It took more than ten minutes. First, I had to print out my cheat sheet and equipment checklist. As I took the elevator to the fourth floor to check out a radio, bracers, and vest, I skimmed my notes.
"Identify myself as law enforcement," I mumbled. "Check for traps in front of the door, open the door, check for traps inside the door, and then find and disable the wards." Each part had multiple steps. Checking for traps in front of the door involved lying on the ground to search for raised concrete where runes might be embedded, and I had my doubts that the regular entry crew followed all these procedures. It would take twenty minutes to get to the door, and I couldn't see the entry team agents waiting that long. They couldn't even stand in line for coffee at the coffee cart across the street without complaining.
And why did it have to be with Agent Bowers? Even I, nearly completely insulated from the Bureau gossip, had heard of Bowers. He'd been there about the same amount of time as I had, but while I'd been keeping my head down and trying to fit in, he'd solved two high-profile cases and been trotted out for a press conference with the mayor. Granted, he'd looked supremely irritated the entire time he'd been in front of the cameras, but he was someone who was clearly going places. Given his reputation as a humorless automaton with no patience for inefficiency, this assignment could be nothing but an unmitigated disaster. And why was Bowers even here and not in Seattle?
It all made me wish I'd followed Delia's advice to keep applying for other jobs.
The elevator dinged and let me out into a nearly empty, airy room with marble floors. So this was the armory. Down in the basement, we had yellow fluorescent lights and carpet that had last been replaced in 1973 after the anti-vampire activists had been ejected from the building. Above ground, it was easier to remember the building had been created in the grand Italianate style. The Flood River sparkled in the sunlight. Tall windows, arches, and natural lighting — with this sort of environment, working with the agents might be worth it.
Then I looked at the equipment list, which included a bullet-resistant vest, warded bracers, and optional riot helmet. Actually, maybe I was fine staying down in the basement.
Aside from the procedures to stay safe, there was a whole sequence of things we were supposed to do to keep everything legal; with a warrant, we didn't have to be let in by the owner or renter, but if we damaged the door, we had to fill out a bunch of forms. Everything was probably second nature for anyone who had done a few of these. Normally, there were at least two people on the entry override team, so I should have been going with another entry override specialist, someone with some experience who could watch to make sure I didn't violate any laws.
But everyone else with the certification was gone and I wasn't about to argue with Supervisory Agent Salt.
The equipment counter had two inches of glass-clad polycarbonate, with some serious wards embedded between the layers, courtesy of the 1973 building takeover. The first thing the rioters had done was rush to the fourth floor and ransack the armory. They'd also stolen radios so they could listen in on the plans to retake the building. Many, many things had changed after that. In the current configuration, there was a sliding hatch allowing items to be passed in and out, and a round metal grill to allow sound through when the hatch was shut.
The hatch was currently closed, and the lone occupant of the room beyond was turned away, feet up on a shelf, watching a movie on his phone. He was a white vampire in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a belly hanging over his belt.
Leaning toward the metal grate, I cleared my throat. "Excuse me."
Without sitting up, he reached over and opened the hatch, then raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
I knew what he saw — a white human woman in her thirties with mousy brown hair who looked like she should be grading papers at a college instead of wandering the halls of the Federal Bureau of Magic Enforcement. Raising my lanyard to show my ID card, I said, "I need to check out a radio, bracers, and vest." When he didn't move, I added, "I don't think I'll need the riot helmet."
His feet dropped to the floor. "For what?"
"Entry team for a search warrant." The training hadn't covered what we were supposed to say to get the armory sergeant to take us seriously.
He stared at me for a long five seconds. "We don't give entry gear to evidence technicians," he said with finality. Then he shut the hatch, secure in the knowledge that I couldn't do anything about his job performance and he was sitting behind a barrier I'd never make it through.
With everyone in Seattle, this guy was enjoying a paid vacation. More power to him, but the only thing worse than being unprepared to serve on an entry team was being unprepared and unequipped. The movie's soundtrack resumed, and he leaned back in his chair and stared at the tiny screen.
