Officer Santos looked me up and down, then nodded. "Detective, I don't know if I could stand in the middle of a public bathroom with no shirt on and blood running down my stomach and defend my husband that well, much less a boyfriend. So if you need any help, you let me know. I got you."
"Thanks, Santos. I appreciate it."
"No problem, Detective. Now get that stomach cleaned up. There's a first aid kit in the supply closet right behind the door there." I looked where she was pointing, and sure enough, there was a door I'd never paid attention to marked "Maintenance" right behind me. I nodded my thanks to Santos again and looked in the supply closet.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back in Interview Room One sitting across from Deputy Director Buprof holding a steaming cup of hazelnut blend and wearing a clean shirt I kept in my office. I felt more in control of myself with a fresh dressing on my stab wound and some caffeine coursing through my system. I was ready to take on anything that Buprof could throw at me.
He sat across the table from me with a digital recorder. He pressed a button on the recorder and pointed a remote at the two-way mirror behind him. I knew that turned on the video camera on the other side of the glass, so everything I said from here on out would be recorded in two locations. At least. God only knew how many other recording devices were set up on the other side of the mirror.
"Now, Detective, please recount for me the events of this evening, starting from the moment you arrived at Mr. Card's home."
I'd already been through this a dozen times in the hours since all the shit went down, but Buprof was a relatively new addition. He'd arrived from Washington on a Department of Homeland Security jet just a few hours ago, all hellfire and brimstone to root out the corruption in the Charlotte office and bring me and Harker to justice. I knew the drill. Get the suspect to repeat herself, hoping that she'll make a mistake, trip herself up in some way. I was telling the truth, so there was nothing to trip up. Harker and I had been investigating a series of murders similar to a set of killings he investigated seven years ago.
In both cases, Nephilim, or half-angels, were being murdered and their blood harvested to open a gate to Hell for the demon Orobas to bring a bunch of his nasty siblings and pals through to our world. Both times, the culprit was a Cambion, an offspring of a demon, in this case Orobas, and a human woman. They hid their identities from Harker by smearing Nephilim blood on themselves, which masked their supernatural nature. Both times Harker stopped the Cambion, who was a member of law enforcement. The first time, he did it by casting the bad guy into his own portal to Hell. This time he shot the bad guy, our supervisory agent with Homeland Security, in the face. A lot.
It would have been a lot cleaner for everybody involved if he'd sent Agent Smith to Hell, but that wasn't how things went down. And now Harker was on the run, and I was getting ready to repeat my story for a camera and a very upset Homeland Security middle manager.
Until the door opened into Interview One and a thirty-something man with an expensive suit, a slight limp, and a neatly trimmed dark brown beard stepped into the room.
"What the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing?" Buprof said, standing up from the table. There went that vein again. I made a mental note to tell the good Director to go see a doctor when we were done here. If he decided against sending me to Gitmo, or Area 51, or wherever Homeland sent people they considered to be rogue members of their version of the X-Files.
"I think I'm stopping this bleeding circus right here," the newcomer said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "My client is going home. She is a sworn officer of the law, she has given her statement at least ten times already by this point, and while her incompetent excuse for a union representative may have allowed this sideshow to continue, I have no intention of doing so. I think it's time we ended this charade and all went home, don't you?" The trim man spoke with a cultured British accent, and when I gawked up at him with my confusion written all over my face, he looked down at me with deep brown eyes and gave me a conspiratorial wink.
"She's not—"
I stood up. "We've covered this already, Director. I've given a statement. I'm not under arrest. I'm going home." I spoke a little louder. "Captain, could you come in here?"
I heard a door slam, then the door into the interrogation room opened and my boss, Captain Benjamin Herr, stepped in. He didn't look happy, but he didn't look like he wanted to shoot me, either.
