Some ten minutes later, Occam pulled out behind my vehicle and I led the way back into town and to HQ.
• • •
Occam passed the sugar for my tea. “I expected to smell blood on silver,” he said, “but the mesh pens weren’t silver-plated. They could get away. Why don’t they?”
“Maybe it’s all that blood in the place. Maybe they’ve all seen it and are scared. Maybe they’re all weak from blood loss.” I’d seen a starved vamp once and it was pitiful. Until she got free and came after me. “Or maybe their loved-ones are in danger and that keeps them from howling to the winds about the torture room.”
“Are you sure it’s a torture room?” Rick asked.
“No. I ain’t sure about nothin’,” I said. “Except there’s blood, at least three or four gallons of it, and not a drop in a body. That I know for sure.”
Over a cell connection, from the airport, Tandy said, “I should have been with you. I might have picked up something from the werewolf on the surface. Or his humans.”
“More likely you would have gotten overwhelmed by Occam and me,” I said, thinking about my exhaustion and the bad feel of the lab and the disembodied blood.
“Proximity and all that,” Occam added, agreeing.
Rick said, “There’s no point in stressing any of your gifts. So why would werewolves stay in a cage they could tear through in a heartbeat?”
“I don’t get it,” Occam snarled. “I got away from my cage the first second I could. Took me twenty years, but I did it.”
I carefully didn’t look at Occam. The werecat never talked in detail about his years in captivity or his escape. Just unadorned statements of basic fact. There were rumors. There was scuttlebutt. There had to be files stored somewhere on Occam and the details of his background. But nothing was verified. I realized I knew next to nothing about Occam. How was I supposed to date him if I didn’t know anything about him? Unless that was the purpose of dating, to learn.
I looked down at my hands, one holding a slice of pizza, the other gripping a mug handle. My own experience had similar captivity overtones, and I too had gotten away the first moment I could, yet not all my sisters wanted freedom. I said, “They might want to stay, like a caged bird not wanting to fly into the wild. Maybe they feel safer there. Maybe to them it isn’t a prison after all.” I took a sip of tea, feeling all sorts of unnamed things flowing through me. “Maybe they’ve been tamed, like a dog to the hand. Maybe they’re being given vampire blood to drink and it does something to them. Maybe having something done to their genes, research, like the two employees, Candace and Mary, said. Or maybe it’s just something that makes the weres believe they have to or want to stay.” Like my sister Priss. Like Esther. But not like Mud.
Occam said softly, “Like you, thinking about going back into your cage.”
A protest flashed through me. But until today, he had a point. “Programming can be hardwired into a body,” I said, not looking up. “It’s something that has to be fought, day in and day out, forever. Like an addiction one hates, has defeated, yet still has to battle.” I took a bite of pizza and chewed. It tasted spoiled, as if the pepperoni had gone bad. I swallowed and set the remaining slice down on the paper plate in front of me.
“We’re sorry, Nell,” Tandy said, his voice tinny over the cellular connection, maybe picking up on my emotions, despite the distance between us.
“No,” I said. “You aren’t sorry. You all seem to think you need to push and prod and remind me constantly what I was and what I came from.” Tandy let out a sharp breath, startled. A barb of anger speared up in me, hot and sharp. I was mad, not spitting mad, or throwing-things mad, but some other kind of mad, and I was holding it in like a . . . like a good churchwoman?
At that thought the anger burned hotter for a moment, struggling to blaze free. My anger would never be a churchwoman’s anger, something chaste and controlled, or pot-throwing mad. My very own anger was different from all others I knew. Because when I stood up for myself, people died and were fed into the earth. I was a killer with too little control. I didn’t get to let loose and howl.
I was both a victim of my past and a victimizer through my gift. That thought stopped me.
