Skin Deep lb-1

by Mark Del Franco

  “Will Terryn be enough?” Cress asked.

  Laura reached into the foot well to get her magnet-mount light. She lowered her window, then slapped the light on the roof. “I don’t know. Tell him I’ve got a roof light on.”

  On her left, the side door of the van rolled open. Laura’s heart jumped as the barrel of an M16 slid into view. She could do many things with essence and a fast car, but she couldn’t stop a bullet, and she didn’t have a fast car. She swerved as the gun went off, her rear windows shattering in a spray of glass. She sideswiped the van. The larger vehicle had inertia on its side against the SUV, but the driver veered away. Laura smiled. Only a crazy woman tries to use a Honda as battering ram.

  “Janice?” Cress said.

  “I’m good,” Laura replied. She hit the gas and pulled in front of the van, feinting left and right to keep it from passing her. The second van joined the first. They separated, widening the distance between them, while gaining on Laura. When they reached the bumper of her SUV, the M16 reappeared as a black-clad figure wearing a nondescript mask leaned out the door. He started firing.

  Laura slammed on the brakes. The vans flew past, and she released a surge of essence through the windows. White lightning leaped from her hands and raked both vehicles, rocking them on their tires. The sniper fell inside as the van swerved away. She flew past the second van as it zigzagged wildly on blown tires.

  “Report, please,” Cress said, calm as ever.

  “Still here.”

  The lead van pulled a U-turn. Laura shifted gears and accelerated the SUV in reverse to gain some space. The second van pulled across the road behind her, and she hit the brake. The door opened and another shooter jumped out. She was trapped. “Dammit. In case I don’t make it, Cress, tell Terryn…”

  Cress cut her off. “Tell him yourself. You always have options.”

  She was right. Laura knew that. She shoved the stick shift into drive and floored it. The SUV’s tires screamed until they grabbed pavement. She shot forward as gunfire rang out behind. The van in front cut sideways and stopped. The first shooter stepped out.

  The sky crackled with blue-white lightning. Laura ducked as her windshield exploded to the sound of the M16 firing. She kept her foot planted on the accelerator. Peering through the steering wheel, she saw a remote possibility of swerving around the van at the last moment. At speed, the SUV would either barrel-roll or fly off the bridge. Better that, she thought, than the odds of surviving a head-on collision. She dropped farther in the seat, hoping not to die when she hit the guardrails.

  More lightning flashed, and this time Laura recognized it: a lethal surge of essence. The van in front of her exploded in a black-and-orange fireball. Terryn soared into view, his gossamer wings in full flare, burning with fierce white light, his body a dark shadow between them. He brought his arms down and aimed. Cobalt blue essence-bolts leaped from his hands, striking the van behind her.

  Laura hit the brakes and jumped out, her hands ablaze with white essence. Terryn landed beside her, burning like a fuel cell, his eyes glowing a violent blue. Something detonated inside the lead van, and the roof shredded fire and metal. In a blur, Terryn lunged over Laura and discharged his essence into a covering shield. Metal debris pummeled them. They stumbled to the ground, Terryn’s shield deflecting the shrapnel.

  Laura found herself inches from Terryn’s face and smiled. “Thanks, boss.”

  He held his hand out and pulled her up. “Was this your idea of an errand?”

  Both vans billowed smoke. Laura stared a moment and shook her head. “No essence. They’re all dead.”

  Terryn gazed toward the Anacostia side of the river. Lights flashed red and blue behind stalled traffic. “This was professional. I doubt we’ll find anything in the vans once the fires are out. Let’s go. I want to see how this plays out in channels.”

  They returned to her SUV, and Laura drove around the burning van.

  “Report, please,” Cress said.

  Terryn settled himself back in the passenger seat. “The situation has been resolved. We’re on our way back.”

  “Good,” said Cress. “Pick up some ice cream, please.”

  Terryn smiled as she disconnected. Laura kept the police light on the roof. Wind whipped through the missing windows. Police cars and fire engines came at them the wrong way. Laura pulled to the right to let them pass, but she didn’t stop.

