I arrange to meet with Sam, Alkaios and Eryx in Trinity Church Cemetery and Mausoleum whilst Banks creates (yet another) diversion to keep Quade busy. I had Quade drop me off at the Bronze Bull, using the excuse that I had to attend to ‘other business’. He had no objections, but lingered in the parking spot a little longer than necessary.
Winter has well settled itself upon Manhattan because I scramble around on the salt cleared pavement in my NYPD all-weather jacket and a pair of jeans with my thick boots. I keep my cap on to stop some of the icy wing that threatens to form icicles underneath my nostrils.
I feel like shit, most likely because I’ve gone into one-too-many near cardiac arrests thanks to seeing my kinda-boyfriends deceased father and have him warn me about the Bureau. On top of that, Quade’s probably suspicious of my activities and I have to go on a dinner date with him which will most likely end up as a trap. But since I’m the good Samaritan of Manhattan, I’m going to put on my poker face and remember how to breathe.
I’m worried that if I allow myself to drift off to sleep, my mind will be invaded by some sort of supernatural being and I’ll be dead to the world, or a vegetable like Nikita in the morgue fridge. Perhaps I’ll wake up with Greg standing at the end of the bed, shaking his head that I’m sharing the same sleeping space with his son―that simple thought puts me off sleeping, despite the fact that my eyelids droop at the promise of a snooze.
When I see Eryx and Alkaios aspirate into the shadowed south-west corner of the cemetery, I try not to turn my nose up at them. Right now at this point in time, my tolerance is non-existent, and if Alkaios says any fancy words in Greek which I understand, I’m going to make him choke on bullets.
“My omorfiá, you look ill, is everything alright?” Alkaios taps a talon against his thin bottom lip as he makes a face at me.
I don’t give him a response; I practically collapse in the bench beneath the oak tree and rest my forehead in my hands. I listen as him and Eryx exchange words in Greek before footsteps crunch the frostbitten leaves around us, I flinch back when someone’s warm hand covers mine.
My immediate thought is Greg, a corpse can touch me, but when I remove my hands from my face, I see Sam crouched in front of me in his black tailored suit, a look of concern evident in the deep crease in his brow.
“Blue,” he says.
“Prat,” I say.
“You okay?” he asks.
My eyes flit towards Alkaios; the leader of the Vrykokolas looks rather uncomfortable and fixes his muddy gaze on the bell tower across the green. Eryx notices the tension and snickers to himself softly, grinning when Sam presses his lips to my forehead as a gesture of support.
“Fine,” I clear my throat and stand up. “Banks says she dug up some dirt, did she tell you what it was?”
“Joseph pulled Quade’s internet records and there were two online banking transactions done for five hundred dollars with two hundred and fifty split between a source in Washington and Manhattan. There were no hits on the IP addresses but when compared with Colville’s accounts, a deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars was made a week before he died,” Sam says.
“Colville was Helena’s contact on us; do you reckon Colville was stupid enough to cross her?” I began to pace the length of the bench with the two Vrykokolas staring at me curiously.
“I think Colville knew how to make an easy profit,” Sam shrugs. “That being said, when going through Colville’s internet records, it shows that he accessed six NYPD files that were classified information.”
“Was Angel Blue one of them?” I scowled.
“Joseph narrowed the encryption code down to six files of NYPD personnel, a breach was reported but Colville must’ve hacked through the precinct’s firewall to reach them,” Sam explains.
“What are you trying to say?” I pause.
“Quade has our files with every scrap of information on them. He knows what schools we went to, where we live, who we talk to, how much we’ve contributed to the force…everything,” he grimaces.
Brilliant.
“Snag, Banks, Dad, Joseph, me,” I count out the files. “He must’ve sent the money to Washington so someone could pull your file from the FBI data banks. That means he wants to know something, Angel Blue wouldn’t be put on our files but if he had access to our files he could’ve easily decrypted our whole project from beneath us.”
