Spell Caster

by Clara Coulson

  “Oh, right.” I throw up a shameless grin. “Well, I got assigned to work with Ramirez’s team, and…” Once again, I retell the sequence of unfortunate events that led to Nottaway blowing himself into a smattering of microscopic particles and nearly taking his entire neighborhood with him. This time around, I make sure to include all the dumb mistakes I made, and all the creepy details I left out during the first iteration, such as the polong’s tentacle digging around in my shoulder in a distinctly wormlike fashion.

  That vile nugget of information turns my teammates off their food for about thirty seconds, until they shake it off by reminding themselves they’ve all witnessed far worse things and give in to their stomachs’ persistent demands for more meat, cheese, and bread. So, around bites of another breadstick, I continue on and describe the quick but brutal fight in the basement, culminating in a disgusting description of the bloated, burning corpse of Nottaway in the seconds before I blasted him out of the house.

  When I reach the part where I cut the concrete slab out of the floor, Ella stops me.

  Setting down the crust of her pizza slice, she gazes off into the distance for a long moment, contemplative, before she says, “Does it strike anybody else as odd that Nottaway went down so easily?”

  Oh no, Ella. Please don’t go there.

  Amy snatches the last breadstick out of the box and waves it around. “Now that you mention it, Cal’s description of the guy does make him seem a lot more frazzled than he was during his two prior encounters with us.”

  A cold wave of dread rolls up my spine.

  “Perhaps he wasn’t expecting us to ID him so quickly,” Desmond offers, wiping his hands with a crumpled napkin, “or to confront him in force on his own property. Many a seemingly grounded and intelligent criminal has come apart at the seams when faced with the failure of their well-laid plans. Perfectionists, especially, have a tendency to emotionally unravel when their hard work goes to waste and a precious victory is snatched out from under them.”

  Listen to Desmond, I silently plead. Listen to him!

  “I guess that could explain it,” Ella admits, and relief washes over me so strongly I almost screw up and visibly relax. “The guy had already made mistakes. Letting us catch up to him mid-murder at the Wheeler apartment. Leaving incriminating evidence behind in his shed camp. Maybe the stress of impending failure eroded his stability, and he went a bit off the rails in the end. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time we’ve caught a perp on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” She pauses. “Still, after all the careful planning this guy did, all the skill he displayed, all the guile, you’d think he’d be able to hold it together at the end of the rope and go down with a little more dignity.”

  “Maybe he considered suicide a dignified way out.” I shrug. “Some people do, especially if it takes their enemies with them.”

  Ella tilts her head to the side. “That’s true.”

  “Also,” Desmond says, “I believe berserker spells were developed for that exact purpose. Seems to be an old and ingrained idea in the culture of major practitioners.”

  “Which shouldn’t surprise anyone.” Amy snorts. “ICM practitioners always strive to be the biggest dicks possible.”

  We all nod in agreement.

  “That reminds me.” Ella finishes off her drink and sets the empty cup on the table. “You exceeded the limits of your suppression rings fighting Nottaway in the woods, and again at his house, didn’t you, Cal?”

  I drop the remnant of a breadstick on my plate. “Unfortunately.”

  “So there’s a good chance he figured out you’re a major practitioner yourself.” She bites her thumb. “That’s not good.”

  Amy’s eyebrows scrunch together. “You don’t think he told the ICM, do you?”

  “No way to be sure until they contact us to complain,” Desmond says.

  “What’s the worst they can do? Make us fire him?” Amy asks.

  “They can use the violation of their rules as leverage against Riker during negotiations with City Hall.” Ella digs her teeth into her thumbnail, leaving a noticeable dent. “They could also attempt to claim that, being a practitioner, Cal falls under their jurisdiction, and therefore, they have a right to prosecute him for infringing on their policies.”

  Amy rips a chunk of pizza crust in half and speaks through a full mouth. “Bullshit. Kinsey doesn’t fall under their jurisdiction. He’s not a human practitioner. He’s a half-human practitioner.”