  A police car broke away from the contingent and followed them. The driver waved them down. Two Metropolitan police officers jumped out, both with their hands on their guns in open holsters. Neither drew his weapon. One stopped at the front of the SUV and kept his eyes on Terryn, while the other made a wide berth near the driver’s side door. “ID, please?”

  Laura held up her badge on its chain. She kept a straight face when Terryn flashed an air force ID from a billfold. The air force didn’t allow fey staff. Terryn at least had the courtesy to glamour his wings so the officer wouldn’t know he was fey and have to pretend he didn’t notice. The officer took the IDs and handed them to his partner, who returned to the squad car. He peered toward the burning vans. “Air force and SWAT, huh? What’s going down?”

  Laura tilted her head to let Terryn take the question. He leaned forward. “We’re not sure. A fender-bender, I think.”

  A thin smile streaked across the officer’s face. He made a point of looking at the SUV’s missing windows. “I see. Did you install this air-conditioning yourself?”

  Laura chuckled. “Can you believe this? Can’t park your car anywhere in this town.”

  The officer’s partner stepped out of the car and called him over. They conferred briefly, and the officer returned to the SUV. He handed the IDs back with an impressed look on his face. “Never saw a clean check come back so fast. I suppose it’s pointless to ask for contact info.”

  Terryn nodded. “We’re working on something.”

  The officer tapped the roof of the car. “Thanks for your time.”

  Laura drove away. “Fender-bender? Do you think he didn’t notice the fireball?”

  Terryn shrugged dismissively. Off the bridge, Laura pulled the police light in and slowed down. “I seem to have upset someone tonight.”

  “What happened at the apartment building?” he asked.

  She glanced over at him. “I went back to get the Inverni signature before it faded. Someone was watching me. I found the angle I was shot from, and there were three signatures: Aaron Foyle, Salvatore Gianni, and Jonathan Sinclair.”

  “All SWAT personnel?” Terryn asked.

  Laura nodded. “Foyle broke my balls about being the only person in the room when Sanchez died and letting the Inverni escape. I told him to talk to you if he was going that route.”

  Terryn arched an eyebrow. “Janice Crawford has balls?”

  Laura laughed. “You bet your ass she does.”

  “So who was trying to kill you on the bridge?”

  She had seen only Foyle at the drug lab, but that didn’t mean Gianni and Sinclair weren’t there as well. The vans showed up so quickly, she had the feeling that she hadn’t imagined someone watching from the next apartment building. “Well, if any of the three of them doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, I think we’ll have a clue.”

  Terryn leaned forward. “Stop up here, please. Cress likes something called Chunky Monkey.”

  Terryn’s lack of cultural knowledge amused her. She often had fun at his expense, more so because he didn’t always pick up on it. “Is it made from real monkeys?”

  He shrugged. “I asked her that, too, but she wouldn’t answer.”

  While Terryn went inside a convenience store, she ignored the curious stares from pedestrians. He came out with a small bag and tossed a pack of gum to Laura through the remains of the windshield.

  After arriving at the Guildhouse garage, Laura parked the SUV in Janice Crawford’s usual space. She retrieved a duffel bag from the backseat, shaking off broken glass. One more glance around the interior conf
irmed that nothing else needed to be removed. She didn’t take it for granted that parking at the Guild meant some idiot wouldn’t rob her. The SUV held the bare minimum of equipment most of the time, so she needed only the duffel.

  When they entered the elevator lobby, Laura stepped sideways along the wall. She dropped the duffel and unbuttoned her shirt.

  Terryn paused. “You’re changing here?”

  Laura pulled off the shirt. “I don’t want gunshot residue in the Mercedes.” She kicked off her work boots and dropped her pants. She smiled at the amusement on Terryn’s face.

  “There are cameras, you know,” he said.

  She pulled a black, wrinkle-free skirt and a plain white T-shirt out of the duffel. “Do you think this is the first time I’ve done this?” She pointed up at the camera over her head. “It’s angled for the elevator. It can’t see me here. I checked.”

