by Tina Gower
At the entrance, Becker flashes his badge. He leaves his guns and weapons in a safe. The orderly asks if Becker or I have different shoes to change into. Something without laces. We don’t. But it’s apparently not a problem and we’re escorted by security to a waiting room where I assume they will bring Talia.
“Do not give patients identifying information, home addresses, surnames.” The guard goes through the list, slightly bored in tone, but the expression on his face bores into each of us so we don’t misinterpret the seriousness of the rules. “The patient has been briefed as to general departments you’re both from, but has not been given your last names for safety. Often patients will attempt to track down visitors after release and attempt to form a relationship. Or unhealthy obsessions. Do not exchange items. You will be alone in the room with the patient. There is a call button located on the side panel, here.” He points to a large red button by the door. “You will press it if the patient becomes agitated, or unresponsive. Please note even if the patient is between doses, they are still heavily medicated and will not be as clear-minded as you expect. Unresponsive means passed out, seizures, or foaming at the mouth. Do not, I repeat, do not exchange items with the patient. Do not give gifts or any items from outside, or on your body, especially your shoelaces.” He flicks a look to our shoes once again, the displeasure in our wardrobe reflected in the tightness of his mouth. “I will be right outside this door.” And with that he leaves.
There’s a plastic chair bolted to the ground facing a plexiglassed-off area where there is another chair bolted to the ground, a metal table with rounded corners, a separate door into that section, and a window beside it.
“Shoelaces?” I ask Becker.
“It’s for the safety of the patients.” He must see the question on my face, so he elaborates. “They try to trade information for them and then use them to asphyxiate themselves later in their room when they’re not under supervision.”
Lovely. I hadn’t thought of it. But then again I had little experience with mental illness outside of what Ali would tell me about her mother. I’ve never visited Kiko. Ali said it was fine and the more people who could remember her for who she was instead of the shell she’d become, the more comfortable it made her.
There’s a loud buzz and then the door opposite of us behind the glass opens and an orderly enters. Behind him is a petite girl with her eyes focused on the ground. She’s younger than I expected. Behind her is another orderly.
Talia’s arms are wrapped around her chest in a straightjacket that ties in the back. She’s led to the chair and clipped to a metal ring. The orderlies go through a rough check. All the while Talia keeps her gaze on her lap. Her long hair drapes around her thin pixie-shaped face. There are angry red teeth marks, scar tattoos created from old burns along the side of her neck. It marks her as a vampire. Either a heritage she truly has in her blood or one she’s adopted due to her obsession with blood magic, but the marks are professional looking enough that I’ll bet there is some truth in them.
My bet is chiang shih. Her hair has the slightest tint of green under the fluorescent lights. The Chinese vampires once claimed to be resurrected corpses that had been possessed by demons, but it’s only exaggerated historical stories. Chiang shih are like any other blood lover who believes they can gain power from drinking the blood of various supernaturals. But vampires could only borrow the power from those they drank from temporarily. Drink a witch? Get magic. Drink a shifter? Get their advanced senses. Drink a human? Get nothing.
Good to know I wasn’t a desired commodity. Becker however…
“Fucking great,” he murmurs, having come to the same conclusion as me.
It did explain her obsession with blood magic as a witch having that little genetic hiccup. Or maybe it was the excuse she used to gain a stint in a mental facility rather than hard time in jail for the illegal magic she’d been practicing.
The orderlies explain they will also be right outside her door. They leave and their two burly frames appear in the window next to the door like they’re Talia’s two nightmarish guardian angels.
Becker straightens. His body and face don’t give away his disgust. “Talia Lee, I’m obligated by law to inform you that I’m a werewolf and will be using my abilities to decipher the honesty in your responses.”
“I know,” she answers softly. Her eyes flicker for a moment. A tear rolls down her cheek.
Becker stands there, mouth open, a strangled sound as though the question he’d been about to ask hangs in his throat.
I let my knuckles graze along the back of his hand. He closes his mouth, regains his composure. Letting him have a moment to compose himself, I pull up the questions we’d agreed to use on my phone. “Talia, we’re currently searching for a witch who has used blood magic recently to alter predictions.”
“Yes.” She brings her face up to meet my gaze. The sores around her lips and mouth are difficult to hide. Her eyes are bloodshot and not from her recent crying.
“Yes?” I prompt her.
“It was me.”
Becker nods. She’s telling the truth.
“Can you elaborate? I have specific cases I’d like you to verify. And how you were able to perform the magic from this facility. For example, in late October of last year, according to our records you were enrolled into an outpatient recovery program for blood magic addiction. During the same time frame there was a murder attempt on an oracle. A weather oracle named Jack Roberts.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Or just a few days ago. It’s recorded that you were picked up last week for violating the terms of your parole. Did you have anything to do with the tampering of Alana Morrison’s prediction?”
There’s a long pause. She stares at me, her eyes glassy but determined. I don’t think she’s going to answer, but then she blinks.
“They’re watching me,” she says. “I had to defend myself. Only blood can fight blood.”
“Did you participate in the tampering of Alana Morrison’s altered prediction?”
