by Marata Eros
It's a whole new world.
And Grace Cline is soon to be a part of it. Or not, if there's any way on this planet I can stop it.
Maybe the man from my dream will help me.
I bite my lip. Get real, Grace.
There's never a white knight when you need one. That's a fantasy for dumb girls. Not girls like me. Realists.
*
I breathe a sigh of relief when Monday rolls around and Toby's okay.
Until I see the bruises on his upper arm.
I gently pull him aside. “What happened to your arm, baby?” My eyes search a face that still has the baby he was inside it.
Thumb goes in mouth.
“Tell Grace,” I say, forgetting the “miss,” forgetting a shit ton in the face of my little brother's bruised flesh.
“Fred got mad.”
Fred. Oh yes—man of the week. “Is he the same dude who picked you up last time?” I can't use Friday or before the weekend because that's all pretty abstract.
Solemn nod.
Okay. I take measured breaths, trying for calm in the middle of icy rage.
If I call CPS they'll take Toby out of the home and plop him into foster care. Probably a worse outcome. Sure, there's a few foster families who are decent. But my experience is they want the state check. Period.
I can't take him because my income disqualifies me. And the small problem of a mobile address. I'm never somewhere longer than a half-year, except my latest apartment and well, we know how that ended. God. And me turning into something.
I shiver. I stroke his arm and Toby's eyes go shiny. “What did Mom do?”
Toby shakes his head and pats the crook of his elbow.
Blasted again. Probably heroin. Drugs were made legal in 2020. However—using in the presence of a minor—is not.
Hard thing to enforce.
A pulsemercial about Final Enforcement surfaces in my memory. There's an enforcer that's half-vampire, half-human. She looks like a hard woman. I remember her pale skin, corn-rowed hair and silver eyes.
Narah Adrienne, I think her name is. I wouldn't want to be on the end of her catching me.
Now our last resort police force has taken on paranormal crime until the regular police can assemble a paranormal task force.
What they really want is to staff the ranks of the cops with people who are paranormal. Vampires. Shifters.
People like me.
But I don't want to fight criminals or paranormals. I just want to take Toby and make ends meet. Maybe someday, I'll find a nice guy and have that whole picket fence deal.
Right.
Then my alarm clock shrieks and I wake up from my dreamland.
I stand and hold out my hand. Toby takes it. I tug him behind me and pile him into the swing. I use the flat of my palms to push his small back. As his legs pump high in the air, Sondra's eyes meet mine from across the yard and I give a slight chin dip.
Her dark eyes are troubled. There's no distance between us long enough for me not to see the knowledge held in that gaze. It's the same as mine.
What can I do? My mom gets lit and Toby gets roughed up by Fred.
I press my palms against Toby's back and push him on the swing.
Thinking—scheming.
Cop cars pull up as I contemplate my options.
My boss moves toward the huge metal gate that fences the yard. Cicadas still buzz in the humid dredges of summer's end. Their insect music suffocates me, clinging to my anxiety, heightening it.
Despite my anxiety, I'm having a rare window of well-being. No headache or nausea looms. The pessimist in me thinks, calm before the storm.
Shelley opens the gate, her champagne-colored hair lifting with the winds South Dakota ceaselessly generates.
She points, and I swallow hard when the copsʼ eyes find me across the yard.
Recognizing one of the officers, I grip the chains for the swing and Toby twists to a stop.
“Grace?” he asks, voice tight.
I smooth his light brown hair, the same shade as mine, out of his eyes.
Sondra's already making her way toward us, hair bobbing as she strides.
When she reaches us she asks in a fierce whisper, “What's going on?”
I shake my head and guess, “Probably a follow up to the break-in at my apartment.”
“I don't know, seems weird, now that I think about it, they didn't even take anything.”
No, they hadn't.
“Miss Cline?” The officer I remember coming to my apartment after the break-in, asks.
