Deicide Page 5

  “Hah hah hah.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Arby turned around and gasped when he saw an incredibly tall elven woman in a white leather coat beside the table. He stood and instinctively took a step to place himself in front of her.

  Cassy stood and pushed her partner to the side. “Who are you?”

  The elf said nothing. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and produced a white envelope. She set it on the oak table, gave the pair of them dual thumbs up, and then swiped at the air with a magic wand that she’d produced from inside her coat. Cassy watched a hole in space appear and the mysterious elf step through. The tear sealed itself after she was gone.

  “How did she get in past your security field?” Arby asked.

  “I have no idea,” Cassy said. “What’s in the envelope?”

  Arby picked up the envelope, pulled out a letter, and read it. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  Arby flipped the paper around so that she could read it. “We’ve been reassigned.”

  Chapter Five

  13 May - 8:45 am

  Avalantis PD Central Office, District of Axis Mundi

  The white marble stairs that led up to Avalantis Police Central Headquarters were streaked with veins of black and gold. There on the sidewalk at the base of those beautiful stairs, Jessie looked up, past the tallest buildings, to the tallest tree in Avalantis. The Spear of Lugh stretched towards the heavens, a verdant sign of peace and strength. That tree was the symbol of the city, its very heart.

  High above, at the top, the Eye of Balor glowed like a second sun, keeping an ever-burning vigil over the city. The fey artifact gave off a feeling of warmth and hope to all who beheld it.

  Axis Mundi was unlike any of Avalantis’s districts. It was the perfect blend of nature and construction. The mountain range upon which the center of the city was constructed allowed for a tiered effect, which created chaotic beauty in its lack of symmetry. A mix of myth and mundane walked the street. Tall elves walked in beauty, grace, and splendor. Axis Mundi was the seat of the powerful.

  In the light of the new day, Jessie closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air. All her work had paid off. She’d been noticed. Who knew what heights she could reach? Who knew—

  “Move it!” a gruff voice called out.

  Jessie opened her eyes just as a jogger ran by, knocking her to the ground. “Hey!”

  Her partially healed bruises and wounds screamed in pain and protest. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “Freaking tourist!” the jogger said, never bothering to look back.

  Jessie tried to stand up, but person after person walked by her, bumping into her, knocking her back down. The pedestrians were either unaware of her situation, or more than likely, simply didn’t care.

  “Move!” Jessie demanded, pushing herself up to her feet. “I’m a cop!”

  “So’s everyone here, sweetheart,” another voice said, bumping her shoulder as they passed. “Get over yourself.”

  Jessie sighed.

  ********

  13 May - 8:58 am

  Avalantis PD Central Office, 1st Precinct Bullpen, District of Axis Mundi

  “Excuse me,” Jessie said to the desk sergeant, “could you please—”

  “One second,” the desk sergeant said, holding up a finger. “Hey, Cortez, where you going with those perps?”

  A uniformed officer was leading several dwarves in cuffs past the booking station. “What’s that, Sarge?”

  “The dwarves. What’s their story?”

  “Kidnapping some dark-haired pretty white girl and forcing her to do their housework.”

  “You’re shitting me,” said the desk sergeant.

  “That’s not true!” one of the dwarves said.

  “Yeah,” said another. “We set fire to our home for the insurance money!”

  A third dwarf smacked his friend in the back of the head. “Will you shut up?!”

  “Sounds like a confession to me,” the desk sergeant said, barely looking up from his paperwork. “Take them downstairs for processing.”

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  “Excuse me,” Jessie said again. “I was told—”

  “I will not be ignored!” a shrill voice screamed from a holding cell. “This is an outrage to my rights!”

  “Hold on to that thought,” said the desk sergeant. “Hey, quiet it over there.”

  Jessie looked over to see that a dryad dressed in secondhand clothes was the source of the yelling. Similar to a human, but with deer antlers, elongated ears, and sporadic leaves growing from her, this dryad had red hair streaked with blue. Behind her were several other people, some human, some myth. All of them looked either like hobos or new age hipsters.

