Banshee Hunt (9 page)

“I know.” James carefully didn't say anything else. He didn't know what to say. He would never know what to say about Sheryl. And even if he did one day work it out, he would probably never be allowed to say it. Sheryl had no magic. She was normal. She could not be told about Francis’ powers. Which meant she could never be told why she had done what she'd done. That had to be a terrible thing to live with.

“It's guilt.”

“So they say.”

“You don't believe it's guilt?” Will stared at him oddly.

“I don't know. If it was guilt then she would have discovered it after Francis' control had been removed. She would have once more become the woman she was. Tried to make amends. But even after that she continued betraying me. She still made up lies. She tried to turn not just the courts but my own daughter against me. If anything her lies became worse after he was gone. So maybe it's guilt. And maybe there's something more.”

“God, you really are a suspicious bastard!” Will stared at him with disbelief written all over his face. Then he reached for the plunge pot and started slowly depressing the plunger.

“The woman was completely torn apart by your brother. Made to do things that no woman could ever imagine doing. She still doesn't know that there's magic in the world, and so can't even begin to understand why she did what she did. And then when she needed him, her husband wasn't there to support her.”

“Ex-husband.” James corrected him automatically. Sheryl had left him and run him through the divorce court well before she'd sold their daughter to the child slavers to give her boyfriend a little spending cash.

“Whatever. The point is that in a heartbeat she was left with nothing and no one and she thought she might never see her daughter again. That you'd take her away from her. So she fought. She fought as only a desperate mother could. You just happened to be on the receiving end of that.”

“The losing end.” He might be right James knew. Some days he desperately wanted to believe that he was. That Sheryl had been the victim. Other days he simply didn't know. Not completely. Sheryl had told so many lies to so many people. She had wronged him so many times. Some days he simply wasn't sure that she even knew what the truth was anymore. Which was why it was easier not to think of her. Other days it was easier to hate.

“Self pity? It's not a good look on you. And even a beaten dog knows there's a time to start trusting people again.” Will poured himself a mug of the hot black coffee and then blew on it before taking a sip. “You need to get out there again. Find some forgiveness. Find yourself another woman.”

“I'm comfortable as I am.”

“You're in a rut.”

“It's a comfortable rut.” And that was the truth. But more than that it was safe. He would never go near another woman again. Not after what had happened. He would never trust anyone again. Least of all someone with magic. And in the end he would be happy simply to know one thing. That his daughter was well. Everything else was irrelevant. Of course he knew his guest wouldn't be happy hearing that. He already wasn't happy. In fact he was sighing quietly.

“Fine!” Will gave up trying to dish out advice. He usually did after a while. “Your six months are up again and it's time for your check up.”

“Understood. I'll make an appointment with the German.”

And he would. That James guessed was the real purpose of his boss' visit. It was time to check his loyalty again. He might not be a cop any more, but in some ways working for the Illuminati was almost like working for the FBI. They had their own version of regular polygraph tests for him. And he assumed for any other non magical people who worked for them. Those with magic had ample reason not to tell anyone anything. It was only the normals who couldn't be trusted. But he wasn't cynical!

“It's already made.” Will dropped an appointment card on the table in front of him. “Monday at eleven after you see the elders. But be aware that it'll be a big one. Five years and all that. And the German is going to be upset that you haven't done what he asked. On top of which there have been reports.”

“Fine.” It was suddenly James' turn to sigh. “Reports” he guessed meant complaints. He seemed to gather them steadily. And Will was right. The German had told him to do a few things. Socialise more with his colleagues. Talk to his parents. Counselling with Sheryl. But he hadn't done them. “I'll be there.” After all, it wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter.

But what else was new? He had never really had a choice about much when it came to the Illuminati. He might have offered his services as a tracker and investigator to them, but it hadn't been offered freely. At the time Matti had been dying. Broken after falling from a truck in the abandoned factory. There had been no choice in that.

Nor had there been a choice in that she needed specialist schooling. It had become obvious that she was one of the gifted, and would need schooling that only others like her could give. Schooling that the Illuminati just happened to provide. He couldn't have left her in the care of her mother who at the time had been broken and looking at years in an institution or even jail if things weren't covered up. He had been looking at a life behind bars as well. The boarding school had been the only alternative to making her a ward of the state, much as it had pained him to have to send an eight year old girl away.

