by John Conroe
Mass bedlam ensued. First, people ran in terror as the helicopter fell. When the chopper failed to explode or spray debris across the terrain, they stopped and came back, cameras and microphones extended.
Dozens of federal agents and local law enforcement came running but were outnumbered by the outraged and furious news crews who surrounded the original four agents and the downed helicopter. Stacia and Declan were the first ones to the Apache, helping the chopper crew climb out of the damaged aircraft.
It was Sheriff Grable who got control of the situation, as Eric Adler, finding himself confronted with dozens of angry reporters, was completely ineffectual. Firefighters and EMS pushed the reporters back as they took over the scene, securing the aircraft from possible fire and treating the few injuries that occurred. Sheriff Grable insisted on accompanying Declan and Stacia when Adler had them surrounded and moved to the sheriff’s substation for questioning. Two hours later, the Bangor attorney, Marcia Martin, arrived and was escorted by deputies into the middle of the interrogation.
Middle-aged, with light brown hair and pale gray eyes, she was dressed in a power suit and equipped with a serious don’t F with me attitude.
“Charges?” she asked as soon as she was announced into Buck’s office, which had been taken over by Adler.
“I’m starting with assaulting a federal officer and interfering with an investigation, moving all the way up through terrorism charges,” Adler said, leaning back in Buck’s chair.
Attorney Martin snorted as she put her briefcase up on Buck’s desk and popped it open. “You sure you want to go there?”
“We’ve got footage from numerous helmet cams as well as from the sheriff’s own surveillance system,” Agent Adler said with a slight smirk.
“Oh? So do I. Watched it in the car on the way up here while my assistant drove,” she said with a tight little smile, pulling out a zip drive which she set before the large agent. “I’m thinking I’ve got the complete set, so if you bring something forward, it better not cut out the important parts.”
Adler crashed forward and slammed to his feet, staring at the zip drive.
“You have restricted federal evidence in your e-mail server, Attorney Martin? How the hell did you get that?” he demanded.
“Why, Agent Adler, from you. It came directly from your DOAA e-mail address. Are you telling me that you didn’t send it to me?” she asked, her tone innocent, her expression knowing.
“You!” the giant agent said, rounding on Declan. “You hacked my system, you little shit. That’ll see you in prison for sure.”
“When?” Declan asked. “I’ve been in your custody since the Apache crashed. When was I supposed to have hacked your systems?”
“Thank you, young man, for reminding me about using armed military heavy weapons against United States citizens on US soil. We’re going to have some counter suits against DOAA and against you personally, Mr. Adler,” Martin said. “And that footage is currently running on every network in the country and most of the planet. In fact, that one might just end up a class action lawsuit, unless the networks decide to sue you on their own. Haven’t fully worked that out yet.”
“The President can override posse comitatus on his own authority,” Adler replied.
“That hasn’t been tested in a court of law yet, now has it? Plus, have you seen the news, Agent Adler? The Garth administration is distancing itself from this fiasco. His press secretary is claiming that the President wasn’t briefed until after the assault began. Of course, the fact that the leaders of both Russia and China just about hurt themselves rushing to the microphones to denounce American suppression of its own citizens might have something to do with it,” Martin replied. “You really should watch the news, Agent. Now about those charges?”
“No charges have been filed… yet,” a new voice said from the front entry. A tough-looking man of about sixty, with short salt and pepper hair and wearing a navy blue suit with a red tie, stood almost in the office doorway, two aides standing behind him. Adler and the two other agents in the room straightened to a position of attention.
“And you are?” Martin asked, unimpressed.
“General Tobias Creek. Director of DOAA,” he said in an even tone. “The directorate will investigate every aspect of this incident before determining what charges should be brought and against whom,” he said, eyes roaming over the young werewolf and even younger witch.
“I see. Well General, if you’re not arresting them at this moment, my clients have needs that have been ignored. Miss Reynolds, in particular, requires food and water, and I suspect Mr. O’Carroll does as well. We’ll be leaving now.”
“We’re not done with this incident, Ms…”
“Martin, General. Marcia Martin. Of Feinbaum, Ketchum and Martin, Portland Office.”
“Your clients will need to make themselves available for further questioning,” Creek said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sure arrangements can be made,” Martin replied, gesturing the two young adults up and out the door.
Outside, she quickly directed them to a waiting black SUV. Climbing into the back, they found a bag of deli sandwiches, bottled water, candy bars, chips, and other snacks.
As soon as they were all in the car, the driver, a young man in a black suit, pulled the car out onto Main Street, which was congested with media vehicles and cop cars.
“Thank you, Ms. Martin, for getting us out of there,” Stacia said as she buckled her seat belt.
“Yeah, thanks,” Declan agreed.
“Don’t thank me. It’s my job, one I will be paid extremely well for by Cornell Associates, who hired me on behalf of the Demidova Corporation,” Martin replied.
