The Blackburn & Scarletti Mysteries Volume II
by
Karen Koehler
LEGION

DAY 1

The horror started ordinarily enough. The buzz of a phone. The interception of peace. A pause in a human breath of air. These things did not register completely with January Blackburn. They were perhaps not related at all.

SpaceCon ‘07. She was standing in a dealer’s room over a table of rare and out-of-print novels when her cell phone went off in her pocket. She almost did not hear it for the sound of filkers blasting out of the room across the hall as the folk wannabe singers sang about their favorite science fiction and fantasy heroes. The ground floor of the Hilton was swamped with people rushing about in homemade costumes and pasteboard weapons, and things were getting crazy. She saw a fair share of norms, convamps and Klingons pass by, going this way or that, on one mission or another. A couple has-been actors lately of the Sci-Fi Channel and one mid-list author passed by the table, their names emblazoned on the little tilted yellow Saturn badges pinned to the breast pockets of their shirts. Below each name were the conention’s easily-recognizable insignia. On the walls were similar colorful posters for various parties and Cosplays later that evening. The phone continued to buzz as she looked over the battered collection of books on the table, looking for just the right ones to compliment her vast collection of Space War novels.

She was getting annoyed. Not only was the dealer pushing his T-shirts into her line of vision—insipid ones like “Bald AND Sexy” with a picture of Captain Jean-Luc Picard cheaply screened on them—but the phone was interfering with her concentration on the all-important task at hand. She might never come across these books again, and between the con noises, the dealer rolling into his sales pitch and the cell phone’s Munster-theme ringtone she could barely hear herself think. Why oh why didn’t I shut the damn thing off? Blackburn wondered miserably as she picked up a dogeared copy of Space Wars # 6: Lost Eden. It was one of her favorite episodes, and it looked in fairly good condition for its age. Cripes, she’d been searching for this book almost forever, but the price was a great deal steeper than she had anticipated. You shouldn’t have to break a bank bond just to buy a stupid paperback, she thought miserably.

Buzz, went the phone.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” she said aloud, startling the dealer who thought she was commenting on the Sith bumper stickers he was sticking under her nose. He quickly snatched them back while Blackburn went for her phone like a gunfighter for his piece.

“ Blackburn,” she said into it, plugging her other ear with a finger.

“ Wellington here. Where are you?”

Blackburn automatically felt her body stiffen as if she had suddenly been called to order by a drill sergeant. She always felt like that around Martina Wellington, her Special Operations boss back in the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington. Fear, but also a trace of heart-pounding anticipation, as if she were experiencing a minor coronary. “ Orlando, ma’am,” she stuttered. “I’m…well, I’m on vacation, if you’ll recall.” Blackburn kept her voice neutral and modulated, trying to state the facts without sounding like an asshole. After all, it had been a dog’s age since her last vacation…

Her last assignment had sent her and Scarletti all the way up to the border between Canada and North Dakota where hikers and forest rangers had begun disappearing under a cover of bears/Sasquatch/befurred-things-that-go-bump-in-the-night. It took them less than a week to uncover a group of redneck gin runners that had been hired by Les Aigles Noirs, the French-Canadian mob, to launder superbills and pass them through Customs into the United States. The money was being stored in garbage bags in the hollows of trees so the U.S. branch of the mob could easily pick them up, and the Noirs were using a post-modern and rather ill-tempered cult of Druids to protect the trees. What they had conjured to fend off nosy investigators was still a debate between her and Scarletti, but whatever it was, it had been big enough and feral enough to break Blackburn’s arm before she managed to plug it with her .45. After that, the creature had sprinted off through the trees, never to be seen again. Scarletti argued that it was most likely a guy in a bearskin, though its blood samples had come back from the Coven’s lab as distinctively inhuman.

She didn’t understand why Scarletti, himself not quite human, was so loathed to acknowledge the existence of the supernatural, and could only conclude that, living in a supernatural underworld as he did, he was getting pretty damned sick of running after the monsters. That or he was a skeptical Scully fanboy—but she didn’t think he watched much television.

Her bone fracture had partly mended before she ever returned to Washington, but Blackburn had put on a good show for Wellington and her peers, partly because she couldn’t exactly tell them to leave her alone—that being a ghouls like she was entitled her to a quick-fix mending marathon all on its own—and partly because she had vacation hours coming to her and knew exactly how she planned to spend them: two weeks in Orlando for SpaceCon, an event she had been planning for almost two years now. So she let the Fed doctors put a cast on her arm, moaned a little about pain, then marched down to Wellington’s office and requested her hours.

But she never thought for a second that anyone would hunt her down. Not here. Not now…

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I have a problem, a big one,” came Wellington’s scouring voice over the phone. The dealer started taking back her book so Blackburn put her hand over his to halt him mid-gesture. “Something’s broken, but I think you can fix it.”