“They won’t let me leave. I’m a prisoner. Even here. There’s nowhere to hide.”
“Are you saying they’re forcing you to perform blood spells? Please give us the identities of the others involved so we can prosecute them. We can bring them down, Talia. We need your help.”
“There’s no help for me. I’m already damaged.” She lowers her eyes again and shakes her head. “And I have no names for you. I don’t know about the people you named. I didn’t do any magic for them.”
“Are you a member of Wyrd or New Karma?” Becker asks.
She flinches at his voice. There’s a weird fizz in the air I can’t explain. Becker tightens. His shoulders rise slightly. His fingers clench into a fist and unclench.
“I’m sorry.” She cries again. Her shoulders tremble. Her chin crumples.
“What are you sorry for, Talia?” I ask softly. “Do you mean you’re sorry for using blood magic to alter predictions?”
“I’m not sorry for that.” She shakes her head. “I had to defend myself. From them.”
“From who?”
“From those you speak of. They’re watching me.” She whispers it to herself. She stares at a spot on the floor as though she can see beyond it and I get the feeling Talia isn’t with us anymore. She’s off somewhere else. “I’m not with them,” she murmurs. “I’m not one of them.” She rocks, comforting herself, but she’s attached to the chair so it clinks with each movement.
One of the orderlies taps on the window, getting our attention. He holds up a sign written in sharpie all capitol letters. “MEDS KICKING IN.”
I wave with an irritated flick of my wrist to let them know I got the message. That was too short. Much too short of an interview and it appears Talia has the information we’re searching for. I don’t believe she’s part of Wyrd or New Karma, but she knows them. I look to Becker for guidance, but he’s zeroed in on Talia.
He steps forward, something in his
expression I can’t translate. “We’ll keep going.” He knocks on the plexiglass. “Hey, kid, wake up.”
She drags herself upright, snorting as though she’s been woken from a deep sleep.
Becker waits until he’s got her attention. “Tonya Linotelli, Jackilynn Martell—”
His pack. This wasn’t a question we’d agreed on. The air burns my lungs. I place my hand on his back. “Becker—”
“—Marco Ramirez, Ben Jones—”
“Becker—”
“Jaylee Ferriera.” His voice catches on the last name. The pack mate he’d been sleeping with. The pack mates who’d been slaughtered. “Do you know those names? Do you know what I’m asking you?”
“Becker, we can’t do this here. Not right now,” I plead with him. It’s a horrible idea. He’s not going to react well, even if she says she has no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe if we had Lipski here and a tranquilizer.
My fingers dig into his arms. I pull on him to move him away from the glass, but my attempts are in vain. He’s a lot stronger than me and it’s not just Talia that’s left the room; Becker’s gone too. Wherever they’ve gone, they’ve gone there together. I can see it in both their faces. Their gazes locked.
Her mouth hangs open, and a clear fluid runs from her nose. The light catches the sticky track marks where her tears have run down her face. But she’s dry-eyed now.
Becker shakes, waiting.
“Yes.” She licks her lips. “I’m sorry.”
Becker’s fists hang at his side. He sways. The tension builds in his muscles; his face goes hard. I’m able to wedge myself between the glass and his body. I cover my hands over his fists, afraid he’s going to punch the glass, the chair, the wall. His hands are cold. I bring them to my chest, tucking him close. It’s comical actually, thinking I can restrain a two hundred plus-pound werewolf from doing whatever the hells he wants. I can’t even get my arms completely around his body.
“Becker. Look at me. Please.”
He does. Thank gods.
“Becker, she’s cooperating. She’s restrained. She’s vulnerable. She’s not a threat to you. She’s not a threat to me.” His irises are blue, but not as vibrant as they should be. I hug him harder as if that will knock the color back into them. He tilts his head and his gaze slides to Talia. I snatch his chin, digging my fingers into his stubble. “You will keep yourself under control. Do you hear me?” I give his face, which doesn’t budge, a shake. I throw more authority into my tone. “Do you hear me?”
He comes back to me in one narrowing gaze. At first I expect him to toss me aside and rip through every barrier between him and Talia so he can take out his last several years of grief mutilating her body. But he drags his fists to my face, opening his hands as though the muscles are stiff.
His palms are chilled, damp, and trembling as he sets them on my cheeks. “I’m okay.” He nods as though he’s reassuring himself more than me. “I’m…” He drops his forehead to my mine.
“You’re tired.” I finish for him. “We should go home.” It’s been one kick after another for him. If I’d known he wouldn’t stay put this morning, I would have asked Michelle to meet at a much later time.
She wouldn’t have. She would have gotten started without me. Shit. I heave a long sigh.
Ian collects himself, pulls away from me. He’s closing himself off and my frustration bubbles to the surface. What the hell? Is this going to be our dance? Really?
I grab a hunk of fabric at the front of his shirt. He glances down, then away. Hands thrust into his pocket. “You need to stay with the suspect. Finish the questions.”
I won’t let go. I can’t. I think back to every movement, breath, word I uttered until I realize—I’d been thinking about Michelle and how she would have investigated without me. I’d felt impatient. Becker had sensed it. I’m flooded with guilt.
