by Mindy Klasky
“Where the Rat Terrier have you been? Do you have a Springer Spaniel’s idea how crazy things have been here? The Saint Bernard judge is about to lose her Otterhound mind over that thing.”
I ignored her ridiculous obscenities. Instead, I stared at the computer she waved to, at the tumbling clock inured to her talons.
“Sarah!” Angelique said, snapping my attention back to her face. “I take it you’ve done absolutely nothing to respond to this disaster?”
No swearing. She was serious now. She was about to fire me.
I could tell her what I’d done. I could tell her I’d gone to Richardson’s house, trying to find James. I could tell her I’d spoken to James’s Source, Tyler. I could explain how none of it had worked, how I hadn’t come close to landing a hook in Richardson’s ransomware.
I could tell her that James had given me the means to save us all.
I looked back at the screen. Less than three hours left.
Angelique cleared her throat. “If that’s the case, then you leave me no option but to—”
The countdown stopped. The flow of crimson was staunched, the clock frozen at 2:58:12. The numbers glared against the acid-green screen.
“What the everlasting Pointer—” Angelique said.
Before she could complete her sentence, my computer screen flickered. The green and red disappeared, replaced by a boring field of black. In the center, rotating as if it had been in motion since the creation of the universe, was the Night Court logo, a scroll of parchment pierced by an ornately carved sword.
My hands moved as if they belonged to someone else. I automatically cocked my wrists over the keyboard, holding them at an ergonomically sound angle. I typed in my username. Tabbed to the next field. Entered my password.
I didn’t waste time gloating as the normal court desktop filled the screen. Instead, I turned to Angelique. “I’m sorry. Did you want me to pull up a file?”
“In my office,” Angelique said. “Now.”
I thought about telling her I couldn’t leave my desk unattended, not during normal court hours. But I’d already pushed my luck, cutting off her tirade. And even I would admit that my question had been insubordinate. My ransoming the court records and saving the day at nearly the last possible minute could only carry me so far.
I took my time, though, getting to my feet. I was careful not to let her see me tuck James’s Bitcoin phone into my pocket.
Angelique slammed her office door closed behind me, hard enough that I jumped at the noise. As I watched warily, she stalked to her desk, taking her time to plant her hands on the blotter.
Apparently she and I had read the same books about how to make an impact in the midst of an awkward power dynamic. By looming over the desk, she added the furniture’s mass to her own. She seemed more imposing, more capable of carrying out a threat.
Or maybe I only thought that because I could see the razor-sharp tips of her fingernails.
“What the hell just happened out there?” she demanded. Hell. Not Harrier or something-hound, or something-even-stupider-terrier. My job was on the line. Possibly, even, my life.
“I don’t know.” Until I said those words, I wasn’t certain I was going to keep James’s Bitcoin phone secret.
Angelique was an apex predator. Her shifter hearing had evolved to detect the heartbeat of her prey, to calculate the precise moment that adrenaline sent a creature into full escape-mode overdrive. Her eyes were designed to sense the slightest hint of motion—the tiniest gathering of muscles prior to a leap toward freedom. She could literally smell fear.
But sphinxes tracked prey as well.
I focused my energy by taking a trio of deep breaths, using each to siphon off more of my jagged fear. Angelique was my boss, not my judge or jury. She most definitely was not my executioner. At least not that night.
“What stopped the countdown?” she demanded.
I looked directly into her eyes. “I don’t know,” I repeated.
At the same time, I told myself I was only speaking the truth. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know why James had sent me the phone. I didn’t know why he’d decided to spare me, spare the court, from almost certain doom.
“Did you find James Morton?”
“No,” I said. That was the truth as well. I hadn’t found James. If anything, he’d found me.
“What about Maurice Richardson?”
“No.” This was getting easier and easier. She didn’t even know the questions she should ask. She didn’t have a clue what was happening in the middle of her own courthouse.
“You’ve been indicted as a murderer and a security risk, Sarah. You had something to do with that computer hack. I don’t accept for one Basenji second that the ransom demand was spontaneously withdrawn. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire your Malamute ass,” Angelique said.
“I’ll give you three,” I said, before I could remember my vow to stay on her good side. “One: I’m innocent until I’ve been proven guilty in an imperial court. Two: You don’t have a shred of evidence that I had anything to do with the ransom threat—either making it or keeping it from destroying our files. Three: I’m the best damn clerk this court has ever seen.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a moment to study her fingernails, where they glinted scarlet against her desk.
“I don’t trust you, Sarah Anderson.”
The feeling is absolutely mutual. But I wasn’t suicidal. I only thought those words; I didn’t say them out loud.
She narrowed her eyes, as if she could read my mind. “I’m formally placing you on probation.”
I started to protest, but I managed to bite back my words.
“That’s right,” she said, her voice shifting to a frozen register. “One more violation, no matter how small, and your employment will immediately be terminated. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
I glared, not about to give her the submission she craved.
But I knew she was serious—she hadn’t mentioned a dog in her last threat. And bottom line, she held all the cards. If I was fired, I immediately became a flight risk—insignia held by the court or not. Judge Finch would lock me up for months, maybe even years, before my trial was complete.
