Cabal

by David Delaney

  "Shut the hell up!" said Wyatt.

  "Seriously?" said Elyse, eyes wide.

  "What?" Lucy asked. "Why is everyone freaking out?"

  "We were sort of introduced to Morgan through a video," said Maddie.

  "A video? What are you talking about?"

  Lucy's confusion was real. It seemed Cynthia had kept the Las Vegas Morgan video from Lucy, but why? I knew Cynthia was hiding something and this just confirmed my suspicions. I didn't expect Lucy to handle the news very well.

  "Try not to overreact, okay?" I said gently.

  "Tell me," Lucy said through gritted teeth.

  "Before we jumped back into your memory the second time, Cynthia decided to give us more info about the Vegas weekend you were reliving."

  "What possible info could she give you?"

  "That you went to Vegas to try out your newly discovered magic. And that Morgan was with you."

  "Okay, so you know that Morgan was my best friend? That doesn't explain the reaction when I said his name, or the video Maddie's talking about."

  "Morgan made a video while in Vegas," I said.

  "Yeah, I know," said Lucy smiling. "We did all the tourist stuff, goofing off for the camera. But how did Cynthia get it and why would she show it to you?"

  "That's not what I'm talking about," I said. "There's another video, where Morgan explains about magic and his Uncle Marcus, and that he was afraid for you and what Marcus' real intentions were."

  "What?" Lucy said softly.

  "He made the video in the Vegas suite and mailed himself a copy, as a kind of fail-safe," I said.

  "If you think about it," Wyatt said. “It was a total Jason Bourne move, and it's not surprising the guy became a spy."

  I was staring at Lucy. Even without my heightened shifter senses I could tell she was barely keeping it together.

  "Cynthia had this video . . . all these years," said Lucy, gripping the wheel tighter and tighter.

  "Yeah," I sighed. "And now it's obvious she couldn't tell you about it because—”

  Lucy slammed her hand down on the steering wheel. "I would have known she had taken my memories. Bitch."

  "She's been lying, the question is why?" I said. "Was it solely to keep her version of order within the Society, or was it something more diabolical?"

  "It doesn't matter," said Lucy. "Whatever the reason, she lied to me. I trusted her and she betrayed me."

  "Lucy," said Elyse. "If you had known everything, remembered it all, would you have done anything differently? Joining the Society? Enforcing their laws? All of it?"

  "Probably not," said Lucy. "I watched, helpless, as a coven of blood-mages murdered my family, so joining forces with the group that hunted their kind would have been a simple decision. The problem I have with it all is that I wasn't given the choice."

  And there it was, the rotten stinking core at the center of the Paragon Society—the innate right of personal choice. The Society wasn't big on people choosing for themselves. It acted from the belief that people were inherently bad and if given the opportunity, would choose to abuse power. I'm not an anarchist, I believe in law and order, but there has to be a balance between rules and personal liberty. In my opinion the Society had failed, becoming an authoritarian regime that ruled through fear.

  "And more importantly there's my little brother, Jason," said Lucy. "If he didn't die that night, then what happened to him? If I find out the Society hid him from me . . ."

  The menace in Lucy's voice was scary. I would not want to be Cynthia or anyone else responsible for keeping the brother and sister apart. I needed to change the subject, get us back and focused on the problem at hand.

  "Okay, so we all know who Morgan is," I said. "Where does he live, is it far from here?"

  We were driving through the North San Fernando Valley, an area called Granada Hills. It was the definition of suburbia, a sea of houses, compact cars and strip malls.

  "Morgan lives just up the freeway in Valencia," said Lucy.

  If Granada Hills was the definition of suburbia, then Valencia was suburbia on steroids. It was a master-planned community of biking paths and pedestrian bridges. I had attended class at Pasadena City College, and a couple of kids from Valencia told me that homeowners couldn't even paint their houses without permission from the local housing associations. Valencia did have one super-cool thing though—Magic Mountain, which was the roller-coaster paradise of Southern California.

  Wyatt must've been having similar thoughts, because he asked Lucy, "A spy lives in Valencia?"

