Old Fashioned_A Temple Verse Series

by Shayne Silvers

  “We don’t. My Captain was against it even. But the FBI requested I bring you in, and we’re trying to play nice, so here we are.”

  My mouth may or may not have hung open long enough for drool to spill out. I snapped it shut once I realized Jimmy wasn’t going to elaborate. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had requested me at a crime scene? But why, what had I done? Granted, as a black magic arms dealer, I regularly played fast and loose with the law, but I purposefully avoided doing anything that would draw Federal attention, even if I didn’t technically answer to Regular law enforcement.

  Well, not only Regular law enforcement.

  In general, those of us who considered ourselves Freaks—you may know us better by our household names: werewolves, vampires, wizards, monsters, and so on—were held in check by our own ruthless organizations. Institutions like the Sanguine Council—a conclave of vampire overlords—or the Academy—a wizarding school that fielded agents who cracked down on supernatural crime when it threatened to expose us to the unsuspecting world. In Boston, on the other hand, the law was upheld by a mysterious group known as the Faerie Chancery, comprised mainly of Fae exiles.

  Sadly, I was on everyone’s radar, at this point, including, it seemed, the FBI.

  “What would the FBI want with me?” I asked, returning to the issue at hand.

  Jimmy pursed his lips. “I’ll let the Special Agent in Charge explain that to you.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, and we rode the rest of the way in silence, headed southwest. I watched with growing trepidation as Dorchester’s cozy shops, townhomes, and apartments gave way to West Roxbury’s residential neighborhoods. I knew better than most that West Roxbury—with its churches and its gentrified, upper-middle class population—was well outside Jimmy’s jurisdiction, which didn’t bode well; for Jimmy and Maria to have been assigned to the case, a crime had to have been committed in their district—but we’d left that part of town behind ten minutes ago.

  Which meant we were heading to a separate—and therefore additional—crime scene. Factoring in the FBI’s presence, and the fact that the Bureau rarely got involved unless a crime crossed state lines, I figured there were at least three crime scenes in total.

  This had to be karma, I decided.

  But I hadn’t even meant to dick-punch that kid in Vegas…

  Chapter 3

  There were eight houses on Elven Road, and a police cruiser in every driveway. We parked across the street at a 7-Eleven and walked over, ducking under caution tape after Jimmy flashed his credentials at the uniformed officer guarding the area. The beat cop looked me up and down, clearly wondering what I was doing there. I marched past, ignoring him—I knew about as much as he did, after all, and didn’t appreciate being stared at.

  Jimmy passed me a visitor’s badge attached to a lanyard, “Put this on.” I did so, adjusting my hair as I studied the area. I’d assumed the crime scene would be swarming with cops and forensics teams, but it wasn’t. In fact, if it weren’t for the patrol cars and caution tape, I’d have written this street off as your basic, residential street in a quiet, suburban area—the sort of place where people wave to each other as they step outside to watch their kids get on the bus to school.

  The illusion of safety on streets like this always fascinated me; the people who assumed nothing could go wrong on such a dull, ordinary stretch of road. It was that illusion which so often drew families away from the urban sprawl—the assumption that their kids were somehow safer here than there. On the other hand, as a pure-blooded city girl, these neighborhoods gave me the creeps.

  Thanks, Stepford Wives.

  As I followed Jimmy down the sidewalk, however, I realized Elven Road wasn’t your typical suburban avenue. In fact, it was pitifully short and out of the way, running perpendicular to trafficked streets on either side; drivers rubbernecked as they passed, but otherwise the police enclosure had no impact on the morning commute.

  I hit a crack in the sidewalk and stumbled before deciding to concentrate on walking, and worry less about where we were. At least the crisp morning light was less nauseating than I’d expected, especially now that I had coffee—Jimmy couldn’t stop me from ducking in under the pretense of using the bathroom, and even 7-Eleven’s crummy brew offered salvation with enough cream and sugar. As we got closer to the other side of the street, I realized that every house had been cordoned off individually, which struck me as especially odd. Some sort of chemical attack, maybe? Multiple break-ins? What else would turn eight houses into crime scenes?

