Summoned Chaos (8 page)

“Second, the rest of the team gets a pass. Everyone.”

Rancin tensed, but thankfully kept quiet.

“Third, and lastly, I want full Wizarding credentials.”

Devon made a face like he’d eaten a cup of salt. “Why?”

“For starters, because I’m tired of my request getting buried under red tape. The credentials will grant me access to every file in the Research Library so I can improve my Skill, which I’m sure we’d all appreciate.”

There were several chuckles.

“But most important, because if you want me to be your little puppet, you need to give me something that will make it worth the pain.”

And because I can finally get my hands on all those classified reports from twenty years ago
, I thought.

The twins nodded, either in agreement or because they had no clue how to process the sight of a lowly Warlock back-talking with some Elders. Jethrow simply stared at me while Mick was doing everything he could to keep a straight face.

Eventually, Devon caved. “Fine. I’ll talk with the other Elders and ensure your demands are met.”

“Thank you.” Then to Elsa, “Anything you want?”

She glanced around the table. “A pay raise and an extra week of vacation would be nice. Also, some decent firepower for the guards. The M-4s we’re issued are tired.”

“Deal,” Devon said before anyone else could voice an opinion. “Now then, since we’ve agreed to your terms, does that mean we have your full support with this plan?”

Elsa said nothing, so I gave the Elder a thumbs-up.

Everyone sighed in relief.

“Well then, people,” Devon said, “let’s make the most of our plan.”

We all stood, then waited as Devon and Rancin departed. Once they left, the room cleared out in a hurry.

Jethrow grabbed my arm as I headed for the door. “Marcus, is everything okay?”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the swirling of hurt and guilt that I always felt around him. It was made worse by the fact that the last time we were this close, I’d failed to keep his blood from pumping out of his stomach wound. Sometimes I could still feel his warm, thick liquid flowing between my fingers.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just, you seem more on edge than in the past.”

“I’ve had a fun couple of days, Jethrow. But thank you for your concern.”

“Well, I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

His earnestness was touching. I wanted to tell him everything was okay between us. That maybe we’d be able to get back to the old days when we were close. Instead I just said, “I’ll keep it in mind. Now if you’ll excuse me, apparently I have to be the belle of the ball for a little while.”

Then, deciding I couldn’t be completely dispassionate anymore, I added, “I’m glad you’re doing better. Please say hello to Carrie for me.”

I walked out before he could say anything.

* * *

Albert Einstein theorized that the faster an object moved, the more mass it accumulated. Because of this, no object could ever reach the speed of light because if it did, it would have infinite mass. Therefore, the speed of light was not only a constant, but the fastest that anything could possibly travel.

Einstein was wrong.

Nothing, and I mean
nothing
, travels faster than gossip.

I’d been forced to shut off my phone during the meeting, but I powered it back on as soon as I left the building. The thing blew up with notifications and continued to ping with new ones during the drive home. Eventually the flood of incoming texts, emails, phone calls, carrier pigeons, smoke signals, telegraphs and interpretive dances got so annoying that I shut the thing down once again. With the phone silent, I enjoyed the peaceful warmth of the late-afternoon sun as I drove.

The quiet vanished as soon as I pulled into my neighborhood.

The scene outside my home was one of complete pandemonium. The Blogger Twins were hidden among a pack of white vans while a handful of local media trucks, complete with portable towers, clogged the small street between the townhouses. A few were even so bold as to park in my neighbor’s driveway.

But the media wasn’t the only annoying interloper.

Nearby, a small group of people gathered with handmade signs that read “God Hates Freaks” or “Skilled at Evil.” One even had a sloppy drawing of a witch being burned at the stake.

“Oh,
that’s
original,” I grumbled.

Protesters weren’t uncommon for the Skilled. Our society and the Normals were barely two decades beyond the peace treaty, which meant some folks still hadn’t adjusted to our existence. Granted, the average person went along their daily routine without much care or concern over us, but a handful were wary.

Then there was the vocal minority who seemed to enjoy pestering us. They ranged everywhere from kids in the street who threw insults, to parents who made a stink whenever a Skilled child wanted to join a little league team or something.

The worst, however, were the religious zealots who claimed everything from Global Warming to new tax laws were a sign that God was punishing the world. The mere existence of the Skilled drove those folks batty. Thankfully, the average Normal had progressed beyond that point, but every so often the cries of those who feared or hated us gained volume.

The entire crowd, media and protesters alike, burst into action as I pulled into view. Reporters, camera crews and everyday citizens filled the street, blocking my path. I politely honked, waving people out of the way, but no one moved. The media dogs snapped pictures or talked into hand-held recorders while the protesters shouted judgmental warnings at me.

The attention was awkward, to say the least. I didn’t like being in the spotlight to begin with, especially considering my past had a few bloody skeletons in it. To suddenly have the eyes of the nation upon me made me feel exposed. Naked, even.

I also felt slightly violated. In the blink of an eye, my privacy was gone. And my adoring public seemed split down the middle between obsessive and condemning.

It took eight seconds of this crap for me to shift from “Mildly Tolerant” to “Violently Pissed.” I revved the engine and jerked the Ghost forward. The nearest people scampered out of the way while those behind them parted like the Red Sea. I smiled with grim satisfaction as I finally eased through the crowd and pulled into my garage. Like the bloggers had before, the throng started to pile into my drive, but I closed the door before anyone slipped inside.

