Storm (The Storm Chronicles Book 6) (4 page)

Levac turned the file around so he could see. The grainy photograph showed a middle-aged man face-down at a huge desk. It was obvious his throat had been cut, both arteries severed.

“No way was it suicide. That cut looks like it was done from behind,” he said.

“Exactly,” Sable said with a grin.

“All the investigators on this are going to be long dead, what’s your plan, a séance?” Levac asked.

Sable slipped out of the booth and pulled on her jacket. “They aren’t all dead. The lead detective’s partner hasn’t croaked yet. He’s a resident at a convalescent home up in Evanston. Come on, he’s probably up by now.”

Levac stood and followed Sable outside to where she’d parked her black Jaguar F-Type at the curb. Sable plucked a parking ticket from the windshield and tossed it into the street.

Levac glared at her. “What are you doing?”

“What?”

“The ticket.”

“Like I’m going to pay a parking ticket, Rupe,” Sable laughed.

She climbed into the car and the passenger window slid down. “Are you coming?”

Levac opened the door and joined her. “You should pay the ticket.”

Sable glared at him and Levac saw her eyes turn to green slits. “You should shut up, Rupert.”

Levac could feel the menace, the hate and power rolling off her and he almost reached for his pistol.

“Don’t do that, Sable,” he said.

Sable popped a piece of gum into her mouth and started the car. “Do what?”

“Threaten me with your vampire.”

Sable looked at him and her eyes were normal. “I don’t threaten, partner.”

Levac looked away, never missing Raven more than he did now.

CHAPTER FOUR

Seattle, Washington: 901 Boren Ave.

Dr. Igor Clark’s office was in the middle of a building called the Medical Tower. Though he was a private physician and psychiatrist, Section Thirteen contracted him to work with agents who had to deal with the preternatural. Raven sat in the blue and white decorated waiting room outside his office and tried to tell the butterflies doing cartwheels in her stomach to settle down. She’d rarely had sensations like this and now she understood why anxiety killed people. It was certainly doing its best to kill her.

She picked up a fashion magazine and tried thumbing through it, but was bored before she got through the thick stack of ads at the beginning. She tossed it away in disgust and slouched in the seat. The man across from her glared at her like she’d yelled in a library and she arched an eyebrow at him.

“Problem?”

He must not have liked the look on her face. He shook his head and went back to his own science magazine without a word. Raven stared at him for a beat longer then went back to watching the clock above him tick slowly onward. The door beside her opened a moment later and a woman in a classic nurse’s uniform looked at her. “Agent Storm? Dr. Clark will see you, now.”

Raven stood and followed her down a short corridor to Clark’s office. She walked through into the large room, which was decorated more like a pirate captain’s cabin than a psychiatrist’s office, and sat on the leather sofa that was half of the room’s furniture comfortable enough to sit on. Dr. Clark entered from the far door and crossed the room using his cane. Every step was slow, his breathing labored. He dropped into the chair opposite Raven and adjusted his glasses.

“Good morning, Agent Storm,” he said with a slight lisp. “How are you?”

“Doctor. Can we get this over with?” Raven asked.

Clark made a face. “Impatient as ever, I see. Would it kill you to be polite? Perhaps try something new?”

Raven glared at him. “My fiancé is alone on a dangerous assignment because you won’t pass my psyche exam and put me back on field duty. I’m not shooting you, so this is me being polite.”

Clark sat back and picked up the file folder beside him. “I won’t pass you? Raven, it is you who must pass, not the other way around. When we last spoke you could not fire your weapon and were having recurring nightmares about your father that prevented you from getting adequate sleep. An agent that cannot think clearly or act in defense of herself and the public cannot be on field duty. Has anything changed?”

“I’m sleeping longer at night,” Raven said.

Clark smiled. “That is good. Tell me about the nightmares. When you first came to me—”

“I was sent,” Raven said.

“When you first came to me,” Clark repeated, “you saw yourself shooting your father, Mason Storm. You were waking in cold sweats, unable to get back to sleep. And now?”

Raven looked at her hands. “The same. I am sleeping longer, but still waking to the sweats.”

Clark sighed. “Raven, you must let go of the guilt. You couldn’t have known that he was your real father. You thought him long dead, yes?”

Raven rubbed her forehead. “I thought he was one of the shapeshifters. My father died when I was a kid. At least, I thought he had.”

