Eleven Ella
ELEVEN
Ella
Raindrops hang on the leaves, but the sky has somewhat cleared this morning. I grip the tree branch and let out the call in a sharp, high-pitched note, once, twice. A bird whistle. I do it again and then count to twenty in my head. That should be enough.
Dropping down, my mismatched tennis shoes smack the grass, and I force myself into a casual stride across the lawn, aiming for the main walkway.
The building looms, brick and glass softened by the climbing ivy, but it’s the heavy door I want.
I slip inside, head down, and sign the visitor log with a name I make up on the spot.
No one’s at the desk. Figures. This isn’t the kind of place where the residents run off.
I hum under my breath, needing to steady myself. I should be freaking out after the firefight in the middle of Silicon Valley. Nope. My body still tingles from Justice, and that won’t do. He played my body like we’ve been together for years.
Shaking myself out of it, I head down the corridor. Right, then left. The hallway smells faintly of bleach, and I keep walking, acting natural. At the far end, a suite door is already propped open. Glitter sprinkles across the carpet like a warning. Pink, of course.
“Perfect,” I mutter, pinching my nose. My allergies have had a long week too.
I push the door open all the way and step inside.
Three credenzas line the wall, cluttered with monitors, papers, and bowls of wrapped candies.
Between them sits a low table covered in tiny glass bottles from their online business with perfumes, oils, and candles in squat jars, their wicks blackened from use.
The air thrums with rose, sandalwood, and something sweet that makes me hungry.
“There you are, my beautiful goddaughter,” Aurelia Mendoza says without glancing up from her monitor, her voice warm. Her name fits her, although she goes by Aura normally. “I heard the whistle. Took you long enough. You getting slower in your old age?”
I snort and instantly regret it when glitter dust drifts up my nose. Coughing, I cross the room fast, bend down, and kiss her cheek.
She’s seventy-three, rocking a neon pink tracksuit that sparkles from ankle to chin. Not manufactured sparkle, either—every rhinestone glued on by her own hand. Bedazzled, weaponized, unapologetic.
I straighten and glance at the other two women waiting, their eyes twinkling like they already know what trouble I’ve brought with me.
Joslyn Park and Magdalena Palmita sit in front of the computer banks, both in their seventies, sharper than most people half their age. The computers can be hidden in the credenzas if anyone wants the room neat, but right now the screens glow with tabs, numbers, and streaming data.
Mags wears a light blue tracksuit with crystals stitched neatly down the sides. Not subtle, but not blinding either. Jos has gone in the opposite direction with jeans and a pressed white shirt, every button closed to the collar.
“Sorry about the glitter,” Jos says, brushing her strawberry-blonde curls back over her shoulder. She’s softened the color as she’s aged. She yanks open a drawer, fishes out a bottle, and tosses it to me. “Claritin. You’ll need it. Your godmother and Mags turned this place into a glitter bomb.”
“We did not,” Aura says, lifting her chin. The rhinestones on her tracksuit catch the light like tiny beacons. “We just wanted to brighten things up a little.”
She’s not lying. Glitter dust coats the carpet, and blinking star-shaped lights are strung across the doorway, wrapped around the window frames, even outlining a couple of paintings like halos. The whole place twinkles with defiance.
I pop two pills and dry swallow. My throat burns, and I cough. Allergic to glitter. Lucky me. It’s only the cheap stuff that bothers me, because I’m fine with sequins. I collapse into the sofa facing one of the credenzas. “How’s it going?”
“Very well,” Aura answers, tapping fast across her keyboard, her gaze on the screens.
Mags glances at her own monitor. “Birthday calls are logged. Kindness tips, too. Five dollars sprinkled here and there. No loose ends.” She keeps it efficient, like she’s reporting in.
That’s her thing, sending unexpected thank-yous and thinking-of-yous across the city.
I don’t have the time to help, and she doesn’t need me.
She reaches for a small bowl of wrapped caramels. “Fuel,” she says, unwrapping one.
Aura leans back and grabs a vintage atomizer from the perfume table. She sprays a fine mist into the air, the scent warm and floral with a bite underneath. “So glad you like the blinking stars.” Her smile flashes as she nods at the lights above the door.
I don’t answer since I’m accustomed to her changing subjects. Her mind’s a thousand-watt circuit that never slows.
Aura was my mother’s childhood best friend, and she’s taught me most of what I know.
She worked switchboards back in the day and then outwitted phone phreakers after that.
