“I can certainly provide an explanation for that first part, but the second one…?” I shake my head. “Also, you’re skipping an even more important bullet on your list.”
Ella points her flashlight at me, the beam nearly searing my corneas. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me there’s more shit to wade through,” Amy groans.
“That depends on how you look at it.” I raise my hands and mock a moving scale to illustrate that our next heroic deed could go swimmingly, or horribly. “We’ll need to be a bit sensitive in our approach.”
“Our approach to what?” Amy replies in the least sensitive way possible.
“Well, you see, it’s…We may have…There was a sleep spell…And a shapeshifter…”
“Just spit it out, Cal,” Ella says.
So I say, quickly and with minimal enunciation, “We need to go release Mayor Burbank from a closet.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mayor Burbank is a deeply unhappy man.
This is not surprising, considering he was tied up in a stuffy closet for an hour and a half. He screams at us for roughly ten minutes before he lets us get a word in edgewise, after which Ella explains exactly what went down in the atrium, and I throw in the fact that evil vampires were planning to assassinate him, along with four other officials. I also have to deliver the bad news, to Burbank and my two teammates, that the deputy mayor was murdered and replaced by a shapeshifter before the gala as a safety measure to ensure the Knights didn’t fail. Burbank falls quiet after that and allows us to lead him back to the atrium.
We leave him—and the two equally furious guards who were locked in a single-stall bathroom—in the care of Ramirez and go on the hunt for the others. Lassiter and Mahoney are smart cookies, and it takes us almost half an hour to figure out where they hunkered down. When I knock on the door and attempt to open it, I hear the distinct sound of a magazine being clicked into place near the opposite side of the door. I call out to whoever it is because I don’t want to end up riddled with holes again.
Lassiter shouts through the door, muffled, “How’d we meet?”
Ah. He wants to make sure I’m not another enemy shifter.
That’s not even paranoid, considering what happened tonight.
“You threw my frozen ass into the back of your dirty Crown Vic,” I reply.
“Good enough.”
Lassiter says something to the other people in the room, and the sound of a bunch of furniture being dragged across the floor filters into the hall. They barricaded the door in case a vampire tried to break in. Depending on what furniture they had available, that might have actually slowed the Knights down. Fair planning for people who’ve only had minimal experience with the supernatural.
Finally, they free the door from its furniture prison, and Lassiter yanks it open. Mahoney is just behind him, with the injured Ribald and Pillsbury bringing up the rear. Senator Ribald is deathly pale and barely able to hold herself upright; Pillsbury is supporting most of her weight. Ella, standing beside me, notices her distress and pushes the door open all the way, motioning for Pillsbury to hand Ribald over. He does so reluctantly, making sure that Ella keeps pressure on the makeshift bandage around Ribald’s abdomen that appears to have been torn from his own shirt.
Ella uses some of her first-aid supplies to reinforce the bandage, then hoists Ribald into her arms. I can tell the extra weight puts too much pressure on Ella’s damaged knee—I wish she had taken some of Lucian’s blood as well, but she’s too proud to accept such help from a vampire unless she’s dying—though she grins and bears the pain and pretends everything is fine. “Amy, take point,” she orders. “Cal, take the rear.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the two of us reply in unison.
Neither of us miss the fact she wants us to defend the group because she’s currently incapable of defending anyone. We don’t point it out though.
Once the group is fully assembled in the hall, we march back to the atrium. No more vampires or shapeshifters attack us this time around, which is a nice change of pace. When we pass the open door that leads to the room where Lucian’s shifter got thrown through the wall, I sneak a peek and find that, true to his word, he’s long snuck away. Guy’s probably halfway across the state by now, already on the hunt for another contract.
We eventually reach the balcony that overlooks the ruined atrium, and Pillsbury exclaims, “Good lord.”
Mahoney and Lassiter dissect the room with their eyes the way all good cops examine a scene, but both of them are clearly in a state of shock, not having expected such extensive damage.