Ignoring the voices outside and the constant ringing of the doorbell, I vaulted up the stairs to the living room, drew the curtains across the sliding door to the back deck, then cranked my music as loud as it would go. Having successfully shut out the media, at least for a short time, I checked my freelancer business phone. I frowned when the automated service informed me that my voicemail box was full.

I listened to the first dozen messages, all of which were from various press outlets, then just deleted everything before killing that phone as well. Realizing I was a prisoner in my own home for the evening, I did what any reasonable bachelor would do.

I had a drink.

The scotch was decent, but not great. By my second tumbler, however, I didn’t care. Opting to enjoy my evening in, I cooked up some dinner, poured another glass, and sat down to watch a movie.

Three-quarters of the way through
Cars
, I paused the film to take a bathroom break. Sitting back down on the sofa, I reached for the remote, then froze.

A presence flashed in my senses, filling the air with tension before vanishing altogether. I scanned the room with my Skill, searching for it, but there was no trace. Still, the lingering sense of what I’d felt caused my skin to tingle.

Something was in my house.

There was a reason why people referred to their home as their castle. Humans infused a portion of their persona into the walls and over time, it created a natural barrier between the house and the outside world. The longer someone stayed in one place, the thicker the perimeter. It was the reason why hotel rooms always felt so awkward and old mansions so haunted with memories. The only caveat to this unwritten rule was public buildings which had too many people flowing in and out to create much of a perimeter.

The irony about these mystical barricades was that all humans, whether Skilled or Normal, seemed capable of creating them. None of the Skilled historians could explain how counterparts were able to access this power, but to date it was the only magic they seemed capable of. Most Normals were unaware of the ability, brushing off their inability to sleep in a hotel as discomfort from travel. But given enough time, they’d infuse enough of their persona to build the “comfortable” barrier.

The Skilled, on the other hand, were more conscious of these fortifications because of our heightened senses. We could feel buildings at a more granular level and took great strides to protect our own houses. Most of us learned a basic set of defensive spells that were designed to allow invited guests in while keeping the majority of evil things at bay.

The magical fences worked well, but every once in a while, a creature was powerful enough to pound its way through.

The barrier I’d created was thicker than the usual—thanks to the target painted on my back by carrying the Shifter name. My family had spent generations mowing down paranormal bad guys, so the list of enemies was as long as it was diverse. As such, I’d wrapped my home in layers of magical landmines just in case something got a wild hair to come after me. They weren’t perfect, but they were better than any home security system on the market when it came to dealing with supernatural invaders.

In the five years since I’d moved into my townhouse, the perimeter had been breached only once. The vampling—a small but powerful hitman—had been hired by a cut-rate slaver guild from the Underground to take out anyone in the Shifter family.

Apparently the vampling had figured I was an easier target than my Councilman father and Huntress mother—he showed up unarmed. Unfortunately for him, his brains weren’t on par with his brawn, so his powers had been sucked dry breaking into my house. By the time he’d made it into my living room, he couldn’t have stopped a NERF dart, much less the .45 caliber slugs I pumped into his skull. And once Dad pieced together who’d sent him, that guild was never heard from again.

But even though the defensive layer had served its purpose, the violation of my home had me feeling exposed for months afterward.

Setting my scotch down, that sensation came back with a vengeance.

What spooked me even more was that as I sensed the barrier, it felt fully intact. If something had snuck in, they’d have left a trail similar to a bull in a china shop. Whatever had slipped through had done so by maneuvering through the layers like a wraith and had done so without tripping any of the alarms.

Raw power was one thing, but a creature that could use it surgically and with that level of stealth was something truly terrifying.

I slowly moved through the living room, sensing as I went. Everything seemed in place, so I continued to the dining room. That, too, was unoccupied. I eased down the stairs to the garage level, but the Gray Ghost sat in darkness, undisturbed.

Closing the door, I quietly opened the downstairs closet and pulled my sword from the scabbard. The blue steel glinted in the stark lights from the media vans shining through the blinds. I’d have preferred the Glock—I was more comfortable with putting lead into things—but if the intruder was powerful enough to slip through my defenses like it had, bullets would only anger it. The blade, however, would amplify my Skill. Based on the tingling in the back of my mind, that seemed like the better option.

The stairs creaked slightly as I eased back up them. I paused, praying that whatever was in my home couldn’t hear the thumping of my heartbeat. Thankfully, all I felt was the stillness of the evening.

With two of the three levels cleared, I wiped my sweaty palm on my jeans, then inched up the steps to the bedrooms. With the blade of my sword leading the way, I checked the two spares first. Both rooms and the common bathroom were clear. That left only one more choice.

I slipped down the short hallway on the balls of my feet while my heart thundered in my chest. As I approached my bedroom door, I flipped through my mental Rolodex of spells, settling on a handful of easy, powerful ones that utilized different elements.

I slowly inserted my blade through the crack in the door, slid it up along the wall, and flipped on the bedroom lights.

White light illuminated the room like a small sun as I kicked open the door. My sword vibrated with anticipation, glinting in the false light like a beacon of death. I swiped it left and right, sucking in the small bits of electricity from a nearby outlet in order to bake whatever creature was waiting for me.

The room was empty.

I lowered my sword, but kept the Electricity Spell charged just in case. A quick check of my walk-in closet and bath revealed nothing but an outdated wardrobe and a severe need to clean the shower. I checked again with the same results.

With a huff of annoyance, I released my hold on the spell. Maybe the presence of the media was making me more paranoid than usual or maybe the scotch was muddling my senses. Either way, the fact that I had worked myself into a lather for nothing was embarrassing.