by Joshua Roots
Flexing my fingers, I gazed down at the small scars on the back of my hand, then at the palm. The wounds had healed well in the past few months, but hadn’t vanished entirely like I’d hoped.
Echoes of the pain associated with the Hellcat’s claws nibbled at my mind in rhythm with the ache.
The second Hellcat, I reminded myself, shaking my head. Two of those beasts summoned in my lifetime was two too many. Although, to be fair, the second one wasn’t my fault. Still, the creature had scarred me as badly as the first one.
Perhaps worse, I thought, as I made a fist.
My right hand began tingling sympathetically, so I rubbed both palms together, blew on them, and returned my attention to the keyboard.
I was almost finished with a staggeringly horrific rendition of “On Top of Old Smokey” when a tall, thin man approached. I stopped playing immediately, stood, and tripped over a drum set while trying to extract myself from the piano bench.
“Sorry, sorry!” I caught the high-hat before it crashed to the ground.
“It’s okay,” he said with an easy smile. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
I replaced the drum piece and moved away from the instruments as quickly as possible.
The man chuckled and offered his hand. “I’m Pastor Rado.”
He was slightly taller than me with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He had a strong grip and an aura of confidence that I’d expect from a man accustomed to speaking in front of thousands of worshippers on a weekly basis. His brown eyes seemed to gaze into my soul, filling me with both a sense of ease to be near someone rock-steady and dread as to what he might find.
“Marcus,” I replied as we shook.
“I apologize for my tardiness. The pre-marital class I teach ran a little long.”
“Not a problem. It gave me time to destroy your stage.”
Rado’s booming laugh echoed within the empty hall. “Don’t worry about it. I do that at least once a month. You sounded good, by the way.”
I grinned sheepishly. “Thanks, but I’m not really in it for the music.”
“Oh?”
“It’s part of a physical therapy regime. My left hand took a beating a few months back and my docs think that learning the piano will help with flexibility.”
“Has it worked?”
I rubbed my palm. “Somewhat, but it’ll take time.”
“It always does. Anyway, would you care to talk here or in my office?”
I gave the cross on the wall a quick glance. “Office.”
Rado followed my eyes, then motioned for me to accompany him. We exited the sanctuary, waved hello to Meredith at her desk, then entered his small, cozy office. Books were stuffed into the bookshelves on one side of the room. His desk was covered with bibles, papers and an old hand grenade with a plate on wood mount that read “Complaint Department. Please take a number.” Threaded onto the grenade’s pin was a small, metal tag with the number one. The wall behind his desk was filled with various diplomas and framed pictures of a young Rado in various Marine Corps uniforms.
“You were a Marine?” I asked, glancing from the fresh-faced Rado standing next to an enormous cannon to the more experienced man before me.
He beamed with pride. “Yup. Spent twenty years as a Steel Rain Specialist.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Artillery,” he said, sitting at a small, round table by the window.
“Oh.”
He smiled as I sat. “Not what you were expecting?”
I shook my head. “No offense.”
“None taken. There are people in the congregation who still have a hard time believing it. But enough about me. I understand you might be able to help me with the Delwinn Council.”
I eyed him cautiously. “Perhaps.”
“That’s better than, ‘No,’ which is what I’ve been getting from Ambassador Jones recently.”
“Politicians love to say no. I don’t.”
Rado leaned forward. “Pardon me if I’m skeptical, but in this line of work you learn to think twice when someone’s offer sounds too good to be true.”
“Fair enough,” I said, surprised by his candor. “I work with the Council on some high-level stuff and my father is one of the senior members. Depending on what you want, I may be able to get you to the right people. That’s all I’m offering.”
Rado seemed torn, but nodded. “Very well. I am in touch with a religious conglomerate called the Mosaic Group that would like to open a dialogue with the Delwinn Council.”
“Nice name.”
He shrugged. “It’s supposed to symbolize the individual faiths making up a large piece of art. Personally, I think it’s stupid. But no one consulted me when the group was forming and the name stuck.”
I chuckled. Despite my initial hesitation, I was finding it more and more refreshing to talk with him.
“Anyway,” Rado continued, “since Carla Jones is the official Ambassador to the Skilled, the group has been trying to go through her channels, but we’ve gotten nowhere. According to her, the Council is otherwise distracted. The attack recently hasn’t helped matters.”
“True,” I admitted. “Have your people tried contacting the Council directly?”
“Yes, but were equally rebuffed. Ambassador Jones seemed to be our best option. Until you called, that is.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Pastor, why are you all are pushing so hard for a meeting? What’s so important?”
Rado sat back. “Honestly, I don’t know all the details since I’m a low man on the totem pole. What I do know is that the Mosaic Group is adamant about renewing contact with the Skilled. Considering much of the persecution of your people was conducted under the umbrella of spiritual governances, they feel it’s time to officially bury the hatchet. And while technically all religions were roped into the Reformation Treaty, the reality is that there is still a wall between our faiths and the Skilled. As for your question of why now, the attack hurt both the Skilled and the Normals. Sometimes faith can help the healing process.”
