It's Thursday morning and I'm dressed in the best clothes I have. The kind I wear whenever a government inspector stops by to ensure Gran's qualified for hospice housing and I'm qualified to stay there with her. Clean, dark jeans, a turquoise blouse with ruffly shit at the neck and sleeves to make it look more dressy, and black ballerina flats with the scuff marks polished over. I even dug out an old purse of Gran's to use, a caramel-colored leather bag embroidered with patterns of brightly-colored birds and flowers. Much more presentable than my patched-up backpack.
And right now, presentable is what I need to be if I'm going to convince a detective there's a vampire living next door.
The hour and a half bus ride to Glimmer left me rumpled, so I pause at one of the massive glass buildings making up the core of the city, using my reflection to straighten myself up. The bun I put my hair in already looks sloppy, stray strands hanging loose by my neck, and the ruffles on my shirt deflated, itching against my skin. And shit, I forgot to put in earrings. I wish Maria was here; she's so good at looking collected and presentable.
The Preternatural Investigation Center, Glimmer branch, isn't hard to find even with crowds of people to fight through. Like any building owned by the Necalian government, it's all sharp steel and black glass gleaming with the dark iridescence of beetle wings. It's only four stories high, but wide enough to take up half a block.
The entrance reveals a room empty except for some drab paintings and a receptionist set to one side. She's not much older than me, and quickly puts down a half-eaten doughnut when I approach. "Do you have an appointment?"
I bring out my most confident smile. "No, so I'd like toâ"
But she already brandishes a form to fill out. "Might as well not talk until you bring this back. All I can do is log in your reason for being here and send you to the right division when an open appointment is available. There's a small waiting room around the corner for privacy."
The waiting room in question has uncomfortable chairs and a dying potted plant that makes the attempt at cheerfulness only more depressing, but at least it isn't crowded. Two other people are in here, a woman with a haggard look on her face and two coffee cups in each hand, and a white man in the grimy boots and grease-covered clothes of a mech witch.
After seeing the coffee in the woman's left hand slowly drain away without her moving, and then a bite-shaped piece disappear from the rim of the cup itself, I decide sitting nearer to the man is a good move. He gives me a wink and a close-lipped grin. Even I can tell it's not just friendly but friendly. "They pull you in, too?"
I look away from the form long enough to give him another glance, and this time I see the tattoo of stylized wolves circling one muscular upper arm. Shit, no wonder he's interested in me. He's not just a mech witch; he's a wolf witch, too. From one of the Saint Islands, going by his accent.
"No," I say, before my silence stretches into rudeness, and keep writing.
I hear his chair creak, like he leans toward me. "Have we met? Something about your don't-fuck-with-me face looks familiar."
I check out his reddish hair and the way his eyes look clear as glass, shifting from blue one moment to green the next. His grin changes. If the previous version was suggestive, this one is an outright invitation to sex, if I like what I see. I don't. He's not repulsive like Valentine, but he still makes me edgy. "No, I'd remember your accent."
"Then it must be coincidence. Good; I'd be ashamed to forget teeth as lovely as yours. Who's your pack?"
"I was raised human." I keep the words clipped to let him know I'm sick of this. And I definitely don't want to admit to another wolf that I can't change.
"I can tell. You don't know how to deal with me at all." He scratches the stubble on his jaw, still giving me a slight smile.
Creep. Before I can flash my teeth, the receptionist's voice breaks through. "Mr. Healy?"
He sighs melodramatically. "Nothing for a fucking hour, but as soon as genuine company arrives..." Then he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a business card, leaving greasy fingerprints all over the white surface. "When you loosen up, here's how to reach me."
It has his name, Desmond Healy, and then under that, his current pack and their residence. Shock ripples through me. The Red Devil Mountain pack is where my mom came from.
I look up from the card, wondering if he caught my surprise, but he already left. For a moment, the urge to run after him floods through me, but then I only stick the card into my bag. I lived for years without knowing anything about my mom; I don't need to learn about her now.
