"So do I,” another voice interjected. Suddenly she was tumbling across the roof, the gravel stinging her hands, shoulders, and back as she tried to control her fall. She lay there, half stunned, blinking up at the two figures standing less than five feet away from one another on the rooftop. She could see both well enough—the light from the nearby streetlamps beamed down with ruthless intensity.
One was a kid, or close enough, maybe four or five years older than herself, with dark, longish hair. The other was a short, squat man with a shaven head with a distinctive bullet shape to his skull. Both looked casual, almost bored as they squared off.
And then they were no longer alone. A third male—another kid, by the looks of him—stepped out of the empty air above the opposite edge of the roof.
Jaz stifled a gasp. The last thing she wanted was anyone to remember she was there.
His dark hair was even longer than the other kid's, a mane of liquid midnight pouring over his shoulders. A long black duster hung around his ankles. He cradled a long rifle in his arms. The barrel was pointed in the other young man's general direction. “Hello, Jason."
"Cory. I figured I'd run into you sooner or later.” He shot a glance at Jaz, who sank into the roof and wished herself invisible, then shifted his gaze to the bullet-headed man. “Who the hell are you?"
Bullet-head flashed a tight grin. “What do you care? I'm here for the girl."
"She belong to you or something?” the kid Jason asked snidely. Jaz wanted to raise her head and spit at him. She wanted to, but the fear she felt when his gaze fell back on her made her heart jump and her mouth go dry as the Sahara.
The two young guys weren't human. She wasn't sure how she knew that, but it seemed obvious as she watched them circle one another. There was something surreal about it, unnatural. The way they moved, maybe?
The bullet-headed guy just stood back and watched, his expression mildly amused. Jaz scooted over against one of the short retaining walls around the roof and watched in dreadful silence. The one named Cory tossed the rifle aside. It fell into nothingness before hitting the ground. She smothered a gasp. What was that, magic?
It had to be.
"What happened to you, Cory?” the one named Jason asked.
"I could ask you the same question. You're taking humans now, are you?"
"Just this one. She's nothing ... just a street rat. No one cares what happens to her one way or another."
"You think so?” Cory asked contemptuously. “I care. Looks like this guy cares, too.” He glanced over at the bullet headed guy. “You care?"
The stubby little man nodded. “Yeah. I do."
"Fuck you both,” Jason growled. “But, most of all, fuck you, Cory. You abandoned us—left me to fend for myself. So I'm fending. You don't like it—tough shit."
The one named Cory didn't say anything to that, simply shaking his head and circling to his left. Jason went still, not even following as the other circled around his back. “You're treading on very thin ice here, Jason. I don't want to kill you, but there are some things I just won't tolerate. I didn't make you into what you are to have you turn into a monster."
He moved, a blur of motion. Jaz must have blinked—she didn't see him cross the ten or so feet between them. He had a hold of one side of Jason's hair, raising him onto his toes as he dragged him sideways toward the edge of the roof.
Jason threw an elbow back but Cory leaned out of the way. He shifted his weight and snagged the back of Jason's pants with one hand. A twist of his body and Jason was in the air, suspended at the end of Cory's arms as if impaled on a couple of steel beams.
He shifted and slammed him down onto the roof with enough force to send a tremor through the whole building. Then he stepped on his neck, grinding the side of his face into the gravel. “I should've recognized what kind of stupid fucker you were, Jason. Your mom was an accident, but turning you was a mistake.
"Get out of town. As far as your legs and powers will take you. If I see you again, I'll kill you. Clear?"
"As a window pane,” Jason grated, his voice muffled by the pressure of the foot on his neck. Cory lifted his foot and Jason rolled free. He pushed himself to his feet and snarled wordlessly. He whirled and launched himself off the roof.
"You can get up now,” Cory said, turning to Jaz. “You're safe."
She gave him a suspicious eye, but lifted herself to her feet. “Who ... what ... was that?"
"Vampire,” the bullet-headed guy grunted. “Lately the city is crawling with them."
