by Kathy Lyons
“We wouldn’t attack at all,” he said. “We’d take time to plan—”
“Not possible. You still have to attack today.” Then, before Nero could argue, Bitterroot held up his hand. “I don’t make the rules.”
Nero choked back his frustration. Much of his brain was still screaming in horror, but what focus he had found a solution. “Can you hold on to the mulligan? Let me use it when I’m ready.”
Bitterroot frowned, and a single brilliant red butterfly set off from his arm to flutter in front of their faces. He caught it gently, speaking quietly to it in a language Nero didn’t understand. The fairy waited a beat, then another, as if listening to an answer. In the end, he looked up at Nero. “I can hold it for seven-times-seven days, that’s all. And you’ll have to pay.”
Forty-nine days to find an answer to an explosion that had taken out a mile of Wisconsin. “Deal.” His team was worth whatever the cost. No question.
Bitterroot’s expression hardened. “You’ll serve me, Nero. A year of your life for every day that I hold the mulligan open.”
Nero’s breath caught. Fairyland was a place of nightmares. No mortal belonged there, and no one came back sane. “Deal,” he repeated, his voice strong, though inside he shuddered at the magnitude of what he’d promised.
“Standard rules apply. You can’t tell anyone about this, and you can’t go bargaining with another fairy to change this one.”
Nero nodded. That part he’d already known. “Agreed.”
“Agreed.” Then Bitterroot stuffed that bright red butterfly in his mouth and swallowed it whole. He grimaced at the taste as he glared daggers at Nero. “Don’t ever make me do that again.”
Then he disappeared.
It was done. When he was ready, he’d call on Bitterroot and be zipped back in time to fifteen minutes ago—before the blast, before they even attacked. He’d be able to redo everything, making sure everyone survived.
But how?
He didn’t have time to figure it out now. Police sirens were wailing in the distance, and he needed to come up with a cover story before they got here. The good news was that whatever he said wouldn’t ultimately matter. Eventually he’d go back in time and fix the problem before it started.
In fact, he realized, everything he did for the next forty-nine days didn’t matter. So long as he figured out how to defeat that fire blast, everything would reset once he used the mulligan. His team would survive, and life would go on as if this never happened. For them, at least. For him, he’d have to pay Bitterroot back. Which meant he’d be in Fairyland trying to hold on to his sanity, but that was a small price to pay for their lives.
Chapter 2
“THERE WAS nothing anyone could do. It’s not your fault.”
Captain M spoke with compassion, and everyone at the conference table nodded sagely at Nero. He gave them a weak smile, trying to make nice with all the Wulf, Inc. brass. There were three of them there—all badass werewolves looking dour—plus a thick-lipped ghoul representative from the Paranormal Alliance who never spoke to anyone and a gelatinous alien in the shape of a man. At least Gelpack was familiar to him. The see-through alien had shown up a month ago, talked with this same brass, then moved in as if he was one of the team.
“This was not your fault,” emphasized the wolf version of a wizard. He was the only werewolf who could throw magic, and that had earned him a spot as VP and the handle Wiz. A little bit on the nose, but it was appropriate.
“I know,” Nero said, trying to invest his words with conviction. “It was a failure of intelligence. We should have known that the demon had fireball capability.”
“On a galactic scale.” Captain M shuddered as she looked at satellite imagery of the now-renamed Burnt Lake. “And you needed better gear. Stuff that resists plasma fire.”
“Fire is not a plasma,” corrected Wizard. Arrogant bastard. “This appears to be magical plasma that burns.”
Captain M’s head snapped up. “Do you have anything that’s magic plasma–resistant?”
Wizard closed his mouth. Up until a day ago, magic plasma was a myth. But then, a year ago, no one believed in gelatinous aliens, spell-casting wolves, or that a ghoul could make it into the upper echelons of the Paranormal Alliance. But there you go. The conference table was filled with myths turned into reality. And apparently his entire team had been decimated by just another myth.
