Both Ways Page 2

  “I got a summons through my chittarik, any idea what it’s about?”

  She taps a few buttons on her keyboard, then studies her own screen. “Nothing here, I’m afraid. They’ll tell you more upstairs.”

  The unease swells, but there’s not much I can do.

  At the security checkpoint, another security guard, this one human, waits with a metal detector in his hand and a Taser on his hip. He waves to a shallow tray on the edge of a conveyor belt that runs into a scanning machine.

  “Place all your belongings in the tray and raise your arms.”

  “That’ll take a while—are you sure?”

  “Rules. Get on with it.”

  I bite my tongue over the snarky response and begin the laborious process of pulling off all my gear. Purse, ID wallet, gun, silver darts, a pack of chewing gum, and three red Biros with the ends chewed off. Next my utility belt which holds two throwing knives, three holy water phials, a pack of UV glow sticks, three clips of SPEAR issue bullets (wood, lead, and silver), a coil of silver chain, a daisy pressed between two sheets of greaseproof paper, and a single pebble of smooth, red-flecked obsidian. Oh, and all the other knives secreted across my body.

  The guard heaves a sigh.

  “I did warn you.”

  He shoves my tray through the scanner, then waves the wand of his metal detector back and forth across my body. It bleeps going over my watch. “Off.”

  “It’s just a watch.”

  “Take it off and put it in the tray.”

  I wrap my hand around it. “I take this thing off once a day and that’s when I go to bed. Beyond that and you’re shit out of luck.”

  His free hand drifts towards the Taser. “I won’t say it again, miss.”

  “It’s Agent, and you can get bent, tubby gut.”

  His lips draw back, showing blunt, nicotine-stained teeth.

  I lean my weight onto the balls of my feet.

  Bring it on, arsehole.

  “Let her in, Bobby.” This voice comes from beyond the checkpoint, from a man standing at the bottom of the stairs. He studies me, small dark eyes bright with interest.

  Oh hell.

  The security guard lowers his hand. “But, sir—”

  “I called her here, and I’m already behind schedule. Let her in.”

  The guard steps back, sweeping a hand across his body to gesture the way through. I treat him to the sweetest smile I can manage before gliding through the checkpoint. It trills and lights up with red warning lights, which stop as the guard slaps a button on the side.

  “Cheers, chief.”

  Closer to the man on the stairs, I give him a quick once-over. Tailored suit. Crew cut. Shiny shoes. The scent of cigar smoke on his breath.

  “Good to meet you, Agent Karson.” He extends a hand.

  I take it and immediately bite back a gasp at his savage grip on my fingers. “Yeah, and who are you?”

  He frowns and steps to the right, revealing another of those garish posters, Vote Mikkleson in big, angry letters, and I take a closer look at the stern face above it.

  Oh. Shit.

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian D. Mikkleson. Ex-Marine, weapons specialist, and current mayor of Angbec.

  He sits behind an overlarge desk in an overlarge chair, sipping from an overlarge mug of overstrong coffee. Thick, bushy eyebrows hang low over his deeply set eyes, grey to match the finely shaped beard and tash across his powerful jaw. I’d say his campaign poster has had a little of the airbrush treatment.

  The room matches the desk, obnoxiously big, but spartan. Panelled walls and deep green carpets, like the study or drawing room of some period drama. Another door besides the one I used stands on the left, slightly ajar. A soft voice comes from beyond it.

  Mikkleson sets the coffee down and retrieves a cigar from an ashtray on the corner of the desk. A long stream of blue-grey smoke billows from his mouth. “You’re prettier than I expected.”

  “And you’re older.”

  The eyebrows dip lower. “Miss Karson—”

  “Agent.”

  He grunts. “Agent Karson, thank you for coming to see me at such short notice.”

  “Didn’t get much choice, did I?”

  “You’re agitated, Miss—Agent Karson. Apologies. I’ll admit that summons wasn’t the most diplomatic way to get your attention, but it worked, and once I explain, I’m sure you’ll understand why I did it.”

