Rogue, Renegade And Rebel (In Her Paranormal Majesty’s Secret Service Book 1)

by Michael Anderle

  Jennie scratched her chin, deep in thought.

  Lupe took a tentative step forward. “Look, I know that this may all seem hard to believe, particularly for representatives of the crown. But what possible reason would we have to lie to you?”

  “Because you’re in the presence of Rogue and know that she’ll exorcise you as soon as look at you all?” Worthington glared. “What better way to win your fight than drawing the queen’s allies to your side?”

  Baxter nodded. “Your boy’s got a point.”

  “Enough!” Jennie’s eyes were dark. “Worthington, you are right. There’s no better way to win a fight than to sow the seeds of doubt in your enemy’s closest advisors—”

  “Thank you.”

  She lifted a hand. “But still, something doesn’t add up here. If there were recruiters for the crown working to bring all the scum and dirtbags in the city to their side, surely we’d know about it? We’d have seen them, or the queen would have made us aware? There isn’t a place where she doesn’t have eyes.”

  “If I may…?”

  The smaller of Lupe’s two specters raised a hand and sheepishly stood forward. He looked to be no more than sixteen years old, but his arms were thick with muscle, and his outfit suggested he had been lifted straight out of the 1700s.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve said it yourself. New York is miles from your home. Can you honestly say that you think your queen knows everything that goes on around here? Can you say with your hand on your heart that there isn’t even the smallest of chances that a small faction of those loyal to the crown could have gone rogue and are now trying to work the city using her name?”

  Worthington shook his head and scowled but remained quiet.

  Baxter looked at the Spectral Plane specters and Jennie as though watching a tennis match.

  Jennie took a long breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m inclined to say that I hope for their sakes there isn’t such a party in the city. There’s only room in this world for one Rogue, and this bitch has already taken that role.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Plaza, New York City, Present Day

  “I can’t believe you let them go,” Worthington muttered as they arrived back in Jennie’s suite at The Plaza. “No reprimand. Nothing. Just free.”

  “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Jennie replied, heading for the minibar and pulling out a variety of bottles.

  “They confessed to rallying a rebellious force to take down our Paranormal Majesty, Queen Victoria!” Worthington shouted. “Case closed! Drag them over the coals and put an end to this madness.”

  Jennie stood up and twisted off lids to several juices and liquors while Baxter wandered over to the window and looked out at the view. It was midday in the city, and the streets below were throbbing with road and foot traffic. Birds flew low over Central Park, and people could be seen milling about the paths and trees, likely city employees wanting to take a few moments to connect with nature on their lunch breaks.

  “That’s a hell of a view,” Baxter marveled.

  “Thanks,” Jennie told him.

  Worthington’s eyes looked fit to pop. “Are you even listening to me right now?” He marched over to Jennie and slapped his hands on the counter. “Your job is to remove the rebellion, and there you were with the whole group in your grasp. Why didn’t you do something? Anything?”

  “What would you have had me do?” Jennie asked, her voice calm and measured. She crouched to be at eye level with a measuring cup and began pouring in her ingredients. “Blasted them with the Big Bitch and sent a message to them all? Performed a mass exorcism and sent them all to the abyss?”

  Baxter turned, his eyebrows raised. “You can do that?”

  Jennie shook her head, not taking her eyes off her mixture. She now had half a cocktail shaker filled with a light pink liquid that foamed at the top. “Afraid not. Nice to know you thought I could, though.”

  Baxter shrugged. “After everything I saw last night, there’s nothing I won’t believe you can’t do.”

  Jennie smiled, finally looking up from her drink and meeting Baxter’s eyes. “You’re making me blush.”

  Worthington’s fists shook. “They’ve got you, haven’t they? You genuinely believe those traitors, don’t you?” He marched around the counter until he was next to Jennie, head angled over her shoulder. “You know the queen won’t take kindly to lapses in loyalty, don’t you? You know that once you’ve sworn your oath, you’re bound to her, and the only way out is death.”