  "I told you that Morgan works for the government. He's not necessarily a spy and lots of law enforcement live there.”

  "Okay, so not a spy," I said. "What's the plan? Do we just go up and knock on his door? Cynthia said he's had serious memory modification. He's probably not going to remember you."

  "He'll remember me," said Lucy confidently.

  We pulled up in front of Morgan's residence twenty minutes later. It was a small craftsman-inspired cookie-cutter house in a neighborhood of similar houses. Lucy turned off the engine and sat staring at the well-lit porch and front door.

  "What's up?" I asked.

  "With all my memories coming back, I'm remembering just how much he meant to me back when we were kids. The last time we spoke he tried to warn me about Marcus and I blew him off, called him pathetic. If he does remember me, he's probably going to hate me."

  "I doubt it," said Elyse. "The guy we saw in the video was head-over-heels for you."

  "Yeah," said Maddie. "There's no way he hates you."

  "Well," said Lucy. "Let’s find out."

  We tried to be as casual as possible walking up to the door, but a group of five people is about as subtle as a herd of goats. The door was equipped with one of those video-doorbell combo things and after Lucy pressed the button we all tried to put on our best, least-threatening smiles.

  A voice crackled out of the fancy doorbell's speaker. "Hold on, I'll be right there."

  I switched on my sight and there was nothing magical about the house. I opened up my shifter senses and could hear someone moving around inside. I picked up the scent of spaghetti sauce, probably Morgan's dinner. I also got a whiff of something else familiar, but I couldn't immediately place it. Several locks being disengaged pulled my attention away from the familiar smell. Someone was about to open the door.

  Then I had it—gun oil. The smell was gun oil.

  Too late, the door swung open.

  "Gun!" I shouted, tensing to jump in front of my friends if bullets started flying.

  "That's right, big boy," said a voice from behind us. "Now why don't you all show me your hands. Now!"

  How the hell had he gotten behind us? I could sense that there was nobody standing inside the house. The door must have been rigged with some kind of automatic opener.

  "Morgan?" said Lucy.

  "I said show me your hands," the voice demanded. "That includes you, Red. If you move another inch I'll blow your head off."

  Wyatt froze mid-reach. The kid's instincts were good. If he could get a hand on us he could blink us all away, but Morgan was obviously a trained professional and Wyatt's movement was making him nervous.

  "Everything's cool," I said. "Come on guys, hands up."

  We all put our hands in the air where Morgan could see them.

  "A total of five," Morgan said quietly. "Standing on my porch. Trust me, we're not going anywhere. Copy."

  Morgan was talking to someone over a comm link. I was shocked to discover that I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. How was that possible? I would have to worry about that later, because it sounded like he had just called in reinforcements. Lucy turned slowly, so she could face him.

  "Hey lady, I didn't say you could move," snapped Morgan.

  "Morgan, it's me, Lucy."

  Morgan made a sound like someone had kicked him in the balls.

  I turned. Elyse, Wyatt and Maddie followed my lead. The five of us now
stood, hands up, staring at Morgan Crawford. He was standing in his front yard, dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He had a wicked-looking tactical rifle pointed at us, the red dot of a hi-tech laser sight trained squarely on Lucy's forehead.

  Even though it was dark there was enough light spilling from the porch and the nearest streetlamp that even Wyatt and Maddie, who didn't have heightened shifter senses, could see Morgan's face clearly. He was older, obviously, his sandy-brown hair graying at the temples and a web of crow's feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. I remembered him from Lucy's memory, thinking then that he was average, not skinny, but not fat. The man in front of us was anything but average. He clearly kept himself in top physical condition, his muscled frame giving him the look of an elite athlete.

  I could hear his heart. Even facing down what he believed were five dangerous intruders, it was beating at a calm, controlled rate. His breathing however was increasing. Morgan took a step toward us, his eyes never leaving Lucy.

  "Lucy?" said Morgan, his confusion clear.

  "Yeah, Lucy Maddox," she said. "You once told me you'd always come when I called. Well, here I am and I need your help."

  "Lucy Maddox?" said Morgan, still puzzled, but the barrel of his gun dipped, just a little.

