“What’re you doing?” Sam asks when I open the kitchen drawers to find a knife.
I find a reasonably sized curated blade and hold it up to the light. I’m dressed in the only formal going out attire that I own, A.K.A the burgundy blouse and black jeans with my Litas. I make a face in the reflection of the knife and lower it onto the countertop, sighing.
“Alkaios says he needs blood and I assume he means that of Diablos,” I wave my hand in the air. “I’m not showing up to the little diversion dinner with fang marks anywhere as discreet as they may be, if Alkaios wants blood, then I’m going to give it to him my way.”
“We’ll have enough between me and Snaginsky,” he says, sliding the knife to his side of the counter. “Besides, would it even matter that you didn’t go on this distraction date or whatever?”
“Why, are you jealous?” my brow twitches.
“No,” Sam answers rather quickly, his nostrils flaring.
I roll my eyes, “I bet the next thing is that you want me to have Christmas dinner with your folks.”
Sam gives me a look, one that conveys that my joke is correct. He clears his throat and slides the knife closer to him, probably to get it out of my reach if the wild urge to stab him came along. Believe me, my fingers twitched in anticipation. There’s one thing I hate more than my own parents, and that’s Sam’s (minus good ol’ GSP of course).
(a) I can tell straight away from what Sam’s told me about his mother that she has very strong opinions of everyone else and her beliefs come first and foremost above all. (b) If I told her I’m not of faith, she has the right to tell me to stay away from her son. (c) Georgia and Nadine are varying women, being a barrister and florist―I have a bad feeling that if I say one word out of line I could find my arse in a courtroom or somehow be drugged with daisies and wake up in Africa. (d) My biggest concern of all is the Pingelly family integrating with the Stevens clan, the dysfunctional Janine and Robert will surely put on a show for the Pingelly’s.
As you can tell, I’m jumping for joy at the thought of meeting the family.
“Christmas is in three days Stevens; I invited my mum and sisters down for Manhattan. I told them I was seeing someone and they want to meet you and your family, I didn’t give them any explicit details but they’re eager to meet you,” he shrugs.
It’s too bad that I’m not busting my buttons on seeing them. I can just imagine how Christmas will turn out, I bet ten bucks that something ‘eventful’ is going to happen―a mutilated hand comes out of the turkey when it’s being carved, the AB crew tag along and start working on new leads in the middle of the dinner, Snag’s invited and as a present he brings a packet of condoms for me and Sam…
“Are you kidding me? Dad still thinks I’m bunking with Blake and both Blake and Banks think I’m staying with him―I haven’t told anyone about us and now your family wants to meet mine? Christ, my mum’s probably going to fly over from bloody London with her boy toy and crash my non-existent Christmas plans with Dad and―” he cuts me off.
“I’ve spoken to Chief Stevens about a conjoined arrangement, don’t worry I said it was strictly professional―to build the bridge between the NYPD and FBI, and I said that coincidently my family would be in Manhattan at the time and Chief Stevens actually came up with the idea of holding a group Christmas dinner with both of our families,” Sam explains.
I’m not sure if it would be right to laugh or cry. (a) The Prat used a smooth cover, playing on the FBI and NYPD feud. (b) Dad just played along with it as if he didn’t suspect a thing, yeah cause the hickies on my neck are magic ‘allergic reactions’ I get from the new body lotion I use. (c) This entire coincidence will surely crash and burn and our parents will find out about us.
Instead of ranting and raving I rest my head against the countertop and mumble, “Your mum is going to hate me.”
“No she won’t,” Sam waves me off.
“This is the same woman that crashed your father’s funeral and in front of everyone, I might add, said that you were the soul cause of it,” I lift my head. “If she can’t even listen to her own son, why would she even want to waste her time on me?”
He gives me a flat look.
“Denice Pingelly may be a killjoy, but she isn’t going to call you out on anything,” it’s my turn to give Sam a blunt look of disapproval and he clears his throat. “Okay, maybe just don’t mention your strong opinion on hating all religion, the fact that you didn’t go to senior year, your parents divorcing and the fact that you want to kill every single FBI Special Agent you lay eyes on.”
