The Grendel Affair: A SPI Files Novel

by Shearin, Lisa

  She aimed the remote at the grendel hologram, clicked a button, and it vanished. If only the real thing could be dispatched as easily.

  “The events of the past forty-eight hours,” Sagadraco said, “imply that their descendants have a desire for vengeance of the eye-for-an-eye variety. They are now in our city committing murder, and taking heads and arms as trophies. We can theorize that the mummified body parts were intended as payment or a reward of some sort for the grendels that were brought here. However, we lack proof for that hypothesis; so for now, it remains a theory.” She paused meaningfully. “Director Anderssen insists that these are primitive creatures that would not have the ability to veil themselves from sight and sound. This means that our adversary must somehow be providing them with the means to do so.”

  “The last thing we need is a pair of independent, strategic-thinking monsters prowling the city hunting for their ancestor’s missing body parts.” The speaker was Sandra Niles, another team commander, who’d come to New York by way of Jamaica.

  “Do we have any leads as to who’s behind this?” Ian asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Sagadraco said. “The team of ghouls who took the arm and Mr. Barrington-Smythe could be working either for our adversary or for an as of yet unknown party.”

  Sagadraco aimed and clicked the remote again. Where the grendel had stood was now a holographic map of the lower half of Manhattan.

  “The first murder—that we can directly attribute to our subjects—was in Chinatown,” she continued. “The second was in SoHo. That doesn’t mean that the monsters and their controller are in Lower Manhattan, but Times Square is close enough that we can safely narrow our search parameters.”

  Red dots appeared at each of the three locations then a glowing blue line linked the dots to form a triangle.

  “If the grendels choose to hunt on the surface tonight, there will be more killings, and more risk of additional exposure,” she added. “Unfortunately these creatures are not sluggish during the day.” Sagadraco turned to SPI’s resident cryptozoologist. “Dr. Milner.”

  Dr. Henry Milner took the boss lady’s place at the front of the room, as well as control of the remote. Control of the room was another matter entirely. I’d met him during my first week at SPI, and knew him to be more comfortable studying creatures of the night than interacting with people during the day. He cleared his throat nervously, clicked the remote, and the map of Lower Manhattan came back, only this time it was flat like a tabletop with red, green, and blue glowing lines descending in a seemingly endless tangle below the surface.

  I knew what they were. Tunnels and pipes. I felt a pair of eyes on me. Vivienne Sagadraco was regarding me with an assessing gaze.

  “The red represents subway tunnels, the green are the city sewers, and the blue are the major waterlines and storm overflow drains,” Dr. Milner was saying. “There are more than eight hundred miles of subway tracks and thousands of miles of sewer tunnels running under the city. While grendels historically preferred warm temperatures, they have adapted to colder climates, meaning they could be anywhere down there.”

  Ian’s expression was grim. “As are many of the city’s homeless.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Milner pressed a button on the remote and the bottom two-thirds of the hologram’s tunnels vanished, still leaving an impossible amount of real estate for our people to cover. “Based on surveys done by ourselves, the police, and the city’s social services department, many of the city’s tunnel-dwelling homeless can be found in the levels that are far enough down for concealment, yet close enough to the surface for access.” He paused uneasily. “Director Anderssen said that while grendels are carnivores and will eat any warm-blooded animal, their prey of preference is humans. Their physiology is such that they thrive in an environment where they have ready access to humans. As a result, grendels have been hunted down and rendered virtually extinct in the Scandinavian countries. Our present situation proves that there are a few remaining.”

  “So how do we kill ’em?” Benoit asked.

  “Due to their size and speed, not easily,” Milner replied.

  “The information Director Anderssen sent says that their skin is essentially armored scales,” Sagadraco said. “Impervious to most weapons, unless the entry point is beneath one of the plates. One would have to be preternaturally skilled with a bladed weapon or lucky beyond belief with a firearm. Even if the skin is penetrated, the musculature beneath is capable of healing all but the most grievous of injuries. The only sure way of dispatching the creature is by decapitation. The grendels’ speed and strength make getting close enough to do any of the above all but impossible.” She smiled. “However, we deal with the impossible every day, and I have every confidence in your abilities.”

  Benoit gave the boss a crooked grin. “Why, thank you, ma’am. We aim to kill.”

  “Lars and a team of specialists are on their way now and will arrive by eleven o’clock this evening. They have had experience with grendels, and have agreed to serve as consultants on this mission.” She leveled a glance around the table. “We will give them our full cooperation.”

  There were nods of agreement, some more reluctant than others. Each of our people had the highest qualifications for the job they did—and the lowest tolerance for outsiders coming in to potentially tell them how to do it. The boss knew that, hence the proactive admonition.

  “However, we have two other problems that cannot be solved by accurately placed silver or steel.” She held out her hand and Moreau gave her a copy of today’s Informer. I didn’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to hold the thing any longer than I had to, either. “One of our city’s tabloids has captured a photo of one of the grendels.”

