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Her hologram transmitter buzzed. “Hello, this is Sgt. Cynane—I mean, Leona.”
“Leona, my name is Ms Ever. I’m the administrative assistant for President Horne.”
“President Horne?” She fumbled, almost dropping the tablet.
“Yes, ma’am. He was notified of your...incident. He has requested an immediate conference with you. If you have an attorney, it would be in your best interest to have them accompany you. Be at Aletheia’s temple in one hour.” The woman hung up without waiting for a response.
Her heart raced, stars swam in her vision, and she started to feel sick. Her father’s words raced through her mind: a wine stain on a table runner was bad. Forgetting to call your brother on his birthday was bad. But the president requesting a private meeting? Truly horrifying! The thought of calling a silver-tongued billboard lawyer made her stomach turn. No, she’d face it head-on like she did everything else.
Shuffling off the bed, she caught a pungent whiff of herself, and remembered she hadn’t showered since the incident, as Ms Ever had called it. But she’d rather have bad body odour than be late. Throwing on a hand-me-down trench coat, she left to face her fate.
LIKE ALL TEMPLES IN Casperson, Aletheia’s was a grandiose, colossal structure; the white marble columns surpassing the height of her apartment building. Construction had started immediately after the Fleet Treaty had been signed, ending The Red War. From everything she’d heard, the humans had been understandably panicked to witness golden dragons swimming through the clouds and camped out atop skyscrapers. To quell the atmosphere of fear, the government had turned to history’s oldest opiate: religion. Tele-campaigns relentlessly propagated the resurgence of Greek polytheism, urging citizens to pick a deity, any deity, and attend ceremonials with Supernaturals. In part, it had seemed to work. The Temple remains the only place in an entire city where beings from all three boroughs will willingly congregate.
With quickened breath, Leona ascended the steps of the hallowed ground through an aromatic fog of burning sage, certain that by the end of the conversation, not only would she be stripped of her position as sergeant, but also depleted of any money she’d saved to pay for yesterday’s damages. Though not devout, Leona prayed to Aletheia, the goddess of truth for help, on occasion; perhaps President Horne knew this, which is why he called to meet here, of all places.
The thing she hated about Horne was his hypocrisy. He tried to come across as empathetic in carefully curated political ads, but his tone-deaf actions spoke louder than words. The longer he was in the power, the heavier his hand had become, and the longer his authoritative reach. He had given the green light to add TFO to the police payroll and refused to discuss the possibility of sending Supernaturals back to the realm they had poured in from. TFO were positioned outside of temples to escort Sector C-3 residents to train stations, just in case they got any ideas about lingering or wandering around. Anyone who defied him simply disappeared into the night.
Threading through the candlelit rows of barren pews, she headed to the front. A dark-haired, statuesque figure stood motionless in the aisle. She initially thought it was a woman, but as she got closer, she spied the dagger points of vampire fangs glinting in the dim light. No matter how many vamps Leona came in contact with, she couldn’t get used to the stillness of their chests, and their predatory, unblinking eyes. The visibly painful restraint to not rip her throat out and lap up her blood sent a shiver coursing through her body.
“Leona.” The vamp didn’t say her name so much as spit it at her, like an insult.
“Yes.”
“My name is Ms Ever. We spoke on the transmitter.”
“Yes.”
“As you can imagine, President Horne is concerned about what exactly took place yesterday. In case you haven’t noticed, civil unrest is at an all-time high because of Minute Magic—a problem you people should’ve solved by now.”
“Excuse me, you peop—”
“Do not interrupt me.” Ms Ever spat, leaning forward, closing the distance between them.
Leona instinctively reached for her holstered weapon, but felt nothing but air; she cursed, remembering she’d left it at home in her haste to make the meeting. The vamp grinned proudly, clearly thrilled that despite her tailored suit and passive appearance she could still elicit terror.
“I didn’t mean to—"
“Don’t apologize for your nature. You’re human. Violence is your first and last resort. Which is why we’re here, right? Have you spoken to the press?”
“No, the only person I’ve talked to is my da—err, my captain. He told me Internal Affairs would start an investigation, and I have to testify next week.”
“We’ll cancel that. You say nothing else. Speak to no-one else. The media will try to spin this; it is my job to prevent a political nightmare. I don’t care what you did, or who you killed, just don’t undermine me by confessing your sins on national television.”
“I understand.”
“Good. The president will see you now.”
THE TALL, NEAT MAN in the dark suit sat quietly in the front pew, tapping his toe. Though Leona had only seen him once in person, it had left her with a distasteful impression. It had been a parade, last November. He had stood on a floating golden throne, surrounded by hovering, scantily clad nymphs carrying bowls of fresh vegetables. He had thrown bushels of kale and green beans to the outstretched hands of his plebeians, smirking at their disparity. Her pride had told her to leave and not submit to his reprehensible degradation, but her stomach had swiftly reminded her she hadn’t eaten greens in a while. She had reluctantly stayed behind, hastily scooping up radishes and carrots from the ground like a beggar. He’d titled that particular charade the Fall Festival. Just one of many bizarre traditions that took place in the extinct nation once called the United States of America.