“We don’t know that, to avoid any more suspicion all we can do is act natural around Quade and be open as possible with him,” Sam reasons.
“Even if he did find the Angel Blue file, we couldn’t make anything stick. He’s like the one man mafia of the FBI, he’ll find a way to acquit half of our team members,” I huff.
Alkaios gives a deep throaty growl, cracking his knuckles in impatience, “If you both have finished your little lovers quarrel, Eryx and I would like to explain our situation―I think it’s direr than some printed paper, ne?”
Sam and I are silent.
“Sas ef̱charistó̱,” Alkaios bows his head in thanks. “Now as I was saying, we have a slight problem with bringing Henry back from the dead. He burned the book of black magic that contained the ritual needed to extract his soul from my body. However, the sneaky little bástardos knew this and tore the page out before ever returning the book to me. I believe he kept it on his person to avoid it falling into…how do you Americans say―fall into the wrong hands?”
“If Nikita has the page, then I don’t see how that’s a problem,” I tap a finger against my bottom lip.
“It’s a possibility that Nikita has the page, my beliefs are yet to be confirmed,” Alkaios folds his arms. He’s dressed in an olive green velvet vest over a white striped shirt and black slacks, far less out of date than last time. Eryx wears the same but with an exception of a grey waistcoat.
“I think I’m missing something, how is this a major case crippling problem?” my brow twitches.
“Come on glykós, you’re the one with the brains, you figure it out,” Alkaios sneers.
“Ti gínetai me Alkaios, Q tha vreíte to só̱ma,” Eryx hisses at his superior in his native tongue. “I am still observing you both closely and through this, I have picked up on a few things. The new Agent, Quade, he said he was only in New York investigating the death of the other Agent―that man’s body has been flown out for burial, surely Quade’s time is up. Écho̱ díkio?”
The only noise that can be heard is the rustle of the brown frost bitten leaves in the gutter outside the chapel. I’ve been so out of it since speaking to Greg that I think I actually switched my mind off. As part of the grand ‘distraction’ Banks mentioned something about the morgue, a grand tour if she got Snag’s permission?
Nikita’s body is in one of the fridges, dormant and cold whilst we scramble around to find a way to free him. If Sam and I go to the morgue and remove Nikita’s body to search for the piece of paper with Q in the vicinity (who has no idea that Nikita’s been in Manhattan), could most certainly become a problem.
A very big problem.
Nikita promised that he’d sort Blake out and I take it that the cab crash wasn’t the last of it. Quade’s target will soon be Blake because he was in the car when it happened, so Quade could use the excuse that he’s still investigating Colville’s death. Without Nikita then Blake’s in imminent danger.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Snag, hoping that his Mr Hyde hasn’t thrown a tantrum so that he’ll actually answer.
Me:
Get Nikita’s body.
Sam and I will be at the morgue in fifteen minutes.
If Quade wants a tour, distract him.
“If we do find the page and get you Nikita body, then what?” I look up at Alkaios, my jaw set tight.
“Meet at my sanctuary at eight o’clock, make sure you eat something beforehand because blood will need to be given,” the Vrykokolas’ eyes flare crimson, “a lot of it.”
• • •
Sammy didn’t stand a chance.
My hands knot together in my lap as Sam drives back to the lab. Greg’s voice continues to play in my mind like a constant loop. I’m trying to make sense of the situation, corpses can’t touch people, yet Greg could. He could’ve been a figment of my imagination, but I felt the heat from his skin, I could smell the musk of his aftershave―I’m pretty sure the imagination is only of the visual apparitions, not the rest of the senses.
I protected my son through any means possible. I wasn’t going to let those bastards drag Sammy into this, but they did.
Who? The FBI of course, but whom within the FBI? Was it Sam’s superior that refused to cooperate even when I emailed him a warrant wanting to see the condolence letter Nikita sent him? No, that would be too obvious. That being said, when Greg told me he was killed by his own Bureau, he looked at Quade. Is Special Agent Oliver Quade responsible for Greg Stanford Pingelly’s death…murder?