“Well, thanks anyway,” Declan said.
“Well, you’ll want to thank Mr. Cornell when you see him in about an hour’s time. My directions are to take you directly to Bangor International airport, where you’ll be meeting the Demidova corporate jet,” the attorney said, turning from her place in the front passenger seat. “My orders are very specific. I’m also not supposed to ask you questions about the events of earlier today or even how I came to receive an e-mail of highly sensitive government security footage, which I find enormously frustrating,” Martin said, eyebrows raised.
“Wasn’t us. We just got our phones and devices back just now,” Declan said, holding up the Bluetooth earpiece that he proceeded to plug into his ear.
“Highly sensitive homeland security information doesn’t just send itself. You might want to think about everything that’s happened recently, as I believe your employer is extremely interested,” the older woman said.
“This wasn’t within the scope of our employment,” Declan said.
“Well then, you probably shouldn’t have been wearing a shirt with the corporate name plastered across the back,” Martin said archly, pointing at the little tiny Demidova Security emblem over his left pectoral that matched the giant one that Declan remembered was printed on the rear.
Realization flooded his face and he turned to Stacia, who simply shrugged and continued unwrapping a ham and Swiss on rye, which she proceeded to eat in quick, sharp bites.
Marcia Martin turned forward but continued to study her charges in the makeup mirror on the passenger sun visor. The young man, Declan, wore a frown as he alternated between devouring a sandwich of his own and studying his phone. Occasionally, he would show the screen of the phone to his companion, who would nod, frown, or otherwise convey her opinion in expressions without slowing her rather scary inhalation of food. Declan ate like any teenage male Marcia had ever known, and with three sons, she had witnessed many. He devoured his sandwich plus a half of another, two bags of chips, and a Mountain Dew. He finished it off with an Almond Joy, fiddled with his phone, and then lay back and shut his eyes.
Stacia ate three sandwiches, the other half of Declan’s second, an entire full-sized bag of Lays potato chips, four candy bars, and two sweet teas. Her initial food assault had slowed to a very b
usinesslike consumption rate, and she seemed deep in thought. Marcia shifted her gaze back to the resting Declan, trying to figure where that one fit in. She was well aware of the girl’s celebrity status and had seen as much of the Washington battle footage as anyone. She knew, at some level, that the girl was a real, honest-to-God werewolf, as hard as that was to reconcile with the beautiful young woman in the back. Although the way she inhaled food wasn’t remotely normal for a twenty-one-year-old female human.
The young man puzzled her. He was, according to the current news playing across the iPad in her lap, a supposed witch. Despite her statement to Adler, she hadn’t watched much of the helmet cam footage, as she’d been too busy conferring with Darion Cornell about possible charges and defenses. What little she had seen had been violent and jumbled, raw footage without any edits or stabilization to make sense of it. Darkness broken by screams, gunfire, and the occasional flare of flames coming from somewhere. Her eyes went back to the boy in the mirror, but the girl’s head came up and she found a pair of green eyes flashing to yellow as Stacia met her gaze.
A sharp chill shuddered down her spine as she automatically looked away, turned back forward… and frowned. She didn’t shy away from threatening stares, had no problem meeting the eyes of murderers, violent felons, or hard-ass judges. But this twenty-something girl had made her look away with just a glance. Made her look away from her study of the boy. A watchful warning.
She took a quick glance back and found the girl looking out the window, eating more chips. But this time, Marcia noted some additional details; the girl’s left leg pressed against the boy’s right leg and her shoulder touched his. It looked unconscious and automatic. Possessive. She went back to her iPad, studying the current news and blogosphere output on the events in Fetter. And the more she read, the more she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise as she dwelt on the fact that the wild suppositions and conjectures being bandied about were directly caused by or involved the two people sitting a few feet behind her.
It seemed that the global village was consumed with the topic. Killer werewolves and witches straight from the worst collective nightmares of humanity’s gravest folktales and legends had fought to the death with federal agents and a famous werewolf and now-famous warlock. The government’s military overreaction and failure to contain the suspects while losing the lives of what was suspected to be over a dozen agents was only slightly mollified by the fact that once again, the Demidova group had stepped forward and solved the problem. And the fact that it was the two junior-most members of the famous team was not lost on anyone. Why didn’t the feds call on Gordon and Demidova? Why had the DOAA team gone in without supernatural assistance? Why had they threatened the pair with an assault helicopter? And what the hell had happened to the helicopter? Disrepair… poor piloting… or something supernatural?
Drone footage ran in a never-ending cycle of clips. The two most common were the young couple running to the mill when the shooting first started and the helicopter swooping down, cannon sweeping around, only to have engines die and the craft plummet to the ground. There was also the massive fireball of burning cinders that erupted from the raised tube the anchor identified as a disconnected pulp slurry feeder pipe. Then there was some shaky footage taken right at the beginning of the mill assault that showed something flying over the scene, larger than any bird Marcia had ever heard of, before it suddenly tucked odd wings and dove into the top of the building.