Lassiter mutters, “Damn, this was almost another Wellington, wasn’t it?”
Mahoney looks to me and asks, “Did all the gala attendees get out before…this?”
Ella answers, “Yes, sir. Everyone evacuated when the fire alarm went off. That happened shortly before the fight broke out in the atrium.”
“Why’d the alarm go off?” Lassiter scratches his chin. “One of those vampires catch the building on fire?”
“There was quite a bit of fire, yes,” I say, “but I pulled the alarm manually when the fight on the second floor went south.”
He stares out over the vast swatch of destruction that used to be the gorgeous and expensive main room of the city’s newest museum. “Good move, Kinsey.”
Subdued by the awful sight of the structural devastation, along with the blood and gore smeared across almost every inch of the atrium, much of it lying atop the visible remains of the gala party, the group heads downstairs. Ella hands off Ribald to a waiting paramedic team, who perform a quick check, load her onto a gurney, and roll her out the exit toward a waiting line of ambulances. Pillsbury is coaxed into a medical exam as well, allowing himself to be led away by a young paramedic who mutters reassuring things into his ear. Mahoney and Lassiter refuse medical attention.
“I assume the PD is out in force?” Mahoney says.
Ella replies, “We’ve been holding them at the perimeter because we don’t want to crowd the building with people not in the know, given the chance there might still be”—she lowers her voice—“vampires or other supernatural combatants running around. But they’ve been throwing a fit because they know you were in attendance at the gala tonight, and the ones who were working security, who got shunted out during the evacuation, are absolutely furious we won’t let them look for you.”
Mahoney tucks his gun back into his shoulder holster. “I suppose I’ll go out and quell them. However, I do want them working the building as soon as you confirm all the ‘enemy combatants’ have been handled. I know DSI is working on a recruitment drive right now, but you still don’t have anywhere near the manpower the PD does. And I want this mess cleaned up as soon as possible. Mayor Burbank is going to throw a fit.”
“Oh,” Amy says, “he already has.”
Ella glowers at her, then turns back to Mahoney. “I understand. As soon as we get the rest of our injured agents loaded up for transport to the DSI infirmary, I’ll reorganize our remaining forces and have them search the building as fast as possible. We should be able to get it done in an hour or so.”
“That works.” Mahoney tugs the wrinkles out of his suit. “Time to make yet another public appearance. My favorite.” He motions to Lassiter. “Come along, Detective. I suspect the press will try to take a few bites out of me. You can back up my completely false rendition of events, if anyone tries to poke holes in my story. You’re a much better liar than me after all.”
Lassiter purses his lips. “Are you complimenting me, sir?”
“Would you rather I punish you for not informing me of an ‘enemy combatant’ incursion before it literally happened right in front of my face?”
“No, sir.”
“Then yes, I’m complimenting you.”
“Understood, sir.”
They stride off to the exit together and vanish into the night.
Just as Nick Riker appears like a sudden summer storm, s
tomping inside through a different door, decked out in a classy suit, with a reinforced DSI field agent coat hanging over his shoulders like a cape, flapping in the breeze, and his magic cane sword striking the debris underfoot with a series of loud cracks and clanks. He’s leaning on the cane more than he usually does—because I hurt his ruined knee back in the infirmary. And boy, he does not look happy about it.
Oh, if he sees me right now, I’m going to die. Again.
I glance at Ella and Amy. They’re distracted by a cluster of lower-level agents who just dashed over to give them updates on the statuses of tonight’s casualties, including the dead vampires, whose bodies have already been loaded into black bags and lined up in the same area we used for triage earlier. Neither of them are paying attention to me at this exact second, and Riker, who pauses to throw a few words at Pillsbury as the attorney general is led out of the building by the paramedic, hasn’t noticed me yet.
The stairs leading up to the second floor—which will give me roof access—beckon.