“I can do everything except the last point,” I say as I hoist myself up on the counter and swing my legs towards Sam. He slides the knife to the end of the counter and pulls a piece of my side fringe out from behind my ear, a soft smile on his lips as he does so. “I’m quite accustomed to your company, if I kill you off then I’ll probably have to work with an old fart.”
“At the beginning we wanted to slit each other’s throats,” he places a tender kiss on my lips as his hands rub the side of my thighs.
“Really now?”
I wrap my arms around Sam’s shoulders and leave a trail of open-mouth kisses across his jaw line. He hasn’t shaved in four days and I can’t help but exhale a breath through my nose in silent laughter because the course feel of his stubble prickles my lips and chin. He’s usually clean shaven and uniformly dressed but now, behind the security of the apartment door, Sam’s suit-jacketless (there goes the tight arse personality) and stands with an untucked blue button-up with odd socks and his black pants.
“Mhmm,” he mumbles. “You were so annoying and childish that when we used to draw our guns at point blank range I was tempted to pull the trigger…more than once,” Sam makes a low noise in the back of his throat when I start to tug on his bottom lip with my teeth. “Your blue hair aggravated me because that’s all I could see halfway across New York when driving to work, and I hated how you always had to be so immature with your smart tongue.”
“I’m still all of those things, if it makes you feel better I can always dye my hair back to black and I can go to law school and turn out just like your mum,” I rest my forehead against his.
Beneath his long lashes, Sam scrunches up his nose, “I really don’t want to have a mental image of my mum when we’re in the middle of kissing,” his thumbs then circle my hipbones. “Don’t change anything about yourself unless you want to, okay?”
“Thank you Mr Poster-Child for Just Teen Things,” my eyes flick down to the simple brown leather wrist watch on Sam’s left hand. It just ticks past 7:45 P.M. and I sigh, pulling back from Sam with a rather childish pout on my lips. “Do you reckon you can drop me back at the precinct?”
“Why can’t Quade just wait in reception?” he frowns.
“I don’t trust him,” I drop from the counter. “We can’t afford him snooping around, I’m hoping that tonight I find out incriminating evidence to get him out of Manhattan and back to the drain where he crawled from.”
Sam nods and unclips a magazine of bullets from his belt; he rests his forehead against my shoulder while he adjusts the cartridge on my own belt. His posture is rigid and even rubbing the tender spot between his shoulder blades brings no release to the taught muscles. Sam feels threatened by Quade, for reasons unknown, I’ve gathered that it could be something to do with Greg’s death since Quade brought it up when we first met―but right now, I’m not too certain what kind of a person Quade actually is.
“Try not to use them all at once,” Sam says. “Keep me up to date if you find anything useful, I’ll be sure to have my phone on me.”
I nod, “I’ll call if something goes amiss. Give Nikita a kick up the arse for me.”
There are many problems I have with tonight’s distraction date with Oliver Quade, one of which is that I feel disloyal to Sam because he’s my boyfriend and I should be having a fantastic time with him on dinner dates―not trying to sway the mind of an FBI misfit. Second problem is that I’m missing out on the vital revival of Nikita, whom I consider a close comrade as of late. Thirdly, while waiting for Quade, I ‘conserve body heat’ by cuddling up against Sam’s side underneath the awning of the precinct.
“Joseph thinks that Quade’s been in New York longer than we realised,” Sam whispers in my ear. “If you can establish a timeline by snooping around, we could find who Q is.”
I press my cheek against his chest, “You don’t think he’s Q?”
“It’s too obvious, Q likes watching us squirm and giving up so easily isn’t an option for him. Angel Blue is about endurance, he’s making it into survival of the fittest,” he says.
“What if the evidence says otherwise? Quade’s up to something and I bet he’s using Colville’s death as an excuse,” I argue.
“That’s if there’s any substantial traces left, he has the reputation in Washington as the Godfather of Extermination―if anything goes erroneous back at HQ, Quade deals with it and nothing is ever spoken of again. It doesn’t matter if you convince the world that Quade’s a dirty cop, it won’t stand in front of the jury. If Quade is Q, we need to find motive and profile him,” Sam reasons. “Until we find cause to kill, I’m just focussed on keeping you safe―because once he gets bored of asking to see Blake, he’ll want to question you.”