  Jennie stuck a lid on her cocktail and began to shake. She deliberately shook it over her shoulder where Worthington’s head had been, forcing him to step back. “And is that death with a side of chips or salad?”

  Baxter and Jennie scoffed.

  “What are you laughing at, neutral?” Worthington spat the word as though it were a curse word. “You can have an opinion when you pick your allegiance.”

  Baxter strode across the room and stood in front of Worthington with his hands on his hips. Standing straight, he was far taller than Worthington; the top of the Beefeater’s hat was only just higher than the crown of Baxter’s head. “You want to say that again, short stuff?”

  Worthington puffed out his chest. “Just try me.”

  Jennie rolled her eyes and set down three martini glasses. She popped the lid of the metal shaker and poured a healthy measure into each.

  The scent of fresh juices and berries met her nostrils. The liquid was milkshake-pink and thick with a thin layer of white foam on top. Small particles of dark red floated inside. She finished the drink with a dash of milk, sending the pinks into dirty swirls.

  After she added the final touches—half a strawberry over the rim of the glass and a sprinkling of sugar—she pushed two of the glasses toward the specters and raised her own to her lips.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed appreciatively. “That’s good stuff. Now, how about you two break it up and try these bad boys before I drink them all myself?”

  Worthington took a step back, clearly glad of an excuse to get out from under Baxter’s shadow.

  “What is it?”

  “As my old buddy Hendrix would call it, ‘A Flamboyant Flamingo.’ Not that that’s what I’ve come to call it over the years.”

  “What do you call it?” Worthington asked, his intrigue overtaking his anger.

  Jennie grinned devilishly. “A burst testicle.”

  Worthington huffed.

  Baxter scoffed. “Wait a minute, did you say Hendrix? As in, Jimmy Hendrix?”

  “What?” Jennie replied, a pink mustache on her face from drinking her cocktail. “Oh, no. Brunhilde Hendrix. A woman I met in Germany. Couldn’t play a lick like Jimmy, but she could run the track. Great over short distances. Big fan of the cocktails, too, which I never understood, given that her instructor was pretty strict with her diet plan.” She took another sip. “Ah, well, times were different back then. Come, drink up.”

  Worthington eyed Jennie. “You know we can’t.”

  “Oh, that’s right!” She slapped her head theatrically. “You’re not mortal, so you can’t drink the drink. Can you at least smell it?”

  Baxter took a deep sniff. “I can. Not sure about mince-muncher here.”

  “It’s Beefeater,” Worthington snapped. He waved his arms. “Why are we discussing cocktails?”

  “Burst testicles,” Jennie corrected.

  Worthington gave her an icy look. “We should be wrangling the enemy. When I tell the queen about this…” His voice trailed off, and he took a seat on the armchair and crossed his arms.

  “Oh, relax, Worthington.” Jennie grinned. “Why do you think I’m making these delicious drinks?”

  “Because you’re a booze-addled buffoon?” Worthington immediately regretted his words.

  Jennie shot him a look. “Because I work better when I’m relaxed, and what’s more relaxing than fresh fruit juice mixed with just a dash of vodka and Triple Se
c?”

  “A dash?” Baxter asked.

  “Okay, a quart.” Jennie laughed. “Look, the answer here is simple. We have two options. Numero one, we call up Queen Vicky, give her the LD on what we’ve discovered so far, and find out if she knows anything about this corruption in the city.”

  Worthington looked puzzled. “‘LD?’”

  “Lowdown,” Baxter told him.

  “Do not call her ‘Vicky,’” Worthington ordered. “You’ve gotten into trouble for that before.”

  Jennie nodded, lost in memory. “You’d think that after a hundred and twenty years in the paranormal world she would have moved on with the times. ‘Vicky’ is much trendier.”

  Worthington sighed. “Admittedly, it is a much better nickname than ‘V-dawg.’”

