by C. T. Adams
There was the slamming of a door, and the thud of footfalls retreating in the distance.
In the courtroom Tom put his arm around me, holding me close. “It’s all right.” He murmured the words in my ear. “You did your best.”
It wasn’t all right. The boy in the video was dead. But so were most of the hatchlings. I straightened up, opened my eyes and forced myself to watch the screen where I saw myself using the counter to haul my body up from the floor. I dragged myself across the room, my left leg useless from the kick she’d used to dislocate my knee. Wearing heels today had probably been a bad idea, since it might give the jury the impression I was faking just how much pain I was in every day.
I watched myself grab a lab stool and throw it through the glass window of MacDougal’s adjoining private office. There was the sound of me rummaging through various drawers. When I came back on screen I was carrying a large bottle of single malt scotch. Without hesitation I limped over to the case, disconnected the blood bag, and poured the amber liquid from the bottle to make its way through the pumping system. It was obvious when it did, because the hatchlings began to writhe and shrivel. Onscreen I dropped the empty bottle to slam both palms against my ears before I collapsed to the floor with an agonized scream.
Somewhere in the courtroom a woman, probably Mason’s mother, was quietly weeping. A gagging sound came from the jury box. I leaned into Tom’s body, and took slow deep breaths while counting to a hundred.
The sound of movement drew my attention back to the picture. I looked up at the screen in time to watch Henri Tané and Miles MacDougal stride into the room. Kneeling beside the fallen boy, Miles tried to find a pulse in a throat that was mostly ravaged meat. He closed his eyes, muttering what looked like a quick prayer, before grabbing the phone and calling in a Code Blue.
The judge called for a break. It wasn’t quite time for lunch, but several of the jurors were looking more than a little bit sick. I doubted that anybody was hungry. I certainly wouldn’t be able to eat. My head was pounding and I was nauseous from the rage of a thousand Thrall that had watched the event through my eyes—another side effect of being connected.
Once upon a time my life had been relatively normal and my thoughts had been my own. Now I was reviled in the press and facing a wrongful death suit, even though I hadn’t been responsible for Mason’s death. And suing me, or taking money from my insurance company, wasn’t going to bring the Watts’ son back to them.
I’d let my insurance company talk to them, but the lawyer for the Watts family had wanted more money than the insurance company had been willing to pay. So, I was here in civil court, defending myself. I’d be back in front of a judge again in a few weeks facing criminal charges of destruction of property and vandalism because of my actions in the lab. Oh fucking goody.
I stood and gathered up my coat and purse from the seat beside me, then followed Tom behind the retreating backs of people filing from the courtroom. I hadn’t seen Brooks here. That surprised me a little. As one of the other defendants, I would’ve expected him to be present. I considered asking my attorney about it, but changed my mind. He was in the middle of an animated debate with opposing counsel.
“Kate … Kate, wait.” I recognized the voice calling behind me as my hand touched the brass guard plate of the courtroom door. Miles MacDougal hadn’t spoken a civil word to me since that morning in the lab. Joe said Miles blamed me for what happened, which didn’t make sense to my mind. But emotions frequently don’t make sense, and Miles had lost the woman he loved that morning. Samantha Greeley wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t Samantha any more either, and God alone knew where she was. Even the collective didn’t seem to have knowledge of her. Or, if they did, they were hiding it from me.
I made sure to keep my expression completely neutral as I turned to face him. I liked Miles. His anger had hurt me more than I’d care to admit. I’d tried to hide my pain by acting pissed. It hadn’t fooled Tom or my brother. They were both being very gentle with me at the moment because I still wasn’t completely over it. But I wanted to be. I wanted things to be right so that I could have my friend back.
