“Can I get you anything?” they’d ask.
“Ye can. Me lawyer.”
“Soda?”
“Lawyer.”
“Coffee?”
“Aye. And me lawyer.”
I could never turn down coffee, not even the cheap, gritty brew cops drank.
Sloan had me out in less than ten minutes. In the process, I’d finally learned what had earned me Boston PD’s hospitality. Turned out the term “necromancer” was what the kidnapper had called himself in the ransom note he’d sent the Reynolds—a ransom note which hadn’t been reported to the news. Sloan argued that my using the term in front of Machado just outside the suspect’s supposed location had simply been an unfortunate coincidence. Personally, I suspected the kidnapper’s title might have been more than mere hyperbole, but I couldn’t explain myself without getting into further trouble.
“Well, unless you plan on charging my client for saying a suspicious word, Ms. MacKenna and I are done here,” Sloan said softly in an accent that reeked of the sort of upper crust upbringing which would have earned him a beating in my neighborhood. Sloan was a Harvard Law graduate—a short, thin man in his sixties with all the aggressiveness of a panda high on valium. Still, when he rose, he did so with an air of authority that no one questioned. “I suggest, in the future, you follow procedure and refrain from putting handcuffs on someone you simply wish to question. It smacks of police misconduct. And I’d hate to have to sue the department because of one overzealous detective.” Sloan, who sounded like he’d be happy to do just that, gave Machado a condescending look and patted my shoulder. I flinched, but followed his lead. Truthfully, I’ve never been a fan of people touching me; letting Cassidy put the cuffs on had been especially grating. But when Sloan guided me out the door with his arm, I let him, ignoring Machado’s steady glare.
Sloan and I headed out unmolested, winding our way through the busy precinct. If he had questions for me, he’d decided not to ask them. I was grateful; he wouldn’t have believed me anymore than the cops would have. Times like these, I almost wish the whole world knew the truth about the things that went bump in the night. Sure would have saved me the trouble of having to lie all the time.
Almost immediately after leaving the interrogation room, I was reminded that it was a Friday night; drunks, hookers, and drifters took up most of the available seating. Sloan and I slipped through them with our eyes forward the way you might try to avoid agitating stray dogs at the pound. Eventually we reached the front desk, where we met an officer who handed over my Victoria Secret tote and my gun. The gun was sealed in a plastic bag, partially disassembled, the clip removed. The tote appeared untouched. The cop frowned at the weight as he passed it over, but didn’t bother looking inside. I slid the strap over one shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief, wondering where Jimmy was and how he’d managed to sneak my bag inside without letting anyone rifle through it.
Maybe I’d let him take me for a drink, after all.
As long as he picked me up in something other than his squad car.
We turned to leave, but a commotion at the far end of the precinct snagged my attention. I watched as a man in a tan trench coat shook off one of the officers trying to talk to him, clearly upset about something. The man’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, head covered by a tan fedora. He looked ridiculously mysterious, as if he were trying twice as hard to conceal his identity than he needed to. “Why won’t you listen to me?” he yelled, loud enough to be heard over the general racket.
A few officers rose from their desks, angling themselves in case the guy got out of control and needed to be restained. The man’s spidey-senses must have tingled, because he immediately balled his hands into fists and stomped off towards the exit. I thought one of the cops might stop him, maybe shake him down and look for drugs, but the only officer who reached for him immediately snatched her hand back, hissing as if she’d touched a stovetop.
I made room for the guy, but space was tight thanks to a fresh crop of drunks being hauled in for an overnight stay. He hesitated, then slid by, brushing only lightly up against me. I took a quick step back, bumping into Sloan in the process.
“Watch it,” I said. I didn’t care if he was on drugs, I wasn’t about to let some asshole crowd me.
His eyes swung towards me, and I could see my angry face mirrored in his sunglasses. A smattering of freckles dotted my pale skin and my hair was a tousled mess that desperately needed to be brushed. “You were there,” he said, suddenly. He snatched my hand. “You were there and you saw it!”