“No offense, Pastor,” I said evenly, “but I can see why the Council would be a bit hesitant. A lot of religions spent almost a millennium trying to wipe us off the face of the Earth. During that time they succeeded in killing millions of Normals in an attempt to purge the world of the Skilled. That alone would make anyone nervous. Add in recent events, like the folks protesting outside my home, and that’d make anyone a little gun-shy to jump back into a relationship.”
“Listen, I’m not about to excuse the actions of some religious nutcases a thousand years ago or even the ones out there today.” Rado held up his hands. “I was simply tasked with being the go-between with the Ambassador. Nothing more.”
It was my turn to be skeptical. “Why you?”
“We knew each other in college and have stayed in touch ever since.”
“So you were friends a long time ago. That seems like a thin line for your group to pin their hopes on.” I tried not to sound too flippant.
Rado fixed me with a stare. “No Marcus, we knew each other. All four years.”
My mind stalled on the image of them as a couple. “Uh, wow.”
“I wasn’t always a Pastor or a husband,” he said with a smirk.
I was speechless. Part of me was really uncomfortable with his openness. The other part wanted to give him a high-five.
“Suffice to say,” he continued, “my superiors figured I had a better shot at getting behind the iron curtain of the Council because of my history with Carla. The question is, can you be more help to us than her? All we want is an hour so we can open up a dialogue.”
I stared at him. “That’s it? You just want to set up a meeting?”
Rado frowned. “Yes. Why, is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just that I expected something grander like ransom demands or building a chapel at the HQ.”
“So you can do it?” he asked hopefully.
“I can’t promise anything, but I mi
ght be able to set something up. Let me check everyone’s schedules and get back to you. Do you have some contact information I can pass along?”
The Pastor blinked with surprise. “Uh, yeah, I do. One sec.” He reached in his drawer and removed a card. “That’s my info. I can get you my superior’s if you like.”
“Let me start with this.” I tucked the card into my pocket.
Meredith knocked on the door, then poked her head in. “Pastor, your noon appointment is here.”
Rado checked his watch. “He’s a little early, but tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”
Meredith ducked back out the door.
I stood. “I should get going. Errands to run, cameras to avoid, groupies to woo.”
“I really appreciate the help,” Rado said.
“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s more than I’ve been able to get from either the Ambassador or the Council in weeks.”
Something in the earnestness of his voice filled me with pride. Both because I was actually able to help, but also because our time together was easy. Our conversation had flowed.
It was a breath of fresh air compared to the terse, unpleasant discussions I’d had with the Council of late.
“Before you go,” Rado said. “I was meaning to ask you if you have a home church.”
The easiness vanished as my insides flip-flopped uncomfortably. “Not...really.”
“Well if you ever want to come to service here, we’d love to have you. We also offer a wide range of counseling. Or, you know, if you ever need a third party to talk with.”
My guts rolled over again. “Has my family been talking to you?”
“No, but I spent years studying the human condition. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your reaction to the cross in the sanctuary and the way you tensed up when you mentioned your physical therapy tells me that there may be more than just scars of the flesh.”
I tried to speak, but found no words. Either he was startlingly perceptive or I was telegraphing my feelings. But the last thing I wanted right then was to get into a deep conversation.
The pastor put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, I’m not pressing, okay? If you ever want to chat, give me a call. I can’t promise I’ll be any help, but sometimes all you need is just an ear to listen.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, trying to smother the tension building in my chest. “But I’m good.”
“I understand. Thanks again for meeting with me.”
We shook and he escorted me out of his office. I waved to Meredith, then walked quickly to the Gray Ghost, slamming the door, and breathing deeply once inside the quiet interior. I inhaled several more times, rubbing the tingling in my palm and slowing my heartbeat.
When my insides finally calmed, I called the Research Library. The lady on the other end confirmed that my Wizarding credentials had been approved and I was cleared to use the facility to the fullest extent possible. A sense of victory swept through me and my shoulders relaxed a little. I thanked her, hung up, and immediately checked the traffic between Frederick and D.C.
Deciding that I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the congestion of the Beltway, I punched the address for HQ into the GPS of my phone. Betty the Navigational Bitch coughed up several routes. Ironically, it would take me less time to wind down through Leesburg, then take the Toll Road, than it would to take the highway. Betty acknowledged my preferred route in her sexy, mechanical voice, then guided me down the first of many small, two-lane roads.
* * *
I was sitting at a red light a few blocks down the road when Andrew called.
“Hey. Any word?” I asked.
“Not yet. I passed the number from the text message to some resources of mine, but so far all they’ve been able to piece together is that it came from a burner phone.”
I gripped the wheel tighter. “Which means we can’t trace it.”
“Not exactly. If the phone was purchased with cash, then it will be almost impossible, but a credit card will give them something to work with. They’ll need another day or so to be sure. In the interim, watch yourself.”
Dammit. I had been hoping there’d be a trail of breadcrumbs. It was far worse operating with the unknown than it was having a target upon which I could focus my anger. Whoever was trying to rattle my cages was still operating in the shadows and I wanted nothing more than to hunt them down and rattle them a little myself.
