The water felt as if it had turned to ice and was now leeching warmth from his pores. He shut off the faucet and began to towel off. Deep down, he knew why he felt the chill: What if, like Brian Chamberlain, Orion Starr’s ability could be used to bring back the dead? Surely, Connor had been on death’s doorstep, if he hadn’t actually crossed the threshold, and Orion had been able to bring him back from the brink. His memories had grown fuzzy sometime after the first gunshot, and despite being told of his single-mindedness to secure the scene, he did not really recall any of the subsequent events in detail.
The chill in his bones and the frost in his blood he felt were the reality that he’d died and had been brought back to life with no memory of the other side. No Heaven. No Hell. Nothing.
He discarded the towel on the floor and decided to focus on other matters. He poured himself a drink before even getting dressed, and he let it sit while he found a clean pair of pants to wear. Orion Starr was to become a new type of resource—not a field agent like Connor nor a traditional asset to be kept locked up at Plum Island—and it was Connor’s job to test him under duress. A boy—man, he supposed—with his talent to heal was vital against his kind since most of them had destructive capabilities, and his worth on the battlefield was incalculable, provided he could handle the stress. So Connor was to allow Orion to accompany him as he investigated potential Others, assess his willingness to help the government combat his kind, and teach him the basics of becoming a field agent. Orion seemed to have a gentle soul, one that easily bowed to stronger wills, and Connor didn’t think he should be anywhere but in a safe laboratory; but it wasn’t his decision to make. The boy had to become an asset like Angel and Antithesis or be euthanized; he couldn’t be allowed to fall into SION’s hands. Orion didn’t know this, of course, and Connor presumed that he wasn’t supposed to know either, but it was the logical conclusion should Orion make the wrong decision. This made it Connor’s job to ensure that he made the right one.
- - -
Jack stared at his manicured hand and flexed it experimentally, watching his fingers expand and contract as if they were new appendages. The pulse of his victim raced through his veins, and he could almost hear the terrified voice of the VSION hooligan as his soul and life force were being slowly absorbed by Jack’s superior mind. His skin felt electrified, and sights and sounds became more vibrant. He always felt more alive after a feeding, but it had been years since he’d claimed sustenance from an Other. The sensations that accompanied the forfeited essence made his head swim, much like the effects of the opium and laudanum medicines of old. This had been an unscheduled feeding, and it had been a boon. He could sustain himself for several years—perhaps even decades—without consuming an Other, and his occasional penchant to feast upon incompetent humans in his employ enabled him to stretch that time even further.
Even so, harvest time was drawing near for Pierce Starr. He did not want his progeny to learn too much—that there were others like him and that feasting upon them would have an even greater effect. And as with any harvest, planting season would soon follow. He’d kept his eyes on Pierce’s brood, and while both had shown potential, he knew that Cassiopeia was now on the government’s radar, and this automatically disqualified her as her father’s successor. The government did not know about his existence, and he intended to keep it that way, which meant that Orion would inherit his father’s mantle if he had the same potential with his abilities. Very soon, Jack would reap the bountiful harvest of the human souls that Pierce had consumed, and he would then instruct Orion how to sustain his life force in the same manner.
Now that Jack had fed on the VSION operative, he felt less threatened. Even though his food source was still not secure, it was not as immediate a concern as it had been. The unexpected snack had taken the edge off his appetite and allowed him time to conceive a skillful plan to extricate Pierce from the circling authorities long enough for him to be harvested, at which time his son would disappear from the world without a trace.
Jack turned his hand and allowed his fingers to become transparent like the ghosts of Charles Dickens. This acquired skill was not the ability to become invisible, though he might nevertheless be able to utilize his newfound power in such a way. He recalled that the other VSION hoodlum had lobbed something at him, and it had gone straight through him and his victim. Experimentally, he tried to return his arm to its place on the armrest, but instead, it flowed straight through the surface as if neither one truly existed. Grinning, he opened his palm and found that the formerly solid object was as easy to navigate as smoke. So his last meal had been able to manipulate his cells to some extent.
He had a thought as he removed his arm from the recliner and decided to imagine himself as heavy as lead. As he felt himself sink further into the cushions, the wooden frame began to buckle under his new intense weight, and his grin widened. He didn’t know how this new ability would benefit him, but it would certainly prove interesting.
He noticed one of his underlings hovering near the doorway wringing his hands in distress so hard within his jacket pockets that he may well soon tear the cloth in half. The lower echelons of his hired help were not known for their constitution, and rumors had spread about the nature of Jack’s appetite. He’d heard a masterful fictional account of his disappointment and the subsequent torture of the underling who had failed him, so he was not unaccustomed to them experiencing apprehension in his presence. Mercifully, his enforcers and managers were made of sterner stuff.