  “That me be true, Major,” Desmond says, “but since we don’t know what Cal’s other half is, we can’t contact the relevant supernatural community and ask them to go to bat for him against the ICM.”

  Galled, Amy sputters, “You really think the ICM would push the issue?”

  Ella considers the question. “Now? Probably not. Because we’re not currently butting heads on any significant issue. But I have no doubt in my mind they’ll go for Cal’s throat the moment our two organizations get embroiled in another cat fight. They’ll use every unscrupulous tactic they can find to disrupt our operations and give themselves the upper hand. Anything to get us out of their way so they can stomp all over the city and dish out justice as they see fit, mundane law be damned.”

  “Then what do we do?” Amy side-eyes me. “We can’t just throw Kinsey into the cold.”

  “Of course not.” Ella’s expression hardens. “We’ll figure something out.”

  I open my mouth to contradict that assertion, but nothing emerges.

  Desmond notices my hesitation and smiles warmly. “Don’t worry, Calvin. DSI has been wrangling with the ICM’s worst tendencies since our inception, and while we’ve taken a few bad blows here and there over the years, we’ve always come out swinging in the end. This time around the track will be no exception.”

  I drag my lips into a plastic smile that fools no one. “So you say.”

  “What, you don’t have any faith in us?” Amy slaps me on the back.

  “It’s not that. It’s just…”

  Ella reaches over the table and squeezes my hand. “I know. You don’t want to lose your job.”

  I nod stiffly, let them believe that’s why I’m upset. Even though my fears run so much deeper.

  Amy huffs. “It’ll be a huge fucking waste if we can’t have Kinsey in the field anymore.”

  Desmond dips his chin. “But a huge risk if we try to use him covertly against the ICM’s wishes.”

  Ella holds up a finger to silence them and focuses on me. “Look, Cal. I admit that the immediate future might be rocky for us, if the ICM does come knocking, but we’re not going to abandon you. I promise. We’ll find a way to shield you from the ICM, and we’ll eventually find a way to circumvent their bullshit rules. We will. I guarantee it. Even if that means pitting us against them permanently.”

  And that, right there, is my biggest fear of all. That DSI’s defiance stokes the ire of the High Court, and by proxy, the ire of the Rooks. If I let them defend me, Targus will destroy them.

  I swallow, throat so tight I can barely breathe, and reply, “Thanks. I appreciate that. But…”

  The office door flies open.

  Riker marches in, only to stop short when he sees us all piled around the table. Lips pursed, he slams the door shut, makes eye contact with us one by one, and says, “If you want me to ignore the misuse of my office as a lunchroom, you better damn well have saved me some of that pizza.”

  The quip lightens everyone’s mood—except mine—and as Riker saunters over to grab a bite to eat, I excuse myself from the table, claiming I need a bathroom break. I force myself to walk at a casual pace so it doesn’t look like I’m fleeing the room, right up until I close the door behind me. Then I scurry to the nearest lounge, duck inside, flatten myself to the wall, and sink to the floor. Just in time to avoid falling prey to the lightheadedness that engulfs me whenever I start hyperventilating during an anxiety attack.

  Face in my hands, I struggle to breathe, air coming and going in strangled
pants. Panic rises in my chest, stoked by the horrible thoughts that tumble out of the dark corners of my mind, an unstoppable cascade:

  Targus using his new ICM position in Aurora to rip DSI to shreds, to limit our influence, our budget, our weaponry, our every capability, until we’re so crippled operationally that our agents are either ineffective or nothing but cannon fodder.

  Targus acting as the High Court’s axe and putting any heads he chooses on the chopping block for even the most minor procedural violation, using me as the justification for his austerity.

  Targus dragging my teammates, Riker included, down into the dirt alongside me and tearing into them until there’s nothing left, metaphorically or literally.

