Vallaverse: Noir

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Dana

I put cream in my coffee. Every single morning. I do it on purpose. Everything else about this godforsaken city is so bitter and dark, my coffee is oftentimes the only sweet and light thing I see in a day.

This city.

I hate it.

It takes everything from everyone, then it twists up the husks of what's left of our poor souls into gnarled, ugly mimicries of who we're supposed to be. Anything good here becomes so jaded and distorted that it ends up being mostly useless.

I used to be good. A lifetime ago I was running through the greasy streets of this city with a heart full of hope and eyes shining with innocent light. My hope was endless, the goodness in me beyond limit, and I spent every waking moment of my life trying to right wrongs. Solve problems. Save our city. But hope like that can't live long in a place like this. There are too many dark corners and back alley deals. Too much money in the wrong hands. Too much power sitting with people who abuse it.

Exhaustion gave way to depression. Depression made room for hopelessness. And now that hopelessness has turned me into the dead-eyed observer that stirs milk into her coffee to keep from seeing just one more drop of darkness.

I'm tired.

So tired.

I gave up trying to help years ago. I stopped searching for mysteries to solve. I gave up turning over stones and upending corruption. I looked away from eyes that pleaded with me for help. There is no help, not for them or anyone else. Not in the endless pitch-black underbelly of Coburn City.

The corruption in the dredges of Coburn doesn't plateau with petty, street-level criminals and crime bosses running their operations from store fronts or back rooms in restaurants. As far as I've been able to tell, the corruption doesn't have a summit. It's woven through every socioeconomic level and group and has bowled over the council that governs the city and further. It all leads back to the Omegas.

Our precious Omegas. They make up the lowest level of our society. They are literal pawns. They have no power, no control. And yet they are our highest commodity. To have an Omega is to be seen as able to keep one. If you have an Omega it means that you have some level of success and power. Only those who have success and power can attend the presentation balls, and only those with enough resources can leave the ball with an Omega on their arm.

Things don't operate the same in every city. Every place has its own regulations and rules, which I'm sure are full of the same corruption that runs through the gritty veins of Coburn. Sometimes Alphas even follow those rules, even in this city. It's rare, but it has happened. Sometimes there's a fate match. Those are fun to watch. Sure, they tend to be violent, but I can't help being jealous when witnessing an Alpha claiming their Omega. Before I gave up on myself and everything else, I had hoped to find my own Omega someday. I can laugh about that now.

And then there are the Valla. They typically stay in the outskirts of society, but there are exceptions. Some of the most diabolical crime organizations have grown from Valla roots. You can always tell when a particular syndicate has a Valla at the helm. Those groups are more violently vicious than groups led by Alphas. The bloodiest scenes are often the result of a Valla leader or when a Valla has been called in to handle a situation. And handle is a polite word to call the utter annihilation that happens at the hands of a Valla. I've only been on a few jobs involving Valla and those were too many.

These days, I try not to take any jobs that require actual substance. I carry too many hurts to take on anything that would need any kind of heart. My soul has been battered as harshly as anybody's and my body, well, I carry wounds there, too. Scars that run much deeper than the skin and tissue they cling to. I'm finished putting myself on the line for anyone else. All that has ever gotten me is a broken heart and a limp.

I slept on the sofa in my office last night. I didn't want to drive home in the rain, and if I'm completely honest, this office feels more like a home than my apartment. And this old sofa keeps me from tossing around in a lonely bed. All the comforts of home without the wasted, cold space; including a coffee pot and a toaster for my bagels. Besides, I have an appointment this morning and I'm already here so I can't be late.

The client is, though. According to the cracked clock on the wall, Mr. Alan Westover is nearly fifteen minutes late. He was late for his last appointment, too, but Omegas tend to be late if they're unaccompanied. I told him I'd be happy to meet him at his home, but he was adamant that his Alpha wouldn't appreciate that very much. I thought that was odd, considering Mr. Alan Westover is trying to hire me to find the daughter he shares with said Alpha. If I had a daughter and she went missing in this city, I'd invite a whole team of detectives of any and every designation to sleep in my living room if it made it easier for them to find her. I guess Alpha Westover has a different sense of priority.

Five minutes later, Mr. Westover is knocking on my door and, by the sound of it, dripping rain all over the hall. Not that it matters. That floor has seen worse than a few raindrops and a little bit of mud.

“Come on in,” I call out and settle myself more professionally behind my old desk. I glance over at the empty desk across the room out of habit and give myself an internal kick. Rodney has been on his supposed sabbatical for three years. I just can't bring myself to finally accept that he isn't coming back.