Cory glanced back at him, a bit shocked looking. “You know—?"
Jaz didn't want to believe it—she'd always been told monsters didn't exist. Well, except for Kali and her goblin crew, but they didn't count. Vampires were real monsters—the pop out of your closet and kill you type monsters.
So what were these two? “Your name is Cory, right? How did you—you're a vampire too, aren't you?” She remembered a couple comments that made that a pretty good bet. But he'd saved her. Hadn't he? “And who are you?” she asked the guy with the projectile for a skull.
He sketched a bow—completely incongruous considering his well-heeled self in the impeccable black pin-stripe suit. Incongruous enough on a rooftop, now that she thought of it. “Baraz."
"I'm ... Jaz,” she said hesitantly. She wasn't sure she wanted to tell these strange people even that much about herself. They'd saved her, apparently, but ... they were definitely ‘freaks.’ Well, this is 'Freak City,’ after all. I get attacked by one and saved by one ... two? ... others.
"A kid like her doesn't belong out here on the street,” Cory said to Baraz, earning him a frosty glare from Jaz. She didn't like being called a kid.
"I'm fifteen,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “I'm not a kid."
"Fifteen? Wow. You look twelve."
"Thanks a lot. Yes, I'm fifteen. I'm a late bloomer. Want to make something of it?” What am I doing? Offending a vampire—particularly one who'd just saved her life—didn't seem like the smartest thing to do. She just hated being dismissed like that. She'd been on her own for three years now and made it through as well as, or better than, most of the adults she saw on the streets every day.
Cory took one look at her, this diminutive olive-skinned girl with the huge flashing eyes, hands firmly on her hips, chin tilted up in defiance, and burst out laughing. She looked like a pre-teen now, half formed, but a pretty child. Give her a few years and she'd be absolutely stunning.
She neither knew nor cared. Being beautiful, to her, would be something to avoid, not revel in. Too bad she had the kind of face that would shock men into speechlessness whether she did anything special or not.
"Jason might come back for you,” he said. “And, believe me, if he wants to find you, he will. Bloodhounds don't have anything on us.” His lips quirked up into a tiny smile. A sudden pall fell over his eyes, as if remembering something terribly unpleasant. “She can't come with me,” he told Baraz.
"I'll look out for her,” he answered, a single cold glance freezing her tongue in her mouth. She wanted to argue but knew it wouldn't do any good. They'd agreed between them that she needed to be looked out for, and there wasn't a lot she could say or do about it.
Cory gave a single nod. “Good. I'll be in touch."
"Wait—you know how to contact me?"
"Baraz—former head of security for GreyCorp, now Thomas Grey's personal assistant. You live in the guest house on Grey's North Tacoma estate."
Baraz stared at him, obviously shocked. “How could you know all that?"
"I know a lot of things. I know your name isn't really Baraz, but I'll hold off mentioning it for now. I'm sure there's a good reason for you to be here incognito, but I have to admit I'm curious."
Baraz's face went stony. Plainly, he didn't like what he was hearing. “Then go ahead and feel free to get in touch,” he said finally. Gratingly.
"I will.” Cory made a few casual motions with his hand and stepped into thin air. Jaz b
linked repeatedly. For a second there...
"My boss isn't going to like this,” Baraz snorted. “Ah, well.” He shrugged. “You ready for a wild ride?"
* * * *
Arm in a sling, hair pulled back into a single pony-tail, Amanda stood in Breed's office, looking through the heavy drizzle at the cold expanse of Commencement Bay. “I can't believe it,” she said. “What the hell got into him?"
Breed tapped a pencil on her desk and sighed. “You telling me you don't know he's got the hots for you? Everybody else knows."
"Everybody else? Everybody else who?” The panic was unreasonable, but completely natural. She did not want to talk about this. Especially if they were the subject of gossip. And, what was worse, the subject of cop gossip. It didn't get much worse than that.