“What we need,” said his captain, her words laden with the anger of a woman who’d been banging this drum for a while, “is some science skill.”
Gelpack spoke up, his voice sounding like it was coming from under water. Which, given the “man’s” consistency, it probably was. “I thought magic and science were different.”
“They are—” said the captain, but Wizard interrupted.
“Magic is science we don’t understand yet.”
Gelpack didn’t answer. Nero guessed that the complexities of human language were difficult for the alien to process. Meanwhile, Captain M was folding her arms.
“Either way, we need researchers, and not the librarian kind. Call it tech support, a geek squad, or Fitz-Simmons. I don’t care. We can’t go out with just fangs and claws anymore. Not since half our calls are more than the occasional vamp or an idiot demon. Hell, I can’t remember the last demon that could dress itself, and this one came with magical fire.”
“And could use a handgun,” Nero reminded her. That bit tended to get forgotten in the whole atomic explosion part at the end.
She nodded. “How the hell did a demon figure out firearms? Before you know it, they’ll be on the internet and taking over Amazon.”
It was a joke. Sort of. But Captain M had a point. Magical baddies were getting more capable and more weird by the second. No one could keep up, least of all the lowest grunts on the take-’em-out scale.
All the species in the Paranormal Alliance took turns handling paranormal threats. It was shifters who bore the brunt of them, though. Wolves, bears, and cats all had their own organizations, and they usually dealt with the grunt work. The Non-Corporeals were less capable, limited to hauntings and driving people crazy, but they had their place, especially since they included some unspecified number of fairies who focused on stopping mystical mischief. That included, of course, the Fairy Prince Bitterroot, who had started this particular problem. Then there was the catchall of witches, warlocks, and whatnot in the Religious Crew. That was the unofficial name for demons turned good-guy and angels turned not-so-good. Throw in a few surviving demigods for their board of directors and you had Halloween, Inc., the third leg of the weird world tripod.
Nero had no idea where Gelpack came in except that he arrived like the Silver Surfer. He just showed up and asked to hang out with the wolves. As far as the World of Weird went, Gelpack was almost blasé. Completely see-through, he was like a living Jell-O mold in the shape of a human body. He had a mouth, but sound seemed to come as a vibration of his whole form. His eye indents were there, but no one thought he could see through them. He was like a talking gelatinous mannequin. Why the creature was in this meeting was anyone’s guess.
“We have to figure out how to defeat that fireball,” Nero insisted. “Can we tap Halloween, Inc.? They’ve got to know a way.”
“Already done,” Wiz said mournfully. “If they know the answer, they’re not telling.” Wiz rolled his eyes. “They’re religious, and they think we’re another form of demon. So if a demon takes us out, all the better for them.”
Well, shit.
“But what if—?”
Captain M cut him off. “We don’t make fairy deals. Ever. That comes down from the founder himself, and if you don’t like it, then take it up with him.” Wulfric was still alive, even though he and his magical mother were more than two hundred years old. They were the creators of the original Paranormal Alliance back in the 1800s, and whatever bullshit had gone on then, the fairies were responsible for it. Hence the rule: no negotiating with fairies. Nero kept his mouth shu
t.
“We need geeks,” Captain M repeated. “We need to recruit geeks.”
No one argued, though everyone wanted to. The problem was that paranormals weren’t exactly in the open. Lots of people had experience with the woo-woo, but those who were touched by it—by the real shit—tended to die. Survival rate was highest among those born as werewolves. The infants were stronger and as they aged, they knew how to handle themselves against scary stuff. Nero was a lycanthropy werewolf—bitten when he was a teenager—and the odds on him making it were one in ten. Others manifested from curses or mystical bullshit, but again, the survival rate was low. Weak minds and bodies crumpled under the strain. Heart valves broke, asthmatics stopped breathing, and those with bad allergies? Their bodies attacked themselves and they died ugly. And that was nothing compared to the ones who went nuts. Geeks and nerds weren’t known for their physical stamina. And who knew what mental hang-ups wandered around in their massive brains? At least that was the perception, and no one wanted to test it. So geeks had been noticeably absent from the werewolf rolls. Unfortunately, the need for scientific mojo was becoming more obvious by the second.