  “Your authority has no . . . authority over me!” the dryad said.

  The desk sergeant looked at the badge on his uniform, then back at the dryad. “Actually, it does.”

  “We will NOT be minimalized!”

  “I think it’s minimized,” one of the human guys with a patchy beard and knit cap said.

  “I think it’s marginalized,” offered a female Japanese kami.

  “Whatever!” the dryad said. “The point is, the power of these so-called ‘protectors’ wasn’t a mandate of the masses, but a power imposed on us as we rot on this reservation!”

  “Y’all came out and the world rejected you. Sorry. But you have a city of over fifty million people that’s damn near its own country,” the sergeant said.

  “A prison is a prison!” the dryad countered.

  “Yes,” agreed the sergeant. “Well, this is technically lock-up. Which you’re in for interfering with a city-sanctioned construction area.”

  Scruff Beard shook his fist through the bars. “Death to the machine of capitalistic gain!”

  “Give nature back to the land!” the Kami added.

  The sergeant sighed. “The construction was for a nature preserve.”

  “Oh,” the dryad said. “We . . . didn’t know that.”

  “Sergeant, if I may,” Jessie said.

  “Yes, what can I help you with?” the sergeant asked, then turned away once again. “Damn it, Nachios!”

  “What?” a centaur cop said as he clopped by.

  “Pants!”

  The centaur sighed. “Come on, Sarge.”

  “You know the regulations.”

  “You ever see a horse in pants? First, it’s unnatural. Second, backing into them takes like thirty minutes.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Are you at least wearing your . . . obscuring device?”

  “You mean my schlong-sling?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “Of course, Sarge. I don’t want another accidental peeking incident to land me in front of the HR rep,” the centaur said as he clopped off towards his desk.

  “Okay, and who are you?” the sergeant asked.

  “Undead Task Force Field Operative DeLeon,” Jessie said, passing over a slip of paper. “I was instructed to report here today for reassignment.”

  The sergeant looked over paperwork. “You were supposed to arrive here by 0900. Is it standard practice for the UTF to be late?”

  Jessie looked at the clock on the wall, which read 0908, and sighed.

  “I was early, Sergeant. But you were preoccupied with dwarves, protesters, and dick slings.”

  “Schlong-sling,” Nachios called out. “Saying the other term will get to you sent to HR. Trust me.”

  “Are you suggesting this is my fault?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, Sergeant,” Jessie said, holding back a string of insults. “But I am here now. Should I grab one of the empty desks?”

  “Why?” the sergeant asked.

  “Because I’ve been reassigned to the First Precinct.”

  “No, you were told to report here for reassignment,” the sergeant said, flipping the paper back around and pointing at the line. Then, he lifted up another sheet of paper from his desk. �
��You’ve been assigned to Transit Authority.”

  “What? That . . . that’s not right.”

  “Nachios, come here,” the sergeant said, and the centaur agent complied.

  “Yes sir?”

  He held the new sheet of paper over his shoulder. “Please read what is on this.”

  “UTF Field Agent Jesenia A. DeLeon has been transferred to Transit Authority as of 0900 13 May. Does she know it’s nine oh nine? And that her uniform is filthy?”

  “UTF apparently like to roll in the street, which causes them to be late to everything,” the sergeant said. “Thank you, Nachios. That’ll be all.”

  “What the hell is Transit Authority?” Jessie asked. “I didn’t bust my ass to . . . hand out speeding tickets.”

  “If you’re done with your tantrum, Patrolman DeLeon, you’re late for your new assignment. Room B-117.” The Sergeant handed over the transfer sheet.

  Jessie took the form and looked it over as if it were her own obituary. There in perfect typed black letters was her name. Her whole career, all her efforts to stand out, dead.

  “Where . . . where is room B-117?” she asked.

  “The basement,” the sergeant said.

  Jessie felt her soul sink. “Of course it is.”