  I decided not to dwell on it; I’d find out soon enough, I figured.

  We met Maria near the last house on the block. She sat on the hood of a police cruiser, sipping coffee judiciously, her cup stained with matte red lipstick—strange, since she wasn’t really the lipstick type. Definitely more of a tinted lip balm kind of gal. When she saw me, her eyes hardened. I waved with enthusiasm, just to be obnoxious, wondering why no one was on Team Quinn, today. Maria and I had never been on great terms, but when last we’d spoken she’d at least made an effort to be civil.

  “So, you found her, after all,” Maria said. “Too bad.”

  Well, so much for civility.

  “What the fuck is the matter with ye two?” I asked, giving voice to a morning’s worth of pent-up frustration. “It’s not like I asked to be here, ye know. In fact, I t’ink ye can handle this on your own.” I plucked the lanyard from where it hung at my chest and tugged, popping the clasp. I tossed it at Jimmy. “I’ll find me own ride back, t’anks.”

  “Detectives,” a male voice called from the nearby doorway, spinning us all around. “Is that the woman I asked you about?” The man had a navy-blue suit jacket slung casually over one shoulder, the sleeves of his wrinkled white shirt rolled up over his heavily-tattooed forearms. There was something swarthy about him I picked up on right away—between his deep boater’s tan and quick smile I could sense an easy-going nature. His accent was vaguely Hispanic, like you might find in New Mexico or Arizona. He pulled the door closed behind him, descended the steps, and approached. I noticed Maria giving the man a lot of attention, which explained the lipstick.

  “I’m glad you could make it, Miss MacKenna,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Special Agent Jeffries. Or Leo, if you’d prefer.”

  “It wasn’t exactly me choice,” I replied, but shook his hand anyway. “And ye can call me Quinn. Every time someone calls me Miss MacKenna I get flashbacks to Catholic school and end up jerkin’ me hands back to avoid the ruler.”

  Jeffries laughed. “Well, I’d hate to trigger you. Quinn, it is.” He turned to Jimmy and held out his hand. “I’ll take over from here,” he said, eyeing the lanyard I’d unceremoniously thrown at the increasingly dickish detective. “I appreciate it.”

  Jimmy handed the lanyard over and jerked his head at Maria, a nonverbal “let’s get the fuck out of here,” if I’d ever seen one. Together they headed back down the street without so much as looking back. I frowned as I noticed Jimmy hunting through his pockets, only to pull out a carton of cigarettes. “Since when does Jimmy smoke?” I asked, mostly to myself.

  “This case has a lot of people on edge,” Jeffries said. “But frankly, I think there’s something else bothering Detective Collins. Something he doesn’t want to talk about.” The Special Agent shrugged, clearly deciding not to elaborate, and waved me to follow before I could ask him what he meant. “Come on. Work awaits.”

  “How about ye tell me what I’m doin’ here, first?” I asked, planting my hands on my hips for good measure. “Jimmy wasn’t exactly full of information.”

  “We can talk more inside. Besides, I’d like you to meet a few more members of my team.”

  “Your team?”

  Jeffries took the steps two at a time—guess he was one of those guys—and opened the door. “Yes. Officially, we’re part of the Bureau’s Special Inquiries Cold Case Office. Bit of a mouthful. Of course, the local branches have another na
me for us.” He ushered me inside.

  “Like what?” I asked as I passed by into the foyer.

  “They call us Sickos,” a woman said, from within the house. “Get it? S. I. C. C. O. It’s actually pretty clever, all things considered.” The woman—easily one of the most well-proportioned, muscular women I’d ever seen—approached, extending a hand. “I’m Special Agent Sigrid.” Her handshake was as firm as she was stunning, her features fair and Nordic.

  “Quinn MacKenna,” I replied.

  “Hilde here is the Assistant Special Agent in Charge,” Jeffries said. “I keep trying to get demoted, hoping they’ll give her my job, but so far she’s managed to weasel her way out of it.”