The fact that the answers were snoozing in the seats behind her almost drove her professionally honed curiosity crazy. It also creeped her out. If what she was seeing on the new and in the helmet camera footage was real, and she had no reason to think the government would fake something like this, then the boy in the back could call fire from nothing and knock down walls with a thought. The witch he had gone after had raised dead bodies and killer spirits.
“We have to stop in Dover-Foxcroft,” Declan said, sitting up and opening his eyes.
Marcia turned to look back at him, finding the werewolf girl looking as surprised as she was.
“The girl… the last werewolf. I need to ward her. You know that bitch kept some hair or something. She’ll kill her just to tidy up loose ends,” he said to Stacia.
The blonde girl met his gaze for a couple of seconds, then turned to Marcia. “He’s right. There is a werewolf in custody at the sheriff’s office. She’s the last one alive and the only one with information on this witch. Declan will have to protect her or the witch will kill her.”
“The witch that got away into the wilderness will somehow travel all the way to Dover-Foxcroft and kill this girl?” Marcia asked, dubious.
“Doesn’t have to travel anywhere. She can kill the girl with a spell if she has some of the girl’s hair, like I do,” Declan said, holding up his left wrist. A thin band that she had taken for a woven man bracelet was, now that she could see it closer, just a twisted length of brown hair.
“You’re telling me that a witch can kill anyone from a distance if they have that person’s hair?” Marcia asked in her professional voice, although inside she was holding her horror and fear separate in a little part of her mind.
“Not every witch, and most would need a full circle at this kind of distance, but this one is pretty strong, very twisted, and her whole skill set revolves around death magic. The werewolf was in contact with her for a long time and I’d bet your paycheck that she’s got a pre-prepared kill spell set up,” he said, untying the braid of hair from his wrist as he talked.
He pulled a sandwich wrapper from the food bag that had become garbage and flattened it on his lap. A marker appeared in his hand from one of his pockets and he drew a circle on the paper.
“I can maybe start a ward right now while we drive. We’re between the witch in the woods around Fetter and the girl in Dover-Foxcroft. Plus, we’re getting closer to her all the time,” he said matter-of-factly.
The circle he had snapped off was really quite close to what Marcia might have done with a pin and a string. He’d obviously had a lot of practice.
The twist of hair went into the circle, held in place with a scrap piece of masking tape from another sandwich wrap. The marker came back out and he started to draw shapes and strange letters around both the inner and outer edges of the circle, spinning the paper on his lap to follow the arcs.
“You just draw on some paper with a Sharpie and you have a spell?” Marcia asked. Beside her, the driver, Barry, was going slightly crazy trying to look in his rearview to see what was going on. Stacia noticed and frowned. “Pull over for a moment. That way, you won’t crash us trying to get a look,” she ordered.
Barry glanced at Marcia for direction. She nodded and he instantly pulled over and off the road on a flat spot. The car was no sooner in park than he was twisted around to see what was happening.
After giving him a slight frown, Stacia turned to Marcia. “The answer is that not every witch could do what he’s doing. In fact, there are very few anywhere that could match his skill.”
“Aunt Ash could, with her eyes closed. Einin is better than me at this as well,” he said, still drawing.
“Which proves my point. As I understand it, and correct me if I’m wrong, D, but spells, whether written, spoken, sung, or made from symbolic items, are simply ways of programming magic to do what you want. A way to give it direction,” Stacia said. Declan just nodded, still drawing shapes. “Since magic is hard, most spells are complicated and time-consuming and usually take multiple witches. Declan uses runes to shape his spells, and he makes them up on the fly. Most witches would need days, if not weeks, to put together a spell he can make up in minutes. It’s the difference between a master musician and a first-grade music class, or the comedic genius of Robin Williams versus a knock-knock joke,” Stacia said.
“But he’s like what? Nineteen?” Marcia asked.
“He’s like right here,” Declan muttered, spinning the paper again to fill in another arc.
“How
many Olympic athletes are teenagers, Ms. Martin? How many were born with the right genetics and raised from birth to excel at their sport? Same thing, if not more so,” Stacia said.
“There,” Declan said, sitting up and capping his Sharpie. “Okay, that should block her for a bit. At least until we get to the sheriff’s office,” he said.
Barry and Marcia just looked from him to the paper on his lap. Marcia almost scoffed until she really looked at the paper. The almost-perfect circle now looked like something from a book or movie. The runes were intricate, drawn with clean, precise lines, woven together into unbroken strings around the inner and outer edges of the circle. The bundle of hair was twisted just so, and the little piece of scavenged masking tape was neat and even.
