Before I could speculate further, a high-pitched wail split my eardrums, the sound cresting before falling silent, only to pierce the silence again less than a second later.
I bolted toward the door. “C’mon, follow me.” Without a word, Ariel was at my heels as I raced full out to Comms, shouldering past my team members. When we reached the room all the walls were lit with split-screen displays, a dizzying array of visual information. Maps, charts, and what looked like a radar display, but my eyes fixed straight on a satellite map of the city. A red dot blinked on the west side.
From behind, Alex burst into the room and sent Ariel and Agent Sue Farris sprawling. Without bothering to apologize, he took a seat on the leather chair at the blond wood table and tapped a staccato rhythm on what looked like a knot. In front of him, a section of table darkened and a virtual keyboard came into view.
“Turn off the siren, Alex!” I bellowed, hands over my ears.
A few keystrokes and seconds later the ear-splitting screech died away. Everyone sighed in relief. “Thanks. Tell me what’s going on,” I commanded.
Alex deleted all the images on the screens except for the map of the city, which he enlarged until it occupied one whole wall. “Magical output. About .95 gigamerlin. Sudden, died off almost immediately. Location is Golden, Colorado.”
“What’s a gigamerlin?” I heard Ariel ask one of the other four agents in the room.
Without turning around, I answered. “A merlin is a unit of magical energy. A gigamerlin is a boatload of magical energy.” I turned toward Alex. “What can that much do?”
He tapped the keyboard and the opposite wall flared into life with some esoteric equations that I couldn’t make heads or tails of, even after ten years. “Please tell me this makes sense to someone.”
“Got it, Kal,” replied Alex. “With this much energy you could fly for six, maybe seven hours or raise four or five Class One demons.”
Great. I hated demons. Class Ones were small and nasty … razor teeth and a bad attitude to match. “Anything else?”
“About three zombies or one ghoul.”
That had the agents and me shifting uncomfortably. Zombies were nasty enough, but at least they were brainless. Ghouls, however, were like zombies with free will and extraordinary physical abilities. Nasty, smart and always hungry. Three guesses on what they liked to eat and the first two don’t count.
“Okay, folks, put on your thinking caps,” I announced. “We have a magician, theoretically the one that raised those zombies last month. Why is he doing so now? And in broad daylight?” I checked my watch. “It isn’t even lunch and we have a crisis on our hands, so go ahead, hit me with your best shot.” Agents Jeff Cresswell and Dom Rigione stared at the ground, lost in thought while Agents Sue Farris and Bryan Manus just looked uncomfortable. “Anyone?”
Nothing.
“Great. Okay, here’s the plan: Bryan and Dom, since you both look like you’re constipated, go ahead and check it out. Arm yourself for war. Wear your Jackets and carry federal badges, Homeland Security or ICE—I don’t care which—but get me some answers.” Both nodded and got gone.
I turned back to the map. “Alex, you got the location pinpointed?”
“Got it, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Send it to Bryan’s RediPad and make sure they keep in touch at all times.”
“Kal, why don’t you go?” BB’s voice carried mild concern.
I turned around to face the other wall, lit with a floor to ceiling display of my boss, big enough to see every pore and follicle. Kinda gross, really. “Hiya, BB, I’m taking the Pea to the Denver Federal Building to dig up more intel on the Organ Donor case.”
His watery gray eyes bored into mine. Up close I could see that the whites were slightly tinged with yellow. “Why? What have you found?”
I related my suspicions about what Ariel and I had found in the Organ Donor files and watched BB’s eyes grow wide behind his wire rims.
“That’s … quite something, Kal. All right, you go ahead. How do you want to proceed?”
I’d been working on the answer to that question for a while now. “The last victim, Krouse, has a thin jacket and no relatives. I can have Alex give him a federal sheet as an undercover agent with the ATF investigating gun running into L.A. and that will allow me to get close to the case—me being his case officer and all.”
BB’s lips thinned almost to invisibility as he thought about it. “All right,” he said finally, looking as if he had swallowed a lemon, peel and all. “Go to it. I’ll give Director Marsh at the ATF the heads up.”
“Thanks, BB, I appreciate it.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “You might want to clue in FBI Director Stilson. If my read on Special Agent Briegan is accurate, he’ll call to complain soon enough.”
