by Jayne Faith
“I see the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated,” he said.
The guys walking with him peered at me with curiosity. I stifled a groan. Just call me Sideshow Ella.
Brady and I had a thing back when we were both recruits going through training. It was short-lived, and a mistake on my part. He had a huge mouth and thought he was hot shit due to his Level III magic aptitude and Strike Team position.
With a nonchalant shrug, I cast him a cool glance. “Taking on an arch-demon without all your fancy-ass Strike weapons, all in a day’s work.”
He answered with a smile that looked more like a smirk and jogged a few steps to beat me to the door. He opened it and swung his arm out in an exaggerated invitation to walk inside. “After you.”
He wasn’t being a gentleman, I was sure of that. He probably just wanted to look at my ass.
I headed toward the Patrol briefing room while the Strike guys turned toward their wing. I exchanged greetings with the other officers, genuinely glad to be back. But suddenly feeling self-conscious under the curious looks, I didn’t pause to chat. As I approached the briefing room, the din of chatter indicated it was already nearly full. When I entered, I tried to sidle toward the back. But the officers near the door noticed me right away, and made loud noises of greeting.
I felt my face heat as I walked through the gauntlet of people clapping me on the shoulders and welcoming me back. Most of the officers were good people, and I appreciated their concern, but Terrence was the only one I’d truly been close to. Sure, groups of us would go out for drinks after work once a week or so, but it wasn’t like we had deep, personal discussions.
I tried to blend into the crowd, but Andy Briggs, an old-timer like Terrence, cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Speak, speak! She’s gotta say something so we know she’s not a zombie! Speak!” A few others took up the call.
I batted a hand in the air but couldn’t help a good-natured grin. “If I were a zombie, I wouldn’t eat your sorry brains if you paid me, Briggs.”
That brought a round of guffaws, and internally I loosened a little. I found a chair next to Sasha Bowers. We’d graduated from patrol training together. She’d visited me right after the accident and called a couple of times to see how I was doing. As I sat, she reached over and wrapped one of her toned arms around my shoulders in a side hug.
“Glad you’re back, girl.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks, Sash, me too.”
Sergeant Devereux and Captain Morrow appeared in the doorway, and everyone settled as our superiors strode to the front of the room.
I sat and automatically angled my body to hide the demon can on my belt, the one holding the Rip spawn I’d captured at Roxanne’s. It was the final of three Strike Team cans I’d swiped years ago, back when I was new on Demon Patrol. The arch-demon capacity traps were equipment that as a Patrol officer I wasn’t allowed to have. Back then I still had hope of finding Evan. I wasn’t there when he disappeared, but according to the people he’d been with, he was carried off by a large demon. True, most of those eyewitnesses were junkies I wouldn’t trust to remember their own birthdays, but it was all I had to go on.
In any case, Patrol was supposed to leave the big catches to Strike. And if it was too much for Strike to handle, they’d evacuate the area and call in Supernatural Special Forces. Demon Patrol only took care of minor demons, which looked like ugly, leathery bats and didn’t carry enough demonic power to possess humans, though their pointed claws could do some damage. On Patrol we used brimstone burners, baited discs that attracted the minor demon and then fried it with a strong magical charge like a moth in a bug zapper. Minor demons were fairly easy to kill. Arch-demons, on the other hand, had so far eluded death at the hands of humans. Because no one had figured out how to kill them, they had to be trapped and permanently contained instead.
The day of my accident, I’d had a Strike can with me, but the trap alone simply hadn’t been adequate. Terrence and I only had our net launchers and stun guns, neither of which was enough to force the arch-demon within range of the trap.
My insides chilled at the memory. I’d thought that the higher-level trap was all I needed to beat an arch-demon. I’d trapped one of them before using a Strike can. It wasn’t until after the accident that I realized how lucky I’d been that first time. Last night at Roxanne’s, too. The demon in her apartment had been hesitant to get too close to me for some reason, and that had likely saved our bacon.