The Quantico bust made Sammy a target.
I look over at Sam, whose concentration is souly focussed on the two cars in front of us at the traffic lights. A deep crease forms between his concaved brows and his bottom lip is tucked into his mouth. My own hard expression softens and I reach out to place my hand on Sam’s leg, his eyes break from the road for a split second and he gives a breathy chuckle.
“You could at least wait for a red light,” he comments.
I retract my hand instantly, my eyes wide, “You seriously think I want to jump your bones while we’re stuck in traffic?”
Sam blinks as he registers his words, “No, no, no that’s not what I meant.”
“Now I really know that all men think with their minute genitals,” I roll my eyes. “I’m not Amanda Jane; I won’t go on my knees when asked. Infact, I don’t ever want to be put into a position where getting anywhere with a man has anything to do with blowing my way to the top. Don’t think that I want to screw you in the backseat like some animal, Christ.”
Sam lets out a long breath, “I never compared you to AJ and I certainly don’t want to put pressure on you to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with. You have to remember that I’m twenty-three, four years to your senior. I was just trying to crack a joke Stevens; it wasn’t intended to offend you.”
I’m not sure what aggravates me more, the fact that Sam used the abbreviation to describe his dead girlfriend, that little piece of specialness that was tainted by that bitch, or that Sam stated our age difference. Just because I’m nineteen doesn’t mean I can count.
Not once has Sam’s age of twenty-three (holy shit four years is such a difference, I may as well start planning your funeral, cranky old bastard) impaired my view on him, or our relationship. Most of the time it’s like our ages has been reversed and he’s the horny immature nineteen-year-old (which I am most certainly not, but that isn’t the point).
“It’s technically three and a half years between us and if that’s a problem tell it to my face,” I snap. I don’t know why I’m getting so worked up over a comment, I understand it was a joke, but my mind is all over the place thanks to a certain dead FBI Special Agent.
“You’re not even considered an adult in the eyes of the law! It doesn’t matter if we’re together as in boyfriend and girlfriend―if a backstabbing bastard like Quade finds out about our relationship and cooks up some circumstantial evidence to fit his wild theories then I’ll have my arse in jail and your name would be slandered by the media,” Sam shouts, the vein in his temple throbbing. “I’m trying to be so careful, to do everything by the book to keep you safe but you defy the rules―you’re everything I’m not and I can’t help but love that.”
And thus, I am speechless. The blue haired Detective Akira Stevens that always has to have the final say and the last laugh is momentarily shocked into silence. I open my mouth to try and contradict something in this pointless argument but I can’t command my voice.
Yes, in America the age of adulthood and such is bumped up to 21 (yet another reason why I miss being in Australia and England). Yes, if Quade found out about a scandalous partnership-turned-lovers relationship between Sam and me, that arsehole would have a field day watching our careers crash and burn. Yes, the media would add fuel to the fire and call me the NYPD bike or something and I wouldn’t be able to show my face in any precinct again. But that’s not what’s left me speechless.
The fact that Sam openly named us as a couple, as in boyfriend and girlfriend. Not just that, but that he’s taking precautions to ensure my safety, not our safety but me, singular. He’s also acknowledged that I do indeed enjoy breaking a few rules, because they are indeed meant to be broken, yes? That being said, what makes me giddy and feel all sunshine and lollypops is that Sam likes that, the rebellious adrenaline rush when being with someone who is so much like you, but is poison―seeping into your veins, an addiction that can’t be shaken with therapy or rehab.
For once I feel the adrenalin and for all the right reasons, because I’m with someone I shouldn’t be with. Samuel Pingelly, the prude Special Agent whose mother would damn me to hell, whose sisters would ‘talk’ and look down their noses at me, whose father would know what trouble I could get his son into. I don’t care though, consequences don’t compare to the rush I feel when with Sam―the acceptance I feel. Sure it’s taken an entire year of putting up with each other’s bullshit, yet it’s been so worth it.