“We’ll nail him,” I say.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” a new voice disturbs our conversation and both Sam and I instantly tense as if we’ve been caught in the act.
Oliver Quade steps out of his unmarked patrol vehicle and adjusts his grey suit; his hair’s tied up in a short ponytail on the nape of his neck as usual. His unfriendly eyes, harder than steel, look between me and Sam. I watch with dissatisfaction as that cynical smirk of his twitches to life.
“I was just leaving,” Sam says, his tone drenched in insouciance.
“So soon? I can arrange dinner for three,” Quade suggests, his sneer growing by the second.
“Don’t waste your time,” Sam fishes the car keys from his pocket. “Have a nice night Oliver.”
“Same to you Samuel,” Quade watches intently as Sam steps away from me and skulks towards his SUV. As if Quade notices that the heat’s left the atmosphere, leaving it cold and fragile, he turns to me with a wide grin. “Shall we head off Detective?”
With my safety-net gone, my only hope for survival is my gun which is stuffed down the back of my pants, hidden beneath the fabric of my blouse. When I give a silent nod and walk towards Quade’s SUV, I try not to flinch when he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me to the passenger’s side of the vehicle.
• • •
Alarm bells instantly signal in my brain when Quade pulls up in front of a set of apartment blocks in downtown East Village. It’s not the ritziest part of Manhattan, certainly not as decent as Sam’s abode, but I trust the part of town―just not the man that’s playing chauffer to me for the night.
Noticing my unrest as soon as I buckled into the front seat, Quade tried to lighten the mood by putting on another classical symphony which I neither liked nor listened too. He made no attempt on conversation, which I was grateful for, but I presumed he was saving questions once we were inside. I’d gathered that by ‘dinner date’ he meant ‘setting you up so you’re in my home where I know the ins-and-outs, you can’t run or hide’.
There’s nothing suspicious about the apartment block, it’s your average building in New York City where the noises and screeches of tires still reach your doorstep loud and clear as if camping in the gutter. The receptionist is a middle-aged man and waves at us when we pass through the foyer to the lift, that being said, a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach starts up when the seventh floor (out of fourteen) is reached.
Even the inside of the apartment isn’t overly suspicious, though the stark grey/sea green and black walls are a cause for concern. In fact, there’s no colour whatsoever that deviates from the Scottish outlook theme. All of the upholstery on the furniture is a smoky grey and all other embellishments (such as the vase on the table is black) and all of the photo frames are the colour of sea weed. It’s only a one bedroom apartment with a kitchen, open living/dining space and a small room that’s used as an office of sorts.
“Music?” Quade asks.
“If you want,” I shrug before I catch on that I can request a genre. “Oh, um…rock.”
“Era?” he pursues.
“Sixties,” I start to take in my surroundings, picking through all the fine details as well as I can without Quade thinking I’m a snoop.
A song by the Kinks starts pulsing throughout the flat and my fingers tap to the beat. Quade excuses himself and goes to the kitchen; I can’t say I’m impressed if he’s cooked an elegant meal―I don’t take him as the type to cook for women unless he wants something in return, something of the inedible variety.
Something’s odd about tonight, I’m either paranoid or overthinking my situation, but this entire hospitality gig seems so out of place for a man as infamous as Special Agent (slash Godfather of Extermination) Oliver Quade. There are no family photos to indicate parental ties, no diplomas or awards of any sorts, no special keep-safe mantle like in the Hemming household―the entire apartment was bare apart from CDs, DVDs and ornamental vases with fake green flowers.
What peeks my interest is the photo frames, they’re the only interesting part to the entire apartment. In every single photo frame on the mantle, shelves and walls are pictures of Quade and Amanda Jane. Most are formal shots, others are from what must be times at the Academy in Quantico. There’s at least a 6 year substantial age gap between them and, to me, they seem like such an odd match.