  Hilde rolled her eyes. “The only reason I stick around is because you’re steering the ship, Leo. And that’s especially true for the boys. I’m pretty sure Lakota would have a meltdown if you ever even joked about retirement.”

  Jeffries blushed and ran a hand through his mane of thick, dark hair. I realized there were flecks of gray in it, poking out here and there. “You’re probably right.”

  “So,” Hilde said, “should I give her the grand tour?”

  “Actually, I think Quinn and I should talk first,” Jeffries said. “Could you go make sure Warren’s finished? You know how he gets around new people.”

  “Sure,” Hilde said, turning to head up the stairs.

  Jeffries invited me to join him at the dining room table, pulling a chair out for me before taking his own. I hesitated, gazing around the room, wondering why—if we were technically in a crime scene—we weren’t wearing gloves or plastic booties. Jeffries seemed to sense my hesitation and the reason for it. “Don’t worry, forensics has been through here already. A few times. There’s nothing worthwhile down here, anyway. Everything happened upstairs.”

  Everything like what? I sighed and took a seat, determined to get some straight answers before I went anywhere else. “Alright, so I’m here, and I’m listenin’,” I said. “I t’ink it’s about time ye tell me why ye had me brought here in the wee hours of the mornin’.”

  Jeffries grinned and steepled his fingers. “I’ll tell you everything you’d like to know. But first, I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Freaks.”

  It was official; I should’ve stayed in Vegas.

  Chapter 4

  My eyes widened momentarily, but I managed to mask my surprise by taking a sip of my coffee and tucking a strand of hair behind one ear while I considered how to respond. I had no idea what kind of game Jeffries was playing, but I wasn’t about to confess to knowing what a “Freak” was—not in front of a Federal agent. “I’m sorry, did ye say freaks?” I asked. “Like, what, kinky people with fetishes? Is that what ye mean? Toe-suckers and shoe-humpers?”

  Jeffries chuckled, but I noticed he was watching me like a hawk, gauging my reaction—the way Dez used to when trying to catch me in a lie. All-in-all, I was quickly beginning to realize how terrible a decision I had made in answering my fucking door this morning.

  “No,” Leo said, eyes twinkling, “we have a different unit assigned to people like that. I’m talking about people—and, in many cases, creatures—who have extraordinary abilities and who live among us.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Like superheroes? Aren’t ye a wee bit old to be playin’ make believe, Agent Jeffries?” I asked, keeping my face calm, trying to get a read on him and find out how much he really knew.

  Jeffries studied me, his head tilted as if listening to a frequency I couldn’t hear. He frowned, then pointed to his suit jacket, which he’d folded over the back of his chair. “What color is this?”

  I blinked owlishly, suspecting Agent Jeffries might be clinically insane. The sad part was that it would make sense; in my experience, most Regulars who saw Freaks for what we were had a stilted, warped understanding of reality. Typically, you’d find them on the fringes of society, disregarded. Like the preacher heckling sinners from the street corner, or the woman on the subway, twitching every time the lights flickered. Most people dismissed their behavior—crazy is as crazy does. But what if that preacher could see demonic influence, trailing behind you like a shadow? Or what if that woman knew what lived in those dim subway tunnels—beings without eyes, without faces? The truth—that Freak encounters have been responsible for quite a few psychotic breaks—was out there, Scully.

  “It’s blue,” I said finally, shrugging. If the deranged Special Agent wanted to play “I Spy” in the middle of an investigation, sitting at a dining room table which doubled as a crime scene, I wasn’t going to argue. Or move, even.

  The crazies hate sudden movements.

  He nodded. “Now tell me it’s red.”

  “Seriously? I—”

  “Please, it’ll only take a moment,” Jeffries said. He seemed quite serious—and surprisingly sane.

  “Fine. Your suit is red.”

  Jeffries blinked. Once. Twice. Then he settled back in his chair. “Remarkable,” he murmured, staring at me so hard it felt like he was looking through me.

  “What is?” Hilde asked as she entered, pulling up a chair alongside her boss.

  Jeffries never took his eyes off me. “I can’t tell if she’s lying or telling the truth,” he muttered in response, sounding very, very troubled.

