by Voss Foster
“Yes sir.”
My brain twinged at that. Whitehead was the last one to call me sir.
I'd already made it home when the phone rang. I was expecting Gutt or Casey, somebody like that. Instead, it was the FBI director his own damn self. He wanted to see me, and no way in hell was that good news for me. But I strolled into his office and offered him a handshake all the same. “Director Svenson.”
“Agent Rourke.” He was a large, blond Scandinavian. Hairline slightly receding, eyes a sparkly blue, and mouth thin above graying blond stubble. “Go ahead and have a seat.”
I sat. I wasn't going to offer any information, just in case he didn't know all the bad shit that I’d done. But I had a feeling he knew, and I had a feeling he wouldn't be happy with me disobeying orders so many times. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“Please, call me Eric.” He crossed his legs and folded his hands on one knee. “So you're officially full-time with the OPA now?”
“Yes sir. It's possible Swift didn't have time to process the paperwork with everything going on, but that is the intent.”
“I got the paperwork. I must say that I am thrilled to see you taking this position. Agent Swift is notoriously picky and slow with building out his department. Of course I don't want to push him. I would obviously rather have the best possible for the sort of work that you all are doing down there, but it is nice to have a touch of forward momentum. Hopefully it builds and you won't be so understaffed anymore.”
I just nodded, not mentioning that 'understaffed' was better than 'staffed with idiots.' “I'm happy to be taking the position, sir.”
“Eric, I told you.” He drummed his fingers against his knee, never untwining them. “Even with your impressive performance on this case aside, it will be nice to have someone normal in the OPA that I can count on.”
“What do you mean by normal, Eric?”
“I don't mean to come off as a bigot. Not what I was saying at all. However, the other agents and consultants and specialists in the OPA are all a bit strange. It's a very insular department, so having such a young, up-and-coming agent as yourself in there will be a boon to the entire Bureau.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me, but Agent King and Agent Swift both have considerably more experience. They bring a lot more to the table than I do by quite a bit.”
“Oh yes, for the operations of the OPA they most certainly do. But they're spooks. Dyed-in-the-wool spooks, and I'm hoping I can count on you to be a balance for that.”
“I see." A blind man in a thick fog at midnight could see where he was going. "If I may cut to the point I think you're making?”
“Of course.”
“You want me to keep an eye on the OPA and, if I had to guess, report back to you?”
“It would simplify matters. I'm hardly welcome down there and—”
Slimy little prick. “If I may speak freely Eric?” He nodded and I let loose. “You are more than welcome in the OPA. I have it on good authority that they're always prepared for you down there. And while I don't know how true the rumors are, word around the water cooler is that you simply don't like to go down there. But there's nothing anyone wants to hide, and no reason you shouldn't go check it out if you're feeling worried.”
He unfolded his hands and leaned forward, halfway over the desk. “Now I will speak freely, Agent Rourke. While I don't know the full extent of what magic can do, I'm certain it can keep an eye out for an FBI director who would like to come visit. And because of that, I'm certain that I'm not getting the full truth when I go down there. Not to mention King stares at me like a discarded piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.”
“That's just her face, sir.”
“Be that as it may, I would like to know what's going on in the OPA. I want biweekly reports when there are no major active cases, and weekly reports when there are. More if I ask for them.”
“And you'll fire me if I don't deliver?”
“Certainly not. That would be unethical. I'm the FBI director. I can make your job miserable and make you quit, which I feel is much more effective. I want those reports, Agent Rourke. I hope you'll see reason and deliver them to me.”
He was manipulating me and he was trying to exert more control over the OPA when he refused to even go down there. From the sounds of it, he wasn't big on any of us spooks. Probably not even me, but I was his best bet. I nodded. “Biweekly reports. Understood Eric.”
After a moment, he nodded back. “I'm glad you see things my way. And if I have reason to believe that the reports are being glossed over or falsified, there are many, many worse positions than counterterrorism or the OPA. Perhaps you would like to retire early and become a teacher in Quantico for the rest of your life.”
“Biweekly reports,” I repeated. “Understood Eric.”
Finally, he waved me back through the door. “You're dismissed. I want that first report in my inbox by the end of the week.”
“Yes sir.”
As expected, when I walked in the next morning, Swift was already in his office. I came by and knocked, then opened up the door before he could answer. I handed him his coffee before I laid everything out. “Director Svenson wants me reporting on the OPA.”
“I see.” Swift sounded completely unconcerned. “I probably should have seen that coming when I hired you on. What did you tell him?”
“Considering he threatened to get me out of the field for good, I caved.”
“Perfect. That's exactly what you should have done. Svenson is the director of the entire Bureau. He has a right to know what's going on here, and if he only trusts you to give him the information, then that's his own problem. We can accommodate that, and he can answer to himself in the mirror every morning.”
“Somehow I don't think it bothers him much.”