I’d kept my shirt partway untucked to cover most of the contraband can, and I’d meant to arrive early enough to dispose of it unseen, but the calls on behalf of the dog and my trip to the store had delayed things.
I knew my fellow Patrol officers wouldn’t rat me out for taking a Strike can—many of them shared my opinion that Demon Patrol should at least be allowed to carry one for emergencies—but my sergeant had already written me up twice for the same offense. One more and I’d face a job review, which could lead to suspension without pay or possibly firing.
The Strike can felt like a lead weight. I was glad I’d had it at Roxanne’s, but in the rational light of day, I recognized how brash it had been to take on that demon alone. I’d been too bold the day of the accident and not much better last night. If I’d been more cautious, maybe Terrence would be sitting next to me instead, and I wouldn’t be trying to figure out how to deal with the other swimming around in my head. But then, I also wouldn’t have hope that my brother was still alive out there somewhere.
Sergeant Devereux stood behind the podium, with Captain Morrow next to him.
The captain smiled as she nodded at us. “Good morning.”
The room answered.
“I’m here to present a commendation to one of our own.” As she zeroed in on me, my eyes widened. “Officer Gabriella Grey and her partner Terrence Willingham responded to a routine patrol call that turned out to be anything but routine. After disposing of two minor demons in the basement of a residence in the North End, they were attacked by an arch-demon that entered the basement through a spontaneous dimensional rip. Officer Grey saved the life of her partner. On behalf of the entire division and a grateful city, I thank you for your bravery, and I present you with the pin of valor.”
She conveniently left out the part about how I’d died between the time I’d saved Terrence and Strike stormed in. The sudden tear between dimensions had sent out a ripple of force that toppled a heavy bookcase onto Terrence. It hadn’t knocked him out, though, and he’d managed to call for backup. I remembered shooting my net at the demon’s head and seeing it hit its mark, though it didn’t do much more than irritate the creature. I’d thrown myself across Terrence and then a couple of seconds later screamed at the sudden, excruciating pain that ripped at every nerve in my body. I suspected the demon tried to possess me, and for whatever reason, it failed and killed me instead.
When Captain Morrow looked at me again and I felt the attention of the room trained on me, my heart dropped straight down through my guts.
“Officer Grey, please step forward.”
My hand snuck back to my belt to unhook the can. I set it on my seat before I stood and then made my way up the center aisle to the podium.
Feeling a little stunned, I watched Captain Morrow reach out to attach a silver V overlaid with the Demon Patrol insignia onto my lapel. Facing the room and the swell of applause, I waited a beat and then ducked my head and beelined back to my seat. I sat forward a little, hiding the demon can that was still on the seat.
Captain Morrow left, and the sergeant took her place at the podium. To my enormous relief, he launched into the briefing as a map illuminated on the screen behind him.
“We’ve had several bubble-ups around the city in the past few days. Most of them are clustered around the Foothills ley line and the ley line that runs down Capitol Boulevard. Minor demons only, so far.”
The line in the Foothills was out of my beat, but the northernmost three blocks of Capitol Boul
evard, including the Capitol Building itself, were my territory. Normally I would have looked forward to a bit of action, but with a new partner, I’d been hoping for an easy first day back.
Remembering I still didn’t know who was replacing Terrence, I straightened and peered around, searching for a new face. There were nearly seventy officers on this shift, and the room was crowded. I craned my neck, trying to see to the far front corner. If my new partner was present, he or she was hiding.
“Special Forces is still manning the Boise Rip,” Sergeant Devereux continued in his faint Louisiana accent. “And it’s been over two weeks since anything bigger than a minor demon came through it.”
“Any updates from New York?” Sasha Bowers called out.
