"Well, now that you mention it..."
She thought about it. “Let's go to Shari's. The one on Union's closest."
Chaz gave a swift nod and pulled a U-turn. He whipped a quick left and jumped on I-5, then caught a connecting freeway barely a mile down the road.
* * * *
Less than ten minutes later they were sitting in a booth at a Shari's restaurant, watching as a matronly waitress with graying hair and glasses poured their coffee.
Chaz regarded Ben with an unreadable expression, his gaze measuring. Amanda caught a glance from the corner of her eye and smiled to herself. She knew Chaz, but not quite well enough to know what he was thinking. No one ever knew what Chaz was thinking—except maybe Renee or one of the other psychics, she amended. His brain didn't work like the brain of anyone else she'd ever met. He saw everything as patterns, as wheels within a big machine where everything meshed into one coherent system.
It made him a remarkable mage, as well as one of the world's leading engineers in several different fields. It occasionally made him a royal pain in the ass as well, but that was just another detail to deal with.
Athena Cross—her ultimate boss—leaned heavily on his expertise when it came to technological matters. A lot of the gadgets used by both MAD—the acronym for the Magical Affairs Division—and PARD, which stood for Paranormal Action Response Division, had been designed and built by Chaz and his team at Shea Industries R&D.
She focused her eyes on Ben and found him staring down the aisle at a group of teenagers who'd just come in. Nothing unusual about that. Most graveyard shifts at twenty-four hour restaurants saw a lot of teens with nothing better to do than sit around, drink coffee, and shoot the breeze. Some things rarely changed quickly—even here in Freak City.
Then she looked again. Two of the teens weren't quite what they looked to be. They were all Goths, with the heavy white makeup, dark mascara and eye shadow, and black on black ensemble that told the world how truly scary they were. Except the two Ben had his eyes on. They had the look, but it was all too fake. Or is that too real?
Their faces were too luminous, far more than simple makeup could explain. Their hair caught the light and seemed to prism, casting back a million different colors. Her eyes flicked to their hands. As one talked he waved his hands. She caught sight of his fingernails—they gleamed like mother-of-pearl, like an abalone shell caught in the light.
She knew the look as well as Ben did. His best friend and her brother and mother had it. The Living Dead. Vampires.
Not as though that came as any particular surprise. She knew there were some around. Like the rest of the Freaks, vampires found Tacoma nearly irresistible. It hadn't gained its nickname of Freak City by chance, after all.
The hostess led them past their table. The two vampires passed their respective gazes across their table with nearly identical mocking smiles. They knew they'd been spotted and didn't care.
Amanda avoided their gaze. Even if they were babies they could catch a mortal's mind in their mental grasp without even trying. At least most of them could. She wasn't going to take the chance of losing herself in their eyes.
She felt a vibration through the table and realized that Ben had leaned against it and a low rumble was rising from his throat. Shit! Not here! “Ben!"
His eyes snapped to her. “What?"
"This is neither the time or the place,” she told him.
Chaz raised his eyes from the table, where he was sketching some sort of a diagram on a napkin. He hadn't noticed a thing until the vibrato tone from the werewolf had shook the table beneath his pen. That's Chaz for you.
The vampires disappeared into a booth somewhere behind them and Ben shook himself irritably. “Should've warned me,” he muttered.
"That there were vamps around? You're kidding, right?” He'd spent the last few years on the fringe of modern vampire politics. That he wouldn't know that they'd spread all the way across the west coast simply astounded her. Guess that means he wasn't paying attention.
She'd gotten regular reports from her mother—her brother wasn't talking to her, but that wasn't much of a surprise. He knew she opposed his particular brand of vampire politics. She supported her mother's Conclave solution, not his ‘clan’ bullshit. He wanted to promote his own sense of power. Making get and building his clan was his way of doing that. Gina's democratic concept, built on the model of the labor union or civil rights organization, suited him not at all. For now the mortals were unaware of them, but that wouldn't last long. They were just another brand of Freak, when it came down to it. But, unlike the mages, who could easily show their value to the population at large, the vampires would have a much harder row to hoe. Vampires fed on people. They didn't have the power to heal, or work other wonders that would benefit mankind. They were, more or less, parasites.