"Neither do I." Swift took a long drink from his coffee. “I need you to promise me that you will be completely honest in your reports. Don't try to make anything look better than it is and don't try to hide behind any funny language or special terminology. Not only is he not stupid enough to fall for that, but a unit with an absolutely spotless record is not believable. There are rats in every single office of the Bureau. Our rats just happen to breathe fire.”
“Are you sure about that, Swift?”
“I am absolutely positive. Complete and total transparency. Eventually, he'll get bored of this and move on. The last director did the exact same thing when I started on, but he wasn't nearly as overt about it. Only lasted two months.”
“All right.” I sipped my coffee. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
“And now I know. I appreciate it. He can try to collect as much information as he wants, but he'll never get rid of us. And if he does, I'm sure one of us could fake a dragon attack to try and prove just how useful we really are.” He winked at me. “One hundred percent honest starting now.”
“One-hundred percent honest starting now.”
Swift stood and grabbed his coffee. “Come on. I need to show you to your new desk.”
“Well color me excited.”
“Don't get your hopes up. Technically it's an old desk, but new to you and never really used before.” He led me out into the cubicles and stopped at the desk just on the other side of Gutt’s. “This is yours. We can get it set up however you need, within reason.”
"It's fine…but why me?" I'd been thinking about this all morning, once it occurred to me. "Now that it's not a counterterrorism case, is there a reason to keep me?"
“You're laboring under a false pretense about this whole thing, Dash. I wanted you because you punched a motherfucking sorcerer in the face. Wouldn't have mattered what department you were in at the time. The counterterrorism was a bonus that happened to both work well on our last case and convince you to give the OPA a chance.” He gestured around the room, starting with Gutt’s desk. “I didn't put Gutt where he is because of his work history. I put him there because he was the one who pushed the Kingd
oms to alert us about the prison break in the first place. Bancroft is incredibly well-read, but he also has a mind that seems to be hardwired for analysis. Kimmy, I did hire because she's an incredible tech guru. But I had two other incredible tech gurus. She was the only one who was actually doing anything significant with her skills." He didn't elaborate on what she was doing, and I didn't ask. "And Abigail...if it weren't for Abigail and Gutt, the OPA probably wouldn't exist.” He nodded slowly, keeping eye contact with me. “There are plenty of agents and consultants that can be brought in because of their skills. I hire people, not resumes. And I wanted you."
That was some deep shit. I sat down at the desk. “Thanks for the high opinion.”
“Thanks for living up to the high opinion.” He pointed to my desk. “Abigail left you a little housewarming gift.”
He walked off and I finally noticed the pink gift bag sitting next to the keyboard. I pulled out the one wadded up hank of tissue paper, then reached inside to pull out...an electric blue scale. Just like the ones I saw on Jörmungandr. Attached to the handles of the bag was a Post-It note. I ripped it off and slowly dismantled the chicken scratch.
Best if you don't tell anyone about this. But no one's going to miss one scale.
A trophy. Just like hers. Agent King left me my very first trophy.
So I had to file reports on my boss and my coworkers. So I was the FBI director’s bitch. So I nearly died several times. The work was exciting, and more importantly than that, the OPA was already making my life better. My life, and the world. The Office of Preternatural Affairs did significant work. Even more significant than counterterrorism, which was saying something.
If that meant I was working with some crazy motherfuckers…well, at least I fit right in.
The Office of Preternatural Affairs gets back on the beat late 2019 with
Elemental Disturbance.
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Author’s Note
This story started with Gutt. A big blue troll who, in my head, was always played by Kelsey Grammer. Frasier Crane, specifically. It started with the contradiction of this seven foot tall, immensely strong troll…but with a stomach too weak to handle anything rougher than Earl Grey tea.
I can't tell you what combination of things had to meet in my head to produce him. Maybe he's blue because Grammer played Beast in X-Men. Maybe I wanted an erudite troll because of my love of the troll bookstore owner in Frances Pauli's Changeling Race trilogy. Maybe neither of those things. Maybe both. But it all came from Gutt.
The problem was, Gutt didn't have enough story to him. As I imagined him, I knew he was part of the Office of Preternatural Affairs from early on. A troll exceedingly sympathetic to humanity…and maybe a little bit zealous about bringing in the prisoners who managed to escape. I imagine that's no small part of him wanting to stick around the Mundane. But that made him not quite main character material.
The fact is, Dash was the last character that really came to life. He was sort of a rough amalgam of every FBI stereotype TV and movies had pushed out at me when I started with him. He didn't come around to being who he is—passionate, self-sacrificing, and a little too sarcastic for his own good—until the second or third draft.
Of course, it didn't help that I had to learn to dictate halfway through my first draft because my carpal tunnel was acting up. Honestly, I sometimes thought this book wasn't supposed to happen. I wanted to write it. I'd been longing to write a police or FBI book for years before I ever got this idea. But I kept having to stop. I didn’t have time for it in the schedule. I didn’t have the research down pat. Then the carpal tunnel reared up. And then some deep, deep edits. It fought not to be written in a lot of ways.