Captain M looked around the room, her gaze heavy on each of the wolf higher-ups. “We’re agreed?”
One by one, they nodded, their expressions blank except for their tight mouths. Seeing werewolves that quiet was downright creepy. Meanwhile, Captain M grunted her acknowledgment and gestured to the stacks of file folders on a side table behind her.
“Pick whoever you want,” she said to Nero. “I’ve listed my recommendations. Then get with Wizard to figure out how to make it happen.”
Nero’s head snapped up. He’d been staring blankly at the dozen or so folders when his gaze shot back to her. “What?”
Her expression softened. “We’re not putting you back out in the field right now, but you’ve got more than enough experience to identify what kind of scientific support we need.”
“I haven’t a clue, beyond the obvious.”
She smiled. “That’s more than most people have. Go through the folders, talk it over with Wizard, and figure out who we can activate.”
“That’s a pretty word for destroying someone’s life. And that’s assuming they survive.”
“Your life wasn’t destroyed.”
“I was infected by an asshole, and I got lucky.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to bite some random geek on the prayer that they—”
“They’re not random,” said the Director. His voice was whisper-soft. Rumor had it that he’d had his trachea decimated by an angry vamp but had gotten some kind of magical replacement. Either way, he never spoke above a whisper, but everyone listened. “We’ve had our eyes on them for a while. Most of them are genetic werewolves, a few from the founder’s line. Someone in their near past carries the werewolf gene, and so the odds are they’ll manifest someday.”
“Someday is a far cry from today.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Captain M spoke up. “There wasn’t a lot to choose from, but those are all the scientists, programmers, and researchers we know who can become werewolves. People who can research the demons ahead of time, who can figure out our biology when we’re hurt, and—”
“Who can figure out how to defeat magical fire.”
“Yes.”
Nero didn’t like the idea of forcing the paranormal onto someone who hadn’t chosen it, but he understood the need for researchers and scientists. Neither the religious nor the magical folk were keen on helping them, and he was the first to admit they needed more than brute force.
“It’s a big risk,” Captain M continued, “but we’re not the only ones dying from the threats. Normals die every time there’s a problem we can’t anticipate or defuse. Better we get the support we need now, before the situation gets more out of hand and wholesale disaster happens.”
An ominous silence fell at the words wholesale disaster. That was the werewolf term for it. The Religious Crew called it the apocalypse, and the ghosts referred to it as the post afterlife. Bears growled instead of using words, and no one knew what the cats called anything, but the meaning was all the same. At some point there would be so much weird shit happening that they would reach a tipping point. Normals would finally open their eyes and see what was around them. Then there would be mass hysteria, targeted genocide, and/or a big party, if a person was part of the winning belief structure. It was the Big Bad of the paranormal world, and everyone worked very hard to prevent its onset.
In this case, that meant forcibly converting brainiacs in the hopes that they could keep up with what was going on. Because right now everyone was in the dark. And in the paranormal game, ignorance was deadly.
“Can’t we just talk to them?” Nero asked. “See if they’ll come on board like normal hires without making them furry?” He knew it was a stupid thing to ask. He even knew the answer before the DIRECTOR said it, but he still had to voice the question.
“We will not violate the Paranormal Accords. That’s like fixing a house fire with a nuclear bomb. We will not do it.”
The Paranormal Accords stated that vanilla humans did not get purposely drawn into their world. Period. Only someone already paranormal could be asked to work on the weird and violating the accord was punishable by more than death. Unfortunately, they were already stretching the law to activate latent werewolf genes. A frank discussion—like a job offer—with a vanilla human would plunge Wulf, Inc. into legal disaster, and no one was willing to risk that. When a demigod judge said, “More than death,” everyone grew very, very afraid. “Okay,” he said, though the word felt like ashes in his mouth. “I’ll look at the files.”