I’m all the way at the top and around the corner of the main corridor before anyone notices I’m gone. Ella shouts for me to come back, but I have an important meeting I can’t afford to miss. I’ll bite my tongue and take whatever punishment she wants to dish out later without complaint. Riker I will confront, and profusely apologize to, when he’s not quite so infuriated.
Roof access comes in the form of a door that tells me I shouldn’t open it unless I want to be fined a ridiculous amount of money by the city. I yank it open and trudge up the steep stairs. At the top is another door, which I open a crack at first so I can search the rooftop for any signs of Knights we might’ve missed during the battle. The only living thing I locate, however, is Lucian. He’s leaning against a large vent of some sort securely bolted to the roof. I open the door wider and slip out into the crisp night air, the wind brisker and more damp than it is at ground level, whispering of the oncoming winter snows.
Lucian doesn’t acknowledge me until I position myself beside him and mimic his pose. The metal of the vent is frigid, the temperature bleeding through my torn shirt, but I ignore the discomfort. There are more important things to worry about right now.
Lucian sucks in a full breath and exhales, as if he needs to psych himself up to deliver bad news. Anxiety worms its way into my stomach, and I have to tap my fingers against my pants in the rhythm of a song I like in order to keep the creeping fear at bay.
At last, Lucian says, “You remember what I said earlier, about people gaining magic out of the blue?”
“Something about it being rare?” I guess, trying to recall his exact words.
“Right.” He scuffs his shoe against the rooftop, leaving a black streak on the concrete. “Here’s the thing. It’s not simply rare. It’s almost impossible. If you are a human born without magic, that means you’ll be magicless for your entire life—as long as you remain spiritually human. As long as you have a human soul. The only humans who go on to gain magic are those who give up a piece of their human soul in exchange for a piece of something else’s spiritual aspect. Since most of those applicable ‘somethings’ are from Eververse societies that have a minimal presence on Earth, magicless human beings, by and large, die the same way they were born. The few who don’t technically cease to be human.”
“So, what, something like happened to me tonight?” My pulse quickens. “I’m not…human anymore?”
Lucian holds up a finger to silence me. “We’re getting there, kid. Bear with me.”
Sirens sound off in the parking lot below, echoing into the night. Police cruisers pulling away from the museum. Must have been called to attend another crime in progress. Supernatural villains might throw the biggest punches in this city, but the mundane variety are as common as ants. The mortal thieves and robbers and muggers, assailants and rapists and run-of-the-mill murderers don’t go dark just because the cops are off entertaining at a bigger party. In fact, the scale of the museum attack, occupying the attention of the bulk of the city’s first responders, makes for a perfect opportunity. Modest disasters always beget tides of smaller, more intimate crimes.
When the sirens fade into the distance, Lucian continues. “Do you know why I tasted your blood back there?”
“No clue.” I wish he would get to the point already. The anticipation is driving up my blood pressure. But I don’t want to badger him, lest he decide to zip his mouth and torment me with silence. That would be a very Lucian thing to do.
“It’s because vampires have a keen sense of taste, just like our senses of smell, sight, and hearing.” He sticks his hands into his pockets, for all the good that does him. His pockets are torn wide open. “We can taste all sorts of things in blood, like alcohol and other drugs. Uncover all sorts of information. What people have been doing. What they’re likely to do. Who they’ve been in the past. Who they are now. What they are now. And what they may have always been.”
Something tightens in my chest, and I suddenly find it hard to breathe.
“I thought there was something off about you, Kinsey. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.” He sighs. “That’s what I like about blood. It doesn’t lie. It can’t lie. The truth is always in the blood, if you dig deep enough to find it.”
“W-What are you saying?”
“Kid, I hate to break this to you,” he says in a way that indicates he might actually feel bad about it, “but you were never human to begin with.”
A new kind of cold freezes all the organs in my chest, and I choke on air. “What?”
