Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  “Jesus. No! They’re not my friends, anyway. But all creatures like me, cryptids, mythological beasts, we can communicate. Not with words, but with the sense. The one you have. And they don’t deserve to be locked up and tortured the way they are.”

  I take a deep breath. “You’re right. Do you know why Marcus is keeping them? What he’s doing with them?”

  Foster shakes his head. “Not completely. The best I can figure is he’s doing some sort of tests or experiments, but I don’t know what his endgame is.”

  “Leon’s getting me into the computer system today, hopefully, and I’ll find out more.” I hold my coffee mug in my hands, watching the steam spiral up in the sunshine streaming in my window. “But what if we don’t wait for that. What if we just break them out tonight? Leon can help, and we can use the van and drive them far away—”

  Foster interrupts. “And what about Melliana?”

  “Melliana?”

  “The mermaid.”

  “How do you know her?” I fight down a tug of jealousy.

  “I’ve known her for decades. We’ve come into and out of each other’s lives. Run into each other at meetings and stuff like that.” He assesses my face. “You’re jealous.” His lips form a giant grin.

  “Fuck that. I’m not jealous. I was just curious.”

  He nods knowingly. “Whatever you say, Thea.”

  “Besides, you were the jealous one last night.” Remembering what happened in the bathroom at Domingo makes my pulse skitter, and I look away, trying to keep my cool. I don’t get flustered like a little school girl. That’s not me. Except right now? I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.

  “Anyway,” he says. “We can’t just set her free somewhere. Can’t just dump her into Lake Michigan. We have to be ready to get her to the ocean, and as you know, there’s no sea near Chicago.”

  “Fuck. How did she even get here?” I know I never captured a goddamn mermaid, so it must have been the tracker before me. The one who mysteriously died in a house fire not long after leaving The Center. For some reason I want to read more about him, to find a connection between his death and Marcus. I hurry into my bedroom and bring my laptop to the kitchen table.

  “Do you need to shower?” Foster eyes me in a teasing manner, a grin playing on his lips.

  I remember I’m in my clothes from last night. I still even have my leather boots on. “No, but maybe you need to fuck off?”

  “Nice jacket, by the way.” Foster’s laughing.

  “Oh yeah. Thanks,” I say casually, but this jacket? I fucking love it. Because it’s cool, but even more, because it’s from Foster.

  I type Lance O’Bannon into the search bar, and don’t look up from my computer screen because it’s being populated with search results. I scroll past all the social media links. I’ll go back to those later. First, though, I want to check for something meatier. And for some reason I think a really good story will show up.

  There’s an obituary from a few years ago for someone by the name who died at eighty-three. Next. A kid in New Brunswick opened a successful business at the age of ten. Next.

  Here. Chicago, IL. Still no leads in mysterious fire that killed local man. Chicago fire chief reports no new developments in the investigation surrounding the blaze that killed Chicago man Lance O’Bannon, 43. Although arson is suspected, the exact cause is yet unknown. Neighbors reported O’Bannon kept to himself, and he has no known family or close friends . . .

  I look up at Foster. “The date on this! It’s just a few months before I was hired. When you told me about this before, you seemed to be insinuating that Marcus was somehow responsible for O’Bannon’s death. Do you still think that?”

  Foster’s eyes are dark, his forehead creased in worry. “Thea, think of how similar you and this O’Bannon guy are.”

  “So you think of me as a forty-something-year-old man?”

  “Hardly. Seriously, though. You live alone. You don’t have any close friends. Your family?”

  I shake my head. “I talk to them once or twice a year. My dad died when I was a kid. And my mom and I aren’t really close. But I do have friends! I have Fay. And Leon.” I realize suddenly that’s all. Unless you count Mrs. Bachman. And that’s a huge stretch.

  “But you’re kind of a loner.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Fine. I’m a loner. By my own fucking choice, though.” I feel like I need to make that part clear.

  “I know, Thea.”

