by Megan Morgan
June had seen plenty of bloggers speculating Micha had something to do with Rose’s death and was on the run, and one particularly amusing guy was convinced Micha had been abducted by the CIA. June could be sneaky, but she wasn’t on level with the government.
“I can’t believe how lurid this shit is.” June tossed the paper on top of Dipity. She emitted an angry mewl and got up. “Reads like a tabloid.”
“Ethan Roberts.” Cindy lifted the paper off her cat. “He’s been the lead paranormal reporter for the Tribune for years. He might be colorful, but he knows what he’s talking about.” She tucked the paper under her arm. “My friend will be here soon. So haul your ass out of bed and get dressed.”
Dipity jumped off June and padded slowly around the bed.
“I tried to warn him.” Cindy looked over at Micha. “All those years he thought the Institute could do no wrong. He sure took it up the ass without lube this time.”
June didn’t comment.
“It sucks, though.” Cindy dropped her voice a little. “He didn’t deserve to lose Rose.”
“Look at it this way. Now he can be an advocate for the right people. Knowledge is power. Fight the Man. Rah rah.”
June sat up. Dipity moved behind her and rubbed across her back in a sleek caress. Cats forgave easily.
Cindy turned toward the door.
“Hey,” June said.
Cindy stopped.
“What’s the SNC? I keep seeing them pop up in these articles.”
Cindy scrunched up her face. “They’re a paranormal…protest group. Can’t say ‘hate group’ since the treaty. The Secular Normalists of Chicago. They wanted to set themselves apart from the Bible-thumpers and fundies, but they still like to beat us up.”
“I didn’t realize they needed an organized group to do that. Where I come from, that’s called a gang.”
“It was founded by this guy named Alan Jenkins. He died like five years ago and his son Aaron took over. Aaron says he wants to clean up his father’s dirt.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t believe him.”
“Quite a city you got here.”
Dipity hopped off the bed and landed on the floor with a thump.
“I don’t know how you sleep at night,” June said.
“With one eye open.” Cindy turned and left the room. Dipity streaked after her.
Micha, undoubtedly having been awake for the entire conversation, stirred and rolled partially onto his back and twisted his head around. He gazed at her with bleary, unfocused eyes. She fought the urge to walk over to the sofa and lovingly smooth his hair back; then grab a fistful.
“I like your ink,” Micha said groggily. “I have some. On my back.”
June blinked and stretched her exposed arms. She had countless hours and thousands of dollars worth of tattoos up and down her arms, across her chest, some on her back, one down her left side. A lot she’d done herself. She also had multiple piercings: six in one ear, four in the other—minus the gauges—one in her tongue too, not to mention a few other places. A “rebel,” her mother called her. She caused soccer moms to cross the street on a regular basis, even when doing nothing more malevolent than smoking a Parliament while holding a latte and texting.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
Micha rolled fully onto his back and stretched, arms over his head, long legs stiffening beneath the blanket. He didn’t fit on the sofa, but he’d insisted on taking it, like a gentleman.
“God, what time is it?” he asked.
“A little after nine.” She needed to say something but took a moment to choose her words carefully. “I feel bad about you missing your wife’s funeral today. But until I figure out how to fix what I’ve done to your head, I can’t send you back into the wild. Let them keep thinking you’ve been kidnapped by the CIA or whatever. I have a feeling if you surfaced right now you’d fall into the Institute’s net anyway.”
Micha put his hands over his face. The light caught on his gold wedding band.
“I’m so confused,” he murmured through his fingers. “Not only about this woman who’s supposed to be my wife, but about the Institute.” He took his hands away. “I supported them. I thought they were doing the right thing. I believed they were helping the maligned and oppressed.”
June couldn’t believe he’d used the words “maligned and oppressed” in seriousness.
“I’ve done so many seminars there,” Micha said. “I’ve lauded them as a safe haven and a place for paranormal people to understand themselves and help others understand them. When I think of all the people I’ve sent there…”
The sunlight blazing on the white walls magnified the color of his eyes, making them some inane interior decorating color like cerulean. They were desperate though, dimmed with worry and care, darkened and dulled by sadness.
“Well”—she wasn’t good at placating—“a lot of people thought Hitler was doing the right thing until they found out the truth. Didn’t make them criminals.”
Instead of seeming relieved, Micha blanched, his eyes going wide. She popped her tongue into her cheek and looked around for her smokes. Smooth. Real smooth.
Chapter 2
Cindy changed into a brown shirt-dress thing, black leggings, and fuzzy brown boots. The colors looked good with her pale skin and shock of short, choppy brilliant red hair. At least she knew how to dress. She made some tea and proceeded to slosh a shot of Jack Daniels into her cup. June looked at the clock on the wall—just after ten a.m.
“My nerves are shot,” Cindy said.
They were sitting in her living room, June in a chair, Cindy on a big cushy stool. The kitchen and living room flowed into each other, small and sparsely decorated and as colorless as the bedroom. June didn’t mind. She could handle minimalism.
“I’ll take your word for it,” June said. “But who puts Jack Daniels in tea? That’s not even right.”