“Correct. You acted to protect yourself and others from a perceived threat. You have been cleared of any wrongdoing and in fact your father will be reprimanded for surprising you in the field when he wakes,” Clark said.

“That’s ridiculous! I shot him and he’s been in a coma for the last month, that should be enough punishment,” Raven said.

Clark shrugged. “We have rules, Raven. Your father’s actions not only put him out of commission, they resulted in you being taken off active duty, as well.”

“Rules that are stupid should be ignored.”

“Yes, that is a recurring theme in your file. You don’t like rules, much. That may someday be your undoing, but in the meantime, we need to discuss your nightmares and your fear of using your weapon,” Clark said.

“Fine. Let’s talk,” Raven said.

Clark turned a page in the file. “To date you have been involved in over forty confirmed fatal shootings and never found of any wrongdoing. Have you ever had nightmares before?”

“Of course not. The perps were armed, dangerous and provoking,” Raven said.

“Which means?”

Raven met his eyes. “Killing them was justified.”

“And shooting Mason Storm?” Clark pressed.

Raven shook her head. “Not justified. He wasn’t armed, he wasn’t a threat to me or anyone else.”

“But he was!” Clark roared. The small man leaned forward, his craggy face mere inches from Raven’s. “You had just fought and were almost killed by a powerful shapeshifter. You had seen duplicates of yourself and others, had just fought a doppelganger of yourself. Given the facts, as the board has said, you acted appropriately. It was far cleaner than tossing the Lakeside Strangler out of a window!”

“I kicked him, I didn’t toss him,” Raven said.

Clark leaned back into his chair. “It is the same difference, Raven. Every act you have officially been involved in was justified, including this one. Mason Storm made the mistake, not you. So what is the problem?”

Raven gaped at him. “I shot my own father—”

“Exactly! You shot your father and you feel guilt after the fact, though you know he will recover. This is what we must explore! Why do you feel guilty?” Clark asked.

“Are you insane? I shot my father. If he wasn’t immortal he’d be on a slab instead of in a coma!”

“Indeed. But he is immortal and he will recover. His record shows he is almost completely healed. So, again, why is there guilt?”

Raven sighed and leaned back into the sofa. “I don’t know, doc, why don’t you tell me?”

“This is something only you can explore, Raven. Had it not been your father you shot, had you in fact killed a shapeshifter, you would have gone home without a moment of remorse, as you have before. Though you know he will survive without any lasting effects, you feel deep remorse over shooting Mason. It is a puzzle. Until you solve it, I cannot recommend you for field work. I’m sorry,” Clark said.

Raven stood and moved to the window. For once, it wasn’t raining and the city looked clean in the sunlight. New.

“I shot an innocent man,” she said in a soft voice.

“Mason Storm is hardly innocent, but I will not argue semantics. Why is guilt or innocence an issue?”

“My job is to catch and stop the guilty, not shoot the innocent. What if it happens again, what if I become…”

Raven trailed off and closed her eyes.

“Become what, Ravenel,” Clark said.

“One of the monsters,” Raven replied.

Clark nodded. “That is good. To air your fear. Are you a monster?”

Raven turned from the window and leaned against it. “Do you think I am?”

Clark turned in his seat. “What I think is not important, Raven. It is you who is being evaluated. What makes someone a monster?”

“Monsters kill indiscriminately, because they like it. They prey on and hurt others because they enjoy it,” Raven said.

“Did you enjoy shooting Mason Storm?” Clark asked.

Raven felt her ire rise. “Of course not!”

Clark smiled and there was mischief in his eyes. “Truly? Not even a little?”

Raven strode toward him, ready to pull his head off. “Not even a little. I did the job, I did what I thought was right, to protect myself and everyone else!”

Clark nodded. “Good.”

Raven stopped. “What?”

“You have said what I already knew. What else makes a monster?”

Raven cocked her head and looked at Clark with narrowed eyes. She felt like she was being baited, but had no idea what Clark was getting at. But she felt better letting it out. “They aren’t human.”

“Figuratively or literally?” Clark asked.

“Figuratively. Some of the worst monsters are humans, literally, and some of the best people are not. Monsters have lost their humanity, they don’t care anymore,” Raven said.

Clark stood and Raven looked down at him.

“Do you care, Raven Storm?” he asked.

“I do. Very much.”