  I can’t let any of those things happen. I can’t. But as long as I’m within their reach, DSI isn’t going to cut all ties with me, even if I demand it. Regardless of whether Riker follows through with firing me or not, he won’t abandon me. None of them will. Because they care about me too much. And because they don’t know the truth of the matter, don’t know how much danger they’re actually in. And I can’t tell them the whole truth without risking the stability of the entire—

  “Cal?” says a soft voice. “Are you okay?”

  I tear my face out of my hands to find Zhane Carpenter hovering over me in concern.

  I forgot to close the door.

  “I…uh…I just…” My attempt at an excuse for my sorry state comes out as a garbled mess, and I end up sighing in defeat.

  “Hey, now. Calm down.” Zhane crouches in front of me and clutches my shoulders, rubs gentle circles into my back. “You need to go see Ortiz? Take something to relax?”

  I shake my head. “No, no meds.”

  “You sure? I know you’ve had a really stressful day, so it might help if you took a sedative and got some rest.”

  “You’ve had a hard day too,” I choke out. “You’re still standing.”

  “Hardest part of my day was dragging my captain out from under a tree. Hardest part of your day was shooting a bomb out of a house before it killed everyone in Nottaway’s neighborhood,” she points out. “Think your day weighs a little heavier on the scale.”

  “Maybe.” I vigorously rub my face, wiping away a few stray tears clinging to my eyelids. “But I still don’t want to be drugged up.”

  She gestures with her head to the couch behind her. “How about just a regular nap then? You certainly look tired enough to conk out for a while.”

  I laugh dryly. “You’re just full of compliments, aren’t you?”

  She smiles. “I know a post-battle crash when I see one.”

  “After the year I’ve had, you’d think I’d be better at spotting them before they smack me in the face.”

  “Everyone’s got their weaknesses, Cal.”

  “Oh? And what’s mine?”

  She pats my shoulder. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  “You know, I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Zhane tucks her hands under my arms and helps me to my feet, and I let her guide me over to the couch. I don’t lie down, but I do lean back against the cushion and close my eyes as I slowly get my breathing back under control. Zhane sits beside me and provides calming ministrations in the form of idle chitchat—mostly amusing gossip she’s picked up around the water cooler—until my heart rate falls into normal range and my brain cages that terrible cascade of heartwrenching fears in a place where they’ll only haunt me in my dreams from here on out. When my anxiety attack finally gives up the ghost, and I wrench open my eyes, I honestly do feel drained enough to nap the day away.

  But I’ve only got a few hours before the moment of truth: four o’clock.

  Smacking my cheeks for a short burst of energy, I say, “Thanks for the help. Sorry to drop my emotional issues on your shoulders like that.”

  Zhane shakes her head. “Not a problem. I’ve dealt with much worse.”

  “Really?”

  “Used to be a social worker. Had a lot of homeless vets come through my door.”

  “Oh wow. I didn’t…know that about you. How long did you work in that field?”

  “Just a few years out of college.” She drops her hands into her lap. “Then I stumbled into the supernatural and jumped ship to start an exciting career as a crime fighter.”

  “Well, you learn something new every day.” I try to smile, but I think I fail. “How does DSI compare to the glamour of social work?”

  Zhane laughs. “Honestly, besides the punching and shooting and firing spells from magic rings, it’s not all that different. Lots of people around here in need of my skills.”

  “Like me?”

  “You’re not the only agent with PTSD, Cal. Not even close.” She grasps my hand, reassuring. “You’re not even the first agent I’ve found having a panic attack in this lounge.”

  “Okay. I admit that makes me feel a bit less embarrassed.”

  “You really don’t have anything to be embarrassed about.” She picks at a bandage on her jaw, the skin around it puffy and swollen from where something walloped her, presumably a tree branch or some other heavy debris kicked up by the explosion. “And I’m happy to help whenever I can.”

  “Thanks,” I reply hoarsely. “But you really shouldn’t be happy to help me. Not while I still owe you an apology. A real apology. For that BS I pulled on you last month.”