“Jesus!” I said, drawing my hand back. How crazy was this guy?
“Excuse me,” Sloan said, “but we should be going.” He slid an arm around my waist to guide me out, and—for the second time that night—I let him. I could handle being escorted if it kept the weirdo from grabbing me again.
“But you didn’t find him. You never saw the necromancer in person, did you?” the man asked. He flicked his sunglasses down past the bridge of his nose, revealing hazel eyes in deep sockets, crow’s feet running like jagged lines towards his ears.
I stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“You were there and saw the dead ones rise.” His eyes narrowed. “But then how the hell did the Regulars miss it?”
That one word—Regulars—gave me goosebumps. Not that Regulars were particularly frightening, but the very fact that he’d used it meant he was probably a Freak, like me. A person or creature with abilities which made him unique and quite possibly dangerous. I gave him a long look. It was well past sundown, but he wasn’t a vampire; no vampire would ever willingly walk into a police station. A shifter, maybe? But I didn’t think so. Shifters tended to travel in packs, even in their human forms. Regardless, I couldn’t let him keep babbling about dead ones and necromancers. All Machado needed was to find us out here chatting up a storm about zombies and she’d yank me right back into the interrogation room.
Sloan leaned in close. “Let’s get you out of here, Ms. MacKenna.”
“No,” I said. I stepped out of the curve of Sloan’s arm and patted his shoulder. “Ye go ahead. I’ll be alright.”
Sloan gave me a flat, level stare, but said nothing. Part of why I paid him as much as I did was that Sloan never asked questions. His discretion was what I counted on. In a way, he and I were kindred spirits; for the two of us, ignorance may not have been bliss, but it sure as hell beat going to prison for knowing too much. He shrugged. “Please be careful, Ms. MacKenna,” he said. “And have a good evening.”
I didn’t bother promising to try; something told me my night had just gone from bad to worse. “Night,” I replied, before turning back to the man in the trench coat. I jerked my head towards the exit, and he nodded, his aviators obscuring his eyes once more. I briefly considered mocking the outfit, but then thought better of it.
I could criticize his fashion sense, later.
Preferably after I figured out just how dangerous he was.
Chapter 7
Turned out the strangely dressed man wasn’t all that dangerous, after all. Not unless you felt particularly threatened by heating pads or saunas. Technically, Bernie Wakowski—mid-fifties retiree and widower—was what we Freaks call a wizard. Wizards are a specific type of Freak who can bend the elements to their will. Sadly, the only element Bernie could manipulate was fire, and apparently that only manifested itself in an uncommonly high body temperature which occasionally spiked when he felt especially agitated.
“Wife used to say it was like sleeping next to a furnace,” he joked as he poured me a cup of tea from a pot he’d set to boil using nothing but his hands. He’d lost the trench coat, hat, and glasses, leaving behind a reedy man in a denim jacket, shirt, and pants which—in combination—looked almost as ridiculous. A Canadian tuxedo, I’d once heard it called. On a beefy, bearded lumberjack, it might have passed for fashion. On the wiry wizard, not so much.
“Pretty sure that’s a common complaint,” I replied,
smirking. At first, I had to admit I’d been wary of the older man. His manic behavior at the precinct hadn’t given me the best first impression. But after a brief chat during which I’d reassembled my gun, I’d felt comfortable enough to accept his offer for tea. Frankly, I’d have preferred coffee, but after two cups at the precinct, I wasn’t sure my nerves could have taken it.
And so here we were, tucked away in his tiny living room, exchanging pleasantries. “I’m sure it is,” Bernie replied. “But every so often I’d have a nightmare, and she’d end up with first degree burns, so I let her bitch all she wanted,” he said. Bernie had a funky Southern drawl I hadn’t picked up on at first. It made him seem more earthy, somehow. Alternatively less pretentious and less thuggish than most of the East Coasters I’d grown up with.
“So,” I said, getting down to business, “why were ye yellin’ at the cops?”