"Captain, am I on administrative leave pending an investigation? I need to know if I should plan to come back to work as soon as my side heals, or start looking for a new job." I figured I may as well cut straight to the chase and find out where I really stood with my department. I was pretty sure most of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department wasn't in league with a demon, but I had my doubts about Homeland Security.
Captain Herr thought about it, then shook his head. "No, Flynn. Your story matches what we saw from the dash cam of your department car, and it fits with the evidence. As far as I'm concerned, you're good. I'm going to put you on desk duty for another week or so until you heal up, and you'll have to be cleared by the department psychologist before you're back on active duty, but you're not suspended."
"I have some vacation and sick time coming, could I—" I started, but Captain Herr held up a hand.
"Take it. Get some rest, find out if your asshole boyfriend is okay, and make sure he knows that CMPD has no intention of building a case against him."
"Thank you, sir," I said, standing.
"Hold on a minute, Detective," Buprof said. "Just because your little band of blue brothers isn’t going after your murdering sack of shit boyfriend doesn’t mean Homeland Security won’t. As of right now, you are officially suspended from the Department of Homeland Security. You are to surrender your credentials immediately.”
I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and took out my badge holder. I flipped it open to my Homeland credentials, took them out of the holder, and put the laminated ID card on the table. I held up the wallet holding my gold shield and Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department ID at Captain Herr. “You want this, Captain?”
“Did I stutter, Detective?” Captain Herr turned my own smartass comment back on me. “I said you’re in the clear. That means you’re in the clear. If Homeland doesn’t want you anymore, CMPD will be glad to have you back with us full time.”
“Thank you sir,” I said. I slid my badge back in my pocket and stood up.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Buprof asked. “We're not done here."
"I believe that I clearly stated the opposite of that, Deputy Director," my newfound attorney said. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even hint at needing to raise his voice, but he spoke with such quiet assurance and carried himself with such calm strength that Buprof was forced to turn his attention to him.
"And who the fuck are you, exactly?" Buprof asked.
"Watson," the tall man replied. "Dr. Jack Watson, Esquire. I am Detective Flynn's attorney." He produced a business card from his jacket pocket and passed it over to the confused Homeland Security Director. "My contact information is on that card. All inquiries concerning my client should be addressed to me from this moment forward. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us?" He nodded to Buprof and Herr and steered me out into the hall.
I leaned in to him. "Who are you again?"
He held out a hand. "Jack Watson. Now please let's not tarry. While I am an attorney, and I do have my J.D., I’m not what most Americans think of as a doctor, and I am not exactly licensed to practice law on this side of the pond, unless our mutual friend Mister Card has made some very effective telephone calls very quickly."
"Watson?" I asked, thinking to myself, there's no friggin' way. "Not...?"
"Yes, actually," he replied. "Doctor John Watson was my great-great-grandfather. So yes, that Watson."
It appeared the Shadow Council had arrived.
3
I stood on the porch for a minute staring after t
he back of the retreating Alpha, then shook my head and went inside, dissipating my balls of glowing purple energy as I went. I was a tiny bit bummed that I didn't get to throw those at anybody. I didn't design them to kill anything, but they were gonna look really cool.
This was a new one on me. Walking into a werewolf's den didn't usually involve IKEA furniture in my experience, but this place was furnished in early 21st century modern craptastic sofas and bookshelves. The Alpha was sprawled in a recliner sipping a Coors Light while two other werewolves sat on the sofa watching television. Sure enough, there was Oliver Queen climbing a salmon ladder, all abs and attitude.
"Beer in the fridge?" I asked, pulling the sliding glass door closed behind me. If I needed to get out of there in a hurry, a pane of glass wasn't going to slow me down very much. Hell, if the wolves decided to evict me with extreme prejudice, the walls wouldn't slow me down much, either.
"Yeah," Alpha replied. "Grab me another Coors while you're at it."
I paused for a second, wondering if it was a test or some kind of macho dominance thing. Then I decided I didn't care, and I grabbed a Coors Light for the wolf and a Heineken for myself. I popped the top off the bottle with my thumb and handed the can to the were.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
"You know we got a bottle opener, right?" He pointed to my thumb, which bled a little from the edge of the bottle-cap.
