"I notice you said ‘vigilante.’ Will you be talking to the Crimson Sash about this?"
"Not exactly their modus operandi, now is it?” she growled, not quite able to suppress her irritation. The media's all-too vocal opposition to and occasional harassment of the metahero groups was a constant sore point with her. A direct cause of the kind of crap she saw at the restaurant the night Ben arrived. “The Sash doesn't use guns, and they don't kill people."
Newsome turned away a little to face the camera. “This reporter finds it mildly disturbing that this PAC representative not only stands up for the costumed vigilantes, but actually seems hesitant to question them about these horrible crimes."
"Editorialize on your own time, asshole,” she snapped at him before turning away. Only her own self-control had kept her from using a mana effect to raise boils on his tongue or something. Numerous times. Newsome was one of the worst offenders as far as she was concerned. Rather than giving the metaheroes their support, most reporters saw them as a potential danger to the average citizen far in excess of any standard of logical thought she could identify. They'd just love to demonize them out of existence. Hell, the cops dealt with their existence better than the press. Mostly because the cops had arrived on too many potentially explosive scenes to find the Sash or another agency had already managed to put a lid on things before they blew up.
"It's a damned shame that our own civil service people share more sympathy with the freaks than they do the average citizen!” he yelled at her back.
She whipped back around. Magesight came unbidden and a thread of mana came to her hand almost of its own accord. She felt her lip curl into a silent snarl. “You know, Newsome—I hope you get the metavirus. I really do. And I hope it's terribly disfiguring. I don't know anyone who deserves it more."
She let the strand fall and walked away, almost choking on the anger coiling in her throat. It would be so easy. One flick of a thread and ... She sighed, shaking her head. Not worth it. Not even close.
She nearly stumbled when she realized he hadn't even asked her the PAC's interest in the case. Either he was slipping, or he had something more devious in mind. She was betting on the latter. He damn well knows that a normal homicide wouldn't bring in the PAC. Makes sense he'd ask about the Sash under those circumstances, I suppose. I'd rather he look in that direction than anywhere near the truth. Much as I hate to admit it.
Three
November 2nd
Tacoma, WA
Amanda walked out of her meeting with Athena hopping mad. The immortal had gotten a call from Scorpius the night before that had already sent shock waves throughout the PAC. She'd passed on the information, of course, but ordered it locked down as tight as they could manage. Hopefully it would stay buried.
They'd been worried that Baxter would win the election today. But now that seemed considerably less likely. Scorpius had been contacted by a group of psychics the PAC hadn't even known existed until Scorpius told them about the call he'd received.
A group of meta and normal psychics had been using their abilities to illegally influence the election, apparently planting deep-seated suggestions that people vote for Mendoza over Baxter. Understandable that they'd be concerned, but to use this sort of tactic rubbed Athena the wrong way. And rubbing Athena the wrong way wasn't anyone's idea of a good idea.
When she'd been called in Amanda had assumed it had something to do with Donner or the Market Street murders. She'd listened to the story with growing horror as the immortal had outlined what she knew about it. Which, so far, wasn't a hell of a lot.
She'd used her considerable influence to trace the call through Rachel Flynn's phone records, revealing the source of the call to be from New York. Manhattan, to be precise. She'd ordered Amanda to gather up a squad of her best mages—MAD agents all—and take a Shea Industries jet to New York as soon as possible.
Amanda hated to fly. She'd requested Chaz but found out he was currently out ‘molesting cell towers.’ Whatever that meant. Athena hadn't elaborated. Since they'd be needing psychic shielding, she asked for Renee Fontaine to accompany them. Besides being the immortal Loki's main squeeze, the vampire was the most powerful psychic—or psi, as the immortals prefer—that the PAC knew about.
Athena had called Loki, who'd agreed on her behalf, but they'd have to take her luxury coffin along with them. It was the only secure way for a vampire to travel any distance. Completely sealed and protected from sunlight or external tampering, the coffin insured the vamp would be safe until they arrived at their destination.