  “And you don’t find stripping in front of me the least bit inappropriate?” he asked.

  She pulled out a matching business jacket, followed by a pair of flat-heeled shoes. She hated the suit, but it survived being stuffed repeatedly into a bag. As she absorbed the essence out of the emerald on the chain around her neck, the Janice Crawford glamour evaporated. Instant Laura Blackstone, public-relations director. “For one thing, you’ve seen more at the beach. For another, you are in a relationship with a leanansidhe. If Cress suspected you had the least bit of interest in me, she’d tell me, and we’d both make your life miserable.”

  He chuckled. “True. I’d still prefer you at least ask me to turn away next time.”

  She stuffed her SWAT-team gear into the duffel bag. “Will do, boss. Tell Cress I’ll see her in the morning.”

  Terryn pressed the elevator button. “I’d prefer to debrief you now.”

  Laura picked up the duffel and leaned against the wall. “Terryn, I have been in a police raid, watched an officer die, been attacked by an Inverni, shot at, and have a concussion and partial memory loss. Then I was chased by maniacal van drivers, shot at again, wrecked the Crawford SUV, and I’m really worried you and Cress are about to eat chunks of monkey. I’d like to go home and sleep.”

  Terryn stepped into the elevator. “It’s ice cream with nuts. You need to get out more, Laura. All I can say is, be in early, please.”

  She nodded once. “Will do.”

  “Good night,” he said, as the doors closed.

  Laura slung the bag over her shoulder and returned to the garage. In one smooth move, she tossed the duffel in the back of the Mercedes and started the engine. She tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. It still smelled new. She loved her car.

  She cranked up the volume on the satellite radio. She spent a lot of time in cars. Music was one cultural trend that she managed to keep tabs on. When she wasn’t in an undercover persona, the stations she gravitated to were considered alternative-angsty boy bands singing about what a bummer life was. She didn’t think they had any understanding of what that meant, but she liked the beat. She sang at the top of her lungs as she raced up the exit ramp, ignoring the pounding in her head. Turning onto Pennsylvania Avenue, she hoped the only problems on the final leg home would be long traffic lights. When she was Laura Blackstone, the only thing people shot at her were questions. Generally, it was easier to dodge those.

  CHAPTER 4

  AS LAURA ENTERED her apartment, she dropped her keys on the entry table and picked up the mail. She flipped through the envelopes, sorted the junk out from the bills, and put the two stacks on the kitchen counter. The refrigerator held little more than breakfast items and condiments. She pulled out the orange juice and mixed it into a healthy shot of vodka. Leaning on the counter, she stared into the living room and drank, not gulping, not sipping, but in a slow, measured manner, as if taking medicine before bed.

  The housekeeper had been in. The only difference between before and after her visits was the dust quotient. Laura liked the living room in an intellectual, even aesthetic way, but she rarely used it for anything. She didn’t entertain. The Alexandria apartment was supposed to be home, but she spent little time in it. Instead, it had become about keeping up appearances. A high-profile professional at the Fey Guild would live in such a place. Nicely appointed. Spacious. Expensive.

  She wandered with her drink to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony and a view of the river. It was nice, in a city-nice kind of way. The area had history, quaint shops and boutiques and cafes. If she were only a Fey Guild director, she imagined she would love living there. But as it was, she had no connection to the place. She didn’t associate with her neighbors or interact with the local neighborhood. That would mean keeping up contacts, establishing relationships, and having another aspect of her life that needed to be guarded against her undercover work and vice versa.

  She rubbed her finger along the wet edge of her glass, thinking about the politics and strange winding path that had brought her to this point in her life, where she went home alone after two days of people trying to kill her.

  When the world of Faerie inexplicably merged with modern reality, the factions were simple and clear-cut. On the one hand were the Celtic fey such as herself, ruled from Ireland by High Queen Maeve. On the other were the Teutonic fey, who answered to Donor Elfenkonig, the Elvenking of Germany. The two strains of fey had spent decades in open hostilities, each side blaming the other for the loss of Faerie. After a hundred years, still no one understood what had happened to cause Convergence.