"I heal fast," I replied, then held up my thumb. The tiny cut stitched itself shut in seconds, another of the useful abilities my vampire-enhanced blood granted me.
"That's handy," said the Alpha.
"You got a name?" I asked.
"I think I get to be the one asking questions," he replied. "You know, my house and all." He didn't raise his voice, didn't even take a stern tone, but it was pretty clear from the attention the wolves on the sofa paid to every syllable that this was not the dude to fuck with.
I shrugged and stepped over to in front of his chair. "Quincy Harker." I held out a hand.
"So not Harold Quinn?" he asked, taking my hand. His grip was firm, but not overly strong. He had nothing to prove, so he didn't bother to try. We shook, and I stepped over to a chair at the end of the couch. This put a coffee table between me and all three werewolves, space that I was going to need desperately if things got noisy.
"Nope," I said. I didn't bother explaining to him about my undercover status. I figured a werewolf might understand all about keeping his identity masked. I also didn’t ask how he got my name, assuming he either asked the waitress or had some way to scan recent property rentals. He was the local Alpha, after all. If he didn’t have the town pretty well wired, then he wasn’t much of a pack leader.
"Fair enough. I'm Drew Semper. I'm the Alpha around these parts. The one by you is Billy, and the big dumb one is Rocco." He pointed at the two couch-surfing weres in turn, and they nodded to me. I nodded back.
"How long have you guys been in town?"
"About three years, maybe four." I appreciated the fact that he didn't lie to me, either. I knew from my hour on the computer that afternoon that the house was rented on an annual lease to a Luna Holdings, LLC, out of New Jersey, and had been rented to the same company for a little over three years.
"What are y'all doing here?"
"Why do you care?" Drew shot back. The wolf called Rocco started to growl low in his throat, and Drew and I both gave him a sharp look. "Be nice, Rocco. Our guest here might be nosy, but he hasn't threatened anybody yet."
After being around a fair number of people who thought I was threatening them just by walking into a room, I found Drew's self-confidence refreshing. "I care because I'm here trying to keep a low profile, and if you guys are running some kind of small-town protection racket, or redneck meth lab, or undercover gambling ring, or anything that might bring down federal attention on this town, then we're going to have a problem."
Drew put the footrest of his recliner down and leaned forward. "Are we? Are we going to have a problem, Mr. Harker?"
"Only if you want to, Mr. Semper."
"What if I told you we already had a problem?" Oh shit. Wolf politics.
"I'd tell you if it was going to put more eyes on this town, then that would be an issue for me."
"What are you hiding from, Quincy?"
"I don't think that's any of your business, Drew." I followed his move into first-name territory, unwilling to yield to his Alpha games. He stood up and stepped toward me, sliding the coffee table out of the way. I stood up to meet him.
We just looked at each other for a long moment, passing a whole lot of communication between us without ever saying a word. Finally, Drew turned and walked into the kitchen.
"Another beer?" he called over one shoulder.
"I wouldn't say no." I sat back down in my chair, then leaned forward and tugged the coffee table back into place. Drew came back with three Coors Lights and an opened Heineken for me. "Thanks," I said, draining off the last of my first beer and setting it on an end table beside the sofa.
"Coaster," the wolf identified as Billy said, pointing to a rack on the table. I nodded at him and got a coaster. No point in fucking up a guy's furniture.
"Now, Mr. Harker, what brings you to Lockton?" Drew asked once he was settled back into his chair.
"Not so much being in Lockton as being out of Charlotte."
"Charlotte's a nice town. What's that in, North Carolina?"
"Yeah," I said. No real surprise that a werewolf in Ohio didn't know much about Charlotte.
"Why'd you leave Charlotte?"
"I had a disagreement with my boss at Homeland Security."