She had learned back in school about the aggressive colonizers who were her ancestors. They had exterminated an entire race of indigenous people, claimed their land as their own creating a successful empire, which had ultimately crumbled after a mere 300 years due to corrupt politics and heated disagreements —literally heated—on how to deal with Earth’s rising temperatures. It had ended in civil war and a nuclear holocaust. She often wondered if this man was leading Casperson down the same road as a bunch of lunatics who had accidentally blown themselves up.
“Ms Cynane, please have a seat.” He gestured to the empty spot beside him, getting straight down to business.
Gut twisting as she approached, she projected a confidence she didn’t truly feel. “It’s Sergeant. Cynane, sir.”
“Yes, of course.” His lips spread into a too-white smile as he extended an unblemished hand; a hand that had never seen a hard day’s work, or slugged a man in the jaw, or fired a weapon. “I’ve read so much about you. I feel like I know you.”
“Ms Ever already told me what this is about. I can explain, Sir—”
“Right, the nine Fey you murdered in cold blood,” he interrupted. “You know, if you didn’t have that badge, people would consider you a serial killer. Isn’t it interesting what a little thing like this can do to a person’s perception?”
He leaned over and tapped the brass CCPD medallion she wore on her hip; it took every ounce of self-control not to break his fingers. “With all due respect, Sir, they were known terrorists conspiring to kidnap. They had an entire arsenal in their safehouse, and—”
“Sergeant, you have to admit, shooting them all was a bit excessive.”
“If you’d been the one getting shot at, I think you’d disagree.” She turned her flushed face away, immediately regretting the outburst. Ms Ever glared at her from across the temple, ready to pounce if needed.
“I suppose you’ve got me there.” Horne chuckled. “But what I find interesting is the real reason you were there. To find Stealth.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach. “How do you know about him?”
“I know about everything that happens in my city. Or should I say, under my city.” He winked.
“So, the Fey wasn’t lying? Stealth really did dig an underground lab to manufacture Minute Magic?”
“Yes. And I know someone who’ll tell you exactly where it is.”
“You’ve been withholding this information from the cops all this time. Why?” Her high, tight, voice ricocheted off the walls. Ms Ever slid out of her seat and inched menacingly closer to them.
Horne leaned back and shrugged. “You don’t tell me how to do my job, and I don’t tell you how to do yours. Now, we can sit debating protocol, or we can move forward together as a team.”
“A team? You and I?”
“Yes. I’m willing to overlook yesterday’s bloodbath and sell a pleasant story of your heroism to the media, but you have to do something for me in return. You see, I have a personal problem that I think only you and your unyielding determination can solve.
“One of my seven sons, Kennedy, has become addicted to Minute Magic. I was in denial for a while, but, alas, he has all the textbook symptoms: loss of appetite, sweating profusely, sleeping up to sixteen hours a day...”
“They could be symptoms of any number of drugs.”
“That’s what we thought. Until the concerts started.” He shifted in his seat. “Kennedy sent out a hundred invites to our neighbours in Sector A-1 to watch him perform Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. My wife and I found it both laughable and mortifying that he’d do such a thing.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’d only owned the piano for a week, and what we had heard when he rehearsed was awful. The night of the concert, I was prepared with an excuse to cut his performance short, but I didn’t have to. He played surprisingly well. Too well. Dare I say, perfect? People in the audience were brought to tears and begged for an encore. My entire family was flabbergasted – they had no idea how he could’ve morphed into a savant in such a short period of time.
“Ms Ever has investigated and discovered MM leads to increased skill levels, but also premature death. I love all my children, of course, Sergeant Cynane, but Kennedy especially. I need this handled, now.”
“How often is he ingesting the drug?” Settling into the familiar role of cop had helped calm her, the tension releasing slightly in her shoulders. In all her years watching the man speak from afar, this was the only time she had ever noticed his hard, smug exterior showing even a crack.
“He’s been having a concert every night for the last month, so we suspect that’s about how long he’s been on Minute Magic. His playing has become increasingly sloppy. He’ll pause in the middle of one song and switch to another, or, erratically combine two together. I fear this is an indicator that his body is breaking down, it seems quicker by the day.”
“Tell me where Stealth is, and I’ll beat the vaccine out of him.” She said eagerly.
He raised an eyebrow. “If there is one...”
“Right.”
“Kennedy knows where his lab is located; he won’t tell me specifics, but I think he’ll tell you.”
“Why me?”
“You’re a cop, aren’t you sergeant? People aren’t allowed to say no. Come with me tonight.” Standing abruptly, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and stalked off towards the exit.
Leona moved to follow him, but Ms Ever stopped her midstride. Exaggeratedly scanning Leona head to toe, the vamp sniffed loudly and grimaced, “First, you shower. I’ll have a passenger pod drop you off at home to wash off the remnants of yesterday’s excursion. I can still smell their blood on you.”
