Eternal

by V. K. Forrest

  Smart move, Fia thought as she slipped her hand into a glove.

  “What is this? The Special Agent Kahill all-request hot line?”

  “Sir?” Fia was barely in Ed Jarrell’s office before he was grumbling at her.

  Jarrell was the Philadelphia Field Office ASAC, assistant special agent in charge. He had held one of the two ASAC positions as long as Fia had been at the Philadelphia office on Arch Street. He’d been in that chair at least five years before then, maybe longer. For all Fia knew, the office had been built around him.

  Jarrell was an okay guy. Most of the agents didn’t think he had much of a sense of humor, but Fia thought he was pretty funny. Usually when he wasn’t trying to be, like now. He wasn’t a bad boss. She’d seen men and women better suited to be a supervisor, but she’d certainly seen worse. The thing that annoyed her most about him was that he always seemed irritated when a new case came in, as if the violent crimes and dope sales taking place on the streets around them were somehow getting in the way of his paperwork.

  “Door.” He pointed.

  Fia lifted her polished black Cole Haan boot and pushed the door shut behind her with her heel.

  “I just got a call from Senator Malley’s office in D.C. You know Malley? Ways and Means. Senator Big Fish from the little Delaware pond.”

  Fia slid her hands into her pants pockets, having absolutely no clue where this conversation was going, but it was often that way with Jarrell until the very last second. “Yes, sir. I grew up in Delaware,” she said carefully. “I think he was first elected in the early seventies.” She saw no reason to tell him they were related.

  Jarrell glanced over the top edge of his black, military-style horn-rimmed glasses. “There’s been a homicide in Kent County and the senator has specifically requested that you be assigned to the case.”

  Fia’s first impulse was to say “Me?” and tap her chest like some teenaged dope, but she managed to keep her hands securely in her pockets. “Delaware is in Baltimore’s jurisdiction. Sometimes they get touchy about this sort of thing.”

  “Well, duh,” he intoned. “Tell me about it.”

  Fia tried hard not to smile as she thought about the office joke that ASAC stood for Asshole Special Agent in Charge.

  Jarrell reached for a blue file under two red ones. He had some kind of system with the colored files known only to him, his secretary, and God. “I have a call in to Baltimore, but the Senator’s office tells us jump, we all ask how high.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay a few nights if you need to. Get a pay chit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fia pressed her lips together. “I’ve got some prelims on that case I was sent on this morning in Lansdowne—”

  “Let it sit or pass it on to someone else.” He opened the blue file and then glanced across his desk, in search of something. Spotting a small note pad, he ripped the top page off and offered it to her. He was already looking at the file again.

  Fia accepted the sheet of paper and read the address. A chill rippled through her as she read it again, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. She had, after all, been up all night.

  “This…this says the homicide took place in the post office in Clare Point.”

  “Yup.” He scribbled something in the file, not really paying attention.

  “I…I grew up in Clare Point, sir.”

  “Yup.”

  She started to speak again, but stopped when he frowned at her. “Look, Kahill. I don’t like it any better than you do, but when Senator Malley’s office calls—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “How high?” She pulled open the door and walked out of the office. Bobby McCathal dead?

  It was impossible.

  Literally.

  Chapter 2

  The cell phone on the car seat beside her rang, but Fia didn’t pick it up. The little screen identified the caller as máthair. It was the fifth call from her mother in the last two hours. One of her brothers had also called, as had her uncle. She hadn’t even known Uncle Sean had her number; he probably hadn’t, until her mother gave it to him.

  The phone stopped ringing, was quiet for a moment, then chirped accusingly, signaling that yet another message had been left. The screen flashed. Seven messages. “Fine,” she muttered. “Perfect.”

  Fia downshifted hard, engine-braking the BMW down the exit ramp off Route 1 before stomping on the gas pedal out of the curve. She had decided it would be better that she not speak to her mother, or her uncle, or anyone from Clare Point until she saw the crime scene. Her first loyalty had to be to the Bureau. She knew some family members wouldn’t understand, but if she was going to find out what happened to Bobby McCathal, she had to be an FBI agent first, Kahill sept member second. She had to follow investigative protocol, and that meant not allowing her mother to cloud her thinking with any doomsday proclamations, or her uncle with his armchair Discovery Channel police procedures.