“Do you expect trouble?” BB hated inter-agency pissing matches, but on the plus side, our stream was stronger and went farther.
It was my turn to thin my lips. “I always expect it.”
He sighed. “Very well. Take Agent McMillan with you. Have Alex give her a badge and ID.”
“Awww, boss,” I whined. Taking her with me really put the rusty nails in my Cheerios.
For a fraction of a second his lips twitched. “You heard me.” The screen blanked.
Damn it.
“Okay, Alex, you heard the boss. Let’s do it up right.”
Ten minutes later Ariel and I were speeding down Highway 70 to I-25, where we would head south to the Denver offices of the FBI—just a hop, skip and jump from 6 flags Elitch Gardens.
I parked the car—not my Honda, but a shiny black Crown Vic with more power than a whole herd of Hondas and twice as smooth. If it hadn’t been as big as my first apartment at the University of Nebraska and ugly as sin, I would’ve been in hog heaven.
Exiting the black beast, I noted that my Green Pea was still fuming. Alex had handed her an ATF ID that read ‘Gertrude Finger.’ If I hadn’t been there, she probably would’ve throttled the poor kid.
“I don’t understand!” he’d cried. “That wasn’t the name I put in the computer, honest!” He’d looked so heartbroken I did the only thing I could do—laugh my ass off. If my suspicions were correct, Ghost had a lot more of a sense of humor than I’d given him credit for.
“Really, Kal! It’s not my fault!” He started to back away from Ariel, who was staring at him and grinding her teeth. If looks could kill, he would’ve been a red smear on linoleum.
“Did you set me up?” demanded Ms. Finger as she rounded the Vic.
“Oh, hell no,” I replied. “You would have had a worse name, if it was up to me.”
That didn’t earn me any love, just a glare and a ‘harumph’ of rage. Really, it could have been worse. My trainer in the Bureau stuck me with the name ‘Phil Ashio’ as a cover identity with the NSA. Once I got over it I actually saw the humor.
“Ease up, Gertrude,” I admonished as I opened the Vic’s trunk. “We have to shed most of our weapons. Don’t want to explain to the FBI why we are walking arsenals.” Quickly I divested two punch knives, a garrote, a .45 ACP, three shurikens (silver plated), and my Bowie knife.
“Where the hell did you get that monster and where did you hide it?” Ariel breathed as the Bowie thunked into the trunk. Nearly half a centimeter thick and fourteen inches long, it almost qualified as a sword.
“A gift from my dad, custom made. As to where I keep it … well, that’s personal,” I answered with a grin. Actually, I had a sheath strapped to my back, the knife running parallel to my spine, hilt down. Got the idea from Crocodile Dundee. Bless you, Paul Hogan.
She harrumphed and unloaded her own store of weapons. “I feel kinda naked now,” she remarked as the last throwing knife landed on the pile of sharp edged lethality.
I nodded. “I know, let’s get this over with. Remember, we’re looking for personal notes not put into the system. Don’t disregard anything.”
“Right.”
Entering the four-story FBI building encased in 2,010 bulletproof glass panels proved to be the easiest part. Inside, even after showing our IDs, we were disarmed (my Lahti raised a few eyebrows and garnered a cash offer) and made to walk through a metal detector. At least security at the FBI building was much more pleasant than dealing with the TSA at Denver International Airport.
We walked to a bank of elevators and pushed the UP button. “How did the Bureau know about that magical energy?” Ariel whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“We’re not in a spy movie. You can speak in normally,” I countered, much amused.
Her cheeks reddened slightly. “Okay, but how did we sense … whatdoyoucallit … merlins? ... from across town?”
“The Bureau has sensors the size of a quarter on every cell tower in every major city in the U.S. of A.” The doors opened and we entered, pushing the button for the fourth floor. “As long as a magician casts a spell over 100 Megamerlin above ground, we can get a read on it.”
“How much is a Megamerlin?”
I considered a bit. “Enough to remotely start a car, or cast a disorienting spell.”
“So 100 Megamerlin …”
“Can kill,” I finished. For a moment an idea floated to the surface of my mind but sank almost immediately.