At the time he'd also needed to do something with his brother. That hadn't been a choice either. Because while Francis' gift didn't work on him, it still worked on everyone else. Even with his face and body broken from being pounded by James' fists he was dangerous. But James couldn't kill him. Not after the pure homicidal rage had worn off. Not even after all he had done. But he'd known that his brother needed to be locked away somewhere where his magic couldn't ever affect anyone else again. And there was no prison that could hold him. No normal prison. Again the Illuminati could do that where no one else could.

The prison also kept Francis locked away from him. That wasn't by his choice. Because his anger toward Francis was the one area of his life where James had very little control. Not even now, years later. He had nearly killed his little brother when he'd found out what he'd done. Beaten him half to death. The rage that had moved through him when he'd discovered that he'd had Matti sold as a child sex slave had been like a living, breathing monster within him. The only thing that had saved Francis that first time from being beaten to death by him had been the fact that James had been desperate to get his daughter back. So the bloody wreck he had left on the floor of his old house after he'd learned what he needed to from him had survived. But later, when he'd learned the rest of what Francis had done to his family, the rage had returned hotter than before. Ever since it had kept coming and going. Some days it was all he could do to keep himself from getting into his car, driving down to the prison and shooting Francis.

So the deal had been made. They needed a hunter. He was one. But it hadn't been a choice.

James didn't trust the Illuminati. Not the elders nor the gifted. Not even magic. Especially not magic. But he had needed them. To keep him out of jail. To keep his little brother under lock and key. And while Matti was still being raised by them in their boarding school, he would continue to need them.

She was thirteen now and still had another five years of schooling before he had to think about college. And for those five years at least the Illuminati would have his services unconditionally. So he would do what they wanted. He would go to the appointment with the German. He had no choice. But that didn't mean he had to like it. But he might have to pretend that he did.

“More coffee?” James did his best to smile politely at his boss. That was a choice of a sort. He was choosing to at least try and be respectful to his boss. He might dress like a cowboy and he might give him a hard time about things but James knew that if Will wasn't there his life could become much worse.

Really, the man was trying to help him and he needed to respect that.

Chapter Four

The doctor's office was exactly like every other doctor's office that James had ever seen or read about. The carpet was soft and bland. The walls painted in reassuringly tepid colours. There were degrees and diplomas hanging on the walls. Some interesting artwork too. And of course the doctor's desk sat at one end of the room and the couch and recliner chairs were at the other end. But then it was a doctor's office.

That was one of the things he had to give to the Illuminati. They were masters of hiding in plain sight. But then they'd had centuries of practice. So the German was in fact not just one of the magical people with a gift for reading emotions, but also a therapist. He had an office in a clinic and saw patients both from the magical community and the normal one. The only difference for James was that when the doctor saw him he was assessing him for the Illuminati and when he saw the others he was assessing them as patients. But the chances were that if James had ever looked at his records, he would have been listed as being counselled for something. No one would ever have been any the wiser.

Still, whether he was there for counselling or to be assessed as a security risk, James was really only bothered by the length of time it was taking. Will had said for him to be prepared for a thorough session, but this was extreme. Two hours had come and gone and time was marching inexorably into the third hour. The big recliner chairs were comfortable enough, but he wanted to be gone. He would have wanted it even more had he been paying for the session. Fortunately the tab was being picked up by his employer.

“How much longer Doc?” James was tired of the interrogation. That was what it was after all even if the Illuminati didn't call it that. And though it was a condition of his employment and had to be done, it had gone on too long. “Surely you've asked every question imaginable.”

“Every question imaginable?” The German – or Hans Schroeder as he was actually known – raised an eyebrow in question. “That's a lot of questions.”

The German was actually quite a pleasant guy. Easy going and with a sense of humour. And despite being universally referred to as “the German,” he didn't actually have a trace of a foreign accent. All he had to identify him as anything other than pure American was a name.