  I felt an overwhelming urge to slink down in my chair. Just because I didn’t work for the Informer any longer, didn’t mean that I wasn’t still embarrassed by having once been employed by them.

  “Fortunately for us,” Sagadraco added, “this tabloid does not enjoy a reputation for sterling journalism.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  There was light laughter around the table.

  “Though, in our favor,” Sagadraco added, “the photograph is grainy, and the Informer is known to have faked or embellished photos in the past. Also to our benefit, the police believe Dr. Falke’s murder to be the work of a sickle-wielding serial killer who plagued this city several years ago.”

  That was new. I glanced at Ian. He nodded once in confirmation.

  “Rumors benefit us now,” the boss continued, “but in a city of this size where nearly everyone carries the means to photograph or videotape anything they see, it is only a matter of time before the grendels are a secret no longer. If this happens, supernatural beings will soon be exposed by legitimate sources that people trust and believe.” She frowned. “A copy of the letter I received is in your folders. It all but directly states that our adversary’s intent with these creatures is to release them into Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Our challenge is great. We have a little more than twenty-four hours to locate two grendels in hundreds of miles of tunnels before midnight on New Year’s Eve. If we fail, it will literally be there for the world to see. If we fail—real monsters will become known to mankind, undisputed proof that supernatural creatures exist will be provided to millions at once, inciting a worldwide panic.” Vivienne Sagadraco took a deep breath and looked in the eyes of each man and woman seated at the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, what would follow would be open season on all supernatural creatures.”

  • • •

  The dragon lady’s mood was grim enough after the meeting without me adding to it, but just like the vamp’s offer, ignoring this wasn’t going to make it go away.

  Immediately after the meeting adjourned, Roy Benoit approached the boss, and they were now deep in discussion. Ian caught Alain Moreau’s attention. The lawyer crossed the room to us.


  “We need to speak with the boss after she and Roy are finished,” Ian told him.

  Moreau’s pale blue eyes regarded me with absolutely zero expression. “I was about to request the same of you and Agent Fraser on behalf of Madame Sagadraco.” He opened a door behind us that appeared to have been part of the wood-paneled wall. Inside was a small conference room with a table and six chairs. With a pale, elegant hand, he indicated that we precede him.

  Once we were inside, he closed the door. “Please be seated.”

  We did. Ian and I sat on one side of the table, with Moreau and his iPad on the other. Except for the fact that the iPad wasn’t a file folder, the setup felt uncomfortably like the precinct interrogation room from last night.

  Ian started to speak, and Moreau held up a hand. “Madame has requested that we wait for her.”

  Ian sat back, with him and Moreau wearing identical poker faces.

  Oh boy.

  With the faintest of clicks, the door opened and Vivienne Sagadraco came in the room. The three of us automatically stood.

  “Please be seated,” she said. Moreau held a chair out for her.

  Ian spoke before Moreau could. “Ma’am, after we left Green-Wood this afternoon, the vampire Mac encountered last night tried to kidnap her near the Twenty-fifth Street subway station—an abduction with the intent of killing her. He acted as if he knew her, but Mac had never seen him before last night.”

  Moreau didn’t blink an eye. The only reaction from Vivienne Sagadraco was to lean forward and steeple her long fingers in front of her face.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” I ventured carefully.

  “I assure you, Agent Fraser,” the boss said, “today has been abundantly full of surprises—every one of them unpleasant.”

  I smiled weakly. “Sounds like my day, ma’am.”

  Vivienne Sagadraco settled back in her chair. “Why don’t you tell me about your day, Agent Fraser?”

  After I found enough spit to swallow, I did. I left nothing out, and relayed the conversation with the vamp word for word. Then Ian and I told them what we’d discovered about the Tarbert family.

  “Where is this flash drive now?” Sagadraco asked me.

  “Kenji Hayashi has it. I don’t believe he had time to look at it before the meeting, so he’s probably doing it now.”

  “The assassin from Green-Wood was unable to shed any light on the identity of her employer,” Sagadraco said. “The transaction was completed by leaving instructions in an obscure volume in the main branch of the New York Public Library. The payment was deposited in a library coat locker. Our examination uncovered that the assassin works there part-time.”

  “A librarian?” I blurted.

  Vivienne Sagadraco’s eyes went cold and hard. “I would think you of all people, Agent Fraser, would not be fooled by outward appearances.”

  I felt the blood rush to my face, and I had to clutch my hands under the table to stop them from shaking. The boss was pissed—at me—and while I had no idea why, I think I was about to find out.

  “Unless we discover otherwise, we will assume that the assassin’s services were secured by the vampire you encountered.” Sagadraco paused. “I have learned a great deal today, and not all of the unpleasant revelations came from Director Anderssen.” She cast the barest glance at Moreau. “Alain?”

  “I have discovered the identity of our traitor,” Moreau said. He touched the iPad’s screen and turned it so we could see the photo. It was the vampire from last night and today, bundled up like he had been today, smiling and shaking hands with an equally happy-looking woman with a blond ponytail and wearing an all-too-familiar green sweater.

