Speed away.
I try to put her hurt expression out of my mind. Perhaps it’s better this way. Besides, it’s true, isn’t it?
No matter what I feel for her, no matter how tuned in Rayne is, she’s a vampire and I’m human. The sun will rise, she’ll drop dead, and I’ll be alone to face what comes next.
Like usual.
Chapter Eighteen
I park two streets from City Hall.
My watch beeps, a subtle reminder that night is passing fast, and all I have is more questions and nothing to stop Quinn taking another chunk out of me.
She must be livid by now. Probably sent other agents to look for me. Though that might not be a bad thing. Backup at a time like this would be great.
Instead, I approach the huge Victorian building alone.
It seems larger at night, darker and more ominous. The blue and white pennants are still there, and the stern angles of Mikkleson’s face take on a sinister edge in the dim light.
Security trolls still man the doors. One appears to be dozing, the other distracted by a moth fluttering against the glass of the lamp above its head. It rumbles, a sound as close to laughter as it can manage, and extends a huge, knobbly hand. The rumbles cease when the moth is replaced by a dark, lumpy smear on the glass.
At this time of night, the reception desk is unmanned, just a night guard standing in front of the metal detector I used the day before. He raises a hand as I approach.
“Excuse me, we’re closed to civilians right now.”
“Not to me.” A flash of my gun and ID soon changes his tune. “I’m meeting a witness upstairs. This is the only time he could meet.”
He nods. “Oh. Uh, okay. I do need to ring it in though.”
I pause. “To who?”
“Security.” He mumbles into the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder, gesturing me through with the other hand. “Everyone’s on the second floor today. Stairs around the corner, lift on your left.”
“Cheers.”
He’s watching me, so I make a show of pressing the number two, smiling as he catches my eye. Then I’m in the box and moving, a mechanical ding pinging on each floor.
On the second floor the lights are brighter, the air lively with the presence of live bodies. A glance left and right reveals an empty corridor, and I dart out onto the plush red carpet and to the main stairs. Back down to the first floor, then to the end of the corridor where Mikkleson’s office waits.
The door is locked. Of course.
I turn, ready to ask Rayne to break in like she did at Clear Blood.
Oh.
Lock picking tools aren’t officially part of a SPEAR agent’s kit, but I have them because, why not? Another thing to add to the leg-long list of crimes Quinn holds against me.
Two minutes to unlock the door, then I’m inside, pulling it shut after me.
It’s dim in the office, only the reflected glow of the street lamp outside. Like before, the air sits heavy with the scent of cigar smoke.
The desk is bare now, except for a lonely fountain pen and a small lamp. The drawers are locked too. My tools make short work of those.
Inside, a wide crystal decanter of something dark, probably whisky. Two tumblers. A cigar box. Matches. Empty note pad. More pens. Paper clips. Elastic bands.
How can there be nothing here? Not even a sheet of paper? Does the man not have letters to sign or paperwork to look at?
The rest of the office is no help—military orders and decorations on the walls, a display case of six fancy medals under glass. Three potted plants. A rifle mounted on a long mahogany plaque. The second door.
I push into the second half of the office.
Smaller and cluttered. Here, it seems, is where Mikkleson keeps all the usual furniture one would expect in a working office. Three filing cabinets, another desk, two computers, and a phone. In and out trays.
Computer first. It boots and immediately requests a password. I try various military sounding words until the machine beeps angrily and displays a message: Too many incorrect password attempts. Account temporarily locked. The second computer is older and grubbier so I leave it and work on the cabinets.
Nothing. Just a bunch of city stuff like maintenance, rubbish disposal, and development orders.
That last one catches my attention and snags it when I spot a letterhead bearing the words Tall Tails Ltd.
No money, but requests to begin development in Cipla.
The paper crumples in my hands as I read the plans. Vixen has permission to demolish all the houses in a half mile stretch. She’ll do away with the school and the little line of shops alongside it, to replace the lot with a multi-storey car park and two-level shopping mall.