“Do most magicians and supernatural creatures know about the Bureau?”
“Yeah. We’re the bogeymen to the Supernatural community.”
“How do they know?” she asked.
I threw her a level stare. “We don’t hide ourselves from the World Under. We have to rely on the fear of the Bureau to help keep the Supernatural population in check. I’m plenty okay with not killing them as long they behave themselves, but the second they cross the line, they’re mine!” Even to me my voice was a little bitter. I coughed to cover my embarrassment.
“ ‘Ours’, you mean, right?”
“What?”
“If they step out of line, there’re ours, right?”
I blinked a few times, pretending puzzlement. “Yes of course. Why?”
She wasn’t fooled, but she shook her head, letting it go. The elevator pinged and the doors opened, revealing a tall, thin man wearing a thousand dollar dark gray suit. He had a ridiculously cleft chin and immaculately coiffed hair.
“You must be D.P. Roberts,” he drawled, holding out a finely manicured hand as we exited. His eyes glittered like shards of glass in moonlight; they threw out sparks as he measured me with equal parts malice and amusement.
“Yes,” I acknowledged, taking his soft hand in mine. I bet he paid a hefty sum every month for mani pedis. “You must be Special Agent Briegan, BAU.” Instead of shaking his hand, I gave it a little squeeze. I’d read his file. He’d played lacrosse at Baylor back in the day, but I’d been a red-shirt freshman wide receiver for the Huskers when they were champions; I had a good thirty pounds on him. His eyes widened in surprise and a little pain. Apparently his time at the FBI hadn’t included any regular physical activity.
“Good to meet you,” he gritted, keeping his sarky little smile in place, though it trembled around the edges. With the chest thumping done, I let go and he immediately turned to Ariel. “Agent Finger, a pleasure.” This time his hand was extended a bit more cautiously, but Ariel dimpled at him and tossed out a toothy smile that would’ve done credit to a Great White. It must have touched a familiar nerve because he gave her one that was every bit as toothy and predatory. The mating ritual of the wild Fed: keep your hands and feet away from the water at all times.
I knew then what kind of man we faced. Most people who worked in law enforcement are good and hardworking—people who want to bring a modicum of order to the chaos of our existence. Like me, they are bulwarks against which the waves of the venal and evil rage. They hold fast and shelter those who rely on them. But Briegan, he was cut from different material, a polyester parasite. Men and women like him have always been there asking the same questions over and over again. Who do I have to screw over to get ahead? What must I do so I can be more powerful? Yet, no matter how many times they reach a new plateau of might, they are never satisfied. Like sharks questing eternally for food.
My palms itched with the need to lash out at this man, but I trampled the impulse ruthlessly, no matter how fulfilling it would be. There were more important things at stake than my petty pet peeves. People needed me, people I could save by exerting a modicum of self-control.
I interrupted him before he could summon up a trite and charming line. “Special Agent Briegan, Agent Finger and I would like to see what you have on the Organ Donor before we claim our man’s body, if you don’t mind.”
His smile faltered, then settled into something slightly contemptuous. Nodding to Ariel, he started down a long, blue-carpeted hall with us at his heels. “I didn’t know the ATF had a man undercover in Denver,” he shot over his shoulder. “No offense, but your man Krouse looked more like the leg breaker he posed as than the agent he was.”
“None taken,” I replied neutrally. “But that’s the point, not to look like an agent. And as for what he was doing in Denver, I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at this time.” His reply was a small snort.
Briegan stopped at a doorway and motioned for us to enter. A rectangular room, one long glass wall that gave an excellent view of the Rockies and the clouds above them. A dark wood table, also rectangular, dominated the space, surrounded by an even dozen leather chairs. Other than that, the room was empty, sterile.
“Okay, Kal, I’m here,” Alex said, voice squeaky and a bit tinny from the earwigs planted deep in our auditory canals.
I tapped the gold band on my right ring finger. In the setting lay a black sapphire that was actually a powerful microphone/ transmitter. Alex would be able to hear everything and assist with Briegan if necessary.
“There are a few questions I’d like to ask you, Agent Roberts.” Briegan closed the door behind him.