  I sit back, arms folded. I feel naked without the gun beneath my arm, but at least I have my watch. Oh, and the four-inch stiletto blade hidden in my ponytail. In your face, tubby gut.

  “I need you to find someone.”

  I wait.

  He stares.

  “I’m not a…people finder, Mr. Mikkleson—”

  “Mayor Mikkleson.”

  Touché.

  “Why haven’t you been to the police?”

  He rolls the cigar between his fingers then relights it, watching the nub of ash on the end grow. “This is a sensitive matter. So close to election day, I can’t afford to have this matter made public, as it no doubt would be if the police became involved.”

  “So hire a private detective.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m a SPEAR agent. We don’t hunt missing persons.”

  “I know exactly what you do, Agent Karson, and that’s why I want you. You’re the best SPEAR has and your record highlights you as the best possible candidate.”

  “Oh yeah? And what parts of my record are we talking about?”

  He continues to stare. I glare right back.

  This guy may be ex-military, but I’m pretty sure he’s never stared down a vampire caught up in blood mania, or a werewolf in moon fever. If he’s waiting for me to break, we’ll be here a while.

  “I’m willing to pay,” he says at last, “a significant sum for your time, trouble, and, of course, your vow to secrecy.”

  I stand. “Sorry, Mr. Mayor, but no. I’m not available for private hire.” I walk to the door.

  “They have my son, Agent.”

  Damn. I was so, so close.

  * * *

  I turn away from the door with a sigh. “Who has your son, Mr. Mayor?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Still near the door, I wait. And wait some more.

  This time he looks away, fiddling with the end of his cigar, which is no longer smoking. “I haven’t heard from him for a week and a half. Usually he checks in, at least for money, but there’s been nothing. I went to his house and it looks normal, no signs of a struggle or forced entry.”

  He shows me a photo from his inside pocket. It shows a lanky lad with scruffy hair and goth style clothing. He wears dark, miserable make-up and blows smoke rings at the camera.

  “I found this in the sitting room.” Mikkleson pulls a plastic evidence bag from a drawer in his desk.

  I take it, watching his face, wary of the creases around the corners of his eyes.

  He’s scared.

  The bag contains a narrow plastic tube, the length of my index finger. A large hole at one end shows traces of fine green dust.

  My breathing hitches. “Shit.”

  “I’m glad you understand. I also found this.” Another bag, this one holding large flakes of a thick black substance that crumbles as I tighten my grip.

  “Fuck.” The single exclamation flees my lips before I can catch it. “At his house?”

  Mikkleson nods, no longer able to meet my gaze.

  I return to my seat and kick both heels up onto his flawless, polished desk. “Start from the top.”

  He glances at my boots, then my face. A sigh. “A few weeks ago the police raided a Faerie Dust cookhouse outside the Veranna estate. My manifesto includes a crackdown on supernatural crime and—”

  “I don’t need the pitch. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  His lips tighten beneath the moustache. “Agent—”

  “I’m tempted to leave right now and let the civvie ba
shers know our mayor’s son is a drug addict. You’ve got sixty seconds to convince me not to.”

  His eyes widen. “The raid went well. We arrested twelve people, and half that number won’t see the outside world for five years.”

  “So?”

  “So, that was the largest cookhouse in the city. There are others, but none of them produce with the speed and quality that one did. Someone high up the chain is losing a lot of cash.”

  I drop the bags on the table.

  Faerie Dust. A highly addictive substance made from the bones of grass gnomes and a bunch of other chemicals I can’t pronounce. The mix results in a fine dust that the user snorts for a wild, soaring high. And, if they’re unlucky, paranoia, mania, and violent fits. And death.

  “Revenge, then?”

  “Maybe. I’m an important man and this…cripples me.” Mikkleson grits his teeth. “And there are other signs of vampire involvement, beyond the residue I found at the house.”

  Ah. Now it makes sense. But I want to hear him say it.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve reported this to SPEAR?”