I wondered what I was supposed to do now. Maybe call Hamilton and see if he knew the guy behind the counter? Somehow track down Salt and whine like a child because the guy in charge of the armory was being mean to me? Quit my job?
Maybe I could just go back to my workspace in the basement and pretend I'd never been assigned to this thing.
No. I was an adult. I'd successfully defended my dissertation in front of multiple faculty who thought the magical theory department should be defunded. I had a job, paid taxes, and did all the other boring adult things. I would step up there and make him take me seriously. Somehow.
Before I could act on my plan, the elevator dinged again and Agent Simon Bowers stepped out. In some ways, the vampire looked the same as he had during the mayor's press conference, including the air of irritation. But whereas he'd looked resigned to listening and answering questions then, now he was a bundle of concentrated energy in an expensive suit.
He was a tall man in his early thirties, with brown hair and light brown skin that could either have been what he was born with or the result of his latest vacation. With his angular features, it could have gone either way, though he definitely had that "yacht in the Caribbean" sort of look. He also had an air about him that said he was too good for this place. To be fair, the amount he'd spent on his suit and shoes would cover my rent for six months, and I'd never seen any other agents in bespoke suits, so maybe he really was too good for this place. Even his gear bag looked like it had just been dry cleaned.
He was definitely annoyed and not bothering to hide it. "Perkins?"
"Yes." I held up my lanyard in case he wanted proof, mostly because I still had it in my hand.
My response made him look even more annoyed. "So why are you up here instead of down in the lobby?" He saw the notes in my other hand, with neat bullet points and important phrases bolded, and blinked. "You're up here trying to remember what to do?"
"No." I mean, yes, I was, but that wasn't the hold-up, and given the tension in his jaw, I was glad. "They won't check out entry gear to evidence technicians."
"You're an evidence technician."
"With entry override certification, yes." I waited, figuring there were even odds he would throw up his hands and find Salt so he could track down someone qualified to do the job, or take on the armory officer. I hoped it was the former. Forget great views and marble floors. I would sit in the basement working on my reports until the end of the day without taking breaks if it would get me out of this.
Some people ran toward danger, but I've always felt it was better for everyone if I stayed out of the way and let the heroes do their thing.
Bowers turned on his heel and marched over to the still-closed hatch. "Taylor, she needs entry gear." It was an order, with no greeting to soften the words. Either this guy was rude to everyone, or these two had a history.
And just like that, a radio, vest, and bracers were pushed through the hatch, along with a clipboard for me to sign. From the look the armory officer gave me, I was betting he and Bowers were not friends. I hoped I never needed to come back up here again.
Once I'd collected the gear, we took the elevator down to the main lobby in silence. The vest was surprisingly heavy, and it took me a bit to tighten the velcro straps so it rode high enough that I could bend at the waist. The bracers were made of some sort of stiff fabric with dozens of spelled metal plates riveted on, and they smelled of disinfectant and rust. Stretching from the crook of my elbow to my wrist, they were meant to offer minor protection against a variety of attacks so the wearer could stay alive long enough to respond. But they'd been made for someone with much larger arms than mine. Even with the buckles pulled as tight as they would go, they still slid around every time I moved, and I had to raise my hands to get them to slide down far enough so I could bend my wrist. Next to the elegantly dressed man at my side, I looked like a low budget cosplayer.
Great. This was going absolutely great.
Just having the extra protection brought home how dangerous this could be. I felt like an idiot and gave serious consideration to whether paying the rent was really that important.
Outside, the glare made me squint until I dug out my sunglasses. The nice weather had brought the tourists, and we had to push through knots of people blocking the sidewalk as they read their travel guides.
Bowers ignored the flirtatious glances cast his way, his face an unmoving mask of impatience. I was used to the crowds, but normally I could walk by unnoticed. Wearing the vest and bracers, I got puzzled glances.