  “And anyway,” I say, “the common thread between Lance and me is our ability to sense the creatures, you know? Not that we’re loners or don’t have any friends. If we couldn’t seek out the cryptids, we’d be of no use to Marcus.”

  “So maybe the fact that you can sense cryptids makes you into loners. Have you ever considered that?” Foster eyes me curiously, but also cautiously.

  “No, Foster, I don’t sit around thinking about why I am the way I am. And for your information, there’s nothing wrong with the way I am.” I take an angry sip of coffee and set the mug back down too hard, almost sloshing the liquid out.

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the way you are. In case you hadn’t noticed, Thea, I kind of like you.” He leans closer and makes a low growly noise in his throat. “But you’re different from other people. You’ve always lived in this sort of . . . in between world, you know? You’re human, and yet you’ve been exposed to this world nobody else you know could see. That must have made it difficult for you to, I don’t know, ever really let anyone in.”

  This is hitting a little too close to home. “What are you, a fucking shrink? Leave me alone, Foster. This isn’t about me. This is about digging up more dirt on Lance O’Bannon, and about getting into Marcus’ private server. I’m going to take a shower.” I stalk off to my bedroom.

  It’s only when I take off my new jacket, patting the internal pocket just to check that everything’s still there, that I realize my lock-picking kit is missing. The one I bought for myself. The one with the letter T engraved in the leather.

  And the last place I was with it? Floor Zero.

  8

  My heart? It’s fucking pounding as I open the front door of The Center. Marjorie at the front desk in the lobby greets me with her usual ear-to-ear smile. She has more friendliness in the tip of her pinky than I do in my entire soul, and I wonder where she gets her positivity. Next to her, I feel like a terrible dark storm.

  Today’s made even worse by the fact that I’m only here to show Marcus I’m normal. A-OK. Nothing unusual going on here.

  At Foster’s urging after I discovered I’d left my lock picking kit behind, I showered, changed, and headed in to work.

  “You need to look as normal as possible. Even if Marcus has already found it, he won’t necessarily know it’s yours. It’s not like your full name was on it. It’s just one letter,” he’d insisted. But I could see more than a hint of doubt in his eyes.

  And I felt more than a shadow of doubt in my gut. Still, though, I knew I had to go to work. Luckily, I’m good at facing things head-on. It’s my preferred method, in fact.

  I give Marjorie a cursory wave, which is actually an extraordinarily friendly gesture from me, and head to the elevators—the main ones, not the one at the end of the hall. Up on the second floor, I go straight to my office, take-out coffee from a local place in hand.

  I wave at Leon as I pass by his doorway, and he gives me a surprised look. Clearly, he didn’t expect me to show up today.

  A few minutes later he’s in my office. “Hey,” he says, sitting down and looking at me with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t know you’d be in.”

  “Yeah. Just missing you and all my other amazing coworkers so much, Leon. You know how much I love teamwork!” My voice is more than a little sarcastic.

  “That’s what they say about you. She’s a real team player. I mean, didn’t you get the Friendship award a few months ago?” He laughs, then he frowns at me, tilting his head as if to ask, What’s going
on?

  “Let’s get lunch later. Your treat?”

  “You’re so abusive,” he jokes. “Fine. Eleven thirty sound good?”

  “It’s a plan.” My voice is light, but I try to relay to him with my eyes that this is serious as fuck.

  “I’ll swing by.” And he’s gone.

  I turn on my laptop, but leave it to boot up while I head down the hall to the lab. I’ve always loved checking in on the creatures, but today it takes on a whole different meaning and tone for me. These animals in here? These are the decoys. The ones that get treated well for show, so nobody knows what Marcus is really doing with the cryptids he captures. Correction: the cryptids I capture.

  Guilt floods me as I think about how I’m partly responsible for what he’s doing, for whatever torture the poor souls underground are suffering. If I didn’t work here . . .