Miles approached carefully. He looked older than he had a few weeks ago. There was gray in the bushy moustache, and in the thinning hair. But more than that, the shoulders beneath the navy suit slumped, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
“I’ll meet you outside.” Tom gave me a quick peck on the cheek and ducked out the doors that led to the hallway. He was giving us privacy, and I appreciated it. A lot of the guys I know wouldn’t have been able to suppress their protective instincts. My brother Joe, for example, would’ve hovered, glowering. Fortunately for me he was out of town at a conference.
“Miles.” I kept my voice steady and neutral.
Miles MacDougal straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath to gather his courage. His gaze locked with mine with no flinching. “I owe you an apology.” His eyes were red with suppressed tears, but his voice was strong. “I needed someone to blame. It was easier than blaming myself. This wasn’t your fault.”
“No,” I agreed.
“It was mine.”
“No. You’re wrong.” I spoke firmly. “It wasn’t. It was her mistake. She underestimated them. Most people do. They don’t look threatening. They’re small, not physically imposing, so people let their guards down.”
He shook his head, sadly. “Thank you for saying that. But you’re wrong. I … I had misgivings about the project from the beginning, but Samantha was so enthusiastic. She wanted it so very badly. I let her talk me into it—helped her get funding and volunteers. She wouldn’t have been able to get hospital approval without my backing the project.”
I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know what to say. He’d made a horrible, tragic mistake. He obviously had been in love with the woman, hell, still was. People in love do stupid things all the time. His mistake had just had tragic consequences.
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and I knew it the moment the words passed my lips. But nothing I said was really going to matter. Miles blamed himself. It didn’t matter if anyone else blamed him, or what they might say. This was his very own, personal hell.
Miles gave me a weak smile, and held out his hand. Instead of shaking it, I pulled him into a hug. It was awkward. I’m not really the “huggy” kind and I didn’t think he was either. But he needed comfort and it was the best I could do for him.
“You’d better get out of here. Tom’s waiting.” He pulled back slowly. I let him go.
“Are you going to be okay?” I caught his gaze and kept it.
He didn’t dignify the question with a response, just gave me a sad smile and a gentle shove toward the door. I went, both because he wanted me to and because I was too awkward and chicken to know how to deal with such raw emotions.
Tom was waiting in the hall just outside the door. Putting his hands on my waist, he looked me straight in the eyes. The kindness in his gaze warmed me to my toes, made me wonder, yet again, what I’d done to deserve this man. “How’d it go?”
I gave a small shrug. “He blames himself.”
“No surprise there.” Tom pulled me into his arms. I didn’t fight it. It felt so good to rest my head on his shoulder, feel his heart beating and listen to the soft, quiet hum that blocked out the angry voices in my head. I took a deep breath, inhaling the masculine scent of skin and soap. We were still standing like that when the police officers rounded the corner and said my name.
“Excuse me, are you Mary Kathleen Reilly?”
I stepped out of Tom’s embrace reluctantly, taking a small step back. Tom took my hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“That would be me.”
There were two of them, both a few years older than me, probably thirty-five to my twenty-eight. Both wore suits that fit well enough and looked as though they got a fair amount of use. Not shabby, but not new either. The one on the left stood about five feet
ten. He wore a tan suit with a brown belt and loafers. The color suited his sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. The man on the right was Italian-American. It showed in his olive coloring, his features, and somehow, in his attitude. I would be hard pressed to say how I could tell, but it was unmistakable, at least to me. And while they weren’t uniforms, and weren’t flashing their badges, it was just as obvious they were cops.
“Could we have a word with you?” The blond gestured toward a wooden bench a short distance down the hallway.
“May I ask what’s going on?” Tom’s voice was even, but I could feel the tension singing through his arm and the hand that held mine. Something about them was bothering him. Normally, I’ve learned to trust his supernatural instincts, but I let go of his hand instead, turning to rest it lightly on his chest. The gesture was meant to reassure him. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I knew that any more strain and he wouldn’t be able to hold onto his beast. The last thing he, I, or anyone else wanted was for him to change form in the middle of a crowded courthouse. Unlike most of the werewolves, he retained his personality, but that didn’t make changing unexpectedly a good thing. Nobody else in this hallway would know he was still himself. There could be a panic. With the rampant prejudice and fear that lycanthropes faced it wasn’t inconceivable that one of the officers might draw a weapon. There were far too many negative possibilities for me to be willing to risk it. I might not be armed with weapons, but I was still pretty good in a fight if it came to it. But my psychic senses told me neither of the men were Thrall hosts.