“Kal, Sue and Dom just reported in,” Alex squeaked. “The burst of magical energy we detected came from a cemetery. Seems someone stole a body from a chapel right before the viewing.” Since normal humans can’t feel magical energy unless it’s directed at them, it was easy to assume that a magician entered the parlor, animated the corpse, and got out without anyone being the wiser. Pretty easy to steal a body if it walks out with you. “The deceased was one Jacob Mueller, former Olympic wrestler.”
Olympic wrestler?
“Currently we are not at liberty to answer those questions,” I said tersely. Sometimes the vaguest answers are the safest.
“Listen—” Briegan began, voice cold and intense.
“We were told you’d cooperate, Special Agent Briegan,” Ariel interrupted with equal chill.
“Who would promise that the FBI would give the ATF information on an ongoing investigation?”
“Taking care of it.”
My smile was genuine. “Our director assured us that it would be no issue, Special Agent Briegan.”
“It may not be an issue for him, but it is for me.”
I pretended confusion. “Hmm … it was assumed your director would clear it.”
He folded his arms and out of the corner of my eye I saw Ariel frown at him. Looked like the shine was wearing off Special Agent Briegan for the Pea. Good for her; that meant she was a halfway decent judge of character. “You know what they say about assuming, don’t you, Agent Roberts.”
“Taken care of, Kal.”
As if on cue, Briegan’s cell rang and he answered, a look of annoyance flitting across his face. “Yes?” His spine stiffened. “Yes sir, they’re here. But … yes. Yes, sir, goodbye, sir.” Looking up from his phone, he opened his mouth once or twice before snapping it shut and, with a very stiff spine, tramped out of the room.
“Gosh, he looks pissed.” Ariel sounded amused.
“I think his director just jostled the stick up his ass.”
Alex chuckled softly in my ear.
Ariel’s grin matched mine. “More like a Sequoia than a stick.”
We shared a laugh and sat.
“Alex, no one saw the magician or the dead guy leaving the parlor?”
“No one. Sorry, but I think the bad guys were long gone by the time we arrived on scene.”
“Did they find out why the magician risked a daylight spell casting of such magnitude, and above ground at that?”
Ariel answered. “The corpse was of a former Olympic Wrestler. If he’s making a zombie, he’s making a strong one.”
“With the magnitude of magical energy we detected, Agent McMillan, it would most likely be a ghoul. Much stronger and faster than a zombie. They also have some free will and the intelligence to use it.” For some reason he sounded a little miffed. I guess Ghost wasn’t the only one who disliked the Green Pea. “An Olympic wrestler turned ghoul would be a fearsome thing,” he concluded.
“Is this the same magician who raised the zombies Dom and I took out a while ago?”
“Most likely, Kal, considering that raising the dead is a very rare skill. Such a spell Shape is difficult to create and cast.”
Oh, my aching gut. “A vampire and a zombie raiser slash serial killer? Just freaking great.”
“Sounds like a nightmare walking.”
Before I could reply, the door opened and Special Agent Stick-up-the-Butt came in carrying a file box. “Here you go,” he said stiffly, dropping it with a loud thud onto the table.
Without preamble Ariel and I dove in, looking for any scrap of information that might aid in the investigation.
“Agent Roberts,” began Briegan, “you don’t dress like an agent, what with the polo shirt and khakis. And are those penny loafers?” He was trying to bait me, a dig after the failed attempt at a petty power play.
“I’m slumming,” I replied, not bothering to look up. I could feel the disapproval radiating from him. The urge to snap at him became almost overpowering, but once again I controlled myself. Behaving like an adult could be frustrating.
I don’t like that guy. Distain dripped from the earwig.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, holding up a part of an autopsy report. Nothing I’d seen so far proved to be of any use. Everything in the box had already been translated into an electronic medium and pirated by Ghost.
“Agent Briegan,” Ariel began, “I—”
“Special Agent,” came the quick response.
“What?”
“It’s ‘Special Agent Briegan,’ Agent Finger.” Gone was any sort of playful predatory smile. I guess the bloom was off the rose for the Special Agent.
Ariel didn’t miss a beat, although the tension around her eyes betrayed anger. “Right.” A few seconds later. “What kind of profile do you have on the Organ Donor?”