  But then he’d find someone else, wouldn’t he? How many of us are out there? Thousands? Hundreds? Only a handful? I’ve never met another person who can sense cryptids the way I can. Of course, I’ve never sought anyone out. I’ve thought about it before . . . thought about going online and searching for people who have the same ability I do. But exactly how would I go about it? Looking for people who can sense cryptids. Please call me. God only knows what kind of psychos that would attract.

  My phone vibrates with a text. It’s Marcus. Heard you’re in the office today. Stop by when you get a chance.

  It sounds so innocuous. Innocent. Matter-of-fact. And it probably is.

  But everything seems loaded with hidden meaning right now. With veiled evil.

  I hate putting things off, so I head straight to Marcus’ office. The door is open, and he looks up and smiles when he sees me.

  “Well, well, well. What brings you in today?” He pushes his rolling chair back a few inches from his desk and places his hands behind his head in a casual pose.

  “You know I can’t stay away from you!” I joke as I sit down in a chair across from him.

  “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I’m wondering if you have any updates on the vampire.” His eyes are impossible to read, like glass orbs, no emotion whatsoever in them. Or maybe I just can’t see it.

  “I have his whole schedule mapped out. I know where he goes and when. I’ve been following him for days now.” I nod confidently.

  “Do you think we’re ready to move?”

  Fuck. I try to remember how the old Thea would have responded, the Thea who supposedly knows nothing about Floor Zero. “Whenever you think we should. We need to take special precautions with him, because as you know vampires are especially deadly to humans. And I’m not positive the tranquilizer will work on him. Not to mention that soul-sucking thing he can do. It would be really difficult to counteract something like that.”

  “Which is exactly why,” says Marcus, reaching into a desk drawer, “I got this.” He pulls out a small dark glass bottle, the kind I associate with old time apothecaries.

  “What’s that?” I lean forward to get a better look.

  “A silver solution. My research and talking to some associates indicates this is the best thing to use. It will render a vampire completely out of commission.”

  “Is it safe?”

  He gives me a strange look.

  “Because you like to keep the creatures alive,” I explain. “Can’t silver kill vampires?”

  “It’s diluted enough to slow the internal systems of the creature without killing it. If we use the right amount. And I’m fairly certain I’ve got that worked out.”

  “Great. That sounds good, Marcus. I’m ready when you are.” There’s nothing else I can say, but no way am I going to lead Marcus to Foster. Or Foster to the slaughter. He’s tough, but the thought of him in the basement of The Center, hooked up to wires and monitors, being tested and used for experiments . . . that thought chills me to the bone.

  Marcus puts the bottle back in his drawer.

  “You look like a closet alcoholic doing that. Hiding your bottle in your desk drawer.” It’s something I’d normally say. A quick joke I’d usually make. Isn’t it? Pretending to act normal is making me second guess everything.

  But Marcus laughs. He shuffles some papers on his desk, moving one stack of reports over onto another. And then I see it. My small leather pouch for lock-picking. Sitting there on his desk.

  I breathe in quietly through my nose, filling my lungs and steadying myself. “What’s that?” I gesture at the pouch with my chin.

  “This?” Marcus runs his fingers over the leather, caressing it in a strange way that makes me uncomfortable. “A lock picking kit. Found it in the lab this morning.”

  I refrain from asking, “Which lab?” because as far as he knows, I’m only aware of one. Instead I simply nod. As if I couldn’t care less. “What else you got for me?”

  “More reports of cryptids. It’s getting crazy out there. I’ll email you two more that we need to get, hopefully one tonight and one tomorrow.”

  “And where does the vampire fit into the schedule?” I ask.

  “I, uh . . . I’ll let you know. But start reading up on the two, and we’ll talk schedule later. That sound good?”

  “Great.” I stand and leave, fighting the instinct to look back at my lock picking kit on his desk.

  Leon and I are back at the crappy diner, with the same haggard waitress bringing us shitty coffee. Leon’s wearing a black T-shirt with a fake nutritional label on it. Gymnast Nutrition it says, and lists different ingredients. Determination 100%. Excuses 0%. Grit 100%.