I pick up the most out of place photo on a chocolate brown chest of drawers on the far granita-green wall near the bedroom. It’s a simple acrylic black frame with no weight to it. The picture is (no surprise) of Quade and Amanda Jane, she has a large V sweat stain down her chest and she’s dressed in the FBI training gear, she’s got a boxing head guard on and pads over her hands―her blonde hair is tucked behind her pigmy ears and Quade, dressed in his ever-present grey suit, has his arm around her shoulder. They’re standing too close, far too close to be considered as work colleagues.
To my knowledge I thought Amanda Jane bought her way through the ranks in Quantico and Washington thanks to Papa Pingelly and her father (yeah, the one that fought for the beloved Motherland). Maybe Amanda Jane didn’t shag Sam in an elevator, perhaps it was Quade that she was bum-chums with.
Quade sticks his head around the corner with his hand over the phone, I lower the photo and pretend to look interested with the air vent on the ceiling, “Um I’m ordering takeaway, does Chinese sound good to you?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Any requests?” he asks.
“Surprise me,” I deadpan.
For a revered Special Agent, he’s oblivious to the disinterest in my tone. Before he ducks back into the kitchen he says, “You can look around if you want, I’ll be with you in a minute. Apologies for the wait.”
I take that as my cue to actually perform my part as the spy that I originally set out to do. To be inconspicuous, I head into the office area first. All of the shelves are the demountable L-brackets and contain binders upon binders of case files. I’m not keen to unearth the mysteries of them all so I simply paw around Quade’s desk and computer.
There’s a bunch of printed paper transactions from CITI bank. Quade’s highlighted two deposits from an online account to Washington Trust and CITI; all for an even amount of untraceable money―the same payload an orchestrated killer would give an easily manipulated hitman. Bingo.
I look over my shoulder and still hear Quade in the kitchen, discussing that he wants honey-soy chicken and calamari. I breathe out a sigh of relief and bundle up the transaction papers, promptly shoving them down the back of my pants (after readjusting my gun and blouse of course). I rearrange a few other papers and quickly take the orange highlighter Quade used and mark a few random words on a case file regarding a sex trade in Louisiana; hopefully Quade won’t notice until I slide a subpoena under his door for his arrest.
I wiggle the mouse that’s connected to a modem, the screen comes to life with Microsoft Windows. The desktop is locked but requests a password, I think of the most obvious thing and type in: ‘AMANDA JANE’. When it comes up as incorrect my lips form a pout, I try the abbreviation of the dead woman’s name: ‘AJ’. Once again I come up short before I think to myself, Oliver is obsessed with Amanda Jane, so I try the saddest password known to man: ‘AMANDA QUADE’.
Windows loads and the desktop image isn’t what I expected. A picture of him and Amanda Jane doesn’t greet me, instead, it’s a formal funeral. On a grass field of some sort, a casket is ferried down an aisle filled by FBI and other means of police. Draped over the coffin is the American flag. The picture’s captured at an awkward angle, as if the photographer stood at the end of the aisle to capture the entire scene. A makeshift lectern’s set up next to a podium where the coffin is placed, awaiting the coffin is Sam.
Why would Quade’s desktop image be a photo of Special Agent Greg Stanford Pingelly’s funeral? When Greg appeared to me at the correctional facility, he said he was murdered by his own Bureau and stared directly at Quade. Was the department fed up with Greg’s act of valour to protect his son and offed him? Is this what Greg wants me to protect Sam from―Oliver Quade, so he won’t face the same fate?
Three windows are open, all are scanned documents uploaded onto a PDF and downloaded onto Quade’s hard drive. I lean down to inspect them, the first two are incident reports regarding two Agents last year in the field but the third was a final appeal letter about Angel Blue and the mysterious ‘PI’, no doubt sent by Greg.
Federal Bureau of Investigations Board Members,
Notion for both projects AB/PI to be revoked as of next annual selection of field Agents has been put on hold. Last appeal was as of 15 February 2008, anonymously sent to the board – demand was knocked back as of 6 June 2012. AB/PI will go ahead as scheduled with all objections scrapped from record along with their senders. In God we trust.