After finishing the form and turning it in, it takes another thirty minutes before the receptionist calls my name. She gives me directions to the floor level and suite number for where I need to go. They take me to gleaming doors with two words stamped on them. POLTERGEIST DIVISION.
I blink, glance down at the suite number to make sure it matches, and then look at the doors again. Well, fuck. They either made a mistake, or think I'm concocting shit through the power of my brain. But since I made it this far, I might as well see it all the way through.
Behind the doors is another receptionist, wearing polka-dot glasses at odds with her sour face. "Third room on the right. Wait for him to ask you to sit, and use only yes or no when answering questions. He has a pet peeve about slang words."
Wonderful. Clutching my bag with one suddenly sweaty hand, I make my way down the hall. The door is open, but I knock anyway, figuring if I'm not supposed to sit until told, walking in unannounced is probably a bad idea.
"Come in."
Everything about the office looks neat and indeterminately dull, and the white guy inside it fits right in. Suddenly, I feel garish and out of place, like a clown among lawyers, but shake it off and approach the desk he sits behind. He glances over my face and clothes, and then frowns. "Do you speak clear English?"
Well, fuck you, too. "Yes."
He nods and returns to his paperwork. There are files scattered all over the desk; he has one flipped open, and writes on some of the pages. I recognize the top sheet as the original report I filled out. When it doesn't look like he'll stop anytime soon, my gaze drifts from his face to the polished nameplate. It reads DET. SAMUEL TANNER, and under that, POLTERGEIST DIVISION. Not wanting to waste more time, I scrounge up some guts and point at it. "I think they sent me to the wrong place. I'm not here for psychic problems."
Detective Tanner looks up, forehead wrinkled in irritation. "You're Miss Phoenix Belmonte, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Yes."
"Then you're whom I'm assigned to see. You may sit." He picks up a different pen, the kind filled with metal ink that can be wiped clean with a spell. I hope this means that he'll later transcribe my report to a database, and not that he'll blow me off as soon as I leave.
Having mentally practiced what to say on the entire bus ride here, it doesn't take long to tell him what I know. He makes notes and nods occasionally, but doesn't ask a single question. I end with saying, "I have her journal pages here, if you want to see them," and reach into my bag.
"That won't be necessary." He checks off something on a page.
"Oh." After a few minutes of waiting in silence while he writes, I decide to poke at him. "So, what do you think? Could he be, well, if not a vampire, then at least some kind of predator with a blood fetish?"
"Twenty-five," he says, without looking up.
"Sorry?"
"Studies indicate the human brain doesn't mature until age twenty-five. Perception, judgment, and critical thinking are all nebulous in the developing mind."
I frown. "Well, he's older than that, for sure."
Then he looks at me, and I realize he doesn't mean Valentine. "You think I'm overreacting about this?"
"Any sensible person would. That is why you were sent here, because hysterical young girls are part of my daily job."
My jaws clench together so hard, I'm surprised I don't crack a few teeth. Hysterical? Oh, he hasn't seen anything, yet. "Two people have disappeared. Melanie Burnett, whose dad contacted the police and everything, and Laci Hernandez. I don't care what that hospital worker says, Laci did not go home with the body. I know she wouldn't. Call her relatives and you'll see. I'm not overreacting and I'm not stupid, either."
He caps his pen. "I didn't say you were. But there are reasonable explanations for every aspect of this situation, and you can't yet see them. As bright as you may or may not be, your brain is still developing. It cannot accurately judge what it perceives."
I stand up, not caring how the chair squeals back. "There's plenty of proof that age doesn't matter for that."
"And your sources are?" Detective Tanner raises an eyebrow.
"One's sitting in front of me right now." Then I'm out of the office and slamming the door behind me. Walking fast and hard down the hallway, not thinking about where I'm going. Focused on moving my feet forward so they don't turn around and take me back to that detective. If I see him again, I'll punch him in his big, smirking mouth.
