Hell's Menagerie (5 page)

By the time the giant hand released her skull, Emma was coated in a cold sweat. Her skin was sticky, the face paint like glue on her skin. She slid off the smelly creature, and her legs collapsed beneath her. Rex caught her and dragged her away as the troll slowly got to its feet, bent over, picked up its massive club, and then lifted its head.

Time slowed. The crowd went quiet.

The troll stood straight and proud, its eyes raised to the crowd. It drew in a deep breath, its chest expanding.

And then it let out the loudest, scariest, angriest roar Emma had ever heard.

Silence descended. The crowd seemed to sense things had changed, sensed something different was about to take place. The troll turned its head, glanced over its shoulder at Emma. Poor thing. So angry, so scared, craving the mountains and its home, its family. She nodded. With a quickness not expected from such a hulking beast, it swung its head back around and zeroed in on Baasîl's box.

Emma watched in satisfaction as Baasîl's gray skin went a few shades lighter.

And then it was on. The troll charged. The hunt began. The crowd freaked and stampeded for the exits.

Her legs were still weak, her body still shaking, but she stepped out of Rex's hold. She didn't look back. Didn't want to. Didn't need to. Instead, Emma walked toward the arena gate, calm and focused. Tired and sad.

Baasîl was on his own. The troll, a female, would do what she wanted to the one who had trapped and caged her. Emma had been surprised about the gender, but not the emotions, not the desire to go home. She hadn't given an order to kill. But that's what the outcome would be. It was the troll's choice, but Emma knew the role she played, and she knew she'd have to live with it. And after the troll had its revenge, it would flee, escaping out the gaping mouth of Telmath and into the Charbydon wilds. Flee rather than fight. Harm no one else, just . . . run—that's what Emma had imprinted on its mind.

Tears stung her eyes as she walked over the soft earth to the sounds of screams. Rex and Brim caught up with her, and together they went through the gate and into the back area of the tent.

“We're releasing them,” she told Rex as panicked carnival workers ran past them.

“Emma. We can't. Turning them out in the city . . . They're wild animals. They'll kill innocent people.”

She looked into his eyes, so like her father's, and felt like she'd aged by years. “I know. I'll take care of it. I can influence them, Rex. They'll listen to me. They want to go home. They'll run, nothing more. The ones who live off-world can follow us to the portal or choose to make a life in the wild. There are sixteen animals in the menagerie and two in cages back here.” Her voice was shaky, her body numb. She drew in a deep, steadying breath and waited to see if he'd back her up. And somehow, his answer meant more to her than anything.

Rex parked his hands on his hips. He looked ridiculous in his tuxedo leotard and face paint. Her smile grew from the inside out because she knew that look and knew his answer.

“I swear, it's never a dull moment with you Madigan women,” he said, shaking his head and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, kid. Let's do this.”

Turn the page for a look at
The Better Part of Darkness
, the first book in Kelly Gay's Charlie Madigan series.

“Y
ou told a two-thousand-year-old oracle to
prove it
.” Hank kept pace beside me, nursing his bloody nose with a handful of fast-food napkins I'd pulled from the glove box earlier. “I mean, do you ever think before the words spew out of your mouth, Charlie?”

“Yeah, all the time.” I jogged up the four brick steps. “If Alessandra didn't have to act like a know-it-all, then I wouldn't have to say things to her.”

“She
is
a know-it-all!”

A tired huff escaped me as I opened the front door to Hope Ridge School for Girls and fixed Hank with a deadpan look. “You've been whining ever since we left.”

He swept past me, riding high on his martyrdom. “I'm not whining, I'm complaining. About you. And your incredible talent for pissing off people way more powerful than yourself.”

I was exhausted from another sleepless night, and Hank's bitching grated on my last nerve. “Well, what do you want me to say, Hank?”

We strode at a fast clip down the empty hallway, passing Emma's homeroom door. Hope Ridge was my daughter's school. I'd been there hundreds of times in the last four years. But never like this.