“We just want to ask Ms. Reilly a few questions.” The blond smiled as he said it, raising one hand in a placating gesture. But there was a tension in his body language that I didn’t like.
“Fine. No problem,” I agreed. I started walking toward the bench they’d indicated earlier. Tom came with me. Apparently his willingness to let me handle things myself only went so far. For the life of me I couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. But I didn’t have time to think too much about it. As soon as my butt hit the wood the Italian introduced himself and his partner and started in on the questions.
“I’m Detective Frank Martinelli. This,” he gestured toward the blond, “is my partner, Detective Al Cook.”
Neither one held out a hand for me to shake, so I nodded my acknowledgment.
Cook took the lead then. “Ms. Reilly, can you tell us where you were last night at around 10:00 P.M.?
Tom was still standing. He looked from Martinelli to Cook, then back at me. “I think I’ll go get your lawyer.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary, sir.” Cook forced himself to smile when he said it. He was being the very picture of the polite police detective in dealing with Tom, but I got the impression he wasn’t happy about it.
“I do.” Tom gave me a look that said as clearly as words that I should shut up and wait for the attorney. It was probably good advice. That didn’t mean I was going to take it.
I watched him hurry toward the courtroom. He’d barely stepped through the door when I turned my attention back to the detectives and answered the question.
“Last night at ten I was watching a DVD with Father Michael O’Rourke and my brother Bryan in the rectory at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope parish.”
Cook’s expression changed. He looked almost like he’d swallowed a bug. Martinelli let out a bark of laughter. He stifled it with difficulty in response to a glare from his partner, hiding it behind a cough.
“Right.” Cook pulled a small spiral notebook and pen from his trouser pocket. It reminded me forcibly of all the police procedurals I’d watched on television. I wondered just exactly what crime had been committed. I didn’t, however, ask. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I really had been at the rectory. But I already had one pending criminal case and as the saying goes, anything I said can, and would, be used against me. I wasn’t looking to get myself into any more trouble.
“And Father O’Rourke can verify this?”
“Of course. Let me get you his number.” I took a minute to rummage in my bag to pull out my cell phone, by which time Tom and the attorney were walking out of the courtroom and hurrying toward us.
“Officers.” The attorney’s voice was smooth, cultured. It matched his appearance perfectly. He wore a suit in dove gray with a faint charcoal pinstripe. It was almost the exact same shade and cut as Tom’s, but I’d have bet most of a paycheck that it cost at least twice as much. It had been cut to perfection and had that indefinable something that made me think it had been hand tailored. If I was right, that suit had cost him more than my last, lamented vehicle. He had been selected by the insurance company to represent me, and while I probably wouldn’t have chosen him if it were up to me, I had no complaints thus far. “May I ask what this is about?”
“Ms. Reilly has been charged with vandalism of a laboratory and destruction of specimens at St. Elizabeth’s hospital. Last night, someone broke into that same laboratory and stole similar specimens. We thought that was quite a coincidence, and decided we’d like to have a chat with her.” Cook was pissed and it showed. Either that or he was putting on an act. Most cops don’t rise to detective, and the ones who do don’t make it by losing their tempers just because someone brings in a lawyer.
“First.” The lawyer held up his index finger as he spoke.
“She has been charged. She has not been convicted.” He held up a second finger. “Second, as you no doubt know, my client has been declared persona non grata at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. Security has been ordered to escort her off the premises on sight. Since, as you can see, she has a very distinctive appearance, I doubt she could have made it through the doorway, let alone to the laboratory.”