Turning my lips in and back out, thinking, feeling the winter-chapped skin chafing on itself, I nodded. Yeah. I had good reasons for not getting mad when others might, not fighting back or arguing as a human might. Because I knew how easy it was to lose myself to the bloodlust. So very, very easy. And there was all that blood on DNAKeys’ compound. I was overreacting because I wanted—no—because Soulwood wanted that blood.
I said, “I want you all to stop pushing me. I have a right to work through things on my own terms, in my own time.” I lifted my chin, knowing it was a confrontational gesture. “And if you don’t grant me that time and space, I’m gonna get . . .” Furious? “. . . unhappy. I don’t like who I become when I’m in a bad mood. I don’t think you will like me in a bad mood.” I looked up at Rick, who had an inkling just how dangerous I could be. “Understood?”
Rick inclined his head. Occam was watching us, his eyes shifting back and forth.
Softly, Tandy asked, “When you’re in a bad mood, is Soulwood in a bad mood?”
Sometimes Tandy was too dang discerning. I stood. “You all going in to DNAKeys’ compound and checking out that blood or not?”
“We’re going in,” Rick said softly. “You have blood on-site. We have two reports of prisoners on-site. The county tactical team is on the way. I want Nell, Occam, T. Laine. Vests. Service weapons only. SWAT will carry the big guns. Let’s ride.”
• • •
We took Unit Eighteen’s van to the site, up the mountain and then down into the holler, riding the bumper of the county SWAT team, moving fast so DNAKeys’ security cameras wouldn’t have time to warn the employees. We flew past the site where I’d parked recently. Then the drive where we’d parked before, then an empty parking lot. Closer to the lights of DNAKeys. The pavement developed speed bumps that Unit Eighteen’s van was not equipped to handle. I held on to the grab handles, what the others called the “oh, shit” handles, feeling the van roof brush my head on one particularly high-speed bump.
And then the van doors slid open and things got confused.
The guards at the front of the compound were taken out by SWAT. The werewolf was shot with a beanbag that knocked him down. His handler was hit too. No blood. Thankfully, no blood.
The door went down, no match for the battering ram wielded by the team.
Occam muttered, “Dumb-asses.”
It took a moment, but then I realized the steel door had been held in place with wood strips. I might never use the word dumb-ass, but I had to agree it was poor security. Someone screamed, “Flashbang!” Instantly a flashbang went off inside. Light and noise and smoke. Then another. And a third. Smoke bombs filled the entrance with gray-white smoke.
Then I was inside. Fighting my way through the low light and the smoke. As probationary agent I was near the back of the personnel entering the building. The SWAT guy pulling the six position pushed me with his weapon. Probably not standard behavior, but then I wasn’t standard-issue either. I sped up and nearly ran into the SWAT woman in front of me. The team cleared the first floor. I followed the woman and tried to take it all in, but it was a jumble of smoke and flashbangs and lights going off and coming on and DNAKeys’ employees screaming. That was the worst.
Vampires screaming. That awful, high-pitched wail of fear and death.
Wolves snarling. Grindylows jumping and cutting, steel claws slashing. Blood, scarlet splashing. But my bloodlust was muted by the speed and violence.
A witch throwing defensive spells that made my teeth and the roots in my belly hurt, until T. Laine’s null weapon took her down.
Wolves howling in fear and grief. Stairs leading up and down.
What might have been a juvenile gwyllgi, raging in his cage. Another were-creature I couldn’t identify.
Laboratories. Green color scheme. Machines and machine noise.
Storage rooms. Dull gray. Boxes. Old, dusty jars containing liquid and fetal humans and creatures with genetic abnormalities and horrible deformities, like things confiscated from a traveling carnival of the fifties and sixties. Newer jars full of sea creatures, starfish, jellyfish, small sharks. Strange things. Strange creatures.
Offices, pale stone color scheme. Desks. Computers.
Then the laboratory on the lowest level. And the glass doors. And the blood inside. In bags. Like a blood bank.
In bags.
Blood bank.
For research.
