by E. A. Copen
Not that I liked going to church. I hadn't been back since I turned eighteen. I have nothing against it. There are some fine people of faith in the world. The problem with me arises when people fail to make that distinction between religion and faith. I didn't feel I needed either. As long as the Church kept its distance, I kept mine.
I opened my door and stepped out. The energy of the church swirled up around my ankles and enveloped me in a nice static cocoon and I walked up to the front door. It was open and I could hear music inside so I let myself in. The sanctuary was a humble place with rows of pews and little hymnals tucked into the back of them. I slipped into one of the pews in the back and crossed one leg over the other, listening as the local priest on the stage pounded out a song on a beat up piano. He was a capable pianist but I didn't think he had the concert flare in him. His baritone vocals were decent, though I couldn't hear him too well from the back of the church. It took me nearly a full verse to realize what he was playing and smiled to myself.
When he finished and I clapped, he looked up, startled. Then, he gave a slight smile that almost masked the slight flush in his face before standing. He was a good looking man, definitely not the kind the Vatican put on their recruiting posters, though. They've always preferred a gentler, more innocent looking and even boyish kind. Father Reed wasn't any of those things. I'd pulled his file that morning. It contained about what I expected to find: absolutely nothing of consequence, not even a speeding ticket. No one was that perfect. This man of God, despite his perfect hair, perfect smile, broad shoulders and perfectly proportioned nose, may have been the most dangerous person on the entire reservation.
“I didn't realize you were sitting there,” he said and rose. “I apologize.”
“Not at all,” I said, standing and walking casually down the aisle to meet him. “Though a church is the last place I'd expect to hear something by Kansas.”
“I will sing to the Lord as long as I live. I will sing praises to my God as long as I have being,” he quoted with a smile. “I'm a firm believer that there is more than one way to raise one's voice in praise.” He extended a hand to me and I took it. “Father Gideon Reed. You must be Judah Black.”
I noted that he left off my title and emphasized his, his way of letting me know that I was in his territory and that he intended to hold on to the upper hand. Or, maybe it was an honest mistake, but I doubted it. This guy was a minister to supernaturals. In his time, he'd have acquired some of the same tricks I was learning, such as establishing dominance from the get-go. The way he'd gripped my hand, putting his fully around mine, spoke volumes but it didn't have to mute me. His smile faded when I let a little jolt of power slip through my hand and into his. Then, he smirked and let me go. We didn't talk about it but the look on his face said he was pleased.
“News travels fast,” I noted. “Seems everyone knows who I am before I get there these days.”
“Well, in a town the size of Paint Rock, a new presence is difficult to keep secret. Add the fact that this is a reservation full of supernaturals and you can see how things get around quickly.” He gestured to the front pew. “Actually, I was hoping you'd come and speak to me.”
“Really? Have anything to do with Elias Garcia?” I sat down on the pew but only after he sat first.
“Elias was a troubled man,” said the father with a deep sigh. “He didn't come to me often but he and his brother have both been present at one time or another in my congregation. As I understand it, some members of their pack objected to their regular attendance. I expect you're already aware of that.” He glanced around, as if he were waiting for a third party to speak. “I wanted to ask you about your house, Agent Black.”
“My house?” That seemed like an odd topic, given everything else that was going on he could have asked me about. But hey, why should things start being normal and explainable now? “What about it?”
He looked straight at me, though it felt like he was actually looking through me. It gave me chills. “The last two agents seemed rather uncomfortable with their accommodations. One sought me out to bless the place but he didn't seem satisfied with my services and quickly took up residence elsewhere before leaving altogether. I wanted to inquire as to how you were doing there? Anything strange? Anything at all?”
I thought about it but nothing came to mind. I hadn't really been there to do much more than sleep and, by the time I got around to doing that, I passed out and slept like a rock until my alarm forced me to drag myself out of bed. “You trying to say my house is haunted, father? I haven't seen evidence of that.”
He smiled. “Good. Maybe it was only their imaginations. The reservation can be a hard place for the mind and spirit.”
“You have heard that Elias was found dead yesterday morning?”
Reed's expression sobered. “Yes. I did. I reached out to the Garcias. Part of the ministry of the church is providing solace in times of bereavement. They haven't been returning my calls, though.”
I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “Were you aware that Valentino and Nina had a son?”
“Of course,” said Reed without missing a beat. “I baptized him.”
“And what about Sara Greenlee and Marian Summers? Did you baptize them as well?”
He gave me a careful glance and then answered, “I baptize all the children of Paint Rock. At least, all the ones whose parents are part of my congregation. As the only licensed priest on the reservation, that's to be expected. Can I ask what this is about, Ms. Black?”
“Agent Black,” I corrected. “Do you keep a record of the baptisms performed here?”
“I'm afraid I can't give you access to any records without a warrant,” he said folding his hands. “And I'm very limited as to what I can tell you. The sacrament of confession is inviolable, as I'm sure you're aware.”
“Even to save the life of an innocent child?”
Reed nodded. “Cannon law is very clear. I can neither confirm nor deny anything that's not public record.”