But here it is, better for the fight. And I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did. Yeah, yeah, I did enjoy it. Maybe not the whole thing, but getting to tell this story, explore this world? I'd do it all day, every day.
Even with carpal tunnel.
Of course, without you, there's not much point. I could just be telling myself this story in the shower every morning. So thank you for coming on this journey alongside me. May you have many more in thousands more pages.
And if you ever want to come back…the OPA has a spot open for just such an agent as yourself.
Voss
Also by Voss Foster
Evenstad Media Presents
The Park
The Mall
The Inn
The Tunnels
Standalones
The Mountains of Good Fortune
The Psychic
Coming Soon: The King Jester Trilogy
Look for them in Late 2019 or Early 2020!
About the Author
Voss Foster lives in the middle of the Eastern Washington desert, where he writes sci-fi and fantasy from inside a single-wide trailer. His writing focuses on dark, political, and social themes, and always has a slant toward diversity and inclusion. His work has been called "remarkable" and "unique," and his writing described as "lyrical." He is the author of the Evenstad Media Presents series, the upcoming King Jester Trilogy, and the Office of Preternatural Affairs. His short work is wide and varied, and has been featured by Vox.com and alongside timeless classics in Heroic Fantasy. He's also been featured in the breakout Alternative Truths series of anthologies.
When not writing, he can be found in the kitchen, or more often on the floor, cuddling with the dogs (And the cats, when they'll allow it).
Want to stay up to date with everything Voss Foster? Sign up for the newsletter today! And keep reading for a sneak preview of Elemental Disturbance, Office of Preternatural Affairs Book Two!
Sneak Peek: Elemental Disturbance
Office of Preternatural Affairs: Book Two
Summer sucks when you have to actually fucking wear clothes. I was always more of a "tooling around the beach in board shorts" kind of guy, but for some reason the FBI frowned upon that as part of the official uniform. Not even for casual Fridays. Of course, it was Tuesday anyway, but casual Friday is really more of a state of mind. Any way you slice things, it was an oppressive regime, that ended in me wearing a suit and a button down in the middle of Florida in the middle of fucking August. Oppressive.
Running also didn't help, so I was in a bit of a mood while I was leading our handcuffed selkie drug dealer into the back of the SUV. And my bit of a mood may have had me being a little rougher than necessary, although considering he was selling dragon's dew to human middle schoolers, I wasn't that concerned if his cuffs bit in a little bit. And I wasn't concerned at all with him not liking me that much. Didn't much care about his personal opinion of me for some reason.
Gutt stood leaning against the side of the SUV, wearing sunglasses that didn't exactly fit correctly. I guess it was hard to find sunglasses that actually could fit a seven-foot tall troll. Even after being in the Mundane for ten years, preternatural specialization hadn't exactly caught on in the commercial fashion industry.
He pulled the sunglasses—I mean, functionally they were just pince-nez at this point— off when I got close, nodded to me, then scowled at our magical drug dealer buddy. "Dragon's dew? Really? It's dangerous enough when the dragons take it. What do you think happens when a human takes it?"
The selkie scoffed, a slightly dry, brittle sound, but that was it. Even when I shoved him into the backseat and slammed the door shut after him, he was obstinately silent. I looked Gutt head on, summoning as much exasperation as I could muster. "Why exactly was I the one doing the running and chasing and arresting? I don't remember agreeing to that part of the plan." My crotch and armpits were miniature little swamps, just dripping sweat.
Gutt just shrugged. "I've gotten stuck in far too many alleyways around here to go chasing slippery little drug dealers through Miami. You're far more s
velte and far less likely to need help getting around a tight corner than I am. It was purely a logical decision."
"Right. I'll make sure to list that in the report." I rounded to the driver's side and opened my door. "Agent N'Gutta of Droshheim was unable to pursue because he's got such a broad manly physique, and also because he missed his morning cup of tea and ate three maple bars on the way over and was feeling sluggish."
"I hardly remember that portion of our conversation."
"Doesn't mean I'm wrong."
We got in and buckled up. Gutt snorted, but he was smiling, showing off all his massive teeth, including the two incisor tusks that could very well crush bone if necessary. Or so I assumed. Never had the pleasure of experiencing that first hand, and it felt a little too rude to just come out and ask him. He spoke while keeping his eyes firmly focused ahead. "It was two maple bars and an éclair."
"Right. Because the Bavarian cream in that éclair was so light and definitely wouldn't bog you down." I checked behind me, then pulled out onto the street. "Where do I go for the transport?"
"The nearest parking garage or empty back alley."
And lo and behold, there was a parking garage just a few blocks to the right. "You're sure we can't just do it in the middle of the road?"
"Not unless it's an emergency. Giant black SUVs disappearing tends to throw a wrench in the traffic flow. We stopped doing that after the twelve-car pile-up outside LA."
I led the car around the corner, down the road, and into the dark, shady cool of the parking garage. "Okay, now?"