It makes no sense, what’s the connection I’m missing between Sam and Oliver? Does Sam know how cosy he tried to be with Amanda Jane? Sure their fling was two years ago, but Quade seemed to be trying for a while. Perhaps he felt threatened to Sam’s influence on Amanda Jane and took it out on Greg?
Quade’s still bartering on the phone in the kitchen so I leave the office and stand outside the threshold of Quade’s bedroom. I press my phone to my ear after dialling Sam’s number, the plot has thickened immensely.
“Is everything okay?” his voice is strained on the other end of the line. I can hear the thick Greek accents of Alkaios and Eryx in the background chanting in their native tongues, I assume the ritual’s begun.
“Yeah but listen up, I don’t have much time,” I say. “I found some bank transactions regarding the same amount of money transferred to Colville’s account in Washington. Also, was Amanda Jane ever overly affectionate to Quade?”
“Um,” he thinks for a while. “Not to my knowledge, we were in separate levels in HQ. AJ was my Personal Assistant, Quade was always in the field, he rarely ever touched base in Washington for more than three days every two months and when he did, he had the supervisors go to him.”
Stop calling her that, she’s a corpse.
“Well I think he had a bit of a man crush, there’s photos of them together everywhere here, some of them more recent than others,” I say. “I’ll fill you in later properly, how’s the revival going?”
“We’ve just started and I was correct, there’s enough blood to offer between me and Snaginsky. Makita’s staying with Blake for the night so I didn’t have to come up with an alibi for us, call me back later if something else comes up, Alkaios needs blood,” Sam says. “Stay safe Blue.”
“You too,” I hang up.
The small seed of doubt is planted in my mind, I can’t escape Amanda Jane even beyond the grave. She was too blonde, too pretty, too perfect. I’m stupid to think that Sam Pingelly, a man of such amiable qualities, would waste his time with me―an immature detective that goes about her wits and doesn’t function well even with three cups of piss-black coffee. Three days before meeting his family and I’m already overthinking everything about our relationship and nothing’s even provoked it except my overactive mind that likes to pick through every single detail until my nose bleeds.
I shake my head and continue with the investigation.
Quade’s bedroom is simplistic, much like the rest of the apartment but there’s no photos of his beloved Amanda Jane anywhere, not even on the bedside table. A double bed is neatly made in the centre of the room with a cane headboard up against the grey wall. The sheets are sea green, contrasting with the chocolate of the dresser drawers.
The only thing that I’d say is out of place is the doll on the white pillows. That’s if you could describe it as a doll. It looks like it could’ve been taken from a tribe in the Amazon, it’s only the size of my forearm and is stitched from some natural fibres, using black thread to sew the nose and mouth and glass orbs for the eyes. What I find most unnerving is the orange cascade of hair that’s been glued onto the scalp of the doll, not just any red hair, the same fiery locks that seemed to have been hacked off post-mortem.
I press a hand to my mouth to muffle the scream that threatens to bust through my clenched teeth. Relieved that I haven’t eaten within the last three hours, I’m not worried that I’ll throw anything up on the white carpeting. Dianne Hemming’s hair is stitched on to a voodoo doll.
“So sorry about holding you up, the food will be here in five minutes,” Quade says from behind me and I almost piss myself. “Ah,” he walks past me into his bedroom and holds up the doll which my eyes are attached to, he thinks I’ve taken interest in it but I’m terrified. “This was a gift given to me by a Native-American fellow, great chap, though I’m not quite sure what to do with the doll.”
Native-American my arsehole.
The lifeless black glass eyes bore through me and I feel my knees knock against each other. I thought I had a stomach of steel and a mind of unbreakable barriers, but something about the doll, the fact that it has Dianne’s hair, is like seeing a person being mutilated in front of me. I’m not sure if it’s my disliking to all sorts of female toys in general, or how the black cotton smile makes bile rise in my throat, but I’m just waiting for the toy to jump to life and stab something.
“Th–that’s human hair,” I choke out.
“I’m well aware of that,” Quade’s brow twitches.
“I’m not sure that many Native-Americans have strawberry blonde hair or work with voodoo,” I say.