I lift my hand to my chest. “Yes, that's me—Grace.”
He inclines his head toward his partner and says, “This is Officer Donovan and I'm Officer Taylor.” He flicks a fingernail at his pulse badge and it flashes his stats.
Taylor, Nick. Age twenty-eight, four years street, no brutality, outstanding...
I look up, glance at Donovan. His badge pulses stats that are different.
Donovan, Sully. Age forty-eight, perfect attendance, twenty years street, one year homicide.
I'm glad I'm not in public service. There's no way I'd want a pulse badge. I can just see the pulse info-dump loop now.
Cline, Grace. Age twenty-four, daycare worker, broke, can't fix shit, going nowhere, essentially homeless.
I suck in a breath, quitting my own pity party. I don't have time for it. Toby needs me.
Sondra's putting me up. I kinda have a home.
“We're transferring your case to Final Enforcement.”
My polite smile freezes on my face. “Why?”
Donovan says, “We believe the break-in is a paranormal matter and we're not equipped to handle those unless there's a death.”
Paranormal matter. My eyes skate back to his badge. Homicide, it flashes in its information revolution.
“Violent crime,” he goes on, “or other.”
“Wrecking my place doesn't count?”
Donovan shakes his head, hiking his pants up under a soft belly. “Nope. Property destruction doesn't warrant FE interference.”
“Sully,” the younger cop says with a subtle tone of warning.
I give him a sharp look.
“Assistance,” Donovan says in reluctant correction.
“She's staying with me,” Sondra volunteers.
Officer Taylor inclines his head, and I notice his hair is still damp from a shower. He skipped a shave, dark hair peppering his square jaw. “Good thinking. Already spoke with your landlord—”
“—former,” I say.
His brown eyes narrow slightly and he depresses his thumb on a pulse device. Probably documenting the entire thing. “Right,” he lifts his thumb and loses that split-concentration look. “And he mentioned he's already got your place repaired and painted with a new tenant slated for October first.”
Tears scald the back of my eyelids when I think of someone else living in my place and using my furniture.
It was a dump, but it was mine.
All the wood furniture Sondra and I picked up for next-to-nothing that was hand stripped of its ugly layers of paint by me, and restored to a beautiful finish.
By me.
Now it's someone else's. Someone who doesn't care. And real wood is no longer used for furniture production.
Save the forests.
I blink rapidly, ruthlessly disallowing crying and other emotional bullshit and glance at Toby. His brown eyes hope at me. Trust me. I shift attention back to the cops.
Donovan must misinterpret my reaction. “It's okay, you're safe now. We're handing this off to FE because it's within their jurisdiction now. Since the paranormals were outed.”
I think of something. “Are you certain it was paranormals?” But already memories of the strange noises connect with the information that they suspect the break-in was not human intruders who broke into my place and wrecked my stuff.
Donovan shifts his weight, appearing vaguely uncomfortable.
“The vamps and shifters don't le
ave DNA per se, but there are other factors,” he pauses briefly, “that dictate para versus mundane.”
“Like what?” Sondra crosses her arms, giving the cops her full attention.
Taylor clears his throat. “Urine, sperm—other—bodily fluids.”
“What?” Sondra asks in a loud voice. Her hand moves to her throat, clearly repulsed.
Taylor nods, swinging his attention to Toby. Possibly he thinks he's too young to hear this stuff. If Taylor only knew what my little brother's been subjected to. A few words about sperm isn't going to register when you're scared of adults all the time. It's about priorities. “When a colony of Mutables is on the prowl, we find their calling card is pretty distinctive.”
My stomach drops at the M word. Mutables are a renegade, lawless group of malleable shapeshifters, whose only goal is to find women with compatible DNA and use them to seamlessly change into whatever creature they prefer—and impregnate them.
“So you're not coming by here to chat me up? There's like a threat to me?” My nervous laugh dies at their expressions.