Granted, the call that went over the wire was for paramedics, not ITF. The only reason we'd come was to make sure everything was okay. Otherwise we'd be over at Thumbs Up having a late breakfast.

“How about I'm sorry,” Hank was saying. “Sorry, Hank, for always getting you punched, kicked, cursed out, et cetera, et cetera . . .” He dabbed at his nose a few times. The bleeding had finally stopped. “I don't know why they always hit
me
when you're the one who—”

Two school security guards blocked the restroom door. Hank had the good sense to end the conversation as we approached.

“She's in there,” one of them said, holding the door open.

I nodded my thanks, stepped inside, and immediately froze. My lungs deflated on a stunned exhale. “Shit.”

Hank let the door close behind us, gave a quick once-over of the victim on the floor, and then studied my shocked face. “What? You know this girl?”

I stared down at the female body curled into a fetal position, one hand under her cheek, as though she'd simply decided to lie down on the ugly green-and-white tiled floor of the girls' bathroom and take a nap.

Numbness and disbelief stole over me. I blinked hard, wanting to erase what I was seeing, wanting to go back to this morning and somehow change the course of events that had led to this.

“Charlie?”

I didn't answer. My voice wouldn't come.

Hank knelt by the right shoulder of the girl, rested one arm casually across his thigh, and stared up at me. Annoyed wrinkles creased the corners of his mouth. Nothing unusual. Hank looked at me like that all the time.

“Hello? Earth to Madigan. What the hell's with you today?”

I did a mental shake to regain my clarity. Didn't help much. I knew what I had to do. Investigate. Gather information. But I couldn't remember how to begin. Nothing had hit so close to home before. Hank's big form made the teenage girl on the floor look so small, so childlike . . . so innocent.

“Wait a second,” he said as it dawned on him, “October tenth. Your favorite day of the year. How could I forget? An entire day of you being loopy as hell.” He sighed and raised his perfect face to the ceiling. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Uh, you invaded my world, my city, my life. How's
that
for starters?” I shot him my trademark smile—cynical and slightly twisted.

Yeah, October tenth was my favorite freaking day of the year. The thirteenth anniversary. The day heaven and hell came out of the closet. Literally.

It wasn't a day one tended to forget.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah,” I answered automatically.

I had to regain control of myself. I was good at my job and now it meant more than ever because I knew this girl. I'd practically watched her grow up. I'd just seen her this morning, for God's sake.

“Yeah, I know her. Don't you recognize her?” My voice didn't break, but my heart hurt like a sonofabitch. “Amanda Mott. She's”—I swallowed—“was Emma's friend and babysitter. Big sister, really . . .”

Hank gave a solemn nod. “Thus the ‘shit' comment.”

“Thus the ‘shit' comment.”

“She have any illnesses you know of? Depression? Unstable?”

“No, nothing like that. She's a good kid, Hank.”

His troubled sigh echoed in the sterile bathroom. I watched him turn his attention back to Amanda's body, leaning closer—too close.

I knelt down. “Jesus, Hank, are you sniffing her?”

Blue topaz eyes met mine, and he hit me with a full-on grin. Sometimes, when he did that, it stole my breath for a split second. He dragged his fingers through thick, wavy hair the color of sunshine on gold and then frowned. “You don't smell that?”

I leaned closer and sniffed. “Uh, no.”

“Figures,” he muttered. “You people are so out of touch.”

Oh, did I mention? Hank wasn't human.

All part of the policy. Integrate. Work together. Build relationships. Hank and I have been partners for three years now, both assigned to the ITF—Integration Task Force—which has pretty much taken over the policing and monitoring of
all
immigrant beings . . . whether from here or somewhere else.

No one had been happy about being assigned to work with an off-world partner. In fact, there wasn't a law enforcement officer out there who'd been comfortable with the new assignments. But we soon saw the necessity. With the influx of any
alien
, illegal or otherwise, crime rose. Better to have the insider knowledge to deal with it.