A vampire wearing a lab coat looked at me and demanded, “Call Ming of Glass. Call her. Now!”
“Ming?” I whispered, looking around, taking in everything. The lack of caged were-creatures. The lack of vampires in silver cuffs. Blood in the refrigerator in plastic bags. Gallons of it. No torture room. Just a blood bank. I was an idiot. I had messed up badly. The fact that Soul and Rick had pushed for this raid didn’t make that knowledge any better.
• • •
Rick and the PsyLED team met back at the entrance and the broken door frame. “The paras are on the DNAKeys compound willingly,” he said, his tone wooden. “They are cooperative and well-paid test subjects or are employed here in research projects. And the lab has all its animal research paperwork up-to-date. Everything here is legal and monitored by the proper authorities.”
He didn’t look at me as he continued. “This was a waste of time and resources. You all have your orders for the rest of the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Shoulders hunched, I went to the van and took a seat in the back. I was immeasurably happy that Rick hadn’t fired me on the spot.
• • •
Much later, I drove to the senator’s place on the river, stopping by Starbucks just before it closed, where I picked up a leftover banana bread loaf, a carton of coffee, and a short stack of foam cups. It was a probie move, meant to create a warm and fuzzy feeling in the agents already on duty. I didn’t have to do it. I didn’t have to spend my hard-earned money. But I was feeling stupid . . . really, horribly, abysmally stupid.
No, the raid itself wasn’t on my shoulders. But . . . the stupidity sat heavily on me.
I parked on the shoulder of the road and got out, carrying a hefty load of food and gear. Warm air blew past and, overhead, clouds scudded through the sky, racing in ragged tails, lit by the moon. The wind was strong enough to overpower the scent of coffee and I caught other smells on the night air: burning tobacco, wet dogs, the ozone of something electrical.
I set the coffee up on the hood of my truck and people began to meander over, as if they were psychic to the presence of fresh coffee. A dark-skinned woman in a jacket and pants, her hair cropped close, got to me first and I held up my ID at the same time I handed her a steaming cup. She barely glanced at the ID and drank the scalding brew like her life depended on it. When she was rescued, she blew out a breath and said, “You must be my telepathic new best friend.” I nearly flinched until I identified her amused tone. “Special Agent Margot Racer, FBI. Coffee addict, going on a four-hour withdrawal.”
“Special Agent Nell Ingram, PsyLED, probie and all-around coffee gofer.”
She offered her hand and I was surprised when she shook mine. Not all feds were willing to treat well with other agencies, especially the “magic wands and broomsticks” agency. Two ALT uniformed guards reached the truck and I passed out cups and offered sweeteners and creamers and the banana bread. They each put money in the banana bread box, paying their way, which was nice. I nodded to P. Simon, Peter, the security man from the Holloways’ and Justin Tolliver’s house. Simon gave me a quizzical look before he seemed to recognize me. He lifted a hand and turned away. Margot tossed in a five and took a piece of the bread.
I felt an unusual something approach and somehow knew it was my cousin. Chadworth Sanders Hamilton strode up, an expression of dissatisfaction on his face. He took a cup and tossed a dollar at me. I caught the fluttering bill even as he spun on a heel and walked away.
“Charming,” Margot muttered.
Before I could ask her about my cousin, the others gathered around. Two sheriff’s deputies and two more people in suits took cups and food, said their thanks, and returned to their quadrant. Everyone tossed a dollar or two into the box to offset expenses. I was quickly alone with Margot, who poured herself a second cup and leaned against my old truck. The weather had warmed, and she didn’t look chilled, her jacket enough for the temps.
I thought about asking after Hamilton, but decided against it. “Anything interesting tonight?” I asked.
“Not a thing. Nothing’s biting.”
It was a fishing metaphor and I said, “Maybe we’re using the wrong bait.”
Margot laughed, her eyes moving across the dark, taking in where every flashlight was, as if counting them off. I had served seven people and I saw only three lights, so some were likely using low-light lenses. “Politicians,” she said, “so, yeah. Bait might be a problem, for better or worse.”