Clark nodded and turned away. “Then we are done here, Agent Storm. I do not need to see you again.”

II

Crescent Star, North Atlantic, 8:00 a.m.

The bridge of the Crescent Star was as King had told her it would be; awash in blood and offal that was somehow still wet, with bits of old flesh hanging from the walls and ceiling. Brody entered and panned his light around the room. “Good God!”

Aspen joined him, her own light falling on the skull pinned to the ship’s wheel. “Probably not.”

There was a distinct aroma in the room, not of blood, which was also present, but something else, something she couldn’t place.

“No sign of Agent Norman,” Kane said.

Aspen nodded absently. “Brody, check the controls, priority one is getting this thing stopped. Ford, help him, your file says you’re a guru at this stuff.”

“I’m not the only one,” Ford said.

Aspen looked at her. “No, you aren’t. But I’m trying to keep whatever is here from eating us, so you get to play with the controls.”

“What have you found?” King asked in her ear.

“Not what I found, what I feel,” Aspen corrected. “This ship is dark.”

“Can you be a little less vague?” Mercy asked.

“It’s full of dark magik. I have us under a shield, but there is something out there, trying to reach us. It’s very powerful,” Aspen said.

“Can you identify the source?” King asked.

Aspen turned to look into Kane’s camera. “I’m trying, but it is risky. If I probe too much I will leave the team unprotected.”

“Understood. Priority is getting the ship stopped. We can fight the entity afterward,” King said.

“Won’t that be fun.”

Aspen turned away from Brody’s camera. What she felt was worse than she could describe in simple terms. She hadn’t felt this kind of darkness since Xavier and Strohm had forced her to become a familiar. This was even worse, if she hadn’t grown more powerful since then, it would have been in her mind already.

“Mercy, keep an eye on the door, if anything out there moves, shoot it,” she said.

Mercy drew her bow. “What if it’s Lila?”

Aspen shook her head. “It won’t be. Even if it looks like her, it isn’t. The only living entities on this ship are in this room.”

She turned to the back of the bridge. “Kane, you’re with me.”

As the team set about their appointed tasks, Aspen opened the door to the captain’s office. What was inside was even worse than the bridge. A human skin had been stretched over the porthole in the shape of a pentagram, with the head in the middle. Words written in blood covered the wall and the remains of more than a dozen people floated on a floor thick with blood.

“My God, what happened here?” Kane asked.

Aspen stepped into the room, taking it all in. The smell of death was almost overpowering, what was worse was the scent of evil. Raven had said before that places smelled evil to her, but Aspen had never experienced it, until now.

She looked up at the skin over the window and moved the head so she could see the face. “Does this guy look familiar to you?”

Kane walked closer, his boots making the blood slosh. “I think it is Captain DaSilva.”

“The captain when the
Star
was launched?” Aspen asked.

“The same,” Kane replied.

“By the skin, I would say he’s only been dead about seventy-two hours. After forty years he should be a mummy, not recognizable at all,” Aspen said.

“How do you know?”

She glanced at him. “Because it’s my job. I should be using dental records to identify a corpse this old.”

She lowered DaSilva’s head and turned to the rest of the room. “His log has to be around here somewhere, right? It’s like a boat thing.”

“In the desk, most likely. DaSilva was a fastidious man, everything in its time and place.”

“Did you know him?” Aspen asked.

Kane shook his head. “I only knew of him. He and the ship were in the news quite a lot. She was supposed to be the most luxurious ship since the Titanic and the news ate it up.”

Aspen fought to ignore the pile of body parts on the desk and began rummaging through the contents. Much of it was coated in wet, runny blood, but after dumping pens, paper, and manifests onto the floor she found what she was looking for: a thick volume bound in black with gold-edged paper. The cover read ‘Crescent Star Captain’s Log’ in gold. Kane made her a space on the desk with a sweep of one long arm and she opened the book to the last page. It was nothing but a series of occult symbols and Latin, written in blood. She flipped back through the pages until she found the captain’s last entry. She read it aloud for Kane.

1972 (I think)

Reynolds is dead, acting physician Trent found her. Or what was left of her. Dear God, where are we? Help us!

“It sounds like they were lost,” Kane said.

Aspen frowned and flipped more pages. “How do you get lost in the North Atlantic, even in the 1970s? And look at the dates, the log goes way past the time that they should have been found. His last entry is dated 1972.”