by Phil Morgan
****
Eric explained what he wanted me to do. I couldn’t lie and say I was happy about it though. I was under strict orders to leave this case alone and, truth be told, I had no sympathy for Terrell-the wanna-be-rapist werewolf. Eric was the boss, though and he had a plan. As usual, he didn’t share the plan with me.
So here I was, sitting in my favorite coffee shop in Greensboro. I had my new tablet propped up in front of me as I enjoyed a steaming cup of coffee. I preferred my coffee like I preferred my men, ground up and kept in a freezer.
Right now, my marvelously self-designed tablet was conducting a database search of every known supernatural entity in North Carolina. I had narrowed my search per Eric’s instructions, my tablet would only find those entities who were skilled at tracking. It was also conducting a background search for anything supernatural regarding a hunt of any sort.
A pleasant chime sounded and I set down the steaming mug. Tapping the screen, a window popped up with a list. Three entries. I could handle three entries. I leaned closer and didn’t like what I read one bit.
The first entry was Arthur Boston, or Artie the Stomach. He was a small-time thug who usually worked as a leg breaker and courier for a local supernatural mob, The Borgia family. By himself, he was a nobody. With La Ghostsa Nostra behind him? That was a totally different story.
Next on the list was somebody even worse, Draven the Stalker. He was a big game hunter who figured out the biggest game to hunt was man. He became a supervillain and collected a lot of trophies before Heroes, Inc. chased him out of the Shadow. Since then, he had been hiding in the mountains of North Carolina. Finding him wouldn’t be hard. Seeing him before he saw me would be.
I stopped and stared at the last entry on my list. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in a rush. I didn’t have to worry about the last entry. The Blood Beast of Bladenboro had been held by mystic chains since it was put in them by Candace Crowley two decades ago. Nobody had broken those chains or all Hell would have broken loose at Cerberus. The Convention monitored threats like the Blood Beast closely.
So, only two targets to check out. Artie the Stomach was closest and easiest the find on my list. With a weary sigh, I slid my tablet into my bag, looped the strap over my shoulder, looked at my cooling cup of coffee wistfully and walked out to my car.
My car. My baby. A cherry red, 1965 Ford Mustang. What else would you expect a redheaded, pyrokinetic, secret monster-fighting agent to drive? A Prius? No self-respecting secret monster-fighting agent drove a Prius.
I slipped my key in the ignition and twisted it. The engine roared dutifully. I punched up some driving music, heavy metal of course, and slammed her into gear. She roared out of the parking space and I headed for the interstate. Raleigh was less than an hour away and I wanted to make it in half that.
Before I realized it, I was at my destination. I hastily found a parking spot and waited. I sat in my car, as I had been trained, and watched my surroundings. I didn’t see any lookouts, just the usual assortment of random pedestrians. Though, to the trained eyes of a Cerberus agent, usual had a completely different meaning.
I saw at least two ghostly manifestations, just stone tape recordings forever repeating some action from the past, some action so powerful or horrific it left psychic residue.
There was a group of young emotion vampyres walking in a pack, their clothing, hair, and actions all carefully designed to generate outrage they could feast on. The pregnant nun was a nice touch but the punk rocker in the Romney/Ryan hat was a bit much.
There was an incubus who strolled past my car and tried tossing his glamour at me. Thanks to my Cerberus training, the temptation rolled right past me. He sniffed something that sounded suspiciously like “damn lesbians” and stormed off.
I wasn’t a lesbian. He just wasn’t my type. He was too skinny. I preferred my men bigger, preferably with some battle scars and a large assortment of medieval weaponry. I grinned to myself ruefully for a second. If Eric heard me say that, he would recite some regulation about Triad agents and personal relationships. If Greg heard me say that? Well, let’s just say that would be an interesting day.
I climbed out of my car and stretched for a moment, taking one last secretive look around. Seeing nothing that would cause me to suspect I was being watched, I slammed the door and locked it.
Strolling down the street, I finally reached the alley I was looking for. The Raleigh chapter of the Borgia crime family had its headquarters in an Italian restaurant, because La Ghostsa Nostra was nothing if not cliché.
I slunk down the alley, my training taking over. My footsteps were silent, my breathing shallow. I would have to play this very carefully if I was going to beard the Artie the Stomach in his own lair, surrounded by his friends. This required diplomacy, patience, tact; three things which I was not really well known for.
So intent upon not making noise, on not giving away my presence, I almost didn’t notice the figure huddled in the gloom beside a more than fragrant dumpster. I could barely make out a silhouette in the shadow and crept closer to get a better look. I was about five feet away when the figure suddenly stood and spun to face me.
I could finally see her in the darkness. She was medium height, with long, silky, dark hair, and vibrant blue eyes. She had a pretty face, though it was twisted in shock at the moment. Her figure was shapely, not too skinny and definitely not too fat. I was secure enough in my sexuality to admit she would be gorgeous in a better light.
“Why are you sneaking up on me?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “You could have given me a heart attack and you have no idea how hard it is to do that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you! Why are you hiding where I am trying to sneak?” I shot back, this was my turf. I wasn’t about to let some new girl push me around. “Who are you?”
“Me? I’m Clara Voyanich.” She declared haughtily.
“Is that name supposed to mean something?”
“Clara Voyanich? The Temporal Woman? The Mistress of Time, as painful as yesterday, as mysterious as tomorrow, daughter of the legendary superhero Flashback, and the sexiest adventurer this side of Allen Quartermain?” she answered sheepishly.
“Never heard of you.” I said flatly, my eyes hooded.
“I’m new to the scene. Who are you, Ms. High-and-Mighty?”
“Cassidy Blaze.”
“Well, I have never heard of you either so we are even. What are you doing casing the Borgias while I am already here doing the same thing? I was here first.” She said.
“You’ve never heard of me because I am a secret monster-fighting agent.” I explained hotly, I was losing my patience with this rookie.
“For who.” She asked skeptically.
“The Cerberus Convention.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s because they are a secret. Enough of this. Why are you here?” I demanded.
“I… honestly don’t know. I’m a short term pre-cog. I can see the near-future, which is more useful than you might think.” She said quickly as I looked less than impressed. “Occasionally, I will get a vision from farther in the future. I have found it best to just follow the them. When I don’t, violence tends to ensue.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you are here, in this particular alley, at this particular time.” I pressed.
“I saw a vision of myself here. For whatever reason, I think you and I are supposed to meet.”
“Well, we’ve met. Consider your vision fulfilled.” I answered quickly. I had no time to be babysitting some newbie. I had a mission to complete. “You run along now and let the professional do her job.”
She looked at me as if she were going to argue. I gave her my best stern look and pointed to the mouth of the alley. Reluctantly, she shuffled off, her head hanging low. I felt like a bitch but I was in no mood to hold anybody’s hand. This was a difficult assignment. I was walking into the lion’s den. The last thing I needed as a ham-fisted amateur s
crewing everything up. The Temporal Woman, indeed. It took more than a fancy nickname to operate in this theater.
I moved forward until I found the door I was looking for. I checked and, of course, it was locked. What sort of crime family leaves the back door unlocked? Luckily for me, my training included basic lockpicking. Taking out a handy set of picks I carried, I fiddled with the lock for a moment before I heard a satisfying click. Moving quickly, I opened the door, slid inside, and shut it quietly.