  I frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked. Of course, I had lied to him about the color of his jacket—he’d asked me to. Unless he meant I’d been lying about something else…

  I glanced over at Hilde to gauge her reaction but was shocked to find her sizing me up like I would an opponent—someone I might have to break if things got ugly. I scooted back from the table out of habit; swinging my knees around, prepared to stand. Hilde’s eyes narrowed. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the temperature in the room had suddenly fallen a few degrees; goosebumps prickled the skin on my arms.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Jeffries shivered, seeming to come back to himself. “Hilde, that’s enough. She hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, I don’t think she’s even doing it on purpose.”

  “Doin’ what?” I asked again, still staring at Hilde. Or, more specifically, her hips. Plenty of people argue about what to look for in a fight—an opponent’s eyes, the twist of their shoulders, the swivel of their feet. But, in my experience, every fighter I’d ever met depended on their hips to start the party. If she rose, even the slightest bit, I’d have a couple seconds to react.

  If that.

  “You’re blocking my ability,” Jeffries said.

  My eyes shot to the Special Agent, dismissing Hilde altogether. I couldn’t help it; his answer had surprised me that much. “Your what?”

  Jeffries smiled. “My ability. Call it a gift,” he said, shrugging. “A curse, too, at times. You’d be surprised how often people rely on lies. Excuses, exaggeration, even the lies they tell themselves.”

  “Wait,” I said, “so ye can tell when people are lyin’?”

  Hilde snorted. “He can tell when you’re lying, when you’re being hyperbolic, when you’re trying to be nice…” She glanced over at her boss with a wry smile, and I realized the temperature in the room had gone back to normal. “Any idea how hard it is to work for a guy like that?”

  I grunted, thinking about all the odd jobs I’d had over the years before I’d begun peddling magical artifacts for money. Hilde was right. If even half my bosses had known what I really thought about them and their crummy job, I’d never have made it past my first interview.

  But, wait a second…that made Agent Jeffries a Freak.

  “She’s got it now,” Hilde said, watching my face with a smug grin.

  “But how?” I asked. “Why?”

  Jeffries held up a hand. “I know, you’re probably asking yourself a lot of questions right now. But before I answer them, I need you to tell me one thing. Are you one of us?” he asked. I realized he was gesturing to himself and Hilde. “Usually I’d be able to probe a bit and find out
for myself, but you’re immune. Which makes me strongly suspect you are one of us. Of course, I’ve been wrong before.”

  I stared at Hilde. “I’ll answer ye, if she tells me what she is,” I said. Truth be told, I was curious. But, more than anything, I wanted to see how far Jeffries was willing to go to prove he could be trusted.

  Hilde grinned wolfishly. “And what do you think I am?”

  I frowned and then studied her, taking her question seriously. “Somethin’ do with the cold, I t’ink, after that little dip in temperature. Not an elemental. They don’t keep physical forms for longer than a few minutes. Hurts ‘em. Ye aren’t one of the Fae—ye look too human and none of that’s glamour. Probably not a goddess or you’d be so far up your own arse I’d never get a word in. A fighter, from what your body language said a moment ago. Trained. Ye lead with your arms up, though, so not a shooter. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

  The two FBI agents exchanged very pointed glances.

  “Looks like the detective was right,” Jeffries said.

  Hilde nodded, then turned to me. “Valkyrie,” she said.

  My brow furrowed. “Say what now?”

  “That’s what I am. Or was. A Valkyrie. I’ve been…loaned out, after a fashion. Leo can fill you in on the details of how that came about better than I can.”

  I fiddled with my coffee cup. A Valkyrie. One of the legendary warriors who served Odin, the Norse God who literally had a day named after him. That’s right, people: Hump Day was all his. I probably should have been more surprised to meet one of the mythical shield-maidens, but after running into, not one, but three goddesses a couple of weeks ago, I had a really high tolerance for surprises. Still, that left me with plenty of questions. Like what was a Valkyrie doing working for the FBI? Were there other mythological legends on his team?

  Was Odin the director of the FBI?

  And, for Christ’s sake, who killed JFK?