  “That did not go down well,” Jennie agreed. “I wasn’t allowed near Her Royal Highness for a week. They took me off all cases until I’d had ‘adequate time to atone for my uncontrollable tongue.’”

  “How long did that last?” Baxter asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  “About two days,” Jennie told him. “A poltergeist managed to get hold of an unlicensed firearm in Lisbon, and they needed someone to put an end to his rampage.” She brushed a hand over her hair. “When a job needs doing, this bitch gets it done.”

  “Speaking of which,” Worthington reminded her. “What’s option number two?”

  Jennie grinned. “We keep our findings thus far quiet from Her Majesty, and we go and seek out this rogue group of the queen’s army. Personally, that’s the one I favor."

  Worthington shifted uncomfortably. “Keep a secret from the queen? But…that’s against the rules. She won’t like that one bit. It’s already been several days, and we’ve not even called to let her know how we’re getting on.”

  “She’s a big girl; she can survive without us for a little while,” Jennie told him. She turned to Baxter. “What do you think, big guy? Phone it in or go undercover?”

  Baxter shrugged. “I’m not sure it counts as going undercover, but I’m in for an adventure if you guys’ll have me.”

  Jennie looked at Worthington for approval.

  He shook his head. “No. No way. Nope.”

  Jennie clapped her hands. “He’s in!”

  As Worthington scowled, Jennie drained the other two drinks she had made. She patted her stomach and placed the glass back down, hiding a small belch behind her fist. “Okay, troops. I highly advise we rest up and get ready for a fun night ahead. The minute the sunlight kisses the horizon, we’re going to take to the streets to find these renegades. Who’s with me?”

  Jennie winked when they looked at her blankly. “Carpe noctem?”

  “Carpe noctem!” Baxter replied.

  Worthington hesitated. “If this is the path we’re choosing, why don’t we just get on our way and find the culprits?”

  There was a slight slur to Jennie’s words. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Because we mortals don’t have the energy you specters do, particularly after we just spent the whole evening traipsing through the subway and using my energy to kick an entire organization into gear.” She stared longingly at the empty glasses. “Besides, that vodka is already kicking in, and if I don’t find a comfortable bed to sleep in, I might end up doing something I regret.”

  “Like what?” Baxter asked eagerly.

  Worthington hushed Jennie before she could reply. “Don’t tug that thread. You don’t know this woman as well as I do.”

  “Agreed,” Baxter replied. “But I like her already.”

  Jennie slept soundly in her bed as the bustling city went about its daily cycle. With the curtains drawn and the door closed, it could easily have been nighttime.

  Time was irrelevant, a fleeting abstract concept that passed her by as she snoozed. In another room, Baxter closed his eyes and feigned his own rest.

  She dreamed of many things, as she always did. Her mind fluttered about its resting cycles and blurred memories with imagination in dreams of times long since passed. Oftentimes these were happy memories. Theaters she’d visited across the world, celebrities she’d met, people she’d saved.

  But sometimes, on rare occasions, the dreams turned sour and began to melt down the blackboard like liquid chalk.

  Jennie’s eyes blinked rapidly beneath their lids.

  The year was 1943, the location northern France. Jennie was surrounded on all sides by men dressed in military uniforms, eyes to the scopes of their weaponry as they fired out of the trenches and across the no man’s land in between them and the enemy.

  Wind gusts kicked up thick billows of dust, clouding the land. Mines and bombs shattered eardrums and sent great chunks of dirt exploding in all directions.

  “Really makes your dick hard, doesn’t it?” Sergeant Liam Keelan grinned as he tugged on his groin and winked at his comrade.

  Jennie’s lip curled in disgust.

  “Are they all like this?” she asked.

  Harrington Tinkleman, her specter, had been a military pilot shot down while flying over Switzerland during World War I.

  He stood next to her now, his pilot goggles tight about his head, his leathers covering his body, and a thick white mustache from beneath which he spoke. “You get used to it. They’re all bloody animals. No women around and long hours firing at men can do funny things to the brain.”