* * * *
Putting his concerns about the vampires aside, Ben leaned over the table and eyed Chaz's sketch. “What's that?"
"A concept for a rail gun,” Chaz replied. “I'm thinking we can put one in Antarctica and use it to shoot nuclear and chemical waste into orbit, where it can be gathered up and hurled into the sun."
Ben's nodded, rather impressed by the idea. “Wow. Why Antarctica?"
"It's hard to say what repeated exposure to unshielded electro-magnetic pulses of this magnitude would do to people. It's better someplace far away from population centers."
"And Antarctica fits the bill.” Ben nodded. He blew out a long breath as he glanced over at Amanda. She'd been listening with some interest as she leaned over and studied his rough diagram. “I can't stand it any longer, Amanda. My apologies, Chaz. I didn't really want to bring this up in front of anyone else, but...” he shrugged. “Have you gained any ground?"
Amanda didn't have to ask what he meant. She shook her head in response. “We've got nothing.” She wished she could tell him something. Cory had been—was—Ben's best friend. Missing for four years, snatched away at the very moment of their triumph over the Vampire Queen Veronica to God only knew where.
"After four fucking years?!” he snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “You've gotta be kidding me!"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. His anger was reasonable. She wished she didn't feel like she deserved it. After four years she should have been able to discover something. She'd done everything she could think of and accomplished nothing.
It wasn't as though she could take it to the media. So far they'd managed to keep the existence of vampires secret, but they all knew it couldn't last forever. All things considered, it wouldn't be too hard to paint a picture of Cory as some kind of rogue vampiric Freak—and few of the reporters in town would hesitate to do it.
So she'd been forced to make inquiries as quietly and carefully as she could manage. No one had seen anyone answering to Cory's description. And she'd been all over Puget Sound. And sent agents to the places she didn't have time to check.
No one had seen him. “I wish I was kidding,” she replied. “The best we could determine is that he was brought up here. Magic isn't always predictable when it comes to vampires. Or werewolves, for that matter. Sometimes the mana just melts away from you guys. And, as far as old fashioned police work goes—if no one has seen him, we're pretty much S.O.L."
"Wait a minute—did you say that werewolves are kinda immune to magic, too?"
"Sometimes. Some threads just don't take for shit.” She shrugged. “Doesn't seem to be a lot of rhyme or reason to it. Magic is quirky at the best of times ... as much art as science. And there are few really talented artists."
Chaz's eyes lit up as he interrupted. “Despite the fact that we have someone who knows a lot about it teaching both basic and advanced classes at the Academy, a lot about magic is still unknown. It's never been explored, I mean scientifically."
"Chaz intends to change that,” Amanda put in, sending a silent ‘thanks’ to the engineer for distracting Ben from his anger. At least momentarily.
"Sounds int
riguing,” Ben murmured.
A bit of commotion by the door drew their eyes that direction. A pair of very odd looking men were engaged in a low volume argument with the hostess. Amanda frowned and slid out of her seat, stalking into their midst.
* * * *
Ben craned his neck to watch. Other than their odd, matching outfits—black and silver leather with a black and red tiger-striped sash wrapped around the waist—they appeared normal enough. At least at first glance.
"We have the right to refuse service to anyone,” the hostess said snootily. Amanda's spine stiffened, jaw jutting forward as her hands curled into fists. Ben stared at her profile, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He liked watching her. He'd only wished he'd had the chance for the past several years. If not for the intervention of several people even more stubborn than he was, he'd have been on the bus up here before his sixteenth birthday.
He tried to convince himself it was only concern for Cory, but he knew his reasons had as much to do with spending time around Amanda Keening as with searching for his friend. He supposed he should feel guilty about it, but seeing her standing there, eyes flashing with barely restrained fury, he couldn't really blame himself.