He frowned, then sighed. “I used to know a guy back when I was serving. We were both airplane mechanics, but he switched career fields. Joined up with the military police. Got out, became a cop. Nowadays he’s Deputy Superintendent of a Bureau. Nice guy. He and his wife used to get together with me and mine before Betty passed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but does this story have a point, Bernie?” I asked, trying not to sound bitchy. I wasn’t exactly a patient person by nature, and—if he was answering my question—he was taking his sweet time about it.
“Getting to it, miss,” he replied. The “miss” made me smile. I waved him on before taking a sip of my tea. It was a chai blend, spiced so artfully it was the closest substitute to real coffee that I’d ever had, and I made an appreciative sound in the back of my throat. Bernie grinned and continued, “Anyway, it’s been a while, but I know the man. So when I walked out by Fort Independence and saw the Reynolds boy the news keeps talking about, he’s the guy I called.”
“Wait, ye were the tip?” I asked, jaw dropping in surprise.
Bernie nodded. “The trouble was, the boy wasn’t alone. As soon as I saw the kid, I knew something was up. I’m not powerful myself, but I’m sensitive. I can tell when something or someone isn’t what they’re supposed to be. I knew there was a necromancer nearby same as I know you’re a null.”
I nearly spat up my tea. “A what?”
“A null,” he said. He waggled his hand. “Or whatever you want to call it. Magic doesn’t work on you, am I right?”
He was right. My immunity to the various Freaks out there was, in a way, as abnormal an ability as any I’d come across, but I’d never heard anyone who’d had a name for what I could do. I guess it made sense. Null, as in null and void. “Aye, although it’s not just magic,” I replied.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I considered whether to elaborate; I preferred my secrets. But it was also my policy to make friends in lowly places whenever possible. Networking 101. I knew having a wizard to consult, even a weak one, could prove useful down the line. “Nothin’ works on me. If a vampire tries to bleed me, he has to do it without his fangs. Shifters that get too close in animal form turn back. Basically, nothin’ gets through.”
Bernie was nodding, slowly. “Well, that’s useful. Although that’s all still magic, one way or another. Magic animates vampires. Magic curses turn the shifters. But I can see what you’re saying. I’ve never heard of anyone being able to cancel out all forms of magic.”
“Well, I’ve never met a wizard before,” I admitted.
Bernie laughed. “Yeah, you won’t find many of us around Boston. The Academy cut ties to this city a long time ago, so most of us settle elsewhere. That was the appeal for me, though. I hated the politics, and I was a minor wizard, besides. No one cared where I ended up.”
“The Academy?” I asked.
“Oh, right,” Bernie said, taking a sip of his own cup, “It’s a bit confusing for outsiders, but the Academy is the school wizards attend to learn how to harness their abilities. Of course, it’s also the institution that governs us and upholds our laws.”
I processed that, then nodded. “Aye, I can see how that works. But why haven’t I heard of ye lot? And why would the Academy cut ties with Boston, specifically?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time, maybe. For now, just know that there’s no one I can call in to take care of the necromancer on our end. And, for whatever reason, the powers that be in this city either haven’t found out he’s here, or haven’t stepped in to stop him. I’m not sure which, and I don’t care. The kid was scared, miss. Scared down to his toes. So I called up my old buddy and told him what I’d seen.”
I sat back, frowning. There was a necromancer in town, and none of the local Freaks had stepped in to stop him from kidnapping a kid. Not even the Faerie Chancery—Boston’s answer to supernatural law and order. Too high profile, maybe? Freaks and Fae alike preferred to stay under the radar whenever possible. Not everyone’s abilities were as understated as mine, or as mild as Bernie’s, and very few of the Fae could pass for human. “So when the cops got close, he raised some of the dead and sent the civilians runnin’,” I reasoned, filling in the gaps. “Which gave him time to get away.”
Bernie nodded. “Best as I can figure out. My buddy doesn’t blame me, says it was a good tip, but nobody saw the kid. That true?”