  Jennie could see how humor got them through it. “Were you ever like that?”

  Harrington gave a chesty laugh. “Are you kidding me? I was the worst among the fleet. How do you think I got the nickname ‘Tallywhacker Tinkleman?’”

  Jennie gave him a look, then peered back over the battlefield. Soon they would come, and while the mortals battled each other, the specters would fall into her trap.

  Bullets whizzed through Jennie’s spectral form, maintained by her connection to Harrington. Soon enough, she saw the spectral glow. Dozens of poltergeists dashed toward the men in the trenches, rebels from the other side, whose only goal was to distract and destroy the queen’s efforts to aid the living.

  They were haunting in spectral form, with eyes that were no more than white dots in their faces. Yet they appeared as less than faint wisps of light to the mortal eye.

  Jennie whipped out the Big Bitch and began firing, her teeth bared as she and Harrington charged. Her hands moved quickly, taking them down with unrivaled ease. She laid dozens of poltergeists out cold in the mud, their bodies losing their luster as they worked to heal from their wounds.

  In the heartbeat Jennie watched them, the mortals charged across the fields, guns blazing. Men were getting shot and taken down from both sides.

  Jennie’s heart ached for the men she had grown to know, even if they would never know her. These men were dying to protect the crown in life. To protect George VI and everything the British monarchy held dear.

  Jennie shut off her connection to Harrington, ignoring his cries. She solidified and let her bullets fly in the faces of the enemy, tearing them down by the dozen as she screamed and shouted and raged.

  The men in the trenches held fire as their attention was captivated by the beautiful stranger with guns that never stopped firing.

  She could hear them as she snoozed in her bed. The reports were as loud as thunder, the cries harrowing and close. A lot of bloodshed for the sake of freedom, and this was where it all ended up. Over seventy years later, and the friction and the fighting never ceased.

  She saw him running toward her—the last man she would murder in cold blood during the great wars, eyes wide, his dirty face streaked with tears as he ate the metal of her bullets.

  He fell with his comrades, his trigger finger still clenched.

  Jennie woke with a start, her forehead peppered with sweat. For a fleeting moment, she could hear them all. Could still see it in the ghostly veil behind her eyelids.

  And then she heard someone talking. Worthington.

  She flopped her head back on the pillow and felt the damp
ness of her sheets. She didn’t often have bad dreams, but when she did, they were vivid enough to carry her back in time. She stared into the darkness and saw the LED of the alarm clock beside her blink 5:43 pm.

  With a grunt, she rose from her bed and put on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers. She pawed at her eyes and left her bedroom.

  She was violated by the setting sun as it made its slow descent over the park. The golden rays sliced through the window, their warmth causing her to sweat. She looked around the apartment but saw neither Baxter nor Worthington.

  Not a surprise, really, she thought. It’s not like those two had much in common or got along.

  Still, she poked her head around the other rooms and looked for her two spectral buddies.

  Neither of them was in sight.

  She shrugged, wandered over to the minibar, and pulled out two bottles from the fridge. She held them up, debating what to make next. On the left was orange juice and on the right passionfruit.

  She knew from her years of study of foods, drinks, and cocktail ingredients that orange juice would hold the greatest amount of nutrients to build effective immunity against earthly illnesses.

  On the other hand, passionfruit is fucking delicious.

  Jennie decided on passionfruit and poured herself a glass. She downed it in one gulp and was about to refill the glass when she heard mumbling out in the corridor.

  Jennie looked down at her hips and realized she had left her guns in her room.

  No matter, she thought, trying to think of the last time someone had managed to get a good shot at her before she killed them. Her guns were certainly helpful in battle, but they weren’t entirely necessary, not when she’d had over a century to study martial arts.

  She tiptoed to the door and poked her head around the doorframe. She could hear someone speaking somewhere down the hall in a hushed voice. There were hurried whispers and momentary silences.

  Jennie crept down the hall, fists clenched and ready for anyone who might suddenly leap out and attack.