“What is it?” he asked the assistant, whom he assumed was new. The man shook as ridiculously as any new hire who’d heard the legends. They didn’t last long; they either developed steel nerves, or they ended up dead by some means or another.
“I have bad news,” he replied reluctantly.
Jack felt his feeding euphoria begin to fade in the face of his building irritation. “Spit it out then.”
“Starr is dead. The police killed him.” He held out the report, which he was unfortunate enough to be the one to deliver. Jack didn’t even look at him, his attention now on the document, and the man slowly backed away as he would from a grizzly bear.
Anger flooded into Jack, turning his veins into fire. How complacent he had been! He’d sat here with a full stomach, practically bursting and desire sated, and he’d allowed his harvest to be spoiled while he’d lounged in his post-meal bliss. Even if there were a way to salvage Pierce’s yield, Jack did not have the connections to access his corpse in the morgue. “Find his blooming chavies. If either of them have been nibbed, the lot of you get lavendered, and I start a jemmier crew,” he growled. His transitory guttural accent obscured his words but not his rage or meaning. Decades’ worth of planning had been derailed in an instant because his bastard hadn’t had the brains to properly cover his tracks.
Part V
Code Names: Succubus & Echo
The sour smell of wasted beer permeates the room and lingers in the air, although she doesn’t allow it to draw her attention. Instead, her nose picks up the woody scent of a man’s cologne and she doesn’t like the smell but hides her distaste behind a meticulously crafted smile.
There is a pale stripe on a hand—a man’s well-worn and callused hand—and this finger’s girth is smaller than its companions. Something resided there for a long time and is now gone. Whether this is a temporary or permanent absence, she does not know, and she doesn’t believe it would matter to him either way.
The music is low, soft, and unintrusive, and there are chapped lips and warm breaths on her neck like a secret being spoken directly to her. He has to bend down to whisper into her ear, and she leans away and places a covered hand on his chest flirtatiously to encourage him to keep a teasing distance. Her hands are small and almost childlike, and her fingers are thin. Her satin gloves extend past her elbows, and despite being more congruent in high-fashion parties, here in this low setting,
they lend her an air of mystery and sophistication.
She stirs her drink daintily as she pulls away from her partner, and he subconsciously follows her incline, captured by the gravity of her charms. He is entangled in her web, where she has complete control, and it is a wonderful feeling that eclipses the disgust that she feels when she tolerates his revolting touch.
Lena Malmkvist awoke and quickly tried to latch onto the last tendrils of the dream before they evaporated into the conscious world. This was different from the peaceful nocturnal resetting of the brain; this was her hunter’s sense honing in on her next target. The hunt always began with these thin wisps of impressions as she slid gradually into the demon’s body and saw through its eyes. They were precognitions, a chance to stop the crime before it happened, and the path to redemption. When she’d first experienced these visions, she’d believed them to be the normal substance of nightmares, and she had not acted. But once she’d had to stand in the charred wreckage of her former home, she’d finally recognized the new path set before her and had accepted it zealously.
She pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail and knelt on the floor as she got into the pushup position. She pressured her mind into amassing details as she trained her body. What did she recall? Her hands were small and her legs slender, her hair was long, and the man’s hand felt large on her back, so it was likely that this demon was female.
Her muscled arms pumped rhythmically, rarely straining as she formed images in her mind. The victim had fresh stubble growing on his chiseled chin, but this detail would not yet help her; she needed to first synchronize with the demon’s mind by emulating her, and then she could focus on locating the victim and the future scene of the crime.
The drink, which had been sweetened, had only a hint of alcohol; the demon had wanted to remain aware of her surroundings and to be able to guide her victim into her web. It had been a mixed drink, composed more of pineapple and sprite than vodka, and it had been garnished with a cherry that she’d coyly sucked on when she hadn’t wanted to drink. Black gloves had enveloped her thin elbows and disappeared into her sleeves somewhere around her slight biceps. She’d covered her body with a black form-fitting pantsuit that had revealed many of her curves without exposing anything but impressions; it had hugged her like a second skin and had felt like armor protecting her.
Lena got up and wiped her hands on her thighs. The first order of business would be to find that outfit, feel it against her real skin, and be embraced by it like the demon. Then she’d mix the same drink and sample it as she tried to imagine why the demon preferred its taste. These were small details, and they did not narrow down much about the incident, but she had discovered that evidence built up over time and helped her better channel the visions.
- - -
Orion Starr had researched how to cope with the new stressors in his life—leaving school, having a new job, no longer being the caretaker for his sister, and trying to integrate into a new world—but putting these skills into practice was another ordeal entirely. He felt sweat begin to bead on his skin as he nervously followed Morgan Connor into the azure brick building that served as the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. He chafed against the rough weave of his suit collar; while he could have afforded a better suit—he was now the sole executor of his parents’ non-seized assets—he was too overwhelmed to spend the proper time on choosing the right cut, gentle fabrics, and complementary colors. He was satisfied that he’d found suits that didn’t require any altering to be decently comfortable, though he now regretted his hasty decision.