He sets the doll back down on the covers and dodges my question completely, “I think we should get ready for dinner.”
• • •
I scoop up rice with my fork and watch the grains dribble back down on the bowl in front of me. From the way the table’s angled, I can see the doll sitting on Quade’s bed, looking at me with those reflective eyes as if expecting me to screw up. I swallow a piece of tempura prawn and try to ensue conversation.
“Regarding the Helene Quinn case, what were you able to find out from the interrogation?” I say through a mouthful of rice.
“Just the usual, that she’s been set up and that her contact said all would be sorted. I deduced that Colville was a dirty Agent and when Quinn approached him with money to buy his allegiance to tap into the NYPD, he had no objections. Also, I uncovered his bank records along with Quinn’s, there was certainly dirty work afoot. I’d say we can book Quinn for obstructing justice with eighteen months imprisonment with a parole period of six months.”
He flails his cutlery around as if it’s some great story, it’s a tale without an ending or beginning. Helena’s an asset, a pawn who’s worth is running out―if anyone’s going to end up on the slab next, I wager Helena’s got a date with autopsy. I smile and make a nod of amusement, giving Quade the satisfaction that he has my attention.
“Was that all you could find, Quade?” I continue.
“From what I could squeeze out of Quinn then yes, but I can piece together more information if I talk to Mr Donovan since we was present in the taxi at the point of impact. Also, I need to get my hands on the Coroner’s Report on Colville’s death since it wasn’t given to me upon exhumation,” Quade says. “And please, call me Oliver.”
“I’m not too sure if Blake’s in any state to converse with anyone about the accident at the moment, he’s still pretty shaken up. I’ll be sure to ask him though,” I swallow a piece of honey-soy chicken.
“Thank you Akira,” Quade smiles. “So tell me, what’s this business with the NYPD patrol murders―have you followed up on any new leads?”
“I can’t disclose any information, you know that,” I say.
“If you forget, I have a warrant saying you can. Come on Akira, you don’t have to say they’re cold cases to cover up what you’re really working on, I know about Angel Blue,” Quade’s tone is indecisive, I’m not too sure if he’s joking or not.
It’s the sentence which I fear most; Quade’s known all along about Angel Blue and has chosen this precise time to bring it up with me. Of course he thought he could milk information out of me like Helena did to Dad, but I’m not that stubborn. Immature yes, but only when it comes to Sam. I would never give up information, warrant or not. Quade could subpoena my arse all he wants or throw me in front of a jury and I still wouldn’t spill the case secrets. It’s a strong moral of mine.
“In answer to your question, the answer is no nothing has happened as of late,” I quip.
“I’m not quite so sure; you and Pingelly seemed to be gaining ground together. You two are the most incompatible team I’ve ever seen, but you somehow make it work,” Quade cocks his head to the left. “It’s a record for Pingelly I must say, he usually gets his partners killed within the first few months in the field.”
My cheeks flare with heat and I think a lump of rice tumbles from my mouth and into my lap (extremely lady-like of me I know). I don’t say anything, mainly because I don’t want to add fuel to Quade’s fire. I’ve already had this discussion with him about Sam’s temperamental partnerships and made it quite clear that I wasn’t going to become one of them, but as for his observations regarding my secret relationship, I’m lost for words.
“Don’t play coy Akira, I’ve witnessed many a time women fawn over Special Agent Samuel Pingelly and I’ve also seen the cruelty which that man is capable of. He may seem charming and reasonable on the outside, but once you get past the gun and ammunition, he’s just like every other testosterone driven male that’s looking for a good shag,” Quade leans back in his chair. “I see the look in his eyes whenever you’re near; it’s like a predator stalking his prey―he hunts with an animalistic intent. Are you going to be the lamb reared for slaughter? Or will you give your hide up for wool and not an easy meal?”