Briegan pursed his lips. “White male, between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, physically powerful and highly intelligent. Some medical training. Loner, keeps to himself. Very meticulous.”
Sounded like almost every profile I’d ever heard of. I pulled a few more pieces of paper … nothing. A few more minutes and I concluded that there was nothing new to be had here.
“Nothing of use, Finger,” I announced. “Let’s go.”
“What are you looking for?” Briegan asked, doing his best to loom over us. He needed more looming practice.
“Just a handle on the Donor.” I picked up the box and thrust it back into his arms. “Nothing here helps.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Ariel tossed one last piece of paper into the box in Briegan’s arms, gave him a cheeky smile and exited without a word.
His words followed into the hall. “Hey, you find anything, you’re obligated to let me know immediately! You hear me?”
I shook my head. “Sure will.” My voice dripped insincerity. “Thank you, Special Agent.” We got to the elevator and I pushed the down button.
“What a douchebag, Kal.”
Ariel’s laughter rang down the hallway as the elevator doors opened for us.
The drive back to the office was uneventful except for one thing.
“Kal, we got another big spike on the sensors.” I could hear the blah blah blah of the siren in the background. “You want me to send Dom and Bryan out again?”
I said an unkind word that would’ve shocked my mother had she heard it. “Yeah, might as well. Let me know if they find anything.”
“You got it.”
“How long have you been a team leader?” Ariel asked, puzzled.
My eyebrows shot up. That question came out of nowhere. “I’ve been the Epsilon Team Leader for six years now. A lot of faces have changed, but the game remains the same.” A few seconds passed. “I’ll have the job until I die or someone better comes along.”
“So BB trusts you?”
I nodded. “And I trust him. So does the President. In fact, I haven’t met a President who didn’t trust him.”
“You’ve met the President?” For some reason, I was disappointed in the awe in her voice.
“The BSI Director and his three most senior field agents are all present when a new President is read in on our existence and the existence of the World Under.”
“And how do they take it?”
“Well, I’ve only met two Presidents, but usually they laugh their ass off until they get proof. Then they look like they’re going to throw up.”
“Proof?”
“It isn’t that hard to produce some hocus-pocus.”
“Who does the hocus-pocusing?”
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, her face a study in neutral.
“What’s with the twenty questions?”
She tossed over an innocent look, but something still struck me as off. “I just want to know how things work. Like how come there are only fifty of you at a time.”
My lips thinned and I bit back a few choice words. “Last answer for the night, hotshot. There are only fifty of us because stuff like this, the World Under interfering with the really real world, doesn’t happen as often as you’d think. Fifty agents, fifty support staff. That’s all that’s needed, how it has always been done.”
By the time we made it back to the office, Bryan and Dom checked in with Alex.
“Same thing as before, but in Wheat Ridge this time,” he reported. “Body of a forty-year-old bodybuilder went missing.”
Ariel said, “That would make one bad-ass ghoul.”
I snorted. “Like a former Olympic wrestler is a pushover? The worst thing about a ghoul besides its strength is its ability to unhinge its jaw and take really large chunks out of its victims.”
She made a face. “Well, that just put me off my feed for about … forever.”
The thought of multiple ghouls certainly didn’t give me the warm fuzzies, considering that in order to kill one you either had to hammer it into jelly, cut it literally to pieces or slice its head off—which is hard to do because they have a series of bony plates that ring the neck. In my time with the Bureau I’ve faced two ghouls, and both times I was happy to have backup. They’re very good ambush predators.
BweeeEEEEE … BweeeEEEEE!
“Oh, crap …” I muttered and headed back toward Comms. This time Alex beat me to the punch.
“Another one, same intensity,” he yelled over the alarm. “In Lakewood.” He killed the alarm just as the rest of the team hurried in.
“Three ghouls, really?” Ariel sounded scared. She’d be more scared if she actually met one. I hoped she’d never have that pleasure.
Dom, a short, muscular, pug-faced Italian who had more bristly black hair than a Wookie, chimed in. “Let me guess, boss. You want Bryan and me to go check it out.” He sounded less than enthused.
I shook my head. “No, Sue and Jeff can do it this time. I want you two to help Alex with the Organ Donor thing. I need to find how many more gems this pinhead has stolen.”