  “Nobody knows. Surely you understand the delicate nature of this situation. I’m on the verge of winning the city for my third term. I can’t afford a scandal right now.”

  “And you’re trusting me, because…?”

  He leans back. “Come now. Agent Danika Karson, youngest female agent since the regiment’s foundation, highest vampire kill rate in the city.”

  “In the country, actually. Last I checked.”

  He chuckles. “I’m willing to pay you significant sums of money if you can find my son and keep it quiet.”

  I bite my lip. This still feels wrong. Off, somehow. “But I’m not for hire.”

  The drawer rumbles again; this time as he pulls out a pen and a pad of sticky notes. He scribbles on the top sheet, rips it free, then slaps it on the table. “Are you sure?”

  A glance at the numbers on that tiny slip of pink paper and my mouth drops open.

  “That’s right. Half now, and the other half on completion. I’ll throw in a bonus too, if you deal with the ones that took him.”

  It’s an insane amount of money. Even for a man like this.

  He smiles now, slow and smug. “Not bad is it? Perfect for that little project of yours.”

  I sit straight. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But that house won’t stay on the market forever. If you truly want to buy it, you’ll need to act fast before someone else scoops it up. Cipla is popular these days, given the new renovation project.”

  I grip the edge of the desk, my knuckles tight and pale. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s my job to know.”

  “The hell it is.” My voice leaps in volume. “And when you say deal with them, what exactly are we talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the SPEAR agent with the highest vampire kill rate in the country, doing what she does best.”

  I force my fingers to relax. “This has to be a trick. Did Quinn put you up to this?”

  “I assure you, no trick.”

  “You’re asking me to break the law.”

  “I’m asking you to take on a job doing something we both know you enjoy.”

  “Vampires have rights.”

  He grunts. “They shouldn’t.”

  Can’t argue with that. But my gut won’t let it lie. “And if I take this case, what then?”

  Mikkleson leans across the desk, his cigar forgotten. “You find my son with the utmost speed, tell no one of your actions, and enjoy a significant payment when you’re done.” One hand twitches the pen back and forth across his fingers, in nervous spirals.

  “No. Sorry, but I can’t.”

  “I’ll double the fee.”

  I stumble, halfway from my seat. It takes every scrap of willpower to keep moving towards the door. “No.”

  “Agent.” He hurries from behind his desk. Footsteps pound the carpet. “Please, I’ve no one else.” An instant later he grabs my shoulder and spins me round. “You’ve got to—”

  My fist flies at his face.

  Ex-Marine weapons specialist Sebastian Mikkleson is pretty fast. But he’s not a SPEAR.

  Though he ducks my fist, he drops straight into my knee, which I’ve already hiked upward. It slams into his chin, cracking his teeth together.

  Mikkleson cries out, dropping at my feet.

  The door flies open.

  I turn again, whipping the stiletto from my hair, holding it in a reverse grip, feet spread wide.

  A troll lumbers through the door, knocking its head on the frame. It looks at Mikkleson, then me, before roaring. It lurches at me, an attack I dodge easily with lighter, quicker feet. I end up on the desk, ready to jump again.

  “Stand down.” Mikkleson spits a glob of red-tinged saliva at the floor. “Cobble, I said stand down.”

  The troll blinks stupidly, pointing at me, then the stiletto blade.

  “I’m fine. Go away. Now.”

  I tense, prepared to spring.

  The troll offers me one last confused glance before plodding out. Once more it knocks its head and a fine rain of dry soil cascades down its shoulders. The door slams.

  I breathe again.

  Mikkleson stands, thumbing blood from a cut on his lip. “You’re the best agent SPEAR has. If you don’t help me, my son is going to die.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  I sigh. Jump off the table. As I return to the door, I tuck the stiletto back into my hair. “When you transfer that money, just send twenty per cent or my accountant will go nuts. Divide the other thirty between my mum and sister.”