I grab Sam by the end of his skinny black tie and yank him towards me as far as his seatbelt can allow. It doesn’t even register that we’re parked in the underground lot beneath the morgue, where Snag’s van and his own personal car are left. Sam fumbles to unbuckle himself so there’s more room for, dare I say, error.
If you really do love my son, you must look after him…and each other.
Once my own seatbelt is unbuckled, I’m pulled onto Sam’s lap. My fingers twirl around the strands of his bronze hair, roughly raking through his quiff, causing it to stick upwards instead of to the left. Sam’s own hands do their own investigation and slide from my shoulders to feel every dip and curve all the way past my holster to my arse.
I make a strange chuckle in the back of my throat because I’m extremely ticklish and he seems to know that from the way Sam’s thumbs dig into my waist. Not that he pays any attention to it since my lips are jammed against his.
I push Sam’s suit jacket from his shoulders and reach to unfix his tie while he unloops his dad’s blue one from my own neck. His holster uncomfortably digs into my knee and I try to shuffle awkwardly to free it but it makes Sam jerk, I think to myself why and then reality hits me―I can unpick the minds of serial killers, but I’m a broad when it comes to men, my own boyfriend.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Bloody prat,” Sam whispers beneath my earlobe.
It feels like every nerve ending in my body is alive with heat, a welcoming warmth that I’ve been waiting for all of my life. It feels so right, okay so what if we’re not obeying protocol at the moment? If I want to bump n’ grind with my boyfriend, I will happily do so. I let out a joyous laugh which Sam devours with his soft lips, chuckling quietly to himself.
As always, something or someone has to interrupt us. Uma Thurman erupts from my back pocket and I have the urge to smack my forehead against Sam’s. His hand covers mine when I reach for it; he intertwines our fingers and lets it ring out. Persistent as ever, the caller rings again and I slide my hand into my back pocket.
“Don’t answer it,” Sam nuzzles his nose into the crook of my neck.
“It could be important,” I snicker when his lips press against my collarbone.
“You never answer my calls,” he raises his head, a smile on his rosy lips.
“That’s only because you’re a bloody prat,” I squeal when Sam tickles my sides, causing me to buck on his lap. My shrill cry is almost as loud as the annoying ringtone that blares once more before the door of the SUV is yanked open.
Snag stands there, the sombrero of sanity in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks me in the eyes before turning his attention to Sam. He opens his mouth a total of four times before looking at his phone screen, tries to speak, but them just reverts to closing his mouth.
The first words that leave mine are, “Please don’t tell Dad.”
“I was going to say why haven’t you been answering my God damn calls,” Snag looks at the ceiling as if staring at me and Sam would send him blind. “But perhaps I can grant you that favour if you buy me a bag of jelly beans.”
• • •
I can feel my cheeks turn a shade darker than the shade of burgundy that I want to dye my hair. Snag’s strategically placed himself between me and Sam, the coroner smiles to himself and rocks back and forth on his heels while we wait for Joseph to separate himself from Banks and Quade with Nikita’s body. I rub my jaw just to distract myself while Sam adjusts his tie.
“So Akira, is there any specific reasons as to why you wouldn’t answer my calls?” Snag asks. I can feel his white-wash eyes on me as I pivot on my heel and pace back to the metal elevator doors in the carpark.
“Well I―”
“―oh that’s right you were preoccupied,” he annunciates with a devious grin.
“Can you no―”
“Not tell your father? We’ve already had this conversation,” he flicks the brim on the sombrero as if he were trying to convey a ‘told ya so’ gesture. “Don’t look so sullen Akira; you must know that it takes forty-two muscles in your face to frown.”
“And it’ll take just one punch to break your nose,” I reply evenly.
Snag recoils against the concrete pillar, his bottom lip jutted out in an over-exaggerated pout. I roll my eyes at him and fold my arms, trying my best to ignore the fact that he’s blackmailing me into an apology for not having my world revolve around answering his calls. No.
“Hey Ping-Pong,” Snag turns his attention towards Sam.