I nodded. “All I saw were corpses. Skeletons, at least at first.”
“At first?”
“Aye, one of ‘em ended up suckin’ a cop dry right in front of me. T’wasn’t pretty.” I shuddered at the memory and felt the cup jiggle a little in my hands. Usually, my nerves would have been better, but there was something especially grotesque about the dead rising which bothered me far more than the vast majority of shit I’d seen over the years.
“Shit,” Bernie said, so loud it startled me. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“What is it?” I asked, eyes wide.
Bernie hopped to his feet and began pacing the room. “Raising skeletons is one thing, but the only way a zombie rises and gains flesh is if their master lets them. Zombies become harder to control the more human they look and feel, which he should have known. Hell, it’s like asking for a mutiny. But if the necromancer is that desperate, the cops won’t be able to stop him.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
“Because if he loses control, the zombies will kill everyone they find, and he won’t be able to reign them back in.”
“Alright, but what’s that got to do with why you’re freakin’ out?” I asked as I watched the man pace the room.
“I made another call while I was getting the tea together,” Bernie explained, talking with his hands. Waves of heat radiated off his body, warping the air around him. “I used my senses to track the necromancer down after he left, but couldn’t tell my buddy that. Spotting the kid in a crowd in a public place was plausible, right? But saying I’d tracked down the kidnapper after that would draw way too much attention. That’s why I was at the precinct in disguise. I was trying to get them to go after him.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Isn’t that a good t’ing?”
His eyes met mine, and I could read the horror in them. “Not if they took my word for it. He’s in the tunnels below the city. If they go after him, they could all wind up dead.”
Ah. Well, that wasn’t good.
Chapter 8
I don’t know how I let myself get talked into these things. I’m not heroic. I’m not even altruistic. Honestly, the only reason I was tagging along was because I had a sneaking suspicion Bernie was right and—if we didn’t at least warn them—some of Boston’s finest were about to lose their lives. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have lost too much sleep over that, but—unless Jimmy had been forcibly benched for the night—that meant an old friend of mine might be in the line of fire. A friend who had gone out of his way to make sure I got my money even after I’d been arrested in association with a kidnapping.
I owed him.
And I always paid my debts.
I�
��d let Bernie drive while I considered whether or not to call in a few favors. Reinforcements were always good, but if we ended up running into the police, I worried my backup might draw unwanted attention. At this point, I was almost guaranteed a rematch with Machado in an interrogation room, but if it meant saving Jimmy’s ass, I’d take it. Sadly, that also meant Bernie and I might end up taking a stroll through Boston’s abandoned subterranean tunnels. At night. With zombies around every corner.
I wasn’t excited.
We pulled up to Boston’s City Hall Plaza, below which the tunnels could be accessed, but found maybe a quarter of the squad cars that had been parked at the last scene. After going all-in on the last response, it was likely they were reserving their manpower. Besides, the tunnels below the city were hard to navigate, and there were nearly two hundred miles of track to search through. This wasn’t a scene from The Fugitive; we didn’t have an army of searchers led by Federal Marshals to hunt the bastard down. In fact, I’d found out from Machado that the Feds weren’t even part of the equation. Apparently, the Reynolds had insisted on no Federal interference, which the media had found especially suspicious. I agreed. Let the professionals do their job, I say. But then, he wasn’t my kid to save.
“They’ve gone in already,” Bernie said, hurriedly clambering out of his dingy Toyota, clutching a satchel. I’d been disappointed to learn that modern wizards used neither wands or staffs; apparently, my formative years were full of such lies.
Thanks, Tolkien.
“Aye, but what can they hope to find?” I asked as I followed, adjusting my holster, wishing I could simply draw the gun and be done with it. “The tunnels go on forever.”
The answer came before Bernie had a chance to respond as a cacophony of barks and growls split the air. Dogs. They’d brought in the K-9 units. And it sounded suspiciously like they’d caught something.
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 11