Only when my eyes burn and blur over do I stop, rummaging through my bag for tissues. Shit. I'm sure proving his view of teenage girls wrong.
Nearby, a throat clears itself. I look up and see a sleek, made-up woman with a steaming cup in either hand. The sleeve of her business jacket slides up enough to reveal a glimmering tattoo on her left wrist, the green light striking against her pale skin. An inker. She raises one perfectly penciled-in eyebrow, and I abruptly realize she waits for me to move to one side so she can pass by.
I do. "Sorry."
She studies me, obviously taking in my try-hard state and red-rimmed eyes. "Cheer up, girlie. Whatever it is, it won't seem as bad later."
If she wants to say something more, she doesn't get a chance to, because another woman comes up from behind us, the ink on her arm a similar pattern and color. "I'll take those, Ms. Lewis."
"They'll know it wasn't you; you hate making tea," says Ms. Lewis, but hands over the cups, anyway.
Hope flutters in my chest. Two cups of tea. Not coffee, but tea. Are Agent Slake and Agent Glass in here, somewhere?
The other woman sniffs. "If you can't follow directions, you won't last long even as an intern. I've already told you I would take it over, and why. You deliberately linger in that younger one's office. It's indecent."
It is him.
"You're right. I should take turns so the older one won't get jealous." Ms. Lewis winks at me while the other woman sputters. "I'm teasing, Aunt. Okay, I'll get our own pick-me-ups instead."
Trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, I wait until Ms. Lewis is out of sight before trailing after her aunt. I know Agent Slake will be a Kingdom version of Detective Tanner, but hopefully Agent Glass is friendly outside of a classroom, too.
The woman turns down a few hallways before walking through a set of translucent doors. They darken to black just as I reach them. Green lines flicker to life across their surface, creating a number pad, a list of reasons for visiting the INKtech office and the individual codes beside them, and a set of instructions on how to type in the right code. It's not too different from the bio lab assignment, which means I have a fair idea of how to fuck it up and make someone talk to me. I won't be shoved off to the wrong person again.
I punch in wrong codes, half-codes, and try entering in no codes at all. After about five tries, the doors ripple in what I swear is irritation, and fall translucent again as they swing open. The same woman waits a few feet away, hesitating as she watches the tortured doors let me in. This time, I'm close enough to see her nametag. MS. OLIVER. She still holds the cups of tea, and her scowl is something that could be seen from outer space. "Are you having trouble?"
"Yeah. Hi. I have an appointment with someone here. I'm a little late, so I'm kind of panicking. Also, I'm not sure they even got my name right when I made it." I take a step forward with each word, forcing her to inch back to avoid being trampled on.
She sighs and glances over at the receiving desk, a sleek, chest-high half-circle. "Let's go over there." After setting down the cups, she sits in one of the chairs behind the desk and brings up her ink with a practiced swipe. "With whom is your appointment?"
"Agent Glass."
She gives me a sharp look before pulling up a list of names. "You're not on here."
She seems like a decent person, but I'm desperate. "Are you sure?" I lean on the counter, as if trying to read it with her. A quick nudge from my elbow, and both tea cups tumble to the floor.
Ms. Oliver yelps, and her ink flares. It saves the cups, but not the tea inside.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry." I drop to the ground, pulling out tissues to pat at the carpet, which had been a crisp white.
"That's quite all right." It's not as reassuring as it should be, since she forces out the words between gritted teeth. "I'll get some more after I help you."
"No, I can wait. Really! I'm so late, anyway, and I feel bad now. I don't want to get you in trouble." If people think I'm stupid, I might as well play the part wholeheartedly.
When Ms. Oliver wavers, I sit in the nearest chair and give her a timid smile.
"Very well. I'm sure Ms. Lewis will be back soon to help you." She gives me a wary glance as she leaves, but she does leave.