No. No, she won’t.
“Hey, what are you doing in here?”
I spin around, papers still crushed in my fists.
Another night guard, this one short, fat, and hairy. “Well? Who are you?”
Rayne’s words come back to me. Speculation. No concrete proof.
I think again of Quinn and the fury in her voice as she ordered me back to HQ.
“I’m the new night shift secretary.” I show him the papers. “Mikk—Mr. Mikkleson was missing some files, so I came to get them for him.”
He frowns. “No, you didn’t.”
“Of course I did, I—”
“No”—he sniffs the air, a huge, nostril rippling inhalation—“you’re lying. Not about all of it, but you don’t work here.”
Great. Just my luck. “I’m a SPEAR agent. I’m on a case and—”
“Half true. And if you’re really a SPEAR, you can tell me how I know that.”
“Werewolf. Grey Tail pack. You guys can smell lies on humans, I get it. But you have to believe I’m here because I need to be.”
He walks deeper into the office. “I also smell vampire and blood on you, not much like any SPEAR I know.” That edane glide is obvious now, but there’s something else in it, something predatory and angry. “Who are you?”
“I already told you—”
“Right, of course, you’re an agent. Then where’s your case notes? The rest of your team? If I call SPEAR now, will they confirm your case?”
My hand tightens on the Tall Tails papers. The palm of my other hand begins to prickle. “No, they won’t, but I can explain that—”
“Explain it to the police, doll. I don’t want to hear it. Put your hands on your head and turn around.”
I sigh. “I don’t want to do this.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me.” He stops on the far side of the desk, both hands resting on his podgy hips. “Didn’t you hear me? Hands on your head.”
I lift my hands slowly, shifting my weight forward to the balls of my feet. “If you’re so good at recognizing the truth, you’ll know I mean it when I say I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
I toss the papers and throw myself across the desk. The computer and trays slide sideways as I plough through, left leg out, heel cocked. My boot catches him in the chin, momentum and thrust knocking his head back.
He stumbles but doesn’t fall, and I skid off the end, landing in a crouch. Then I’m up, sprinting back into the office and out the main door. I’m on the stairs before the werewolf catches up.
Fur sprouts all over his face and neck, and though he’s panting, I know he’s faster.
“Get back here.”
I duck his groping hands and leap on the banister to slide down the thick wooden rail on my belly. Would be fun if I wasn’t risking my job.
He follows at a waddle, halfway down by the time I reach the bottom.
Back at ground level, I sprint across the tiled floor, vaulting the side table beside the metal detector. The guard from earlier, startled by my appearance, tumbles back and to the floor.
“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
The werewolf guard is at the bottom, more fur growing on his hands. He yells something, but I can’t hear
it over the thudding of my own heart, the hiss of my own breathing.
Keep going. Don’t look back. Don’t get caught. Keep moving.
My mad dash ends with jarring abruptness as I run straight into the thick, stone-like chest of one of the trolls.
It peers at me as I land on my rear.
“Stop her,” the guards yell, still several yards away. “Stop her, now.”
I scramble up, meaning to dart around the troll, but the huge creature sweeps down with one heavy hand and hefts me into the air by the scruff of my jacket.
I kick it. Punch it. Wriggle, twist, and pull, but the only thing to give is my jacket which tears along the back seam.
Almost free. Kick some more, push back.
The jacket tears the rest of the way leaving me free to drop out of it and roll clear. My gun clatters on the floor, my knife sheaths doing the same, but I’m mobile and ready to move.
The werewolf guard dives at me, a furious swipe with a hand tipped with long black claws. They miss flesh but hack long holes through my top, shredding the back to ribbons.
I stare, alarmed and suddenly afraid. “What are you doing?”
“You’re clearly a threat.” He spins around and advances again, slow measured steps on the balls of his feet. “Lying about SPEAR, snooping around Mikkleson’s office—”
“But your claws can pass the virus.”