"There's a wizard working for Homeland Security?"
"Until about two nights ago, there was a half-demon called a Cambion working as a supervisor for Homeland Security."
"What happened two nights ago?"
"He and I had that disagreement I mentioned."
"And this disagreement didn't go well for him, I take it."
"And thus I am in Lockton, Ohio, home of the World's Largest Nothing. Not a tourist trap for miles, no traffic cams, and no reason for anyone to visit."
"The perfect place for a man on the run."
"I'm not on the run," I protested. "I'd just rather not deal with the consequences of my actions right now."
"Story of my life," Drew said, holding up his beer. I saluted with my bottle, and we drank deeply.
We finished our beers in a relatively comfortable silence. As comfortable as you can be when in the literal den, fireplace and all, of a bunch of werewolves who could probably tear you limb from limb quicker than you could kill more than two of them. Right now, we were operating on manners and the threat of mutually assured destruction. I knew that if I tried anything, I wouldn't make it out of the house alive, and they knew that if they jumped me, at least one of them would be dead on the floor in seconds. Nobody wanted to take the chance that they would be the lucky winner, so we were at a stalemate.
Drew stood up, flowing to his feet in that liquid movement that true predators have. He looked down at me, and I focused my will on my fists. I didn't bother with the glowing light this time. If shit was about to get real, I wasn't going to need pyrotechnics, just firepower.
"Our pack has been in this part of the world for a long time, Harker, and we can stay here and in the towns around here because we don't start shit with anybody. We know the drill. We hunt animals, not people, and we don't let anything else hunt people in our territory. If you're cool with that, you can stay. But if you've got ideas about summoning anything nasty, starting some kind of coven, or otherwise fucking with the people of Lockton, then we're going to have a problem."
I didn't so much let my will dissipate as it popped like a soap bubble. "What?"
"You heard me. We look after these people. So if that's a problem, you need to move on to greener pastures. We don't know shit about you, except for some rumors Billy picked up on the BlackNet. And that shit is too farfetched even f
or me to believe, and I'm a friggin' Ohio werewolf, for fuck's sake."
"Yeah, that's probably the true stuff. If it sounds just cosmically fucked up, I'd believe it." I turned to Billy, who showed me the BlackNet version of my Wikipedia page on a tablet. "Yup, all that's pretty much true. Except that thing about Zaire. Never been there."
"You're saying you're really Dracula's nephew and you're over a hundred years old?" Billy asked.
"Nephew is just how we describe it. There's no real blood relation." I didn't bother trying to explain the whole thing about him nibbling on my mom before she and Dad were married, and I sure as fuck wasn't going into Dad's time with Uncle Luke's "wives." I didn't know the whole story there, and didn't want to. If they wanted to read about that part of my origin, they could read the book. Or watch one of the countless nearly unwatchable movies.
"So he's real?" Drew asked, his voice a little hushed.
"The werewolf is asking the wizard if Dracula is real?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Fair enough." Drew walked to the fridge and grabbed another round for everyone. I wasn't finished with the last one yet, but I didn't want to be rude.
He sat down and leaned forward, looking hard at me. "So what's it going to be, wizard? Are you going to move on, are we going to throw down, or are we going to try to be good neighbors?"
I took a long pull off my beer. Whatever I said next was not just going to impact the direction my evening was to take, but was going to have a big impact on how long my life in Lockton was to be. Even if I fought these guys and won, that would bring a lot more attention down on this little town than I wanted. The Lockton police department was two guys, one receptionist, and one cell, usually reserved for a pair of drunks on Friday or Saturday night. A trio of bodies would draw attention at the state level and maybe higher, and certainly make the papers. That was attention I couldn't afford. And that was if I won the fight, which wasn't a lock by any stretch. Werewolves are tough, fast, and resistant to a lot of the magic I used against creatures like demons, by virtue of the fact that they actually belong on this plane of existence.
Heaven Help Us (Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Book 7) Page 2