Provocation, that’s Quade’s motive. He sees Sam as an imminent threat, no doubt in need of a dose from the Godfather of Extermination. I’m not going to allow Quade to get under my skin; I won’t give him the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of me. Nope it’s not going to happen, I trust Sam with my life, I love…
No, I can’t. At least, I’m not allowing myself to for the moment. Relationships in the force are collateral damage; I’ve seen it with my parents, Helena, Sam’s family and Snag. I don’t want to spend my life wearing a sombrero and sucking on liquorish flavoured jelly beans, no sir.
“I don’t think this is relevant to the case,” I interrupt.
“On the contrary, whenever an Agent is involved in a case, it’s my obligation to keep tabs on them and report to the Director. Pingelly’s first philandering scandal was Amanda Jane―it was the talk of the entire Bureau, if it wasn’t for Greg’s loyalty to the FBI, his son would’ve ended up in the gutter where most of his colleagues would love to see him,” Quade’s grey eyes are like storm clouds, I’m just awaiting the thunder and lightning. “It may have been a fling to him, but why do you think Amanda Jane was in Manhattan for all of those weeks…certainly not on business.”
The seed of doubt has been nurtured and is starting to sprout roots. These infectious tendrils wrap around my cerebral cortex and my brain starts going into over drive. I’ve always been the insecure one of the Stevens clan; it’s always been like that no matter what pep talk I received from my parents―it wouldn’t make a difference with my negative self-esteem. And now, Quade’s given me evidence, vital, crippling information that’s making me second guess where I stand.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Like I said, it’s my obligation to keep tabs on Agents, especially Samuel Pingelly,” he says. “He’s been under close surveillance since being driven out of Washington, a new scene a new Agent and all of that. Since Amanda Jane’s death, Pingelly’s been warm, affectionate, caring for more than himself which is practically unheard of. That’s his method, to break all barriers set and in that time of weakness, he strikes. If anything, Pingelly should be your suspect on Angel Blue―he has the most to lose.”
He’s being a vindictive twat; he blames Sam for Amanda Jane’s death because she still fawned over him. I’m not going to believe Quade for one instant, I can trust Sam, he’s the only man that’s ever put me first. The doubt is starting to shoot out leaves, or perhaps he’s taking advantage of the blue haired Detective who’s GPS has run out of charge on the road of life.
“Think about it. A new FBI Agent struts into the NYPD acting impassive; a novice is promoted straight to Detective with no questions asked. Pingelly takes immediate interest but shows it gradually to make his feelings seem natural and genuine and once he has you in his grasp,” Quade claps his hands together for affect. “It’s too late; you’re ensnared in the man-trap.”
“Get back on topic Oliver, this has nothing to do with the Quinn and Colville case,” I clench my jaw.
“I’m just warning you about the inevitable. Keep your gun close whatever you do, if you aren’t killed in the field, Pingelly will take it upon himself to finish the job,” he says. “Why would a man of Special Agent status go for a naïve nineteen-year-old girl who’s about as dense as her attitude? You don’t fit Pingelly’s mould, but nevertheless, fresh blood is blood all the same to him. It’s just a matter of time before he spits you out like trash.”
I lose it.
I practically throw my chair back against the couch and lunge across the table at Quade. I sweep my hand across the varnished wood and the Chinese food splatters all over the carpet. Saliva and short pulses of air leave my interlocked teeth as I grab Quade by his lapels and punch him in the face.
“You murderous, vindictive little bitch. How about you take your thieving arse out of Manhattan and go back to the prude bunch of scheming officials in Washington because your kind is wanted here by me or anyone. Don’t you dare tell me what I can or cannot do in my life, you’re just jealous that Sam got to Amanda Jane before you could. You hate him because he got more than what you ever could!”
Tears threaten to break their barriers as I scream at Quade, he listens to me and when I stop my outburst. His left hand covers mine that’s constricting his tie, and with his right, he does something I don’t anticipate. He hits me back.
My body jolts to the side and I slide off the table onto the floor, I nick my nose on the seat of my chair and it clicks. Almost instantly the blood begins to pour from my nostrils, staining my blouse and hands as I try to stem the bleeding. I cup my nose and mouth with my right hand and shakily get to my feet, Quade’s standing up and his grey eyes are ignited, like the climax of a hurricane.