  Leon notices me reading it. “Francine got it for me.” He grins. “She gets me.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  He pats his chubby stomach. “Fits so well, don’t you think?” He orders lemon meringue pie. I’m kind of intrigued by the puffy but crusty top, and I tap it lightly with my fork.

  “Stay out of my pie,” says Leon in mock anger. “But if you want a bite, here you go.” He slides the plate across the table to me.

  “I don’t want any pie.” I push it back and take a gulp of my lukewarm coffee. “I want to know if you got into Marcus’ private server.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” Leon makes a sad face at me.

  “No. Oh wait. What about that one time? When you set me up with that bore ass of a date?”

  “Ben’s a nice guy!”

  “Do I look like I’m into nice guys? Now show me what you have.” I glare across the table at Leon.

  “Hold on.” He pulls his laptop out of his beat-up camouflage messenger bag and sets it on the table, opening it up. “Like usual, you’ll be quite pleased with the work I’ve done. Though I haven’t had a chance to look at it in detail . . .” His voice trails off as he presses keys, bringing up the right screen. “Okay. Come sit over here so I can show you where the files are.”

  “You hitting on me?” I joke, winking at him.

  “I’m way too fucking scared of you to ever do that.” He’s not teasing.

  I slide into the booth next to him and stare at his screen.

  “So here’s the folder, and if you double click, you’ll see the sub folders . . .” Leon explains.

  “Since when do you consider me a fucking idiot, Leon?”

  “Sorry.” He pushes the computer closer to me. “Be my guest.”

  The files are named with numbers. 1052. 1053. 1054. I have no idea what they mean, but I assume each file relates to a particular creature. I want to find the one about the mermaid: Melliana. I can’t get those bruised, tired eyelids out of my mind. Her pale, mottled skin. The scales that should have shimmered but instead were dull and falling away. She was dying. Is dying. And I need to know why.

  Each folder has the same documents inside, including: History, Biology, and Mythology. In each folder I open the Biology folder and quickly scan the information. Centaur. Chupacabra. Saskwatch. J’ba Fofi. Finally, I open one about the mermaid.

  It’s not biology or history I’m interested in, though. Instead I f
ocus on the file called, somewhat cryptically, “Goals.”

  “What does it say?” Leon’s shoveling pie into his mouth.

  I put up a hand to shush him.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  What makes humans weak in the water is their inability to hold their breath for any significant amount of time. Drowning can happen quickly, and people cannot be submerged for long without the need for oxygen. The biological structure of mer-people is similar to that of humans in terms of the respiratory system, but mermaids are able to breathe underwater without gills. The mechanism that makes this possible has yet to be understood by researchers, but the skill is indeed an important one for the Enhancement Project. Secretions from the thyroid and blood will be tested for a human re-creation of mer-breathing, as will sections of several organs, including the lungs and skin. Important to note is that as with other cryptids, the possibility of the creature’s “essence” being captured in a blood sample and synthesized for humans will hopefully be the case for mermaids as well. The ability to breath underwater would be a significant improvement on previous plans for Enhancement.

  “Holy shit, Leon.”

  “What?”

  “Jesus Christ. I mean . . .” I’m at an unusual loss for words. “It looks like Marcus is trying to somehow take the unique and magical powers of the cryptids and synthesize them for humans. Like, the ability to breath underwater. And, I bet if I read more, the ability to fight. Or run fast. Or whatever.”

  “For what end?” Leon scratches his beard.

  I shake my head. “It sounds like he’s trying to create an enhancement serum. To give to humans.”

  “Fuck. Are you fucking for real?” Leon leans over, and I point at the section I just read. “Oh fuck. Goddamn it. What’s this for? Is he, like, military or something?”

  “I have no idea. We need to read more about this, Leon. Hold on.” I go up a level on the folders, trying to see if I can find a master plan of some kind. But when I click on a folder, the hourglass spins and nothing happens. “It’s not working. What’s going on?” I look at Leon.