The original Rip—a tear between this dimension and another that allowed demons to spill into this world—was centered in lower Manhattan. Supernatural Special Forces kept it under control most of the time, but last week there’d been a breach. It was the largest one in the past five years, and if I remembered the news report correctly, it made the Top 20 in magnitude since the Rip first broke open in 2001.
This recent large breach had resulted in several deaths. Tragic, but nothing compared to the many thousands when the Rip first appeared between the twin towers of the World Trade Center and spilled the VAMP2 and NECR2 vampire and zombie viruses, along with a plague of demons, into an unprepared city. People of my parents’ generation and older still spoke of that day in 2001 with a mix of deep grief and echoes of the disbelief they must have felt back then. But for me it was part of the fabric of history, a fact of everyday life, and an event that today in 2030 continued to shape the world.
“They’ve got the breach under control, last I heard,” Sergeant Devereux said. “There were twelve citizen deaths and about two hundred injured. A few officer injuries, but nothing serious.”
He updated us with a few more local incident reports and then closed the cover on his tablet. “Be safe. Good hunting.” His gray-green eyes found me, and he pointed and then crooked his finger in a beckoning motion.
My stomach soured. I was forced to leave the contraband—and occupied—demon can on the seat. Walking against the flow of officers heading out, I spotted someone standing next to the sergeant, a bookish-looking blond guy, late 20s. He had fine features and neatly-combed hair. His trim build, and patrician face made him look like he belonged on a yacht off Martha’s Vineyard. Something about him gave the impression of breeding and money. I could easily imagine him in khaki and seersucker, but he looked out of place in a Demon Patrol uniform.
My sergeant drilled me with his piercing squint. He always looked at me as if he’d just caught me picking my nose.
“Officer Grey,” he said. His Southern accent gave an impression of warmth, but there was nothing cuddly about Devereux as far as I’d ever discerned.
“Sergeant.” I saluted, even though it really wasn’t necessary. Demon Patrol wasn’t as formal as the regular police force, though we tended to follow a lot of the organizational formats they used. Things were tighter and more militant in the Supernatural Strike Team and Special Forces divisions.
Devereux lifted his chin at blondie. “Meet your new partner, Damien Stein.”
The blond guy shifted a thick leather-bound notebook and a bulky little drawstring sack to his left hand and stuck out his right. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Congratulations on your commendation.” His voice was steady with an upper East Coast edge to his pronunciation, which didn’t surprise me. His sky blue eyes were wary under my scrutiny.
After hesitating almost long enough to make me look like an ass to the sergeant, I grasped Stein’s hand. “Welcome to the force,” I said evenly.
This guy just did not seem like Demon Patrol material. And there was something else. Supernatural power practically oozed off him. Even with my low-level aptitude I could actually see a faint corona around him, like a shaft of sunlight that hung in the air an inch or two away from his skin. If he didn’t register at the tippy-top edge of Level III aptitude, I’d eat a bowl of dog chow.
What the hell was a Level III doing on Demon Patrol? Level I aptitude was the magical requirement for the job, and rarely did any IIs end up on Patrol. I couldn’t recall ever seeing a III here. This guy could be doing a thousand other jobs. And frankly, he just didn’t appear to be suited to this one at all.
Devereux was giving Stein a little background on my history with the force. Graduated near the top of my recruit class, nearly five years’ service, same downtown beat since I started, blah, blah . . . He left us alone without offering anything about Stein.
Stein and I were the last two people remaining in the briefing room. I folded my arms and peered at him.
“You related to one of the higher-ups?” I asked.
He frowned and then caught himself, but not before I read his expression. It was only a flash, but it clearly said no he did not come from a Force family, heaven forbid such a thing.
He shook his head. “No connections. And no one handed me this job. I went through training the same as you did.”
I gave him a withering look. “That’s not what I mean. You’re a high III. Is this job some kind of punishment or something?”
“No, I just thought demon catching would be an interesting job, that’s all.”