He was perhaps slightly more cultured than most – James couldn't see him going ten pin bowling on a Thursday evening or out drinking in a pub with friends – but that was no reason to dislike him. In fact James might have quite liked him himself, if it hadn't have been for the fact that he was his counsellor – and had magic. Besides, he didn't go out bowling or drinking either anymore. Not since his world had collapsed. But in his heart he still wanted to think he was the guy who did those things.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. And I also know that you have nowhere else to be anyway. So stop your complaining. This isn't a punishment.”

“No. It's a security check.” James was too tired to be subtle about things.

“In part. But mostly it's about seeing how you're doing. That you're not falling apart emotionally given the things you see and do in your work.”

“And given what people say about me.” James could read the subtext. Especially after William had already read it to him a few days before. “But I'm fine. I saw far worse as a detective.”

“So you know what they say about you?”

“I know they say I'm cold. That they call me the Iceman.” Even as he said it James was desperately hoping that the counsellor didn't ask him how that made him feel. He'd already had more than enough psychobabble for one day. He didn't need to discuss any more of his feelings. “But what does it matter?”

“It matters because you never used to be like that. You've changed. You've suffered a major emotional trauma and retreated from the world. You need to recover.”

“Or I just need to deal with it and move on. Which I'm doing.”

“Denial is not dealing with things.” The German sighed. He did that a lot around James.

“And what am I denying Doc?” He asked but he knew there was no point. He knew the answer. The German had told it to him before – many times. “That I'm not a cop anymore? That I don't deserve to be one? That there's a living, breathing monster inside me, and I let it loose? Because I know that. That I owe the Illuminati everything? Because I know that too. That my daughter carries the same curse as my brother? I also know that. That my life is a ruin? Everyone knows that.

“No. You’re denying something else. Something you can't stand to hear. You won’t accept that you are one of us.”

“I am not!” James was outraged by the thought. He had been every time it had been suggested before. “I don't have any sort of gift!”

“Really? Your parents are gifted. Not powerfully so, but they have the blood. Your brother has a powerful gift. Your daughter has a gift. But somehow you got left out?” The German's voice rose a little in incredulity. “Even you don't believe that.”

“And besides, you know you have a gift. You know what it is. You alone out of everyone around you was immune to your brother's gift. You couldn't even feel it. Which is why you were unable to realise that he had a gift. Or to see what was actually happening.”

“Immunity is not a gift.”

“When you've got a fascinator around it's probably the most useful gift imaginable.”

“Well it didn't exactly help me, did it? Or anyone else.” James had reason for being bitter. “My parents were robbed blind by my little brother. Left homeless and destitute while I had no idea what he was doing to them. My wife was lured away from me and turned into my worst enemy by him – just for laughs. And I had no clue. My daughter was sold into slavery simply so he could have a few extra dollars to spend. And I didn't even know what was happening until it was too late. I would never have known if Francis hadn't given in to his need for revenge and started bragging about what he'd done. I don't call that a gift. I call that blindness and stupidity.”

But really he called it shame. Shame and evidence of his crushing failure. Because for years while his ex-wife had been pining away for his little brother and roasting him in the divorce court, he hadn't had a clue that she was under any sort of spell. He'd assumed that that was just how she felt no matter how crazy it seemed. When she'd character assassinated him in court and his little brother had sat there beside her laughing at him, he'd had no clue. Not even when the judge had started calling him names and accusing him of crimes. Throwing him into the cells night after night for contempt. It had been bitter and brutal and he'd truly learned to hate his little brother, but he'd assumed it was normal. Even during the years before that when his parents had continued to empty out their bank accounts and sell everything they owned simply so they could give it to Francis, he'd had no clue.

It had only been when he'd found out that Matti was missing and started to panic that his eyes had been opened to how terrible things were. And when Francis had laughed at him and bragged of what he'd done that he'd understood what was happening. Because no one, no mother could surely sell her beloved daughter to slavers. But by then it had been too late to undo his mistakes. All he could do was try to fix what had gone wrong.