Sue, a compact blonde who looked better from the back than front, smiled. On most people, it would’ve been pleasant, but on her it was just plain scary. Despite her frightening features and air of over all bad-assness, she was as dependable and efficient as they come. “Thank god,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper, thanks to an Amphisbaena (a kind of serpent with a head at each end) attack a year ago. “I get tired of hanging around with the fairy princess here.”
That got a chuckle from all round. Dom had no problem with his sexuality and openly shared his conquests with anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were not the only ones who always got their man.
“You’re just jealous that I don’t share all this magnificence with you,” he replied, posing dramatically. That earned a few more laughs.
I’m a big fan of humor, but it wasn’t the time. “Pipe down you louts and get busy. This thing stinks to high heaven.” A moment’s pause. “We got a Renfield who could be a magician raising ghouls, or a Renfield and a magician causing us grief. Either way we have to be on a war footing. Everyone wear your Kevlar and Faraday jackets from now on in case things get hairy.” I tapped Alex on the shoulder. “Set the Pea up with a Faraday jacket, too.”
Ariel looked confused. “What’s a Faraday jacket?”
Alex fielded this one. “It’s like a flak jacket made of cloth and silver mesh. Designed by Michael Faraday, possibly the greatest magician of the nineteenth century, it absorbs magical energy. It won’t totally absorb a really strong spell, but it’ll negate smaller ones, giving an agent time to react. The only downside is, the more magic it absorbs, the hotter it becomes, which is why the fabric is highly heat-resistant. Silver is great for storing energy, but not without consequences. Gold and platinum can hold much, much more.”
“What about—”
Enough was enough. “We don’t need a history lesson here, we need results. Get Jackets for everyone, including Pat.” Rule number one in this job: you can never be too careful. While in charge I was going to do my damndest to keep everyone alive. After donning their jackets, Sue and Bryan left.
Surprisingly, BB didn’t put in an appearance. Maybe he was in the middle of some inter-agency politicking. Or butt-kissing, which amounts to the same thing.
For some reason everyone was slow to move. I snarled, “What are you guys waiting for? Applause? Get to work!” That had them stepping and fetching. With nothing left to do but wait, I turned to Ariel. “Green Pea, come with me.”
Back in my office, we began to pile though the files once again.
“What are we looking for?” Ariel sounded as frustrated as I felt.
“Something … damn, anything we might’ve missed.” I shook my head. “There’s always something. No such thing as a perfect murder and there’s always a pattern. We just have to find it.” However passionate my feelings on the matter, the file failed to yield any new information, anything that might say ‘Lookee here, X marks the spot,’ and ‘Here Be Serial Killers.’
After an hour of fruitless searching I was ready to chew the walls.
There came a tap-tap-tapping on my office door. Too wound up for the usual joke, I yelled, “Come in.”
When Alex entered, I knew something had gone pear-shaped and Ariel tensed.
A familiar feeling entered my gut. By the pricking of my thumbs … “Who?” I rasped.
Without a word he handed me a smart phone, which I accepted as if it were poisonous. Putting the cell to my ear, I licked my lips and said, “Report.”
“Boss, it’s Sue. Jeff’s dead.” Farris’s voice was thick, like she was choking on motor oil. “It was a trap.”
… Something wicked this way comes.
“What happened?” I sounded calm, but inside something was building.
“We got to the parlor. It was empty, at least we thought it was. Next thing we knew a disorientation spell hit us, but the jackets shrugged it off. Then the ghoul came out of the casket. Jeff got his arm ripped off before I could kill the thing with my sword.” Most agents kept short swords, twenty-one inches of folded-steel death; they were perfect for dealing with hard-to-kill Supernaturals.
My throat tried to close, but I willed it open. “You okay?”
“I got knocked sideways a bit, but, yeah, I’m okay.”
“I’m sending Dom and Bryan to help clean up. Take care of the body and they’ll be there soon.”
“Right, boss. I’m … I’m sorry.” I’d never heard Sue cry and the sound of her hitching voice tore at my insides.
“Keep your ‘sorrys’ and stay alive,” I ground out tonelessly. I turned to Alex. “You know what to do.” He nodded and left, eyes shiny with unshed tears.