  Laura wondered where she would be if the merging hadn’t happened, even who she would be. She was a child caught between the twilight of Faerie and the dawn of Convergence. Her parents raised her as a Faerie druid child would have been raised, not like other hereborn fey, who had been immersed in modern culture. Faerie meant something to her. Maeve meant something to her. Protecting and defending the Celtic fey-and, yes, the bewildered humans caught in the middle-against the aggressions of the Elvenking meant something to her. That was why she’d entered into the service of the Guild and, eventually, InterSec.

  She finished her drink and returned to the kitchen, rinsed the glass, and placed it on the drainboard. In the bedroom, she removed her drab white T-shirt and the black business suit and laid them out on the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, she ran her fingers through her hair, scratching at her scalp. The scent of gunshot residue made her nostrils flare. Glamours could do many things, but filtering odors was difficult. When she stepped in the shower, the water sluiced the smell off her.

  With the water pouring down on her head, soothing the pounding in her skull, Laura tried not to think, a skill she had mastered to an uncomfortable degree. But despite parking her car, having a drink to unwind, undressing, and showering, her mind would not rest. She had been shot at before with both bullets and essence. She had risked her life more often than she cared to remember. She always separated those things from herself, thought of them as part of the job. If she spent time stressing about it, she shouldn’t be doing the job.

  But tonight, doubt hovered in the corners of her mind. She had almost died and was not sure why. Did all her deeply held beliefs about Faerie and Maeve and justice really have anything to do with almost dying in a drug lab in a run-down building in a run-down neighborhood? Did all that mean anything anymore? she wondered.

  She toweled off, checking herself for bruises and cuts. It was not unusual for her to come off an assignment at the end of the day only to realize she needed a bandage. She parted her hair on the side to examine the area where the bullet had slammed the helmet against her head. The simple act of moving the thick blond strands made her wince from subtle pain. A rich maroon-and-green bruise smeared across her scalp. She combed her hair straight to her shoulders, glad it covered the spot. She wouldn’t have to create a minor glamour to hide it, though someone was bound to comment about the dark circles under her eyes. At least she could pass them off as insomnia.

  She wrapped herself in an oversize white bathrobe. Cinching the robe cl
osed, she took one more look at herself in the mirror, as if hoping her reflection might give her an encouraging nod. It didn’t.

  She cut through the kitchen to turn off the living-room lights and check that the security alarms were on. She trailed her free hand along the back of the tan sofa as she walked past it, its nubbed fabric tickling her fingertips. The maid had unwrapped and fanned magazines beside a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. Every couple of weeks new magazines arrived, the old ones vanished, but Laura never read them. She had subscribed to them long ago to give the illusion that she had interests in decorating and cooking. Every time she used the apartment, she messed up the layout so it would look like she read them. She wondered if the maid took the old ones home.

  Without conscious thought, she retrieved the glass from the drainboard and had the vodka bottle in her hand. She stared at it, startled to see her own hand through the glass and clear fluid, as if someone else was holding this thing she had not meant to hold. She placed the bottle next to the empty glass on the counter.

  Enough, she thought. The drink, the shower, the maid. She knew enough about her work and her life to know the dangers of the long, slow slide into a bottle. She had seen it happen time and again to others, but she wasn’t going to let it happen to her. Flipping through the bills again, she glanced at the bottle and decided to make one more drink after all. One more, then, one more than usual, and that would be it. Getting shot in the head and almost run off a bridge warranted a little leeway.

  She took the glass to bed with her and turned on the television. The news recycled the story about the failed raid. If an officer hadn’t died, the coverage would have been a blip of a mention and on to the weather. Laura preferred when that happened. It meant an operation had gone off without a hitch, so much so that the media didn’t think it was newsworthy.

  Despite the exhaustion, the headache, and the bruises, she would step up and do what InterSec required her to do. It was important. Too important to risk failure. Maintaining multiple glamours was taxing, but she would manage it. That didn’t mean she wanted to. It meant she knew what she was in for.