“I have an excitable condition. It keeps me calm. Trust me, you don’t want it to get out of hand.”
“Trust her.” Micha sat on the couch, legs tucked under him. He looked wide-eyed and tousled and stupidly cute.
June wanted to hug him and tell him she didn’t mean to call him a Nazi. And maybe give him an apologetic hand job.
“Let’s get down to business.” Cindy plunked the bottle of whiskey on the black lacquer coffee table in front of her.
June was tempted to snatch the bottle and take a swig. Without the tea. She hated tea.
“June,” Cindy said, “this is Robbie Beecher.”
Cindy’s friend was a slender sharp-shouldered man, with neck-length dark brown hair. Cute, but not exactly June’s cup of…well, straight Jack Daniels. He wore all black—black pants and a black sweater under a black tailored jacket, fashionable, suave. He smiled at June and she couldn’t stop herself from flinching. He had a wide mouth and thin lips, making him appear to have too many teeth, like a shark. She and her friend Diego in Sacramento would classify him as a “surprise horse face.”
“Robbie’s deaf,” Cindy said.
“Well that’s inconvenient.” June sighed.
“It’s all right,” Robbie spoke up, voice smooth, words well pronounced, not at all like the slow, labored speech of the deaf. “I’m a powerful telepath. I can hear your voice in my head. That’s how I can speak so well, since you’re wondering. And thank you for the compliment.” He smiled a tiny toothless smile.
“Most telepaths are courteous enough not to stick their faces in other people’s heads,” June said.
“I need to read your mind to hear your voice.”
“I wasn’t talking when I was thinking about your huge mouth.”
Cindy pursed her lips together, and took a drink of her tea.
“Robbie’s a member of the Paranormal Alliance, just like Cindy,” Micha said. “He’s a powerful telekinetic in addition to being a telepath. The Institute has solicited him for years. He�
�s also compiling an enormous collection of pre-research era supernatural documentation.”
June blinked a few times. “What?”
“Books and other written works documenting supernatural phenomena throughout history,” Robbie clarified. “Back when they still thought vampires turned into bats and gypsies put curses on you. I have quite the collection. The Institute would love to get their hands on it.”
She detected smugness.
“How titillating,” June said. How very goddamn boring she thought at Robbie.
Robbie flicked his gaze to the bottle on the coffee table; it slid smoothly across the surface and stopped at the edge, in front of her.
“Hey!” Cindy lurched forward.
“There,” Robbie said. “Since you want some.”
June hated telepaths.
A smile tugged at the corner of Micha's mouth, and his eyes glittered as he glanced at June.
“Oh, you won’t get any of that,” Robbie said.
June really, really hated telepaths. “I might not be telekinetic, but I can throw something at you.”
“Guys,” Cindy said. “Can we stick to the subject? As Micha said, Robbie’s a member of the Paranormal Alliance, like I am.”
“Great,” June said. “I’m not clear on what the hell that is, but let’s pretend it’s going to get my brother out of the Institute, since you keep bringing it up.”
Cindy plunked her teacup on the table. “The Paranormal Alliance is the only organized group in Chicago made up entirely of paranormal humans. We hate the Institute.” She focused a sour, tight-lipped look on Micha. “And Institute lovers.”
“They’re supposed to be doing some greater good for their people,” Micha said, “but they mostly spend their time harassing the Institute. They have a lot of reasons. Some don’t trust the Institute. Some don’t like that they’re uncovering paranormal secrets. Some believe their culture should be kept underground as it’s always been, away from the ‘normals.’”
June resisted the impulse to point out they had the right idea. He probably had enough salt in his wounds.
“I don’t like the Institute,” Robbie said. “I’ve never trusted them. Do you know ninety percent of the Institute’s staff is non-paranormal? What does that say?”
Micha opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut.
“So these guys are your friends.” June looked between them, brow furrowed. “But you’re an activist who supports—supported—the Institute?”
“I believe a good activist understands all sides of a conflict.” Micha spoke reasonably. “We may have differing views, but we both want safety and rights for the paranormal. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“We’ve known Micha forever,” Cindy said. “And he’s right, we both want the same thing when it boils down to it. But”—she leaned forward, eyeing Micha—“we don’t allow normals into the Paranormal Alliance.”
“Not that I want in it,” Micha said.
It sounded like a war, but instead of two countries fighting, it was sixty of them, all with their own set of self-righteous ideals. People like Micha wanted equal rights for everyone. And June hated everyone equally.
“So you guys are extremists,” she said to Cindy. “Kind of like that SNC group. Just on the flip side.”
Cindy gaped. “We are not like them!”
She sprang up and charged at June. June braced herself, calculating quickly she could take Cindy out at the knees with a swipe of her leg, maybe, if she acted fast enough. Cindy stopped in front of her, though, and snatched up the bottle.
“We’ve never used violence to get our point across,” Cindy said.
Behind Cindy, Robbie made a shifty glance to the side.
“Go sit down.” June, leg lifted defensively, bobbed her foot at Cindy. “Get outta my face.”
“Watch your mouth.” Cindy pointed a finger at her.