“You confirmed the existence of Leo Garcia, Marian Summers and Sara Greenlee,” I pointed out. “Something that none of the local police seemed to have been able to do.”
“That information was never given to me in confidence,” said the priest with a shrug. “And if the police had truly been looking for those children, no word from me would have made any difference, had they ever sought it. The Greenlee case was open less than a week. The Garcias never went to the police. All of this, I'm sure you know.”
I studied his face. It felt like we were skirting something important, that if I could just ask the right question the right way, he could tell me what I needed to know. Damn the church and all their secrecy. “I guess the question is, father, how do you know?”
He gave a slight smirk and stood, which meant that, in order to continue our dominance play, I had to stand, too. “If you care to step into my office, perhaps I can be more candid.” Reed gestured to a door off to the side and then led me to it.
His office wasn't any more elaborate than the sanctuary, simple and functional with an air of both openness and authority. If Reed had pursued a career in business rather than religion, the office could have belonged to one of those by the people, for the people type CEOs. He sat down on his side of the desk in the comfortable looking leather chair and gestured for me to sit across from him on the smaller, stiffer version of the same chair. I smiled. “I think I'll stand. I've spent most of my day sitting and it's making my back sore.”
He considered me with an upward stare. “Suit yourself.”
“So, what is it you wanted to say that you couldn't say out there?”
“I suppose you haven't had time yet to familiarize yourself with all of the local leaders,” he said and started sorting through the drawers of his desk.
“I met Chanter Silvermoon, the werewolf alpha, just yesterday.”
“The vampires have a matriarchal leader here in town and the fae have their
elder. All three sit on the town board along with two human practitioners and me.” He glanced up at me before bringing out a red, leather bound notebook that he scribbled in as he spoke. “As the oldest and strongest, Chanter leads the werewolves de facto. The fae elect their representative from a pool every so often and the practitioners come and go without contest. The vampires, however, have a more serious territorial issue. Officially, there is only one coven here and it is headed by Patsy Adams.”
“Patsy Adams,” I repeated and then finally made the connection between the face and name in my head. “The same Patsy Adams that runs the laundromat where Elias' body was found?”
“The same,” Reed agreed with a nod. “It is an open secret that the vampires control much of what goes on around here. Not just in Paint Rock, mind you. In all of Concho County. There aren't enough werewolves to put a dent in their operations so that means the fae are their only real competitors when it comes to power. Unfortunately for the fae, their factions within factions and longstanding racial segregation means they don't trust each other enough to band together and make a difference.”
“Hold on,” I said, raising a hand to stop him. He looked up from what he was scribbling in his book. “You're not going to tell me a vampire is behind the missing children?”
“I'm not telling you anything,” he said and went back to writing. “Only pointing out which groups haven't been targeted yet. No vampire children have gone missing. No humans, either.”
I frowned. Most people don't realize that there are two different breeds of vampire in the world. Some vampires are made the movie way: another vampire bites them, does some black magick thing, and turns them. But those vampires are considered second rate vamps in most circles. The real deal were the born and bred creatures of shadow and blood. They grew up right alongside humans, albeit at a slower rate. Those were the vampire children Reed was referring to. Vampires were well known for keeping their youth well protected so it wasn't a surprise to me that none of them had gone missing. Then again, Donald's wards hadn't been anything to sneeze at, either.
“Alternatively,” continued Reed, “whatever is taking these children simply hasn't gotten around to them yet. It's difficult to say.”
“Vampires don't feed on fae,” I pointed out and that was generally true. Oh, vampires could feed on fae but most didn't think it was worth the risk. Fae blood was rife with magick and clinical studies suggested it produced a long lasting, intense hallucinatory effect in vampires but only in microscopic amounts. Two ounces was considered a fatal dose.
Reed glanced up at me. “Don't ever underestimate the ever present urge to escape the pressures of everyday life. It isn't restricted to humans alone. Every living thing is looking for an out. Some of them find solace in the rituals of religion. Others worship drugs or alcohol instead of God. For some, the escape is pleasure. Addiction is a sickness of the mind, not the body, and every soul on this reservation is sick.” He turned the page and scribbled something else quickly on it before ripping out the page and holding it out to me.
“What's this?”
“Every vice has a market, Agent Black. There is where you'll find the largest retailer in the county.”
I looked down at the paper, which contained a single word and an address. “Aisling?” I asked and looked up at Reed with one eyebrow raised.
“It's some form of Gaelic, I believe. Not sure what it means but, in this case, it's the name of a well-known club that stands out on old eighty-three, just before you hit the Eden city limits. Trust me, it's impossible to miss if you go after dark.”
“What does a club have to do with Elias' death or those missing kids?”
“It is…” The priest opened and closed his mouth, looking very much like he wanted to tell me something but couldn't. “…somewhere that I hope can help you find your answers,” he said, though his expression looked pained.
