“I can hear a police radio. They’re looking for two men and a woman seen leaving the blast site.”
“Two guys covered in dust and bruises?” Adam said. “And a girl who looks like she went swimming in a sewer?”
Jeremy nodded.
I looked down at my soaked clothing. The only unscathed one was Jaime, who’d been blocks away when the building went up.
Jeremy said, “Anita Barrington set off an alarm, meaning there will be members of the reveal movement looking for all of us. You’re going to need to hole up until Jaime finds us clean clothing. I’ll go with her while she does.”
“I’ll be—” Jaime began, then cut herself short. As a necromancer, she had no innate defensive skills. As a forty-seven-year-old on the celebrity circuit, she didn’t have any acquired ones either: All she usually had to deal with were hecklers. “I need backup, but I don’t think it should be you,” she finally said to Jeremy. “Bryce needs a guard with superhearing and super-strength. I just need someone to watch my back. Savannah can do that. She isn’t battered and bruised. Her jeans are black and won’t look wet from a distance.”
Jaime gave me her jacket—a cute leather one that we’d bought on a trip to Milan. It was a little short—she’s five-five and I’m nearly seven inches taller—so on me it looked fashionably cropped. With the help of her brush and scarf, we tied my wet hair back and I stopped looking like a drowned rat, even if my sneakers sloshed with every step.
We found the guys a quiet spot to wait. Then we set off.
The Supernatural Liberation Movement. I gave them a vowel and called them SLAM. Their mission was to reveal the existence of supernaturals to the human world. There was a very good reason we hadn’t done this already—because it was stupid. Every time the world found out about us, heads rolled—our heads. Even if we could argue that this wasn’t the Middle Ages anymore, we weren’t just different in gender, skin color, religion, sexual orientation, or any other equality issue. We had powers. Often deadly powers that gave us an advantage over humans. You can bet your ass we wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms … except maybe by military research facilities. So why was this movement gaining traction? First, the majority of supernaturals are not as tuned in to our world as I am. Through the Cabals and my connection to the interracial council, I had the advantage of seeing things from a global and historical perspective. Second, there are a lot of disaffected supernaturals out there, especially young ones who don’t understand why the hell they shouldn’t flaunt their abilities. For most of my twenty-one years, I’d have agreed with them—I had power, so I used it. All these young supernaturals needed was a man with a plan. And they found him in Giles Reyes—AKA Gilles de Rais—a charismatic leader who’d convinced them that a bunch of unusual events in our world—including me, a sorcerer/witch hybrid—fulfilled some kind of prophecy that declared it was time for the big reveal. It didn’t hurt that Giles claimed he was really a fifteenth-century French nobleman who’d stumbled on immortality and had, after centuries of experimentation, found a way to grant it to all his followers. That was the “vaccine” he’d given Bryce. I thought of my brother, who was ready to keel over. Apparently it hadn’t quite been perfected yet.
Now, because of us, Giles’s vaccine had been destroyed before it could be perfected. He was going be pissed. I really wished I could stay to see that, but we had places to go, things to do, a world to save.
When police cars zipped past, sirens wailing, Jaime caught my arm and gestured wildly, laughing, as if sharing a juicy bit of gossip. We were nearly to the commercial district when a police cruiser whipped around the corner, cut us off, and slammed on the brakes.
“Play it cool,” Jaime whispered.
I hadn’t planned to do anything else.
“Hey, guys,” Jaime said as the officers—a slender, middle-aged woman and a stocky young patrolman—climbed out of the car. “We heard the sirens. What’s going on?”
“A bomb was detonated a few blocks over.”
“Seriously?” Jaime’s eyes rounded as she scanned the rooftops. “Where? I have a blog, and if I could get photos, that would be—”
“Um, bomb, Jaime?” I cut in. “Normal people run the other way.”
“Because normal people don’t have a Twitter feed with a hundred thousand followers.” She took out her cell phone and propped up her shades. “Do you know the address? I can foursquare it now, then tweet photos after we get there.”
“We are not going to a bomb site—we are going to your interview.” I turned to the officers, mouthed, “Hollywood,” and rolled my eyes.
“Can we see some identification?” the woman asked.
“Absolutely,” Jaime chirped, then giggled. “But the date of birth is between us, right?”
Gotta say this—Jaime has the ditzy C-lister routine down pat. The male officer seemed ready to hop back into the car, but his partner insisted on the ID.
Jaime showed her cards and offered to send autographed eight-by-tens. She explained who she was—Jaime Vegas, renowned spiritualist, as formerly seen on the Keni Bales Show and more. The male cop said he’d heard of her and that his sister-in-law would love a signed photo.
“That’s … an interesting way of making a living,” said the female officer—Medina, according to her badge. “You’re free to go on to your interview, Ms. Vegas. It’s your friend here who needs to come with us.”
“What?” Jaime screeched. “No. She’s not my friend. I mean, yes, of course you are, dear.” A pat on my arm. “But she’s my publicist. I need her for the interview.”
“Then you’ll have to reschedule, because she’s coming with us. She was seen entering the bombed building before the blast, then leaving it shortly after.”
“Wouldn’t I need to have left before the bomb, considering I’m still alive?”
Medina’s look warned me not to be a smart ass. “We just want to speak to you.”
“Then speak here.”
“Miss, we have multiple eyewitness reports. That’s enough to arrest you on, but we’d like to give you the chance to talk to us first. Provide some insight into your co-conspirators.”