“Kal—” Ariel began.
“You know,” I breathed, cutting her off and leaning back in my chair, my thoughts becoming sluggish as an old familiar feeling began to boil in my blood. “Jeff fought the Supernaturals like he was born to the job. He seemed to get off on it.” Thicker and thicker, my throat started strangling my words. “When he first came here, he was possibly the most arrogant SOB I’d ever met. Acted like he knew everything about the World Under and how to deal with it. Pretty damn cocky for a two-year man.”
Moisture bled from the corner of my eyes and I angrily wiped it away. “You know what a Myling is? No? It’s a ghost of an unbaptized child, usually killed by violence. The child’s soul is flung from its body at the moment of death as it cries out for its loved ones. It’s flung so far that it becomes lost, which is not a big surprise ’cause it’s just a kid. When someone happens to draw near to one, it latches on like a tick and demands to be taken to a cemetery, the only place it can go to rest in peace. The problem is, the nearer you get to the cemetery, the heavier the Myling becomes, until the victim can’t move. Then the Myling transforms into a spirit of vengeance and kills the victim.
“I don’t think that is what the Myling really wants to do, though. I think that the closer it gets to a cemetery, the weight of its pain and memories starts to manifest as a physical thing and the frustration of not being able to proceed to its rest drives it crazy.
“We had just taken out a Hob that had gone postal in Bettendorf, Iowa. In case you need a refresher, a Hob is a household spirit that helps around the house. A relative of the Brownie. We had stationed our team in an abandoned gas station and were waiting for the next set of supernatural events to occur. A week after we expelled the Hob, the body of a fifty-year-old mail carrier was found on Route 33, crushed to death. That night, we went to investigate, loaded for bear. I figured it could be a troll, in which case we had a fight on our hands.
“At the site of the carrier’s death, Jeff got jumped immediately by what looked like a ghostly Pekingese, demanding, in a high pitched whisper, to be taken to a cemetery. We all laughed, fit to bust our sides because we knew what it was. Of all the ghosties out there, Mylings are the easiest for a team to deal with. So we bundled Jeff in the car, checked the navi system and made our way to the nearest cemetery.”
A big breath. My throat hurt, but not from talking. The muscles at the corners of my jaw ached.
“For five miles Jeff pissed and moaned constantly. You’d have thought that it was my fault he had a spook on his back. By the time we were a few hundred yards away from the cemetery gates he was pressed heavily into the back seat. At fifty yards the back end of the car was starting to drag on the ground, spitting sparks, so we stopped and hauled him out. At this point the Myling, which was now the size of a St. Bernard, must have weighed about six hundred pounds. All this time Jeff cussed up a blue streak, and that little ghost held on like a limpet, urging him on, to go faster. Every few seconds it would say ‘are we there yet?’ ” Laughter like a bubbling black cauldron of hate erupted from my mouth, spewing against Ariel’s ears hard enough to make her wince. If I could have stopped, I would have, but an old familiar rage burning inside me forced itself out with each heave of my lungs.
While the fury mounted, I stared at the polished desktop and continued. “The whole team started carrying him so the Myling wouldn’t transform into a malevolent spirit and when we reached the graveyard (by that time it felt like we were hauling a Greyhound bus), the thing went *poof* … gone.”
A deep breath that hurt my lungs. “We laughed and teased him unmercifully, but he took it like an adult … like part of the team. He wasn’t so cocky after that.”
I brought eyes dead as Disco to stare at Ariel’s soft brown ones. She wasn’t a bad kid. She listened and followed orders pretty well, so she had a chance at living longer than the average Tsetse fly. For some reason tears coursed down her face but for the life of me I couldn’t understand why.
My chest hurt. “Go,” I rasped.
“Kal, I—”
“Go. Now.” Was that my voice? It sounded so harsh, more like a growl. A red haze seemed to edge my vision.
Ariel got gone.
I stood, knuckles resting on the beautiful polished wood of my desk.
Tap. Flesh and wood coming together softly.
Damn it, Jeff, why?
Tap, tap. A little harder, my blood surging hotter.
Who did this to you?
Thock thock. Even harder.