But there was no fixing what had happened. Not truly. His fixing had resulted in eight men being shot – not that he cared about them – and his daughter being hurt in a fall during the gun battle. It had left his ex-wife on the point of institutionalisation. His parents had been left destitute and too ashamed to speak to him. At the end of his fixing everything, all that he had seen ahead of him was a long stint in jail. It had ended up with the Illuminati stepping in to fix his mistakes.

Now he was trapped in a job he didn't want, with a daughter he could only communicate with through weekly emails and see once a month. A daughter who he was terrified would grow up into a monster. He had an ex-wife who hated his guts in between her nervous breakdowns, parents living in the sticks in Florida who couldn't work up the courage to talk to him, and he was surrounded daily by people he didn't understand or want to know. His life was no gift. It was one step short of hell on Earth. Was it any wonder he was cold?

“Amazing! Self pity and a martyr complex both. It's a wonder you can even get out of bed in the morning!” The German smiled sadly at James.

“I can get out of bed and do my job fine.” And he could, though that was mostly because he had to. Someone had to pay for Matti's schooling and Sheryl clearly wasn't going to do it. She was simply going to pocket the child support and alimony he paid her and spend it on herself. Or on the mortgage for the house he'd once owned while he lived in a crappy apartment and ate packet noodles out of a microwave. It would be nice if magic paid the rent, assuming he even had any, but it just didn't.

Thank God his daughter was in boarding school. It was expensive, but James considered it vital to keep her away from her mother. Even if she had been under Francis' spell, she had still sold their daughter into slavery. And she wasn't stable either. The school seemed to be working out well for Matti.

“But are you living? Are you even surviving? That's the question.” The German shook his head at him. “I've got reports here of a difficult attitude. They say you give dismissive answers to questions asked about cases. That you refuse to follow procedures. Ignore safety protocols. Don’t ask for back up when you need it. Fail to keep your bosses informed of your progress. You even refuse to engage in collegial activities or have casual conversation with your colleagues.”

“I know how to take care of myself. I was a cop for a long time.” And grief, did he wish he could go back to those days. Life hadn't been easy. Money had been tight. The strains of raising a family and working all the hours he could had been crushing. And his case load had been immense. But in hindsight it had been a golden time for him. At least compared to his current life.

“And police officers have partners.” The German was quick to pounce. “You had a partner.”

He had had a partner – Watkins. And they had worked well together. They had brought down a lot of bad guys. Shared their lives. It had been a good relationship. But he could never have told Watkins what he did these days. Not just because it was all secret. But because what he was doing was one step over the line between legal and not. And what wasn't legal was never something Watkins or anyone else could know about. The gifted he worked with – for them it wasn't an issue. They didn't see the law in the same way. They didn't understand that what they were doing was against the law. He did. And he hated it. Besides which he didn't trust them.

“A partner would only slow me down. And that girl would have been dead by now if I'd been any slower.”

Nor was the girl the only one to have been used and abused by the magical. Besides his wife, daughter and parents others had been hurt. Many others. Some had died. When the gifted went bad too often they went very bad. He got to see that through his work. The old saw was that power corrupted and absolute power corrupted absolutely. Magic it seemed to him was worse still. There were just too many temptations.

“But equally you might be dead along with her, and no one would ever know what happened.”

“Doc, if things ever get that hairy I'll pull out the super-dooper ray gun you guys gave me. Promise.”

The promise though was a bald faced lie and he knew the doctor knew it when he saw the German’s face fall. His bosses didn’t like the fact that he didn’t use it. But he didn’t use it because past practice with it had shown that it failed too often. It fired spells instead of bullets. Spells that would incapacitate an enemy. So they considered it a humane weapon. The problem was that many witches and wizards had immunities. So what worked on one didn't work on another. Instead of wasting time with it he'd pulled out his ten mm Sig and shot people in the leg when he had to. They hated the fact that he still carried his old weapon. His barbaric cannon as they called it. But at least he could trust it to do its job.

Then again, he supposed he was very old school and didn’t adapt to change easily. He had a simple flip over notebook of the same type he'd used as a detective, for taking notes. He could have used a tablet but it was what he was used to. He still had a vest in the car, simply because he didn't trust the protective spells they'd given him. In fact the only reason he wore them was because they'd magically tattooed them into his skin. He was stuck with them.