  As Fia left the interstate behind, the terrain changed quickly from soy beans, corn, and sorghum to pine and hardwood forest. The road surface morphed from pale cement to shiny blacktop, then crumbling blacktop as the woods crept closer until it surrounded her. She flew past a state sign marking the west boundary of the Clare Point Wildlife Preserve. The needle on the speedometer slipped up over eighty-five. Littering in the preserve was a three-hundred-dollar fine. Speeding was practically a Kahill birthright.

  Fia turned up the air-conditioning in the car and pushed her sunglasses back up her nose. Shadows from the trees fell across her windshield; patterns of light and dark danced on the glass. It was the last week of August. Central Delaware was still hot as hell, but at least the humidity was not ungodly high. The tourist season was almost over. Most of the students had gone back to college or school or begun sports training so there would be few visitors on a Wednesday. The fewer the better.

  She followed the winding road, wondering what could have happened to Bobby McCathal. She needed to get to the bottom of this quickly, but absolutely nothing was coming to her. Possibilities flitted through her mind, but she was having a difficult time focusing as she fought that familiar feeling of inadequacy that was always part of returning home.

  What was wrong with her? She was thirty-five years old, well respected in her field, and yet she allowed these people to make her feel like a child. As if she wasn’t good enough, as if nothing she did would quite meet their approval. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed softly.

  The woods opened up, the road widened, and Fia passed the hand-carved wooden sign, embellished with a shamrock and a cattail, welcoming visitors to Clare Point. The state road fed directly onto Main Street, which ran west to east, straight down to the bay. Both sides of the street were lined with Victorian houses, pink—Sorry, Aunt Leah, salmon—baby blue, pale yellow, their gingerbread molding painted in contrasting pastels of peach, teal, and lavender. The colors were silly, like a bag of Jelly Bellys spilled on carpet. But the tourists, especially the blue-haired ladies, marveled at the authentic turn-of-the century houses. The hometown atmosphere they helped to create brought in ninety-five percent of the town’s annual income in three short months.

  There were no parking meters in front of the Clare Point post office; it was a friendly town that welcomed visitors…well, at least from Memorial Day to Labor Day. The post office was the only stone building on the street. Built in the thirties, with gray sandstone slabs hauled south in pickup trucks from Pennsylvania, it had originally been a bank. It was an auspicious building, solid, formidable, secure. From its WPA “historical building” cornerstone, to its ever-present American flag flying overhead, it had always seemed like a safe place to Fia. As an old woman, she had even spent a night here during Hurricane Hazel.

  Where had that protection been last night when Bobby needed it?

  Uncle Sean’s blue police cruiser was the only vehicle parked in front of the building. She pulled the parking brake, grabbed her cell phone and digital camera, and climbed out of the
car, tucking the items into her suit jacket pockets. Yellow crime-scene tape danced in the bay breeze, blocking the stone steps leading to the double doors. She wondered where the tape had come from. They hadn’t needed crime-scene tape in Clare Point since its invention.

  Glancing up, Fia saw Anna Ross and her sister, Peigi, both in their mid-sixties, at the far end of the sidewalk, talking quietly. She turned away quickly, not wanting to catch their eye. When they spotted Fia, they hurried toward her, calling her name, but she ducked under the tape and made it up the steps ahead of them. Inside the post office, she swung around, closing and locking the doors behind her. She pulled down the old-fashioned shade.

  “How long it take to drive here?” Sean Kahill still had a slight Irish brogue, even after all these centuries.

  Fia turned around. The question caught her off guard. It just seemed, well…bizarre, under the circumstances. But her Uncle Sean had always been that way. He’d never been very good at focusing.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long.” Less than five minutes in town and she was already apologizing. “I had to stop by my place. Grab some clothes and get someone to feed my cat.” She pulled off her dark sunglasses and tucked them into her breast pocket. As she walked toward him, the heels of her boots clicked crisply against the polished stone floor, and echoed off the walls of the lobby.