“I have a psy-meter 2.0,” I said. “I was sent to take readings. You mind?”
“Fine by me. You mind if I watch? I’ve heard about them, but never have seen one in action.”
That meant she would be watching me read the earth too, and I wondered if I could hide my communing. I shrugged, uncomfortable at the thought. “It’s pretty boring, but sure.” I finished off a cup of coffee and carried my gear to the far front edge of the property. I spread the blanket and sat on it, opened my cell to take notes. Turned on the psy-meter and took basic readings to the north, east, south, and west. “Mind if I read you?” I asked. “I need a human standard.”
“What makes you think I’m human?”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. That was rude.”
Margot shrugged. “Mama’s mama was a witch. Mama’s got some knacks, small gifts. She can tell if the weather’s going to turn. If a woman is pregnant and what sex the baby is, with about a ninety percent success. She called the night I was nearly shot and told me to be careful, to wear my vest on my entire shift, even when I was at my desk, and not turn my back on anyone. Saved my life.”
“Really?” I thought about Sam, and his ability to tell exactly what the weather was going to do and what cows were going to have trouble calving and when to plant and when to hold off. “Someone shot you at your desk?”
“Elevator, actually. No idea how she got a weapon inside, through security.”
“Inside help?” I asked.
“Had to be. Never figured out who. But I will. I have a feeling about it.”
“So can I measure you?” I asked, frowning, trying to put her statement together with her family narrative.
“As long as this doesn’t go on the record. I haven’t disclosed my family history to HR, and no one was looking, back when I was hired. Then Gramma died and . . . evidence died with her.”
“I’m sorry. Losing people you love hurts. And I promise to keep my mouth shut and all readings off the record.”
“So what do I do?”
“Just stand there and drink your coffee?”
“Totally doable.”
I reset the compass readings and then turned the rod to Margot. She read a low positive at two and three, but level one rose higher. I shrugged up at her. “You’re human, but yeah, you got some energy. You told me what your mama can do. What about you?”
Margot looked back out over the lawn. “Small things. I know when someone is thinking about breaking the law, working it through, building up the nerve. Usually I can stop them. I know when someone’s lying.” She was watching Hamilton as she said the last words.
“What’s he lying a
bout?” I asked.
“More than one thing, fewer than five. Can you read him?”
“When I get over there. I’m too far away now.”
“Tell me what you find?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this stays between us. I’ll catch up with you shortly.” Margot carried her steaming brew into the dark.
I read the land with the psy-meter 2.0 and then, quickly, touched the land with a fingertip. Hurt and pain surged up into my hand and I jerked away, shaking it. Something had injured the land where the senator lived. More gingerly, I touched the ground again. The pain was still there, but it was bearable and I was able to identify the specific and familiar sensation. The plants on the senator’s big lot were dying. Every single one of them. I didn’t have to move to a different place on the grounds; from this one spot I could tell that it was the same in each area. Dying, death, fire. I was pretty sure a pyro had been here in the last day or so and had covered the grounds. But it could be anyone—a groundskeeper, an employee. A law enforcement officer. I frowned and looked at P. Simon, standing in the shadows, his back to me.
Carrying my blanket, I walked toward the river, access to which was blocked off by a three-rail fence. On the far side of the river, I could see lights. Here there were no lights, just a frigid breeze blowing off the water.
I slipped between the rails and approached the Tennessee River. The senator’s land was deceptive, higher than I expected, almost on a bluff, the river flowing at the bottom of the sharp bank, rocks piled to keep it in place. The water was surging smoothly, a black ribbon in the night. A tiny deck was upstream, visible in the nearly full moonlight. From the deck, a set of steep steps led to the water, zigzagging down the cliff to a scant beach, the shore littered with driftwood, an entire tree, broken pale gray rocks, and whitish sand in small piles.