She'd also hated to leave the other two cases simply hanging in the meantime, but she understood this one's importance. Tampering with the election by such means simply couldn't be tolerated. And since the PAC didn't have a ‘psi’ division, it was up to the unofficially designated ‘MAD squad’ to take care of it.
If they left within the hour, they could be in New York by dusk. Plenty of time. She made a couple quick calls and headed for the airport. She'd meet everyone else there.
* * * *
Manhattan
Later that day
The party was in full swing. Early results showed Mendoza with a sizable lead, assumed to only to get larger as the night wore on. Coke and booze flowed freely. Martin Danaux sat back and watched the celebrations with a hint of a smile touching his thin, purplish lips. They had good reason to celebrate, considering how much their modest efforts had contributed to Mendoza's success. The way Danaux saw it, Baxter would probably have won hands-down if not for the efforts of these dedicated psychics.
The ethics of what they'd done didn't even surface at the edge of his mind.
Baxter's concession speech at ten had lit the fuse—the party went nuts from there. Over a hundred psychics let out a whoop that shook the city and life was great.
Until fifteen armed people stepped out of thin air. Danaux shot to his feet, reaching for his talent and hurling a bolt of empathic fear at the group only to feel it shatter against a psychic shield tougher than any he'd ever imagined.
"Homeland Security—everybody down on the floor!” A tiny little woman—at first glance he thought she was a teenage girl, but no teenage girl could make that flinty-eyed look work for her with nearly as much aplomb—scanned the room and zoned in on him.
While many of the others, apparently scared by the fact their psychic abilities had been shut down so easily, fell to the floor, Danaux remained standing, meeting the girl-woman's gaze with a stony one of his own. “What's the meaning of this?"
"The meaning of this?” Amanda had to laugh. Pretentious bastard. She gave him the once-over. Silk suit, Gucci shoes, power tie. “The meaning of this is that we're here to bust your balls. Your big, brass balls."
She strolled over to him with deceptive casualness. He was cool, she had to give him that. He'd barely blinked as they'd jumped in. She let her pistol hang loosely in her grasp as she walked up. She didn't expect him to try anything physical. He didn't look the type.
In fact, he looked terribly soft, physically. Not fat, not thin, just about average. Fairly average height as well, she noted. The face wasn't bad, though she guessed him at about forty. The purple shade to his lips threw her off. She'd never seen them in exactly that color before. His eyes, in contrast, were a fairly nondescript brown.
She flipped out her badge and held it in front of him. “Paranormal Affairs—Magical Activities Division."
"Magical what? Listen, lady—"
"You can call me Agent, sir. I don't answer to ‘lady.'” He might dress uptown, but that's no uptown term.
"Whatever. I don't know what this Magical Affairs crap is, but I can assure you we're not—"
"Stuff it, sir. We know what you did and we're just here to tell you. We won't tolerate it again. If I ever hear a whisper of you screwing with an election again—even if it's for a local dogcatcher in Back-Assward, Missouri, I'm going to personally track you down and blow your nuts off.” She jacked a round through her sidearm for emphasis.
"Any right?” She snorted derisively. “You did what you did because you thought it was necessary, and you could. Simple fact. Well, that's fine. It's not against the law ... precisely. Tampering with a federal election is a crime, but only if we can prove it. And you know damn well we can't.
"Don't let it make you complacent. I know your name, Mr. Danaux. I can find you anywhere. And my job is to make sure this crap doesn't happen again."
He smiled now. “You don't want it to get out."
"Fuck no,” she growled. “And neither do you. If the world gets a load of what you can do you'll never get any peace. Don't piss me off, Mr. Danaux. Play nice or we'll take away your toys."
With that she spun and marched back to her team. On a prearranged signal they all opened mana portals to a location not too far distant and bounced away.