  She could smell the blood in the building. Taste it.

  And smoke was there too, with a putrid, undeniable undercurrent. She swallowed hard. Of course, she had known. But still…she hadn’t been prepared. How did one prepare for the stench of burnt flesh?

  She met her uncle’s gaze. Sean Kahill was a tall man, like all the other Kahills, probably six-five in his prime, now with a slight paunch. In his early sixties, he had salt-and-pepper hair he kept cut short, military style. His dark blue uniform, with short sleeves and a shiny gold badge, was slightly rumpled.

  “Tell me what the hell happened here, Uncle Sean.” Fia already had had enough small talk. “And let’s keep this strictly business. Strictly police protocol.”

  There were no signs of a fire in the lobby. No sign of any disturbance whatsoever. The center island, with its REGISTERED, RETURN RECEIPT REQUESTED stickers and HOLD MY MAIL slips, was neat and orderly. All the cheap black plastic pens attached to their metal chains were in their appropriate holders and free priority-rate envelopes of different sizes were stacked neatly on the counter. “How could this have happened?” she murmured. “How could Bobby—”

  Fee, ye musn’t—

  It took her a second to register that she had heard him telepathically, rather than audibly. Nonetheless, his tone made the hair on her forearms bristle.

  There was a sound of male footsteps. Someone else was in the building. One of her uncle’s patrolmen?

  Her uncle cut his eyes to his right. Fia breathed deep. She could smell him. A human! A stranger. She saw him walk through the door from the back of the lobby. She rapidly made eye contact with her uncle again. Who?

  Her mental telepathy was rusty. She rarely used it, even when she was in town. It just didn’t seem…appropriate in the twenty-first century.

  “Special Agent Duncan,” Sean Kahill announced in a strained tone. “This is my niece I told ye about, so I did.”

  It was the face more than the name that knocked Fia mentally off-balance. She felt, for a moment, as if she were free-falling.

  He had classic good looks: high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and sensual lips. His sandy blond hair was no longer shoulder length, yet it was a color she had not forgotten. Could not. But it was those green eyes of his that pierced her heart. Her mind. And every bit of hatred she could muster.

  Even in the charcoal gray tailored suit, he could have walked right out of the sixteenth-century Highlands.

  Fia mentally caught herself in her downward spiral and yanked herself upward. She struggled to make herself heard in her uncle’s head. Centuries of survival instinct kicked in. In a situation like this, appearance was everything. Special Agent Duncan? Uncle Sean, what are you talking about? Who is this? Why does he look so much like—

  “Some…mix-up, I think. Something about jurisdiction,” Sean said in an odd, vaguely official-sounding voice. Ah, now, I’m sorry, my colleen. Don’t know why he looks so much like him. But I tried to warn ye he was here. Called the number yer mother gave me.

  “Special Agent Kahill, Philadelphia Field Office.” Trying to rapidly process on multiple levels, Fia offered her hand to the stranger. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his face. Couldn’t quite catch her breath.

  Ian, she thought, a sob of emotion rising in her throat.

  No, of course not. She choked it down. That was ridiculous. Ian had been dead for centuries.

  She regrouped, refocused. Uncle Sean, this isn’t safe. This man can’t be here. He puts us all at risk.

  “Special Agent Kahill.” The one who also called himself Duncan shook her hand firmly. “Chief Kahill was just telling me that you were coming.” He released her hand, bristling. His tone was curt, challenging. “I’m sorry you had to drive so far for nothing. I understand your concern due to your relationship to the deceased, and to the chief here, but Baltimore’s jurisdiction—”

  She cut in. “I was sent by the Philadelphia Field Office to investigate this crime scene, Special Agent Duncan.” Her tone was even crisper than his. She needed to send him on his way as quickly as possible.

  “Baltimore has jurisdiction.” He repeated it as if he thought she was too stupid to understand the first time.

  It was Ian’s voice, and yet not quite his voice. The Highland burr was gone. In its place was an authoritative American antagonism.