He chuckles and kisses each of his fingers in turn. “Scared?”
I grit my teeth. “Pissed. You work for the city—you should know better.” He springs again, but I’m ready, rolling clear and pulling two knives on the ascent. My injured hand throbs around the handle of the silver blade, and I know I won’t be able to hold it long.
He stops half a pace away. “You’re prepared.”
“Call SPEAR.” My voice cracks as I say it, but what choice do I have left? “I’ll wait here without fuss if you call them. Ask for Francine Quinn, leader of the alpha team. She’ll confirm who I am and my ID. I’m Danika Karson, A20240119A05.”
“I don’t care who you are, you’re going down.”
More security arrives, communicating through those shoulder walkie-talkies. Five of them flood the space and form a loose ring around me.
How did this go so wrong, so fast?
Again the werewolf grins. “So, what’s it going to be?”
For one crazy moment I think about fighting my way out. There’s one edane among the total of seven guards, but that’s nothing I can’t handle. The other six are human and likely easy to flatten. I could probably do it without hurting them.
The ground shakes. Rumbles.
I spend precious seconds trying to find the reason, then the troll wraps both arms around my arms and ribs from behind and hugs my back to its chest.
It says something, or I think it does, and small crumbs of dry dirt shower my face. It stinks too, a blend of pine bark and wilted poppies.
My legs flail, but I can’t move my arms at all. Even if I could, knives are pointless against trolls with their thick, stony skin.
The werewolf guard lopes over, huffing and blowing but grinning, a gesture that only widens as I gasp and drop the blades.
“Now then, Agent. Where were we?”
Chapter Nineteen
Grey walls. Grey ceiling. Grey floor. Hell, everything is grey, everything except the bars in place of the fourth wall. No, those are steel and as thick as my wrist, driven deep into the concrete that makes the top and bottom of my cell.
I find myself thinking of Rayne. Is she still upset with me? Is she hurt? Did she find somewhere safe to rest? Has the sun risen? Has it found her outside, unprepared, and burnt her to a crisp? Does she still want to bake lemon and poppyseed muffins for me?
No point worrying about that now.
I tell myself that, but the thoughts keep coming back—Rayne’s face pressed to the glass of my car, her lips parted in a silent scream as the sun’s light spreads across the road. Her murmurs as I run my hands through her hair and the softness of her lips against mine. Her skin, so smooth and pale, such a contrast to mine.
Distraction. That’s what I need.
Even though I’ve done it several times already, I pace the edges of my cell, mentally logging the contents and their potential uses. Flat, uncomfortable bed, bolted to the wall and too heavy to shift. Toilet, no lid, though the flush is loose and might break free if I pull hard enough. Sink, cracked, stained, and smelly, no good for anything. The taps don’t work.
My gun is gone. Utility belt too. And, despite my complaints, yells, and eventual struggles, they took my watch.
Angbec Police Force, nothing if not overly cautious.
The area beyond the bars is spartan, one chair at a table strewn with take away wrappers and crushed cans of cola. An array of playing cards beside the mess looks like a game of solitaire.
A door opens to the right, beyond my line of sight. Quick footsteps follow, then a uniformed officer appears, still fastening his fly. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing. Just wondering why you guys have me in the supernatural holding unit.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“To who?”
He frowns, then returns to the table. “Give it a rest, eh? I don’t have time for you.”
“Yeah, because that card game is so important. Come on, what’s happening? What time is it? When’s breakfast? Do I get a phone call? What’s the meaning of life?”
The frown deepens as he shifts a card from one pile to another.
“You know I’m a SPEAR, right? You must have sussed that when you took my stuff. You know I’m one of the good guys.”
Still nothing.
“Come on, talk to me. I’m bored.”
Another card.