I probably wouldn't come back either.

Mr. Westover steps through the door and props his umbrella against the wall beside it before taking off his jacket and hanging it on the rack in the corner. “I'm sorry I'm late. I had a little trouble on the way.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

He shakes his head and offers me a small smile. “No, no. Nothing unmanageable. Just the usual. I've brought the amount you said. I hope you haven't reconsidered?”

It takes everything in me to control my expression. I quoted him a price high enough that I was certain he'd look for another PI. My entire goal was to deter him from trying to hire me. “Your Alpha was okay with that amount?” I can't imagine him being okay with it, but I sincerely hope he is because I most certainly do not want to deal with an angry Alpha on top of everything else.

Mr. Alan Westover stands to his full height and squares his shoulders.

Oh no.

“I didn't ask if he was alright with it. I want my daughter found and if this is the price, then I'm more than willing to pay it.”

I sit back in my chair and take a long sip of my coffee. This has the potential to be a complete disaster. For me, not the Omega pretending to be brave in the middle of my office. Pretty Omegas like him get away with literal murder sometimes, especially with their Alphas. You know who doesn't get away with murder, or anything else? Alphas like me who should have retired by now but are too stubborn to throw in the towel. “What happens if he has a problem with it, Mr. Westover?”

The Omega sighs, letting his shoulders drop before he lets himself sink into the leather armchair facing my desk. “I'll face that if it happens. You won't have to. Celia has been missing for almost four months. I'm terrified that she's gone forever. But at the same time I just know she's still out there. I can feel it. Do you have children?”

I shake my head. “No. I was never so blessed.”

“That's too bad.” He nods sadly. “You have a connection to them, Detective. A connection that you can always feel. I know she's still out there. I know she's waiting for someone to bring her home.”

“I have to ask, and please forgive me for it. It isn't my intention to be disrespectful. It seems odd that your Alpha doesn't seem to be as concerned with finding your daughter as you are.”

“That isn't exactly a question, though, is it, Detective?”

I take another sip of coffee and watch him over the rim of the cup. “Maybe not, but it is a concern.”

He sighs again and absently rubs at the tops of his thighs. “They argued. She inherited Adam's temper and they were both very angry. She didn't want to attend the Selection and he refused to entertain the idea of her missing it.”

“So, she's a runaway?” I interrupt.

“No, no,” he shakes his head quickly. “She may have ran out the door, but only to cool off a little. She only ever goes out to the swing in the yard. She likes to swing when she's upset, she says it helps. When she didn't come back inside and she wasn't anywhere when we looked, Adam ... He thinks she ran away. But she wouldn't. She's an Omega. She knows what would happen if she decided to run away. She knows how dangerous that would be.”

An internal sigh rolls through me and I close my eyes in an effort to hide it from Mr. Westover. Alphas are typically terribly overprotective of their children. If Alpha Westover isn't concerned about his daughter's whereabouts, then that's a suspicious problem. I'll have to question him.

“I know what you're thinking, Detective.”

I open my eyes and peer into his. “Oh?”

“You think Adam doesn't care. Or worse, you think he might have something to do with Celia's disappearance because he seems indifferent.”

I try for a smile, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't make it to my mouth. “I don't know how Adam seems, Mr. Westover. I won't know anything about him or his indifference until I speak with him.”

“Please don't do that. He already feels bad enough. He's taking this very hard and he has such a hard time admitting when he needs help.”

Ah. So he's tried to handle it on his own. Over-dependence on self is often an Alpha's biggest personality flaw. “I'm afraid that I'll have to speak with him regardless. I'll be gentle.”

Mr. Westover looks down at his lap where his fingers are twisting in the hem of his sweater. I feel for him, I do. But I'll have to speak with his Alpha, there's no way around it. “I suppose it can't be avoided. Maybe you could meet us for lunch somewhere. Maybe that would be better.”

I nod and finish the lukewarm remains of my coffee. “It might. You just give me a call with the time and place and I'll be there. You have my number.”

“So you'll take the job?”

I sigh audibly and obviously this time. “Yes, yes. I'll do what I can. But I can't promise anything. It's been months, Mr. Westover. The more time...”

“I know, Detective. I know. Thank you. I'll be in touch.” He leans forward and neatly places a stack of bills on my desk. “Thank you again.” Then he leaves with his still-dripping umbrella.

Rolling my shoulders, I sit back against the back of my chair. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do. I didn't want to take another single job that I'd have to think about, that I'd have to carry around with me. That's what will happen. If I can't find Miss Celia Westover, then I'll have to carry her loss and the desperate look in her father's eyes with me for the rest of my life.