Heartbeats try to pound their way out and Toby draws closer to the comfort of my body and grabs my hand again.
His is dry within my sweaty grasp and I want to cry when his thumb pops in his mouth.
Donovan gives a grave nod. “I'm afraid when a pack—”
“Colony.” Taylor frowns at Donovan for the second time in a space of ten minutes.
“Whatever. They deserve the name ʻpackʼ, behaving as they do.” They face each other, sensing obvious animosity between the elder and the younger.
I blink. Pretty strong words for our politically correct culture.
“Usually they send out a scouting group and leave their mark,” Donovan makes airquotes on the last word, and his lips twist in disgust, “to warn others that they're infringing on their territory.”
Sondra's arms drop by her sides, and she stuffs a tendril of curly hair behind her ear. “Territory for what?” Her naturally low voice is strained.
Taylor and Donovan exchange a full look. “For a female.”
I take a step back. “What?” I whisper-hiss.
Taylor straightens his tie. Checks his pulse. Finally he answers, “You or another female who may have visited your residence—has—DNA that is compatible.” His eyes hold compassion and I grind through wanting to cry again and holding it back.
“At this point, it's a matter of time. Final Enforcement is familiar with, ah, these paranormals, and can get you the help you need for your transition.” His serious brown eyes meet mine. “Because believe me, Miss Cline, you don't want a Mutable taking the reins of your transition. If it is you who they're after.” His eyes shift to Sondra, studying her briefly, then return to me.
I stand there, mute and dazed. And here I thought I was clever. Keeping this terrible inevitable secret to myself, taking charge of the bigger issue of Toby's care. Juggling the chaos of my life like a performer in a circus act.
Wondering over my next meal—where to live.
And all the while I was leaving some kind of scent trail for these shitbird Mutables to come calling.
“If it is your transition...” Taylor says then roots around in his back pocket, holding out a brochure. He hands it to me.
Are you becoming? It reads simply.
Oh please.
“Pulse the toll free think line and get checked out by a physician. They've got blood and DNA tests that will conclusively tell you what's happening.” Taylor's brows leap, waiting for my response.
“And what I am.”
Donovan's answer sounds weary. “Yeah,” he says softly. “What ya are.” He lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “If it makes a difference, we're sorry.”
The cops make the potential for a transition sound like a death. In a way, it is.
My death as a human.
Chapter 5
Murphy
A war cry pierces the air and I flinch. Last one—if we're lucky.
Glad I'm a bloke. Listening to Narah gnash and wail for the last ten hours is enough to make my balls shrivel to walnuts.
Feeling helpless is not my strong suit.
Aeslin comes racing down the hollow and medicinal hospital corridor. “It's a male!”
Thank Christ. She's through the worst.
I stand.
Feel dizzy and sit on my arse again, I'm starved for blood but while my sire was in distress, I was stuck here like glue.
Another scream pierces the air and Aeslin gives a surprised scowl, whipping his head back around.
Matthews bellows from just outside of her room, “It's a girl!”
I stay seated. Because on rare occasion, I'm a thinking man.
Aeslin blurs back the way he came.
Silence reigns for half an hour. I fight picking up my nail biting habit again. Fangs nixed that soundly.
What I would do to have a smoke. And some sex. Yes, that.
Blood.
Finally, Team Narah exits her room holding a pink bundle and a blue bundle. I keep my ridiculous grin plastered on my mug.
“I thought,” I begin then look at the tiny faces. Holy Christ, they're gorgeous. Small and perfect features mirror each other, looking impossibly tiny in their fathersʼ arms.
I screw my features up into a puzzled scowl, continuing part of my prior thought, “How do they look remotely handsome with your ugly genes in the mix?”
Matthews laughs and Aeslin responds with a predictable scowl.
“Narah, of course,” Matthews answers instantly, cooing at his daughter, the finger he uses to stroke her small face an impossibly large stump of blunt flesh.