“I want to hear a verbal response, Sarah. Do you understand the terms of your probation?”
“Yes,” I said, as sullen as any teenager.
Angelique turned her head to an angle, as if she’d missed my answer. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, nearly gagging on the syllables.
“Excellent,” she said. “Now get your Chow Chow ass out of my office and get back to your Weimaraner work.”
I had no choice. Biting my tongue and clenching my fists, I returned to my desk. I took a stack of papers from my inbox and started to file them, one after another.
The computer system worked flawlessly. And after I completed each document, I slipped my hand into my pocket, reassuring myself that the Bitcoin phone was still there.
However tenuous, the device was the only link I had to James. I just had to figure out how to reach him.
16
I’d assumed the locked-down files would put my preliminary hearing on hold, maybe even buy me a week or two of living in denial.
I was very sadly mistaken.
I was fiddling with my inbox, discarding dozens of spam messages that had arrived in the past forty-eight hours. My to-do list was longer than a qilin’s mane, and I hadn’t even begun to check the electronic stack of new cases to be filed.
Chris strolled into my office a few minutes before midnight. I’d shot him a quick message the instant I sat down to my freed computer, giving him a heads-up that the files had been released. Brushing my fingers against James’s phone, I’d decided to give Chris all the details later. In person.
But here he was. And for just a moment, I thought he’d come to keep me company at lunch, and I started to explain that I didn’t have time for a br
eak—not with the gigantic backlog from two days of lock-down and Angelique on the warpath.
But after the past forty-eight hours of intensive sleuthing, Chris should have been sound asleep in his oh-so-comfortable bed.
And he wasn’t carrying any delectable treats, so he hadn’t come to feed me.
And he was wearing a suit.
I gawked. I’d never seen Chris in a suit before.
The charcoal plaid was so subtle it almost looked plain grey in the office light. The jacket was expertly tailored; its lean lines complemented Chris’s runner’s physique. His white dress shirt was impeccably ironed, and his black tie was dotted with tiny images of a blazing sun—a subtle reinforcement of his title: Sun Lion of the Eastern Empire.
“Ready?” he asked.
I stopped just short of asking him what I was supposed to be ready for. Of course, time, tide, and Judge Finch waited for no computer disaster. It was time for my preliminary hearing.
I wished I’d worn one of my own suits when I reported for work that evening. At least I could carry a legal pad into the courtroom, as if I hadn’t been completely taken by surprise by the criminal case that was going to determine the rest of my life. I gripped the strap on my purse as if it were a lifeline.
Swallowing hard, I was surprised to find my throat as dry as Sekhmet’s desert. Instead of trying to speak, I resorted to a single curt nod. Chris held the office door for me, waiting with apparent patience as I set the I’ll Be Back clock.
This was probably the exact type of activity that would jeopardize my probation in Angelique’s eyes. I didn’t have a choice, though. If I failed to appear before Judge Finch, I’d be thrown back into the subterranean jail. And I was certain imprisonment would be cause for termination.
The courtroom was crowded as Chris and I filed past the benches in the gallery. A low hum of excitement increased in pitch, and I could feel the gaze of scores of imperials as we took our places at the defendant’s table.
Judge Finch had already downed her blood cordial, transforming into her vampire self. Her fangs looked particularly sharp as she gestured to her bailiff, Eleanor Owens. The robust griffin wore carnelian jewelry for the evening, a heavy necklace and matching bracelets that sparkled against her uniform. Her eyeshadow echoed the crystals, glittering blood-red as she planted herself before the bench.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” she intoned. “All persons having business before the Honorable, the Night Court of the Eastern Empire, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. May Sekhmet watch over all proceedings here and render justice unto all.”
A business-like sphinx sat at the prosecutor’s table. I’d never seen him before. He wasn’t a member of the Den. But I recognized a kindred spirit when I saw his six legal pads, each lined up precisely in front of his briefcase, complete with uncapped felt-tip pens standing ready—two black, two blue, a red, and a green. Extensive notes covered the top sheet of paper.
A dryad sat in the last chair at the prosecutor’s table. I realized she was the young lawyer who had managed my arraignment, the creature who had nervously twined her fingers in her hair for the better part of that appearance. Now, she hid behind a fortress of legal books—a copy of the criminal code, a matching volume of the court’s rules, half a dozen reference volumes on criminal procedure, and a hefty Italian-English dictionary.
Undaunted by the pair, Chris shot the locks on his briefcase. I couldn’t help but note that he only had one pad and only one capped pen. There wasn’t a word scribbled on his paper.
“Antonio Russo for the Empire,” the prosecutor stated, a lilting accent spicing his words. “Sphinx resident in the European Confederacy.”
So. That was how the court had resolved the requirement that I be prosecuted by an imperial of my own race. They’d brought someone in from across the ocean. That was an elaborate expense for a sphinx like me. Or not-a-sphinx. Whatever.
I glanced at Chris. His face was perfectly smooth. He didn’t seem surprised by Signor Russo.