“Six-hundred,” stated the dealer.

“Four,” Blackburn responded, feeling like an Arab trader.

“Four what?”

“Nothing, ma’am. What’s broken?” Other than the spine of this damned expensive book, she thought grouchily.

“The details are in your inbox. Can you fly out to New Orleans later on today?”

“ New Orleans?” she squeaked. “ Louisiana?”

The dealer looked dubious, like he might make a scene if she didn’t buy the book soon. And now, her luck being what it was—mostly bad—there were two other collectors surfing the table and carnivorously eyeing her finds. Her book. “Four-fifty,” she told him. And then into the phone: “What’s in New Orleans?”

“Your assignment. Can you get out there ASAP?”

“Five and I’ll throw in this super-rare collectible,” the dealer said, holding up a copy Blackburn already owned. Space Wars # 25: The Dogs of War. It was not super-rare, not rare in the least. She didn’t even like the episode—Captain Arcadia screamed like a wimp through most of it as her ship was pummeled by enemy Shreeks on offensive maneuvers. But Blackburn figured she had better make up her mind very soon before she lost the opportunity—and the book.

She looked around and sighed. “Yeah, okay, you have a deal,” she wearily told all the people in her immediate life.

Blackburn finished reading the case file just as the DC-10 taxied across the tarmac of New Orleans International Airport and glided to a halt beside the terminal. The ride was rough and bumpy, worse than usual, but she hardly noticed for the fact sheets spread across her lap. Beside her First Class seat, the girl with the long blonde hair was still squeezing her two hands into one fist and talking about the terrorist acts going on. She was young, the first time on a plane, whereas Blackburn, who couldn’t be more than five years her senior, had been on dozens of flights in her life. She knew the chances of getting on a plane that was going to go down was about one in a million. Better than dying in your car. At least, that was the chant she always recited just before she boarded.

“I’m glad we made it. I’m really glad. They say the pilots carry firearms now.”

“I know,” Blackburn answered noncommittally, trying to make her voice sound sweet and soothing to the girl.

“I noticed you’ve got a gun too,” the girl said, eyeing Blackburn’s pancake holster peeking out from under her leather bomber jacket. “Are passengers allowed to carry guns?”

“Citizens aren’t. But I’m a federal agent.”

“Wow! Like in the movies?”

Blackburn gave the girl a placid smile as the plane coasted to a stop. She closed the file in her lap, tucking them all away into her carry-on. “Life is never like the movies.”

“You’re so cool! Will you walk with me to the terminal, please? My fiancée is waiting for me, but I’m still kinda scared, you know?”

“Scared of a terminal?”

“All kinds of things go on,” the girl said ardently, looking around the plane as if searching for terrorists lurking in the shadows or under the seats.

There was a general movement toward the exit as the passengers unbuckled and stepped into the aisles. Blackburn retrieved her laptop from the overhead compartment, hefted her carry-on, and noticed the girl waiting patiently for her in the aisle.

Once inside the terminal Blackburn hung back as one after another the deplaning passengers were greeted by people waiting for them. She looked around for her partner, but didn’t see a tall blonde man in black towering over everyone else. Where was Scarletti? Wellington had told her back in Orlando she would be hooking up with him here. She checked her watch; it was almost 9:00 PM, and it wasn’t really like him to be late.

All around her there was laughter, and a few tears, too. People were hugging and kissing and shaking hands, talking avidly amongst themselves, a cacophony of happy sounds. “Ted!” the girl beside her said, waving her hand enthusiastically. “Ted-dy!”

A big, strapping young black man plowed his way toward them, took the girl in her arms, and swung her around. “Alicia!” he said, kissing her cheek and hair. “How are you, baby girl?”

Alicia gave Teddy a squeeze, then turned to address Blackburn. “Thanks a lot for keeping me safe. Is someone meeting you?”

“My partner.”

“Teddy, she’s a federal agent! Isn’t that exciting? She keeps the country safe and stuff. Is your partner a federal agent too?” she asked Blackburn.

“Uh-huh,” Blackburn answered, looking around for him. Nothing. No Scarletti.

“Maybe he’s down in the baggage claim,” Teddy suggested. “He might be done there now. A lot of folks wait down in baggage.”

“That’s possible,” Blackburn agreed, watching Teddy and Alicia snuggle. For some reason, the sight of them was starting to make her feel irritable. Get a room, will you, please? “Thanks,” she said.

“Don’t mention it. I appreciate you looking after Alicia. Alicia!” Teddy gave her a warm kiss. “Thank you, miss Federal Agent!”

“Thanks!” Alicia called, waving a goodbye.