“Look what he’s done to you,” he spits in disgust. “You better get on out of here Akira; get out before I destroy what Pingelly’s left behind.”
I have no objections, I’ve gotten what I came for without Quade noticing and now that I know he’s got a voodoo doll with Dianne’s hair, that’s another nail in his coffin. I snatch a napkin from the mess on the carpet and flick a cube of chicken off. I press the napkin to my nose and trudge out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
However there is no victory for me, doubt has blossomed into a flower. A blossom that has a thick stem with hooked barbs that prick you at the slightest contact against your skin. Doubt, a beautiful flower in bloom, is deadly and I’m bleeding because of it. Doubt has pricked me and if what Quade says is true, it’s just a matter of time until I’m crippled by Sam’s poison.
• • •
It takes me seven tries to hail a cab to take me to Upper East Village and by the time I bypass the doorman (whose eyes linger a little too long on the crimson cloth that I’ve got attached to my face) and stomp my way to the concealed cemetery, I’m beyond pissed off. In fact, I’ve thrown feelings out the window because Doubt likes to crush them.
Greeting me, a singed circle of green grass, sage leaves and melted wax candles speckle the aisle between plots of graves. Nikita’s sitting on his arse, rubbing the back of his head as if he’s woken from a lovely nap―at least the bastard got a decent rest. Eryx and Alkaios have crimson lips and their eyes ignite the same colour as the napkin when I step down the sandstone onto the green.
Snag and Sam turn around, confused as to why Alkaios and Eryx have fallen silent. I remove the napkin from my nose and pinch my nostrils and tilt my head back. The metallic taste of blood has leeched into my mouth and I’ve run out of saliva to spit.
“I told you to stay in one piece, not get your face beaten in,” Nikita pipes up.
“My omorfiá your scent is intoxicating,” Alkaios’ tongue flicks out and his lengthened canines capture his thin bottom lip. “So delectable, do you mind passing me that rag once you’re done with it?”
“Be my guest,” I toss the napkin in his direction and scrub at my face with my forearm. The Vrykokolas greedily snatches it out of the air and presses it to his lips, inhaling.
I’m not prepared for Sam’s embrace when he enthrals me in his warm arms. Damn his heat, his Lynx, his presence, his green eyes, his freckles, him. Doubt has turned my affection into displeasure. I limply return the hug as Sam presses me right up flush against his body. He makes it no secret of burrowing his face into the crook of my neck and shoulder and nibbling on the tender flesh as if showing to Alkaios and Eryx that a bloody piece of cloth means nothing since Sam has me flesh and blood.
“What happened?” Snag asks, looking rather uncomfortable. He adjusts his lab coat and looks down at his leather shoes that are splattered with droplets of dried blood and wax, no doubt from the ritual.
“I got into a fight,” I reply, monotone.
“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise,” Nikita comments.
“I’m going to kill him,” Sam whispers harshly in my ear, his arms tightening around me.
I wonder how many times Sam’s threatened men who’ve stepped on the wrong turf. I wonder how many women have buckled to his shameless authority. I wonder how many naïve blue haired Detectives have fallen for his sharp personality switch from prude Agent to loving boyfriend. I wonder how many times Sam’s gotten away with it.
“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” I wince, I haven’t clicked my nose properly back into place.
“Nothing? Stevens, you’re bleeding all over the place. Quade hit you, I’m not going to stand by and watch him walk over everyone. Just because he’s an FBI Special Agent doesn’t give him authority over you,” Sam says.
“You were like that once,” I snap at him.
He looks taken aback, “…Blue?”
Instead of answering him with the sappy nickname I’d assigned him before Doubt sunk its roots into my brain and started to suck the hope and love from my thoughts, I reach into the back of my jeans and pull out the highlighted bank statements and my gun. I shove the papers at Sam’s chest before sliding my gun into the holster on my left hip.
“Glykós where are you fleeing to?” Alkaios calls out.
“Home,” I turn around.
But not the home where Sam will be sleeping tonight, alone. I will be taking up residence on the faithful couch, the plush sofa of comfort which will neither hurt or decieve me. If home is where the heart is, then mine is truly broken.