Of course he wasn’t surprised. Even at this preliminary stage of my case, Chris must have exchanged filings with the opposition. I wondered what else he’d accomplished while we’d both been running all over the District, trying to track down James and release the ransomed files.
My heart expanded inside my chest, Chris’s matter-of-fact attitude warming me like a physical flame. He’d protected me when I didn’t even realize I needed protection. Once again, he’d put my welfare before his own.
That was a more touching display of love than any utterance of words. Surprised to find tears filling my eyes, I blinked hard. I was newly determined not to disappoint him.
For now, Chris stood a little straighter and directed his response to Judge Finch. “Christopher Gardner for the defense,” he said. “Sun Lion of the Eastern Empire.”
If the judge was impressed with his title, she gave no sign. Instead, she shuffled a stack of papers on her desk and glared at the ranks of benches behind us.
“Before we begin,” she said, “I’d like to say a few words to the observers in the gallery.”
I heard an anticipatory shuffle behind me. I wanted to turn around, to see who was gaping at the proceedings. But Chris shifted his weight, bringing his arm close to mine. I glanced down at his hand and caught his index finger pointing toward Judge Finch. Pay attention, he was saying. Ignore everyone—and everything—else.
I closed my fingers around my hematite bracelet, the better to concentrate. Of course, that bracelet was gone. I tried to disguise my motion by fiddling with the cuff on my blouse.
Judge Finch continued. “I’ve already cleared the press from this courtroom, when it became apparent that some reporters couldn’t observe the rule against audio and video recordings. I will not hesitate to bar any other imperial from this room for any disturbance whatsoever.”
As if to underscore the judge’s fiat, Eleanor shifted her weight, settling the boulders of her hands on her hips. The expectant buzz behind me ceased immediately. If I’d been the recipient of her glare, I might have crumbled to dust.
And then the hearing began.
The details were boring. Russo called witnesses, carefully guiding them through a tick-tock of the events on the night of June 25. Chris applied his journalist’s skill at shorthand, taking complex notes while Russo presented his case. With the judge’s permission, Chris asked a handful of questions in cross-examination. Russo declined to re-direct.
The preliminary hearing was supposed to work to the advantage of both sides. Chris and I could learn how the Empire was building its case. Russo could see the outline of my defense. All of us could gauge the advantage—or disadvantage—of my plea-bargaining to lesser charges.
As the night wore on, Russo’s Old World accent lulled the court, blurring the line between respect and skepticism. With every round of question and answer, I felt less able to defend my actions on that summer night ten months earlier.
The blood and the horror and the shimmering power of agriotis seemed like half-remembered nightmares. I couldn’t explain—even to myself—what I’d been thinking and how and why I’d acted as I had. Over and over again, I brushed my fingers against my missing insignia, hoping to calm my seething thoughts, trying to gain some perspective.
Chris did his best to shelter me. He presented some procedural challenges, obscure Empire rules that caught Russo by surprise and sent the dryad scurrying to her legal tomes. He kept a running tally of facts we’d been unable to counter, and he started a list of expert witnesses we should start to gather.
There was no jury, not at this preliminary stage. Judge Finch certainly wasn’t betraying a hint of emotion. But as the clock ticked closer and closer to dawn, I had to believe that she was inclined to decide against me. Against the sphinx who’d killed a vampire judge.
Finally, she gaveled the hearing to a close. She noted that she’d take all of the arguments under advisement, and she’d issue a written decisi
on on several procedural matters that had been presented. The narrow-eyed glare she cast toward me made it abundantly clear she was not dismissing my case for lack of cause.
“All rise!” Eleanor barked, and a weary courtroom of observers stumbled to its collective feet. The instant Judge Finch cleared the bench, the gallery exploded with speculation.
Chris wasted no time escorting me through the crowd, actually raising his briefcase to block my view of the spectators. Indignation sharpened the tone of discussion, and a few people called out to Antonio Russo, asking him to clarify some of the points he’d made.
Muttering under his breath, Chris caught my elbow with commanding fingertips, speed-walking me to the courthouse door.
Bubba looked up as we approached. “Ms. Anderson,” he said. “Looks like folks are getting an early start out there.”
His words didn’t make sense. It was the end of a long night. Nothing “early” about it.
But I was wrong. I was naively, incredibly wrong.
The press had gotten an early start, mobbing the courthouse plaza before dawn.
To Bubba’s human eyes, they would have looked like a scrum of eager spectators—humans hoping to snag a seat in an important trial heard by one of the day-court judges. To my imperial eyes, though, they looked like a cadre of imperial journalists.
Three different reporters—a naiad, an ifrit, and a witch—all representing The Imperial Inquisitor. A vampire for The Nightly Moon. The Centaur Sentinel. The Paranormal Post. The Sylph Standard and The Elemental Gazette. The Shifter Dispatch-Tribune.
That wasn’t even considering the online media. Smartphones took the place of bulky video equipment. Screens were held above heads, dull eyes that came to blinding life as Chris and I reached the top of the courthouse steps.
“Sarah!” one of the reporters shouted, and the others immediately took up the cry.
“Ms. Anderson!”
“Mr. Gardner, over here!”