“The perp didn’t come in the front door,” Cook answered.
I heard him, but I wasn’t really listening. My mind was spinning. Someone had broken into the lab and stolen similar specimens. Shit. Specimens … he meant eggs. There had been more Thrall eggs somewhere in that lab, and somebody had stolen them. Oh, this was so bad.
3
I sat squirming in the uncomfortable wooden seat most of the afternoon. I couldn’t keep my mind on the trial. I was too distracted from the questioning by Cook and Martinelli. Fortunately, they didn’t call me up to the stand to testify. I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have sounded coherent. My mind just kept going over the same two questions again and again: who the hell would steal Thrall eggs and why?
The obvious answer was the Thrall. They were sentient, thought of eggs as their unborn children, and were facing a crisis. Tané hadn’t been wrong in his assessment that morning in the conference room. Thrall hives had been decimated throughout the world. They had to be worrying about extinction. While I wasn’t thrilled by the notion that they had recovered some of Monica’s eggs, at least that explanation made sense. But the moment I’d learned of the missing eggs I had dropped my shields and actually tried to hear what was going on in the hive. Instead of the usual angry buzz of the queens and hive there was utter silence. They were blocking me out. While a part of me really did appreciate their absence, the more sensible part knew that it couldn’t be good.
The witness stood and left the stand. I hadn’t heard any of the testimony, but my attorney had one of those smug little smiles he wore when he felt we’d scored major points.
The judge glanced at the clock. He leaned forward to speak into the microphone in front of him. “We’ll adjourn for the day. Court will resume tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”
He gave a brisk nod of his head, and the bailiff called out. “All rise.”
We rose. As soon as the judge exited the room through a door behind the bench people began gathering up their belongings and leaving the courtroom. Tom and I joined the general flow headed toward the door. When we reached the hall people herded toward the exits, flowing steadily around the construction debris.
Tom was helping me into my coat when a voice called out his name, the sound echoing
off the stone floors and cream-colored walls.
He turned abruptly, automatically putting himself between me and any possible danger. I turned to see Jake and Rob, a pair of teenage boys who were members of his pack, approaching at a fast walk from the direction of the stairwell. I knew both boys.
I’d met Rob in July. At the time he’d been painfully thin, with straight blond hair and a penchant for chains and leather. I realized looking at him now that he’d grown. Regular meals had put meat on his bones. Daily workouts had given him bulk and definition. More than that, there was a confidence in his bearing that hadn’t been there before. He still wore all black, but instead of the biker jacket I’d seen before, today it was an expensive full-length trench coat. He was living with his girlfriend in one of the apartments in my building for free, and an uncharitable part of me wondered how he could afford the coat and not afford rent. I clamped my mouth shut, because while I think Rob needs to develop more of a sense of responsability, my saying so wasn’t going to help today’s situation.
I’d also met Jake during the crisis with the Thrall. He hadn’t liked me much then, and he didn’t like me now. He was still whipcord thin, with noticeably long arms and legs that ended in oversize hands and feet—both common traits of lycanthropes that Tom didn’t share. Anger flashed in the dark eyes that weren’t quite hidden beneath a fringe of dark hair.
“I was afraid we’d miss you,” Rob admitted. “Traffic was a bitch.”
Neither boy greeted me. I wasn’t surprised. Rob and I get along well, but he’s not big on good manners. Jake is of the opinion that even being civil might give me the mistaken impression that he approves of Tom being with me. In fact, none of the wolves are in favor of our relationship.
Werewolves are a matriarchal society, but the females are sterile. In order to maintain a healthy pack size, they use human surrogates to carry the pack’s children, which are then raised by the group. Rob’s current girlfriend, Dusty Quinn, is one of the surrogates. She’s the reason I got involved with the Thrall last time, because she was Monica’s runner-up for the queen crown and my former fiancé, Dylan Shea, was her uncle. He begged me to save her life and, sucker that I am for innocent teenagers, I agreed.