I make sure she's really gone before jumping up to slip past the desk. Around the corner is a hallway with several doors. All have nameplates; I skip those. Another turn leads to another set of doors, these ones unmarked. I hear Agent Slake's voice drone behind the closest, and hurry on. The next two don't sound like they're occupied. I'm just wishing my wolf witch blood at least gave me a sharpened nose to sniff out people when I see a half-opened door at the other end. Blue light spills out from it, creating patterns on the opposite wall.
After glancing behind me, half-expecting Ms. Oliver to appear and drag me back to the front desk, I step close enough to peer through the doorway.
Agent Glass lounges in a chair, suit jacket and tie slung over the back of it and feet resting on the polished desk in front of him. The first couple of buttons on his shirt are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up while he works on lines of code scrolling around him. The codes move in dizzying patterns, but he looks completely at ease as his fingers pinch and pull individual pieces into new lines that gleam as they twist back into his ink.
Hope flutters through me as I knock on the door. "Agent Glass?"
"Yes?" His head turns toward me, but his gaze lingers on the codes a moment longer, like he's reluctant to stop working. Then he finally looks over. Behind his glasses, his eyes go wide. "Phoenix? What are youâ"
Then, as if realizing how nonchalant he appears, he jerks upright to grab for his tie. The chair, delicately balanced on two legs, topples over at the sharp movement, and it's only quick reflexes that send him stumbling to his feet instead of ending up on the floor with a bruised ass.
"Christ," he mutters, and gives me another glance while bending for his jacket and tie, as if he can't believe I'm really standing here.
"Uh, Ms. Belmonte, how can I..." As he straightens up, the tie slithers out of his grasp, and he has to grab for it again. "Shit. How can INKtech serve you?"
"It's got nothing to do with INKtech. I just really need to talk to you." I step inside and start to close the door behind me.
"No, no, better leave that open." He loops the tie around the collar of his shirt and quickly works on it. His ink flickers like the tail of an uneasy cat.
"Oh. Okay." That's odd. Even Detective Douchebag closed his door to give me privacy. When he doesn't say anything else, I push on. "I know it's weird intruding like this, especially since we met for just a few minutes, but I'm desperate. And you, um, seem like someone who might understand."
He nods cautiously. "Ms. Belmonte, I enjoyed talking with you, but I didn't mean anything more by it."
"Yeah, I get that." I start to say more but stop, trying to figure out why he acts so weird. Not irritated, exactly, which is what I expect from anyone after a stranger asked for help just because they once had a silly conversation about names. No, with the way he looks at me, it's more like he's uncomfortable, and dreading whatever I'm going to say. Like he knows what's coming, or at least thinks he does.
I study him, taking in how he desperately tries to put his entire suit back on. Like it's armor. Against me?
Then, things finally click in my head. "You think I'm here for you? That I snuck in here hoping to, I don't know, hump at your leg like a dog?"
His fingers fumble with his tie. "Not in those exact terms. But I'm concerned you may have misinterpreted something I said, yes."
At first, I'm so bowled over my voice comes out as a squeak. "You're even worse than Detective Douchebag. He just thought I was hysterical. And he at least listened to me, first."
"Detective..." There's an oh shit look on his face, as if he realizes he made a mistake.
"You think I'm too stupid to tell the difference between friendliness and flirting." That hurts more than I thought it could, coming from a stranger. That hurts a lot.
I ran out of Detective Tanner's office to avoid attacking him. I'm running now for the same reason I left Laci that day we jogged together. I don't know what else to do. Standing still with that heavy, sinking sensation in my ribcage feels like dying.
Vaguely, I'm aware of running through hallways and slamming open doors. When sunlight hits me, bright and blinding, I slow down to a fast walk, feeling my hair slide out of the bun and fall around my shoulders. As my heartbeat slows, everything else filters back in.
"Fuck him," I mutter. The gall. The utter nerve of him to think I'm a silly, swooning girl when all I want to do is survive the night. My hands clench into fists so tightly I feel the bones in my fingers throb. Patronizing, puffed-up asshat.
Pain digs into my palms. When I jerk my hands open, I see my fingernails thickened into sharp points, black at the tips. What?