“What do you want Snaginsky?” the tendon in his jaw throbs.
“Did you know that saliva stays in the mouth for over seven months? Ergo, this means that you hold Akira’s DNA for―”
Sam slams Snag back into the concrete just as the doors open. There’s no time for a major scuffle because Joseph comes out toting a body bag on a stretcher. Sam’s forearm digs into Snag’s trachea to restrict his breathing, I’m rather amused because Snag dug himself this hole.
“If you say one more word about my relationship with Stevens to anyone I will kill you,” He harshly whispers in Snag’s ear. I think Sam could’ve inhaled Snag from how far his nostrils flare. “Got it?”
“And you wonder why I don’t accept FBI ID,” Snag narrows his eyes.
Fed up with the coroner’s antics, I stop my pacing and turn my attention to Joseph, cracking my knuckles. Joseph’s stopped his display of trying to tote the body bag to raise an eyebrow at Sam and his boss.
“Um, when I texted you to cause a distraction, I didn’t mean to get so into it,” Joseph adjusts his Red Sox cap before pushing the gurney containing Nikita’s body to the morgue van. “Okay, Makita’s trying to keep Oliver up at Toxicology for us to do the cadaver swap. I’ve got Nikita and put a crash victim on the slab if Quade gets curious.”
“Alright,” Sam tugs at his suit jacket to straighten it.
“Oh and Akira,” Joseph flicks the clips on the stretcher legs and folds it into the back of the van once the body is strapped in. “Oliver wanted me to tell you that plans have changed and that he’ll pick you up tonight…whatever that means.”
“What?” Sam gives me a strange look.
Fuck.
“Um well y’see Quade wants to talk to me about Helena’s interrogation and said we’ll discuss it over dinner tomorrow night but now it seems like he wants to meet tonight, clashing times with Nikita’s revival,” I scratch the back of my neck nervously.
“Why?” I can almost feel the heat of Sam’s stare when I begin to pace again.
“I didn’t give him an answer okay?” I clench my fists. “But think of it as a strategic advantage, I can actually get to Quade and see who he really is and what’s he’s doing in Manhattan. I’ll have my gun and I’m prepared for anything, you know that.”
Before Sam can blurt someone he doesn’t mean, Snag cuts in with a triumphant whoop of joy, “What a brilliant distraction! While we meet up in the Upper East, Quade won’t even ask why or where everyone else is. This gives us a perfect timeslot to wake Nikita and fill him in on updates of the investigation, or lack of.”
“You can’t trust him,” Sam says.
“I don’t,” I reply.
Joseph gets into the passenger side of the van and waits for Snag. With the small amount of privacy we have, I walk towards my partner and wrap my arms around his neck, giving him a content kiss on the lips. I need to establish a comfortable atmosphere with him, to stop the constant worry that threatens to kill him. I break away quickly when Snag clears his throat.
“He’ll hurt you,” Sam mumbles, clasping both of my hands.
“I’ll have my gun, I’ll be fine,” I say. “Make sure Nikita doesn’t snap any necks alright?”
“Call me if anything goes wrong, I’ll answer,” the left corner of his lips quirk up. “I promise.”
I nod and back away, feeling my bottom lip tremble. It feels like I’m betraying Sam in a way by going on this fandangled date with a man I’d rather stab in the face with a blunt spoon. I roll my shoulders back twice and sigh, shaking my head―this’ll give them time to revive Nikita and search for the paper on his body, or come up with an alternative if the ritual sequence isn’t on his body.
Snag grabs onto my wrist when I reach the elevator doors, his white-wash eyes are unreadable as he squints at me, “You do know that almost all relationships in the force end up as collateral damage.”
“…I don’t need the lecture,” I avert my eyes and block the elevator door with my boot.
“I’m not going to act like Robert, but take it from someone who understands the loss of a love in the force,” Snag lets go. “If something happens to one of you, the other will tear themselves apart.”
The doors close before I can ask who he lost apart from himself.