodie.
My day definitely looking up, I shouldered through the door like I owned the place, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hitting me full in the face. Avoiding every flat, sticky surface, I headed for Knight’s illustrious office in the back.
Unlike the rest of the Rockwood Gambling Emporium, his office was obsessively neat and clean. Definitely not sticky, although as the idea popped into my mind, my thinking strayed into dark territory. He was dangerous, he was sexy, and he was totally off limits. Nobody knew what Knight’s real name was. I only knew him by the single-syllable moniker and didn’t ask questions. “Andy McHale, reporting for duty.” I fought the urge to salute.
“You left me with a mess last night, McHale.” His rough growl stopped me in the doorway. “Despite what you believe, I am not your cleanup crew.”
No, nobody would ever believe Knight was part of a cleanup crew. For someone named after the darkness between sunset and dawn, Knight looked the opposite. He was unnaturally pale, and from his long, white hair, to his eerie silver eyes, to his alabaster skin, there was not a hint of darkness about his personage. His soul was a different story altogether.
“I never thought that, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk staying out in the open any longer.” I made sure I found those steely eyes and held his gaze. Might as well get this out of the way. “Derek outed me and my magic to Bennett.”
“That little shit. And I let him go.” His gaze turned sharper as he focused on me with the preternatural concentration of a predator. “But you knew I would, didn’t you? I wondered how he got intel on Davis’s skimming operation. I suppose I have you to thank for that, or maybe there some other reason you left in a hurry and appointed Derek your personal messenger?”
Like I said before, icy intelligence that rarely steered him wrong.
“I figured getting caught in the same room as Derek the Douchebag and a dead Elemental would be career suicide. Can’t let my secret get out. If it did, then I wouldn’t be around to do your grunt work.” I was banking on being just valuable enough that Knight would let me slide this time.
“I should have killed that little shit when I had the chance. However, if Bennett is sniffing around… you’d better head home and lie low,” Knight instructed after mulling it over. “You’re right, can’t let anyone find out about you, not when I have jobs awaiting your special skills. Derek won’t be going anywhere for a while. It would have been cleaner if I’d killed him, you know.”
“Yeah, but I can still use him. In certain cases,” I amended, not wanting to appear too soft. “Sorry I left the dead Hyperion for you to deal with.”
“I wondered what he was, couldn’t tell from your fry job.” He waved a huge hand in the air. “Apologize to the boys outside. They’re the ones who handled clean up.”
“Oh, you mean the guy on your car? The one in the fancy-ass glittery jeans?”
It took everything I had to keep my expression serene while the red flush crept from Knight’s neck up to his face. That car was his baby. After a three-year wait, he was the proud owner of Detroit’s latest engineering prototype, and with its custom paint job, the vehicle was one of a kind, as Knight often pointed out. Oops. Me and my big mouth.
I wasn’t a troublemaker. Well, I usually wasn’t a troublemaker.
But I’d been engaged in a silent and nameless war with Knight’s guards since the day I arrived. They started it, and I’d finish this. I saw no need to pass up such a golden opportunity. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to scratch it, he was just… you know… sitting on the front fender.”
As Knight’s color changed from crimson to burgundy, I scooted out of his way. “You’ll call me if you have any work?” Whatever he mumbled on his way past I didn’t catch, but I exited out the back, while shouting started in front. Figuring this was a stellar beginning to the day, I headed back to my car, only to find Bennett’s ass firmly planted on my hood.
Detective Martin Bennett—Marty, to his brothers in blue—watched my approach with the rabidity of a starved raccoon. He even had dark bags under his eyes, just like the little trash pandas. “Miss Miranda McHale?”
“That’s me.” I kept the smile pasted on my face while I weighed my options. Feeling suddenly exposed, I wondered if there were other eyes watching. I locked down my magic, one level at a time, so by the time I stopped in front of him, even a deep tissue scan would read “normal.”
“Is there a problem, Detective?”
“I came across some information a few days ago from a perp. Just trying to sort it a
ll out.” I felt a slight buzz as an external scan radiated through my body, the sensation so negligible no one who was a Norm would have even noticed. For magical beings, though, a scanner was designed to bring magic to the surface, like a magnet picking up iron shavings, and mine was definitely responding.
Keeping one eye on Bennett, I scanned the surrounding rooftops with my other one, trying to locate the scanner’s operator.
“Um, okay. But if it relates to one of my cases, I can’t divulge any details. Those stay between me and my client.” My cheeks were starting to ache from holding the smile, while Marty got comfortable on my hood.
“Are you aware all persons with Elemental Manipulator capability must be registered? With not only the state and federal departments, but also with their city of residence?”
Duh, detective, that’s like Basic Life 101. “Yes, I’m well aware of the strict laws pertaining to our magical community.” Read unfair and unethical ones, passed by a fear-driven government.
I let my smile drop, my cheeks thanking me. “What do the laws have to do with me? I have a driver’s license, a PI license, and a passport. I’m registered with everyone who cares.” There’s mine, now show me yours.
“Not according to the information I’ve gathered over the past months.” The scan intensified, my skin tingling. “Various reports of odd happenings, mostly fire related, occurring in your presence. And I have a sworn affidavit from Derek…”
“Derek the Douchebag.” His face fell a bit when I coughed out a laugh. “Let me guess, he asked for twenty bucks initially, and you ended up paying out over a hundred.” Thank God I knew my informants. “Typical Derek. He uses the cops like a bank whenever he’s caught short of funds. Chronic gamblers are usually broke. And desperate.” I stopped myself from rubbing my arm as the tingling turned into a sting. Whoever was scanning me had to be close.
“If you do a search for every affidavit Derek has sworn to over the years, you’ll find it’s a long, illustrious list. You want to add my name to it, that’s your call.” Doubt set in on Bennett’s face. No, I’m not the slam dunk you thought I was, Detective.
Betrayed by Blood: The Shelton Family Legacy : 1 Page 3