My fault. I should have guessed something like this would happen.
Thud thud. Knuckles starting to hurt. I didn’t care.
My Fault. I should have sent more agents.
Thump! Thump! A coppery smell, one I knew so well.
MY FAULT!
I didn’t stop, even though my hands screamed and red drops sprayed across the room. It didn’t hurt, not compared to the screaming of my heart. Wood shattered, and I didn’t care, the only thing that mattered was the rage coursing through my soul. Another death, one more in a long line of men and women who tried so hard to stem the flood of horror caused by Supernaturals. Monsters like Iku Turso, who some think of as Cthulu. And that’s where it all started, nearly twenty years ago on a small island off the coast of Finland.
My mind wandered away from that old, gangrenous wound, still sore and weeping its ichor into my life. Better to think on recent tragedies, better to think on the death of a man who had belonged to a brotherhood of which I was proud, so proud, to be a part of. God, my hands hurt so much but it didn’t matter because I threw everything against the walls, oddly irritated that there was no glass in my office to shatter. I did my best to break everything I touched and my Mac did a good job of smashing through drywall.
A roar erupted from my throat, a berserker wail of pain and rage that everyone must have heard. But I didn’t care, I just wanted to throw things and scream and scream and scream. This rage, this old friend, burned like acid in my veins, but it felt so good to let the beast out to eat its fill of violence. I could have controlled it, sent it back to the dark corners of my mind where it could be locked away safely, but a perverse part of me enjoyed the carnage I wreaked when it manifested.
Eventually I ran out of things to throw. My office wasn’t that big so I just stood there panting, blood streaming from the burst skin of my knuckles, more scars to join others. Personal mementos of colleagues lost writ large on my skin.
The only sound left was my labored breathing and I wished I could sit but my chair studded the wall in two pieces, my smart phone next to it like a period at the end of my self-indulgent tantrum. The only unbroken thing in the room was the toy Winnebago the Brownies lived in. But I had probably scared them so much they were halfway to Hoboken.
“Kal?” Alex tentatively inquired from beyond the door, sounding afraid. Why would he be afraid? He was one of the brotherhood.
I tried to make my voice work, but it felt broken, useless.
“Kal?” The door opened a fraction, partially blocked by shattered mahogany. A sharp nose poked in, followed by a geeky face. “Kal?”
Somehow I found the right gear for my throat and managed to clutch-start it. “Nevermore …” Damn, I sounded terrible. Like a saw blade against rotten wood.
A weak smile from our resident magician. “I brought Band- Aids—”
“Step aside, Alex.” Pat barged in like a one-woman phalanx, gently shouldering the magician aside. In one muscular hand she carried a first aid kit. Kicking aside the remnants of my desk, she finally reached my side. “God, you screwed the pooch again,” she remarked sternly.
I nodded dumbly.
“Alex, hon,” Pat called over her shoulder as she took my hands in hers. “Clear an office. He’ll need someplace to park his carcass soon. And call someone about this mess.”
“On it, Pat,” he blurted, practically running away. Through the door I caught of glimpse of Ariel as she discreetly peeked in. She looked horrified.
“Go away, honey.” Pat’s voice could have frozen the sun. “I got this.” Ariel performed a credible disappearing act.
Hard hands began cleaning my knuckles with alcohol from the kit. Strangely enough, I didn’t feel it. “You have to stop doing this, Kalevi.” Her warm voice carried an ocean of concern.
I started. “Only my parents call me that.”
“Stand still, you big oaf.” A slather of antibacterial cream. “I’ll call you what I damn well please. I swear, your hands are more scar than skin. Idiot.”
What could I say, she was right.
“These fits of yours are getting worse, Kalevi. Usually you’d just punch a wall or two, maybe throw a chair. I’ve seen some pretty nasty stuff in Iraq, but this takes the taco.”
“You were in the armed forces?”
“Marines.”
“How come I didn’t know that?” I usually know everything about everyone I work with. Gives me greater odds at keeping them alive.
“My file is sealed, dimwit. The only thing you have access to is what happened after I left the Corps.” She started wrapping my hands in gauze.
For some reason that bothered me. “I should still know these things.”
“God, you’re an idiot. But we love you anyway.”