I thanked him and left the church, glad when I was finally away from the buzzing power and safe inside Sal's truck. Reed watched me go from the front steps and waved to me as I pulled out. He seemed friendly enough but I just couldn't get the idea out of my head that something was off about him. I hadn't sensed any magick at work but the Holy Ground may have been interfering with my abilities. If Reed was anything other than human, he was very skilled at hiding behind the curtain of power that the church provided.
Human or not, he knew something, something that could probably break both my cases wide open. His religious convictions and fear of being damned to Hell for all eternity prevented him from telling me. At least he'd given me something to go on, even if that something was vague. Either that or he'd sent me on another wild goose chase.
I sat in the air conditioning, mentally reviewing what I knew. So far, I had nothing that physically connected Elias to the missing kids, other than Sal's theory. As plausible as Sal's theory was, I needed hard evidence before chasing down any more leads. Donald had talked about a white Jag and plates were certainly traceable, though I still had no way to match the white Jag Sal's ex-wife had gotten into to the one at the Summers' place.
Yes I do, I realized and pulled out my phone. Judah, you idiot!
I didn't have the number for BSI regional headquarters programmed into my phone, though I'd already committed it to memory. I dialed it and put in the extension that would get me to my direct supervisor. It rang twice before a pleased Louisiana drawl answered in a baritone voice. “Judah Black. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I needed evidence, proof that the Jag I’d seen and the one Donald described were one in the same. But, at the same time, I also needed to make sure I wasn’t stepping on any agency toes.
“In the last month, have there been any other agents assigned to Paint Rock? Maybe to work on registering some unregistered children?”
There was a shuffle of some papers in the background and the distinctive sound of fingers walking across a keyboard. “If there was, I don’t have a record of it.”
Bingo. Whoever Donald had talked to, they weren’t legit BSI.
“Do the gates going in and out of the Paint Rock Reservation have cameras pointed at the road?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Excuse me?”
I told my supervisor in as few words as possible that I was looking into a murder case and needed to match the make and model of a car based on eyewitness testimony. It was only half true, of course, but he didn't need to know that. If there were cameras, BSI owned them, meaning I shouldn't need a warrant to get a look at whatever was on them. After ten minutes of arguing back and forth about procedure and paperwork, I finally convinced my boss to forward three days of footage to my secure e-mail account. I hung up feeling proud of myself, though I didn't really have any reason to. Finding the car didn't prove that the car had taken the children. It only proved that someone had impersonated a BSI agent and even that was based on the eyewitness testimony of someone who would never testify. It wasn't as helpful as finding the smoking gun but, hell, I'd take anything.
I drove home. I had just enough time to get cleaned up and grab something to eat before I had to go meet Sal and get to Elias' funeral. There was a package waiting on my front porch and I grabbed it up before going in, placing it absentmindedly on the counter while I went to shower. I still had things coming in from the office in DC so I didn't even think twice about opening it as soon as I got out of the shower, though it did seem odd that the envelope didn’t contain any return address. Maybe they’d simply neglected to stamp it on there. Hunter was napping in his room so I didn't bother to wake him and wouldn't until the very last minute. Like his father, Hunter didn't wake gracefully.
I was expecting a stapler or maybe the dinged up nameplate off of my desk. That isn't what I found.
Whatever it was, it was inside of a vacuum sealed bag. As soon as I opened it the whole room filled with the foul stink of rotten meat. I covered my mouth and nose with one hand. Nausea and fear both settled in
my stomach and I wondered if someone hadn't just forwarded an old sandwich to me that I'd left in the fridge. Ha ha. Very funny. Right? My fingers shook as I unfolded the inner, black bag and turned the entire box upside down to dump the contents out.
The thing that fell out of the box was a big hunk of pink and blue flesh, all coated in what I could only assume was blood. I would have thought it was a cow's tongue if it were bigger but it was far too small for that. The tongue in my sink could have come from nothing other than a human or some humanoid creature.
I shifted the box, my limbs going numb and my head spinning and one more thing fell out. It was a note, the letters written in immaculate, calligraphic crimson: Mind your tongue.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next thing I knew, my head was in the trash can next to the sink, vomiting up everything I'd had time to eat or drink since lunch. My eyes burned as my sinuses reacted, forcing tears and snot to trail down my face. I was deep in gut wrenching, bile churning pain when my son's anxious voice shook me out of my own misery. “Mom?”
Doubtless, he'd smelled something off before he came in. Maybe the stink of my stomach contents would cover up what was in the sink. I drew a sleeve across my mouth just as he took a step into the kitchen. My mommy instincts kicked in and, suddenly, the only thought in my mind was that I needed to protect my son. I pointed firmly in the direction opposite the sink and managed to hiss out, “Stay the hell out of here, Hunter!”
“Are you sick? What's wrong?” He didn't stop coming. Dammit.
“I said get out!” Hunter froze and his face hardened. I'd struck a nerve I hadn't meant to. “Hunter,” I started, intentionally softening my voice but it was too late. He turned on his heels and bolted for the door, pushing out into the heat of the late afternoon. I should have chased him but I didn't want to drag him back into a kitchen crawling with death.