“Two guys covered in dust and bruises?” Adam said. “And a girl who looks like she went swimming in a sewer?”
Jeremy nodded.
I looked down at my soaked clothing. The only unscathed one was Jaime, who’d been blocks away when the building went up.
Jeremy said, “Anita Barrington set off an alarm, meaning there will be members of the reveal movement looking for all of us. You’re going to need to hole up until Jaime finds us clean clothing. I’ll go with her while she does.”
“I’ll be—” Jaime began, then cut herself short. As a necromancer, she had no innate defensive skills. As a forty-seven-year-old on the celebrity circuit, she didn’t have any acquired ones either: All she usually had to deal with were hecklers. “I need backup, but I don’t think it should be you,” she finally said to Jeremy. “Bryce needs a guard with superhearing and super-strength. I just need someone to watch my back. Savannah can do that. She isn’t battered and bruised. Her jeans are black and won’t look wet from a distance.”
Jaime gave me her jacket—a cute leather one that we’d bought on a trip to Milan. It was a little short—she’s five-five and I’m nearly seven inches taller—so on me it looked fashionably cropped. With the help of her brush and scarf, we tied my wet hair back and I stopped looking like a drowned rat, even if my sneakers sloshed with every step.
We found the guys a quiet spot to wait. Then we set off.
The Supernatural Liberation Movement. I gave them a vowel and called them SLAM. Their mission was to reveal the existence of supernaturals to the human world. There was a very good reason we hadn’t done this already—because it was stupid. Every time the world found out about us, heads rolled—our heads. Even if we could argue that this wasn’t the Middle Ages anymore, we weren’t just different in gender, skin color, religion, sexual orientation, or any other equality issue. We had powers. Often deadly powers that gave us an advantage over humans. You can bet your ass we wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms … except maybe by military research facilities. So why was this movement gaining traction? First, the majority of supernaturals are not as tuned in to our world as I am. Through the Cabals and my connection to the interracial council, I had the advantage of seeing things from a global and historical perspective. Second, there are a lot of disaffected supernaturals out there, especially young ones who don’t understand why the hell they shouldn’t flaunt their abilities. For most of my twenty-one years, I’d have agreed with them—I had power, so I used it. All these young supernaturals needed was a man with a plan. And they found him in Giles Reyes—AKA Gilles de Rais—a charismatic leader who’d convinced them that a bunch of unusual events in our world—including me, a sorcerer/witch hybrid—fulfilled some kind of prophecy that declared it was time for the big reveal. It didn’t hurt that Giles claimed he was really a fifteenth-century French nobleman who’d stumbled on immortality and had, after centuries of experimentation, found a way to grant it to all his followers. That was the “vaccine” he’d given Bryce. I thought of my brother, who was ready to keel over. Apparently it hadn’t quite been perfected yet.
Now, because of us, Giles’s vaccine had been destroyed before it could be perfected. He was going be pissed. I really wished I could stay to see that, but we had places to go, things to do, a world to save.
When police cars zipped past, sirens wailing, Jaime caught my arm and gestured wildly, laughing, as if sharing a juicy bit of gossip. We were nearly to the commercial district when a police cruiser whipped around the corner, cut us off, and slammed on the brakes.
“Play it cool,” Jaime whispered.
I hadn’t planned to do anything else.
“Hey, guys,” Jaime said as the officers—a slender, middle-aged woman and a stocky young patrolman—climbed out of the car. “We heard the sirens. What’s going on?”
“A bomb was detonated a few blocks over.”
“Seriously?” Jaime’s eyes rounded as she scanned the rooftops. “Where? I have a blog, and if I could get photos, that would be—”
“Um, bomb, Jaime?” I cut in. “Normal people run the other way.”
“Because normal people don’t have a Twitter feed with a hundred thousand followers.” She took out her cell phone and propped up her shades. “Do you know the address? I can foursquare it now, then tweet photos after we get there.”
“We are not going to a bomb site—we are going to your interview.” I turned to the officers, mouthed, “Hollywood,” and rolled my eyes.
“Can we see some identification?” the woman asked.
“Absolutely,” Jaime chirped, then giggled. “But the date of birth is between us, right?”
Gotta say this—Jaime has the ditzy C-lister routine down pat. The male officer seemed ready to hop back into the car, but his partner insisted on the ID.
Jaime showed her cards and offered to send autographed eight-by-tens. She explained who she was—Jaime Vegas, renowned spiritualist, as formerly seen on the Keni Bales Show and more. The male cop said he’d heard of her and that his sister-in-law would love a signed photo.
“That’s … an interesting way of making a living,” said the female officer—Medina, according to her badge. “You’re free to go on to your interview, Ms. Vegas. It’s your friend here who needs to come with us.”
“What?” Jaime screeched. “No. She’s not my friend. I mean, yes, of course you are, dear.” A pat on my arm. “But she’s my publicist. I need her for the interview.”
“Then you’ll have to reschedule, because she’s coming with us. She was seen entering the bombed building before the blast, then leaving it shortly after.”
“Wouldn’t I need to have left before the bomb, considering I’m still alive?”
Medina’s look warned me not to be a smart ass. “We just want to speak to you.”
“Then speak here.”
“Miss, we have multiple eyewitness reports. That’s enough to arrest you on, but we’d like to give you the chance to talk to us first. Provide some insight into your co-conspirators.”