"Ms. Belmonte!"
Distantly, I hear someone calling me. Even more distantly, I feel my feet still taking steps while I stare at my fingers like a maniac, watching the nails shrink back to normal.
"Ms. Belmonte, please!"
I shove my hands into my pockets and hurry on, trying to remember how to breathe. This can't be happening. The last thing I need is to struggle through some kind of belated wolf puberty.
"Ms. BelâPhoenix."
Hearing my birth name gets to me in a way nothing else can. I glance back in time to see Agent Glass dodge around two businessmen to catch up to me. He left his jacket behind, and his tie is so skewed, it looks like someone on fairydust tried doing it for him.
When he reaches my side, I don't give him a chance to talk. "I don't want to have sex with you."
"I realize that now, and I'mâ"
"And I sneaked in because the truth is too weird to be beeped through by a receptionist."
"Yes, soâ"
"And I'm not wearing a bra because it's laundry day and they're all in the wash."
"Ah." He blinks, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on my face.
The crosswalk has a red light for pedestrians. I take the chance to stop and face him. "I haven't had a childhood since I was nine. I know how to stagger bills so the electricity never gets shut off. I know how to change a tire on a car in time to still make it to a doctor's appointment. The government lets you into a hospice community when you got a family member with twelve months or less to live, but they don't offer jack shit to Fivefield survivors for all the years before. I got through that. I got my family through that. So don't treat me like I'm a stupid little girl just because I'm not legally recognized as an adult."
That last sentence comes out as a snarl. I huff and push hair out of my face, waiting for the inevitable excuses.
"I'm sorry."
I blink. "What?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "You're right. I presumed something very belittling about you. I'm sorry."
"That's it? No explanation about how I acted or what I said to mislead you?" I can't believe it. By now, Elliot would have a list drawn up in bullet points.
Agent Glass' expression shifts from sheepish to intent, and I realize he's good at gleaning information from what people don't say as much as what they do. When he gets his head out of his ass, anyway. "Then it would be an act of saving face instead of a true apology. I've had enough used on me to know the difference. Please. What did you want to discuss?"
The lump of anger in my chest fizzles; I could flip him off and head back home, and the part of me thinking that's an excellent idea isn't small. But he apologized, and acts like he knows there's more ground to recover before I'll offer my trust again. Maybe that means he won't laugh if I tell him. "Do you have any information on vampires? Killing them, I mean. I already know they can't come into a house unless invited."
He takes a breath like he's about to say something, and then lets it out instead.
The light for the crosswalk flickers green. As people swirl around us, he tries again. "Mind telling me a bit more?"
I grimace. "I don't know. Will you really listen?"
"Yes." His eyes meet mine without hesitation, and I see a trace of the guy I met yesterday, laughing about drinking wine out of a plastic cup.
After a moment, I nod. "In your office?"
When I start to turn back, he reaches out, fingertips just grazing my elbow. "I'd rather not. On my way out here, I accidentally ran into Ms. Oliver while she carried cups of tea. It went everywhere. She wasn't pleased."
"I can imagine." My mouth twitches toward a smile before I can stop it.
Encouraged, he pulls out a pocket watch and checks it. I just listen to my stomach, which tells me it's way past noon. "There's a park down the street, with plenty of food vendors and trails to the shore throughout it. We can talk there."
It's tempting. "Having lunch won't solve my problems."
"Well, it can be helpful to focus on a separate task while speaking about something difficult. Eating, or driving, or even playing a game of chess. Anything that can break up awkwardly staring at each other." When I don't say anything, his ink flickers nervously. "Unless you find the idea too uncomfortable?"
"Yeah, I do." I wait for my words to register on his face, and then smile a little. "Your tie's crooked and it'd be really distracting."
He groans and pulls it off, shoulders relaxing as he shoves it into his pocket. "Better?"
"Getting there." As we start walking, I mentally run through every piece of the puzzle I have, and sigh. "Might as well get a big lunch; there's a lot to tell."