Chapter 22
What is? What do? What do?
Beneath that, older and deeper, was more.
He liked the way it squished. Liked the weight at the bottom that meant Duckbert would always roll back up on his orange duck-feet. Liked that he had the same patches of color as the ducks in Grandma’s book, just like a real duck.
I took the stuffed bean-bag duck back to Mason’s office, where Zane was on the floor in his pack-and-play.
“Here you go, Zane.”
The baby reached up his hands, letting out a happy sound.
“Did you miss Duckbert?” I asked him, talking to him the same way everyone else at BTV did.
“How did you know his name was Duckbert?” Mason asked, looking at me over the tops of his reading glasses.
I felt my cheeks flush a little. “Underneath Zane’s thoughts, such as they are,” I answered. “Were Jackson’s.”
Rather than put an end to the conversation, which was what I expected would happen, this made Mason sit up a little more and took off his glasses. “‘Zane’s thoughts, such as they are’?” he repeated.
“Yes?” I didn’t know what he was asking me.
“Zane has… thoughts? At his age?”
“Sort of?” I frowned. “They’re less thoughts from Zane and Grace than they are feelings. Curiosities. Impressions less than words.”
“Hmm.” Mason made a thoughtful hum. “Interesting.”
Where that conversation would have gone, we didn’t find out, because the bells over the door rang as someone entered, giving me an excuse to leave to see who it was.
I was preparing to offer a welcoming smile to whomever it was, but then I heard Hart’s voice.
“Fuck, these windows are huge.”
Raj’s voice answered him. “They’re the same windows,” he said. “It’s not like they got new ones.”
“They’re still fucking huge,” came the reply.
I walked into the lobby, and they both turned to look at me. “Who do you need?” I asked, feeling a bit awkward. I hadn’t seen either of them for the last three days—since Hart had picked up Taavi and Raj had dropped Vi and me off after día de muertos.
“Everyone,” Raj replied.
We got everyone into the conference room, tension thick in the air.
Ward opened his mouth, but Hart started first. “So here’s the deal,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows on the table. “Things are getting fucking nasty, politically speaking.”
This wasn’t anything we didn’t already know.
The news, whether you watched it on television, listened on the radio, or had it fed to you online through social media or searches, it was impossible not to know that the government was only getting more polarized around the question of Arc-Arcanid rights.
A few weeks ago, the Assembly had just passed—barely, but still passed—yet another law about the treatment of predatory Arcanids by emergency services, including fire, police, and ambulance services. There were other provisions, too, but those had been the big ones.
We were also more than painfully—literally—aware that the number of anti-Arcane protests had increased, and not just because of Halloween.
Yes, there had been Halloween-specific protests, but there had been more than those specifically targeting Halloween events that included or catered to Arc-humans.
Especially because they hadn’t stopped with Halloween.
There was another one scheduled for Monroe Park tomorrow.
“What does that have to do with us, exactly?” Ward asked.
“You should increase your security,” Raj told him, his eyes skipping over to me, then back to Ward.
Ward frowned. “Why?” he asked. “We haven’t received any direct threats, at least not that I know about. Do you know something I don’t?” His grey eyes were sharp.
“No, not specifically,” Raj replied. “I imagine if there are, you will know before we do.” He shifted a little in his chair.
“Thing is,” Hart jumped in. “You might find out when somebody puts a brick through your windows. Or a car.”
Ward let out a harsh breath. “Do you really think that’s likely?” he asked.
Raj’s expression was serious. “No one thought it was likely a few days ago, either,” he replied grimly, his eyes once again flicking over to me—to my arm in its cast, specifically.
Mason grunted, a sound that meant he agreed with the sentiment, although was waiting to see where this was going.
“Our recommendation,” Raj said, “given not only current political conditions, but also the fact that you do work closely with the government, is that you increase security here, and make sure that you’ve got protective measures in place.”
“We have an alarm system,” Ward said.
“That’s off during the day,” Hart replied. “And that isn’t going to do jack shit if someone intending harm comes through the door.”
Mason crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“Not having a giant fucking wall of windows would help,” Hart answered. “It increases the risk to your clients as well as yourselves if any asshat can see or break through them.”
“So, what?” Ward asked. “You’re suggesting we redo the whole front wall to be as unwelcoming as possible?”
“There are security bars,” Raj put in.
“Absolutely not,” Mason replied shortly. “You’re suggesting that either we pay a lot of money to brick up our front room, turning it into a bunker, or that we turn it into a jail cell.” He shook his head, the beads on the ends of his braids clacking. “Out of the question.”