I didn’t buy it. But I was stuck with the guy for at least six months—that was the breaking-in period for new partners. If the pairing didn’t work, at the end of the six months either of us could apply for reassignment.
I tipped my head toward the door, and we headed that way.
“Well, we’ll have plenty of time together for you to explain to me in great detail why a Level III out-of-towner would take a job on Demon Patrol in Boise, Idaho. Because no offense, but you in that uniform makes zero sense.”
To my surprise, he let out a rumbling laugh. It was low and warmer than I would have expected. “I’ll do my best.”
I paused, my eyes sliding back to the briefing room.
“Gotta grab something, I’ll meet you over there.” I pointed down the hall, waited until he turned away, and then ducked back through the doorway.
The can had gotten knocked off my chair and had rolled over to the wall. I let out a breath of relief when I spotted it. I attached it to my belt and bloused my shirt out and over it as well as I could.
I jogged to catch up with Stein.
“You haven’t been issued a belt and a weapon yet?” I asked.
“Sergeant Devereux said I should ask you about that. He only gave me my badge, phone, and earpiece.”
“The armory should have the rest of your stuff.”
We descended to the basement where Herb, my favorite armory sergeant, was on duty. He was an older guy with an asthmatic wheeze and a gut that hung over the waist of his pants, completely obscuring his belt.
“Welcome back, Officer Grey.” Herb gave me a broad smile, his rheumy eyes lighting up. “Very happy to see you upright and in one piece. I’m surprised you returned to active duty so soon.”
I shrugged. “Ah, you know. Being clinically dead for a few minutes was all the rest I needed.” I pointed a thumb at Stein, who stood a step behind me. “Do you have Officer Stein’s things back there?”
Peering at my new partner sidelong, Herb pressed his hands to the counter to heave himself to his feet. I knew what he was thinking: the same thing I’d thought when I realized Stein was a Level III—why Demon Patrol?
The sergeant went back among the shelves and returned with a stiff new belt loaded with the usual accoutrements identical to the ones I carried—stun gun, net launcher, flashlight, brimstone burner pouch. Herb also held out a slim backpack. The pack was Force-issue—we were allowed to carry them if we had personal things we wanted to have on us while working our beats—but I could only think of a couple officers who used them regularly.
“You sure you need that?” I asked. “Most of us don’t use them.”
“I requested it.”
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Something about the way he replied made me want to stick out my tongue and pull a juvenile face while he wasn’t looking. I watched him place his leather-bound notebook, a few pens, and the drawstring bag full of unknown items into the pack. No self-respecting Patrol officer needed all that stuff on the beat. He slung it around onto his back and then reached for the belt and cinched it around his waist.
He checked the charge on the stun gun, just like we were taught in training, and then holstered it. Reaching into a pants pocket, he produced his badge and clipped it onto his belt.
I nodded. “Okay, we’re off to get a few brimstone burners. Thanks, Herb.”
He waved at us. “Good hunting.”
We headed back to the stairs.
“Clip your phone onto your shoulder, like this.” I turned to show Stein mine. Our service phones had a walkie-talkie function that we activated while we were on duty. “And turn on your earpiece and put it in your left ear.”
“You don’t seem the Force type either, you know,” Stein said once we were back on the main level.
“Oh yeah? How’s that?” I challenged. I didn’t disagree with his observation, but I wanted to hear how he’d respond. Whether he’d inadvertently insult me, try to kiss my ass, or something in between.
“You’re independent. Not the type to seek out institutions. And you don’t like authority figures.”
I pursed my lips and tipped my head at an angle, an acknowledgement but not necessarily an agreement.
“Why did you join?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” I said, wagging my finger. “You’re going to explain why you’re here before you get an answer to that.”
I took him to the window of the supply room. “Four brimstone burners for each of us,” I said to the clerk.
She passed us the fat plates, each fitted with a lid. A burner was about the size of a medium pancake and with a solid heft, and Stein and I stuck them into the plate pouches on our belts.