  "We went to school together, you were my best friend," said Lucy. "You've been made to forget through a process of . . . memory modification."

  A kaleidoscope of emotions warred for control of Morgan's face—disbelief, confusion, anger. It was the anger that won the battle.

  "Inside the house. All of you, right now." Morgan, commanded.

  "Guys?" said Wyatt.

  The kid was on the balls of his feet. I could read his body language and he was itching to blink. He had his battle-baton. He could pop up behind Morgan and drop the man with a well-placed zap. I shook my head.

  Lucy decided for all of us by turning and walking into the house. We followed her inside. The living room looked like . . . well, a living room. It was furnished like you'd expect a house in the burbs to be furnished. Morgan didn't have overly fancy taste. Everything looked comfortable and user-friendly. There were tons of photos of Morgan and who I assumed were his family and friends on the walls. The pictures told me more about who Morgan Crawford was now—he liked to travel, water-ski, hike and spend time at the beach. If I ever had a home, I imagined I'd have a collection of very similar photos.

  The five of us moved to the far side of the room, keeping our hands visible so that Morgan didn't feel crowded or threatened when he stepped in behind us. Morgan slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled an automatic handgun from the waist of his shorts. He held the gun loosely in his hand and entered a code on a keypad by the door, his eyes never leaving us. I could hear the low hum of the security system as it armed itself.

  Morgan tapped the gun against his leg. “You can put your hands down now. You say we know each other, that we're friends?"

  "Yes, old friends," said Lucy.

  Marcus ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Follow me."

  He led us through to a kitchen and family room combo. It was a space my Aunt Tina would've called open concept. Morgan stopped in front of a built-in bookcase and using what I'm positive was the TV remote opened a secret door. Half of the bookcase swung open, revealing a windowless room beyond. Overhead lighting automatically clicked on when the door opened revealing a small armory of handguns, rifles and other serious-looking military gear.

  "Dude, this is so cool. You have a real-life Rambo room hidden next to the kitchen," said Wyatt.

  Morgan glanced at the kid, a small grin on his lips at the enthusiastic response.

  "Yeah, um, the guns are interesting, but what's with the stalker wall?" Elyse asked.

  Opposite the racks of weapons was a wall covered in sketches and what looked like Photoshop renderings of just one subject—Lucy. She was depicted in all of her former 1980s Valley-girl glory—standing, sitting, dancing, but the most unsettling and recurring image was of Lucy covered in blood and screaming in terror.

  "If we're old friends then maybe you can explain why I see you in my nightmares?" said Morgan.

  Lucy studied the wall for a moment. "Do you have anything to drink, preferably of the alcoholic variety? I think we're going to need it."

  "Yeah," said Morgan, holstering his gun. "But the kid gets a Diet Coke."

  Morgan took another long pull on his beer. He eyed us all warily. I didn't blame him, the story Lucy had spun for him sounded like a fairytale even to me and I'd lived through most of it.

  "I think I'd remember the things you're talking about," he said. "Especially the uh . . . magic stuff. That's not something a person is likely to forget."

  "Not if your memory was modified," said Lucy.

  "Right. Memory modification," said Morgan. "The thing is, in my line of work, I have had some experience with helping people remember and forget things, and the level of memory tinkering you're talking about just doesn’t exist."

  "Speaking about your line of work," I said. "The weapons in the other room, specifically the knives and some of the bullets, they’re silver, correct? I'm just wondering what sort of enemy would require silver to fight?"

  Morgan stiffened at my question. He knew I hadn't inspected his arsenal closely enough that I should know about the odd choice of metals. But with my shifter senses and magic sight, the silver was practically signing to me.

  "I work for an arm of the US government that tracks and investigates odd occurrences," said Morgan.

  "Odd?" said Wyatt. "Like werewolves odd? Because isn't that what silver bullets are used for? Or is that just in the movies?"

  Wyatt was being a wiseass. He knew very well that werewolves weren't a thing, but the question made Morgan twitchy.

  "My work is classified," said Morgan. "But the silver munitions are necessary for specific kinds of cases."