“What about magic?” I asked.
Everybody turned to look at me, and Mason suddenly looked very chagrined.
“What about it?” Raj asked.
“Warding, protection sigils, even threshold spells that can seek out harmful intent,” Mason replied. “Rayn is absolutely right.”
“Are spells going to keep out a car?” Raj wanted to know. I had the feeling he didn’t think the answer was going to be yes.
“They can,” Mason answered. “If you put enough into them.”
Beck snorted, the sound she’d made the entire meeting. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting protection spells,” she said. Mason professed to not be very good at them, although I very much doubted that his definition of not very good and most people’s were miles apart.
Mason’s cheeks flushed toward brown. “I’ve been practicing,” he grumbled. “Besides, I won’t be the only one casting.” He glanced at Ward. “Or weaving. This company has two witches and two warlocks. I think that between the four of us, we can probably manage just fine.”
“Three,” I interrupted. Everyone looked at me again. “Sylvia and Archie,” I supplied. “They might be dead, but they’re both capable of magic.”
Damn right, sport, Archie put in. He wasn’t visible to most of the room, just Beck, Ward, and me. I’d like to see some anti-magic bastard try to bring down what I put in his way.
I appreciated the sentiment.
Indeed, dead man, Sylvia remarked wryly. Archie was floating next to me, while Sylvia had taken her usual position behind Ward’s shoulder.
“Will that satisfy you?” Mason asked Raj.
Raj looked uncertain.
“If you think it’ll work as well as steel or mortar, then I’m not gonna tell you no,” Hart said. “But you’re gonna want this sooner rather than later.”
Mason’s gold-flecked black eyes narrowed. “What do you know that we don’t?” he demanded.
Hart and Raj exchanged a glance.
“I’m afraid we can’t say,” Raj hedged, and Ward rolled his eyes, started to lean back, grimaced, and settled for crossing his arms over his chest when he was reminded that his loaner chair didn’t have as high a back as his actual chair.
I had a guess. “It was the Church of Holy Judgment, wasn’t it?”
Hart shot a glare in Raj’s direction.
“I didn’t say a word,” he protested.
“He didn’t,” I agreed. “But it makes sense. They’re escalating.
They knew there was likely to be a high percentage of Arc-human and Arcane participants at the Dance with the Dead.
They have a history of using vehicular manslaughter as their MO.
” I’d been inside the minds of several members of the community, between the objects taken from the church to the evidence from the hit-and-run scenes.
It fit with the way they thought and felt.
“Shit, kid,” Hart said quietly.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I asked, meeting his lavender eyes.
“We don’t know that yet,” Raj replied softly.
“But that’s what you think,” I pushed, looking over at him. His gold-brown eyes met mine only for a half-second, then he looked away.
“I can’t confirm that,” he replied. I knew that meant I was probably right, he just couldn’t say so.
Hart snorted, but said nothing after Raj glared at him.
“Well,” Ward said, his voice low and somber. “It seems we have a lot of work to do. If there’s nothing further you need from us…?”
Ward’s polite seriousness worried me more than anything Hart or Raj had said, and I swallowed, my eyes on my boss’s expression.
His jaw was set, his eyes glittering. What I wasn’t sure about was whether he was angry at Raj and Hart, at the Church of Holy Judgment, at the MFM, at me… or maybe all of us.
Raj and Hart exchanged another glance.
“Not at this time,” Raj replied.
Ward nodded. “Then we’ll get to work.”
Everyone—except Ward, of course—got up.
Not sure what else to do, I walked back out to the lobby with Raj and Hart, assuming I’d be going back to my desk to wait for whatever Ward wanted me to do next.
“Give me a second, Hart,” Raj said, then turned to me.
Hart looked like he wanted to say something, but then didn’t. The bell jingled as he left through the front door, headed to the Charger I could see parked down a few spaces on the curb.
I looked back at Raj expectantly.
He walked up to me, reaching out and brushing my too-long hair out of my eyes, then running his fingers around my jaw.
“How are you?” he asked softly. “Did you manage to catch up on your sleep?” He glanced down at the cast on my arm that would be there for another seven to eleven weeks. “How’s your arm?”
“I’m okay,” I replied. It was more or less true. “I—I’m still tired, but better.” I wasn’t completely exhausted, the way I’d been when he’d last seen me, but I wasn’t sleeping all that well, either. “And it hurts, but not as bad as this summer.” I looked up at him. “Are you okay?”