Without saying another word, Blackburn turned away and started down the escalator toward the baggage claim area. She really was relieved to be rid of the two lovebirds. Nothing was worse than two lovers gushing all over each other in a public place. Air sick bad, please?

What the hell’s wrong with you? she wondered to herself. It was true that she was a little jet-lagged, a lot pissed off that Wellington had interrupted her vacation like this, but she really didn’t mean to take her frustrations out on poor, happy Teddy and Alicia. She felt she had been rude and was almost hanging her head by the time she made it to the bottom.

No Scarletti. The place was cold, alien. She watched deplaned businessmen put their arms familiarly around their women’s waists. She watched children capering around couples. She watched lovers embrace. And she felt a twinge of anger. Everyone had so much.

And what did she have?

“You have plenty,” she told herself. “You have everything you’ve ever wanted,” she told herself bitterly as she went to collect her luggage from off the carousel.

Out of nowhere a dark hand touched the handle of her tapestry suitcase and Blackburn automatically yanked her hand back and turned around, afraid she was going to be accosted by one of those zealots who frequent the airport and make a royal nuisance of themselves to the passengers just trying to collect their things.

She was wrong.

The man who took her luggage was tall and very thin, wearing a long black London Fog raincoat over broad shoulders, the collar turned up. In many subtle ways he reminded her of Scarletti. But this was not Scarletti. He looked about thirty, but that was all illusion. Glamour. His eyes were large and black. His silken black hair was knotted up in hundreds of small braids, most of them gathered away from his dangerous, leopardlike face and tied at the nape of his neck with a beaded garrote. Behind his colored blue shades his eye flashed with a dull crimson light as they appraised her in a haughty kind of way, like a man sizing up a valuable racehorse. Despite her anger at being taken unaware, Blackburn found she had to force herself to resist the melting feeling they induced in her almost immediately.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked. The words were meant to be harsh and bitchy, but they emerged softly from her, as if she were secretly afraid of offending Scarletti’s master.

No, her master…

The Jackal smiled sweetly and sardonically on her. “Well, my dear, the fact of the matter is, I live here.” He had a course and powerful voice, the Jackal, layers upon layers, that reminded Blackburn uncannily of James Earl Jones doing Darth Vader, only darker, sweeter, deadlier.

She stared at the vampire with an attempt at contempt, trying to look tought, though in fact she felt like some giddy schoolgirl inside, one with a hopeless crush on a teacher far outside her league. “In New Orleans?”

“That’s where we are, aren’t we?” He picked up the heavy suitcase as if it were filled with feathers. “My house is here. And when Scarletti travels to New Orleans on business, he usually stays with me. The usual protocol for a master and acolyte in the Coven. Do you understand, January?”

She understood. But she didn’t like it one bit. “Could you possibly be just a little more condescending? I’m not real good with subtlety.”

A darkness passed across the vampire’s face, and she could tell he knew she was testing the limits of his patience with her, and that that might not be such a safe thing to do. Not if she wanted to make it to retirement age. Spitting venom at Scarletti was one thing. Scarletti had to put up with her. Doing it to her own master was courting disaster.

“If it will make you happy I shall try and be more condescending in the future,” the Jackal agreed with infuriating patience. The problem was, she believed him. He smiled like a shark, set her bags down, and offered her his hand.

Blackburn looked at it as if it were some bizarre, newly discovered off-world life form. In another life she might have laughed at this courtly and chauvinistic display of humiliation. In this life, she did not laugh much anymore and she had to be careful how she proceeded with the vampire who more or less controlled her life and emotions. That was one side of it. The other, darker, side was she did not really feel the desire to laugh in his face and push his hand aside. Deep down, she truly wanted to please him. She wanted him to be pleased with her. She wanted him to be happy, and that realization made her want to shoot herself in the head with her own gun. Hating herself, she took his hand and deftly and quickly kissed the ring on his middle finger to reinforce her alliance. He reciprocated the gesture by taking her gently into his arms and kissing her throat over the pulse to reinforce his pledge of protection. His body was smooth and cool and he had the sharp, comforting aroma of her father’s shaving lotion. His body was surprisingly hard and muscular against hers, startlingly…human.

The Jackal released her abruptly and stepped back. “I apologize for not meeting you upstairs. I was hung up in traffic.”

She felt like she hung in open space. “No problem,” she told him, surprised by the sincerity of her response. She blinked, feeling slightly stunned, riding on a wave of nostalgia that made her feel both lost, sad, foolish and very young all at once. Daddy, may I sit on your lap? Oh fuck, where was the gun…? “I’m glad you’re here now,” she said, surprised by the truth behind the statement.

“So am I,” he said, his voice a hypnotic purr. He smiled, enjoying his power over her way too much. “Come,” he whispered. Then he took up her suitcase, circled her waist with his free hand, and led her out of the terminal.