  “Good luck,” the sergeant said with a smirk, then added, “Superstar.”

  ********

  13 May - 9:17 am

  Outside of Room B-117, Basement Avalantis PD, District of Axis Mundi

  Jessie stood in front of a plain wooden door. The placard on the wall was missing and had replaced by a piece of white masking tape on which had been written “Transit Authority.” Overhead, the cheap fluorescent lights flickered. Jessie looked up and noted that the ceiling tiles were water stained. Everything in the subterranean hallways smelled of mildew and mold.

  She heard a humming coming from further down the hallway. An old crone of a woman was mopping the slick tile floor. Or was she an actual crone? The precincts had been pushing the “Crone to Career” program rather hard to prevent the inherently magical beings from going full hag and wreaking havoc. Jessie squinted to get a better look, then stopped and shook her head.

  Damn it, she chided herself. She knew she was procrastinating. Because by walking through that door, she would be accepting failure. No, worse. Mediocrity.

  “Is this what I’ve fallen to?” she asked herself.

  “What’s that, dear?” the old woman asked, suddenly much closer than she had been a moment before. Behind her, the mop continued to clean the floor on its own.

  Definitely a crone.

  “Oh, sorry,” Jessie said, taking a step back. “I was just—”

  “I think you’re late, dear,” the crone said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Others,” the crone said. “Others came down here not long ago, oh my, yes yes.”

  “There were others?”

  “Yes,” the Crone confirmed. “Grumble they did. Like you.”

  “I wasn’t. Well, I guess I was,” Jessie admitted.

  “Not where you need to be?” the crone asked.

  “I just thought I’d be somewhere else by now.”

  The crone shrugged. “Where else would you be?”

  “Not working in the basement.”

  “I work in the basement,” the crone said, scratching at her matted, greasy hair.

  “Yeah.” Jessie nodded. “No offense, but you’re kind of the living example of what not to become.”

  “Um . . .” the crone said, seemingly unsure how to take the revelation about her station in life.

  “I had a career, a great one,” Jessie continued. “When I survived the vampires and my own partner’s assassination attempt on me, I thought I was being . . . recognized, not brushed aside. Not forgotten about in a basement.”

  “Well, aren’t you just a little b-word,” the crone sniffed.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” Jessie said. “Look at you. A happy idiot content to mop. Me? I have so much to accomplish.”

  “Well, good luck, dear,” the crone said as she began walking away. She reclaimed her mop and then paused. “If I may, and ‘no offense’, but next time, I’m rooting for the vampires or a more thorough partner.”

  Jessie nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

  No more stalling, she told herself. No matter what happens next, I will succeed. She’d accept this position. She’d pull herself up, overcome, move up again, and be better than everyone else. No matter what.

  She opened the door and entered. Inside was a simple room with white concrete walls that was no bigger than fifteen by fifteen. There was a single door at the other end, several rectangular desks with chairs, and a digital board for briefings.

  Two people sat there, watching her as she entered. A large black man with garish multicolored dreadlocks, combat fatigue pants, and a black t-shirt with white letters that read “I’m What Your Momma Warned You About.”

  The tall woman was Caucasian, with dyed dark purple hair. She wore a knee-length light gray coat over her matching dark purple leggings and performance top. Jessie couldn’t help but notice that her obviously fake breasts were practically larger than her head.

  “Oh look, we have a mascot,” the woman said with a sneer. “Her uniform is precious.”

  “It’s okay, honey.” The man smiled. “I’ll take a box of Thin Mints and this bundle of fun will take some of those crunchy peanut butter ones.”

  Jessie sighed, took a seat, and waited for the final nail in her career’s coffin. The door at the other end of the room opened with a bang. A tanned Caucasian man in a white leather trench coat walked in. He moved past their desks and stood at the front of the room. He was middle-aged, around six feet tall and fit. His hair and pointed beard were both light gray. He stared at them with judging, dispassionate, deep-set gray eyes. On his hip was a standard-issue side arm and a foot-long combat knife.