She broke down billing systems a decade later, trained others to do so, then steadied voices on crisis hotlines for a spell.
Now she calls it retirement, but she runs scamproofing workshops for seniors and still manages to send goodwill out to strangers, one message at a time.
The glitter on the floor, the perfume, the blinking lights wrapped around everything—this is Aura’s doing. Her suite. Her command center.
The trio has been at this retirement home for about six months, and once they get it into tip-top shape, they’ll move to another one. It’s a good hobby for them.
Jos looks up from her screen, her expression tightening. “There’ve been two animal cruelty calls in the last couple of days. One’s already handled. The other is a Rottweiler out in the country that needs help. He’s chained up and starving.”
Of course she’d bring this to me. Jos never lets an animal slip through the cracks, and I can’t say no to her.
She taps another key, her gaze flicking across the feed. “I think we may have a litter of cats out there too. I’ve seen some CCTV footage from a barn.”
“There are barn cats,” I say.
Jos smiles faintly. The woman is nuts for animals.
That’s one of the reasons I love her. The other is her brain.
She started as a catalog clerk in her youth, working the stacks and learning every system libraries had to offer.
Public records came next, then genealogy, and eventually a deep dive into newspaper archives.
Now she’s neck deep in open-source intelligence, picking apart information that’s legally available to anyone with the patience to dig.
Mags gives me a long once-over. “Why don’t your tennis shoes match?”
“Long story. It’s what all the kids are doing,” I say easily.
“Uh-huh.” She leans over and lights a tree-shaped candle beside her computer to bless her machine. I’ve never understood it, but I don’t argue. A stack of paper manuals sits on the same table, and when she notices my stare, she lifts her chin. “It’s ambiance.”
“It’s kindling,” I mutter, standing and grabbing the candle. I move it across the room and set it on top of the antique cupboard near the door.
“Oh, whatever.” She waves a hand and then looks back at her monitor. “We’ve got a line on a child trafficking ring in the inner city.”
I move toward her. “Now that’s more like it. Give me the details.”
“I’ve been running it through the dark web,” she says, her voice calm, like she’s talking about the weather. “We should have names or directions to hand over to the authorities soon. Is Merlin up for helping?”
Merlin’s a member of my other band of do-gooders. He’s an ex-hacker, and when we had time, the two of us plus Rosalie and Alana did some good for the world. I’m sure we’ll get back to it as soon as things calm down a bit.
“I can probably get Merlin to help us. Alana’s on her honeymoon, and Rosalie’s still tied up building that house with Alexei.” The one with the extra space for her seven borders, including Merlin. “I’ll reach out.”
Aura’s cheeks color in a faint but noticeable hue against her jeweled tracksuit.
So it’s like that? At her age, she’s still got someone who makes her blush. My godmother, queen of glitter and strategy, is not as untouchable as she pretends. Interesting. “Wonderful,” she says quickly.
Mags rolls her eyes.
I grin. Mags has always been blunt. She started in family radio and TV repair when she was young, and eventually shifted into large-scale systems remediation.
Now she spends her time tracking human traffickers online.
Once she or Aura uncover something solid, they pass it to the authorities in a neat bundle.
“Let me know the second you’ve got anything useful,” I say.
Mags nods. “Of course. I’m digging now. We’ll have locations soon.”
“Good. Thank you.” I glance at the clock.
Aura fixes me with that steady godmother stare. “Is it time for us to go after your heritage? I’m getting older, and I won’t be here forever.”
“Yes.” I tell her about Sylveria visiting me in the hospital.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Mags cuts in. “I wonder what she wants from you. My guess would be that with the advances in AI, diamonds aren’t cutting it for her. TimeGem was built on citrines, with their different energy cadence, whether she likes it or not.”
Yeah, no kidding. I swallow. “Speaking of TimeGem, I’ve been working a backdoor through Aquarius Social to reach my servers.”
All three women turn toward me.
“Seriously?” Jos asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I found a backdoor already in place, and I don’t know who left it there.”
Aura pivots back to her keyboard, rhinestones glinting. “Yep. Already knew that.”
“What?” My body stills. I don’t need them running parallel hacks.
Jos straightens her already straight collar. “Please. We taught you, remember? We’ve been keeping tabs on Aquarius, Malice Media, and Hologrid while tracking TimeGem. Aura found the new signature last night.”
I sigh. “You’ve found evidence of the new hacker?”