I shake my head. “Twins?”
Aeslin nods in an uncharacteristic absent fashion, counting the baby boy's toes.
“Did you...”
Matthews shakes his head. “One baby was hiding the other. Every pulsesound came back negative for anything but a singleton.”
My grin is sudden—fierce. “This is perfect. And,” I lift a finger, tapping it against my unshaven chin, “explains all the mondo-hormone surges our dear Narah bombed us with.”
Aeslin appears vaguely alarmed, a neat trick as vampire facial expressions go. “I will leave that for you to explain.” His lips curl.
“Bullshit,” Matthews says, “it's over with now. Narah's okay and the babes are,” he glances down, face alight with happiness, “beautiful.”
He and Aeslin exchange a look, and at that unspoken que, the babies open their mouths simultaneously to yawn.
Tiny fang buds appear as white, non-erupted ghostly apparitions under gentle pink gums.
“Ah,” I choke out, mouth agape.
Matthews scrubs his head with his free hand. “Breastfeeding's a bitch.”
“Right,” I agree, feeling vaguely nauseated.
My pulse vibrates and I pluck it from the front pocket of my skin tight black denims.
Depressing my thumb, I keep my eyes on the infant vampires. Questions crowd my skull: Will they drink milk or blood, will they daywalk because Narah is still partly human?
Casper: why am I getting images of breasts and fangs?
Damn, I lift my thumb from the dock. I was accidentally thinking my wonderings directly to my boss. Fuckwit. And me already on thin ice with too many kills for the quarter.
At least lashes have been outlawed. Thank all that is holy.
I hold a finger up to Narah's mates, indicating I need a moment.
They don't notice. It's all about the babies.
I roll my eyes. Two warriors reduced to simpering fools over a couple of poop-and fang-machines.
Ridiculous.
Me: Apologies—here at the hospital with Narah. Some thought processes slipped through.
I feel heat climb my neck. I'm not the first person on earth to accidentally transmit thoughts I'd rather keep to myself.
Casper: emotive response puzzled. I'll say. frowns As of now you're covering Narah while she's on maternity leave.
Me: Right.
The Ghost gets right on things.
Casper: Your first case is a Mutable target. # 1213. Grace Cline. Standby for stats.
My cell fills with her information and my gut becomes a hard knot. Don't like rescuing the ladies. Too much responsibility. Narah's better at it.
She wants to save.
I just want to apprehend the bad buggers.
But now that the shifters and vamps have screamed their existence to the world, myself not excepted, Final Enforcement is the only law who has the skill set to deal with the new threat. Especially its two enforcers who are now, other. The mundane police haven't caught up to the new sub-species. We're it for the moment.
This is only the second case of its kind. Narah just closed one three weeks ago where a colony of Mutables had sniffed out a target for transition.
Of course, their brand of transition is cruel and criminal. Hence, interference is warranted from Final Enforcement. Mutables only goal is to transition female human hybrids into their animal so they can force-breed and use their unique properties to make themselves shift to any animal at will.
Earning my pay here.
I stuff my pulse in my back pocket and with a nod to my fellow vampires, I stride down the hall to congratulate Narah.
*
Narah's bleached white cheeks blend with the pillow her head rests on.
“God, love—you look like ass.”
Her middle finger raises in stiff response, then drops in a limp heat on top of the hospital covers.
I grin.
“Thanks for the info.”
My smile fades. “Did you lose a lot of blood?” I take her limp hand in mine. “You're cool.”
Immediately my blooded instinct is to feed her. I assert the logic that her mates are vamps. They can feed her. Still, the urge persists.
I swallow past instinct. “Do you need me to feed you?”
Her eyes soften. “No, but thank you.” Narah's smile turns wry. “You try shooting two watermelons out of your peehole, and see how rapturous you feel.”
My grin comes flashing back into existence like a shooting star. That's my girl. “I see your nasty attitude is in place.”