  “I’m pretty clear on the jurisdictional lines,” she responded. She was back on her game now, knew she could think her way through this.

  Did you call the wrong phone number, Uncle Sean? Does Uncle Bill know this ass is here? Uncle Bill’s office called my office and spoke with my boss directly. “The mistake must have been made in your office.” Fia never broke eye contact with the agent. She gave him her best condescending smile. “I guess you better call in, see where the snafu in your office was. Arrangements were made before I left Philadelphia. I believe it was a special request through Senator Malley’s office.”

  Ah, now, I didn’t know what to do. Who to call. Her uncle’s thoughts were shaky. Emotional. Gair said it couldn’t be handled from inside. Not with Bobby dead in the post office. A federal building and all. Gair said we’d have to take our chances. Sean pressed the heel of his hand to his barrel chest. Jezus, I got heartburn.

  Special Agent Duncan hadn’t moved. He just stood there, frowning. She didn’t blame him for being PO’d. Had the tables been turned, she’d have been as mad as hell to have him walking in on her crime scene. But no one was getting any slack from her, not today, not ever.

  She turned her full attention to her uncle, making an event of removing a small notepad and pen from her pocket. The other agent flipped open his cell and walked away.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, Chief Kahill,” Fia said. Just answer the questions I say aloud, with verbal responses, Uncle Sean. “Who found the body?”

  I…I’ll try. “One of my officers. His…Bobby’s wife called in ’bout six this morning. Said Bobby called her around seven last night saying he was going to work late. But he never arrived home.” You know Bobby. He likes to diddle Mary Dill, Tuesday nights. They have a regular arrangement. Only he never made it there, either. I called and checked. “So I sent Patrolman Mahon Kahill over.”

  “After the call came in at the station at 6 A.M., you sent Patrolman Kahill directly to the post office?”

  “To check on Bobby, that I did.” Had no idea. Thought maybe the fool had gotten drunk, just fallen asleep or some nonsense. Missed his date with Mary.

  Again, Fia heard the emotion in her uncle’s thoughts.

  Had…had I known, I’d never have sent the kid. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t. Where
to even start looking for the head.

  Looking for the head?

  She gripped her pen. She could hear the Baltimore agent talking on his cell, his voice sharp. But he was still close enough to monitor her and Uncle Sean’s conversation if he wanted to and she had to be careful.

  Looking for the head? She couldn’t shake the thought.

  She’d forgotten how challenging it could be to have a conversation with or for the benefit of a human, while carrying on a mental conversation with another vampire.

  “And…and what did Patrolman Kahill tell you he discovered when he came looking for the deceased? I assume he radioed in,” she said. Of course, Bobby had to have been decapitated. It was the only way to kill a vampire. But his head was missing? How had that information not been conveyed through her office? And where was Bobby’s head?

  “Ye want to see where it happened, do ye?” Sean pointed beyond the lobby, toward the back. I didn’t know what else to do, Fee. Didn’t even know where to start. His wife was so upset. Mary, too. Hardest visits I’ve had to make in four hundred years.

  “We can go have a look,” Fia agreed. “But I’ll still need your full statement. I can get it later, though, back at the station.” She glanced in the direction of the open door. “In the back room?”

  “Right through here. Back door into the alley was unlocked, it was, so anyone could have gotten in. Not that locks—”

  Be careful what you say, Uncle Sean. The human is listening, Fia warned.

  “…Not that locks mean much. Not these days, they don’t,” Sean bumbled.

  “You’re not serious,” the Baltimore agent barked into his phone.

  Fia glanced over her shoulder at the Ian imposter as she followed her uncle into the large, open mail-sorting room. She halted as all at once the smell of burnt human flesh filled her nostrils and the meaning hit her again. Bobby was really dead. Her stomach did a somersault. Oh, Bobby…

  There was a large charred spot on the floor. Blackened goo still puddled haphazardly, blood, tendons, sinew, muscle, and ligaments melted, burnt, and gluey. A gelatin of what had probably been paunch fat had bubbled on the floor and pooled into a translucent smudge.