Hank was a siren. Particularly useful in police work. Criminals, suspects, witnesses—they all
wanted
to tell the truth just to please him. All he had to do was take off his voice modifier. Developed by Mott Technologies and made of thick iridescent metal with two balls at the ends, similar to a Celtic torc, the voice-mod adjusted Hank's supernaturally alluring voice into something we mere mortals could handle without embarrassing ourselves. And it wasn't just women. Men, kids, babies, animals, you name it. Any living creature was drawn to Hank like he was the village piper. I liked to call him the village idiot, but, hey, that's just me.

Hank's expression became serious, his frown deepening. He reached out and put two fingers on the side of Amanda's neck and then closed his eyes. I waited, knowing not to interrupt. Hank was right, for the most part. Humans
were
more out of touch in the psychic sense, though ITF had begun hiring any psychically inclined officer they could get their hands on. Off-worlders, however, were blessed with an overabundance of senses.

“You gotta be kidding me.” He removed his fingers and gave me a frank look. “She's not dead.”

“What?”

“She's not dead.”

Immediately I felt for her pulse. Nothing. “I swear to God, Hank, I'll put a bullet in your belly and send you back to Elysia if you're messing with me.” And I'd done it once before, so he knew to take me seriously.

“Jeez, Charlie, give me some credit, will you? I wouldn't kid you about this.”

Emma loved Amanda like any devoted little sister would. She also adored Hank. And I knew that if this affected her, then Hank wouldn't mess with me on something so personal.

I stared at my partner over Amanda's body for a hard second, then shot to my feet and radioed the paramedics with the news as Hank began walking slowly down the row of stalls, searching each one for clues as to what might've caused Amanda to drop into a death-like sleep on the cold, dirty floor during third period Algebra.

I crouched next to Amanda, wanting so badly to tuck the loose strands of white-blonde hair behind her ear. But I didn't dare.
God, please don't let this be what I think it is.

As we waited for the paramedics, I used the time to scan her body, searching over the Black Watch plaid skirt, the knee-high white socks, the chunky black Mary Janes, and the white blouse. It was the same uniform Emma had worn to school, the same one she wore every day. Nothing seemed out of place, except for Amanda herself. She looked peaceful, happy even.

The medical examiner entered the bathroom with her hard, shiny black case and equally shiny black bob, which curved under a small oval face, determined red lips, and dark Asian eyes. She'd gotten another new pair of glasses and they framed her eyes perfectly, as did the other twenty-odd pairs she owned. Liz bought designer eyeglasses like some women bought expensive shoes. “Hey, Madigan.” She shut the door behind her. “How is it you can afford to send your kid to a swanky place like this?”

I was going to kill Hank. The blabbermouth.

I stood and moved aside. “It's called child support. Automatic draft is a wondrous thing.”

“Ah, that would explain it.” She set down her case, opened it, and withdrew a small pair of latex gloves, which she put on with a loud snap. Then she knelt next to Amanda to check her pulse and listen to her heartbeat. “Heard over the radio you have a live one here.” She sighed, preferring to analyze the dead over the living. “Not exactly my specialty but . . . How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” I answered quietly, allowing Liz to be the brilliant medical examiner that she was. Of course it didn't hurt that she was also a kick-ass necromancer. Usually, what the dead couldn't tell us from our investigation, they could tell Liz. But we always tried to solve a case ourselves. It took a massive amount of energy and life force to raise the dead. And if Liz did it for every John Doe who rolled through the door, she would've lost her own life a long time ago. After a long moment, she removed the earpieces to the stethoscope.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Heartbeat is so damn faint and slow you can hardly hear it with the stethoscope. At this rate, she should be going into cardiac arrest. Looks like all the others.”

I glanced impatiently at the door. Where the hell were the medics?

Still hopeful, Liz examined Amanda's skull. “There appears to be no external damage to her body at all. Maybe an aneurysm, or . . .” She lifted Amanda's eyelid, and we both gasped even though we'd seen this a dozen times in the last week.

I knelt down. “Damn.”

A cloudy white film glazed over Amanda's eye. Goose bumps crept up my arms and legs, a sign of foreboding that left me downright cold. The Pine-Sol scent of the room was starting to give me a headache.