  She glances at me in surprise. “We don’t have to talk about that now.”

  “I’ve discovered over the past year that there’s rarely a better moment to talk than the present”—I enclose her hand in both of mine—“since you never know what kind of shitstorm the future will bring.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The hour of doom arrives with minimal fanfare.

  Still batting away the grogginess from a power nap, I line up against the cold wall of the garage with Amy and Desmond. The three of us watch, stony faced, as a blue SUV rolls through the security checkpoint and coasts over to the designated pickup area next to the garage’s elevator. Pamela Newsome, dressed in a crisp black skirt suit and matching pumps, hair perfectly coiffed, pearl earrings glittering, looking far too much like she’s ready for a funeral—and she may well be, with six dead Wolves on the cemetery docket—jumps out of the front passenger seat of the vehicle and storms over to the elevator, heels clicking all the way. Taking her cue, two other Wolves emerge from the back of the SUV, both of them brooding hulks with bulging biceps.

  As the hulks take up a protective stance behind Newsome, the elevator doors rattle open to reveal Riker. He takes a moment to survey the scene, to taste the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a dull-edged knife, to eye each of the Wolves in turn and indicate he’s not daunted by their petty display of strength.

  Then he steps out of the elevator, coattails billowing behind him, and reveals the other two occupants in the spacious car. One is the child advocate, a middle-aged woman with a perpetual frown of concern. And one is two-year-old Sadie Wheeler, clinging to the advocate’s leg, fresh tears in her eyes.

  The advocate manages to coax the nervous Sadie out of the elevator with a few softly murmured words, and guides her over to Riker, who’s come to a halt five feet from Newsome. With Sadie in plain sight, everyone in the room, the hulks included, attempt to put on a more casual air, not wanting to scare the poor girl any more than necessary.

  But despite the half-smiles and the lax postures, anyone who’s really searching can easily spot the agitation hanging on the edges of people’s lips, loitering in the corners of their eyes, tightening their muscles at all the wrong times. We can put on a passable show of diplomacy, it seems, but neither DSI nor the Wolves can completely obscure the raw and ragged wedge between us.

  The whole exchange goes down over five clipped sentences whose words consist of nothing but formalities. At the wrap-up, Riker hands Newsome a manila folder with a thin stack of papers tucked inside, likely medical records from Sa
die’s time in the infirmary and a preliminary evaluation from one of our psychiatrists, along with a basic custody transfer affirming that the Wolves are now wholly responsible for Sadie’s safety and DSI cannot be held liable for anything that happens to her once she leaves the premises. Newsome takes a quick peek at the records to ensure all is in order, hands off the folder to hulk number one, and gestures for the child advocate to hand over Sadie.

  Sadie resists, clutching the advocate’s leg with all her might. But again, the advocate manages to calm her down, allowing Newsome to take her hand. Amazingly, Newsome is able to shift her demeanor enough to come off almost motherly, all soft expressions and warm words and gentle gestures that persuade Sadie to accompany her to the SUV.

  Newsome lifts Sadie up, secures her in a child seat, and furnishes from a backpack on the floor of the vehicle a variety of stuffed animals, offering each one to Sadie until the girl finally accepts a fluffy white bunny. Sadie hugs the bunny for dear life, and Newsome pats her head, assuring her that everything is going to be okay.

  Newsome closes the door—and drops the motherly act like a rock. She slaps Riker with a withering glare, then snaps her fingers, and her two burly goons spin on their heels and march back to the vehicle. Instead of reclaiming the front passenger seat, Newsome circles the vehicle and slides into the back, so she can sit next to Sadie, while one of the hulks takes the spot next to her and the other claims her original seat.

  When the last door slams shut, the driver, who never left the SUV, or even turned it off for that matter, gives the interior a quick look to make sure everyone’s belted and ready to go. They are. So he puts the SUV in drive, pulls a flawless U-turn, and ferries Sadie Wheeler away from the safety of DSI and out into the wild world beyond.