“I can keep this up for hours, by the way. In fact, if you don’t talk to me, I’ll have to sing. Think you’re pissed now, think how you’ll feel after twelve rounds of ‘Three Blind Mice.’ Hello? Hey? Come on, say something. Hello? By the way, you can’t put a club on a spade, Meat Stick.”
His gaze never leaves the cards, and though he does replace the last one, he neglects to thank me for my correction.
I return to the metal slab masquerading as a bed and sit, chin propped on my fist. “Hey, Meat Stick?”
The officer winces, shifts another card, and keeps his head down.
“Don’t like that one? What about Sideburn Sid? Gorilla Arms? Butt Chin? Oh, come on, you miserable sod.”
He slams his palm on the table. “My name is Officer Barnabas Watson and—”
“Barney? Like the lizard? Cool.” I fight back the giggle brewing and point towards the stairs. “Why don’t you run back up to your supervisors and let them know you’ve made a mistake.”
Barney grins and leaves his card game. His swagger over to my cell is both comical and alarming. “There’s no mistake, Agent Karson. You were found raiding the office of Mayor Sebastian Mikkleson and then proceeded to attack the night guards.”
“Attack? Wait a second—”
“More than that, I hear you’ve been up to all sorts of no good tonight. What happened to the vampire that attacked Calum?”
“Who?”
He leans against the bars. “The officer you drew your gun on before unleashing your pet fanger.”
“What?”
“For a SPEAR you sure seem comfortable with supes. I’ve heard of you, Karson—werewolf informants, gargoyle plaything. Rumour says you’ve even got a chittarik living with you.”
“Her name is Norma.” Thinking of my little baby only reminds me of how long a night it’s been. No sleep either, beyond my catnap in the bath yesterday. I can only hope she doesn’t wreck the flat looking for something to eat.
Barney’s jaw drops. “Norma?”
“Got a problem with that?”
“No.” He recovers quickly, turning now to grip the bars and shake them. This close, I can see a scar across his left cheek, long and thin like a scratch from a nail.
“Shouldn’t surprise me, really. You SPEAR agents are all the same, puffed up and self-important. Making your own rules while stepping on ours. I don’t care what training you have or what languages you speak, you’re still human. You should be on our side.”
I’m up again, crossing the cell and slapping the bars. “What the hell do you think we do all day? SPEAR is all about protecting people.”
“If you say so.” He turns as if to step away but, at the last moment, swings back, grabs my wrists, and jerks them through the bars, hard enough to clang my chin. “Where were you when my wife died, huh? When the vampires snatched her off the street and tore her throat out?”
My immediate instinct to struggle stops cold. “Wife?”
“She was pregnant, Agent. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Not one life lost, but two, but you stand there and tell me it’s about protecting people? The Interspecies Relations Act is a joke. These monsters need to be wiped out, not coddled and given jobs. And you”—he pulls tighter, mashing my face into the bars—“you need to concentrate on protecting your own kind.”
By the time he releases me, my face stings, shoulders aching from the strain.
I back towards the bed, massaging my jaw. “They’re powerful creatures, Barney. What you’re talking about won’t work. You think people haven’t considered that? There may be more of us, but one of them is worth six humans. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Then at least we’d die fighting.”
“I don’t want to die.”
He snorts and returns to the table. “Neither did my wife.”
* * *
I fall asleep at some point. Must have, because when I open my eyes next, Barney is gone, replaced by another officer I vaguely recognize. Just inside the cell bars are a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a packet of crisps.
The water is warm but tastes incredible. Even the BLT is good. I leave the cheese and onion snacks for later and knock lightly on the bars. “Did you bring this? Thanks.”
The female officer looks up from her magazine, and in that moment I find the memory of her.
We were running down a dark alley, in joint pursuit of a gnome in the habit of stealing clothes from washing lines. That tricky little bugger led us a merry dance over half a mile before leading us into a den of wild imps less than happy to see us.
Both Ways Page 16