“What are the chances this is a harmless threat?”
Probably a stupid question.
“No threat should ever be considered harmless. If this person was willing to write those words, then it’s better for you to assume that they’re willing to act on them.”
“Lovely,” I grumbled as goosebumps popped up on my arms.
“Just keep your eyes open. You’ll be fine once we get you to New York.”
I hit the horn as a car cut me off. “Uh, won’t New York be the opposite of safe?”
“We’ll be pretty mobile during the talk-show circuit, so it’ll be harder for someone to track you. Also, while we’re up there, I’ll have one or two of my contacts check into the threat. If someone tries to follow us to New York, they’ll know about it.”
“Whoa, your contacts are that good?”
“Marcus, I’m exceptional at my job. Do you really want to know the details of how I do it?”
I smirked. “Nope.”
He laughed. “Good. It’s better that way.”
“So aside from constantly looking over my shoulder, is there anything else I should be doing?” Hopefully my sarcasm wasn’t as visceral as it felt when I asked the question. Andrew either didn’t pick up on it or was professional enough not to acknowledge it.
“Yes. Practice the speech I’m about to send you for the ball and pack for New York.”
I stretched, fighting the knot that was forming in my back. “Neither of those sound like a good time.”
“I know this is hard on you, Marcus,” he said, patiently. “This might be nothing, but you can’t be too careful. Keep a wary eye and I’ll see you at Union Station the day after tomorrow.”
“Will do,” I replied and we hung up. Unable to shake off the tension once again, I fired up some Huey Lewis to drown out my frustration.
The Ghost and I were headed down the long hill on 15 north of the Potomac when another vehicle whipped over the double-yellow line. It passed the semi behind me, then accelerated to catch up. It was a basic white van with tinted windows similar to the ones parked outside my house. It came at me like it had every intention of driving up my tailpipe.
“Friggin’ media,” I growled and stomped the accelerator pedal. The Ghost lurched forward, increasing the distance between me and the paparazzi. The van drifted away, then started closing the gap.
“Seriously?” I muttered, glaring at the rear-view mirror.
The Ghost careened down the hill, nearly rocking onto two wheels as I jerked it around the first massive traffic circle. The van snapped across the double-yellow line and sped up, pulling alongside me. I tried to see who or what was behind the wheel, but the tinting was so dark I could only make out the silhouettes of the driver and passenger.
Whomever was trying to get the picture deserved a good one. I offered them the One-Finger Salute. My playfulness vanished when the van swerved into me.
Instinctively I veered away, crossing onto the shoulder and passing a car in my lane. The van hit the brakes, so I punched the gas to the floor. Once clear of the car, I pulled into my own lane again.
I reached for my phone to call the cops, but it wasn’t on the seat, nor did I see it on the floor. Glancing back up at the road, I shouted in surprise when I almost plowed into the trunk of a minivan. I whipped around it, breezing past the shocked faces of the family inside, and barreled down the road with my heart in my throat and both hands glued to the wheel.
I hit the second traffic circle well over the recommended speed limit
, cutting off an enormous farming tractor that was slowly pulling into traffic. The driver berated me, then continued to pull out. Brakes squealed and a horn blared as my pursuers screeched to a halt. The van jerked around the tractor, but I increased my lead, crossing the small, metal bridge over the Potomac at the bottom of the hill.
I reached land once again, blasting into the Commonwealth of Virginia like a gray rocket. Highway 15 made an immediate left turn and I snapped the wheel to avoid pancaking myself against the stone face of the mountain.
Unfortunately, the Ghost was built for sex appeal, not for nimble maneuvering.
I hit the brakes, but the back tire slipped into the small ditch that ran along the side of the road. The rear quarter panel crunched against the mountain. The impact threw the front of the Ghost sideways and the rest of the right side slammed into the wall with so much force, it bounced off like a metal super-ball.
My stomach floated into my chest as the Ghost lifted into the air. The vehicle spun once before gravity brought it back to earth with a bone-jarring crash. My head banged against the driver-side window, cracking the glass. The Ghost bounced several times, before rolling across the pavement and bumping against a tree on the other side.
My head hurt more than my worst Skilled hangover as the world spun on its axis. I was vaguely aware of shouting near my car. I wobbled my head sideways. A man was struggling to open my door.
“That’s a lot of blood,” he said, turning white as warm liquid ran down my face. I wiped my forehead, then reached for my seatbelt.
“Whoa, stay still.” He tried to keep me in place, but I pushed him away.
“‘nother car,” I mumbled through a thick tongue.
The man caught me as I stumbled out of the Ghost. Steam poured out of the hood.
Several cars had stopped, their occupants exiting to come provide assistance. I tried to wave them back, but the van hurtled into view, tires squealing. It too tried to make the turn, but crashed into the mountainside nearly head-on. The front end collapsed with a shriek of metal.
Screams erupted from the motorists around me as both passengers flew through the windshield, crumpling against the stone wall like rag dolls.