  "Wyatt has a flare for the dramatic," said Elyse. "But I am curious, what would constitute an odd occurrence?"

  Morgan pointed at us. "The five of you would instantly qualify."

  "So, magic?" asked Lucy.

  Morgan flinched at this question too. We hadn't done anything overtly magical yet. It had all been talking up to that point, but the idea of magic made Morgan jumpy. Interesting.

  "There have been those who have claimed magic is real, yes," said Morgan.

  "I'm curious, Morgan," I said. "Has your agency ever discovered anything they can't explain? That question's not out of bounds, right? You don't have to elaborate. I'm just wondering, generally speaking, have you guys found anything unexplainable?"

  Morgan squirmed in his seat and he took another sip of beer before answering. "In my five years with the agency, we have yet to investigate anything that couldn't be explained rationally."

  Lucy snorted. "Classic Paragon Society. I wouldn't be surprised if somewhere up your chain of command a Society member is making sure everything stays secret."

  "What you're suggesting, that kind of vast conspiracy and cover-up, it's just not possible, not in the interconnected world we live in," said Morgan.

  "The world you think you live in doesn't exist," said Wyatt. "We're talking serious red pill stuff."

  "Wyatt," I shook my head at him. Morgan's heart rate and breathing were increasing. I think he was starting to get a little panicky.

  "We can, of course, show you what we're talking about," said Lucy. "But it would be so much better if you could remember. Would you be open to letting me try and fix your memory?"

  Morgan stood up and backed towards the weapon room. "I don't think so. Not letting strangers poke around in your head is lesson numero uno in counter-intelligence spy school."

  "Morgan," Lucy said softly. "I promise, you'll be safe, and afterward there's a good chance you'll remember me. I won't just be a picture on the wall, or the girl in your nightmares."

  Morgan paused at the entrance to his gunroom. I could see the conflict on his face. He wanted to know the tr
uth, needed to know the truth, but all of his training was screaming at him to run.

  Morgan's indecision ended when four trolls attacked the house. They came crashing through the sliding glass door, and a large window over the kitchen sink, shrieking like banshees.

  Trolls?

  In Valencia?

  Somehow the bad guys had tracked us down and they were playing hardball.

  Chapter Eight

  Morgan didn't hesitate, not even for a second, he didn't even bother with the handgun at his hip. Instead he flipped backward into a snazzy shoulder-roll, sailing through the armory door, and popped up firing an automatic assault rifle, his bullets ripping through the lead troll. I was seriously impressed, because the first time I'd encountered a troll I had sort of freaked out. Morgan on the other hand was expertly blasting away at the nasty buggers, cool as ice.

  Unfortunately trolls are tough, and simple things like bullets don't have the desired effect. Morgan wasn't deterred though, he just kept blasting away. Chunks of troll began to spatter the nice cream-colored walls of the kitchen and family room.

  Wyatt grabbed Maddie and blinked to the living room. They were out of immediate danger, but still within line of sight just in case Maddie needed to throw some heals our way. Elyse and I simultaneously shifted into beast form, each of us leaping toward the trolls, claws out and ready to shred our attackers. We both landed on the closest troll that wasn't currently being shot to pieces by Morgan. Elyse grabbed the back end and I grabbed the front, then we proceeded to rip the thing in two.

  Elyse chuffed at me—she was totally digging her new beast form. She winked at me, something I didn't even think was possible while in our berserker battle mode, but hey my girl's got mad skills. Elyse roared in triumph and turned to square off with the bullet-riddled troll. It wasn't even close, Morgan's bullets had weakened the creature enough that Elyse casually stepped forward and beheaded the thing.

  Unfortunately, while the appearance of the trolls hadn't thrown Morgan's hard-wired special-ops training off, the instant change in our appearance had him stumbling backward. He swung his rifle in our direction, clearly not sure if he could trust the enormous bear and wolf monsters that were thrashing around his house. The telltale red dot of the laser sight settled on the back of Elyse's head. Morgan was going to shoot her and I realized I wouldn't be able to beat the bullets to their mark.