June scowled after her as she retreated, and then narrowed her eyes at Robbie, finding something strange about the way he’d reacted to Cindy’s statement. Maybe he wanted to bash a few skulls in. She could get behind that.
“So can you help us or not?” Micha asked. “We have to get June’s brother out of the Institute.”
Cindy sat back down on her stool and twisted the cap off the whiskey bottle. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna take you to see someone.” She took a drink straight out of the bottle.
“Someone powerful,” Robbie said. “His name is Sam Haain.”
Micha groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh God. Not him.”
“Yes, him.” Cindy sat up straight with a bright smile.
“Who’s Sam Haain?” June asked.
Micha lowered his hand. “He’s the leader of the Paranormal Alliance. If you want to know why his members are so…adamant, it’s because their dogma and paranoia trickles down from the top. I don’t know if Sam Haain is his real name. Maybe his mother had a terrible sense of humor. But he certainly enjoys being the ominous specter of the disenfranchised and mistreated.”
June didn’t know why, but the way Micha talked heated her panties up. Normally, if someone were in her tattoo shop spouting crap like that, she would tattoo “loser” across his forehead and shove him out the door. Maybe having a hot body to distract from the piousness made all the difference.
She reminded herself today was Micha’s wife’s funeral and she needed to be respectful.
“Sam is a very effectual man,” Cindy said, overloud. “Are you calling us zealots?”
“The last thing I want to do right now is talk to Sam Haain.” Micha deftly sidestepped the question. “There’s got to be another way.”
“You name it.” Cindy shrugged.
“Sam is our best bet right now, Micha,” Robbie said. “We had to do a lot of groveling to get him to agree to this meeting.”
“Now, I don’t buy that at all.” Micha snorted. “Sam Haain is always looking for an opportunity to be affronted.”
“I think he handles the bullshit in this city quite gracefully,” Cindy said. “He’s had to deal with people hating and fearing us ever since the Institute opened, and he, unlike you, never bought into their ‘benevolence.’ I admire his poise and rationale.”
“Two constructs I’ve never associated with Sam Haain,” Micha said, “but if you say so.”
“Sam has all kinds of connections,” Robbie explained. “With city officials, the media, independent researchers… Not all paranormal scientists work for or believe in the Institute.”
June actually knew this, but she figured Robbie could dig around in her brain like a gopher and pillage her childhood memories. The Institute was a big scary entity, but the world had always been full of scientists studying the paranormal who didn’t need the government to tell them to go ahead. Chicago just decided to make everything official.
“Great.” June lifted her hands. “So this guy is going to, what? Bust into the Institute with guns blazing? Help me get Jason out of there?”
“I hope not,” Micha muttered.
“You have to speak to him,” Robbie said. “This afternoon, Navy Pier. He won’t meet anywhere else.”
“I want to go, too.” Micha sat forward. “Much as Sam Haain rankles me, I want to hear what he has to say.”
“You can’t go out in public.” Cindy gasped, wide-eyed. “I know you don’t remember, but they killed your wife, Micha. That makes you next on their list. I didn’t even think you should have gone out last night, and that was sneaking around, not out in public.”
“They expect me to be hiding. They won’t look for me in a public place. Besides, today is my wife’s funeral, right? So they’ll probably be watching for me there.”
“He’s got a point,” June said.
Cindy slammed her cup down on the table. “All right then.” She got to her feet. “We’ll just have a parade right down Michigan Avenue.”
“Awesome.” June got up. “I’ll twirl a bat
on.”
* * * *
Chicago was a living metropolis, a brilliantly modern and majestically primeval creature breathing and teeming and issuing forth a steady cacophony of human noise. Under the stark winter light, the buildings loomed as monoliths, an overwhelming collection of glittering glass, gleaming steel, and earthy stone. At street level, the world was narrow and claustrophobic, life chugging along under the shadows of the great towers like thick blood pulsing through deep, dark veins.
It was beautiful and horrible at the same time. Like most great monsters.
“Where’s Sears Tower?” June craned her neck, trying to see out the moon roof of Cindy’s car. She had seen the skyline from the freeway, the tallest building in the country rising like an obsidian deity amongst a gray court.
“You can’t see it from Michigan Avenue.” Micha sat next to her in the backseat. “And it’s Willis Tower now.”
“What?”
“Willis Group Holdings moved into it. It’s called Willis Tower now.”
“Are you serious? It’s an American icon.”
“They renamed Comiskey Park ‘U.S. Cellular Field.’” Micha shrugged. “Corporations buy things; they change the names. If you think you’re shocked and outraged, you should hear the people who live here.”
“Killing traditions,” June said. “Your city is pretty good at that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask all the pissed off paranormal people.”
Robbie, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned his head and shot a close-lipped smile at her. June mouthed turn around. He did.
“Not that I’ll get to go up it,” June said, “but are you outside on top of the Willis Tower?”
“No.” Cindy snorted. “It’s glassed in.”
“So no spitting over the edge,” June said.
“It would never reach the ground from that high up.” Cindy rolled her eyes in the mirror.