Even those who couldn't see magic clearly could tell I wasn't a vampire. The everyday signs of cumulative damage, from sun-caused freckles to puffy eyes from my late night effort to find my father's current address, showed on my face. It wasn't that vampires didn't age — vampirism was no path to immortality — but the magic that sustained a vampire dealt with the minor annoyances. Eventually, their bodies grew old enough that they couldn't take in life power fast enough to counteract the damage, but until that happened, they remained healthy.
As far as I was concerned, that was the only attractive thing about vampirism.
A water taxi waited for us at the Third Street dock, though it would have been nearly as quick to catch the next water bus. The pilot was a stout woman with pale skin, green eyes, and copper hair, with a sun-block charm looped around her neck. Her face lit up when she saw Bowers coming. "Good to see you, Simon! Your mother says the mayor wants to give you an award. Congratulations!" Bowers must have made a face, because she laughed in a good-natured way, as if she'd been expecting that response. When I hopped to the deck after him, she held out her hand and smiled warmly. "Alice Donlan."
"Jen Perkins."
Alice had already reversed away from the dock by the time I sat down. Bowers took a seat on the next bench, not so far away that it would look like he was avoiding me, but too far for idle conversation. Maybe he was too good for me, too, but it felt more like he just didn't like to waste time with small talk when he was working. In a way, being impersonally ignored was a relief after dealing with the petty power plays in the basement.
The smell of the water competed with other odors as we traveled upriver. A tour boat gave off the sweet scent of fresh caramel popcorn, and we passed one pontoon with a gasoline engine.
Twelve years ago, when I'd first started spending more time on the river, most of the boats had fuel motors. But the cost of magic power had come down and Floodmouth had enacted strict regulations. These days, you could row on the Flood without risking carbon monoxide poisoning, though you still had to worry about being run down by someone in a hurry.
Alice was a competent pilot, traveling quickly but giving the other watercraft enough room that our wake wouldn't affect them. With her in charge, I relaxed enough to examine the wards on the boat. Water resistance for the cushions, a bit of extra strength on the hull, and one spell to keep the windscreen clear. It was a far cry from the cheap water taxis my friends and I took home if we stayed out late.
A bit of magic on the deck near the gate took me thirty seconds to work out, mostly because it was fading. There was a triple loop in a wave with a bounding ring to conserve energy, which could alter momentum in the area. Finally, I saw the jagged edge of a Heikatsu plane just above the deck. It was rare to see that triple loop used by mages outside the Iberian peninsula, but I'd never seen a Heikatsu plane incorporated by anyone who hadn't studied in Japan. The result was a neat little anti-slip spell, catching anyone sliding on the deck. I hadn't seen its like before.
Keeping one hand on the rail, I went forward to stand near Alice. "Who did your anti-skid spell?" I asked, gesturing toward the gate.
She glanced over, then turned her attention back to the scatter of paddleboats ignoring the rules of precedence in front of us. "My child's father. What do you think?"
A year ago, I would have wangled an invitation so I could find out his influences. But what would I do with that information now? There were no papers to write at the Federal Bureau of Magic Enforcement. "It's a nice bit of work. Starting to degrade a bit, though, so you might want to have him recast it."
Alice guided the boat to the Coopers Road dock. "Thanks for the warning. He's not out for another three years, but his brother might be able to help." She let the boat glide forward until it just barely kissed the dock, then grabbed a line and hauled on it to keep the boat in place. "Here you are. Call me when you're ready to return and I'll meet you here."
"Thanks, Alice." Bowers leapt to the dock with no effort and strode away.
I climbed up more slowly, hampered by the vest and the bracers that kept sliding down over my hands, making it difficult to hold on to the rail. "Nice to meet you."
Alice swung the gate closed after I'd reached the dock. "Stay safe, now."
Before I could respond, she had zipped away, and Bowers was standing on the sidewalk, waiting impatiently for me to catch up.