Lucian refuses to make eye contact. “Let me clarify. You were never fully human. There’s definitely human in you. I could taste it. But there’s also quite a bit of something in your DNA that is not of this Earth. My guess would be that you’re half and half. That you have one human parent and one nonhuman parent. As for what the latter is exactly, I have to admit I have no idea. I’ve tasted a significant number of nonhuman beings in my decades as a vampire, everything from faeries to ghouls to mythical demigods. But whatever species your nonhuman parent belongs to, it’s never been on my radar. I’d hazard a guess and say members of that species don’t commonly cross the veil.”
I’m not entirely sure what happens, but one second, I’m leaning against the vent, and the next my ass is on the ground and I’m wavering back and forth like I’m about to keel over. Lucian crouches beside me and grabs my shoulder to keep me from falling forward and ramming my face into the concrete. I’m vaguely aware that he’s still talking, but the sounds of the world are muted to my ears. All I can hear is my heart beating rapidly, my breaths coming in short bursts, too hard, too fast. All I can feel is my skin tingling, the sensation crawling up my arms, spreading across my face. My vision grows dim, the world tilting side to side as if I’m on a boat in stormy seas, and—
Lucian smacks me upside the head. “Stop hyperventilating, you moron.”
The pain doesn’t short out my physical symptoms like it does on TV, but Lucian’s command does trigger a realization that I’m having a panic attack. I close my eyes and call up a mental list of techniques for handling anxiety I’ve learned in various mandatory therapy sessions over the years. They don’t work instantaneously, but after I set a few in motion, they do take the edge off. I stop breathing hard enough to pop my lungs, restoring my normal oxygen flow. The tingling sensation in my face and hands recedes, and my brain pulls back from the verge of fainting. I’m able to think more clearly, though my rationality is still in question.
“I’m not human,” I whisper.
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
I’ve been totally normal all my life. I’ve never been the strongest man, or the fastest, or the smartest. I’ve never been the best at anything, not even sarcasm and badly timed jokes. I’m reasonably good looking, sure, but I don’t have the legendary beauty or allure of any famous creatures of myth or legend. I’m not particularly tall or broad or well built, and my features are a common blend of Hispanic, from my Mexic
an mother’s side of the bloodline, and what I always thought was white, from my absent father’s. There’s nothing special about me at all, nothing that separates me from the ordinary. I’m Calvin Kinsey, regular man, decent at some things, average at most, amazing at practically nothing except the number of deadly situations I manage to survive.
And yet, somehow, the revelation makes perfect sense at the same time.
It goes a long way in explaining why I never met my father: He doesn’t live on this planet. He lives in some Eververse realm far out of touch and far out of reach. His whirlwind fling with my mom would’ve been soundly severed as soon as he jumped the gap between this dimension and the next, since there’s no simple way to stay in contact with someone when they’re a gazillion miles away in some realm where creatures laugh at paltry human means of communication.
It goes a long way in explaining my mother’s death too: The terrifying demonic creature she fought at the bakery that day was after me, not her. It said as much in the restored memory I was forced to watch. Mom sacrificed herself to protect me from that thing. But that sort of powerful creature would have no use at all for a regular human child, even the son of a powerful witch. If I have the blood of something nonhuman running through my veins, however, then it’s possible the demon creature was after me because that nonhuman blood begets some sort of special abilities. Like the magic I mysteriously developed tonight.
“Oh, Christ,” I mutter. “It’s true.”
“Don’t look so glum.” Lucian pats my head. “It’s not the end of the world. In fact, it’s a pretty sweet beginning, if you ask me. “
“How so?”
“I mean, with the kind of raw power you slung around in the atrium, you could perform extremely impressive magic.”
“You didn’t see me sling around the power,” I point out. “You weren’t there.”
“Kid”—Lucian shakes his head—“I didn’t need to be there. I felt your magic. It shook the entire goddamn building. Not to mention it left that massive fucking wound on the wall. I don’t think my best shot could do that much damage, but you threw that spell without even understanding the basic tenets of spell construction.”
Day Killer (City of Crows Book 5) Page 23