* * * *
Ben leaned against the wall and grinned at the meta woman sipping a beer out of a long-necked bottle half the room away. In between a couple dozen people whooped it up, thrilled by the news that Mendoza had beaten Baxter. The semi-official meta victory party.
Ordinarily Ben didn't give a rat's ass about politics, but he knew without being told that Baxter would've been a Bad Thing. His parents would've loved him. Just like they would've loved Seymour. If nothing turned him away from that side of things, that would do it. He blamed their faith for what had happened to them. They didn't have enough sense to question anything.
It wasn't fair. He knew that. But how do you change how you feel? He didn't know and wasn't about to take the time to ask a shrink.
He knew the woman was a meta. Everyone here was. Except him, and that was debatable. He'd picked up the invite when he'd dropped by the Thorne Academy to get a class schedule. He'd been accepted for the next quarter—just as Amanda had said. Accepted and assigned to something they called the LEOPARD program.
Whatever the hell that was.
Lost in thought, he didn't see the woman slipping up on him. She paused a few feet away, staring at him with golden cat's eyes. “Hi,” she said simply. “I'm Kim."
"Ben.” He swept his eyes over her. She looked normal enough, except for those eyes. Some metas were lucky that way. Some didn't look abnormal at all. She'd pass well enough with a pair of sunglasses or contacts.
She had short blond hair spiked and tipped with black. Fetching, if you were into that sort of thing. She had a soft, heart-shaped face and wore a sleeveless bodysuit that left little to the imagination. All Ben could think of when he looked at her was that she wasn't Amanda.
Then again, is that such a bad thing? Wonder how Kim here would feel about being with a monster. “Haven't seen you around,” she said, offering up a wide smile. “You new in town?"
"Kinda,” he answered. “I'm from Oregon. Came here to work for the PAC. Guess I gotta go to school first."
"The Academy? Yeah. Can't work for the government unless they pass you through,” she said. “That's why I'm signed up with the Sash. I ain't waiting for Big Brother's okay to start kicking bad guy ass."
"That's the way you see it, is it?"
"Sure. Why not? You ain't telling me you trust the gov? Even with Mendoza in the White House they're going to screw us over sooner or later."
Ben snorted. “Nothing like thinking positive."
"Positive? Here's positive for you. I'm positive they're going to screw us over sooner or later.” She leaned against the wall next to him, listed sideways just enough to touch him. “So what's your story? You don't look like a meta—but you gotta be. Nobody but us freaks here. It's in the rules."
He shook his head. “Oh, I'm a freak. Just not all the time."
"Huh?” She didn't get it.
He wasn't surprised. She wasn't supposed to get it. Hell, I'm tired of this shit already. He shoved himself away from the wall. “I gotta go."
"Hey. Sorry if I offended you. Didn't mean to piss you off."
"You didn't,” he muttered. “I just gotta go."
His skin tingled as he stepped out into the chill of the night. He hadn't changed since his first night here and now this form was starting to feel too tight. He felt like he was chafing on the inside. He walked down the street, feeling the cold drizzle running down the back of his neck and grinning wildly. The beast was close to surfacing whether he wanted it to or not.
He glanced around the area. The street was empty but for him. He started peeling clothes as he ran, tucking them under one arm. He ducked into a small patch of woods and ripped the pants off, tied the legs in a knot and shoved the rest of the clothes inside.
Pain ripped through him and he threw back his head and screamed.
He rode the transformation all the way to the end, to the near baboon-like wolfen form—not quite wolf, not quite primate, but an amalgamation of both. He raised his muzzle to the sky and sang a vibrant song that set dogs howling for blocks around.
He roamed the night until dawn found him sitting on the balcony of Amanda's apartment, sloughing off the fur and becoming human again. He slid the balcony door open and slipped inside just as an equally exhausted Amanda came through the front door.
She dropped her bag and stared like a fool. Ben was naked, standing in the middle of her living room, and she found herself a little out of breath. The first thought that came to mind was wow, but she sure as hell couldn't say that.