The agent spoke to the receptionist with confidence despite his ungainly mannerisms, and though Orion knew he could learn from his lead, he was soon distracted by how welcoming the lobby looked. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that he was in the reception room at a normal medical clinic or office space rather than the one at the city morgue. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet; he was still in the city, which only served to heighten his anxiety. When he’d asked Connor about the situation, the agent had told him that there were enough cases in New York to allow him to stay there indefinitely while he showed Orion the ropes. He had assured him that the familiarity of his surroundings would help him absorb the training more quickly, as he wouldn’t be distracted constantly by new scenery. But instead, Orion looked over his shoulder continually, expecting to see a classmate or neighbor who was ready to confront him about his parents’ supposed activities. Since there had been no one left to attend trial, the media had quickly released every publicly known fact about the Bramble Butchers and had interviewed their colleagues. Once the story had run its course, interest in it had died down as the nation had turned its attention to the next headline. He was grateful that he’d been able to spare his sister the media circus, and though the BSI had protected him from harassment, the incident had still left its mark. It didn’t help that the thought of seeing a corpse made him feel queasy, and his partner didn’t seem to spare a thought for his comfort.
A sudden pat on his back jolted him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Connor’s wide grin. “Don’t worry, mate. It’s just a dead body. It won’t hurt you,” he assured him with insincere friendliness. Connor wrapped his arm around Orion’s shoulder to lead him as they followed the receptionist. “’Sides, your cologne will cover up the worst of the smell,” he teased. “You really should look into wearing less. It’s meant to be a hint, not a substitute.” Before Orion could respond that he didn’t wear cologne, he continued, “You look like the sort of lad who was into The X-Files, so this’ll be right up your alley… though it’s a bit dodgier in real life.”
Orion grimaced. Connor—or “the agent,” as he still referred to him mentally—was beginning to charm him, if by nothing more than the careful application of Stockholm syndrome. He checked up on Orion regularly, bringing him food—generally ramen and instant mac and cheese—or smaller comfort items for the apartment, though the younger man didn’t really think he needed that many sponges or toothbrushes. Orion had practically lived on his own since he’d been ten years old, so he knew how to run a household. Connor would also hang around for a half hour or so making awkward small talk before clumsily taking his leave. Their interactions almost felt like those that would occur between estranged family members—like a father or older brother who was making an effort to be a mentor but failing—and while Orion didn’t know what to make of it, he discovered that he appreciated someone trying to look after him for once, even if that someone tended to act like an annoying prick.
Television police procedurals had not prepared Orion for the smell. The room was cold and clean, but beneath the sharp tang of disinfectants and the stale odor of refrigeration, he could detect a musk blended with pungent, earthy scents. All were repugnant but were easy to filter out if he breathed through his mouth; the drawback was that the air also had an unidentifiable aftertaste. Connor hesitated as he entered the room, swallowing briefly before recovering his composure, and Orion felt satisfied that even the experienced man could submit to nerves.
Connor had re-explained their modus operandi before they’d set out that morning: The home office would comb through assorted reports originating from the police, media, medical professionals, or even blogs and forums and would flag incidents for field agents to investigate personally. When not in the field, the agents would also assist with this process and might seek out several similar episodes in an area to piece a case together before setting out. His plan was to demonstrate how events usually unfurled in the field rather than coming together by exceptional good luck, so he’d guide Orion step by step. Because the body had been found after the crime and no one had come forward as a witness, their first move was to examine it and then interview the coroner.
Connor spoke confidently to the female medical examiner, almost flirting with her as he asked what she had discovered. Orion listened absently to their conversation and
began to drift away as he stood over the corpse. It was naked, its modesty preserved by only a thin paper sheet, and its head was wrapped with gauze, securing its jaw shut. Though its eyes were closed, Orion knew enough about the real world to guess that they’d been sealed shut somehow, and he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to see its clouded eyes. The wrinkled face sagged and was sorely creased, as if its owner had smoked too many cigarettes over the years or had spent too much time sunbathing without the proper protection.
This was the closest that Orion had ever been to a corpse, save for his father’s, and he kept his distance as if it might spring back to life and grab him. He had a fleeting thought that this had happened to him before, though he knew it was impossible; yet, he still took a disquieted step back. He didn’t notice anything remarkable about the corpse.
Connor shoved a clipboard into his hands and hissed, “Pay attention.” He then flashed the medical examiner a cocky smile. She remarked that this was the third body she’d seen in five years with abnormal damage to the head and that while the cause hadn’t been determined, she was fairly certain that it hadn’t been a contagion. However, due to the prolonged time between incidents, she wasn’t even certain they were related. He thanked her, and she affirmed that she’d be around if he had any further questions.
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