“I will help,” said Gelpack.
Everyone turned to stare at the gelatinous alien, but it was Captain M who found her voice first. “Great. Um… how?”
“I will read the files.”
Silence. Apparently no one was willing to point out that reading the files in and of itself was not helpful.
“Okay, sure,” Captain M finally said. “Nero, let him… um… help.”
“No.” The word was out before he could think better of it. It wasn’t exactly politic to refuse a direct order in front of the Director, but he couldn’t keep quiet. “Personnel files are private. This task is dicey enough. I’m not going to let just anyone read through the dossiers without good reason.”
“Gelpack isn’t just anyone,” Captain M said, but he could tell she was nervous. “He’s…. He’s….” Her stammer ground to a halt as she obviously had no idea what Gelpack was here to do.
“He’s here to explain magic to us,” the Director whispered. “And for us to explain emotions to him.”
Everyone gaped at their director. Finally, Nero said what everyone was thinking. “Come again?”
“Gelpack is from a different… um… dimension. He’s studying us—our emotions—and in return, he’ll help us use magic.”
Everyone in the room suddenly sat up straighter, and their eyes focused tightly on the gelatinous being. It wasn’t surprising that Wizard was the first to ask questions.
“Explain which kind of magic? Who is he explaining it to? Why wasn’t I informed—?”
The Director held up his hand, and Wizard immediately snapped his jaw shut. “It’s a one-on-one exchange. You tell him about how you feel—honestly—and he’ll help you….” The director frowned at Gelpack. “Can you help turn on a latent werewolf?”
“Perhaps.”
Captain M grabbed a file folder off the top and pushed it toward Gelpack. “What about him? Can you activate him?”
Nero winced as he watched Gelpack open the folder. Nothing about him was fully solid, so he seemed to sink into the paper as if he was going to slice off his thumb, then gently pulled it open. When he removed his hand, Nero couldn’t see any residue, but it still gave him the willies.
“No,” Gelpack said.
“Then—”
“But Wizard
can.”
“What?” said Wizard.
“Excellent,” responded Captain M as she pulled the folder away from Gelpack and slid it to Nero. “Look at him first.”
Nero frowned at the name. Joshua Collier. The name was as unimpressive as the picture, but then again, the image showed a too-pale guy in shorts and flip-flops as he bought no-name corn chips at a corner market. No one looked cool buying generic chips.
“Then it’s decided,” the director said as he stood up from his seat. “Nero, I want four new geeks in training by Monday next week.”
“That may be too fast—” Nero argued, but he wasn’t given a chance to finish.
“Our people are dying. You fix this by Monday or I’ll find someone else who will.”
A chill went down Nero’s spine. It was a standard threat, used often in Wulf, Inc., but it scared the bejesus out of him. Sure, a lot of the people who worked here had families and friends, a life outside of searching for paranormal baddies. Captain M had a husband and four kids, all werewolves living normal suburban lives except during the full moon. She was of a breed that went loony during the moon.
But Nero didn’t have anybody. Since his infection with lycanthropy ten years before, he’d cut ties with anything that wasn’t part of this life. Captain M and so many others might find a civilian job, but running a team that fought bad guys was all he knew how to do. And there were no private sector companies who hired guys without a civilian résumé that made sense. He didn’t have one because Wulf, Inc. didn’t talk to civilians about what it did. Which meant if he didn’t do what he was told, he’d be out on his ass without references.
“Monday,” he said glumly. That meant he had seven whole days to screw over five new werewolves and pray that they lived to hate his guts.
Just as well. He was working on a time clock too. Bitterroot had set a forty-nine-day time limit on his do-over, and the faster the geeks solved that problem, the sooner he could be done with this whole timeline and go back to the way things used to be.