He blushed and covered himself up with both hands, sidling sideways toward the hall and the guest room. She felt heat in her own face and hated it. “Sorry,” he said, turning and running down the hallway.
She leaned just a little to catch a look at his butt as he vanished through the bedroom door. It looked as good bare as it did in a pair of jeans, she decided. She shook the thought out of her head as the door slammed shut behind him. Well, damn. Having a roommate just got a little more ... stressful.
He hadn't missed the heat in her eyes. And he wasn't imagining it. He could smell it too, like a drop of chili oil under his nose. Liquid fire running up into his brain. There's just something about her that gets under my skin. Deep. I know she doesn't feel the same way, but...
He pulled on a pair of baggies and stepped back into the hallway. He walked out into the living room and stood there for a long moment. She was gone. He plodded into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.
He was exhausted. To the bone. But he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He always had trouble after a shift. Something about his body chemistry going all wonky. Somewhere around two this afternoon he'd crash and crash hard.
He wasn't real thrilled with the prospect, but his skin no longer felt too tight. He'd needed to shift. To run. To howl. He'd needed to be what he was—not quite a human being anymore, but something more and something less.
Not quite a monster.
But close.
* * * *
November 4th
"No witnesses,” the TPD CSU investigator said, tossing a folder onto her desk. He ran thick fingers through a thatch of flaming red hair and shrugged. “Or maybe I should say—if anyone saw it, they're not telling. You know how the street is."
Amanda did. She nodded. “I didn't expect anything else,” she admitted.
"According to the ballistics, the weapon was fired from the bank of pay phones across the street."
"Makes sense."
"We identified the weapon as a Glock 21. Dug a slug out of the outer wall of the bus garage. Took down the vic with a single shot. Very nice."
From roughly thirty feet? Good, but not spectacular. “Shell casings?"
"Nope. That would've been wonderful, but we're not that lucky."
"I imagine you did the laser line thing ... can you tell if the perp was standing at a phone when he made the shot?"
"Looks that way. Not like we can get anything solid off the phones. We've ran the ones we've found, but ... hell, we got so many hits off them that they're not really any help at all."
; Should've figured that. I'm getting sloppy. Distracted. “We've got nothing."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Well, thanks."
He gave one last nod and walked out. She picked up the folder and flipped it open. She leafed through the reports for a few minutes, then stuffed them back in the folder and set it aside. I can't quite get over the idea that this is a big waste of time. The second vic was the killer—DNA matched between him and the woman's wound. Open and shut. A nice, neat little package.
Hard to mourn a monster.
She knew that attitude wasn't right. That sort of thing wasn't something they could just walk away from. Killer or not, monster or not, he deserved a chance to defend himself. Not a high velocity bullet through the eye.
Yeah. Sure he did.
* * * *
Ben stood outside the apartment, wondering what he was doing there. He hadn't planned on tracking Franklin Donner, but somehow he simply had. Had it been curiosity, or something else? He was treading on thin ice here. He wasn't an agent. Not yet.
So what was he doing here?
He remembered passing by here the other night, in wolfen form. He'd recognized the scent but hadn't been all that interested at the time. It was a human concern and human concerns were far from his mind in wolfen form. Chasing cats, squirrels, coyotes, and raccoons—at least here in the city—was what the wolfen form concentrated on. Some weird looking human didn't even register.
But now it did.
Isn't he supposed to be being shadowed? Where was he—or she? He scanned the block, spotted a few kids playing on the sidewalk, a young woman walking her dog, but no one that looked like a cop. Huh—that's weird.
He slowly took the stairs, one at a time, not quite able to shake the feeling of being watched, despite having already assured himself that he wasn't. At least not by mundane means.
Now that thought sent a shiver up his spine. Magic? Could someone use magic to watch him without him knowing? He wasn't sure. What he knew about magic could be written on the head of a pin with space left over.
He reached the top step and tapped gently on the door. And waited.
Freak City Page 4