"Where's your sign?” Amanda asked, deceptively pleasant.
"Sign?"
"The law states that for you to exercise that option you have to have a sign in plain view stating so."
The hostess, a small, frail looking young woman with hair the color of polished teak in a ponytail hanging halfway down her back, grimaced and looked at her feet. “I didn't know that."
"I thought not. Nice try. Don't do it again, unless you want me to slap you with a civil rights violations charge.” She whipped out her badge and held it up for the young woman to see.
The hostess's jaw dropped six inches. She sputtered, wringing her hands together and screwing up her face as if she were about to cry. Amanda ignored her, turning her attention to the two men for whom she'd gone to bat. “You might want to consider frequenting a different restaurant,” she suggested. “I don't think these folks care for your business."
One of the men, a thick-necked fellow with a glaring scarlet tattoo on one cheek, grinned back at her. “Looks that way, doesn't it? Thanks for your help, Agent Keening.” With a nod, he turned on a heel and led the way out the door.
"Who were they?” Ben asked Chaz, who'd barely glanced up from his doodle.
"What—you don't watch TV? They're Crimson Sash."
"Superheroes?” Ben restrained his curiosity, though he felt tempted to stand up and introduce himself. It was doubtful they'd appreciate it. They probably suffered as many autograph hounds as professional athletes or rock stars. “Who?"
Chaz took another look. “The Burning Man and Captain Quill.” He went back to his diagram.
"Captain Quill?” Ben murmured, incredulously.
Chaz glanced back up at him, staring over the rims of his glasses. “I didn't come up with the name."
"No kidding?"
Chaz replied with a tight smirk and shake of his head. “Why don't you go ask him?” He smothered a grin and went back to his work.
Two
November 1st
Tacoma, WA.
"I preach not a message of hate, but a message of love—love for you, the Children of God. We are entering the Time of Tribulation. Satan's Hordes walk our streets. You've seen them. There are more of them every day.” The thick-necked, wide little man in the crisp tailored gray suit stalked across the stage, his nearly black eyes burning with a feverish light. “But it's the ones you don't see that you should fear the most. Some of them the devil has put his mark upon where all of us can look upon it and see. Others ... well, the mark is deeper.” He tapped the center of his chest. Angrily. “It's in their souls. Given to Satan in the grips of sinful passion.
"They say it's a disease that anyone can catch. Well ... do you know how this disease is spread? Through sexual congress. Sins of the flesh. Sex within the bounds of matrimony, with the spouse chosen and sworn to before God, cannot give you this disease. It is the product of sin alone."
Amanda could see Ben standing behind the man, staring blankly over the heads of the rapt audience. She took a deep breath and passed a glance over at her friend Detective Sarah “Nemesis” Breed, Chief of Detectives for the Tacoma Police Department. “He looks miserable,” she murmured. “I'll bet ol’ Dr. Seymour would shit bricks if he knew one of the guards provided by the city was a werewolf."
"No kidding,” Breed replied. “How's Ben holding up, anyway?"
"Restless. He's just waiting for the new class at the Academy to open."
Breed frowned. “He's not a mage."
"No. Doesn't want to be, either. He'll be working for Renee in the Paranormal Action Response Division."
"One of her LEOPARDS, eh? He should fit in on that side just fine. I understand he got some good preliminary training from Gunnery Sergeant Scorpius before he came up here."
LEOPARD. She'd come up with the acronym. Thought it fitting as hell. Law Enforcement Officer Paranormal Action Response Division. Predators in service to the law. Amanda nodded in response to Breed's question. “Still has to pass through the Academy's Core Curriculum to qualify for service, though."
* * * *
Hell with bodyguarding, Ben thought. I want to kill him myself. He did his best to stare past the little bastard, wanting nothing more than to step up and knock him into the audience. Pretend you're somewhere else entirely, Ben. Malibu. Jamaica. Anywhere else.