  “Your careers in the APD are now over,” the man said. He had a slight Southern accent, but the deepness of his voice demanded respect and carried weight. “Welcome to ‘Transit Authority’. The best job nobody ever wanted.”

  Chapter Six

  13 May - 9:32 am

  Transit Authority Central Office, Room B-117, District of Axis Mundi

  “Excuse me, but are you Detective Sergeant Messer?”

  Messer looked at the young officer sitting towards the front. DeLeon. Of course she’d be the first to speak up. Teachers’ pets were all the same.

  “Yes.”

  “You spoke at my academy class’s graduation.”

  “Probably,” Messer said. “Now shut up.”

  “But what exactly is Transit Authority? You were a Detective Sergeant when you spoke to my class. Why would TA need—”

  “What part of ‘shut up’ didn’t you get?” Messer asked.

  “Sorry . . . Sergeant,” she said, looking down.

  Messer heard soft laughing. He looked over to see the undercover detectives Cassandra Cross and Eric “Arby” Deacon chuckling to themselves.

  “And I thought I was sassy,” Deacon said.

  Cross smirked. “Poor thing. So young, so dumb.”

  “You two done?” Messer asked. New recruits were all the same, even the veterans. Each had to be broken in order be effective. He moved over to their desks and stood there, looking them both in the eyes.

  “Sorry,” Cross said, running a finger down the side of her head and neck. She rubbed the finger against her thumb. “But we’re not still wet behind the ears like the kid over there.”

  “No, we are not,” Deacon added. “Bone dry. Plus, the tough guy thing doesn’t really do it for us anymore.”

  “How many bosses have we made cry?” Cross asked.

  “All of them,” Deacon answered with a smirk.

  Messer smirked back. “Cassandra Cross. I see you.”

  She squinted and cocked her head slightly to the side. “Yeah, I uh, I see you too.”

  “No,” Mes
ser said. He leaned ever so slightly forward to look directly into her eyes, “I see the real you.”

  “Screw this,” Cross said. She suddenly stood up, kicking her chair back as she did, and marched towards the door.

  “It’s locked,” Messer said. “All the doors are.”

  Cross still grabbed the handle and jiggled it. Messer watched Cross march to the back of the room and repeat her attempt to leave.

  “I told you, they’re all locked.”

  “For how long?” Cross asked as she took deep breaths.

  “Until I unlock them.”

  Deacon stood and loomed over him. “What’s your problem, man?”

  “A pecking order needs to be established,” Messer said, looking up at the bigger man. “You know all about that, don’t you, Eric?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the man asked, bowing up.

  It was clear he was ready to throw down any second. Messer locked eyes with the bigger man. “How’s your brother doing?”

  Deacon’s eyes narrowed. “Go to hell.”

  “Already been there. Now, sit down.”

  Deacon obeyed, crossing his arms and refusing to make eye contact. Good. Let them hate him. A perfect way to start.

  Messer walked to the front of the room. “Undercover Detectives Cassandra Cross, Eric Deacon, as UTF Field Operative Jesenia DeLeon already mentioned, I’m Detective Sergeant James Messer. You three have been reassigned to Transit Authority, which means you’re mine. You may be unhappy now, but I bet in that in a few days, you’ll love this job.”

  “But what is Transit Authority?” DeLeon asked.

  “Yeah, what are we doing here?” Deacon asked.

  “Good questions,” Messer said as he picked up a small remote control. “But let’s see if I made a mistake in selecting you three.”

  When he clicked the remote, the room lights dimmed and the transparent digital board lit up with an image of a naked man outside a warehouse. All eyes focused on the image.

  “I’m going to play this, then I want your first impressions,” Messer said.

  The video played. The naked man outside of the warehouse glowed brighter and brighter until he exploded. But Messer didn’t watch the footage; he’d seen it many times. He watched the three of them. All of them, even Cross in the back of the room, gave the video their undivided attention. When the video was over, Messer turned the lights back up.