“Ian—”
Becker’s eyes go wide. He places his hands over mine that keep his shirt twisted between us. “No. No Ian. It’s just Becker.” His way of tossing away my attempt to be serious. He sighs and carefully untangles each of my fingers from his clothing. “I won’t be the reason you hold back from your job. I won’t.”
“I choose you. I do.”
And there it is. All chips on the table, in a moment of intensity, I’d throw my job away for Ian and he sees it. He knows it. And he won’t allow it.
“Then you’ll finish this for me. I can’t be here.” He turns me around, gripping my shoulders for a second. “I’ll be right outside.” He walks out of the room.
Okay. I turn around and alter the direction of my questions. Talia Lee is going to help me finish this. Drugs or no drugs. We’re going to bring every Wyrd and New Karma member to face their destiny.
Chapter 13
Talia isn’t involved in either active organization: Wyrd or New Karma. She wasn’t involved in the recent wave of prediction altering. It’s clear from the start of my second round of questioning. She says she’s been fate casting to keep the two groups off her tail, whatever that means. She’d been a member of an older Norn organization with similar goals. She claims all those members have since broken up and she doesn’t know where they are. Other than that, I don’t get much on our recent cases.
But she gives me more details on the slaughter of Becker’s pack members. Their plan. Their intent. It had been exactly what we’d gathered. They hoped to use shifter blood in a spell to change a series of predictions. Nothing big. Just an attempt to see what was possible.
Fuck. Nothing big. Thank gods Becker isn’t in the room and I pray to every god that he’s far enough away that he can’t hear, but I know that’s wishful thinking. He’s right outside that door just like he promised. His werewolf protection instincts won’t allow him to separate from me for too long. But, hells, hearing that his pack was slaughtered for nothing more than a minor experiment is hard for me to hear and I didn’t know or depend on them like family. I didn’t feel survivor’s guilt for being the one who lived. I never had to inform each of their families of their death, or explain that, no, the baby one of his pack mates was carrying didn’t live. I didn’t have to wonder if I could have done anything differently to keep them alive.
But I’ve been in that dark place. A place where regrets are king. I’m still there.
She names one of the shades Becker has in custody. She’s specific about which one, because they see themselves as one whole and share an ID, but legally they are separate. It will be a mess when the murder goes to trial. Case law has a history of letting shades, specifically tariaksuq who can culturally identify as one unit, be tried as a unit or even separately. If one of them is innocent, unaware, or disapproving of the crime in their group they can’t convict. But there may be a way if we can pin something on each of them, in which case we can win a conviction in moral court and each of them can serve an average of the term if we were to add up all the sentences. A life sentence could give them at least ten years each. Something for the prosecutors to figure out.
My bet is once they’re in prison as murdering a shifter police officer’s pack they won’t leave unless it’s in a body bag. I record each of her confessions on my phone, repeating questions and names and dates to verify, hoping I’m following the correct procedure so the confession won’t get tossed out on a technicality.
It’s not long before Talia is incoherent in her answers. They slur together and her head rolls to her chest, snoring. She’s done. But I’ve gotten what I can from her. She’d been using blood magic to keep Wyrd and New Karma from going after her. They would have known about her involvement with the Norns and her history. And they want more information on how she used the shifter blood in spells.
“Who have you told about your blood magic?” I ask her.
“I loved him.”
Someone she’d been involved with? He betrayed her then. I knew how that felt. “Who? I need a name, Talia.” I tap on the glass to get her attention. The orderlies flash me a signal tha
t we’re at our limit. She’s fading too fast.
“Manny, but he chose her. He will always choose her.”
Manny? “Emmanuel Brazil?”
She mumbles to herself. I tap on the glass, but she doesn’t respond this time. I flash a helpless look to the orderlies. They shrug. Yep. There’s nothing they can do. I can’t confirm my suspicion. That Emmanuel and Becky, one or both, are somehow involved with Wyrd. They would have had to pass the information along. Who’s their third? Was it his brother?
One of the orderlies motions for my attention. I wave him into the room. He calls at me through the glass. “We need to get her to her room before she passes out. Dead weight is hard to carry.”
“All right. Thank you.” I drum my fingers against my thigh.
The two men unsnap her from the chair and rouse her enough to stand. They each take one of her arms. She dangles there, glancing one look at me as they lead her from the room. She’s lost, an empty shell.
“Wait!” The men stop at my command. “Can I see her room?” I form the question as though it’s a formal request. Professional. But really I want to see if she’s safe. I can’t help but feel this might be the last time I see Talia Lee alive if I don’t make sure she’s protected inside. Why else did she allow herself to be picked up again? She’s able to tease apart fate threads and see the future. She would have seen this possibility. She would have known it was safe. And I want to know that she is too. I need to question her again. When Becker is able to, he’ll have questions too. He’ll need the closure.
The orderlies pass a look between each other and it’s not appearing favorable for me, but Talia attempts to straighten for a second. She whispers something in the larger, more tattooed man’s ear.
He twists around to respond to me. “Sure. Tell the guard outside to buzz you in on this side.”