He'd never been to those places, of course. He'd never been anywhere other than home until he'd come up here. His eyes flicked over, caught sight of Amanda speaking animatedly with another woman. Oh, yeah. The cop. Nemesis Breed. What a name. She was pretty enough, if a bit too old for him, with a sharp, striking face and honey-gold hair slightly tinged with white at the temples.
A sudden movement from the crowd caught his eye and he stiffened. A scream sounded, the crowd parted slightly, and something in red leaped at Seymour, covering thirty feet in a single bound. Ben hurled himself forward to intercept.
He tackled the attacker and brought him down on the stage with a crash. He gasped as he stared down at him—it—whatever. Eyes of burnt orange stared out of a devil's face, complete with goatee and two gently curving horns sticking out of his forehead. Something lashed at his leg and he glanced down to see the end of a forked tail flicking wildly from where it was between the assailant's cloven hooves.
No wonder all he saw was red. Both skin and the odd satiny jumpsuit it—he, Ben decided—was wearing.
He struggled, but his strength was no match for Ben's. Even when not in werewolf form he was easily ten times as strong as a normal man. It was one of the few compensations he got for being a monster, the way he saw it. Stronger. Faster. Could be worse. He can jump a long way, Ben thought, but in the upper-body strength department, he's a blueblood wimp.
He dug his thumbs into the front of his shoulders. A gasp of pain and the creature stopped struggling, glaring up at him with both pain and rage in his eyes.
* * * *
Amanda and Breed both bounced to their feet as the red-skinned creature threw itself at Seymour. Ben's interception and take-down was perfectly timed and looked damned professional. Breed half-smirked and tossed her a nod. “Nice moves. Congratulations. He'll be a real good agent."
"I think so, too. Well, you want to handle this? It's your baby."
"Uh ... if he was a normal criminal, sure. But he's a devil. I think that makes him your jurisdiction."
"Well ... yeah ... but it's the city that has the arrangement with Dr. Seymour's people. Technically you're responsible for his safety. Anything that compromises—or attempts to compromise—that is something you'll have to handle."
"Now you're just getting weaselly. I don't even know a defense attorney who'd buy that argument."
"Thought it was worth a try.” She stood, ascended to the mezzanine, and walked around th
e arena. The stage had already been secured by the TPD uniforms, so she had to show her ID to get through. “Federal Agent,” she said. Her ID said Homeland Security. What it didn't say was Magical Activities Division.
Operating directly under the authority of the Paranormal Affairs Commission, the Homeland Security thing was just to avoid any awkward questions. Nominally the PAC was under the HomeSec umbrella, but no one who knew about it was fooled by that particular piece of legal fiction. The Commission was answerable to the President alone.
Which made the upcoming election all the more important.
* * * *
Seymour marched straight up to her, vibrating with what only could be outrage. “Who are you? Where's Breed?"
Amanda knew all too well what he saw—a tiny, petite little woman of about five foot even, with a wild mane of burnished copper tangled across her shoulders. When she was lucky she was mistaken for fifteen. When she was unlucky—twelve. “Sir, I'm Amanda Keening, I'm a federal agent under the Paranormal Affairs Commission."
"You work for Athena Cross, you mean."
The man was annoying, not stupid. Challenge rose in his dark eyes. “You plan on trying to cover this up?"
"With a arena full of witnesses? Are you kidding?” She felt anger flare and tamped it down. Hard. She couldn't afford to lose patience with this asshole. “The guy's obviously our jurisdiction. That's why I'm taking custody of him."
"Mind he doesn't just disappear on you,” he told her. “Demons do that."
"Uh-huh.” She didn't bother to tell him she didn't believe in demons. The guy was a meta—there was no doubt in her mind. What he thought he was doing attacking Seymour, on the other hand, baffled the hell out of her.
The insane thought that Seymour might've somehow set this up flashed for a second, but she discarded it. The contempt in his face when he spoke of the creature put that notion on the border of ludicrous and absurd.
She wondered if he really believed the crap he was spouting, or if he was just running a major con on everyone. He was certainly smart enough to pull it off if he was.
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