  It was me.

  12

  IT took me a good five seconds to find words, another five to get them out. “Ma’am, that ain’t me.”

  I cringed to myself. Way to sound like a hick to the boss, Mac. You can take the girl out of the mountains, but fear of being eaten by your dragon boss brings out the mountain in the girl.

  “This photo is from a surveillance camera mounted outside of Saga Partners Investments,” Moreau said. “This particular scene was recorded at eleven thirty-five yesterday morning at the café across the street.”

  “That’s him, but it’s not me.”

  “Who is he, Agent Fraser?”

  “That’s the vampire from SoHo last night and Brooklyn today. Those were the only times I’ve ever set eyes on him in my life.”

  You have to believe me, I wanted to shout. But they didn’t have to believe me; they had photographic evidence smack-dab in front of them, complete with a date and time stamp, and I couldn’t prove otherwise. The homeless man was the only witness last night, and today the vampire was gone by the time we came up from the subway station. Hell, either him or one of his MiB buddies had even cleaned up his blood first.

  I’d been set up.

  This was officially a nightmare.

  I locked eyes with Moreau. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

  Without taking his eyes from mine, he touched the bottom of the screen again, and the photo changed to a scene I didn’t recognize, but it was the same vampire. “Charles Warrenton Fitzpatrick the Third. He previously worked for the CIA as a handler.”

  I froze. “Handler?”

  “A point of contact for their undercover agents.”

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

  Someone was setting me up to not only be fired, but probably killed, if not by the vampire CIA agent, then by my own employers. I was shaking in my snow boots, but I was also mad as hell. Whoever had painted a bull’s eye on me wasn’t here, so I turned my anger on the vampire in the room with me. “So what is it that I’m supposed to be all happy about with this Charlie Fitzpatrick?”

  “Unknown,” Moreau said.

  “You mean unknown until you get it out of me.”

  Silence.

  “We’re merely seeking an explanation, Agent Fraser,” Vivienne Sagadraco said.

  Then they’d turn me over to the Vulcan mind meld people.

  “You said previously a CIA handler,” Ian said to Moreau.

  “That is correct.”

  “Who’s he working for now?”

  “Unknown. But it appears he is working in a similar capacity.”

  “You said this was taken at eleven thirty-five yesterday?” Ian asked.

  “Correct.”

  “The photo of Mac in Adam Falke’s pocket, did you discover when that was taken while reviewing the break room tape?”

  “I did.” Moreau brought up the security camera’s version of that photo on his screen, the one where I had a cookie in each hand. The date was yesterday. The time was 11:00 a.m., which gave me plenty of time to get across the street for some vamp schmoozing. Great. Just great. I resisted the urge to kick something.

  Ian indicated the tablet. “May I?”

  Moreau slid it over to him.

  “Is this icon for the break room video?” Ian asked.

  Moreau nodded. “For a twelve-hour period beginning at six yesterday morning through six last night.”

  Ian glanced at me, then his attention was back on the tablet. “Mac, you said you ate cookies several times yesterday.”

  “Yes.” I failed to see how bringing up my cookie addiction could do anything but get me fired and/or killed quicker.

  Ian fast-forwarded the video until I appeared again. The time indicator read 12:15. Again it left plenty of time to get back from the café across the street.

  A small smile creased Ian’s lips. “Makenna Fraser is no traitor. But then I already knew that.”

  He isolated the three photos and dragged them so that they were side by side.

  “What do you see, Mac?” he asked me.

  I leaned in for a closer look. There I stood in t
he first photo eating a cookie, with another in my hand lined up to be devoured next. Powdered sugar was sprinkled down one side of my sweater. At least in the third photo I was only eating one cookie. Aw jeez, I hadn’t even wiped off the powdered sugar from the previous cookie raid.

  Wait a minute.

  My eyes went to the middle photo of me and the yuppie vampire. The vampire was in profile, but my twin was almost facing the camera straight on. I could clearly see the front of the sweater.

  “No powdered sugar,” I said, almost to myself.

  Ian sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not one speck.” He showed Moreau and the boss. “It’s on her sweater in the exact same place at ten and twelve fifteen in the break room, but not at eleven thirty-five across the street.”

  “I didn’t have time to go to lunch,” I remembered, “so I had another cookie.”

  “Security has your hand scan indicating that you left at eleven thirty-one and returned at eleven fifty-five,” Moreau said.

  “I was at my desk during that time,” I said. “Check the bull pen video. I may have cookie issues, but I’m no traitor.”

  Alain Moreau and Vivienne Sagadraco exchanged a concerned glance.

  Moreau lowered the tablet. “I no longer need to check. It was not you.”

  “You have our apologies, Agent Fraser,” Vivienne Sagadraco told me. “I had hoped there was a logical explanation. Now we have one.”

  I was even more confused, if that was possible. “Apology accepted, ma’am. But there’s not a damned thing logical about that second photo. It’s not me, but she could be my twin. She’s even wearing the same clothes.”