The tall blonde woman simply smiled over her steepled fingers as she leaned forward over her desk. “Never mind that, for now,” she said, prompting Amanda to nearly melt with relief. “I'd be upset too, if I were you. Your grandfather's on the warpath. He wants to press criminal trespass charges—if he can manage it, he wants his aide Baraz to file assault with intent against him."
"Great. What's the PA say?"
"You'll have to ask her yourself ... she's on her way up here right now."
Keisha Sloan arrived a couple minutes later. She was a tall, voluptuous African-American woman in a blue skirt, ruffled white blouse, and a pair of silver pumps that could've doubled as stilts. She walked in, slung her briefcase onto the beige sofa standing kitty-corner to Breed's desk, opposite her prominently displayed bookcase.
"Well,” she said briskly, “and here's another fine mess you've gotten us into."
Both women blinked at her in momentary confusion. Then Breed chuckled. “I haven't heard that since I was a little kid."
Amanda didn't get it—but, then again, both the women were considerably older than she was. Whatever the reference was, it wasn't one she had any memory of. “So—are you giving my grandfather want he wants?"
"I don't see that I have any options,” she answered irritably. “He's got a lot of pull—almost as much as Athena Cross, or Deryk Shea, when he was still around. If he files the charges, I pretty much have no choice but to prosecute. ADA Clarke's made it pretty clear that I'm supposed to play along or else..."
"Or else what?” Amanda asked suspiciously.
"Or else I can start looking for another job,” Sloan replied casually. Her tone was casual. The fire in her eyes wasn't casual at all. She looked as though she wanted to flay someone alive. ADA Clarke was probably only the first candidate.
"So what kind of case do you have?"
"One that's out of my league,” Sloan sighed. “Just the description of the events makes me want to beg off on it—your friend Ben Dalmas isn't a normal human. As a meta—or whatever the hell he is—he falls under Federal jurisdiction. This is a job for a federal prosecutor. But unless you ‘out’ him as a meta, there's nothing I can do but take the ball and run with it."
"Keeping with the sports analogy,” Breed cut in, “what're the chances we can get you to fumble?"
Sloan shook her head. “Not going to happen. The pressure here is intense."
"It's a power play on Grey's part,” Breed said. “He wants something, doesn't he?"
Sloan shrugged. “If he does, no one's telling me."
"They wouldn't.” Amanda sighed. “This is a message for me. He wants to talk. That's what started all this. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think he set the whole thing up. He knew I wouldn't talk voluntarily...” She shook her head. “No. It doesn't fly. Not unless he knew about Ben and could predict his response ... Nah. Impossible. The old man's smart, but not that smart."
Sloan gave her a puzzled look. “Why does he want to talk to you?"
"Maybe he wants to make me his heir again,” she snorted. “Hell if I know. He wants to talk bad enough to snatch me off the street."
"Do you trust him?"
"Is a bear catholic? Does the pope shit in the woods?"
"I take that as a no."
"Yeah. The old man's a devious son of a bitch, any way you slice it. He's playing more than one game at a time—layer upon layer—and my chance of figuring out what he's up to is about as likely as winning the goddam lottery. Twice."
"He's got you by the short hairs,” Sloan opined. “So you going to play along?"
"Like you, I don't really have a choice. He may not have manipulated this situation all the way through, but he's bending it to suit himself now. I wonder if I can turn the tables on him,” she murmured thoughtfully.
A grin slowly spread across her face. Yes, I think I can.
* * * *
Ben raised his eyes and met the heavily tattooed man's gaze squarely. “Go away,” he said calmly.
"You're on my bunk."
Ben contemplated simply giving it up—though he honestly doubted whether this was anyone's bunk. The jail population wasn't particularly high. As it was, the cage was outfitted for six. It only held three. Ben, tattoo-guy, and a weaselly little fellow curled up on a top bunk on the other side of the ten by eight cell.
He didn't feel particularly accommodating at this point. He was tired and aggravated. He didn't belong here, and wasn't too keen on letting some jailhouse bully push him around. Rather than dirty himself bruising the fellow up, he leaned over, wrapped his fingers around the steel upright, and squeezed.