  Confusion wells in Mikkleson’s eyes, followed swiftly by relief. “Thank you. Thank you, Agent Karson.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” I drag the door open. “I need to find him first.”

  * * *

  I use the cab ride back to HQ to ponder Sebastian Mikkleson. While I can see why he’d prefer to keep the matter under wraps, I’m surprised he’d turn to SPEAR. No, I’m surprised he’d turn to me. My personal stance on vampires aside, my skill as an agent isn’t the only part of my reputation to travel ahead of me.

  Unlike City Hall, SPEAR headquarters is a vast modern monstrosity, built just after the inauguration of the Supernatural Creatures Act in 2027. Three floors high and five deep, the building houses training, office, and living spaces for the city’s population of SPEAR agents. It also has laboratories, holding cells, and interview rooms designed for all manner of supernatural guests.

  The staff entrance is a small, nondescript door to the side of the building, almost invisible in the face of the revolving glass ones presented to the public. I enter my code, allow the retinal scanner to verify me, then walk through, into the darkness. The door swishes shut on hydraulic hinges.

  Silence.

  Blue light flickers from a sensor in the ceiling, scanning up, down, left, right. A fine mist of cool fluid hits my left cheek, followed by a jet of something warmer on the right.

  Blue fades to green.

  “Authorized,” chirps a mechanical voice. “Karson, Danika. Agent 2024011904A05.”

  Darkness lifts as the hidden door ahead of me slides open from bottom to top.

  Beyond the security measures, the staff side of HQ resembles a mash-up between a sci-fi novel and a vintage American police station. Open plan, with a sea of desks arranged haphazardly at the far end. The rest of the space is wide open, currently empty except for one man with a mop and bucket, scrubbing absently at a liquid red stain on the floor. My gaze travels up to the other two floors, exposed by a gap in the centre that extends right the way to the top floor’s ceiling. Men and woman walk back and forth, some with stacks of papers, others with weapons, all with the same steely focus in their eyes.

  In the centre, hanging from the ceiling, is a replica of the SPEAR insignia: a pair of crossed swords above a single arrow, both surro
unded by flares of light, picked out with gold inlay. Our motto is carved beneath it, some pretentious rubbish in Latin that I’ve never bothered to translate. I know roughly what it means anyway, since it describes what I do every day: protect and serve, learn and understand, hunt and exterminate.

  On the right, behind a Plexiglas wall, a batch of new recruits work through training exercises with our hand-to-hand coach. One trips and lands on his face before a woman who enthusiastically punches the air. A second later, she falls and slams into the Plexiglas nose first.

  Behind them both, our training coordinator grins and flexes his huge, bat-like wings. His lips move and though the room is soundproofed I know what he’s saying. Again, little meatsicles. Again.

  Bloody gargoyles.

  I cross the open area, gaze pinned on my desk.

  Metal slides sharply over something soft. Soft breathing. Light footsteps.

  I dart left, flinging myself down and to my knees on the wooden floor. I turn as I slide, facing the direction I’ve come in time to see the man bearing down on me, axe in hand. He yells, a wordless bellow of exertion, as he brings the weapon round towards my head.

  I lean flat on my back, blinking as the air swishes past my face. Then I’m kicking out, flipping back onto my feet, then down again, sweeping with my left leg.

  The axe flies from his grip as he hits the floor, skidding off the wooden surface to the carpet that marks the start of the desks.

  My fingers close on the stiletto, and then I’m on him, point pressed to his throat, my knees weighing down on his forearms. “Too slow, Noel.”

  He struggles for brief seconds before relaxing beneath me. He mutters something in Spanish, then adds, “I thought I had you that time. You were miles away, sí?”

  “And you breathe loud enough for six men. Better luck next time.” I hop off his body and tuck the blade back into my hair. When I offer my hand, he grips it tight and bounds to his feet.

  “Where you been, chica? The boss wants you.”

  My lips twist. “I got a summons.”

  Noel’s eyes widen. “Guau, what have you done now?”