When he removed his hand the indentations left by his fingers were clearly visible. “As I said ... go away."
The tattooed guy looked at the upright, then back to his face. “Fucking freak,” he growled. But he went away.
The cell door swung open abruptly. A guard stepped in, backed up by a second one. Apparently I make them nervous. Imagine that. “Ben Dalmas—your lawyer's here."
Gee, I got a lawyer and I didn't even have to ask for one. How convenient.
She was a pale redhead about forty-five, thick of waist and sharp of eye, carrying a large leather briefcase. She entered the interview room and turned to glare at the guard until he stepped out and closed the door behind him. “You gotta watch them—they think they're sneaky enough to listen in without being noticed."
"Hard not to notice them. They reek of alcohol, speed, and stale sweat."
"Huh. Can't say I'd noticed,” she replied casually, sliding into the chair opposite him. “You're in pretty big trouble,” she observed, opening her briefcase and removing a single manila folder. “My name is Trisha Stephens. Athena Cross hired me to represent you.” She tapped the folder with one long, crimson nail. “Care to elaborate on what's in here?"
"Not much more to say. Grey's an asshole and he needed to be reminded of that fact. His granddaughter is a friend of mine and he nearly got her killed. So I walked in and made my opinion clear."
She shook her head. “Not smart. Grey is a very powerful man around here. Hell, he's a powerful man anywhere. He's pressing a variety of charges against you, ranging from criminal trespass to assault with intent on behalf of his aid, Baraz."
Ben shrugged. “Baraz ain't normal. I didn't mean to hurt him, and I don't think I did. He moved faster than most people—I reacted without thinking."
She studied him intently, dark blue eyes narrowing as she drummed her nails against the table. “Are you a meta?"
He scowled. “A meta?” He shook his head. “No. Not a meta.” He smothered a knowing grin. “Why?"
"Just the way you said that,” she answered with a small frown. “You described Mr. Baraz as being ‘faster than most people'. Not to mention this report said you threw him into the plate glass window and cracked it. That would suggest greater than normal human abilities in itself."
It wouldn't do to underestimate this woman, he decided. If Athena hired her, she had to be the best. She was definitely smart. “I'm afraid my ... status ... is classified. If Athena wanted you to know, she'd have told you."
She picked up the folder and thumped it against the table top. “That w
on't fly forever, but I'll accept it for now. I don't need to know all your secrets to defend you."
"Good to hear. So what else do you want to know?"
* * * *
Thomas Grey didn't look particularly surprised to see his granddaughter standing outside his building when he arrived at work the next morning. She stood in the cool mist, the color of her navy pea coat turned up to keep her neck warm.
Unbidden, Baraz took two swift steps forward to interpose himself between them. He knew who the woman was and, even though she looked unarmed, he wasn't about to take a chance with his employer's safety. Amanda smiled inwardly at this display of loyalty. From her perspective, he didn't deserve it.
Grey waved him back and throttled his wheelchair forward. He regarded her in perfect silence for a long moment, then nodded as if response to some internal question. “I've been expecting you."
She felt her jaw tighten and deliberately loosened it again. She needed to be in control here. He was a master at reading and manipulating others—allowing herself to become too emotional would play directly into his hands. “I figured you might be. So—if I agree to talk, will you drop the charges against Ben?"
"I'll think about it."
"That's not good enough."
"Too bad. He's a loose cannon. He could've killed Baraz and who knows how many other people. Maybe he should be in jail. But if I know Athena Cross she's still planning to hire him."
Amanda shrugged. True enough. “It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment. It won't be repeated."
"So you say."
"We don't need to justify ourselves to you, grandfather."
"Maybe you should. You people just can't do anything you want, you know."
"Athena answers directly to the President."
His wrinkled face pinched into a dark scowl as he peered up at her. “That would make me feel better if I trusted Mendoza to do the job."
"Don't tell me—you voted for Baxter."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Her eyes narrowed as a sudden suspicion struck her. “What did you want to talk about, grandfather? It wouldn't have anything to do with Donner, would it?"
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